by Jeff Kamen
‘... couldn’t.’
‘… do you mean, couldn’t?’
‘… swear it. I tried, it didn’t work.’
Paget was glaring in alarm.
‘... expect me to say? They saw me.’
‘… chdt-dt-dt-dt.’
‘... a squealer. What could I do?’
‘Damn your ears, Kol. If they find …’
Moth shivered, his skin prickling in pain. ‘What’s wrong?’ he croaked.
Kol’s eyes were shifting about mechanically, while a dark-faced Paget looked about to explode in a cloud of scalding blood. He turned to Moth with his lips drawn back in a lean wooden smile. ‘A very strange and mysterious coincidence has occurred,’ he said, shivering his tambourine. ‘It seems that Durs has decreed a period of fasting. Mr Kol will bring you up delicious water for your comfort and we shall lie quiet in our rooms until the period is over. Now begone, child. Ascend to your sleep.’
‘I … I don’t want to.’
‘Child?’
‘I want my father.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said I want my father.’
‘Non possamus. Out of the question. Now go to your room.’
‘No. You don’t understand. I-I want to see him now! I don’t want to wait any more! I want to go to the house!’
‘No? NO? Up, boy! Get upstairs before someone hears you. This is the Fraternity’s inner sanctum, a place of silent incubus.’
‘Wh-where is he? Where’s the Cage? Let me take it there. Get the servants ready, tell I’m coming, tell them —’
‘Child, I simply don’t have time for this. Do as I ask.’
‘No! I want to see the Cage! Where is it? Where is it?’
‘Kol, take him up.’
‘Blimey, wait a sec …’
‘Why should I go? Wh-what’s happening here? Him — that blood! What’s going on? You killed someone, didn’t you?’
‘Kol …’
‘You’re hiding something, I know it. And I thought ... I thought you were my friends …’
‘Fuck’s sake. Where’s the pipe, then?’
Moth pointed a finger at Paget. ‘You. I see it. You’re lying to me.’
At this, Paget folded his arms, his eyes glazing over in a look of frozen irony. ‘Heavens boy,’ he said, ‘serpently knot.’
‘You are. I-I know you. I know you now. You — you’re evil.’
‘No, not evil, child. Just sorely tempted.’
‘You are, I know it. You don’t care for me. You don’t care for any —’
‘SILENCE BOY!’
The house seemed to shudder at Paget’s rage, and when Moth looked at him again, his lips were curled back savagely.
‘Now you listen to me very carefully, boy, for I will not repeat myself, nor be responsible for the consequences, here or evermore. Your words jeopardise everything, all we have worked for. Know this — there are no guarantees in this unworldly enterprise of ours, and great peril hangs over us at every moment. That is correct. A peril you currently engineer. You stand there bleating for the Cage, and in so doing, you risk more than you will ever know, truly, for spinning outward from the dance is the form of what will live with us, and thereafter among us, and its likeness will come about from nothing but our actions. Tell me — is it your will to twist these delicate strings with your foolishness? Is it? Is it your purpose by wilful misdeed to summon from the outer veils a ghoulish replacement for your father? A being unknown to you? Is it? Is this your will? Do you wish him to be cast away in the void while his place is taken by a stranger? Some creeping little harpy? Some cheap impostor? Some kind of Jack-in-the-box? Well, child? Do you wish him gone from here? DO YOU WISH HIM UNCLAIMED?’
‘No, of course I —’
‘No,’ Paget said bleakly. ‘No, of course not.’ Across cold and searching eyes he swished a blackened fingernail. ‘Then get yourself upstairs — now — while he still has a chance. Do you understand me? While he still has a sliver … I mean the faintest sliver of a chance.’
Moth stared at him, sweating, uncertain, then before Paget could add anything, he did as he’d been bidden. By the time he’d reached his room there was the sound of banging in the hallway, the sound of Paget hissing instructions as they boarded up the door. He slumped into bed and lay hugging himself, waiting for the hours to scavenge his bones. Kol entered a few minutes later, holding out a long red pill. ‘The guvnor said it’ll help,’ he said, and stood over him until he’d placed it on his tongue.
‘Fuck’s sake, just swallow it.’
‘But it ... it’s hot …’
Kol poured water into a cup and handed it to him, saying, ‘Swallow. Sharpish.’
As he drank, he could feel the pill lodge in his throat. He began coughing, could taste blood and tar and soap. ‘I can’t,’ he gasped, holding his throat, ‘I can’t … gnnnh …’
Kol tipped more water into his mouth, and it sprayed up again as he coughed. The pill was dissolving in burning particles. Already the room was swimming.
‘Gnnn … I don’t want ...’
‘Shut up and lie down.’
‘Gnn … gnnh …’
He saw Kol’s grin appear over him, and then the squat man swung hugely away and somewhere in the depths of the earth the door slammed. He rolled over moaning, reaching out, the room clouding blackly into silence.
~O~
For three long days they lived as captives in the house, and throughout each minute of waking he expected to hear a pounding at the door — unwanted callers baying for justice, baying for blood — but no one came.
He was lying in bed, wondering if he’d ever finish repairing his wings, ever have the strength to, when he heard voices downstairs; then he heard them pulling down the barricade. There was another discussion, then with fraught, almost hysterical zeal, Paget sent Kol back outside to pursue their business.
An intermittent supply of herbs returned, something he gave thanks for at every hour. More girls followed too, although worryingly, none with the attributes required of them. He tried hard to pity them as they left the room, but never knew them long enough to develop much sympathy. None spoke to him and none returned to dance again, nor did any appear remotely interested in the Arrival.
Then, one balmy white morning, when a mist had rolled in from the sea, another girl appeared. At once he noticed she was different. She seemed less torn-up by life than the others: a sturdy, attractive girl who seemed to have been waiting to dance herself free. ‘Just tell me what to do,’ she said, looking round the practice room, ‘and I’ll do it.’ She seemed intelligent and troubled, a girl for whom a day of pale mist and the smoke drifting from a freshly filled pipe might be warm companions among so many disappointments; and as he gazed upon her, he wondered if he’d finally met his match.
Paget, too, seemed much taken by her. ‘Sit, children,’ he said pleasantly, cupping the pipe bowl, and they sat on either side of him. He applied his thumb until the herbs were packed correctly, his strange blue eyes fixed upon his work, then he took a light, and with the pipestem jutting from his clenched teeth, began to suck at the flame. His withered cheeks filled and sagged, filled and sagged, the bowl lighting in tiny wires. As he eyed the dancers, the smoke shot down one nostril and bloomed about his face. He smiled.
The next time he exhaled, the smoke ascended softly in a ball. ‘Here, girl,’ he said, handing the pipe across, ‘taste the goodness the Fraternity brings to you. A veritable rose, child, and so rare these days. Delight in its royal bounty.’
As the girl smoked, Paget described to her aspects of the dance which for many other girls he had passed over entirely, or in most cases had kept from the training until he’d seen clear evidence of their potential. He explained that the dance, although its full details were still to be finalised, was composed of three movements. The first demonstrated the chaos from which a wondrous new order was to be established. It featured a series of solo parts, to be enacted by each partner in turn. The secon
d movement signified the meeting of two opposing elements during the calm that the great reordering had established. The third developed the theme of birth and creation following the lovers’ betrothal. ‘Yush, my children,’ he declared, fluttering his lashes, ‘and in such a way the two will become one, and the one will be three, and the three shall become a multitude. This, then, is your dance. Think of it as the Dance of Life. Are there to be questions of me?’
The girl shook her head, indulging herself with a long deep draught of smoke that spilt delicately from her nostrils. With the air clouding, Paget asked Moth to demonstrate his solo routine leading to the climax of the courtship phase, at which he nodded and got up. Aware of the girl watching him, he went to the middle of the floor and obeyed with a passion, willing his father’s presence into the room as he retraced the steps he’d learnt so far. He smiled at the girl as he moved, and then on completing the routine, he noticed Paget pick up his flute and take up a position away from the table. The girl rose too, tying back her hair.
‘Good, children,’ Paget said, and encouraged them to become accustomed to each other through a series of warm up exercises. With his head leaning aside, he set his lips to his instrument and began to play, and upon a brief clasping of hands and adjustment of feet, they got started.
They danced together skillfully, embracing and breaking from one another as though they had always been in partnership. Paget looked on with growing fondness, and so confident did he appear to be in the girl’s abilities, that he put them through just the briefest introductory steps before detailing the intricacies of the second movement. They practised these next steps as Paget had described, he applauding all the while; after which, as he stopped them in order to outline the final stages of the ceremony, the girl suggested he showed her the moves himself.
Paget obliged her, moving with surprising strength and grace, and afterwards, when the girl had demonstrated her understanding of what he’d done, adding a few twists of her own, he requested that she and Moth join together and go from the beginning while he studied them from various locations around the room.
Moth took her hand and they danced with abandon. It was one of the calmest days in the house that he could remember. He felt a purity of hope returning, a sense of purpose, a sense of the future materialising in the clouds. Although Paget maintained a close watch on the girl throughout the session, he noticed he seldom had cause to raise his voice at her, and feeling wholly engaged with another performer at last, skipping and ducking around her body, watching her spin and dart around him in turn, a silk sheet flicking lightly across his path, he became convinced he’d found his partner.
She stayed overnight on the middle floor, and the next day they repeated the exercises. When they came to the third movement, Paget once more took up the flute, and with its peculiar music floating and journeying around the room, they swept towards the final piece like a pair of sensuous twins, leaping and spinning spectacularly. At the end, they slid their arms round each other and thrust forward their chins, then paused. Their hands twined lithely as their hips touched; then they bent their knees to a point and slowly descended.
Looking up as one.
Paget ran on the spot, knees high, then held the tambourine over his head and began to jump up at it in delight. ‘Mr Kol!’ he called to the door, beaming hungrily, ‘I fear you shall find yourself at market this afternoon! Be quick, man! Be most hasteful! We have a wedding to accommodate!’
On Kol’s return, they smoked pipe after pipe of herbs and drank wine from a flask. ‘It’s Tilde,’ she said, smiling at Moth. ‘But you can call me Tillie.’ As the celebrations continued, they ate freshly cooked joints from the scullery, toasting each other as they swept up their cups. Delirious, Moth sat chuckling as Paget brought the trunk across to them, and with Kol’s assistance, they picked out costumes they thought would be the most suitable for the performance. Kol tossed out shoes and garments of every description for them to try on, and rising with drinks in hand, they collected the items that most caught their eye, then stood with them before the mirror whilst Paget made suggestions and the maid noted their measurements for any tailoring that might be asked for.
Over the next few days, they got to know each other better. Had fun. There was wine aplenty, and at Paget’s prompting, Moth had his hair bleached with chemicals, while Tilde’s hair was cropped a little, giving her a boyish look that became her. Once the costumes were ready, Paget encouraged them to wear them in rehearsals so they had a better sense of how it felt to move in them. Thus dressed, he made them run through each movement several times, after which he noted that the few flaws in their performance were unlikely to be spotted by others. ‘You do well, children,’ he said, watching as they flowed past him, ‘yes, you do very well.’
They were working on some of the finer technicalities that same week when they were interrupted by Kol barging into the room. As he ambled forward, Paget tore off his hat. ‘Mr Kol,’ he said, ‘even when your contribution is keenly required, I believe it is customary …’ He squinted. ‘What’s wrong, pray?’
‘He’s outside,’ said Kol, shifting on his feet. ‘Now.’
Paget’s bony features grew pale and alert. ‘He? You mean, him?’
‘That’s right. Him.’
‘But how? What do you mean, he’s outside?’
‘They stopped up the street. He’s here.’
‘Now?’
‘Wants to speak with you. Wants an update.’
Moth watched Paget’s brow furrow. Watched him take Kol aside to ask him something, then walk out briskly.
Upon his return, he stood regarding the dancers from under his hat brim. Out on the street, the cupped sound of hooves arose.
‘What is it?’ Moth whispered, while Tilde packed the bowl.
Through a room clouded grey with smoke, Paget said tersely, ‘Our time has come, children. We leave tomorrow night.’
Chapter 79 — The Ceremony
As the carriage pulled away, Tilde leant her weight on him, resting her head on his shoulder. Kol sat across from them on the black velvet seat, fiddling with the window slats.
The carriage jolted down the street, and as it did, he reclined. It was as if a great tide he’d been holding back was about to be released and there was nothing he could do about it, nor did he have the strength to fight it away. All he could do was let it flow and carry him along with his father ... back to that time before ... and towards a world newborn in its happiness.
It had been a long day. He’d awoken that morning with a sense of terror he could not explain to himself. Very early there’d been voices downstairs. Along with them a persistent metallic scraping which had continued into the street. He’d gone to the window to see a black carriage arriving, driven by a draped figure flicking a whip over the backs of two dark horses. The carriage had come with a trailer in tow, and peering down, he’d been just able to see the covered structure from the cart being loaded aboard by black-clad assistants, then secured in place with ropes. A minute after its arrival, the carriage had clattered away and disappeared. He’d stepped back trembling. The Cage had gone ahead, just as Paget had promised. Even at that hour, events had been well underway, unable to be stopped.
He pictured himself as he’d been afterwards, in the fraught period following the Cage’s departure. He’d been waiting for Kol to come to his room, restlessly pacing around as he’d done on those faraway nights at the base. How distant that life now seemed to him, and how strange.
He saw himself making a few finishing touches to the glider before wrapping it up and tying off the sleeve and tidying his room. All unnecessary, he reflected: Paget had assured him that he and his father would have plenty of time for such things afterwards — he’d recommended they hide in the house at least a day or two before heading away.
The carriage slowed, entering a hubbub of noise on the street. He heard Paget urging the driver to lash at anyone who came too near.
Paget. He thought back to th
e warm afternoon glow as he’d entered the dance room to find himself alone with him. ‘The girl sleeps, child,’ Paget had said, looking up from the table. ‘Time for us to finalise our plans. Little time remains.’
How they’d talked, using cups and hairclips to sketch out the ambush one last time, the backup plan agreed to in the same detail as the main design, the escape routes burnt into his mind even though he had mere drawings of the house’s layout to go by. ‘And if we have to run,’ he’d asked, ‘which way to come back here?’
‘Child?’
‘Which way back? If we have to run. If the carriage gets stuck.’
‘Indeed,’ Paget had said with a little nod, ‘what harm in it?’ and had placed objects here and there to illustrate the directions as requested, indicating the harbour, the main market area, the most direct route home and a few secret byways.
A long and dreadful period of waiting had followed, during which time all there’d been to do was move their luggage into the hall and sit quietly in the dance room. How slowly the light had rusted. He’d gone to the window, watching the shadows grow long and strange down the street; watching the night-folk as they started on their rounds, emerging stealthily from deepening backways and corners, lithe and predacious in aspect and as quick to vanish as to reappear within the fly-ridden gloom.
‘Not long, child,’ Paget had said soothingly at his back. ‘Soon all this will be forgotten. Your dear father and yourself united ...’
He’d nodded, staring between the open shutters. At the top of the street one ragged silhouette going in furtive pursuit of another. A brief spell of quiet broken by a loose and deranged cackling, asthmatic and anonymous between the crooked houses. A drunken song beginning, then faltering. At a doorway a sputtering lamp glow.
‘But, ah, if they know where we’re living ...’ he’d begun, and had turned to question Paget to find him gone. Leaving him alone with his thoughts, the dusk falling fast. The room aswarm with shadows, a chamber of whirling ghosts and the air stale with smoked herbs and the sweat of bygone exertions.
