The Beating of His Wings

by Paul Hoffman

  ‘I’m not interested. Only in you.’

  Ruby knew how to make the best of herself, it was true. She had considerable skill in paint – enough, not too much – and she could afford the best efforts of the dressmakers of the city. She had by no means let herself go but she loved her food and was pleasantly lazy. And the truth was that she had never been beautiful. She had made her way to the top of a craft that took a dreadful toll on most through her warmth and wit. Her neck was too long for most tastes, she had a small nose but of an unusual shape and lips so full they verged on the peculiar. ‘When I’m tired,’ she used to joke, ‘I look like a tortoise.’

  But Cale thought she was gorgeous.

  She was a woman of strong mind, and harsh if she needed to be, but what could she do? This white-faced boy could not be refused. Faced, then, with the inevitable, she put on the smile she had contrived over thirty years on her back to come easily and gestured him towards the door, watched by the open-mouthed and excited tarts.

  ‘Who on earth was that funny-looking kiddiewink?’ said the Puritan maiden who could now stop weeping.

  ‘You’re such a stupid slut!’ said the girl who’d now stopped tormenting her partner with the swan’s feather. ‘That was Thomas Cale.’

  The Puritan’s eyes widened in delighted horror. ‘I hear he came back from the dead and keeps his soul trapped in a coal-scuttle.’

  Ruby Eversoll might not have believed in revenants or imprisoned souls but she knew enough hard facts about Cale to be afraid. She had once been owned by Kitty the Hare and while she was delighted by the news of his death, and how long and horrible his dying, she was aware of what kind of creature you would have to be to be capable of murdering Kitty in his own home. The fact that he was just a sick-looking boy only made him more unsettling. As she unlocked the door to her apartment she realized she was trembling. Ruby Eversoll had not shaken with fear in a very long time.

  Cale would have been astonished if he’d known what Ruby was feeling. If he was not, perhaps, as apprehensive as most boys of fifteen or sixteen would have been in the same circumstances, he was still nervous – slightly out of his depth, slightly ashamed at paying someone to have sex with him, but also agitated at the unfamiliar pleasures of a woman so very different from Arbell or Artemisia. At the thought of his late lover he felt a stab of something – something like loss, something like remorse. But that was all too confusing so he put it away and concentrated on the statuesque Ruby.

  ‘Shall I undress?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Um … yes, please.’ It certainly didn’t sound very commanding but Ruby was too agitated to notice.

  Ruby was a professional; Ruby knew her job. Very slowly she began to unclip the hooks and eyelets at the front of her dress from the top down. As she opened each of them Cale became transfixed by her breasts. Held in and forced upwards by the engineering talents of her dressmaker, with each unclasping the soft roundness, held up by the dress, seemed to swell as if they were desperate to be free at last. He did not notice he’d stopped breathing. She dropped the corset to the floor, undid her skirt and stepped out of it. Now all she wore was a white silk shift. Oddly, and to Ruby, incomprehensibly, she felt deeply awkward as she undid the ties down the front of the tissue-thin shift and then shrugged it to the floor and stepped away. Cale’s lungs, if not Cale himself, decided it was time to breathe – and it was the gasps from Cale that began to tell Ruby that perhaps she had misunderstood something.

  Above the waist she was naked now. Even as a slim young woman she had been proud of her breasts. She was no longer slim, or anything like it, but whatever her pleasure in butter and eggs and wine had added, and it had added a great deal, her breasts had retained something of their youthful lift. They were, to put it simply, very large, the pink nipples enormous. Cale, used only to the sight of the lithe Arbell and the tiny Artemisia, for whom the word delicate was gross, stared as if he was seeing a naked woman for the first time again. How was it possible, he thought (though thought was nearly paralysed), for the same creature to be so different? He had not, of course, shared Vague Henri’s gawping epiphany while spying on the abundant Riba when she was bathing in the Scablands. Reaching to one side, Ruby undid the drawstrings at the side of her pale blue pantalettes and let them drop to the floor. It was as well that Cale had been undergoing a period of feeling stronger that week or else he might have dropped dead on the spot and the future of the world taken a very different turn.

  There was an intense stillness in the room as Cale, utterly struck, looked at Ruby. Ruby began to feel her dread of the boy recede and the almost forgotten pleasure of intoxicating someone with the power of her body reassert itself. Slowly, enjoying each step more, she walked towards him and, holding out her arms, there was no other world, folded Cale into her body. That moment, the sense of being wrapped in a paradise you could smell and touch, would stay with him until the day he died, to be turned over in his mind whenever he was at his lowest point, a refuge against despair.

  But now he was burning with greed. He dragged her onto the bed and began as if he wanted to eat her up. His mouth and hands were everywhere, fascinated by everything about her. Her belly was fat, nothing like the boy-flat tummies of Arbell and Artemisia. Ruby’s stomach was round and pillow-soft and shimmered when he touched it like one of the curds in the banquets of the Materazzi. She was all curves and folds and he touched her everywhere, his delight so great that she began to laugh. ‘Patience,’ she said, and got to her knees. He knelt behind her, lips devouring her neck and experienced, according to the Hunterians, one of the seven great pleasures the world has to offer – holding a pair of weighty breasts in the palms of both hands.

  As if desperate to discover the other six, he pushed Ruby back onto the bed and began kissing her nipples with such unrestrained hunger that he went too far.

  ‘Ow!’ she squealed.

  He sat up – shocked and alarmed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  The nip had been really painful but he was so remorseful and she so taken aback by the intensity of his desire for her that she could do nothing but reach for his cheek and smile.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, and fanned her face with her other hand. ‘Just slow down a little.’

  ‘Tell me what to do,’ he said sweetly. Now she felt how hysterical she’d been to project such dread around such engaging regret and such innocence.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm but just try to draw the line at eating me up.’

  In the hours that followed, Cale experienced another three of the remaining six great pleasures (about two of them it is, quite rightly, against the law of the land to be anything other than silent).

  Kleist’s observation that wherever Cale went a funeral was sure to follow had become a commonplace. Certainly the general view of the hideous events that took place in Ruby’s House of Comforts later that night was that it proved that truisms get that way by being true. It was, of course, unfair to suggest that Cale was responsible for what happened, and preposterous to state that it was clear evidence of his supernatural status as some kind of earthly surrogate of death himself. But, as Vipond was later to observe to his brother, if Cale hadn’t insisted on getting into an argument with the sex-barker that evening it would have ended with only a slight bruise to his sense of his own importance.

  ‘So it was his fault,’ said IdrisPukke, ‘that some dog-shit gatherer cut the throat of a high-class tart because he thought she was laughing at the size of his penis?’

  ‘Of course not. But it’s not coincidence either – he may not be the Angel of Death but there are some people born to cause trouble in the world. And he’s one of them.’

  Shortly before ten o’clock that evening, as Cale lay pleasantly exhausted on Ruby’s bed (blankets of Linton cashmere, sheets of Eri spider silk), a man in his early thirties arrived downstairs at the House of Comforts for a once-in-a-lifetime experience of beauty. He was a purist – which is
to say that he spent his days collecting pure from the streets of Spanish Leeds. Pure was what the local tanners, who required its noxious substances to soften leather, called dog-shit. If the sex-barker had realized his profession the man would not have been let through the door, but the purist had known better than to present himself at such a special place in the clothes of the lowest of the low. He’d hired a suit and had a wash at the municipal bathhouse and a shave at the barbers. He was so nervous about being rejected he’d also drunk more than he’d intended. But had it not been for his row with Cale earlier that evening, the barker would probably have decided that the purist didn’t look quite right and was just a little too much the worse for drink. It was a question of tone: Ruby’s was a high-class place and the purist didn’t pass the test. But on this night he did. The barker was peeved; more, he was miffed. He’d been humiliated because of Cale and so that night he decided to take it out on his fat slut of a boss and let the purist in.

  The shriek that reached them as Cale lay with his head on Ruby’s left breast was one he knew horribly well: the terror of someone who realized they were going to die.

  ‘My God!’ Ruby started to her feet and began to dress but Cale was at the door and trying to lock it shut when it burst open, knocking him backwards. Having killed one of the whores, the purist had panicked and headed the wrong way into the dead end of Ruby’s apartment. Already the shouts of the bodyguards – Ruby had four – made it clear he could not retreat. He stepped into the room, locked the door behind him and grabbed Ruby around the neck, pulling her towards the window. Terrified as he was, he saw that three floors up there was no escape here.

  Cale, who had taken a hefty blow to his forehead, slowly stood up.

  ‘That hurt,’ he said to the purist.

  ‘Get me out of here or I’ll cut this bitch’s throat as well.’

  The evidence of death was all over the man – it covered his face and the hired suit and the oddly small knife he was holding at Ruby’s neck.

  ‘Can I put my trousers on?’

  ‘You’ll stay where you are. Move and she’s dead.’

  ‘How am I supposed to get you out of here if I can’t move?’

  Cale could hear talking outside. Then one of the bodyguards called out.

  ‘The Badiels are on their way! You can’t get out. Let the woman go and we won’t hurt you.’

  The purist pushed Ruby (who was impressively calm under the circumstances, thought Cale) towards the door.

  ‘Tell the Badiels to let me go. If they try to come in I’ll cut her throat. Then I’ll cut the boy’s throat as well.’

  ‘Can I talk to them?’ Cale asked.

  ‘You shut the fuck up or I’ll cut her throat.’

  ‘I don’t think you will.’

  ‘Just watch me.’

  ‘Why waste a hostage when if I talk to them I could help you out?’

  ‘How could a scrawny chit like you be of any use?’

  ‘Let me talk to them and find out. What have you got to lose?’

  The purist thought for a moment but thought wasn’t coming easily. The bleakness of his situation was closing in.

  ‘All right. But watch what you say or I’ll cut her throat.’

  Cale walked to the door.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ said the purist.

  ‘Who’s in charge out there?’ called out Cale.

  A short silence.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  Another silence.

  ‘Albert Frey.’

  ‘All right, Mr Frey, I’d like you to tell this gentleman who I am.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck who you are,’ said the purist.

  Frey had a problem. An intelligent man, he’d decided not to refer at all to Cale on the grounds that he’d be handing the killer a hostage who would give him even more power. Was this really what Cale wanted?

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Frey,’ said Cale. ‘You can tell him.’

  Another pause. ‘The young man in the room with you is Thomas Cale.’

  The purist looked at the pale and skinny naked boy in front of him and compared the sight with whatever legends he’d heard. The mismatch was simply revealed.

  ‘Bollocks!’ said the purist.

  ‘It isn’t bollocks,’ said Cale.

  ‘Prove it then.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can.’

  He nodded at Cale’s groin. ‘P’raps you can piss poison all over me. Can you?’

  ‘Unfortunately I had a slash just before you came in. It might take a while.’

  ‘I hear Thomas Cale keeps his soul in a coal-scuttle. Is that right?’

  ‘I don’t even know what a coal-scuttle is.’

  There was a thunderous bang on the door. The purist, startled, dragged Ruby back and pressed the knife harder to her throat.

  ‘Mr Cale!’ boomed a voice.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You shut up!’ shouted the purist.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Cale raised his left hand, palm outward to ask the purist’s permission. Too scared to speak, the man nodded his agreement.

  ‘I’m Over-Badiel Ganz,’ said the man. ‘Tell that evil-doer that if he comes out he’ll get a fair trial.’

  The purist gave a frightened gasp of derision. ‘And then be taken straight to Topping Bob to cut my head off.’

  ‘Do you hear me!’ shouted Ganz. ‘Come out of there and no one will harm you.’

  Cale raised his voice.

  ‘Over-Badiel Ganz, this is Thomas Cale.’

  There was a silence – a nervous one.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If you say another word until I tell you to you’re going to be very sorry. Do you understand?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ This time he was barely audible.

  Cale stared at the purist. ‘You’re completely wrong, y’ know, about them cutting your head off.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘About eight months ago, give or take, I signed a warrant on a young girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, and the next day she was taken into the Square of Martyrs in Chartres and they hanged her, then took her down and revived her, then the executioner cut her open and while she was still conscious cooked her bowels in front of her. You see, the thing is I liked her. I liked her a lot.’ He called out to Ganz. ‘Did you hear that, Over-Badiel? That’s how this man is to die, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cale looked back at the purist.

  ‘Now, even though I don’t like you I’m going to make a deal with you.’

  ‘I’ll cut her throat – that’s the deal.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Cale. ‘I’m sick to death of hearing you tell me what you’re going to do. She’s just a whore.’

  ‘When I cut her throat I’ll do the same for you.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ He smiled. ‘All right, you probably won’t. Me being naked and all that is a disadvantage, true. But I’m not a helpless girl. I know what I’m doing.’ He was bluffing. He might have felt well enough for once to experience four of the seven pleasures with Ruby but without the Phedra and Morphine anything more arduous was well beyond him.

  ‘I’m the one with the knife.’

  ‘All right, so you kill me. They’re still going to slice your tonk off and cook it in front of you.’

  With all the talk, and what talk it was, the purist had time for the horrible events and the horrible predicament they’d put him in to take effect. He was visibly shaking.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ he said, voice catching.

  ‘The deal is you let the tart go and I’ll kill you.’

  Ruby had been impressively calm until then and, to be fair, her eyes bulged only a little.

  ‘Are you taking the piss? I’ll cut her throat.’

  ‘So you keep saying. You know as well as I do you were over and done with the moment you killed that girl. You can’t take that
back. You either let me deal with you now and it will be quick and painless or you wait a few days and become a legend for suffering. Fifty years from now people will still be saying, “I was there.”’

  Now the purist began to cry. Then he stopped and terror became anger and he tightened his grip on Ruby. Then he began weeping again.

  ‘It’ll be quick,’ said Cale. ‘I’ll be the best friend you ever had.’

  There was more weeping and more panic but then he loosened his hold on Ruby and she eased herself away. The purist, now crying uncontrollably, stood with his arms down by his side. Cale went over to him and slowly took the knife from his hands.

  ‘Kneel down,’ he said softly.

  ‘Please,’ said the purist, though it was not clear why. ‘Please.’ Cale was remembering that Kitty the Hare had said that too before he died.

  Cale put his hand on the man’s shoulder and eased him downward.

  ‘Say a prayer.’

  ‘I don’t know any.’

  ‘Repeat after me: Into my hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.’

  ‘Into my hands, O Lor …’

  A sudden stab from Cale under his left ear. The purist fell forward and lay absolutely still. Then he began to jerk. Then stop. Then jerk, then stop.

  ‘For God’s sake, finish him,’ called out Ruby.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Cale. ‘His body’s just getting used to it.’

  An hour later, just before Cale left the House of Comforts, and while they were finishing a drink alone, Ruby said to him, ‘I felt there was something dreadful about you earlier on. Then I thought you were lovely. Now I don’t know what to think.’

  She was tired, of course, and though she’d seen more than a few bad things this was the worst night of her life. Still, it wasn’t what Cale wanted to hear and he left without saying anything more.

  PART FIVE

  The Angel of Death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the beating of his wings.

  John Bright

  34

  There have been six battles fought at Blothim Gor. No one remembers any of these fights except in the name: ‘Blot’ is ancient Pittan for blood, as is ‘him’ in the language of the Galts, who wiped them out and stole their land. ‘Gor’ means the same in old Swiss. Blood, blood, blood – a fitting place for the first use of Robert Hooke’s hand-shooters. The war on the Mississippi plains had lasted six months by the time he got the balance of metals, powder and ease of use. Until then the fighting could have gone either way. The butcher’s bill was hideous, the Redeemers’ willingness to die in their thousands was beginning to edge out the advantage of the war wagons and the fraying soldiers inside them, born to cut wood, milk cows and dig potatoes. What kept them fighting was the sight, and rumours of the sight, of Thomas Cale. In the dying light of dusk he would appear on buttes and on cragged ridges and rocky wolds, still, except when the wind blew his cloak behind him like a wing, watching over them: pathfinder, dreadful guardian steward with his legs akimbo or kneeling, watching with his sword across his knees, shadowy predator, dark custodian. And then the stories began to make their way through bastion after bastion of a mysterious pale young man, no more than a boy, who would turn up wherever the fight was almost lost and battle side by side with the wounded and the lost, his presence calming their fear and radiating it back into the hearts of their almost triumphant enemy. And when it was over, and impossibly they had won, he would bind the wounds of the living and pray, tears in his eyes, for the dead. But when they looked for him again he would be gone. Scouts returned with stories of being trapped by the Redeemers when all hope was lost and they had surrendered themselves to a dreadful fate when an ashen young man emerged from nowhere, hooded and thin, and fought beside them against impossible odds only to prevail. Yet when the fight was over he was gone, sometimes to be seen watching from a nearby hill.