Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  "It is difficult for any of us to be certain what is best," said the Duchess, "so long as Elsie's symptoms continue to be so varied and mysterious. But we are quite alone now, Miss Vorder, and I beg you to be frank. I have some influence over Clothilde Vorder, as you must be aware, and if you will tell me all that concerns you—who knows?—you may find in me an ally where you least expect one."

  Sera experienced a sharp pang of guilt. While she always thought of this woman as chief among Elsie's tormenters, she was also convinced that the Duchess (unlike Cousin Clothilde) was motivated neither by vanity nor self-interest, but by a sincere—if somewhat misguided—desire to do good in the world. Yet so accustomed was she to the stubborn opposition of Mistress Vorder and the obstinate greed of the physicians Clothilde generally employed, that it had never occurred to her until this moment that the Duchess might actually be someone with whom she could reason.

  Sera took a deep breath. "Very well, then, I will tell you what I think. Three times has Elsie suffered these attacks of panic, and on none of those occasions was I near. Had I been there, I believe I could have soothed her as effectively as Jarl Skogsrå. I have been looking after Elsie for many years now, and I have more influence over her than anyone—yet in every instance Cousin Clothilde sent immediately for the Jarl, and did not even bother to inform me that Elsie was ailing."

  The Duchess nodded her head. "Yes, that was rude of Clothilde and inconsiderate as well. Naturally, you would want to be with Elsie at a time like that. But aside from the snub to yourself, I do not understand why this should particularly disturb you."

  Sera picked a yellow rose, began to tear it apart, petal by petal. "We know that Jarl Skogsrå wishes to marry Elsie—whether because of her fortune (which is considerable), or because he has formed a sincere attachment, I do not pretend to say—and we know that Elsie's mother encourages his suit. I fear that Cousin Clothilde and the Jarl between them are using these fits of Elsie's, and his ability to bring her out of them, in order to make him indispensable to her.

  The Duchess appeared to think this over, then she nodded her head. "It might be so. Indeed, Miss Vorder, you have all but convinced me. And yet . . . and yet would this be so very bad a thing? Elsie must marry someone, she must marry sometime, and I believe the Jarl to be genuinely attached to her. He would make her an excellent husband, for he is a man of culture and refinement, and harbors a tender concern for Elsie's well-being. If he has allowed his ardor to get the better of him, and is unconsciously making use of the present circumstances in order to encourage Elsie's already decided preference for his company—can we find it in our hearts to deplore his behavior?"

  Sera picked another rose, a red one this time. The Duchess moved down the garden path, and Sera followed obediently after her, leaving a trail of scarlet rose petals behind her. Never before had she and the Duchess spoken at such great length, never before had Sera been so long exposed to her celebrated charm. There really was something oddly appealing about the Duchess (Sera decided), something . . . something that made one eager to win her approval if it could possibly be done. "Or is it—I beg you will pardon me for also being frank, Miss Vorder—have you considered the possibility that what you are feeling in regard to the Jarl might be jealousy. It is not uncommon for girls of your age to grow resentful when their closest friends first begin to think of love and marriage."

  Sera wanted to convince the Duchess, she wanted that very much—but how could she, when she doubted her own motives? "I do love Elsie, most tenderly, and she loves me; our friendship has, until now, been an exclusive one. Perhaps I am a little jealous that she is beginning to care for the Jarl, but that is not—I am certain that is not the only reason that I distrust him."

  "Well, well," said the Duchess, "let us leave that subject for the time-being and address another." As they started across a sunny stretch of velvety green lawn, the Duchess opened her parasol. It was an exceedingly pretty affair, as ruffled and be-ribboned as her gown. "You tell me," the Duchess said, "that Elsie only suffers these unfortunate attacks when you are not present."

  "I do," said Sera. "And so I cannot help but suspect that the Jarl is doing . . . something . . . to induce Elsie's fits.

  The Duchess stopped in her tracks, quite plainly aghast. "But this is too fantastic," she said. "Indeed, how could he do such a thing?—for if you were not present when the attacks began, than neither was he. I beg you to consider this: except when you leave home on these visits to your grandfather, you and Elsie are virtually inseparable. Only when you are out of the house, or when she is lying drugged with sleeping potions in her bed at night, is Elsie ever truly alone.

  "But she was up in her bedchamber dressing to go out, had just sent her maid off on some trifling errand, when this recent attack overcame her. And I think that you would find, if you cared to inquire, that she was also alone on each of the previous occasions. It may be," said the Duchess, as they continued to stroll, "that Elsie is more vulnerable at these times, and that the reassuring presence of a friend or kinswoman—even one of the servants—might enable your cousin to fight off her panic, and regain her mental balance before the fit gains a hold on her.

  "If this is true, the solution is obvious," concluded the Duchess. "We have only to make certain that Elsie is never alone, that she is attended at all times. A simple solution, I think you will agree, and one that ought to appeal to your practical nature."

  Sera felt a surge of gratitude. The solution did appeal to her; it struck her as both neat and sensible. And why (she wondered) had she never before noticed this striking resemblance between the Duchess and the little owl-eyed apothecary, Mistress Sancreedi? The same diminutive figure (though the Duchess was perhaps the taller), the same elegant bone structure, the same gentle, caressing manner. And what was it Mistress Sancreedi had said about the Duchess? Why, merely that Marella Carleon was universally regarded as a great philanthropist.

  "You are very kind, and—I think—very wise," said Sera. "It is possible that I have seriously misjudged you in the past."

  "You need not apologize," said the Duchess, with one of her delightful silvery laughs. "You would not be the first to have done so, I assure you. But do tell me—and I beg you will continue to speak plainly—is it not possible that your doubts about the benefits of the Jarl's treatment are due more to the revolutionary nature of the cure, than to any distrust of him or me?"

  "Say it is due to the mystical nature of the cure, and you would describe my feelings almost exactly," replied Sera.

  "I see," said the Duchess, twirling her parasol. "But of course you are a skeptic; I knew this already. The result of your early upbringing, no doubt. But no"—she smiled one of her enchanting smiles—"your parents named you Seramarias, which argues a mystical bent on somebody's part."

  Sera felt herself blushing. "I know very little about either of my parents. I was raised by my grandfather, Gottfried Jenk, and it was he who named me."

  The Duchess gave a tiny exclamation of surprise. "Gottfried Jenk! Jenk the Alchemist!" She clapped her tiny hands together as though she had just been presented with a delightful gift. "But I had no idea, no idea at all, that this was the grandfather you go so often to visit."

  "You know my grandfather?" Sera was puzzled by the Duchess's sudden enthusiasm.

  "Say rather that we were acquainted . . . oh, a long time ago. It must have been fifty years," said the Duchess.

  Sera tried not to stare, for she knew that was rude, yet she could scarcely help doing so. "Impossible," she exclaimed. "Or rather . . . I knew, of course, that you must be considerably older than you appear—for you scarcely look older than I—but fifty years . . ."

  The Duchess dismissed the compliment with a careless wave of her hand. "Indeed, you flatter me, Miss Vorder. But yes, I passed my fiftieth birthday some time since. It is not a fact that I am able to conceal, alas, for I have so many old acquaintances in Thornburg.

  "Yes, at one time, your grandfather and I were very well ac
quainted," she continued reminiscently. "And now that I know, I believe I perceive a resemblance: the stubborn set of the brows, the proud tilt of the head. I hope you will not be offended when I tell you that he was considered to be the most arrogant young man! But of course he had reason, for he was also a brilliant one. As you see, I am acquainted with the whole of his unfortunate history—and it explains a good deal. "

  The Duchess smiled at her. "Oh, yes, I understand you far better now, my very dear Miss Vorder." She linked her arm companionably through Sera's as they turned back toward the house. "But how pleased I am that we had this conversation. Do you know, Sera—I may call you Sera, may I not? And you must learn to call me Marella—I feel that I have sadly neglected you in the past! Our precious Elsie has consumed so much of my time and attention, I believe I never had the opportunity to get to know you as I ought.

  "But now that I do know you and something of your family history," she said sweetly, "I think—yes, I am entirely convinced—that you and I are going to be the greatest of friends!"

  CHAPTER 17

  Containing a Message which was eagerly Awaited.

  In the cold hour before daybreak, the people of Thornburg were already up and astir, preparing for the festival, which would begin in earnest at first light. The streets and lanes were filled with early-rising revelers—or those who had not seen their beds the night before—either making their way down to the river, or jostling and shoving for a good position along one of the wider streets, the better to observe the pageants and processions as they passed by.

  Among the crowd surging toward the river was one stoop-shouldered old man in a rusty black coat, a somber figure in stark contrast to the gaily dressed revelers surrounding him. Gottfried Jenk moved as in a dream, in a state bordering on preternatural exaltation. All around him he felt the ebb and flow of mental force as the excitement of the crowd pulsed and faded. But above and beyond the energy of the crowd, there were greater forces at work, the powers of light and darkness raging in awesome eternal struggle—Jenk knew the battle for men's souls continued at all times and in all seasons, but it was only possible for a man like himself, on an occasion such as this, when his intuitive faculties could feed on the excitement around him, to receive a faint intimation of the contending cosmic forces, an imperfect impression of their terrifying power and splendor.

  With the first rosy light of dawn, the air filled with raucous music: the tootling of silver horns, the clatter of rattles and wooden clappers; from somewhere off to the east, in the vicinity of Cathedral Hill, came the thud of bass drums and the deep moan of a bull-roarer, as the people of Thornburg welcomed in the new day, the new season, and the advent of the Harvest Triad.

  Moving as swiftly as he could through the press of bodies, Jenk followed Tidewater Lane, turned down Dank Street, pushed past a party of drunken dwarves, and emerged on Oyster Walk. A sudden movement of the crowd pressed him up against one of the buildings. Jenk knew, by the rhythmic stamp of feet moving steadily his way, that a procession was coming. He stood with his back against a damp brick wall, made himself as tall as possible in order to see over the heads in front of him, and watched the Clockmakers Guild march by.

  The Masters of the Guild came first, splendid in purple robes, glittering with medals and orders. Behind them walked twelve journeymen and 'prentices robed in rainbow colors ranging from pale rose, through gold, to midnight blue, representing the hours from dawn to dusk and from dusk to dawn. Last of all came a hunched old greybeard in tattered brown: Father Time, with his flail and his winnowing sieve, and a golden sickle tucked into his belt.

  No sooner had the Clockmakers passed than a burst of melody announced the approach of the Spinners, Weavers, and Fullers Guild, a lodge consisting mainly of women. Strumming on harps they came, or jingling silver sistrums, or bearing the tools of their trade: a spindle, a teasel, and a hand loom. At the end of the procession came four who represented the phases of the moon as worshipped by the Ancients: a slender girl wearing a gown of starry black and a wreath of delicate night-blooming flowers, symbolizing the frail new moon . . . two stately women in trailing court gowns of ivory silk embroidered in intricate patterns of seed pearls and tiny seashells, symbolizing the crescent and gibbous moons . . . and waddling along, considerably behind the others, in a garish gown of orange and yellow satin extending over a hoop of enormous proportions, a grotesquely fat woman, as ugly as a troll, representing the moon in her goblin phase.

  Jenk gave a gasp of dismay as the fat woman walked by, for behind her like a shadow, or a drift of mist, he could just make out the form of another: a hag with a wide mouth and a distended belly that jiggled as she walked—the old Goblin herself, come to join the revels, and no one but Jenk any the wiser.

  He passed a hand over his brow. He was a civilized man, he told himself, an educated man—he did not believe in these heathen superstitions. Like other educated men, he worshipped the Father, the Nine Seasons, and the Planetary Intelligences, Iune among them. He knew her true aspect—had he not seen her image in the cathedral a thousand times at the center of one of the glorious rose windows? Serene and beautiful, she hovered on outstretched snowy wings, like the wings of a great white swan; according to the Scriptures, she was a being formed of pure light. This grotesque thing was only a figment of his imagination. If he did not believe in her, she would cease to be. And yet—and yet—the harder he tried to will her away, the solider, the more convincingly real the Hag became.

  As the procession disappeared in the distance, Jenk slowly recovered his mental equilibrium. Then he began to move again, heading for the river. Once, a party of masked revelers, going in the opposite direction, hailed him by name, invited him to join them; recognizing none of them, he did not respond and continued on his course with single-minded determination.

  Jenk arrived on the banks of the Lunn just in time to observe the approach of the Glassmakers and the Gravediggers. The two guilds came in from opposite directions carrying gargantuan wicker effigies with them. Jenk felt another surge of excitement, for this was the one event he had come to see: the Drowning of the Giants, a ritual symbolizing the destruction of the two great island empires, Panterra and Evanthum.

  The Glassmakers reached the river bank first—as had doubtless been arranged in advance—and tipped their ribbon-clad and flower-bedecked wicker man into the water. The wicker giant hit the surface with a loud splash, then slowly sank. But the Gravediggers brought a monstrous figure with curling ram's horns in on a wagon. Sooty rags and tufts of dried grass had been tied to the wicker frame-work. At close quarters, the wagon in which it rode proved to be no ordinary cart, but a wheeled catapult, which launched the monster into the air and over the river. The horned giant landed with a mighty splash, sent up a fountain of white water twenty feet high, and promptly disappeared below the murky surface. With one voice, the crowd let out a roar of approval. Shouting as loudly as any of the others, Jenk felt the excitement around him rising to an almost unbearable crescendo.

  Jenk returned to the bookshop in the mid-afternoon, drained of all emotion and in a subdued frame of mind. The shop windows were shuttered, the door locked, but he let himself in with a key and bolted the door behind him.

  Inside, the lanthorns hanging from the beamed ceiling were dark; the air was as thick and black as ink. But a single ray of light pierced the gloom, and the door to the room at the back stood open.

  Jenk found Caleb in the laboratory, seated on a high stool, staring intently into the crystal egg, which now contained a new homunculus. The old bookseller shook his head. Following the death of the first mannikin, he had made two further attempts using sperma viri obtained in the same manner as before. Both attempts failed. In a moment of weakness, he had finally yielded to his old friend's repeated importunities and allowed Caleb to provide the seed for a fourth homunculus. Much to his surprise, this new creation thrived. Since the day they had first detected signs of change and growth, Caleb had hovered over the developing mandrak
e root like a doting nursemaid. This habit inspired in Jenk a profound uneasiness; he feared that Caleb's increasing obsession was not a healthy one.

  "It's growing fast—faster nor the first 'un," said Caleb, by way of greeting. "I see it change a little, day by day."

  "It is growing fast," Jenk acknowledged, as he hung up his coat, took his spectacles out of his waistcoat pocket, and placed them at the end of his nose. "And it will continue to grow whether you are on hand to observe or not."

  "That may be," said Caleb, rubbing his hands together, like a miser contemplating his gold, "nor again it may not be. I just don't want nothing to go wrong with this one, that's all,"

  "We decanted the other one much too early," sighed Jenk. "Its heart and its lungs were imperfectly developed. And we were both on hand when the unfortunate creature died; there was nothing that either of us could have done to save it.'"

  Caleb set his jaw and folded his arms. "I ain't inclined to argue the point—we been through that afore. What's done is done, and there's no going back. I just want you to come over here and take a look. When you carved the mandrake root, you was at some pains—wasn't you—to make it into a proper little man? You didn't consider any changes . . . by way of variety?"

  Jenk moved closer; he bent forward to peer into the egg. "No, Caleb, I made no changes. I made every effort to form this one as like the other as I possibly could. Why do you ask?"

  "Because," said Caleb, "I guess this little 'son' of mine has a fancy to become my daughter instead."

  Jenk adjusted his spectacles; gazed intently at the tiny creature in the glass vessel. "It is too soon to be certain," he said at last, "but I believe you are right: the homunculus seems to be taking on female characteristics. But this is most interesting, Caleb. I wonder how and why such a variation would happen to occur."