‘They won’t get far,’ Sly whispered to his master.
‘He fucking bit me!’ yelled the guard.
‘The countrysiders don’t want our prizes!’ Wynter shouted. ‘But do we care?’
His triumphant tone only half-reassured his guests. Sly gestured frantically at the Precentor: Play something, play anything. But the Precentor had eyes only for Herne.
She twitched her ‘antlers’: his final cue. Viols gave way to violins, flutes and oboes multiplied. A loose, luxuriant melody swept the room. The music had lurched from the seventeenth century to the nineteenth, 1894 to be exact, and a ballet from 1912.
Herne shimmied forward, tossing bow and quiver to a waiter. The body bent to the music and the music bent to the body. Guests parted to give her space. By an irony lost on Wynter, his guests succumbed to countrysider music par excellence: Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune.
Persephone barely knew what had possessed her, but the sea of admiring faces entered her soul. The strange names which had prompted this display returned: Debussy, Nijinsky, Diaghilev. She bathed in the attention she had always craved.
Strimmer ogled every move from behind his mask. Midnight at the Pool of Mixed Intentions would be unforgettable. Roll over, Pomeny Tighe.
Wynter was less impressed. The Unrecognisable Party should adorn his legend, not hers. He hastened from the room as the solo dance ended to a wave of rapturous applause.
‘Who’s the old man, then?’ Sly asked him, struggling to keep up.
‘He defied me once. He’s about to discover the price.’
‘He’s not from here, I could see that much.’
‘He’s a nothing.’
Sly held grudges. He understood. With revenge, they dissolved.
‘Don’t you want to say good night to your guests?’
‘I want to interrogate my prisoner.’
So, not quite a nothing, thought Sly. They hurried down to Sly’s office, only to find the door locked.
Sly knocked with his fist. ‘Open for his Worship.’
Tyke’s arms had been tied together in front of his stomach. The running wax had re-congealed, making him look grotesque, a victim of torture. His stick rested against the back of the chair.
‘Untie him,’ said Wynter. ‘He doesn’t do resistance.’
‘You sure, your Worship?’
‘Do it.’
They untied him gingerly, but Wynter was right, Tyke made no move.
‘Leave us alone,’ Wynter ordered, ‘you too, Mr Sly.’
The room emptied. Beneath the wax the loathsome boy was still untouched by time.
‘We meet again.’
‘For the last time?’
‘That’s for me to decide.’
‘Indeed, it is.’
Tyke had not changed. He still had that maddening know-it-all indifference to what awaited him – and that damnable country burr. Any creature fashioned in the mixing-point by the Eleusians was his to claim. Tyke’s freakish immunity to physical change did not make him an exception.
‘You are mine, Tyke. I preserved you – I gave you immortality.’
‘You should not have killed Mr Vibes. You should not have killed my friends.’
This confusion between Bole, Nona and himself amused Wynter. It was as if he had lived all along.
‘Apologise for your treachery and serve me; then I might be merciful.’
‘Mercy is not yours to give.’
‘You think not?’
Wynter tapped the door with his fist and Sly hurried back in with his retainers.
‘Mr Jack is hungry for work. Tell him to take as much time as he wants.’
As ever, Tyke did not resist. He picked up his stick and followed his warders out.
Backstage, Orelia had no time for music. She entrusted her hopes to the jester. Fragments of costume flew from him – ruff, striped breeches, harlequin jacket and white gloves – to reveal a doglike beast, unmistakably from the other place. Now on all fours, the half-animal charged through the legs of the staircase guard, throwing him off-balance; Orelia’s follow-up knocked him over.
The beast appeared to know his way, avoiding the obvious staircases and the guards. The gift of scent, Orelia assumed. He bounded up a remote flight into a small attic room with a skylight accessed by a short ladder. She shinned up and opened it as cries and clattering feet closed from below. To her surprise, the canine misfit nimbly climbed the ladder after her. Once out, he slammed the skylight shut. Above them, the sky had cleared; swathes of stars peered down. A light frost glistened on the slates.
Her companion moved towards the middle of the roof.
But they were not alone. Elizabethans and moderns alike seek symmetry in a house. As they emerged on the roof, a parallel skylight opened to their left, releasing guards who pointed, flourishing their weapons.
Her companion loped towards them, oddly heedless of the danger.
‘No,’ she yelled, her distortion device still in place, ‘don’t do this for me.’ She muttered an old lyric by way of a prayer: You gotta get me out of this place.
Miraculously, the gods were listening. A disembodied rope appeared from nowhere. The beast leaped, grabbed it and clambered up with alacrity. She lifted her habit and ran towards the lifeline. Had the enemy rushed her, she would not have made it, but the troubling sight of a half-dog suspended in mid-air induced a temporary freeze. Orelia hesitated: the rope had no visible means of support, nor did the beast looking down at her.
A familiar voice shouted from the night sky,
‘Don’t be a dope,
Just use the rope.’
She took the Town Crier’s advice. As soon as she gripped the rope, it yanked her skywards. She hauled herself up onto what felt like a spar-shape length of wood. The unseen craft wheeled away.
From below the guards could see only a woman, a freakish half-dog and a coil of rope against the night sky.
Orelia’s right arm juddered up and down: a welcoming handshake from an invisible man.
‘Is that you, Portly Bowes?’
The mind of Portly Bowes, the Town Crier, had versified long ago, a consequence of weight of work and an otherwise solitary life. He prepared his bulletins assiduously, but instant conversation invariably sailed close to doggerel.
‘Now we fly, and soon we dock,
Roc meet Mance, and Mance meet Roc.’
Unsure how to thank her companion, she reverted to stereotype and patted the Mance on the head. He nuzzled her back. The machine yawed like a ship despite the absence of even a breeze – Polk technology, surely.
Bowes appeared to read her mind.
‘Your host is no Leonardo and may be no saint,
But he makes the most of invisibility paint.’
Invisibility, what a bitch, thought Bowes, one idea for six syllables.
No Leonardo indeed, thought Orelia, trying to resolve felt surfaces into a visual reality. Da Vinci’s airships had elegance and symmetry; Boris Polk’s resembled a cat’s-cradle of struts, string and vacuum technology coils.
More serious questions jostled for attention. Hopefully, she had maintained her anonymity, but any re-opening of the shop would betray her presence and bring instant arrest. And what of Tyke? Wynter clearly hated him, so what had Tyke to gain by coming? A danse macabre was playing out.
The vessel landed between two gables on an outbuilding of The Polk Land & Water Company. Boris flagged them in like an airport attendant. Miss Trimble handed out glasses of Vlad’s best brandy, a bone for the Mance and a warm overcoat for Bowes. They adjourned through a window, down the stairs and across the courtyard to the main house, where Bert and a blazing fire awaited them.
‘On account of the paint Portly has to be starkers in flight, which isn’t ideal in mid-February,’ Bert explained. ‘He warms up quickly, though, don’t you, Portly.’
‘I have cladding and padding
For aerial gadding,’
responded Bowes.
‘I haven’t thanked you,’ said Orelia, still shivering.
‘Thank Ferensen,’ replied Boris. ‘The Hoverfly and the presence of our good friend the Mance are all down to him.’ Boris paused. ‘I’ve told Angela and Portly all there is to know. If we’d educated more like minds earlier, we might not be quite so isolated now.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Orelia, and she meant it. ‘Remember Tyke?’
‘I never met him, but I know you have. He helped look after the changelings for centuries.’ Boris paused. ‘The Mance said Tyke would go to Wynter’s party and that he wouldn’t try to escape. He said that was his way.’
Orelia patted the dog’s head again. ‘He was right,’ she replied before pulling up. ‘Did you say “said”?’
‘Speaking is a horrible effort for the poor lad, but he can in extremis. He will miss Tyke horribly.’
‘But he saved me and left Tyke to Wynter.’ She swallowed her words.
The great dog sat like a sphinx before the fire, back legs splayed straight behind him.
Boris acted as his advocate. ‘They were orphan boys from the mudflats of London. Vibes was decent, but Tyke was special: a mirror to everyone else’s shortcomings. Tyke looks after himself, always has.’ He turned to Orelia. ‘Can I ask a favour? Your gear is unsettling. It makes me feel I should go to confession.’
That was the thing about Boris: he made you smile without trying. As Orelia removed her headpiece, Bert exploited the change in mood. He disliked protracted conversations on serious topics. You ended up chasing your tail and exhausting the capacity for action.
‘Let’s play Racing Demon,’ he suggested.
And they did. The participation of a half-invisible man doubled the fun. Cards landed or whisked away without warning and all the while the dog-boy continued his quiet communion with the fire.
A frenetic forty minutes of game-play sharpened brains and induced a decision by Boris.
‘We have to move the Hoverfly, and we have to do it tonight.’
‘But it’s invisible,’ said Bert.
‘And solid. Search our premises and you’d find it in minutes. And Wynter suspects me already.’
Before discussion could turn to the pilot for this mission, the front door reverberated.
‘Can’t they read?’ moaned Bert, gesturing through the window at the sign on the courtyard’s railings which proclaimed: NO RICKSHAW REPAIRS AFTER SEVEN.
Bert stumped to the door to find a bedraggled figure outside in need of personal repair. Pink marks and bruises grazed his forehead and cheekbones. His left hand and right foot were still encased in mediaeval armour.
‘Sorry,’ said Oblong. ‘One damn thing after another. I hoped you might have the tools . . .’
‘It’s Sir Jonah,’ Bert bellowed over his shoulder.
Miss Trimble was first to the rescue. Flushed by drink and card play, she looked gorgeous – but yet again the damsel was rescuing the knight.
‘Butter,’ she said, ‘or fat.’
‘Pliers,’ added Bert.
‘And keep him out here or he’ll swell in the heat.’
The courtyard of The Polk Land & Water Company had witnessed the launch of the Hydra, the resurgence of The Thingamajig and puddles splashing under the feet of an invisible man. This ranked alongside. Oblong sat on a wooden stump for chopping firewood, groaning as others extricated with difficulty his trapped fingers and toes. From the upstairs windows Bert’s children watched gleefully. Oblong was building a legend as permanent as Wynter’s, not that he knew it.
Released, he joined them by the fire. ‘Why does it always happen to me?’ he asked.
‘You walk into it,’ replied Orelia.
‘You could have bloody helped.’
‘I didn’t know it was you until you keeled over.’ Orelia descended into giggles. ‘You should have seen his helmet. Straws kept getting stuck, and—’
‘In that case the man needs sustenance,’ intervened Miss Trimble firmly.
‘Yes, yes, of course, sorry,’ stammered Orelia.
Oblong ate his supper, absentmindedly stroking the head of the Mance.
‘He was the jester,’ Orelia explained.
‘Good boy,’ said Oblong, patting his head.
They described the party for the benefit of the Polks, Bowes and Miss Trimble, before Boris returned to their present problem.
‘We need a pilot to move the Hoverfly somewhere out of harm’s way, and now. Only problem is, it means a night out of town.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Orelia.
‘To be blunt, you’re our witness and you’re not expendable. And Portly, you’re the town’s heartbeat.’
Miss Trimble reluctantly declined. ‘I work Sundays,’ she said. ‘I’d be missed.’
‘We would too,’ said Boris. ‘There’s a Council meeting first thing tomorrow and Bert’s on Sabbath repair duties.’
‘What you need,’ said Oblong glumly, ‘is an expendable outsider.’
A connoisseur of children, Miss Trimble knew how to encourage. ‘No, no, we need someone intrepid who’s up for a knightly quest.’
Oblong took the bait, hook, line and sinker. ‘I know the saying. Black rickshaws come in threes. I get floored by an Apothecary, locked in armour – and now this. Avanti!’
The presence of Orelia and Miss Trimble combined with a desire to compensate for his undignified arrival drove Oblong to undue bravado. Despite Boris’ best efforts, he declined to take his controls lesson at a sensible pace.
‘I’m not an idiot, Polk – that one up, that one down.’
‘The coil switch, otherwise known as the ignition?’
Oblong fumbled.
‘This one – just press for on and off.’
‘Yes, yes, got it.’
Boris tapped him on the shoulder. ‘There’s no parachute, so pay attention.’
‘Two levers and a switch aren’t rocket science.’
‘You’re forgetting the steering column. Here, treat it like a joystick. But remember the course is set.’
Orelia stepped in. ‘And it’s useful to know where you’re going. There’s a meadow three hundred yards due east of the white tile. There’s a well-hidden house in a bend of the river – that’s where Gabriel hangs out. I suggest you park it there.’
‘I’m dropping in on the Ferdys first. Just to see everything’s all right.’
By which Oblong meant, to check on Morval.
‘If you must,’ said Boris, realigning the steering column.
‘Right, come on – Wynter could be at the gates any minute. Avanti!’ Oblong pressed the ignition and threw the up lever.
‘Gently!’ yelled Boris as Oblong’s body hurtled skywards before levelling off and heading in a westerly direction.
A single syllable drifted back. ‘Yikes!’
‘I wouldn’t enlist as his guardian angel,’ said Boris.
‘And he’s hopeless at heights,’ added Orelia, recalling earlier chapters in Oblong’s hapless adventures.
The children however cheered wildly, much as Form VIB was wont to cheer Gregorius Jones.
‘But somehow he muddles through,’ said Miss Trimble with the judicial finality of a school report.
‘The white tile’
7
After the Lord Mayor’s Show
A flurry of guards arrived after Tyke’s removal with less satisfactory news.
‘The nun and the jester escaped.’
‘We did our best.’
They paused for fear the Mayor would think them mad.
‘The jester turned out to be an unusually dexterous dog, unless it’s a costume within a costume.’
To their relief Mr Wynter did not flinch. ‘What of the nun?’ he asked.
‘Good legs,’ giggled a guard.
‘And the Herald?’
The question escaped an answer for Herne stormed in, removing her mask and crying, ‘You’ve sent the old man to prison. We all know what happens there. It’s a big mistake.’
<
br /> Sly interrupted her. ‘Miss Brown, this is not your business.’
Herne’s fingers clasped and unclasped. ‘I want to see the Mayor. Alone.’
Wynter’s inner voice, hitherto silent, delivered an urgent warning. Stand your ground. Why should Nona care about Tyke? Tyke had been party to Oxenbridge’s return. He was one of the enemies. Nor did he like insolence in front of others. ‘Mr Sly is right. This is not your business.’
‘Harm him and you’ll regret it,’ hissed Persephone Brown.
Wynter turned cold. ‘Your position is noted.’
Persephone reflected. She recalled Tyke as he had been at the party and a detail struck her. Maybe her worry was needless. ‘Thank you. Point taken, Mr Wynter. It won’t happen again.’
Finch had dallied as close to the rear passage as he dared. Another guard passed the other way. Time to extricate myself, Finch decided. The guards inside knew his party-wear, but those outside might not. He joined the last guests, replacing his cockerel’s head as he did so.
‘What is it now?’ barked Wynter tetchily.
The new arrival hopped from foot to foot. ‘She gave us the slip. The woman on the balcony, I mean.’
‘What woman?’ asked Sly suspiciously.
Wynter’s cheeks, flushed by the confrontation with Tyke, turned ashen. He flicked Sly’s question aside with his hand. ‘How can anyone escape a twenty-foot drop?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it – honest to God, she ran across the wall sideways, hands and feet all crooked like . . . like a spider.’ The guard paused. ‘I made it up to the balcony – she left a memento. Or maybe it’s a thank-you?’
The single sheet held sketches of heads, none larger than a Rotherweird sixpence, all in pencil and pastel. They had Morval Seer’s unmistakable brand of dispassionate accuracy. Uncannily, she had picked only significant heads despite the disguises: the cockerel, Herne, the nun, the jester and, of course, Tyke’s waxy face – and his own.
Wynter liked his own likeness. He looked imposing. He knew her method. The act of sketching would root the images in her memory; later, she would paint up the full scene, compressing the night’s events into a single picture. He hoped it would be in oils. His anger cooled.
Lost Acre Page 24
