The Young Unicorns

by Madeleine L'engle

“Visiting the Rabbi.”

  “I’ll be off, then.”

  Suzy asked wistfully, “Aren’t you staying for dinner?” She gave him her most winning look.

  “Not tonight.” Dave did not add thanks. He pushed into his jacket and out into the November wind.

  N and P were waiting for him on the corner of 110th and Amsterdam. “Bishop wants you,” P said.

  “What for?”

  N glowered. “That damn dog. He couldn’t expect us to get by that damn dog.”

  P stuck his hands in his pocket. “They locked Phooka’s and I want the lamp. It wasn’t our fault. That dog could of kilt us.”

  “He wants the little kid,” N said. “But the dog—”

  “Shut up.” P jerked his head towards Synod House. “C’mon.”

  “Too many damned dogs around this place anyhow,” N muttered.

  And as they turned towards the iron gates of the Cathedral Close they came face to face with Canon Tallis and Cyprian.

  If Rochester, when angered, could look fierce, Cyprian could look ferocious simply by being friendly. But Cyprian was not looking particularly friendly. He gave an asthmatic snort. Before it could turn into a menacing growl the two Alphabats had evaporated around the corner.

  “Friends of yours?” Canon Tallis asked Dave.

  “I don’t go in for friends,” Dave answered sullenly.

  “Going some place?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Canon Tallis looked thoughtfully at the boy. If Dave had not been wholly cooperative during their previous meetings, at least he had not been discourteous. “Got the wind up about something?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Something on your mind?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Cyprian and I weren’t going anywhere in particular. How about another cup of tea?”—Tea again. Oh, well, all part of the drill …

  “Nix,” Dave said, then mumbled, “Sorry,” and “Thanks.” He glanced towards Synod House. “Bishop still in his office?”

  “Yes, I believe he is.”

  “I think he wants to see me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I think he sent me a message.”

  Canon Tallis looked at his watch, then turned towards Synod House. “Let’s go along and see, then.”

  They walked down the path in silence. It was past five o’clock and the entrance to the offices was closed. Canon Tallis took out a bunch of keys and opened the door. Dave did not tell the priest that he himself had a passkey. Why did he, who was so afraid of open doors, always carry keys?

  The secretaries had all left, and the entry was only dimly lit. Canon Tallis left Cyprian by the door, telling him sternly to sit and wait, and led Dave through the empty reception room and knocked on the inner door.

  “Yes?” Even in the monosyllable, the Bishop’s superb voice was unmistakable.

  The priest opened the door. “My Lord,” he said, addressing the Bishop in the English manner, “young Josiah Davidson here has reason to believe that you wish to see him.”

  “Yes. Send him in, please.” The Bishop looked at the ormolu clock that ticked steadily in one corner. “Is six-thirty convenient for you, Canon?”

  “Fine, my Lord.”

  “My house, then.”

  Canon Tallis nodded in agreement, then nodded to Dave, who went into the office.

  Bishop Fall sat in a chair of carved wood and cerise velvet, pushed slightly back from his fruitwood desk. He wore a deceptively simple dark suit; above his clerical collar his face was serene, framed with his extraordinary hair that was more an apricot color than a mixture of red and grey. There was nothing in the least simian about his looks as he sat there, and Dave wondered at the trick of light in the subway station that had made the Bishop’s skull look like a monkey’s. The whole memory of the scene in the subway station still had for Dave the unreal quality of a nightmare. He could not have told anyone with assurance that it positively had happened.

  At the far end of the room stood Amon Davidson, fitting an ebony wall bracket for a superb small marble of David and Goliath. He looked up at the sound of the door, saw that it was his son, and continued his work without the slightest expression of recognition or greeting.

  To the right of the Bishop, overpowering the delicate gilt chair on which he sat, was the huge bulk of Dr. Hyde. He looked up and smiled in greeting, but did not extend his hand. “Emily coming along all right with her schoolwork?” he asked Dave.

  “Reasonably well, sir.”

  “Theotocopoulos not pushing her too hard?”

  “You can’t push Emily too hard as far as music’s concerned.”

  “Everything else progressing satisfactorily?” Dr. Hyde directed his next words to the Bishop. “Emily has been so quick to learn that it has been a particular satisfaction to me to have arranged for her training since her accident, lessons in Braille, techniques of using the cane—she’s a remarkably acute child.”

  “Sit down, Davidson, my boy,” the Bishop said. “Dr. Hyde, here, has been a support to me as well as to our young friend, Emily. Without his ministrations my health would never have allowed me to carry out my work as I have. He is not only my physician, but also my friend. I’ve called him here this afternoon because I can depend on his advice and suggestions, and because of his connection with the Austins and the Gregorys. Also, as a brain surgeon, he is well trained in putting together the pieces of a puzzle. How about you, my son? Have you begun to see the picture?”

  “No, Bishop,” Dave said. “There just seem to be more pieces and more of a mess. I know a little more about Dr. Austin’s work, but that’s something Dr. Hyde can tell you about far better than I.”

  “The sad truth of the matter,” Dr. Hyde said, “is that I cannot.”

  “Sir?”

  “You say you know something of Austin’s work, Davidson?”

  “Just a very little.”

  “But you understand of what importance it is?”

  “I can guess.”

  “Do you think a colleague should withhold important information from his superior?”

  “I don’t know much about it, Dr. Hyde.”

  “Davidson,” the Bishop said. “I have known Dr. Hyde for many years. When he tells me that Dr. Austin is withholding from him certain formulae and equations which are essential to him for his work, I do not doubt his word.”

  “I don’t understand, Bishop. Why would Dr. Austin keep anything from Dr. Hyde?”

  “We were hoping that you might be able to help us answer that question.”

  “No, sir. I can’t.”

  “I am correct, am I not, Davidson, in thinking that you have observed Dr. Austin a little more carefully than usual this past week?”

  “Yes, Bishop.”

  “And you’ve seen nothing?”

  “Everybody’s been edgy and jumpy. Dr. Austin’s looked tired and worried. But there hasn’t been anything definite.”

  “Mail,” Dr. Hyde said to the Bishop.

  “Tell me, Davidson, has Dr. Austin had a letter from Dr. Shasti or Dr. Shen-shu lately? Or has he written to them?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  “Did you know Dr. Shasti or Dr. Shen-shu?”

  “No, sir. They had already gone to Liverpool when I came to read for Emily.”

  “Do you know why they left New York after Emily was blinded?”

  “Well, I think that they were only here on a two-year grant.”

  “You imply that they would have had to leave the United States in any case? That they had nothing to do with Emily’s—accident?”

  “Well, Bishop, from what Emily says the only thing they had to do with it was that she was in their apartment when she was attacked.”

  “Davidson.” Dr. Hyde stood up; the gold and damask chair, relieved of his weight, made a small, cracking noise. He and Dave stood face to face, the boy’s thinness emphasized as it was when he stood nea
r the Dean. “What you must understand is that Dr. Shasti and Dr. Shen-shu were working against me. When they fled to England they took with them the results of work they had done in my lab. Their formulae are now in the hands of a foreign power. Although since they themselves are foreigners they may not realize the difference. The problem with which the Bishop and I are concerned is that they seem to have managed to get Dr. Austin to carry on where they left off.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Dave asked. “I don’t want to know.” He knew that Dr. Austin sometimes did get letters from Liverpool. It had never seemed sinister before. He was drawn to Dr. Austin as much as to any adult. He did not care for Dr. Hyde despite his kindness to Emily. “Bishop, I can tell you one thing. I don’t know anything about Dr. Austin working with Dr. Shasti and Dr. Shen-shu, but I do know that he doesn’t have anything to do with the Alphabats.”

  The Bishop and Dr. Hyde exchanged glances. “How do you know, Davidson?” the Bishop asked. “Perhaps I know more than you do. Perhaps I even have some of the Alphabats—or ex-Alphabats—working for me. Is this any more strange than that I should be driven underground, that I should have had to use members of your old gang to bring you to me?”

  “I thought that was my father’s doing.”

  Amon Davidson turned for a fraction of a moment from his work.

  “Your father has been most helpful in putting me in touch with sources of information which otherwise would have been inaccessible to a mere bishop.” He smiled, then instantly sobered. “Davidson. You love Emily Gregory, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to know who attacked Emily on the afternoon that she went, in her childish innocence, up to what is now Dr. Austin’s apartment? Would you like to know who was responsible for her blindness?”

  Dr. Hyde looked briefly at Amon Davidson, then said, “I think we’d all like the answer to that question, Bishop.”

  “That justice may be done,” the Bishop said. “We’re close to an answer, Davidson. But I need your help.”

  “How can I possibly help?”

  “I want you to bring the little Austin boy to me,” the bishop said. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Rob? Whatever for?—sir.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes …” the Bishop said.

  “I don’t get it.” Dave stared at the Bishop.

  “I don’t ask you to get it, Davidson. I simply ask you to trust me. I ask you to trust me without question, even if what I request seems strange or unreasonable. I’m close to solving this most difficult of puzzles. There are only a few small pieces to put into place, but if I do not get them, everything will fall apart again. I know that you are not concerned for your own safety, but Emily is being threatened again, and the little boy is in grave danger. If you will bring him to me this evening, as I ask you to do, I will be able to protect him. Otherwise …” The Bishop lowered his voice: “If I canot keep these streets from running with blood—and I have not given up hope that I can prevent a holocaust—I can at least take the little boy where he will be safe. This is all I can tell you now, my son, and it should serve to show my trust in you. Will you do as I ask?”

  “Here?” The Bishop had asked Canon Tallis to come to his house, Dave thought. If Canon Tallis were in on this, then it might be all right … . Confusion and uncertainty swarmed about him like a dark cloud of insects.

  “No. He will not be safe here. Bring him to St. James chapel. We will meet there at seven-thirty.”

  “Sir,” Dave said. “If I bring him—just me, understand, please. I don’t want any of the Alphabats around.”

  “Davidson, Davidson, what can you think of me? They are errand runners, and it gives purpose to lives that otherwise would have none, does it not? Where do you think those boys would be if I didn’t find small jobs to keep them occupied?”

  “I don’t know,” Dave said. “I don’t see them any more than I have to. I don’t like the company they keep.”

  “And the company you kept?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Not any more for them, either, Davidson. They are redeemed. No more holdups for money for ‘pot’ or ‘acid.’ No more running as an angry and rebellious gang. They have something to work for now, to give their lives to.”

  “What?”

  “The redemption of this city. And that is what I want you to help me with, Davidson. The Church is often accused of turning its back on the very people who justify its existence, the poor, the dregs, the addicts, the bums, the prostitutes and pimps, the discriminated against. We are afraid of them, we comfortable people, so we ignore them instead of giving our lives for them.”

  “You promise Rob will be all right?”

  Dr. Hyde said, “Don’t blame the boy, Bishop. It’s no wonder that he’s confused.”

  “Of course I don’t blame him.”

  “How long will it take?” Dave asked. “I’ll have to tell his parents when we’ll be back—if I can think up an excuse to take him out.”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “I’ll try,” Dave said. “I don’t know if I can manage it.”

  “I have more faith in you than that.” The Bishop indicated that the interview was at an end. Dr. Hyde let Dave out of the office.

  The boy stood on the steps of Synod House and sniffed the cold winter air. Above the bare trees the stars were clear. The light still shone through the beauty of the slender lancet windows of the Octagon. Canon Tallis and Cyprian were nowhere to be seen. If he had bumped into them now he might almost have broken his vow to the Bishop and told Canon Tallis everything. But the Close was deserted.

  He went back to the Gregory house to get Rob.

  Thirteen

  At six-thirty promptly Canon Tallis presented himself at the Bishop’s house and was admitted by the butler. The Bishop’s rather impressive staff of servants was new since the Canon’s last visit to the Cathedral, and in marked contrast to the efficient but plain couple who had run the house and the Bishop for many years.

  This was one of the things Tallis had questioned the Dean about.

  “The old pair did get rather elderly for the work, Tom. But the Bishop has seemed to get unexpectedly elegant in his tastes in the past year. Everything was always rightly and properly done before; you know Fall; he can’t stand anything slipshod or shoddy, to the point of scrupulosity, and that includes his domestic life. But I have been disturbed lately by a tendency to—well, Tom, there isn’t any word but ostentation. And it doesn’t go with his humility in other areas. But that, too, is becoming exaggerated. And his fear of unworthiness—Tom, he assists at Mass. He serves, but he never celebrates. It’s another of the strange contradictions which mounted up until they grew to a reason to ask you to come. Something’s wrong, and I don’t know what. I’ve admired and trusted my bishop for a great many years. I can’t be objective about this. You know I wouldn’t have sent for you if it weren’t necessary.”

  Now Bishop Fall kept Canon Tallis cooling his heels for several minutes. The small reception room in which he waited was noteworthy only because of the fact that one wall was devoted to a photographic history of the Bishop’s brother’s career. Tallis amused himself, as no doubt he was intended to do, by looking at the Bishop’s brother as Coriolanus, as the Player King in Hamlet, as Montecelso in Webster’s The White Devil. Coriolanus was undoubtedly the actor’s most important role. There was a superb photograph of Grandcourt as the lamplighter in Cyrano de Bergerac but, as Tallis remembered the play, the lamplighter had only one small, peripheral scene. There was a splendid picture of Grandcourt as Cardinal Wolsey, though the Canon did not know from what play, in which the actor bore a striking resemblance to his brother the Bishop, though Grandcourt’s hair was dark, indeed almost black, in contrast to the Bishop’s pale red.

  In the doorway the butler cleared his throat to get Tallis’s attention.

  The Bishop and Dr. Hyde awaited the Canon in a large and formal drawing room furnished in ivory
brocades and brown velvets. As he entered the room Tallis noted a Rouault Christ on one wall, a Miró on another, a portrait of Grandcourt as Wolsey over the mantelpiece: it was in all ways a beautiful room, a costly room.

  “Tallis? He’s all mind.” The Canon heard the Bishop’s clear and beautiful voice, the voice that could carry through the great Cathedral without amplification. “He’s the coldest human being I’ve ever run across. I think he positively enjoys watching people suffer just to see what they’ll do next when he could so easily help them. He has no idea what love is about. Perhaps it’s his work. He’s so busy being a sleuth he’s forgotten he’s a priest.”

  —No, Tallis thought,—that is something I never forget.

  But would the words have hurt so, had there not been a grain of truth in them?

  Had his own fear of showing how deeply he cared (and therefore how deeply he could be hurt) kept him from giving the word of reassurance, the touch of tenderness the moment’s need demanded? Dr. Hyde had gone to great pains to help Emily and yet given nothing of himself. Why is it so difficult to reach out and take a hand, to say, ‘Yes, I love you. I care. You matter to me’?

  In the doorway the butler cleared his throat again to get the Bishop’s attention. Then he announced the Canon.

  The Bishop said, “Dr. Hyde is my personal physician and is in my complete confidence. You may speak freely before him. I asked him to be here this evening precisely because I thought he might be of some use to you in your investigation.”

  Canon Tallis skipped preamble. “Dr. Hyde, do you have similar confidence in Dr. Austin?”

  Dr. Hyde had his pale hands, already scrubbed-looking, as though for an operation, spread out on his knees. He looked down at them and stretched his fingers apart. “No. I can’t in honesty say that I do.”

  “Why not?”

  Dr. Hyde continued to contemplate his hands as though they held the answer to the question. “When Shasti and Shen-shu left I thought we could carry on with a reduced staff, and I managed to do so for two years. But the pressures on me were beginning to be intolerable. I simply could not continue alone. Therefore I offered the post to Dr. Austin since he was the only other pioneer in the field of the Micro-Ray.”