This Dark endeavor taovf-1

by Kenneth Oppel

  Polidori nodded. “Very good. You have been taught well. Who is your teacher?”

  My eyes shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, a wise old fellow hired by our parents.”

  “A jawed creature,” Henry said uneasily. “It is rather vague.”

  “Indeed, but the text becomes more specific, you see. The creature you seek is the oldest of its lineage. It is an aquatic creature. The coelacanth. You have heard of it?”

  I had indeed, and my heart contracted.

  “Then, our task is at an end,” I murmured. “We’re undone.”

  “Why?” Elizabeth said, turning to me in alarm. “Why do you say that, Victor?”

  I gave a mirthless laugh.“Ah, this is one lecture you missed.”

  “The creature is extinct,” said Henry, for he too had heard Father’s lesson and had gazed at the engraving of a fossilized specimen. It had swum with the terrible lizards, millions of years ago, but had not been seen alive for centuries.

  “Surely there must be somewhere-,” Elizabeth began hopefully.

  “Search the world,” I said. “It will not be found.”

  We had risked our lives in the heights of the Sturmwald to obtain the lunar lichen. How cruel that our hopes were to be dashed this easily.

  “You despair too soon, young sir,” said Polidori.

  “How so?” I said. “Does it give an alternative ingredient?”

  “It does not,” said the alchemist. “But the coelacanth is not extinct. It is a Lazarus taxon.”

  This meant nothing to me, and I looked from Henry to Elizabeth in bewilderment. To my surprise, Elizabeth was smiling.

  “Victor,” she said, “your Bible reading really is very poor. Lazarus was the man whom Christ raised from the dead.”

  “Yes,” said Polidori. “‘Lazarus taxon’ is the name scholars have given to species that were once thought extinct. But then, lo and behold, one is found in the East Indies, or off the shores of Africa.”

  “Must we travel so far?” I said, discouraged. But I was already wondering how such a journey could be undertaken.

  “Lake Geneva will suffice,” said Polidori.

  “Are you serious?” I demanded.

  “Truly I am,” he said. “I know a fisherman who has seen one.”

  “Do you trust this fellow?” Henry asked.

  Polidori nodded. “And I will show you why.” Quickly he wheeled his chair to a large armoire. He opened it and with both hands extracted a long glass case. Inside was a startlingly blue fish, some two feet in length, with a great many fins.

  My heart leapt, and I heard Henry draw in his breath, for it was the very image of the etching that Father had shown us.

  “Why did you not tell us you already had one!” I exclaimed.

  “Because it is of no use,” Polidori told me, sharply enough so that I felt rebuked. “It is dead two years. It has dried up.” He tapped the parchment on his lap. “What is needed from this creature is the foul oil it exudes when alive. It renders the fish inedible. Fishermen have no use for them. But the oils from the fish’s head contain nourishing and miraculous substances that are needed for the elixir.”

  “They live in our own lake!” cried Elizabeth, looking at me happily and grasping my hands.

  “I am told they can grow to six feet in length,” said Polidori. “Powerful creatures. This one of mine is small. A baby. And where there are babies, there are adults to make them.”

  “Let us go at once, then,” said Elizabeth, “and charter a boat to trawl the waters!”

  “It will not be so easy,” said Polidori gravely. “When I spoke to the fisherman, he said this was the only one of its kind spotted in fifty years. They are not usually caught in nets. They live deep. They crave the cold. And the dark. You might fish for months and years without catching one.”

  “Then we’ll go deeper,” said Elizabeth with steely determination. “Where this fish lives, we will find it.”

  “Can we not just send Krake to get us one?” said Henry with a feeble laugh.

  “There are diving bells that can take a man to great depths,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “That might not be necessary,” said Polidori.

  We all looked at him expectantly.

  “These fish fear daylight so much that even the bottom of the lake is not dark enough for them. There are, I’m told, narrow fissures that lead to subterranean caves where they take refuge.”

  “But to find these caves underwater-,” Henry began with a frown.

  “Would be nearly impossible,” I interrupted. “Unless there was another entrance from aboveground.”

  “Just so,” Polidori said. “The mountains that encircle our great lake are mazed with caves. They go deep.”

  “Has anyone you know made such a descent?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Indeed,” said Polidori. “But he’s now dead.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Henry nervously.

  “He made one too many trips into the depths,” said Polidori. “He was an explorer, a mapmaker.” He paused and looked at me. “But I believe his widow still lives just outside the city.”

  “Then we must pay her a visit,” I said.

  Polidori escorted us back upstairs, and as we were departing his shop, he called me back. “Young sir, a word, if I might.”

  Elizabeth and Henry waited for me outside in the alley.

  “I’m not ignorant of the fact that these are difficult tasks,” Polidori said kindly. “And I know my help is limited. But I do have something that might, shall we say, brighten an underground descent.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said, curious to know what it was.

  “You created the vision of the wolf successfully, yes?”

  “I did.”

  “I had little doubt.” He seemed to be looking deep into me. I couldn’t help feeling he was pleased by what he saw. “And I’m guessing that alongside Agrippa and Paracelsus, you might have some other books of a practical nature within your reach.”

  I looked at him, wondering if he were going to ask for them.

  “If so,” he said, “you might want to consult Eisenstein. If you care to try your skills once more.”

  Once more into the Dark Library in the witching hour.

  I’d tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes I saw Elizabeth, and imagined it was me and not Konrad touching her. I’d stroke her cheek, and then bend to kiss her full mouth… and I couldn’t bear it anymore, so I’d hurriedly got out of bed, needing to distract my mind-and was glad I had some work to throw myself into.

  In the library I spent nearly an hour peering at dusty volumes, until I found the right one, a slim green book with only the red initial E tooled in the spine.

  Ludvidicus Eisenstein.

  To my great relief the text was written in English. I began turning the gossamer pages, not exactly sure what I was looking for. My eyes skimmed the headings, surprised by how banal they were. The testing of ores.

  The properties of dyes.

  Ideal temperatures at which to fire ceramics.

  Preparing saltpeter.

  A lover’s elixir.

  My eyes lingered on the page, dancing down the list of ingredients. But I forced myself onward, and shortly came to a page headed: Preparation of the flameless fire.

  I read on. This must be what Polidori had meant for me to find. An unquenchable source of light in the darkness. He had singled me out. He sensed that I had a special aptitude, that I could create this substance on my own.

  Imagine the look on Konrad’s face when he beheld it.

  Imagine Elizabeth’s admiration.

  I slipped the book under my robe, returned to my bedchamber, and slept deeply.

  I am a thief.

  In the afternoon Elizabeth left Konrad a secret note-and I stole it.

  By sheer chance I was passing by the library, and through the leaded glass in the door I saw her drop a bit of folded paper into the Oriental vase. Just as she turned to look fur
tively about, I moved quickly past the window. I hurried down the hallway, rounded a corner, and waited until I heard her shut the door behind her. Her footsteps faded. I returned to the library. At the vase’s bottom was the note.

  It was not for me, but I scooped it out and slid it into my pocket.

  I did not read it at once, for I felt stricken with guilt.

  But as I changed for dinner, curiosity and jealousy got the better of me. I unfolded the paper.

  It said, “Will you meet me at midnight in the library?”

  Later I lay sleeplessly in my bed. The church bells tolled eleven. I did not know what I should do.

  I lie.

  I know exactly what I shall do.

  I saw her dark form by the window, looking out over the lake. She had no candle with her, and the moon and stars were veiled by cloud, so the room was very dark.

  Through my veins I felt the same animal desire I’d had for her in the Sturmwald, when we were both wolves. I went to her. We were shadows to each other. I could not even see her eyes. I felt her warm hand take mine, and my heart quickened.

  “I had a dream last night,” she said, “of our wedding night.”

  I chuckled like Konrad to disguise my shock. Already they were talking of marriage? How long had I been so idiotically blind?

  “Tell me,” I whispered, and stroked her hair. I had seen Konrad do it; so I could do it too. As children, I had touched Elizabeth’s hair many times, yanking it mostly. But this was the first time I had caressed it. Her amber mane was so soft-and yet so thick and curly. It had a spirit and wildness to it-a perfect complement to her personality.

  “How old were we?” I dared to ask, hoping my voice was not so different from Konrad’s. I needn’t have worried. She wanted and expected Konrad, and so that was who she had before her. I hardly felt myself. In the dark I could be whoever I wanted.

  “Not so much older than now,” Elizabeth whispered. “Perhaps twenty.”

  In the darkness I blushed to think of our wedding night, and the pleasure it would hold. But then my thoughts soured, for it was not to be my wedding. I should have been glad to imagine Konrad, alive and fully recovered from his illness. But the thought of him wedded to Elizabeth was horrible to me. And her next words only amplified my wretchedness.

  “I’ve never felt such joy as in that dream,” she said. “Everything was so clear. The inside of the chapel. The light streaming through the stained glass. My dress. I could describe every detail-but don’t worry. I know that would bore you to tears. Victor was your best man, and Mother and Father were there, and Henry, Ernest, and little William. I saw it all, as vivid as a painting, and felt it all, as though I truly lived it. But there was something else.” She sounded troubled. I felt her other hand touch mine, and this one was icy.

  “As we stood on the altar, before we were to be joined forever, my joy was poisoned by a terrible sense of dread. And I heard a voice…”

  She trailed off.

  “It’s all right,” I murmured. “If it upsets you, don’t speak of it.”

  “It was a most malignant voice, one I have never heard, and it said, ‘I shall be with you on your wedding night.’”

  I shivered at the words, so full of menace were they.

  She leaned her head against my chest. “You’re so healthy now,” she said. “I can’t believe you would ever be otherwise. You must live. It would kill me if-”

  “Shh. Don’t think of it. But,” I added daringly, “feel free to think of our wedding night.”

  “Konrad!” she whispered with a shocked gasp.

  I knew it was a risk, but I could not resist her any longer. With my hand I cupped her chin and tilted her face toward me. In the darkness, as if by perfect instinct, our lips met. Light blazed behind my eyes. I shook with passion, and was all the more surprised by the fervor with which her lips moved against mine.

  She had done this before.

  She and Konrad had done this before.

  Even though I was stealing someone else’s passion, I wanted more of it-but then my jealous anger overmastered me. Elizabeth drew back with a sharp gasp.

  “What is it?” I whispered, but I knew what I’d done.

  “You bit me!” she said.

  “I was… in too much of a passion. Elizabeth, I am so sorry. Is the skin broken?”

  I knew the answer to that, too, for I had the faint iron tang of blood in my mouth. And as wicked as it was, I rejoiced at its delicious taste. I had her blood inside me. The blood of my beloved.

  “Here, take my handkerchief,” I said hoarsely.

  Her fingers touched my face, questioningly, and I took a step back.

  “Konrad?” she said, as though she wasn’t altogether sure.

  “Who else would it be?” I said, trying to sound a little annoyed. “But we should part. I still feel depleted.”

  “Yes, of course, take your rest. I’ll wait here a little longer, in case one of the servants might see us together.”

  I gave her hand one last squeeze and swiftly left the library, hurrying down the dimly lit passage to my bedchamber.

  At breakfast the next morning I sat down opposite Konrad, and had just started my meal when Elizabeth swept into the room.

  “You must have dropped this, Victor,” she said casually. As she passed my chair, she tossed a handkerchief into my lap. On it was a blot of her blood.

  And beside it, my monogram.

  VF.

  What a fool I’d been.

  She knew.

  She did not meet my gaze throughout the entire meal.

  But I did not regret for one second stealing that kiss.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THEFT

  After lunch Henry and I set out on horseback for Cologny, the small village outside of Geneva where the mapmaker’s widow lived.

  I was most relieved to be away from the chateau-and from Konrad and Elizabeth. I didn’t think she had told Konrad about my midnight trickery. Certainly he’d seemed completely natural with me all morning-unless he was a better actor than I thought. Had he done the same thing to me, I would have been volcanic with fury.

  The day was sunny but cool, and it was very pleasant to be astride my horse, trotting along the roadway, side by side with Henry. To our right sparkled the lake, alive with sailing vessels bringing freight and passengers to and from Geneva.

  “How does it come to you, your poetry?” I asked Henry.

  He looked across at me. “You’ve never shown any interest in my scribbling before.”

  “I’m curious. Where does it come from?”

  He looked off into the distance, frowning. “Small things, often. A vista. A feeling. A longing. It struggles to be described, to be captured.”

  I had no shortage of feelings, and usually no problem expressing them-not to those closest to me. So how could my true feelings for Elizabeth have lain dormant for so long? Was it that she’d been raised as my sister, and so I had suffocated any romantic thoughts I’d had for her? But she was not my sister. She was not even a first cousin, but some distant relation. So why had I not allowed my feelings for her to blossom? Konrad had had no such trouble.

  I turned back to Henry. “And you can write about anything?”

  “Anything I care about.”

  “Love?”

  He laughed. “Love!”

  I shrugged. “Just by way of example. Yes, words and phrases that would describe love. That would, um, impress a young lady.”

  Henry sighed. “Good Lord. You are not in love with her as well, are you?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know who you mean!”

  “You are a terrible liar, Victor. Miss Elizabeth Lavenza, perhaps?”

  “Her? Good heavens, no. A fine girl, of course, but-” I blew air through my cheeks. “The tongue on her. She would wear any man out within ten minutes. I’d rather hear a dog bark than her voice.”

  “Is that so,” said Henry, sounding utterly unconvinced.

  “What did you
mean when you said, ‘You are not in love with her as well?’”

  “She is a wonder,” Henry admitted frankly. “It’s impossible to know her and not love her. I’ve long suspected Konrad does as well.”

  I shook my head. All around me, everyone was in love-and me without a clue! What kind of imbecile was I?

  “You’ve never spoken to her of your feelings?” I asked, jabbed by jealousy once more. I’d often thought that these two had a great deal in common, with their love of writing. When they’d collaborated on our play, they had spent a great deal of time together, words and laughter ricocheting between them, eager ink staining their fingers and hands.

  “No,” said Henry. “And I trust you will keep it secret. She would never have me. I have no delusions. Around her I feel like a pale, feeble moth. It’s all I can do to avoid her flame.”

  “You really do have a poet’s tongue, Henry,” I said in admiration. “Would you, you know…”

  “What?”

  “Scribble a few lines for me?”

  He looked at me, askance. “You wish me to scribble you some declarations of love?”

  “Just a few little things. You’re a genius, Henry,” I said, warming to my cause, “and no one has your talent with words. Just five of your words could make the sunset itself pause.”

  He frowned. “That is not bad, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe something like, ‘Your beauty would make the sunset itself pause.’”

  “Ha! You see!” I cried. “You have the gift! I could never have done that myself.”

  “You very nearly did,” he said.

  “No, ’twas you, my friend! I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me! You genius!”

  “You flatter me,” he said. “I don’t dislike it.”

  “You put Shakespeare to shame. Just two or three more baubles like that, and I’m forever in your debt. I know how easily these things trip from your tongue. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I will see what I can do,” he said with some reluctance.

  “You’re a true friend, Henry. Thank you.”

  We were in the village by this time, and I looked about for the widow’s cottage Polidori had described.

  “Is it that one there?” Henry asked, pointing.