by Jeffrey Ford
His bulbous head was roundly admired, as it was perceived a symbol of intelligence. “Think of the load of brains what is contained therein,” claimed those whose proof of acumen and judgment was itself in short supply. For those wretches of the unwanted classes who came in contact with the phenomenon of Malbaster, that inflated head bespoke so much foul air, as if a pin might be employed to prove there was nothing beneath the surface.
At times, he was asked to speak, and it was evident he was no orator. His vocabulary was limited, but he spoke in such vague generalizations that the throngs of his compatriots found in his words enough room to nurture their own grievances and fears. His message was one of selfishness. “Life and resources and wealth are limited. They should be only for those of us who resemble those of us. All others should be driven out and/or dispatched of.” A simple enough ideology for the masses.
Then, some years ago, Malbaster began to attract a following of young men and boys, some of whom had parents among the persecuted. It was his demand of strict allegiance, his dim encompassing philosophy, his childlike messages of “Me First,” and a quest for the reclamation of white Protestant superiority that had never gone missing. There was also something else, some unknown factor, that had them following him like rats behind the piper of Hamelin. Soon enough it was discovered not so much to be sorcery but instead, plain and simple, the spell of the yellow smoke.
He engendered his followers with his spirit and as time went on, and their numbers grew, they engendered him with theirs. That negative energy reportedly gave him power beyond normal ken. Some called it magic, others thought it worked more like animal magnetism or the techniques of Franz Mesmer. In combination with the tar, he was capable of producing hallucinatory effects that frightened or delighted his followers into his mind-set.
It was in 1847 that Astor first discovered someone had been stealing from the secret store of opium that he had amassed during his years in that trade. It had once been his intention to loose the drug upon New York society, creating a catalyst for greater trade from which he could reap a windfall. As he got older though, Astor’s disposition changed and his desire for yet more wealth gave way to a predilection for cultural and political causes.
When he died, it was reported that Astor was worth twenty million dollars, but in reality it was half that amount. The newspapers reported that he died of “natural causes.” At eighty-four, his body simply failed him. One of his most trusted valets, a young man by the name of Otis Truc, testified to any who would listen that his employer, on the day before he planned to hire private investigators to track down who had been stealing from him and to order the destruction of his opium stores, was visited by a pale, large-headed man. Following that private meeting, Astor was beset by harrowing hallucinations, visions of finger-length demons tormenting him. Eventually, he fell into a coma and never recovered.
It was the young lads who followed Malbaster, the horde he’d named “the Jolly Host,” for reasons none can guess, who first referred to him as the Pale King Toad. They claimed that he had a damp, dank aroma, the smell of mildew and moss. He spoke not from his chest and lungs but from the waggling waddle beneath his chin, and the sound reminded one of a frog’s call in early spring. In addition, his flesh, if you were unlucky enough to come in contact with it, was clammy and cold. His gaze was unblinking and sly as a snake’s and, when he witnessed the anguish of those he put to torture, he was as unmoved as a toad.
No one knows how vast Malbaster’s operation is. There’s a certainty that it extends beyond the boundaries of Manhattan. There are accounts of him having appeared at lynchings as far south as Georgia and at anti-emancipation rallies as far west as Kansas. Funny thing is that despite all the blood that’s been shed and the cruelty dispensed, he and his followers claim to be in the employ not of nationalist extremists but of God himself. They see their work as a glorious moral crusade against the shiftless, the backsliding, the inferior who have infiltrated the shores of the New Eden and like Satan, who leaped over the wall of the Garden, are here to undermine the foundation of all that is good and wholesome.
Malbaster cannot be killed. To shoot him, to stab him, is to attack a pervasive idea. He cannot be imprisoned, for what wall or iron bars can contain a notion? He strikes outward from his ephemeral center and inflicts physical harm on those struggling to make a place in a new world. He is Leviathan, a white behemoth, a superstitious dread, crackling with the million individual sparks of petty intolerance, humming with a chorus of idiot bigotry.
When Arabella finished with her mythology of Malbaster, I asked her, “Was the Otis Truc you mentioned your valet, Otis?”
She had to catch her breath as the recitation of her truths seemed to upset her greatly. She was flushed in the face and subtly trembling. “Yes,” she said, moving her hand across her left eye as if perhaps brushing away a tear. In one sure draught, she finished off her toddy and called to the barkeep for another.
For my part, I took my penknife out of my satchel and proceeded to cut the article from the notebook. I found her summation of Malbaster stirring but altogether outlandish. There was something of religious oratory to it, and it carried much of the same exaggeration. Still, I needed an article, and here was one. Malbaster, an evil for the ages. I saw him as more a petty criminal with a murderous streak, who used said intolerance as a means of financial gain. That said, my readers desired the fantastic in some form or another, and with this piece I offered a bogeyman that would be the more effective because they just might dimly recognize something of themselves in the monster.
27
On the way back to her home on St. John’s Park, I strode alongside Arabella who rode atop Madi’s horse. The dark came early as the month was drawing closer to Christmas. The snow had partially melted and the going wasn’t as rough as it had been earlier. We passed a child selling gourds and small pumpkins looking the worse for wear as they no doubt had been picked months earlier. Still, Arabella bought an armful from him, and I got the honor of carrying the load. Once we were a block away from the house, she told me to throw them in a waste bin.
I asked about her progress with the manticore.
She shook her head and told me, “It’s an arduous process, Harrow. I’ve reached the point in my story where I can make the creature recite her poetry for me, but I wouldn’t trust her with your life.”
“That’s not a comfort,” I said. “Does Malbaster suspect that you’re trying to reclaim her?”
“He must know something’s afoot. I’m sure I’ve affected the creature to the point where she’s not answering his call with lightning speed any longer.”
“Have you a sense of how much more it will take for you to be successful?” I asked.
“Not yet. I need to write through it more. If we could distract Malbaster with our attack on his opium, I think I could steal her.”
“You know, I believe I can locate the warehouse where Astor stored the tar.”
“How’s that, Harrow? Prayer?” She laughed.
Her response cut me to the quick. If anything, I wanted her to consider me at least reliable. “See if I don’t come up with the answer tomorrow. You’ll accompany me. If I’m right, you’ll owe me an apology.”
“Very well.”
As we approached Arabella’s place, I heard a voice call my name from the park across the street. I was rattled, for being recognized anywhere other than in the neighborhood of my home or work was alarming. I looked up and saw a figure walking unhurriedly toward us. Arabella, still upon the horse, had pulled her pistol.
“Don’t shoot, Harrow, or your article will never reach the Mirror on time.” With that, I recognized the voice and the figure. Arabella begged the messenger’s pardon for having drawn on her. Mavis shrugged.
We entered the house through the back door and were not inside longer than a heartbeat before it became clear that a crisis was unfolding. We heard Ahab’s voice, bellowing, “Open up, boy, or you’ll ruin everything.” Arabella
, Mavis, and I followed the cries to the room in this house that Arabella used for her writing. Ahab was pounding on the door and Madi stood behind him, looking aggravated.
“What’s the uproar?” I asked as we all crowded into the hallway.
“Last night,” said Madi, “Gabriel noted the scent of the smoke emanating from this room. He’s locked himself inside.”
“All will be lost,” cried Ahab melodramatically as if he were no longer a real person but had stepped freshly from Ishmael’s book.
“Let’s be calm,” I said.
“Miss Dromen, I beg permission to break the door down,” said the captain.
At this, Mavis stepped between him and the door. She took an exceedingly thin blade from somewhere in the waist of her trousers, stuck the point of it in the keyhole, turned her wrist, and the door swung open. She marched in straightaway. The rest of us gathered at the entrance as she strode toward Gabriel. It was clear he was trying to light the pipe.
“Give it to me,” said Mavis.
He rose from the chair at the desk and backed away.
She advanced and reached for the pipe.
He put his elbow out to block her.
And that was it for Mavis, who was willing to entertain foolishness for about a solid moment. With one snake-strike right cross, her fist connected with Gabriel’s chin. I saw his eyes roll up, and, as he fell to the floor, she reached out and snatched the pipe from him. Ahab rushed in, the sound of his ivory leg tattooing the wooden floor, and took her in his arms.
“My dear, you’re an angel!” he proclaimed.
The captain gathered up his boy and threw him over one shoulder like he was hauling a sack of potatoes.
Later, after Gabriel had come around, Ahab didn’t harangue his son about the incident. He seemed to understand that the boy was wrestling his own angel or demon and that it did no good to browbeat him any further. Instead of punishing the lad, he made him help in the kitchen where he concocted for us a sailor’s stew of onions and carrots and mutton that turned out close to edible.
After dinner, I sat with Mavis in the parlor and asked for news. After assuring me that all was well with Misha, she said, “Garrick, though, says you’ve gone round the bend in your articles, and he keeps threatening the empty air that your termination is in the offing, but I’ve heard from Jack Coffee that your Ahab pieces are actually selling like hotcakes. I think the boss just wants to see you. When you’re gone too long, he fears you’ll be snatched away by a competitor. Someone told him you were recently at the Cockaigne Times.”
“He’s got nothing to worry about,” I told her and then laid out the tale of what had transpired as a result of our meeting with Rufus Sharde.
“Malbaster means business,” she said, having winced only slightly when I described my old mentor’s head rolling around on the street. I suppose that for Mavis, a wince was as good as a gasp.
I fetched my satchel and took out the new article on Malbaster’s mythology, an envelope, and my seal. As I was dripping hot wax upon the envelope leaf, I said to Mavis, “You’ve got one hell of a punch.”
“You mean Gabriel?” she said.
“Have you punched anybody since?”
She shook her head and looked away shyly. “He’s sweet,” she said.
I almost dripped hot wax on my hand, but tried to stay calm. “Sweet?” I said, keeping a straight face.
An instant later I felt the barrel of her pistol poke my ribs and saw a fleeting smile cross her lips. I noticed that even after I’d given her the sealed envelope, she lingered awhile in the parlor, sitting on the yellow satin couch with Gabriel, who’d come in from the kitchen. They spoke in near whispers, conspiratorially, the way young people do when vultures like the rest of us are lurking.
The next morning, we were up early, and Arabella and Madi and I took the coach, Arabella driving, to the offices of the Gorgon’s Mirror. The previous evening I’d made the outlandish promise to them that on the morrow I’d reveal the location of Malbaster’s stockpile of opium. They were, of course, skeptical, and who could blame them, but it was too difficult for me to explain. The remaining snow had turned to slush in the bright morning sun, which brought the temperature at least five degrees above freezing for the first time in two weeks. The city was a muddy, melting mess.
Unfortunately, Garrick was in his office when I tried to sneak by and slip my compatriots in with me. I heard him bellow “Harrow!” as we were making for the back rooms, and I froze in my tracks. And so it was that we were drawn into his smoke-filled lair and I was made to explain everything. I stammered as I introduced him to my coconspirators. The old man sat there, staring disapprovingly, but managed a genial-enough nod for both Arabella and Madi.
“Now, Harrow,” he said, “what in God’s name are you up to? Mavis dropped off your article late last night, and I read it this morning, and I fear you’re off your chump. Manticores and fellows with balloon heads, opium, scheming nativists. Where is all this leading? The public loves a good confabulation, but have you not gone too far?”
Madi and Arabella were afforded chairs but I had to stand before my employer like a child brought up to the front of the class to recite before a strict teacher. “Well, sir, what I’ve written so far is all true.”
Garrick laughed. “It can’t be. It shan’t be. I’m paying you to bamboozle the public, not me. This can’t be anything but hot air rising between your ears. And another thing, where’s that Ahab fellow? You’ve exchanged him for this lovely young lady and a black man?”
“You’ve read the articles, sir,” I said. “My friends will attest that what I’ve written is mostly true.”
“The manticore certainly exists,” said Arabella, “in a manner of mythic fictional confluence.”
Garrick gave me a puzzled look.
“Miss Dromen’s a transcendentalist,” I offered, and he nodded as if that explained everything.
Garrick looked at Madi, and the harpooneer said, “I’d not claim the same level of truth that Harrow does for his writings, but there is enough of it in them to the point where you should believe him.”
“Harrow, I’ve told you I’m done with this. I’ve given you firm orders to move on. Mavis swears she’s passed on my directives.”
“Mr. Garrick, I . . .”
“But I must admit, the damn Mirror is selling better than ever, and I can’t refute the fact that it’s because of this cockeyed story you’ve been penning piecemeal, like a mosaic, a tile of the goings-on here, a tile there, leaving it to the reader to discern and comprehend the whole.”
“Then what’s the problem, sir?”
The old man shook his head. “It’s very different.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” Arabella slipped in.
“How much more of it is there, would you say?” asked the boss.
“If our journey to see Mrs. Pease today goes well, not much longer at all.”
“Mrs. Pease?” he asked. “I’ve not heard her name mentioned in these offices for quite some time. Is she still back there?”
“Every day, sir.”
“I’ll have to look to see what I’m paying her. What about Ahab?”
“He’s with his son, whom we found and secured, as I related in the article, battling forces of evil at the Indian Caves.”
Garrick threw his head back and laughed. “Harrow, Harrow, Harrow, you are an inveterate bullshit artist of the first water. I loved the Indian Caves installment. All right, onward then. Stir up some more whim-wham for our customers and finish this hugger-mugger.”
“One thing, sir.”
“What?” he said, tamping out his cigar.
“I’ll need more ready cash to keep the carnival running.”
“Oh, ready cash, as opposed to cash that is not so ready—what?—to be spent?”
Madi was giving me a look as if to say, How can you put up with this pompous ass? He just didn’t understand Garr
ick, because, as I knew the old man would, he swiveled round in his chair and reached for his treasure chest. He inserted the key on his watch fob and opened the thing. The hinges squealed. He brought out six three-dollar bills. “Eighteen dollars, Harrow, and that’s the end of it. I don’t care if you’re bringing down the bleeding devil himself.”
As I stepped forward and took the money, Madi said, “That may be exactly what we’re doing.”
When our business was concluded, Garrick nodded to my companions and said, “A pleasure meeting you both.” They rose and we headed for the door. At the last moment, as I passed the threshold into the editorial room, he called to me, “You must retain a zest for the battle.”
“Yes, sir,” I called over my shoulder.
I led my friends through the offices, and when I passed my desk, I reached out and ran my hand over the scored and ink-stained surface. I suppose that like Garrick, I too wanted to return to the world of daydreams that didn’t bite back. I’d already tried to step out of this adventure once, though, and didn’t like it at all. There was something powerful in being part of it.
As we made our way to the far back room and Mrs. Pease’s system, I tried to explain to Madi and Arabella how it worked. Neither of them made any indication that they understood the drift of it, and when finally we arrived and stepped inside, Arabella said, “Why, George, you’ve brought us to a darkroom.”
“Mrs. Pease,” I called out. We stood for a few moments and Madi told me that all the excitement had finally gotten to me. “No, no,” I said, “look,” and pointed. From off in the dark distance, a small flickering light appeared as if the room were two city blocks deep. “Our answer approaches.”
I introduced her to Madi and Arabella and she sat down at her desk. The pince-nez came off, and she rubbed her eyes. “I’m just back from a tour of the system.”
