Ingenious Pain

by Andrew Miller

  About, the polyglot, attempts to draw them into conversation. When language fails, he mimes and sketches maps on the palm of his hand. The monk nods amiably, mutters a dozen words of some incomprehensible dialect, then points to the boy, grins, and says: 'Ponko.'

  Tonko?'

  Tonko.'

  The boy slavers, churns his tongue, points at himself. Tonko. Ponko.'

  Mr Featherstone belches. His wife says: 'Ain't there no beds to be had?'

  About leans his head on his hands: a child's mime of sleep. The old monk speaks to Ponko. Ponko goes out. The travellers look gloomily at the cones on the fire. Now and then snowflakes come

  down the chimney and sizzle in the embers. James Dyer touches his head, says: 'Madam, you possess a looking-glass?'

  Mrs Featherstone does not. Monsieur About does. A travelling mirror in a snakeskin case. Dyer, from the green bag, takes a candle-holder to which is attached a curved plate, silver, highly polished. There is a stub of candle in the holder which he lights from the monk's lamps. Further rummaging produces a needle and thread. He arms the needle. He says: 'Monsieur, I should be obliged if you would hold the candle, so, that the light may reflect from the shield. And the mirror, so, that I may see what I am about.'

  Mrs Featherstone says: 'What are you about, sir?'

  Dyer looks at her. 'That, madam, I should have thought self-evident.'

  He begins to sew up his head, drawing together the ragged lips of the gash, and with such swiftness, such unconcern, it is - as the Reverend later writes to Lady Hallam - as if he were sewing only the head in the glass. Everyone, with the exception of the old monk, who looks on as if this were a conjuring trick he has long since fathomed, is vastly impressed.

  'Bravo!' says Monsieur About.

  The Reverend says: 'Remarkable.'

  'I do not', says Mr Featherstone, 'think I could have stood it so well.'

  Dyer ignores them. Ponko comes back. The monk rises from his stool, grasps with cramped fingers one of the lights, and leads the party to their rooms, cells of the former brothers. The Reverend remains, sitting up with Ponko and the postillion. The monk returns, shuffles to his stool, sits. Stiff as old wood. The Reverend smiles at him. They nod to each other. Then the Reverend folds his arms on the table, lays down his head and sleeps. His last conscious image is James Dyer, plying a curved needle through his own flesh. His own flesh!

  Remarkable.

  When they gather next morning, somewhat tatty from a night on cold pallets, they discuss their predicament. James Dyer insists they push on. To hell with the snow. Are they afraid of snow?

  The Reverend says: 'Have you seen the snow, sir?'

  Dyer says: 'You intend to stay the next week here? The next month?'

  'Better here', says Mr Featherstone, 'than what would happen to us out there.'

  About says: 'I must agree with Mr Featherstone. It would be folly to make an attempt at travel in such conditions.'

  'I do not travel idly, sir,' says Dyer. 'I am not here for my health.'

  Mrs Featherstone says: 'For my part I shall not set a foot out of doors. We may not be quite comfortable here but we shall not be destroyed. Sure this weather cannot last.'

  Dyer stands. 'If you, Mr About, would be good enough to obtain some provisions from the monk, I shall be on my way.'

  The Reverend says: 'You truly intend to go, sir?'

  'I do.' He goes out. The others look at each other, big-eyed.

  Mr Featherstone says: 'He's mad. Stark mad.'

  The Reverend concurs. 'His accident has perhaps hurt him more than we had thought. I have seen men concussed before, not quite in their right senses for a while. I shall attempt to reason with him.'

  About says: 'Be so good as to see he takes no more than is his. Whatever he takes is sure to be lost.'

  The Reverend fights his way along the edge of the building to the stables. Outside, Mami Sylvie is heaped about with snow. Inside, the stable is surprisingly snug. Two lamps taken from the coach are burning. There is a smell of horse skin, horse dung and last

  summer's hay; the monastery's meagre tithe, evidence perhaps that the old monk has more visitors than they have imagined. James Dyer is examining his horse's shoes. The coachman, puffing on a short pipe, is tending to the other horses. Ponko is also there, chewing on a piece of straw.

  The Reverend stands behind Dyer, talks to him in a low, soothing voice. Dyer is angry when he finds the Reverend has not brought out food for him. He goes back into the monastery. The Reverend waits in the stable, grins at Ponko. The coachman points to the roof The Reverend cannot understand what the man is saying to him. The coachman speaks to him like a child. The Reverend hears 'red' and 'schnee', then sees what it is the coachman is pointing to. Lengths of wood, curved at the end. About's famous runners, surely. When Dyer returns, the Reverend tells him of the runners. They could not do anything today, of course, but tomorrow, the next day. Dyer says: 'You were of some use to me yesterday. I thank you for it.'

  'Thank me, sir, by remaining here another twenty-four hours. You are not fit to travel. And what of the postillion? You alone have the skill that might save him.'

  Dyer leads the horse out of the stable.

  The Reverend, hands sheltering his eyes, watches him go, the horse picking its way, the rider urging it on. 'I should have stopped him,' says the Reverend to himself. 'There goes a man to certain death.'

  It is late in the afternoon before Dyer returns. The company are sat by the fire, the backgammon board spread between the Reverend and Monsieur About. Ponko watches their moves with fascinated incomprehension. There is a distant booming at the door. The old monk wakes from his meditation, is gone a quarter of an hour, and returns with Dyer, the surgeon buttoned in his surtout, a bag in each blue fist. He cannot speak; the wind has frozen his face.

  They sit him as close to the mound of glowing cones as they can. His clothes drip, then smoke. Mr Featherstone offers his flask. Dyer swallows, the blood comes into his face. In a voice like the voice of ice itself, he says: 'The horse failed me.' He does not speak again that night.

  For breakfast there is only a mouthful of cheese and black bread, the bread so solid it must be thawed at the fire before they can eat it.

  About says: 'How is the wounded man this morning?'

  The Reverend replies: 'You may see for yourself, monsieur. The arm is mortifying.'

  'It will not be easy to bury him,' says About. 'The ground will be like iron.'

  Dyer comes in and sits at the table. He says: 'The snow has stopped.'

  About says: 'It has, sir, but I hope you are not thinking of repeating your adventures of yesterday. If you leave today you must do so on foot.'

  Smiling, he takes the force of Dyer's stare. The Reverend says: 'Since we must remain a little longer, will you not attend to the postillion. Doctor?'

  'He is not my patient, Reverend. He is not of any consequence to me at all.'

  The Reverend persists. 'Your oaths as a physician should make him of consequence to you. And if not that, your common humanity.'

  'Do not presume, sir, to tell me what I should or should not do.'

  'Sir, it seems that someone must.'

  'You are impertinent, sir. Idle and impertinent.'

  'It is impertinent to wish that we might save a man's life? Is that idle?'

  'My business, sir, is with the Empress. I have not come this way to dance attendance upon every post-boy, footman, or lady's maid that falls sick or has themselves shot. I should never have got past Dover.'

  Lack of sleep, lack of hot food. The Reverend hears the anger in his own voice. 'This man was in your employ. He was shot by your companion.'

  'Mr Gummer was no companion, sir.' Dyer points to his head. 'This was not a kiss he left me with.'

  'He was in your company. Zounds! A dog has more compassion.'

  'Are you calling me a dog, sir?'

  'No, sir, for a dog would have more heart than to leave a man to die, and for no better re
ason than that he is too eager to keep an appointment.'

  'How should you like, sir, to feel my boot on your arse?'

  Dyer stands, walks round to the Reverend. The Reverend stands. It has been many years since he felt like this. Black bile. He clenches his fists. He says: 'Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to bloody your face, sir. I am amazed a man such as you should have lived so long.'

  About says: 'What is your price. Doctor, to attend to this' - he gestures - 'unfortunate creature?'

  'You refer, monsieur, to my fee?'

  'Indeed. The word eluded me.'

  Dyer sits down. He is quite calm. It is as if nothing of the last three minutes has actually occurred. The Reverend sits, dizzy with anger, shocked to find that he is disappointed. He stares hard at his nails. His fingers are trembling.

  Dyer says: 'It will cost you a horse.'

  About shakes his head. 'No, sir. Already you have lost one horse. It was yours to lose. You shall not now lose one of ours. Consider your position. With us you will, not today, but shortly,

  have passage, either to the nearest town where you may hire a conveyance, or even to St Petersburg, for we also are headed there and would consider it a privilege to deliver you to the Empress. Without us, however . . .' He shrugs expansively. 'You see, sir, it is us who have the whip in hand. Does it not seem so to you. Reverend?'

  'Both seems and is, monsieur.'

  Dyer picks up a piece of the black bread, examines it, puts it down. He says: 'What I require, sir, is your word of honour you shall fetch me to St Petersburg with all possible dispatch. That there will not be an hour's unnecessary delay. It is agreed?'

  About looks to the Reverend. The Reverend nods. About holds out his hand. 'It is agreed.'

  Reverend Julius Lestrade to Lady Hallam

  Plunge'^ 18 November Dear Lady Hallam, I do not know when I shall be at leisure to post this letter. I am at present in a monastery between Konigsberg and Riga, and apart from a little village — of which more later — we are quite in the wilderness and up to our noses in snow, having been overtaken upon the road by a very considerable blizzard.

  Our party, all of whom are well, though somewhat in need of good beds, has been joined by none other than one of the doctors we were following to St Petersburg! It is Dr Dyer, who had the misfortune to be robbed and assaulted by the man he was travelling with. A very mysterious business with nearly fatal consequences for the postillion, who was shot in the arm and is

  dangerously ill, poor man, and lying no more than two yards from where I now write to you. Dyer, who was struck a terrific blow to the head, has recovered remarkably and is indeed an unusual man in every way. Cold-blooded and apparently indestructible. We hope he will operate on the postillion tonight or tomorrow morning, for it is evident that the mans arm must come off if his life is to be spared. His tongue has a covering of brown fur and is very red at the edges.

  How long we shall be detained here it is hard to say. The weather improves, which is to say there is no new fall of snow, but there is a great deal of it upon the ground and the road may remain impassable for weeks! Our salvation may lie in the discovery of some wooden runners in the stable here which are commonly used in these parts to turn a coach into a kind of sledge. Unfortunately this metamorphosis will not be easy to enact, adjustment being necessary both to the runners and to the axles of our machine.

  Today at noon we had an expedition over the snow to the village to obtain provisions — myself. Monsieur About, Mr Featherstone, and a boy who is named Ponko, who was our guide. We were at first deterred by the thought of how we should travel over such deep snow. Yet to all things there is an answer. An old monk, who, apart from the boy, is the only inhabitant of the monastery, led us to a great cupboard, which, from the prodigious quantity of dust and old spider s webs, might have dated from the time of the Ark. Here he showed us the ingenious footwear of his former brothers; shoes like racquets made from strips of hide bound to a wooden rim, each about the size of a large frying-pan. Many had decayed, but we did at length find four pairs to suit us, and in this manner set off over a white, sparkling sea.

  Monsieur About had sensibly provided himself with a pair of painted spectacles against the glare of the reflected sun, the brilliance of which incommoded Mr Featherstone and myself a good deal at first. More troublesome, however - until we had to

  some degree mastered their use - were the snow shoes. I do not care to remember how often I up-ended myself, and once down, your Ladyship has no idea how difficult it is to regain one's feet, not to mention one's dignity! Mr Featherstone was at a similar pass and even Monsieur About had his Gallic nose in the ice upon two or three occasions. Yet we learnt from our mistakes and from Ponko's example, and were soon progressing like water beetles over the surface of a pond.

  Our first intimation of the village was a haze of grey smoke; one of the houses at the edge of the village - which are all of wood — had burnt down. From the way in which the snow was trampled around the smouldering beams it seems that the villagers had all come to their neighbour s aid, though, to be sure, to little purpose, as the house was destroyed. Ponko was quite excited by it and no doubt told us the whole story, for he babbled and drooled, poor boy, and pulled the most extraordinary faces.

  In the village proper there was not a soul abroad, the only sign of life being a large mastiff that snarled very menacingly at our approach but retreated as soon as Ponko fired off a few snowballs. There was no church in the village, nor any place of Christian worship. When I mentioned this to About he said the denizens of these parts were not necessarily Christian at all, and that they preferred the gods of their ancestors, that many still worshipped Nature, and that the priesthood was forced even now to cut down certain trees sacred to the people. Did I not wonder where all the brothers from the monastery had gone'? 1 said I thought there were villages in parts of England where Christianity had yet to take root, but About said the superstition was very profound here, and while we were in the village I saw a number of carvings that make me believe he is right. I was glad then we had Ponko with us, for I do not know how we should have been received without him.

  There was little to be had in the way of food. No doubt the people were hoarding against the long winter, yet we did obtain

  some sausages, butter, a capon, some hard yellow cheese and a leather sack of their local 'wine'. For these we exchanged a good knife, some gloves I bought in Konigsberg, and Monsieur About's dark glasses. I was sorry for the gloves but one cannot eat them. The capon escaped from us on the return journey and we had to chase it. Mr Featherstone, who has a fine appetite and was thus well motivated in the pursuit, overtook the animal just as it reached the treeline and thrust it into his coat where it remained, very quiet, until its neck was wrung. About is in charge of the cooking; our friend the monk has provided some potatoes and we have even discovered some antique herbs left hanging to dry from a roof beam. The juice will make a very nourishing soup for the postillion. I trust it may give him the strength to survive his coming ordeal.

  For myself I believe my health is improved. The air is very brisk and clear. I hope and believe I may return to Cow not only somewhat wiser as to the manners of the world, but able to serve you in all conscience in the office to which you were gracious enough to appoint me. Truly, the Almighty moves in mysterious ways.

  Monsieur About commands me to send your Ladyship his best compliments and begs that I be excused any further writing until I have taken my turn in stirring the pot. I am therefore your most obliged, faithful and humble servant,

  Julius Lestrade

  The food has stunned them. For an hour after eating they sit around the table pouring the wine from the skin, their thoughts drifting, circling, settling. The Reverend

  fills his pipe, offers his tobacco. A cat jumps softly on to the table and begins to gnaw at one of the chicken bones.

  About asks if he might offer the company some entertainment. It is agreed that he might. What d
oes he propose - cards, backgammon, a guessing game?

  About shakes his head, stands up from the table, excuses himself. When he is out of the room, Mr Featherstone says: 'He has quite altered Mrs Featherstone's opinion of the French.'

  The Reverend says: 'For the better I trust?'

  Mr Featherstone says: 'Quite altered.'

  About comes in carrying three boxes; two of them about the size of an infant's coffin, the other one smaller, of highly polished boxwood. He says: 'I was afraid the cold night have hurt them, but I find it is not so. First the table must be cleared.'

  They stack their odd assortment of knives and dishes on the floor. The surface of the table is wiped. The cat jumps down then up on to the monk's lap. About has the boxes at his feet. The Reverend hears him open them and then a sound like the winding of clocks. About says: 'Allow me to present to you two most elegant members of society.'

  He lifts on to the table the figures of a man and woman, exquisitely dressed in Paris fashions, each somewhat less than two feet in height. He touches a switch on their backs and they begin to walk, the man swinging his tasselled cane, the woman turning her head and raising her lace handkerchief as though to sniff its perfume. The cat stands on the monk's lap, arches its back. The figures stop opposite James Dyer at the head of the table. They bow, turn on invisible wheels, and continue their parade, back towards Monsieur About, reaching him just as their springs are exhausted. About returns them to their boxes. The Reverend says: 'These are your business, monsieur? You trade in automata?'

  About says: 'In France, a gentlemen will never admit to be in business, but among the English I may confess to it without

  exciting prejudice. These are my trade, Reverend. My customers are dukes, princes, kings, and I hope also an empress. The dolls are the finest in Europe, also the most expensive. For this I am a little discreet when I travel. My apologies. Will you see ... autre chose}'