The Society of Thirteen

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘You can eat after we are done,’ said Lord Ringmore, ‘but our experiment will be conducted outside.’

  Lord Ringmore led them onto the lawn.

  ‘First the boy should choose his wand,’ said Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘A wand?’ said Cyril, with a snigger.

  ‘Any branch should do,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘It needs to be something that grew from the earth itself but long and sturdy enough to form the Creation Spell.’

  Cyril laughed. ‘I say, what’s going on, Uncle Gus? Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘Please,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘All will become apparent. Just do as we say.’

  ‘How about this?’ Clay picked up a branch from beside a sycamore tree and handed it to Cyril. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Very much like a branch,’ replied the boy.

  ‘Good, then we are ready,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  ‘Now what do I do?’ asked Cyril.

  Mr G. Hayman held up the book. ‘You must make this shape on the ground,’ she said, pointing out the shape on the back of the book.

  ‘What do you mean, make the shape?’

  ‘With the branch, boy,’ snapped Lord Ringmore. ‘Scratch out the shape on the ground.’

  ‘But it’s frozen solid.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘The shape will still draw the power of the Earthsoul.’

  ‘The what?’ blurted Cyril.

  ‘Just do it, please,’ snapped Lord Ringmore, anxiously.

  ‘All right, keep your hat on,’ replied the boy.

  Concentrating hard, he drew the shape of a circle within a triangle within a circle.

  ‘You must stand at the centre of the inner circle to make the Creation Spell work,’ said Mr G. Hayman.

  The others watched tensely as Cyril completed the shape and stepped inside. ‘Well. What now?’

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Hungry,’ replied Cyril.

  ‘How should he feel?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘I have to say, I’m beginning to think even Mr Clay’s tricks are better than this one,’ said Cyril.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘We performed the Creation Spell with an orphaned boy of thirteen. It should have worked.’

  ‘Did you say thirteen?’ asked Cyril.

  ‘Yes, yes, thirteen. Your age,’ replied Sir Tyrrell

  ‘I turned fourteen just last month, Uncle Gus,’ said Cyril. ‘Cook gave me double helpings of puddings. I really rather wish I had more than just the one birthday per year if I get double helpings every time.’

  ‘Fourteen?’ exploded Lord Ringmore.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘I think the boy knows his own age.’ Clay sighed.

  ‘Say, if we’re done I’d really appreciate something along the lines of a cake before I head back to school,’ said Cyril.

  ‘Yes, we are done here.’ Lord Ringmore spun around and stormed back to the house.

  Chapter 49

  Heritage

  Esther had been walking for hours, unsure where to go or what to do, when she became aware of the black cat following her. She waited until no one was around before she stopped and spun around to face it.

  ‘What do you want? Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘What makes you think I’m not just a cat?’ replied the cat.

  ‘You’re the same one that appeared in Bedford Square. You chased Mondriat away. Then you turned up in Rotherhithe. Now you’re here.’ Esther looked closely at the cat, thinking carefully. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? You’re Olwyn.’

  ‘That was once a name I used, yes.’

  ‘Why are you following me?’ asked Esther.

  ‘I want to help you. Just as Mondriat is Tom’s familiar, I could be yours,’ purred Olwyn. ‘I can show you how to do great things.’

  ‘I don’t want to do great things.’

  ‘Yes, but the thing is, Esther, you are my responsibility.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m going to tell you a story,’ said the cat. ‘It’s about a pair of young Conjurors, many centuries ago, very much in love and with the whole world at their feet. They were so happy that they wanted to be like that forever. They didn’t want their happiness to end. They didn’t want to succumb to death, so they set about looking for a solution. They went in search of the secrets of the Eternity Spell.’

  ‘You’re talking about yourself,’ said Esther.

  ‘Myself and Mondriat.’

  ‘The two of you were together?’

  The cat bowed her head. ‘As we searched for the spell that would conquer death, Mondriat came to believe that the solution lay not in creation, but in destruction. He decided that it would take strength to achieve that which we sought and so he set about stealing others’ Conjury.’

  ‘How can Conjury be stolen?’

  ‘Mirror theft,’ said Olwyn. ‘Mondriat stole Conjury from mirror after mirror.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘It certainly made him stronger and it ended countless Conjurors’ lives but no, this is not the way to achieve immortality. Unwittingly, Mondriat helped the brutal witch-hunters bring about the end of Conjury.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because you need to see that he cannot be trusted.’

  ‘But what has it to do with me?’

  ‘Esther, please, I’m trying to explain something. I want to tell you about how your mother died.’

  At the mention of her mother, Esther felt a tug on her heart. She felt tears form in her eyes but she pushed them back inside. This was no time to cry. She needed to understand what Olwyn was saying. ‘These events. You said, they were hundreds of years ago.’

  ‘A hundred years is no more than a blink of an eye to the Earthsoul.’

  ‘Was my mother a Conjuress too?’ asked Esther.

  The cat shook her head. ‘She was an innocent peasant whose only mistake was to take pity on a Conjuress in fear of her life. Me, Esther. She took me in while the angry witch-hunting mobs pursued me. Unfortunately, and to my eternal regret, her association with me was enough to convince them that she was a witch. The trial was short, the punishment brutal and final.’

  ‘You mean, they killed her?’

  ‘I was unable to stop them and I knew that they would kill her child too if they had the chance, so I cast a spell and sent you somewhere I hoped you would be safe.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Into the folds of time, Esther. I sent you into the future so that you might live.’

  Before she had cast the Creation Spell, Esther would have thought such a claim impossible, but now her eyes were open, she understood that time was an element like any other. It was as fluid as water, as gritty as sand. But still, the idea that she could really have been born so many years ago was extraordinary.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Belief is for Christians,’ said the cat. ‘For us, only the unimaginable is impossible. I sent you away to protect you and I sent the book with you to protect our ways. Conjury was at an end so I wrote the book and sent it with you so that it may be reborn again one day.’

  ‘But I didn’t have the book. Ringmore had it.’

  ‘Ringmore was sold the book by a man whose shop had burnt down. It was a shop to which the nuns frequently sold items that had been left with the orphans in their care. They sold your birthright for a couple of pennies and denied that which should have been yours. I’ve been trying to guide it back into your hands ever since.’

  ‘Why should I believe any of this?’ said Esther. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want to be a friend to you.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Esther angrily swung her staff at the cat. It jumped off the wall to avoid being hit. ‘I don’t want to hear your stories,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘They are th
e truth,’ said Olwyn. ‘Ask the prioress at the orphanage, then look inside yourself and you’ll know that I only want to help you.’

  Chapter 50

  Backstage

  As far as Harry Clay was concerned, there were few walks as pleasurable as that from the stage to the dressing room, with the thunderous applause still ringing in his ears. The opening show had been a resounding success and yet Clay was not as happy as he should have been. He could not rid his head of the heckles during The Resurrection. This trick involved him being buried alive in a glass container, with volunteers from the audience spading on the soil themselves. However, after dramatically clawing his way out of the soil, several voices cried out that they had seen the hinge at the back of the glass cabinet. What alarmed Clay was that they were entirely correct. A small door allowed Clay to crawl out of the cabinet without spilling any tell-tale signs of dirt on the stage. The dissenters had been shouted down by other audience members and the rest of the evening had gone smoothly, but Clay still felt rattled by the experience. With so many other illusionists and escapologists working the theatres of London, it was madness to consider dropping one of his best tricks but the hecklers had compounded what he already knew. The Remarkable Harry Clay needed something more remarkable.

  ‘Good show tonight.’ Fred handed him a towel.

  ‘Lively crowd,’ responded Clay, using it to dry the sweat from his face.

  ‘Now, don’t go dwelling on that heckling,’ said Fred, adopting his serious tone. ‘It was nothing, and everyone else was on your side. It was probably one of your rivals, trying to stir things up.’

  ‘It was you who shouted him down, wasn’t it?’ Clay already knew the answer.

  ‘What does it matter if it was? As soon as I rallied them, the whole crowd were with you.’

  Clay removed his shirt, hurled it into a laundry basket and threw the towel over his shoulders.

  ‘What do you think of my act? Honestly now, Fred?’

  ‘Honestly?’ replied Fred. ‘I think you’re the best thing on in the West End. I prefer the dancing girls, you know, but that aside … ’

  ‘I mean, really honestly.’

  ‘Well, I guess you could do with a little tightening up here and there,’ admitted his old friend. ‘It’ll happen naturally as you go through the run.’

  ‘It’s not enough. I need a new trick.’

  ‘The whole show is new.’

  ‘Something different then.’

  Fred considered this. ‘Maybe you should think about incorporating some modern equipment into the act. Vats and closets are all very well but what about something like that motorised car you saw demonstrated the other day?’

  ‘A motorised car? Incorporate it how?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re trapped in it as it’s heading towards a cliff’s edge then you jump out at the last minute … you know, the sort of thing you normally do?’

  ‘The sort of thing I normally do,’ Clay repeated flatly.

  ‘I ain’t knocking it. It’s kept us well enough all these years.’

  Fred had known Clay long enough to understand that there was no point reminding him that he was at the beginning of the longest-ever run of a one-man show in London. Nor was it worth mentioning that they were on course to sell out every night and break the theatre’s box-office records. Clay’s moods were Clay’s moods. ‘I’ll get the cab to wait by the stage door,’ said Fred, closing the door behind him.

  Clay slumped down in his chair and stared at his own reflection, wondering how much longer he could do this, when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’m still here,’ he called, assuming Fred had forgotten to mention something.

  In the mirror he saw the door open and two boys step inside. Behind them were two more, unable to get into the small room. He recognised them as the bunch he’d seen caught up in Esther’s mud tornado. Clay placed the towel down on the counter and, using it as a cover, discreetly picked up a nail file. It wasn’t much but it was the sharpest thing to hand.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

  ‘You Harry Clay?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘I was when I walked off that stage five minutes ago.’

  ‘Do something remarkable then,’ said the other boy in the room. He was younger, with dirty blond hair and shallow blue eyes.

  ‘Yeah, do something magic,’ said Hardy.

  ‘How about a spot of mind-reading?’ Clay turned to face him, still clutching the nail file under the towel. ‘Now, let’s see.’ He raised his left hand to his temple and narrowed his eyes. ‘Name. I’m getting a strong name, a tough name … H … H … Hard … Hardly … No. Hardy.’

  Hardy slowly clapped. ‘Very clever. Now my turn. You’re a man with something to hide.’ He whisked off the towel to reveal Clay’s right hand, clutching the nail file. ‘What you going to do with that then?’

  Clay attempted to stand up but Brewer pushed him back into his seat and held his knife up to Clay’s throat.

  ‘Easy now, boys,’ said Clay.

  ‘Brewer’s mind ain’t so easy to read, is it?’ said Hardy. ‘That’s on account of it not being so big and all. So let’s stick with me. What am I thinking now?’

  ‘You mean apart from the sadistic pleasure you’re getting from all this?’ said Clay.

  ‘Yeah, apart from that.’

  ‘It’s about the book,’ said Clay. ‘And the orphans.’

  Hardy nodded. ‘First, they get the coppers after them, then there was whatever happened on the beach. I reckon you’re the man to give us some answers, Harry Clay.’

  ‘And you thought it best to come down and threaten me in order to get them?’ said Clay.

  ‘Shall I cut him?’ asked Brewer. ‘Show him we mean business.’

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt that you mean business,’ said Clay. ‘And cutting me isn’t going to get you anywhere.’

  Brewer looked at Hardy, who gave him the signal to back off.

  ‘I know you,’ said Clay. ‘I know your type. I could have been like you but I decided to make something of my life.’

  ‘He thinks he’s better than us,’ said Brewer.

  ‘Of course I’m better than you,’ said Clay. ‘Don’t you want to be better than you? Look at you. Threatening and stealing. Where do you think this ends? Always the same place. At the end of a rope. That’s where.’

  ‘So what?’ said Hardy. ‘We can’t all make rabbits appear out of hats.’

  Clay touched the point in his neck where the knife had been pressed. He examined his finger and saw a spot of blood where the blade had pierced his skin. He sucked the blood off and looked at Brewer. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he replied.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I’ll be fourteen in May. Why?’

  ‘And you grew up in the same orphanage as the others?’

  Brewer raised his knife again. ‘What’s this about?’

  Clay smiled. ‘How would you feel if I were to offer you an opportunity to make some money? How would you feel if I offered you a way out?’

  Brewer glanced at Hardy.

  ‘What kind of money?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘Real money,’ said Clay. ‘Money you couldn’t even dream of.’

  ‘We’re listening,’ said Hardy, ‘but I’m warning you now: try and get one over on me and my boys, and you’ll find yourself in a situation you won’t be escaping from so easily.’

  Chapter 51

  Vulnerability

  Sitting up a tree in Brunswick Square, Tom was amusing himself by manipulating one of the tree branches and using it to pluck the purses, wallets and handkerchiefs from pockets of passers-by.

  ‘Is this really what you choose to do with your power?’ said Mondriat, landing on the branch beside him.

  ‘I can do what I want,’ replied Tom, sulkily.

  ‘And I want to help you do that.’

  ‘Why? Why did you make me do the Creation Spell?’ said Tom. ‘Why do you want to be my
familiar? What do you want?’

  ‘I only want to witness –’ began Mondriat.

  ‘Yes, I know. You want to witness the beauty of Conjury. Whatever you say. I still don’t trust you.’

  ‘Quite right. Trust is folly.’

  ‘So you’re saying I’m right not to trust you?’

  ‘You should never let anyone have your complete trust, but I promise I mean you no harm, Tom.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said Tom.

  ‘How can I prove it?’

  ‘Show me your face, your human face. Take me to your mirror.’

  Mondriat flapped his wings and hopped agitatedly up and down. ‘You would have me make myself vulnerable to you?’

  ‘Yes. Show me it and I’ll know that you trust me and so I’ll trust you.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the magpie. ‘If that is what it will take, come on.’

  Mondriat fluttered to the ground. Tom jumped down after him and followed the bird through the square, his new black cloak billowing behind him.

  ‘Quite the Conjuror you look too,’ sniggered Mondriat.

  Tom ignored him. He liked it. It matched his black stick. He had visited a tailor after splitting with Esther. It hadn’t taken much effort to persuade him to make a black cloak for him. Tom enjoyed the way it moved as he walked and the way it made him feel larger when it caught the wind.

  Mondriat led him to the British Museum, a splendid old building. The old Tom would have been intimidated by such a place, but the new Tom merely considered how he could have reduced it to dust with the wave of his hand if he so desired.

  ‘The doormen are not overly keen on allowing birds in, so if you wouldn’t mind making us both invisible,’ said Mondriat.

  Mondriat hopped onto his shoulder. Tom moved his staff then swished his cloak around him and vanished from sight.

  ‘Very stylishly done,’ said Mondriat. ‘Inside now, please.’

  Tom followed an elderly couple inside. ‘Up there,’ said Mondriat.

  Tom walked up the grand staircase, until Mondriat told him to stop in front of a grand mirror.