The Search for Joseph Tully
Page 22
“I was drinking a glass of port wine and reading my favorite book—Tom Jones.”
Clabber tried to think of more questions. “Is there anything significant going on in your life right now?”
“I prefer not to discuss my business affairs.”
“A—what? Ah-h—tell me about your family. Do you live with your family?”
“I have a family, yes. But now I live alone.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Yes. I don’t sleep well. I’m growing old.”
“Why don’t you sleep well?”
“I have bad dreams.”
“What dreams?”
“I hear things. I dream of phantasms.”
“What things?”
“I hear—I hear a sound I cannot identify.”
“Do you hear it when you are awake?”
“Yes. Sometimes. How did you know?”
“A guess. Ah-h—just one moment, please.” Clabber stood up and paced up and down the living room thoughtfully. Then he sat down. “Is this sound a whooshing?”
“Exactly. Whoosh. Whoosh.”
“Is there anything about it you can tell me? Anything at all?” “No. I’m tormented with knowledge of something forgotten. Something just beyond recall, lurking out there—out there, in the darkness, beyond reaching.”
Clabber reached over to the coffee table and picked up the chain with the medal. He considered it, then looked at Richardson’s eyes. They were clear and alert, but there was something somnambulistic about them. Drugged.
Clabber put the chain down. Then he looked at Richardson again.
“How long have you been hearing this sound?”
“A few weeks. At least a fortnight. I must change my diet. I think it’s some meat I’ve kept in the meat safe lately. Must tell the cook to cook it more. Pity. I love rare roast.”
“Does the sound frighten you?”
“It—yes—actually, it disturbs me. I know what it is, but I can’t quite recall it.”
Clabber picked up the chain, hesitantly, doubtfully. He put it down again. Considered it. Picked it up. “I think we can identify that sound. Let us try an experiment. I'm going to hold this medal on this chain before your eyes. I'm going to swing it. You will feel very tired for a moment. Then I will count three and you will sleep. When I say four, you will awaken again. Are you ready?"
“Yes.”
Clabber began to slowly sway the chain. “Concentrate," he said. “You now feel drowsy. One. Two. Three.”
Richardson's eyes closed.
“Four," said Clabber.
Richardson opened his eyes.
Clabber studied Richardson’s face carefully. The eyes looked directly ahead, staring at some distant fixed point.
“Can you hear me?"
“Of course.”
“Tell me your name."
“Joseph Tully."
“What day is it?"
“It is my wedding day."
“Do you remember that strange whooshing sound?"
“I cannot identify it. It is something from my past."
“Go back in time—go back in time until you locate the source of that sound. You are now fifteen. Now ten. Nothing yet? You are five years old. Back more?” Clabber hesitated. “Have you identified the sound?"
Richardson was quiet.
“Where are you?" asked Clabber.
“I don’t know.” This was a different voice.
“Who are you? What is your name?"
“We have no names here."
“Where are you?"
“I stand on the ancient cobblestones of the Via Appia near the Catacombs. The stones shine in the moonlight. They are rutted from Roman chariots."
Clabber frowned and pondered the face before him. “Can you identify that whooshing sound?"
“Of course."
“What is it?"
“It is part of my current cycle.”
“Cycle? What cycle?”
“I am atoning for a grievous sin. I am being pursued.”
“What is your sin?”
“I caused the death of a man.”
“Who? What man?”
“Matteo Villon. I also caused the death of his cousin.”
“How?”
“I had them beheaded.”
“Ahhhh.” Clabber looked around the room, searching for questions. “Who is pursuing you?”
“Matteo Villon. He has vowed to behead me. He will pursue me through many lives if need be.”
“How many lives has he pursued you?”
“Two since my death in Rome.”
“Rome?”
“Yes. I had him beheaded in the Catacombs of San Sebastiano near the Via Appia. Since then I lived in Spain as a sculptor and in France as a groom.”
“He didn’t find you in either case.”
“No. I died in Spain an old man before Villon was reborn. He missed me entirely. Before he found me in France, a horse kicked me to death in a stable.”
“How does he know where to find you?”
“I am born into the same family. Always the same family.”
“What family is that?”
“The name changes. Marriages alter the names and the geography.”
'To find you, he must trace your family history?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then he will behead me.”
“What is the sound?”
“It is the sound of a molten sword blade, swinging through the air. It increases the oxygen along the blade edge.”
5
He turned the faucet on the bottle of oxygen, increasing the flow through the bed of charcoal. The color of the coals changed from deep red to an orange, from orange quickly to yellow, a pale white-yellow. He gripped the tang of the blade with a wooden socket and eased the blade from the deep bed of coals. It glowed almost translucently. He pushed it back into the coals and removed the handle.
He stepped back from the small furnace and looked at his anvil. He touched the peen-headed hammer patiently, then stepped back to the fire. The oxygen from the bottle hissed loudly in the coals. The charcoal was charring away too fast. He turned the faucet slowly and the flow of oxygen reduced.
He picked up the wooden handle, then leaned against the cellar wall. The room was filled with soft shadows cast by the fire and by a pair of candles that stood on the brick window ledge. The fire had heated the room and he was now stripped to the waist. On the gritty floor lay his shirt, his suit jacket and tie, his overcoat and gloves, a scarf and his bowler hat.
Matthew Willow stepped back to the fire and withdrew the blade. He laid it on the anvil and, with the cross peen, struck a few blows along the upper shank. Sparks flew.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Soon.
6
“Come forward in time,” said Clabber. “You have been born. What is your name?”
“Joseph Tully.”
“What day is it?”
“My son’s baptism day.”
“Come forward more. Much further. Come to the moment we met. In 1779. You are alone. You are reading Tom Jones. You are drinking port. You are bothered by a strange sound and you are not sleeping well. Do you remember that moment?” “Yes. Of course.”
“What is the date?”
“It is 1779.”
“Why is that date significant?”
“I do not know. I have been apprehensive the livelong day. I fear—I—”
“What do you fear?”
“I am old. I expect death, of course, but—”
“But what?”
“I feel someone wants to kill me.”
“Who?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you remember the sound?”
“Yes.”
“Can you identify it?”
“I—sometimes. I— No, I can’t for the life of me.”
“It is an ominous sound.”
�
�Yes, surely. I fear it most assuredly. The hour grows late. There is someone knocking on my door.”
“Who can it be?”
“It is a bitter night tonight. A tiresome winter. Spring is far away. Decent burghers are not abroad on a night like this.”
“Is there still a knocking?”
“Yes. A loud booming knock. None of my people are awake, I fear. I shall answer it.”
7
The blade was ready. His arms and torso were running with sweat and the hairs on his forearms were singed. But the blade was ready. He withdrew it by its tang. And slowly he swung it.
Whoosh.
Willow turned with it, bearing it before him in both hands, and began a slow parade across the cellar to the stairs and the doorway. He mounted the steps toward the door. He paused and with one hand turned the handle of the door and thrust the door open.
He stepped along the tiles to the stairway and began to mount. The glow of the blade lit the stairs. He swung the blade out over the stairwell.
Whoosh.
8
“Where are you? What are you doing?”
“I am descending the stairs to my front door.”
“Do you see anyone?”
“No. I see a glow—a mighty glow around the edges of my door. Someone is standing at my door with a glowing—a—what can it be? A lantern?”
“What are you doing now?”
There was no answer.
Clabber frowned. He put down his pad and pencil as he studied Richardson’s face. “Mr. Tully? Mr. Tully?” The eyes continued to stare at the corner of the ceiling. They blinked once. Clabber fanned a hand over the eyes. “Are you there, Mr. Tully? What’s happened?”
Hesitantly, Clabber took Richardson’s left hand. He held it up and felt for the pulse. He let it fall and pressed his fingertips on Richardson’s throat, below the jaw, just under the ear.
The pulse in the throat was strong and very rapid.
“Hey.” He shook Richardson’s face. He stood up. “Hey.” He stepped back. “Dear God, help me. I can’t rouse him.” He stood looking at Richardson. The tape recorder turned soundlessly.
From the stairwell, Clabber heard the slow ascent of footsteps.