Tersias the Oracle

by G. P. Taylor

  Solomon scurried back and forth, lighting the small mounds of incense that he had piled on seven golden plates and placed in a small circle around the room in the height of the tower.

  “We need the boy to speak,” Solomon said as he goaded Campion to make him utter the meekest of words. “We are protected from the demon, and I want to know if he can hear other spirits through which we can be wise.”

  Campion twisted the boy’s fingers and whispered in his ears. “Will you speak to us, boy?” he asked. Then he grabbed him by the scruff of his coat and shook him back and forth.

  “Don’t shake the life from him,” Solomon protested. “Well, not yet—let him at least speak to us before he dies.”

  Tersias remained silent, his mind filled with thoughts of Malachi. Something turned in his heart as he thought of the man, something that made him conceive of all that was different in the magician’s life. All that Tersias truly wanted was to be free from the curse that had brought him to this place. He had heard the desperation in Malpas’s voice as he had struggled to know what was to come; Solomon had felt the same, and it was a desire that Tersias knew he could never satisfy. Both had lusted to know the future, yet even in their grinding voices Tersias had gleaned the chilling sound of fear.

  Blinded and double-blinded by the helmet, Tersias sat in his darkness and waited, his thoughts running free. As he listened to the distant comings and goings of Campion and Solomon, with their threats and lonely curses, he thought of Tara. He remembered the sweet voice and soft skin that had led him onwards through the night from captivity. But then Tersias had sensed the subtle change in her voice as he listened drowsily to her transformation.

  He began to babble and call out to the Wretchkin, hoping that the creature would come and see his bruised face and seek restitution for all that had been done to him. Nothing came in reply—no sound of the beast’s wings, no chilling of his spine, nothing. . . . He was lost, lonely and alone, left in the blackness of his imprisonment. But though he yearned for the creature to come, his stronger desire was to be free of its control.

  “Come, boy,” Campion said. “We need you to speak to us . . .”

  “Don’t call upon the creature,” Solomon babbled. “We want to listen to other spirits—kinder, more gentler oracles that will lead us in to all truth.” Solomon shook Tersias back and forth. “Speak, boy, speak . . . I have heard it done by other Sayers.”

  “I understand,” Tersias said.

  “Very well,” Solomon said. He crouched before the boy, examining him for any sign of the presence of the creature. “To whom will you speak?”

  “What is your desire?” Tersias asked. “I can hear many voices wanting to come to counsel you.”

  Solomon wrung his hands in great hope, a thin smile across his lips turning the anguish of his face to a moment of pleasure. “Of what shall we speak, Campion? Guide me, you oaf. I wish not to waste one word of the oracle’s precious breath.”

  “Ask him of my future and not that the Wretchkin shall return, another spirit will suffice.”

  Tersias heard his words and bowed his head. He thought for a moment and called upon the spirit to hear his voice. There was silence in the heavens, not a word was spoken, no creature heard his call. Tersias waited, unsure what to do, but then a peace came upon him, all-consuming and perfect in its abundance. It felt familiar, from the days when he was a very small boy.

  “What would you know of me?” he asked in a voice that was deep and beyond his years. “Tell me, the creature is near,” he said, knowing he was alone.

  “Is it the . . . Wretchkin?” Solomon asked feebly as he stood behind Campion.

  “Another spirit, wiser and more willing to know the ways of man.”

  “Speak, spirit, speak,” Solomon said, pushing Campion towards the boy.

  “What is it you seek to know?” Tersias said.

  “You can hear us though the boy is bound within the helmet?” Solomon asked warily.

  “Your words come clear as the desires of your heart . . .”

  “And what are those desires?” Solomon asked.

  “To know what is to come and your place in the history of mankind.”

  Solomon gulped as if the voice speaking through Tersias knew his heart. “How do you know this?” he asked, looking closely through the candlelight to the boy.

  “It is written upon your heart. I can hear it with every beat,” Tersias lied.

  “ ’Tis true, Campion, that is my desire, the oracle knows my mind. Loosen his bonds so that he may speak more, the wreaths will keep the Wretchkin from our door. There are other spirits with which the boy may converse.”

  Tersias took in a deep, mournful breath, his lungs burning from the linctus that pulsed through his veins like hot wire. The boy knew Solomon’s heart, it was the same as every man’s who had stood before him and asked questions of the oracle. It was always the same: people not content with what was given to them and always wanting more. Some concerns were more trite than others: Once a woman with a screeching voice had asked him what dress she should wear that night. The Wretchkin had laughed when it spoke through him, telling her it would be best to cover her rump in a sail-breadth of sackcloth to hide it from the world. Yet all who came to listen would believe what they heard in their desperation and discontent, holding out palms to be read by blind eyes.

  Tersias grappled with his thoughts. Though his mind was drunk with linctus and bitter gall, he knew that this was his chance to speak for himself, to be more than a puppet with coarse strings pulled by men and demons.

  “So what is it you would say to me, spirit?” Solomon said as he waited impatiently for the word to come from the boy.

  “Your future sits before you, but there is another that will seek what you crave. As for your desires, those are written in the lines of your face.”

  “And this other,” Solomon asked urgently, “who shall it be?”

  Tersias rocked from side to side. “I will speak no more,” he said in his own weak voice. “I have done with being an oracle, get away from me, spirit, get away. . . . Someone help me, save me!” he shouted at the emptiness.

  “Make him speak, Campion,” said Solomon as he pulled a vial of linctus from his pocket. “Hold him and we’ll give him more, no one gets to keep their mind with the sap of the poppy rattling in their bile.” Solomon unscrewed the lid from the bottle and held it to his nose, sniffing the thick, trickling syrup that clung to its edges. “One day, Campion, when I am the Divine Protector of this land, I shall give this to them all. I will have a spout placed in each house so they can sup of what they wish. There will be no thoughts of revolution, no murmuring of discontent, all will yield to it as the boy will now yield to me. They will be so deluded, they will call good bad and bad good, and in all this I will be victorious.”

  “NO!” screamed Tersias, attempting to speak in the voice of the spirit. “He needs no more for he will not be able to tell of what is to come . . .”

  Solomon looked at Campion and then back to the boy, his eyes full of distrust. “Tell me, Tersias, who speaks through you?”

  There was a long silence. Tersias battled within himself, knowing that for Tara’s sake he must keep a grip on his thoughts and not swallow any more of the drug.

  It was then he heard a whisper in a far corner of his mind. It was not a demon’s voice. It had no words or commands, it called him not to speak for it or beg his reverence. All it said was spoken in feelings of peace that fell upon him like golden waves, wrapping him in bonds of finest charity and grace. His head became filled with a bright pure light that burst through his mind, lifting him from the constraints of his blindness.

  Tersias sat bolt upright, his heart quickened by the pulsating radiance that shuddered deep within. Solomon saw the sudden and changed expression on his face: gone was the drug-induced grimace, his cheeks were blessed and rosy red, his dull eyes bright and glistening with fresh tears that spoke of the rush of gladness as the gall and linctus were
banished from him.

  “He’s transformed, Campion, the spirit has entered into him again,” Solomon said, mistakenly taking the sudden change as being the coming of a dark presence. “Speak, child, tell me what the creature has to say—what of my quest? Will I accomplish greatness?”

  “I serve you, but I am not your servant; you call me, yet I can do what I please,” Tersias uttered. “What will you give the boy for my knowledge? Pay the player or the music will remain silent.”

  “What is it you want?” Solomon asked as he fumbled in his pockets, looking for some trinket to appease the ghostly presence.

  “Safe passage for the boy, and no more linctus to cloud his mind.” Tersias pretended to twitch and moan as if some spirit was within him. “For that I will tell you all you seek to know—that and one thing other.”

  “Speak, ask, if it is within my will, then I will obey your command,” Solomon replied anxiously.

  “There is a girl, give her safe passage.”

  “That I will gladly do. It has always been my intention. Upon her return she will be set free.”

  “Then I will speak,” Tersias said in a deep, dark voice as he contorted his face. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “You . . . you said there was another who would challenge me for what I wanted, who shall that be?” Solomon asked.

  Tersias thought quickly, racking his brain for a name to pick as a threat to Solomon. It was then that the voice of Lord Malpas broke into his thoughts.

  “His name is Malpas and he seeks power. He searches for me and my keeper, Magnus Malachi. As you stand here, his men run and listen at the corner of every street, they question men to speak of what they know. Soon they will be here. You must strike at him before he strikes at you. Let the creatures you keep do the will of Solomon so there is no blood on your hands.”

  “You know of the locusts?” Solomon asked.

  “You will set the girl free?” Tersias asked, his voice disguised in the grunts of the spirit.

  “I have promised. But how do I trick Malpas?” Solomon asked.

  “Give him a gift of insects. Allow him to open the box and he shall no longer be a problem to you.”

  Solomon clapped his hands and jigged from side to side. “You speak well, spirit, you may come again. But now, boy,” he shouted, “now your task is done and I must have you under my control, I cannot allow your mind to be entered by any spirit that would deceive me through your fickle lips. Campion, hold him fast. He shall drink more of his share of linctus.”

  Solomon gripped the boy by his face and squeezed open his mouth, then poured the linctus down his throat. Tersias spat back at him, but Campion grabbed the boy, engulfing him in the grip of his arm and crushing the breath from him as Tersias slowly weakened, his body giving way to the sudden, powerful force that swept through him.

  “He may have lied to us,” Solomon said as Tersias slumped to the floor. “But to trick Malpas would leave the day open for what we desire. To catch a rat, you need good bait. Bait to the trap, Campion, bait to the trap.”

  XXII

  THE OPPROBRIUM

  The clock struck the half hour as Magnus Malachi strolled down the stairs in Strumbelo House and into the hall. The fire glowed in the night and Malachi looked to the clock that sat on the long oak case by the front door, its brass face and thick hands pointing clearly to half past nine. He had slept all day. His bed had been soft and warm with fresh linen.

  For the first time in thirty years he had taken a bath; it had been hot and steamy with French soap and the finest drying cloths he had ever seen. Malachi had been too afraid to spoil them, so he had rubbed himself dry with the old floor mat by the fireside tub. Then he had changed into the suit of clothes that had been left for him. Fresh boots, a gentleman’s coat and a pair of sturdy breeches made of thick oiled cloth. These had been set against a crisp white shirt and yellow waistcoat.

  As he had soaked, Malachi had clipped away the years of grime from his fingernails and etched their outline against the skin, clipping each claw back to that of a human hand. He admired his fingers as he walked through the hall, affording himself every opportunity to gaze upon his clean skin as he looked at his reflection in the hall’s tall windows.

  Malachi smirked like a child caught with cream on his face and fingers dipped in warm chocolate. “Oh! What joy!” he muttered in a bold but quiet exclamation as he fought back a rising sense of excitement that filled him to the brim. He danced the last three steps before settling himself in the fine chair by the fireside. His eyes devoured the room as if he saw the world with a new light. Malachi thought of the creature that had been cast from Jonah that very morning before the hours of sleep had overtaken him.

  It was as if he had been freed from a goal that had kept him bound for so long. He had sought that which was not of this world, yearned to have his desires for the incredible confirmed with evidence that had long eluded him. Here, in Strumbelo, he had seen all that he needed to give him hope. In the banishing of the beast he had been witness to a power beyond his imagination, magic beyond magic that was filled with the force of creation. The internal struggle that had gripped Malachi for so many years was now over, and he felt no need of magic and alchemy. His mind was now gripped only with a desire to find the blind boy and the girl and set them free.

  Like a content old owl he snuggled in the chair and warmed his boots by the fire as he closed his eyes and dozed, delighted in his surroundings. He continued to snooze as approaching footsteps echoed along the high landing. When he felt a gentle breeze from the opening of the door waft upon his face, he ignored it like a pleasant irritation, until, slightly opening one eye, he saw Griselda crossing the hallway from the door to the room where Old Bunce had been healed.

  Griselda sat opposite Malachi, settling back into the chair and folding her arms to match his as she crossed her legs and lay back happily. Footsteps raced high above them, the sound of the chase getting nearer. Upon each landing, Malachi could hear the echoing squeal of bright laughter.

  “Jonah has found Maggot,” she said, smiling at Malachi. “They have searched the attics and the cellars and now they chase each other across the landings.”

  “You did a good thing for the boy. For both boys,” Malachi said quietly. “And for me. I have waited many years for such a display of magic and found it here.”

  “My dear Magnus, that was not magic, alchemy or any other mad ranting. Nor was it the guile of some secret society. In all truth, it was an honest gesture of love, and there is no greater power than that.”

  “Then of that love do I want to share and in its path shall I follow,” Malachi said boldly as the footsteps echoed overhead.

  “Those are words that could cost you dearly, for this love was bought at a great price and its acceptance should be highly honoured,” Griselda said as she listened to the stillness that had suddenly descended in the house.

  “Then its honour shall be worn upon my heart, and for its purpose I will turn my life.” Malachi smiled at her, his heart warmed by the presence that filled Strumbelo and was impossible to ignore. It was as if the air itself was infected with joy, and the walls themselves gave out the centuries of charity that they had absorbed from generation to generation.

  “They are hiding,” Griselda said with a nod as she cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Maggot has seen much in his short life. No one to care for him. A child who had to search in the squalor for his food until Old Bunce found him. Not a life for one so young.”

  “We are a wicked and cruel generation,” Malachi said. “I fear that the water here may have washed away my good sense. I feel that my heart now bleeds for such as him, and the fate of Tersias and the girl brings me deep distress. Yet even in such great concern I cannot keep the smile from my face.” He rubbed his hand over his smooth chin, his beard now gone, his hair neat and trimmed around the ears and plaited into a precise pigtail. He looked away from Griselda and then back to her face, catching her eye with his smile. “I
want to go and find them, but I can’t go alone. The girl, Tara, told me that Tersias was dead, that in the transformation his heart had given out. I need to know if that is true, to find out for myself, and if he is dead, then bury him with the dignity he deserves. I beg that you will let me take Jonah and together we will try to make amends for all our meddling and scheming.” Malachi gulped nervously. “Solomon has the returning citizens of the city trembling in fear. Everyone thinks he was behind the coming of the comet and the night when the sky went black and the earth shuddered. Whatever it is that he seeks to do, I will stop him.”

  “Many have tried, Malachi. The churchyards of Poplar are littered with their corpses. What makes you think you could succeed?” Griselda asked as she got to her feet and stood by the fire, warming herself against the flames.

  “It’s the boy, Tersias. If you knew what I had done to him, you would not have me under this roof. My cruelty is tattooed into the lines on my face. For my own sake I have to make amends, even if I were to die in the endeavour.”

  “And I will join you, Malachi,” Jonah said as a trapdoor opened in the panelling by the fire and both he and Maggot sprang into the hall. Then a sudden and surprised silence fell upon him. Jonah stared at the old magician, looking him up and down, examining every stitch of fine clothing and every single trimmed hair. “Malachi—is it you?”

  “It is I, Jonah. Magnus Malachi. Your companion and friend.” A tear welled in his eye. “It is good to see you, and this—this must be your friend, Mister Maggot?”

  Jonah lifted Maggot to his feet and brushed the dust from his tunic. “Not but three days ago his leg was broken—now he is as strong as me. He is completely healed and filled with life. What do you think to that, Malachi?”