Westmark

by Lloyd Alexander

  11

  The phrenological head was now a working ghost. Swathed in white gauze and attached to the false arms and legs, it appeared a startling spectral figure. Theo and Musket had rigged pulleys from the ceiling, and fixed thin black cords to the mannequin. From their hiding place behind a black screen, they could hoist the figure and make it seem to float across the salon. Las Bambas, meanwhile, instructed Mickle in her role as Oracle Priestess. Before the end of the week, the count was satisfied with all preparations and, that night, flung open his doors to the public.

  Theo privately doubted there would be any audience. No one, he believed, would be taken in by such hoaxing. Squinting through a peephole in the screen, he could not believe his eyes. The room was too dim for him to be certain of the number, but most of the chairs were filled. Mickle, robed in black, sat in the light of a single candle, as Theo had suggested. At her signal, he and Musket tugged away at the cords. The ghost obediently rose into the air. The audience gasped; there were a few screams of delicious terror. Someone in the back of the salon paid Theo's handiwork the compliment of fainting dead away.

  Las Bombas urged the company to consult the spirit on any matter of concern. Theo braced himself for disaster as questions showered on the Oracle from all sides. One gentleman demanded to know where his late uncle had hidden his will, as he expected to inherit all the estate. A lady anxiously sought spiritual advice on what colors would be coming into fashion. He expected Mickle to burst out laughing, but the girl kept a straight face. Sitting motionless, eyes closed, she gave every sign of being lost in the deepest trance; with a trick of her voice, she made the phrenological head seem to speak in eerie, sepulchral tones. The answers, however, were so vague that the questioners could take any meaning they chose.

  Instead of indignant outcries at being cheated, the audience clamored for more. Las Bombas finally had to declare that the Oracle Priestess was too fatigued; the ghost was dismissed to rejoin its fellow shades. Advising the spectators to come back another day, Las Bombas hustled them out as quickly as possible and locked the doors behind them.

  "Magnificent!" cried the count as Theo and Musket came from their hiding place. He threw his arms around Mickle. "Dear girl, you were superb!"

  Las Bombas delved into his bulging pockets and tossed handfuls of coins into the air. "Look at this! So much that I lost count of it!"

  "No matter how you add it up," muttered Theo, "it still comes to a fraud."

  "Indeed it does, my boy," Las Bombas happily answered. "The best I've struck on. Credit where it's due, I have you to thank. You thought of it, you put me onto it. A brilliant notion, and it's all yours."

  Theo said nothing in reply. He was ashamed of himself, appalled that his scheme had worked so well. He also had to admit that he was not entirely displeased.

  Mickle seemed to have no qualms whatever. During the days following, she was in the best of spirits. The nightmare had not come back, nor had the other dream. Since the Oracle Priestess had no duties until evening, the rest of the time was her own. Mornings she spent with Theo going over the alphabet. She knew her letters perfectly and had begun writing them as quickly as she had learned to say them.

  Mickle kept her part of the bargain. Afternoons were her turn to play schoolmistress and teach her sign language to Theo. He did not learn as quickly as his former pupil.

  "No, no, you've got it all wrong again," Mickle told him. "Move your thumb up, not sideways. Here, watch my fingers."

  Little by little, he caught the knack. He practiced with her at every opportunity, adding improvements. Now that Mickle could spell, he devised a finger motion for each letter. Thus, when Mickie's gestures did not exactly suit the circumstances, she spelled out words of explanation. Within little more than a week, they could signal anything they pleased, so quickly that no outsider could guess they were using a silent code. Though Las Bombas and Musket could not fail to notice the two young people passed most of their time in each others company, they did not comment.

  For the rest, Theo expected, even hoped, the novelty of The Oracle Priestess would wear off. The Feldeners, instead, crowded the salon each night in growing numbers. Las Bombas crowed over the receipts. Theo's conscience smarted like a skinned knee.

  He finally asked the count when they would move on. Las Bombas blinked at him. "What an idea! We've barely skimmed the cream. In fact, I'm thinking of doubling the admission price."

  "I'm thinking we should stop altogether," blurted Theo. "I've gone along this far, which I shouldn't have done. There must be something better than cheating people."

  "Who's cheating anyone?" protested the count. "Harmless amusement! Do you think for a moment they believe one bit of it? Are they complaining? Set your mind at rest, my boy. Now, here's a thought for you. Suppose we put up refreshment tables in the hall. That would be a new attraction."

  Next night, Theo was almost willing to admit the count was right. The Oracle Priestess had become fashionable among the Felden gentry, probably through lack of better diversion. The audience, more and more, came to see and be seen; to be amused by the antics of the phrenological head; to admire the wistful charms of the Priestess. There was much gossip and laughter; no one, as far as Theo could gather, truly believed in the girl's ghostly pronouncements. Las Bombas might as well have opened a comedy theater.

  However, among the spectators who used the occasion to put on all their finery, Theo glimpsed a man and woman dressed in deep mourning. Their garb alone would have set them apart. From the woman's raw hands, the man's weathered face and heavy shoulders, Theo guessed the couple to be smallholders or tenant farmers. The two sat ill at ease amid the town dwellers..

  Only toward the end of the evening did the woman venture to stand. She made an awkward curtsy to Mickle and to the phrenological head, causing a few titters among the audience. She glanced around uncomfortably and looked ready to sit down again without a word.

  "Come, madam," said Las Bambas, "the Priestess grows fatigued. If you wish to consult the spirit, come out with it."

  "Sir." the woman hesitated, reddening "our girl's dead a week now. It was the fever, you see. We can't have her back, I know that. All I want to ask, can you tell us: Wherever she is, is she happy there?"

  The phrenological head assured its questioner that the girl was happier than she had ever been in all her life. The woman stammered her gratitude for setting their hearts at rest.

  Las Bambas then asked for more questions. None came. The audience had turned restless and embarrassed; some stood up to leave, as if the woman's grief had cast a shadow over their entertainment. The count finally declared the seance ended.

  "How can you do it?" Theo demanded, as soon as the last of the spectators had gone. "They were heartbroken, those two. It wasn't just foolishness for them. They took it seriously. We told them a pack of lies."

  "My boy, they were quite satisfied," answered Las Bombas. "What do you want?"

  "No more of it," said Theo, "that's what I want. Call it harmless amusement if you like. You're taking advantage of people who don't know any better. It's dishonest, it's contemptible." He rounded on Mickle. "You understand what I mean, don't you? You see what we're doing."

  "I'm doing what you wanted," the girl retorted. "It was your idea in the first place, wasn't it?"

  "No, you don't understand, either," burst out Theo. "Can't you even see what's right or wrong? Or don't you care? I shouldn't have expected any better from you."

  Mickle gasped as if he had slapped her in the face. Instead of answering, she pulled the hood over her head and ran to her chamber.

  Theo could have bitten his tongue as soon as he had spoken the words. He started after her. Las Bombas held him back.

  "Let be. You've hurt the child's feelings already, and you'll make matters worse, the state you're in. Patch it up in the morning."

  "Let's leave here," said Theo. "There must be something else we can do."

  "Change The Oracle Priestess? When it's worki
ng so marvelously? Ridiculous! Out of the question! Have a good sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow."

  Without replying, Theo went to his room and flung himself on the bed. Tormented at wounding Mickle, he only hoped he could make it up to her. That still did not satisfy his conscience. Las Bombas had no intention of changing his ways. He was fond of the count, as fond as he had ever been of Anton. But the man was a born rogue, and Theo was well on the road to becoming one himself. Anton would not have been proud of him. The answer was clear. He had gone far enough, perhaps too far. To save whatever shreds of honesty were left him, he would have to quit Las Bombas, the sooner the better. Now, he told himself, this very night. If he waited, he feared he would not have strength to do it.

  No sooner had he made up his mind to that than he realized he could not leave Mickle. The idea was unbearable to him. Much as he had hurt the girl, he believed he could finally make her understand. She would come with him, if he tried his best to persuade her.

  He stood and went quickly to her room. He raised his hand to tap on the door, but the motion froze in midair. To his dismay, he realized he had forgotten one thing. He was a wanted criminal, a fugitive who could be arrested at any moment. He did not dare ask her to stay with him. Even if she wanted to, he could not let her. She would be as much at risk as himself. She would be safe with Las Bombas, mountebank though he was.

  He let his hand fall to his side. He stood, uncertain, at the door. Finally he turned away. The portrait, unfinished, lay on a table. He was about to pick it up. He shook his head. It would pain him less if he had no reminder of her.

  He carried nothing with him as he went quietly down the stairs. He could not trust himself to say farewell. He strode across the market square. The town slept. Though nearly summer, the night was cool.

  There was no question in Theo's mind. He had done the right and honorable thing. For the first time since taking up with Las Bombas, his conscience was at ease. And he felt miserable.

  Part Three Florian's Children

  12

  The lodging house at the end of Straw market Street stood as one of the marvels of Freyborg: the marvel being that it stood at all. The spider webs in every corner appeared to be its strongest support. The narrow staircase lurched up three flights and stayed in place out of habit. Mold flowered from cracks in the walls. The roof shed its tiles like autumn leaves. The lodgings, nevertheless, had two things to recommend them: cheap rent and a landlord who never asked questions.

  The topmost room was a little bigger than a baker's oven. In summer, the stifling tenant could take comfort knowing that he would, in due season, freeze. This cubbyhole was often vacant. For the past two months, however, it had been occupied by a public letter writer calling himself De Roth.

  His new name had been Theo's choice. His new occupation and living quarters he owed to Florian. On the night he had left Felden, he struck out across country, heading generally south. He trudged without a halt until daybreak. Even then he did not stop until some hours later when his legs gave out. He had made up his mind not to think of Mickle, the count, Musket, or anything connected with them. In consequence, he thought of nothing else. Mickle's absence crept over him like a toothache: at first ignored, then denied, then taking command altogether.

  He kept on a straight path for the next few days. He slept in barns or hayricks, if one happened to be in his way. Otherwise, he crawled under bushes or flung himself down in open fields. He neither asked for nor refused hospitality from the farm folk. Sometimes he mucked out stables or chopped logs for a sack of food. Convinced that he had acted honorably, he was proud of his strength of will. He also caught a cold.

  He limped into Freyborg around midday, bursting with lofty sentiments and a stopped-up nose. Perhaps he had intended going there from the first. In the days before Cabbarus, when Anton worked for the university scholars, the ancient town had come to be a sparkling, almost magical, fountainhead of learning for Theo. He found it gray, the streets narrow, the famous university tower smaller than he had imagined. He was too hungry to think of being disappointed.

  There was a tavern on the near side of the square, facing a statue of Augustine the Great. He went inside, hoping to trade work for a meal. In the busy room, he saw no one who might be the host. The waiters ignored him. He squeezed onto the end of a bench and leaned his head against the wall.

  His table mates, half a dozen young men and women, were talking and laughing. What drew Theo's attention was the bowl of soup in front of his neighbor, a massive-browed, bull necked youth whose hair had already begun thinning. Theo's nose was not too blocked to keep out the aroma, and he lost himself in it.

  "Stock," said the young man directly across from Theo, "this gentleman appears to be memorizing your soup."

  Theo started, realizing his head had come forward little by little as if the bowl were a magnet. He stammered an apology, which only brought him under scrutiny of all the party.

  "What has now to be determined," the speaker went on, as attentive silence fell over the table, "is the reason for such fascination. Is it the essential nature of the soup, hidden from all of us? Stock's table manners, hidden from none of us? Or still another cause?"

  Though only a few years older than Theo, the speaker seemed to have crossed some invisible line giving him an authority beyond the number of his birthdays. His hair was light brown and he wore it long and loose. Pockmarks sprayed his cheeks and the bridge of his finely drawn nose. He was studying Theo with apparently idle amusement; but his gray eyes took in everything at once, observing, calculating, and summing up the result.

  Theo sensed he was being laughed at or soon would be. Had he looked in a mirror these past days he would have seen good reason for it. His hair was matted, his clothes wrinkled and muddy, his face dirty and wind-raw.

  "He's hungry, Florian," put in one of the young women, fair-haired and broad-faced, with the swollen hands of a laundress.

  "Obviously. But to what degree? Is he hungry enough to risk Master Jellinek's concoction? This remains to be seen, theory proved in practice. Pass him your bowl, Stock. Go on, don't be a pig about it."

  Chuckling and grumbling at the same time, Stock did as he was asked. Florian raised a finger and two waiters arrived instantly. One set a goblet in front of Theo, the other poured wine into it.

  Florian lifted his own glass. "To the health of one who is ever in our thoughts: our chief minister."

  Theo reddened. He was too tired to be polite. He pushed away the glass. "Drink to him yourself. I won't."

  "My children!" cried Florian. "Do you hear? This youngster, clearly perishing from hunger, stands nevertheless on his principles. He sets us an example. Put to the same test, would we do as well?" He turned to Theo. "Spoken bravely but carelessly. You haven't the mind of a lawyer, which is a great blessing for you. Otherwise, you would have observed the health was not specified as good."

  "You jumped to a conclusion. In this case, a wrong one. Would you care to reconsider?"

  "Seize the opportunity," Florian continued. "Don't think we banquet like this every day. We are celebrating the anniversary of Rina's birth." He nodded at the laundress, who rose and made a mocking curtsy. "With us, it is feast or famine, more often the latter."

  Theo ventured to ask if they were students. Hoots and whistles followed his question. "We forgive your unintended offense," Florian said. "No one with a thirst for knowledge goes to the university now. Half the faculty has resigned, the other half gives courses in advanced ignorance. The Royal Grant is no longer very royal nor much granted. Public intelligence, in the view of Cabbarus, is a public nuisance, like a stray cat. If unfed, it will go away. But allow me to present my children, my fledgling eagles waiting impatiently to spread their wings.

  "Our worthy Stock, though he may look like a prize bull, is by inclination a poet; by temperament, a dreamer. This one, Justin."-he pointed to a thin, pale youth, close to Theo's age, with hair so yellow it shone almost white, and with long-lashed e
yes of astonishing violet "Justin has the face of an angel; whereas, in fact, he is a bloodthirsty sort of devil. The result, possibly, of seeing his father hanged. Our two goddesses, the golden Rina and the russet Zara, guide and inspire us."

  Florian stood, laid a hand on his bosom, and struck an exaggerated oratorical pose. "As for me, I pursued the study of law until I learned there is only one: the decree of Nature herself that men are brothers; and the only criminals, those who break her statute. Students? Yes. But our classroom is the world."

  When his companions, playing audience, finished cheering and pounding the table, Florian went on more quietly.

  "And you, youngster? What brings you here? Your trade appears to be professional scarecrow. You may find little call for your services."

  Theo's fever was singing lightly in his ears. The food and drink had turned him a little giddy. Florian, on top of that, seemed to have the odd power of drawing him out. Though he kept enough caution to say nothing of Dorning, Theo hardly stopped talking long enough to catch his breath. He gladly unburdened himself, having spoken no more than a dozen words in a dozen days. He detailed his journey with Las Bambas and tried to explain that he had left Mickle for her own good. He finally realized he had been babbling and let his account trail off.

  "He loved her," sighed Rina. "It was noble of him. It was beautiful."

  "It was stupid," said Zara.

  Florian raised a hand. "Children, we are not called upon to render a verdict, only to ponder what should be done." He spoke apart with the auburn-haired Zara for a moment, and turned back to Theo. "The russet divinity will see you housed for the time being, Master would you care to tell us your name?"

  "It's'" Theo paused, remembering the order for his arrest, and hoping to cover his tracks as best he could "it's De Roth."