Mariah Mundi and the Ship of Fools

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Do you wish me harm?’ Mariah asked as he could see the room behind him begin to glow.

  ‘I’ve come for you, Mariah … We all have,’ the voice replied with chilled breath, as if spoken by an orchestra of spectres.

  ‘But you’re dead?’ Mariah asked.

  ‘What is death but a doorway, Mariah? I was given to the waters and from there I have to return. Join me, Mariah – jump from the ship …’

  Mariah turned slowly. Streaming from the mirror was a golden light. It fanned out from its source to form a tight cone the size of a small child. There, before him, standing like a mirage in the darkness … was Topher. He was perfect in every way and looked just like the picture that hung on the wall of the Colonial School. Around his feet was a pool of water that dripped from the hem of his coat – the coat he wore on the day he disappeared.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ Topher said, his lips unmoving and smile rigid as if he were but a hologram.

  Mariah couldn’t speak. The terror of the vision chained him to the ground. The image flickered with the golden light and seemed to come closer. A blue mist with the scent of almonds and seaweed filled the room. The vision of Topher began to fade. Mariah could hear him speaking but couldn’t understand the words. He felt weary, exhausted. His eyes were heavy. His head drooped. Finally his knees buckled and he fell to the floor, overcome by a deathly sleep.

  [6]

  Naturum Muriaticum

  THE Saloon Theatre was misty-thick with the smoke from a thousand cigars. Charity stood, crowded to the end of the long wooden bar. Three large windows gave him a view over the dark sea. High above, the Bicameralist kept pace with the ship, hovering like a dark cloud. A searchlight at the front of the skyship bathed the Triton in a pool of carbide light.

  Charity looked down. The ship appeared to be surrounded by a ghostly phosphorescence that bubbled from the sea. Promenaders walked the deck arm in arm. Some stopped by the railings and looked out at the flat, calm Atlantic that enclosed them like thick green ink. In the packed saloon, old men drank absinthe and Angostura poured from tall jugs. The conversation was loud and raucous as they watched the dancing on the small stage by the curtained doorway.

  Sipping from his glass, Charity waited. He had no interest in the burlesque or the milky-green cocktail, yet he held his glass so as not to appear out of place. With each faux sip, he looked about the room. It had been something that Casper Vikash had said to the Marquis on the balcony of their suite that had brought him to that place. Charity had been sure that he was not meant to hear that single word, but hear he had. As the night had gone on so the intrigue had grown and grown. By the time he and Mariah had got to the door of the cabin, Charity could bear it no longer.

  As he had taken the steam elevator to the upper deck, Charity knew he was being followed. There had been two men at the end of the passageway near to his cabin. They had watched him intently whilst they conversed amiably with one another. Then as he left the elevator on the saloon deck, another man had followed him along the corridor and through the red velvet curtains. Charity didn’t know who these men were, but his suspicion was that they worked for the Marquis DeFeaux. Each one was typically Continental, smaller than average, swarthy in complexion and with a thick Latino brow. Their clothes were to big for them, as if they had been hurriedly found for the purpose of fitting in with the aristocratic guests of the saloon bar.

  Even as he sipped his drink in his gloved hand, one of the men watched him from the door and then, within minutes of his arrival, was joined by the two others. Charity knew that whilst he was in the company of so many people nothing would happen. As he waited, the dancing stopped. The stage was cleared of several disregarded Akomeogi hand-fans thrown down by the dancers. Into the bright limelight stepped a hunched man in a tailcoat and white spats. He carried on his arm a large leather-faced doll dressed as a Chinese Mandarin.

  For a moment, he held the doll for all to see. It was lifelike in every way, although its skin looked as if it were tanned rawhide and the eyes were that of a large fish. A long, thin moustache flowed down from its lips. The man took a stool and sat with the mannequin on his knee.

  ‘My name is Charlemagne. I am the keeper of secrets,’ he said as he bolstered the doll against him. ‘Shanjing is more than a mannequin – he is a thousand years old and has seen empires fall. This night, he will tell you the darkest secrets of your hearts.’

  As the ventriloquist spoke in his Italian accent, the audience muttered in bored disapproval.

  ‘We want dancers, not mind-reading bits of wood,’ shouted a thin man with an obvious glass eye on the very front row.

  ‘You want to know who is stealing from your business and how much you spend on horses?’ Shanjing appeared to ask, as his wooden arms flailed in his embroidered silk jacket.

  The man on the front row fell silent and tried to sink as low as he could, for fear that his secrets would be made clear to the world.

  ‘Then tell me what I had for breakfast,’ shouted another man as he struggled to keep his absinthe in his glass.

  ‘You want to know what you had for breakfast – but I will tell the world the name of the one you had breakfast with,’ Shanjing replied quickly.

  Those around the man laughed as he fell back, stunned that a doll should know of his deceit.

  It was then that the audience fell strangely quiet. Shanjing rolled his eyes and looked around the saloon. He seemed menacing, otherworldly and malevolent. It was as if he were no longer a doll dressed in gold silk but a tiny man, perfect in every way and seeing into the dark hearts of those around him.

  ‘Who would ask Shanjing a question about their life?’ Charlemagne asked. No one dared speak. Each man had too many secrets to behold. One man with a fresh scar on his cheek got to his feet to walk out of the room. Shanjing opened his eyes and stared at him.

  ‘You!’ he said. ‘Leaving because you are frightened what Shanjing may know about you? Don’t worry. Police in New York will not be waiting for you.’

  The audience laughed nervously. The man stopped and put a trembling hand to his face as tears trickled over his cheek.

  ‘How did you know?’ he asked in horror. ‘Is it so clear?’

  ‘It is as plain as the scar on your face,’ Shanjing scoffed. ‘No matter what you do – the secret will follow you like a prowling tiger.’

  The man looked to the floor as all around him faces stared, wondering what secret Shanjing had discovered.

  ‘Who told you?’ the man demanded. ‘I have told no one.’

  ‘You have told yourself every night as you have looked in the mirror. Pity him – at least I have a face … Isn’t that what you say?’ Shanjing asked, his Mandarin voice shaking as he spoke.

  ‘Then you know too much,’ the man said as he pushed his way through the silent crowd and left the saloon.

  ‘I have a question,’ Charity asked from the back of the room to break the silence. ‘Who will win the race, the Triton or the Ketos?’

  ‘Rather you should ask, Captain, will the race be completed?’ said Shanjing melancholically. ‘There are many miles of sea and the ice flows from the north like a dagger. The winds will rage and waters ravage. So do not be complacent. I look for the day when my feet touch dry land again.’

  ‘Your feet don’t even touch the floor,’ shouted an absinthe-tongued young man who was standing by the red velvet curtains.

  ‘And your heart will not beat after you celebrate your birth again … Go now before it is too late, before you all die … Go quickly. Death comes to kill you all.’ Shanjing began to rant as he spoke curses in Mandarin.

  Charlemagne held the mannequin as if it were a sentient creature. Then with one hand he smothered its mouth whilst with the other he held the struggling doll close to him as he ran from the stage.

  The gathering looked ominously at each other. It was as if they did not want to believe what had been said. Quickly, the rotund impresario pushed the dancers back on the stage. The smal
l orchestra played even faster than before. Waiters in white jackets hurried around the tables, filling each jug with fresh absinthe.

  Charlemagne vanished through the curtains that hid the doorway at the side of the stage. Charity followed him closely. The man ran ahead, pushing aside a waiting magician and sending a sleeve of pigeons into the air. In an instant he was out of sight. To one side of the passageway was a narrow doorway. Charity stopped. He could hear voices arguing beyond the door.

  ‘You said too much,’ muttered Charlemagne.

  ‘I can only speak of the visions I have,’ Shanjing replied, his voice smothered.

  ‘Then tell them things that will make them laugh,’ Charlemagne insisted.

  ‘But that will not help them – we must get from this boat before disaster comes.’ Then Shanjing fell silent.

  Charity banged on the door.

  ‘I must see you,’ he said.

  ‘I cannot see anyone,’ Charlemagne replied.

  ‘Then I will stay here until you come out,’ Charity vowed.

  ‘Very well,’ said a feeble English voice.

  Eventually the door to the small dressing room opened and Charity stepped in. Charlemagne was sitting on a red sofa by the wall. On the floor at his feet was a coffin-shaped box. The room smelt sweetly, almost sickly, like boiled almonds and seaweed.

  ‘You have quite a skill, Mr Charlemagne,’ Charity said.

  ‘It’s not Charlemagne – that’s just a name for the stage. I’m Eric Bloodstone, from Wigan,’ he muttered.

  ‘A convincing Italian accent – very Florentine. I was completely fooled,’ Charity replied.

  ‘I have had practice. I worked in Florence as a waiter for many years,’ Charlemagne said as beads of sweat trickled across his forehead.

  ‘Do you really see those things about people or are you just guessing?’ Charity asked.

  ‘Why should you want to know? If you want to see more come back tomorrow night,’ he snapped.

  ‘I am the owner of the Prince Regent Hotel, and I am always on the lookout for entertainments that will astound,’ Charity replied.

  ‘The Prince Regent – I have heard much of that place,’ Charlemagne said, his eyes lighting up with the prospect of future employment.

  ‘Then we should speak further.’ Charity turned to go but paused. ‘One thing – how did you find such an amazing creation as Shanjing?’

  ‘He found me. Sometimes I wonder who is in control of the act,’ he replied.

  ‘May I see him?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Charlemagne. ‘That would be impossible. No one has ever seen Shanjing in his box. I treat him as if he were a living person. That is the only way.’

  ‘Perhaps another time?’ Charity asked as he left the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

  ‘You treat me like a dog,’ Charity heard Shanjing’s muffled voice plead. ‘If I could escape from you I would be gone. He knows too much – he will bring misery to you.’

  ‘You would never go – you need me as much as I need you. Just be careful next time – lie if you have to and don’t frighten people.’

  Charity listened as the man spoke to himself.

  ‘Obviously quite mad,’ he whispered as he entered the saloon through the stage door.

  There was no music, no dancing – every face was pressed against the windows that overlooked the deck below.

  ‘He’s going to jump!’ shouted the impresario as he looked on. ‘He’s just a lad, why should he want to throw himself from the ship?’

  ‘That steward wants to catch hold of him,’ said a man.

  ‘He’ll drag him over with him if he does,’ said another.

  Charity pushed through the crowd until he could see from the window. There, three decks below on a gangplank over the sea, was Mariah. His long curls blew in the breeze as he held out his hands – it was as if he were following someone he trusted.

  ‘No!’ Charity shouted as he pushed against the pack and ran from the saloon.

  The entire ship seemed to be making for the place where Mariah stood. Crowds of people bustled through the corridors and blocked the exits. Charity ran on until he found a door to the outside deck. He climbed as fast as he could over a railing and caught a wire that ran from a funnel to the prow of the ship. Without hesitation, Charity leapt from the ship and slid down the wire.

  ‘Mariah!’ he shouted as he got to his feet and began to approach the boy.

  Mariah didn’t reply. He walked along the gangplank towards the sea below as if he couldn’t hear him.

  ‘Stay back!’ shouted the steward as he edged behind Mariah.

  ‘Topher?’ asked Mariah as he looked to his invisible friend. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘Who do you talk to?’ Charity shouted as he pushed the Steward out of the way.

  Mariah stopped momentarily and looked back. Charity saw his glazed eyes that looked like burnished steel.

  ‘It’s all right, Topher, I’m coming to you … I must say goodbye to Captain Charity …’ Mariah spoke as if he could see both worlds.

  ‘He’s not real, Mariah. It’s an hallucination,’ Charity shouted. He was scared to get too close for fear that Mariah would leap into the sea.

  ‘Topher came for me – in the cabin,’ Mariah said. ‘He’s not dead – he didn’t drown.’

  ‘Look at me … look at me,’ Charity said desperately. ‘I have something for you to take with you, something for Topher.’ He held out his fob watch towards Mariah. ‘Take it … you’ll need this.’

  Mariah stopped and looked. He could only see Charity as an apparition. It was as if his soul had crossed the Styx and now dwelt beyond death, looking back at life. The dangling watch spun on its chain, shimmering in the light from the skyship that hovered above them. Mariah looked back on a ghostly world. He could see the outlines of the people as they gathered near him on the deck. Below, the bubbling jade water looked warm and inviting. He could see Topher at the end of the gantry – so real, so alive, an old friend waiting for him. Charity began to fade until he was just a dim outline of the man.

  ‘You have to take it,’ Charity insisted as Mariah teetered inches from death. ‘Topher wants you to have it.’

  ‘I can’t see you, Jack – where are you?’ Mariah asked.

  ‘I’m here, Mariah, just a few feet away. I will give you the watch,’ Charity said as he edged closer.

  For a moment Charity looked up. There on the balcony of Deck 13 was the Marquis DeFeaux and his daughter Biba. He could see them clearly in the light of the Bicameralist. The Marquis looked as if he were Caesar staring down at a gladiator about to die.

  ‘Just one step and you will have the watch. Reach out, Mariah, it is just here,’ Charity said as he reached out his hand.

  Mariah stumbled a pace towards him and then stopped as if a voice were calling him back.

  ‘Listen to me, Mariah,’ Charity shouted. ‘Just a few more inches …’

  Mariah wasn’t listening. Whatever had taken his soul called him on. Without a word, he stumbled forwards, clutched the wire rail of the gangway – and then fell back. Charity dived towards him and gripped him by the sleeve of his jacket. Mariah fell from the gantry. Charity held fast as the lad dangled above the sea.

  ‘Take my hand, Mariah. Don’t let go!’ Charity shouted as he felt the gangplank slip from its mooring and dangle from the small crane over the water. The passengers began to scream in fear as both Mariah and Charity were suspended over the sea. The gantry swayed back and forth as Charity pulled Mariah to him.

  ‘Let me go!’ Mariah shouted angrily. ‘I want to follow Topher.’

  ‘It’s an illusion, a phantasm – he isn’t real,’ Charity urged as he managed to grip Mariah by the hand.

  Within a minute Charity had pulled Mariah back on to the gangway. A sailor on the ship had powered the steam crane and let down the gantry to the lower deck away from the onlookers. Captain Tharakan and Ellerby were waiting.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Tha
rakan as Mariah was dragged from the gangway to the safety of the deck.

  ‘Very much alive,’ Charity replied as he saw specks of purple powder in the lines on Mariah’s hand. ‘But from the look of him, I would say that someone has drugged him with Lyzerjid.’

  ‘Who should do such a thing?’ Tharakan asked. ‘An assassin in your room and now this …’

  ‘Someone wants him dead, and I do not know the reason why,’ Charity replied. A steward helped him get Mariah to his feet. ‘We shall take him to his room. Captain Tharakan, can you provide a guard for the night?’

  Tharakan nodded to Ellerby, who disappeared into the shadow of a doorway only to appear moments later with three of his men armed with revolvers.

  ‘We will follow you,’ Ellerby said harshly. ‘If we find anyone trying this again, they will be dealt with sternly.’

  Charity didn’t believe him. There was something about the man that he felt he couldn’t trust. But this was not the place to question Ellerby as to his loyalty. As they led Mariah away, Charity thought that whoever wanted Mariah dead would need an accomplice. If Tharakan wasn’t the one, then Ellerby could be.

  ‘Mr Ellerby, do you have another cabin that we could take him to?’ Charity asked as they got near to the open door of Suite 395.

  ‘The ship is full, Captain. Not a single bed is left,’ Ellerby replied without a glint of concern.

  Then Biba DeFeaux stepped from the door of the room, followed by Casper Vikash. ‘My father has sent me to see you,’ she said. ‘We have taken the liberty of packing all your things. The Marquis thought it would be wise if you both stayed on Deck 13. There is a private suite and Casper will keep us all safe.’

  Biba DeFeaux smiled at Charity as she twisted the ringlets of her red curls. Here was the girl who but two hours before had refused to speak. He thought for a moment. It all appeared to be too convenient, too manipulated by the power of a wealthy man. He looked around the room and saw that everything had been packed into the trunks. Several of DeFeaux’s servants stood, arms folded in their neat black uniforms, awaiting instructions. Biba looked at Charity and then touched Mariah’s face.