The Society of Thirteen

by Gareth P. Jones

  She looked at it uncertainly. ‘It’s just so much to take in. Remember what Mother Agnes used to say about selling your soul. Nothing comes for free.’

  After agreeing to meet later that day at one of their hide-spots in Spitalfields, Tom left Esther and went in search of a mirror. Alone in the alleyway, Esther thought about a day at the orphanage when she had asked Mother Agnes why miracles didn’t happen any more like they used to in Bible days. Before the inevitable beating for asking insolent questions, Mother Agnes explained that the events in the testaments occurred during a time when heaven was closer to earth. ‘More extraordinary things were possible back then,’ she had said. Watching Tom walk away, Esther wondered whether everything they had been taught was wrong.

  She turned the book over in her hands and thought that perhaps things would have been better if she had never suggested they work that square in Piccadilly. They would never have met Lord Ringmore and none of this would have happened. She ran her fingers over the number on the front. She opened it to the last page and marvelled at the complex pattern that filled the paper. She closed it and looked at the shape on the back cover. A circle within a triangle within a circle. The Creation Spell. It was such a simple shape. Could it really draw such power from the earth? There was so much she did not understand.

  She opened the book again and flicked through the pages. The more she stared the more they spoke to her. It was wordless speech, heavy with meaning. She tried to close the book but it would not shut. Something was happening to her. The world swam. She only closed her eyes for a moment but when she opened them she saw, on the ground, scratched into the dust, three shapes. A circle within a triangle within a circle. They had been drawn by the broom handle she was holding, but she had no memory of doing so. It was as though a sleeping corner of her mind had awoken and formed the shapes. She could feel it urging her forward. It was too strong to resist. Esther stepped into the centre of the shape and felt raw energy rush through her body.

  A droplet of water splashed on her face and she looked up to see a cloud bursting. The falling rain was strange and slow. Esther saw every droplet in such detail that she saw London reflected a thousand times over. It fell so slowly that Esther had time to step under the cover of an overhanging roof before the shower came down. She watched the unutterable beauty of the rain hitting the paving stones and washing away the shapes she had drawn.

  Tom was right. It felt amazing.

  Chapter 33

  Voice

  Whether or not it was the voice downstairs that awoke John Symmonds at such an ungodly hour was unclear but, now that he was awake, he felt compelled to go and investigate. Reaching his bedroom door, it occurred to him that it could be a house breaker so he took the precaution of arming himself with an iron fire poker before continuing down the stairs. He was halfway down when he realised three curious things about the voice. Firstly, its deep, resonant tones were undoubtedly those of his manservant, Kiyaya. Secondly, remarkably, Kiyaya was speaking English. Thirdly, the conversation in which he was engaged was notably one-sided.

  John Symmonds stepped carefully to avoid the squeaky floorboards as he reached the hallway at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘What interest have you in this matter?’ said Kiyaya, demonstrating first-rate pronunciation and the admirable use of an intransitive verb.

  To Mr Symmonds’ even greater surprise the reply came not in the form of a second voice but as the unmistakable meow of a cat. Even more curiously, Kiyaya appeared to have no trouble understanding its meaning.

  ‘If I were to help you, what could you do for me?’ he replied, revealing the ability to use a conditional clause correctly.

  John Symmonds was taken aback. When he had met Kiyaya, the American Indian had been living as a hermit, cast out by his tribe. He had never seen a white man before, nor heard of a land across the ocean called England. He had seemed to Mr Symmonds a good man with a gentle soul, so why this deceit? Why had he hidden his ability to not just understand but speak English? Then it struck him. Of course. Kiyaya was sleepwalking. Mr Symmonds had recently read of another similar case, a man who, in his waking hours could only speak English, but who spoke perfect Italian in his sleep. That was it. Kiyaya had picked up the linguistic patterns of English in his unconscious mind. The possibility of this phenomenon was intriguing. How fascinating were the depths of the human mind!

  The meowing, however, remained a mystery. Intrigued to learn more, Mr Symmonds opened the door and found Kiyaya addressing a black cat perched on a table. They both turned to look at him. Neither cat nor man spoke, but John Symmonds became overly aware that he must have looked distinctly odd himself, dressed in a nightgown and clutching a poker. He lowered the weapon. Kiyaya didn’t look asleep.

  ‘What an intriguing fellow you are, Kiyaya,’ Mr Symmonds said. ‘You pick up our language but, instead of telling me, you reveal it to this cat. I should explain that in our culture, the only people who engage in conversations with members of the animal kingdom reside within the confines of Bedlam.’

  ‘John Symmonds,’ said Kiyaya. ‘I am grateful for all you have done for me. You brought me to this land, so I am sorry it must end like this.’

  ‘End? End like what?’ asked Mr Symmonds.

  The Indian moved his staff across the floor and placed a heavy hand on Mr Symmonds’ shoulder. Seconds later, John Symmonds collapsed to the floor. Dead.

  Chapter 34

  Longdale

  Hardy and his boys were heading down New Oxford Street when a small army of coppers appeared out of nowhere. Hardy turned to flee but saw yet more coming the other way. They were surrounded. Brewer reached for his knife, but Hardy shook his head. They wouldn’t be fighting their way out of this one. The policemen formed a circle around them, holding truncheons in their hands but saying nothing. If one of the shopkeepers had talked, thought Hardy, revenge would be both swift and bloody.

  A smartly dressed gentleman wearing round spectacles pushed through the ranks. In spite of his brown chequered suit, his manner gave him away as a copper.

  ‘How can I help you today, officer?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘My name is Chief Inspector Longdale,’ said the man.

  ‘That supposed to impress us?’ said Brewer.

  ‘I’m not here to impress you, Brewer,’ he replied.

  Upon hearing his name, Brewer glanced nervously at the others, but Hardy was maintaining eye contact with the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Office copper walking the beat, getting his hands dirty for a change, eh?’ said Hardy.

  Longdale smiled at him, then, without warning, punched him hard in the stomach. Hardy doubled over in pain, winded by the unexpected attack. Stump and Worms stepped forward but the surrounding officers raised their truncheons threateningly.

  Longdale grabbed the back of Hardy’s coat and lifted his head so that he could whisper into his ear. ‘I may be a desk copper but I’ve got hands plenty dirty enough to deal with you.’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ gasped Hardy.

  Longdale placed an arm over his shoulder and led him through the ranks of men, away from the others.

  ‘Ne’er-do-wells like you think you’re as invisible as the rats in the sewers,’ said Longdale. ‘I’m here to remind you that you are not. As you can see, my men outnumber your boys and we can bring you in and have you swing whenever we choose.’

  ‘On what charge?’ demanded Hardy.

  ‘Charges are easy enough to find, especially for street vermin like you,’ said Longdale. ‘You get on the wrong side of me and that punch will feel like a tickle.’

  ‘Kind of felt like that anyway,’ said Hardy.

  Longdale brought his face up close to Hardy’s. ‘Do you think this is a joke, lad? You won’t be laughing once you’re standing up on a scaffold.’

  ‘So you’ve come to threaten me, is that it?’ said Hardy.

  ‘No,’ replied Longdale. ‘I’ve come to help you. Most people would look at you and see a lost ca
use. Me? I see a lost soul and it is my Christian duty to find lost souls and to help save them.’

  ‘You’ve come to Holborn looking for repentance, have you copper?’ said Hardy. ‘I think you’re in the wrong job.’

  ‘There was a fire down in Rotherhithe,’ said Longdale. ‘Nasty business. A warehouse went up. The fire even spread to the neighbouring properties. A lot of damage caused. Not the first time either. A lot of the shops you frequent seem to end up in cinders, don’t they?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You know how long you can go down for arson, Hardy?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Thankfully no one was hurt,’ said Longdale.

  ‘No one?’ replied Hardy.

  ‘I thought that might surprise you. Although witnesses did see a gang of four lads leaving the scene.’

  ‘Listen, if you’d wanted to arrest me you’d have done so,’ said Hardy. ‘You must want something else. You want me to turn blower? Is that it? You want me to turn someone in?’

  ‘The occupants of this warehouse,’ said Longdale. ‘We believe they were a pair of orphans, like yourself. In fact, we believe they came from the same institution you did. They survived this fire.’

  ‘Did they?’ snarled Hardy.

  ‘I’d like a word with them.’

  ‘Why?’

  Longdale shook his head. ‘I’m the one looking for answers here. I’m charged with finding these orphans. I’m to use every tool at my disposal. Every tool, Hardy.’

  ‘You got a city full of coppers and you want my help?’ said Hardy.

  ‘In my experience, rats are hard to hunt because they scurry off at first sight and take cover in their grubby little rat-holes. The best way to find a rat is to send in another after it.’

  ‘What happens if I find them?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘Bring them in and maybe we’ll delay that walk to the scaffold,’ replied Longdale.

  Chapter 35

  Olwyn

  Mondriat was following Tom’s progress through the streets. Finally the foolish boy had ditched the girl and gone in search of his mirror, and Mondriat wanted to be there when he chose it. A pigeon landed on the roof in front of him, blocking his view, so he sent it away with a sharp peck. Mondriat hated pigeons. The scavenging vermin of London were stupid animals, but they did have an innate ability to identify a bird with purpose. Assuming he had spotted food, more of them flocked around him on the edge of the building. Mondriat flapped his wings aggressively to keep them back but was surprised when the entire flock took to the sky. He turned around and saw the reason. A black cat prowled towards him, its green eyes focused on him. The same cat he had seen several times before.

  ‘It would be better for you if you didn’t,’ warned Mondriat.

  If the cat sunk its teeth into his body Mondriat would tear his spirit from the bird’s body and enter the cat’s. He would push aside its weak, feline spirit and take control of its legs, eyes and teeth. He would become the cat. He had done it before but he currently had no desire to be a cat nor to taste the decomposed magpie’s body he currently wore.

  He had extended his wings and was about to leave when the cat spoke. ‘Hello, Mondriat.’

  ‘Olwyn?’ he replied.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ said the cat.

  ‘I thought you dead.’

  ‘And I thought you harmless,’ whispered Olwyn. ‘It seems we were both mistaken.’

  ‘What harm am I doing?’ asked Mondriat.

  ‘You are following the boy to learn which mirror he chooses.’

  ‘There’s no harm in knowing, is there?’

  ‘What are you up to, Mondriat?’ asked the cat.

  ‘You know me.’ Mondriat flapped his wings casually. ‘I’m just following the flow of the river.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You haven’t changed.’

  ‘That’s where you are wrong,’ protested Mondriat. ‘I have had a long time to think about what I did. I thought that I could take others’ Conjury and make myself stronger but I couldn’t cheat death. I couldn’t stop the decay. In the end, neither of us could.’

  The cat stepped on a loose tile, sending it sliding forward. Mondriat flew up and avoided it. It slipped on the edge and crashed to the ground.

  ‘This form suits you,’ said Mondriat, landing back on the roof.

  ‘As the body of a thieving magpie suits you,’ replied Olwyn.

  ‘I told you, I have changed. A century of eating raw birds’ eggs will do that to a man. We failed, Olwyn. We both sought the Eternity Spell and we both failed, so we settled for this inferior animal existence,’ said Mondriat.

  ‘Your efforts eradicated Conjury from this land. Mine did not.’

  ‘Yes, well, you know, I wanted a way for both of us to live on, but you were always one step ahead of me. Such a clever Conjuress, always playing such elaborate games. I did it all for you.’

  ‘I never asked you to kill in my name.’

  ‘The book’s yours, isn’t it?’ said Mondriat. ‘I recognised your style as soon as I saw the ripples of that protection spell. Beautiful Conjury, Olwyn. You always did cast the most exquisite spells. But what is it for? Why did you write it?’

  ‘The book is not important.’

  Mondriat stared hard at the black cat, trying to see a glimpse of Olwyn’s expressions. She had never displayed a great deal of facial expression as a human, and as a cat she was utterly unreadable.

  ‘You have the boy now, but you will leave the girl alone,’ she said.

  ‘Why? What’s so special about her? What’s this all about?’

  ‘I know better than to trust you,’ said Olwyn. ‘I’m simply telling you to stay away.’

  ‘Can’t you let me in, Olwyn? Can’t we work together again? I do miss you.’

  ‘Betrayal is in your nature,’ said Olwyn. ‘You are still the same man you always were. Instinctive, passionate, dangerous … ’

  Mondriat smiled inwardly. ‘The very reasons you married me,’ he said.

  ‘That was a very long time ago,’ replied Olwyn, turning and making her way across the rooftops, her tail raised high.

  Chapter 36

  Reflection

  The Mirror Spell itself was simple enough, comprising of three circles, a triangle and four connecting lines. The tricky thing was to find an appropriate mirror. Mondriat had told Tom it needed to be accessible, so there was no point choosing one inside a restaurant or a barber’s shop as he needed to perform the spell without arousing suspicion. A pub on Drury Lane boasted a large one on the back wall with swirly writing on the surface. It was a good size, but fights often broke out in pubs and there was a danger it might get smashed. ‘Picking a safe mirror is vital,’ Mondriat had said, ‘but you must also keep your mirror secret. Many Conjurors lost their lives after their True Reflections were drawn out and their Conjury was stolen.’

  Approaching Hardy’s patch, Tom’s pace slowed. No more spells, he had promised Esther, but if Hardy came after him what choice would he have? On the corner of Bloomsbury Street he noticed a shop that sold umbrellas and walking sticks with its name printed proudly above the display window: James Smith & Sons. Tom had hung around outside this shop before, waiting to pickpocket its wealthy customers, but he had never really thought about the items it sold before. A black stick with a gold handle like Lord Ringmore’s was on display in the window. Tom looked down at the rough stick in his hand, sensing its inadequacy. He wondered whether the man inside would be able to polish and lacquer it and turn it into a finer looking thing. It was his staff and it deserved to look as powerful and magnificent as a toff’s walking stick. Then he noticed the mirror on the side of a pillar behind the stick. Protected by the glass of the shop window and yet visible from the street, it was perfect.

  To anyone passing, Tom looked like a boy playing idly with a stick as he drew the spell. Tom fixed his eyes on his own reflection. The city sounds ebbed away as Tom completed the spell and raised his left hand towards th
e mirror. A thick mist spread across its surface. His reflection vanished from sight. Tom felt panicked, fearing something had gone wrong, then his reflection stepped through the mist and smiled at him. ‘Hello, Tom,’ he heard his own voice say.

  Tom stared at his reflection, dumbfounded.

  His reflection laughed.

  Tom didn’t like being laughed at, not even by himself. ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘Look at you, Tom,’ said his reflection. ‘You have the power to do anything now. You need never be hungry again, you can bend and shape this world to do what you want. So what’s stopping you get what you really want?’

  Tom looked at the image of his own face and saw more faces. Shadows of those who made him. He saw with renewed clarity how he was the product of a mother and a father, unknown to him yet present in every feature. They were there in the colour of his eyes, the shape of his mouth and the texture of his hair. He could not escape who he was or where he came from. Finally he understood what the question meant. Finally he could see the answer.

  ‘Family,’ he whispered. ‘I want my family.’

  His reflection nodded.

  ‘I told you to clear off,’ said a voice.

  The mist had gone. Tom was in front of the shop again. A shop assistant had stepped out of the door and was addressing him angrily. ‘I’ve been banging on that window telling you as much for long enough. This is not Madam Tussaud’s. Now clear off.’

  ‘No need for that, mate,’ said Tom. ‘After all, I’m a customer.’

  Tom moved his staff on the ground and confidently raised his left hand.

  Chapter 37

  Changing

  Lord Ringmore could find no suitable place to sit in Clay’s untidy bed chamber so he remained standing. ‘It seems John’s body was found by the maid he employed to clean the house,’ he said. ‘The poor woman ran out into the road, screaming hysterically until neighbours came to see what the fuss was about.’