Mariah Mundi

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Imagination,’ he whispered to himself as he at last found the candle and the Lucifer. There was a bright spark, an all-engulfing light. Mariah gripped the lighting match in his fingers and pulled the wick ready for the flame. Gone was the darkness, banished from the room. He sighed loudly. It was as if the light cast out all his fear, as the dawn would kill the night terrors. With a shaking hand he lit the candle and allowed the match to burn out in the gutter of the holder until it had curled itself into a crinkled stalk of brittle charcoal.

  Taking the candle he went to the stage. There he lit the gas lamp in the wings and pulled out the saw box, checking the mechanical feet and all of the latches. He wanted nothing to go wrong; after all, he was the one who would put his life into Bizmillah’s hands. Mariah would sweep the stage, set the backdrops on their long twisted ropes and take twelve fat doves from their cages and press them into hats and boxes ready to be brought to life as if by magic.

  He had almost forgotten the fear of the Kraken when the stage door rattled on its hinges. It was as if a sudden gust of cold wind had blasted against it for the briefest of moments. The curtains that hung from the high arch over the stage shook a little as a myriad of tiny specks of dust fell from the roof to the floor. They would have been invisible, had they not danced through the shaft of light that flooded the stage from the wings and cast out into the dense blackness of the auditorium. Mariah watched as one by one they slowly waltzed this way and that, sometimes touching each other like snowflakes.

  The shudder came again, as if the whole of the Prince Regent had skipped the slightest grain of an inch. Mariah quickly pushed the box back to its place, stacking the other tricks in order of use upon it and covering them all with Bizmillah’s purple silk cloth.

  ‘Very late to be doing your work, young Mariah,’ came the voice from the blackness of the vast auditorium.

  Mariah stared out, unable to see anyone.

  ‘Thought a Colonial boy would be tucked up in bed, in safety,’ said the man sarcastically from the cover of darkness.

  ‘Mister Bizmillah wants it to be perfect. Can’t pack the pigeons in the daylight, they fly away.’ As he spoke the slow realisation of who he was talking to came to mind.

  ‘So you give away the secrets … Be bound by oath never to divulge the secret of the Order of Magicians. It would be on pain of death to give such vital knowledge to the uninitiated,’ Isambard Black said loudly as he walked through the darkness towards the stage. ‘Before you ask, like you I couldn’t sleep. It is something that has avoided me recently. No matter what I do I just can’t manage to let my mind go to the Land of Nod.’ He coughed as he walked slowly down the dark aisle, clearing his throat as if he were about to make some majestic speech. ‘I have even taken to walking the streets by the harbour. Interesting place, especially at night. You meet the most remarkable class of fellow – don’t you think?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Mister Black. I am gainfully employed,’ Mariah replied, trying to pick the shape of Isambard Black from the shadows.

  ‘And so you are, so you are … I forget, you are a Colonial boy and as such would never venture away from where you are supposed to be.’ Black grinned as he stepped into the shaft of dust-filled light and looked up at Mariah. ‘But I’m intrigued. There is something about you that fascinates me. I was only saying to my good friend –’ He stopped abruptly as if he had said too much. ‘Pick a card,’ he exclaimed loudly, and suddenly a deck of bright red-backed cards appeared in his hand as if from nowhere. ‘Just one, that’s all you have to do.’

  Mariah walked slowly across the rake of the stage, bent down and picked a card from the offered deck. He looked at the card and held it close to his chest.

  ‘King of Clubs,’ Black shouted.

  Mariah nodded in agreement.

  ‘Pick another … ’

  Mariah picked yet another card and before he could even look Black shouted the suit, colour and crown of the King of Diamonds.

  ‘One more for luck?’ he asked excitedly, walking up the small wooden steps and on to the stage. ‘Just take one more card and then we will end this frivolity.’

  Mariah hesitated. He knew this was all a sleight of hand, that Isambard Black had memorised the cards or in some way had presented them to him so he could pick certain cards from the deck. He eyed the cards one by one, feeling his hand forced in some way by Isambard Black. Purposefully he plucked the card furthest from Isambard’s fingers, at the outer edge of the fan. The sight of the Joker with its telltale cribbed edge and brightly coloured mantle flashed before him.

  Mariah tried to hold in the gasp and not give away his churning heart. He had held the card before. It had looked at him with its cross-eyes and magical wand in the carriage from London. Now it stared at him again.

  ‘The Joker,’ Black said gustily. ‘It keeps coming in your life, Mariah. Perhaps the cards are trying to speak to you.’

  ‘I would prefer it spoke in the language of men. If you don’t mind, Mister Black, I have to work and Bizmillah will be angry if things are not done for the morning.’

  ‘Bizmillah, the friendly magician? He’ll be well pleased, especially with my magic,’ Black said. He twisted his hand and from inside his coat slipped a triple-bladed dagger, looking like that which had been carried by the Kraken. ‘Now this is of interest, I am sure,’ he said as he held it out towards the boy. ‘Only three were ever made. They say they were forged in the burning volcanoes of Iceland from a piece of metal ore that has never been found again. It has the sheen of gold and the strength of steel. I am searching for them all and I will hopefully find them.’

  Mariah closely scrutinised the triple blades with their jagged tiger-tooth points – gleaming, sharp metal, a whalebone handle and golden hilt. The blades matched perfectly the marks he had seen on the murdered body outside the Three Mariners.

  ‘Do you think you’ll find them?’ he asked as he stepped away from Black, picking up the sweeping brush. He looked at the knife and then idly sauntered to the shelter of the wings.

  ‘I search for many things – a pack of cards, a precious box and the daggers. I am a collector of trickery and mechanical conjuring,’ Black said as the shudder came again, spilling more dust from the high ceiling and gently shimmering the stage.

  Mariah turned to reply, but Isambard Black had vanished. He looked back and forth, feeling this was part of yet another trick and that Black would appear as quickly as he had vanished. ‘Mister Black!’ Mariah shouted as he walked across the stage and peered into the gloom of the auditorium. ‘Mister Black!’

  With great reluctance Mariah turned the gas tap to extinguish the lamp. The stage vanished in the gloom that covered the falling sparkles of silver dust. He held the candle-holder nervously in front of him as he slowly retraced his footsteps to the stage door. Slipping back the bolt, he looked into the passageway leading to the stairs that would take him to the tower. Far away he could hear the voice of the baker, singing as he stacked the oven with the first loaves of the morning. Mariah was cheered that he was not alone and that if he were to call out then at least there was the faint possibility that someone would hear him.

  He leant into a shadow and listened warily, then snuffed out the candle and placed the holder upon the step before striding out to the stairway. Mariah couldn’t look back. He grabbed the door to the stairs and rushed through, keeping his eyes to the dimly lit floor for fear of seeing anything other than carpet and stone. Taking the steps two at a time he ran as fast as he could until he reached the top landing and the door to his room. The steam elevator chugged higher, hissing and bibbing as it drew near. He pushed the door and quickly stepped into the moonlit room. The he took the chair and pressed it against the door handle so that it could not be opened from the outside.

  Mariah sighed as the moon beat in at the window, having scattered the clouds and sea mist. The door to the steam elevator rattled open and then came the scraping steps that he had heard before. Slowly and stealthily they too
k the three laborious paces from the open lift to his room. He waited, expecting to hear a knock or tap at the door. Mariah could feel the presence of someone outside. Isambard Black, he thought to himself as he stepped to the bed and sat on the coarse blanket.

  The door handle slowly turned. Someone pushed against the door. Mariah saw the wood move in the frame. He jumped back further on the bed, grabbing the rough pillow and clutching it to his chest. The door moved again. The handle turned faster. He looked to the window, thinking of a way to escape. A gentle tap, tap knocked against the wood. He couldn’t speak, his voice frozen.

  ‘Mariah,’ came a whisper. ‘Mariah, let me in …’

  He didn’t reply. Then there was a sudden kick against the door and the chair fell from its place, releasing the handle. Slowly and forcefully the door was pushed open and the chair brushed to one side, scraping across the boarded floor. Mariah clutched the privy pot that was by the bedside, holding it by its thin handle, ready to strike at whatever creature came upon him.

  ‘Mariah,’ came the voice again. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to return …’

  A cloud crossed the moon like a thin black blade as a figure stepped into the room. Mariah looked up as he drew back his arm ready to strike –

  ‘Sacha?’ he asked as he stared at the dark shape before him. ‘Is it you?’

  ‘’Tis I,’ she said as she struck the match and lit the lamp by the door. ‘Where have you been? I got rid of my father and came straight here. Been waiting by the back door for ages and you never came. I met Isambard Black and he told me he’d seen you in the theatre so I came to your room. Surprised to see me?’

  ‘Surprised?’ he said quickly. ‘Sight for sore eyes. When you went, I was chased by the Kraken – found by Captain Charity – met a crocodile – and then Isambard Black appeared and then vanished again. Not the most normal of evenings, I would say.’

  ‘So you met Cuba. She’s nothing but a big lap dog. He found her on the beach, you know,’ Sacha said, hoping to fill in any gaps left by Charity. ‘And the Kraken, you say?’

  ‘It’s real, Sacha. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’

  ‘So says many a man on a Friday night on the way from the Three Mariners,’ she said curtly as she brushed the dark hair from her eyes.

  Mariah told her every detail of the night. Fried fish, Mister Grimm and the meeting with Charity. He showed her the coin in his pocket with its worn face and clipped corners and how the Kraken had attacked.

  ‘The trouble is … the trouble is,’ he said slowly as he reached under the bed, ‘I felt more fearful of Isambard Black than the Kraken. It was as if it wanted to speak to me and do me no harm. Black wants something,’ he said, looking nervously around the room. He reached for the box of Panjandrum cards that he had hidden. ‘I think he knows I have these.’ Mariah held out his hand. Resting on his palm and glowing in the moonlight was the pack of cards, still neatly enclosed in the box. The Joker stared out, his eyes glowing softly as from inside the box a hidden light glowed through them.

  ‘A fine and fancy deck of poker cards,’ Sacha replied as she stared at the pack of playing cards, the golden braid that encircled the box shining boldly with an incandescent light.

  [ 16 ]

  The Dancing Panjandrum

  TWO dirt-black chairs were jammed against the door, their spindly legs pressed into the hard wood of the planked floor that ran seamlessly from wall to wall. Against them was wedged the small cupboard with its bowl and wash pot, full to the brim with cold water, all wrapped in a threadbare towel. The last part of the barricade was the bed, which now spanned the narrow room like the spar of a metal bridge, squashing everything tightly against itself. Sacha peered over Mariah’s shoulder as he knelt in the firelight and unpacked the Panjandrum from the safety of the taut box. The cards were wrapped in a stiff piece of white paper, neatly folded at each corner like the pleats on a well-made bed. He slipped his finger beneath the flattened red wax seal and slowly folded back the wrapper. It burst open with a sudden crack, giving out a shower of tiny blue sparks and filling the room with the musty odour of old damp books. On the inside of the paper was a fine line drawing of a tower of cards, each one placed against the other until it formed a tall column. To one side was a list of instructions, giving the name of each card and how they were to be placed together.

  Mariah looked up at Sacha. She nodded to tell him to go on, the flickering of the flames dancing across her face as she tried to read the dark etched words that glowed through the folded paper. She pressed one hand against the cold damp wall, her palm sinking into the pattern of the paper as she looked on.

  ‘Is it a game?’ she asked quietly, looking at the heavy drops of rain that fell from the clear sky like crystals of fine ice tapping gently upon the panes.

  Mariah said nothing as one by one he placed the cards together, following the plan written out before him. Each piece of crisp card clicked firmly to another, as if they were waiting to be joined together and by some strange means became one solid piece. King followed Knave, wands linked with pentacles, as quickly each suit came together until the tower grew and grew in the firelight. Finally, Mariah held the last two cards in his hands and stared at the crossed-eyed Jokers. One smiled back, the other grimaced with one eye closed and a hand placed over his mouth as if he would never speak.

  Sacha tapped Mariah on the shoulder to bring him from his dream and finish the tower that was now twelve cards in height. He placed the Jokers on each side of the final span, their faces staring to each wall as he sat back and looked at the tower that sat firmly upon the wooden floor.

  It was then that a tremor shook the hotel. It rattled the whole of the Prince Regent, juddering the steam elevator, sending a shower of dust cascading from the ceiling. The window of the room rattled in the frame, then cracked across the glass pane as if twisted too far. The tower of cards didn’t move. Mariah looked at Sacha and then to the scrawled commands etched in the paper. He read the words, which looked as if they had just appeared on the page. ‘Once the tower is complete – then amaze your audience with its magical fortuities. Chi – Samekh – Digamma.’ Mariah read the words aloud in one long breath with a voice that came from another place.

  There came the faint sound of whispering. Sacha looked about her, sure that the voices came from outside the room and that the barricade would not hold against whoever was upon them. She looked to Mariah, hoping he could hear the shy murmurs that irked her soul and spoke gentle whispers from the high corners of the room.

  ‘Can you hear …?’ she said as the muttering grew louder in her mind.

  ‘Chi – Samekh – Digamma …’ Mariah said again as if he hadn’t heard a single word. He sat spellbound by the miniature but spectacular event taking place before him.

  ‘Where is it coming –?’ she shrieked as the clamour vibrated in her head.

  ‘Don’t say a word,’ Mariah said, his face fixed in a deep stare as the Panjandrum burst into life and began to hover above the floorboards. ‘Sacha … Take my hand,’ he murmured as if he could see something in the cards. The tower spun faster and faster, each card blurring into the others as the manifestation whirled in the deep firelight, sparking with every turn. ‘Can you see it?’

  Sacha stared, unsure that she should believe her eyes. ‘It’s a trick,’ she said quickly, not wanting to believe what she saw. ‘Just like what Bizmillah would have done.’

  ‘Not a trick,’ Mariah said, his stare fixed upon the spinning cards. ‘This is more like magic. Now I know why Perfidious Albion gave them to me. Look!’ He gasped as the tower unfolded to form a living, framed depiction of jostling images. It glittered and sparked as each card melted and transformed into a single image. There, unfurled before them, was a London street made up of tiny fragments of the Panjandrum. They swirled and changed with every second to form a moving picture in which dark figures walked back and forth. Striding boldly along the pavement was Perfidious Albion, who pulled his collar up against the drivin
g rain, his floppy hat tugged across his face. The bright sign of Claridges Hotel lit the scene, as close by two men followed on behind, trailed by a hansom cab, its horse decked in funeral black plumes and a rain-wet running coat.

  The Panjandrum raised itself higher into the air as the scene began to change. Inside the frame of spinning cards, Perfidious Albion stepped upon the stone threshold of the entrance to the hotel. In his hand Mariah could see the postcard that he had sent, the painting of the Prince Regent twisted in his grip. Without warning, the dark-clad followers that lurked behind grabbed Perfidious roughly by the arms and lifted him from his feet. Turning him to the road, they bundled him quickly into the awaiting carriage. There in the corner of the picture, lurking as if not wanting to be seen, was a grey-faced figure who brushed the steps with what appeared to be a long black broom. When Sacha and Mariah stared even harder into the picture they saw the man begin to walk the pavement, and here and there as he went along he tapped a rain-soaked pedestrian gently upon their forehead with the tip of a long gnarled finger. With every unseen touch he left behind a blood-red mark that set them aside from those passers-by who went on their way unchosen.

  ‘What is it?’ Sacha asked, more intrigued at the spectacle than frightened by its miraculous appearance.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s wrong – I can feel it. This shouldn’t be happening,’ Mariah replied, and he edged further away from the Panjandrum as they spun into another scene. ‘We have to stop it.’

  ‘Stop it?’ Sacha replied. ‘This is amazing. Look, Mariah – who would have thought, moving pictures.’