Oddodd shrugged, dishevelling his jacket so that he had to tug at the sleeves again. ‘Haven’t we become friends, from circumstance or by necessity? Yes, naturally I didn’t want to be confined at first. But I have become accustomed to my limited accommodations and have grown to enjoy your company. You may say I am a victim of Stockholm Syndrome if you like—there, you see? I can freely acknowledge the basis of our acquaintance, and it does not compromise its worth to either of us.’
‘So if I let you out right now, you would not rush from my house?’
‘I would not.’
‘You seek to trick me.’
‘I do not. You may leave me in the curio for the last days of your life, if you like. But, please—if you die while I am still confined here. . . .’
McUlney stared at his rapidly swirling drink. ‘I would be found soon enough.’
‘Soon, in terms of my two decades confinement, yes. But it would be a time, wouldn’t it? No one comes here. It would be weeks, perhaps months before anyone in town was sure you hadn’t been seen.’
‘You taunt my loneliness!’
Oddodd bowed his head. ‘I never thought you had been lonely.’
With nothing to say, McUlney coughed for a time.
Oddodd continued, ‘But I will be lonely when you are gone—until I am no longer lonely because some stranger has found me. What will happen then? Where will I be taken, by what rough hands, with what malicious or greedy intentions?’
McUlney rubbed his eyes. ‘I have wandered unfettered; I have gone from love to love without nostalgia; I have been reclusive.’ He sighed weakly and looked at Oddodd with red, pleading eyes. ‘But I cannot be alone now.’
‘I tell you again: I will not go.’
‘I cannot take the risk,’ McUlney whispered ashamedly.
Oddodd crossed to the corner where the glass had been cut away and pulled himself up to the top level. He tapped appreciatively on the precise leaves of the bonsai as though they would chime. He plucked one wilted leaf and laid it in the sand. He stepped to the front of the display.
‘I have not told you . . . everything,’ he said.
His master paused sipping. ‘Eh?’
‘I, too, have kept a secret. When I was first confined here, I kept it from you out of spite. I did not want you to know, and as you made no direct inquiry, I was not compelled to tell it to you.’
McUlney shifted in his seat and stared suspiciously.
Oddodd continued, ‘When I became resigned to my situation—and, even later, when I came to be comfortable with your company—I chose not to tell you because I thought it might distress you or cause you to suffer unnecessary guilt . . . knowing what I am.’
McUlney set down his glass, suddenly quite sober. ‘Do not spare me or speak in circles. Out with it!’
‘You were wrong earlier when you said I am a creature of magic. I am that, but this,’ Oddodd opened his arms in presentation, ‘this is only a vessel for magic.’
‘Semantics, surely.’
‘No. Just as this body is bound inside this curio, so is my spirit bound in this body. Have you never wondered how this imperfect form, made from such brute materials, could hold a personality—despite having nothing like a brain? You were not there at the moment when life was breathed into this pitiable shape, so you must take me at my word, but I was as I am in that instant, the Oddodd,’ he bowed, ‘just as you know him. In that first minute, I spoke to my maker, angry and confused, and, as soon as I ascertained his native tongue, in Italian. You see, a homunculus is not simply a mechanism; there is a ghost in the machine.’
‘A ghost? From the wax? But you said . . .’
‘I speak figuratively. Not a ghost as such, certainly not a human spirit. I am faerie.’
McUlney’s eyes grew wide. After a moment, he leaned back and exhaled with secret pleasure. The revelation came as a surprise to him, but the profound satisfaction that accompanied the acquisition of new knowledge, the experience he strove ever to recapture, swept over him, and he received the information without judgment but as a simple and pure and perfect fact. Then followed the inner excitement as his mind went from reception to analysis—what did the information mean and how did it relate to catalogued knowledge? What light did the new fact cast on prior experience? It was his rush; Oddodd waited patiently, not wanting to interfere with his master’s delectation.
McUlney leaned forward and peered at Oddodd with clinical interest, as though the tiny man were not alive, but floating, preserved, in a jar. ‘Do you mean that the process of investing the homunculus stripped your spirit from your body and captured it in this one?’
‘No, because faerie are simultaneously flesh and spirit. Human flesh and spirit are separated, yet locked. Faerie flesh and spirit are one; it would be as accurate to say that my body is trapped in this form as it is to say my spirit is; but it is easier to understand the relation to say my spirit is trapped in this form, and I exist, therefore, like a human, with both aspects inextricable from the other.’
‘Huh.’ McUlney fell back again as the subject returned full circle. ‘Until death, you mean.’
‘Perhaps.’
He coughed a little, and then asked, ‘Should I not destroy you to liberate you, then?’
Oddodd sat at the edge of the rock garden box and ran his fingers through the sand. ‘I don’t think there would be any advantage to that. I think it more likely my spirit would remain trapped in a damaged body than it would be released by the body being damaged. I do not favour the experiment.’
McUlney again drained his snifter. He was disappointed that he drank too fast, and that the drink affected him, and that it did not affect him enough. ‘I do not know of any process to discorporate a homunculus.’
‘When . . . whenever I am free from this cabinet, I shall seek out my own kind. Some old curled gnome will have the knowledge, I’m sure.’
Ancient hands rubbed absently at the worn leather of the chair, achy knuckles loosening with the warmth of the liqueur. ‘How will you know where to look?’
‘I am far-seeing. You have doubtless noted how my eyes don’t fit this body; they are yet my own. From Roseberry Topping I should be able to see the flow of magic along ley lines; that will guide my way. It will not be an easy ascent, of course,’ Oddodd stood and brushed his trousers, ‘but I do not tire. It could be accomplished in half a day.’
‘And do you think your kin will be nearby?’
Oddodd shrugged, and then let out an exasperated sigh as he tugged once more on the jacket sleeves. ‘Not far, I think.’
‘And if I let you out, will you bring them back to me?’
Oddodd froze.
‘I must know. . . .’ McUlney began before lapsing into another fit.
Oddodd helped, ‘If there is magic still in the world? Present company excepted, of course.’
‘You mock my faithlessness,’ McUlney wheezed, ‘but we have been so long away from the world, you and I. That is my regret, my great regret. For now I leave the world foolishly afraid, and worse, summarily ignorant.’
‘If it is within my power, I will bring the faerie-folk to see you.’
‘I have not long.’
Oddodd’s unbroken stare signalled his tacit agreement with his master’s estimation. He knew this was not the time for dissembling, nor for acknowledging his own emotions; his master required his steadfastness.
McUlney rubbed his eyes again. ‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘oh, but you will come back, won’t you?’
Oddodd stood tall and straight. He moved one hand over the place where his heart might have been. ‘I will come back.’
The old man rose with difficulty from his chair. He crossed to a bookshelf and pulled a thin tome without scanning the titles. When he opened the book, a small key fell to the floor.
Fearing he might not rise, McUlney was unable to slumber. He sipped his liqueur in slow, measured quantities through the interminable night, but gained little solace from the draughts. The silence i
n the house alarmed him. When he was sedentary, the homunculus was as quiet as any doll on a shelf. McUlney felt what Oddodd had told him must be true, that spirit was contained in his perverse form, for the silence in the house seemed to him one of depletion, where his many books absorbed the outstretching of his soul without providing resonant feedback. He went outside twice, for no more than five minutes each time. Outside, he was even more alone. It was too late for any reasonable person to be awake (and the distant townspeople were reliably, disappointingly reasonable) and a thin crescent moon did little to whiten the patchy clouds that hung frozen overhead. Beyond the congress of indifferent trees surrounding his house, the world was wide and open, and the air was cold. Above all, McUlney did not want to feel cold, though he was embarrassed to shame his near-forgotten lineage. After each venture, he returned to his chair to wait under a blanket. Though agitated, he was too tired to try building a fire, and he had no wood inside the house. He thought blackly about burning his books. Then he panicked because he had no one to leave them to. He tore a yellowed endpaper from an inferior volume and wrote a shaky note that his library should be bequeathed to a colleague he had once known and respected. He did not know if the man still lived but he remembered at least one bright and promising child. Then he promptly spilled a drop of drink on the paper that blotted the ink; when he tried to wipe it clean, it only smudged the note further. Feeling the whole exercise useless, he dropped his improvised will to the floor and wept.
His sadness did not lessen with sunrise. He felt sure it was his last and he was miserable that he could not appreciate it. At his deepest despair he cursed himself that he had let the homunculus free, sure that Oddodd would not return. Then he would curse himself for being uncharitable, and even told himself he must live a while longer, certain his companion would be inconsolable if he arrived too late.
‘Dying!’ he cried aloud once, for the process was annoying him, and his reactions to it seemed to him unworthy of the life it terminated.
As morning slipped to afternoon, his strength ebbed. He sat down for the last time in his chair with his last drink. He had ceased coughing; his breath had become too shallow to provoke a fit. Instead, tiny spasms rippled through his chest, too weak to climb his throat. After an hour’s contemplation, he whispered, ‘The rats in the galley . . . are packing their steamer trunks.’ He missed his audience and missed the wit of his constant companion. Too tired to be angry or disappointed, he resolved to pass without seeing Oddodd again. With his acceptance came peace and he dozed off.
When he awoke the first time, the sun was setting. He turned his head and watched the changing light through the window as best he could, glad that he could witness the sunset, and he allowed the experience to occur without other thought. He blinked his eyes when the light was too direct; eventually his tearing eyes remained shut and he again drifted.
He awoke once in total darkness, as he had not turned on any lights before settling in his chair. He was afraid. He took the only shelter he could and shut his eyes against the gloom.
The third time he awoke, there was light again in the room, but the sun had not yet risen. Soft yellow lamp-light crossed from two corners and diffuse shadow settled in patches between the bookshelves. On the sofa, seated on a small, tiered stack of books, was Oddodd. He wore fresh clothes retrieved from the curio.
Seeing his former master awake, he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind that I changed before I woke you. I was dirty from the road.’ He gazed with what concern his waxy face could muster. ‘I was worried at first I’d arrived too late. I am sorry. When I left, I did not understand how . . . near you were.’
McUlney tried to say something, but he was slow to wake, and released only a feeble murmur.
Oddodd bowed his head meekly. ‘I assure you, I returned as quickly as I could. I . . . I had more trouble than I’d anticipated.’
He was surprised to see McUlney smiling. Indeed, there was clearly a late spark of life erupting as a flare of joy behind the eyes. Oddodd thought it was born of hope. He stood and tugged at his jacket. ‘You see,’ he began, searching, ‘well, as you can see, I have returned alone. But not for lack of trying, I assure you.’ He hopped down onto the sofa and stepped to the edge.
‘There are far fewer foxes about than I remember, but the plenitude of fat housecats I struggled to avoid more than makes up the balance. But that is unimportant. You are not waiting to hear of such plebeian concerns. Suffice to say: I made Roseberry Topping towards morning, as expected. Would you like for me to pour you a drink? I’m sure I could manage somehow, a thimble-full at a time, at the very least.’
McUlney shook his head slightly. ‘It is gone,’ he wheezed.
‘Ah.’ Oddodd turned for a second, as though collecting his tale; in truth, he felt he must turn away, even though he knew his face could betray little emotion. After a few seconds, he spun back around. ‘From the summit, I could see the ley lines clearly, throbbing with mystical energy. There is a strong vein very near here; doubtless your subconscious was attuned to it when you selected your sanctum. I saw filaments of light in all directions, little streams of reaching energy, or tiny trails left by magic creatures as they moved. My eyes are as strong as ever and there was much to behold across the country, intimations of shadowy goings-on and even of new things a-borning.’
He paused to read his words’ effect. McUlney’s bright grin remained in place.
‘I was surprised—surprised, that with all about, none had ventured into your den before, with such a lure therein.’ Oddodd tipped an imaginary hat. ‘But magic creatures are fickle, locked to their own concerns and keeping their own counsel. They are a selfish lot, in their way, and though they love chaos, they value their privacy above all else. Perhaps we slept when they were about. Again, this is unimportant.’ He climbed the two steps of his book-seat and opened his arms theatrically.
‘Unfortunately, I cannot tell what type of creature I espy until I can see him just as you would. Had I known my first target was a huntsman’s bogle I would have been quite glad to pass him by. That particular cousin likes nothing more than to be pursued. My poor clothes were dirtied and torn by the time I finally caught full sight of him, and when I did, he merely laughed at my frustration, turned into a grouse, and left me in a dale miles down the road.
‘Next, I found more sedentary prey to approach, a good old English hob, man about the house. Ah! But a more recalcitrant individual you’ll never meet! He is in a property dispute with the landlord, even if the landlord has no idea he has a hob in residence. The poor fellow who considers himself the “home-owner” is one of those unfortunate types who thinks the best use for a quaint country cottage is to gut the insides and to build an addition. As you can imagine, the project is continually stalling on account of the most improbable mishaps. Despite my efforts to enlist his aid, the dedicated and surly hob wouldn’t come away, even for a day, lest he lose ground in the struggle. By the time I left him, it was late in the day, and I thought about heading back directly, but I felt desultory about my failure and was determined more than ever that you should have some new proof of magic in the world.
‘I followed a strong pulse and closed in quickly on a farmhouse and barn. I hoped I might find a brownie. They are amiable to almost any request, and good company when shown appreciation. There was a slumbering black dog tied near a coop. I decided, as my feet make little noise in passing, and, as I needed better vantage of the grounds, I would simply walk the length of the crude rail fence; even if the dog should wake, at worst he could raise a ruckus, and I would drop into the tall grass and scamper away as quick as I could back to the woods. I know that I do not get tired, but I was still somehow fatigued. I must have been, to make such a poor observation: I failed to note the dim, blue cast that hovered just above the dog’s fur until I was halfway along the fence. Then the dog raised its head and smiled, and its red eyes flashed. A barghest! A barghest in a barnyard! Unheard of. I wonder now if many creatures of magic have
opted for assimilation—hiding in plain sight. For some it could do quite well. The rope that damned dog was tied up with was illusory, of course, and dissolved with a shimmer. The beast swelled to double its size as it leapt at me. I knew this strange form was tireless, but I did not know how fast it can move—I found out! Not faster than my pursuer, of course, but just quick enough to make it to a tree. How I managed to scamper up the trunk, I do not remember.
‘The thing did not bark, or howl, or even breathe as I heard it. But he padded about the base of the tree, smiling, always smiling, leaping up the trunk and snapping at the low branches. The tireless dog circled for hours. I despaired of ever leaving the tree alive, let alone in time to see you once more. But then I was quite suddenly flying, the back of my jacket tugged up to my head, stitches digging into my armpits, which, as you well know, I cannot stand. I looked up to see the full-moon face of a barn owl, but when he winked, I was unafraid because I knew when last I left this creature he was a grouse. Huntsman’s bogles and barghests are old enemies—have I ever told you that?—and this trickster was only too happy to deprive his foe of its supper. Of course, as soon as I asked the bogle whether it might accompany me back to your house, it dropped me in a thicket—nearby, at least.’
Oddodd almost hated to finish his tale; he felt he could go on for as long as the old man would listen, but how much could he add before the events of his adventure too obviously exceeded the time constraint? So he waited. McUlney yet smiled. Oddodd thought perhaps he should begin again, to add one more element—a water sprite in a well, perhaps. He opened his mouth but the sound emerging into the still room was not his voice, but slow, susurrant laughter.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ McUlney whispered when he could. ‘Oh! It doesn’t matter. You came back! That is what matters.’ He did not raise his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. He laughed a little more. ‘You came back! So these last twenty years are not wasted. My knowledge,’ his breath came in tight gasps, ‘all my knowledge is this: I have had a friend. And so what I have felt . . . what I have known by feeling . . . is proved worthwhile. I hope . . .’ His eyelids fell. ‘I hope I am . . . not wrong?’
The Hidden Back Room Page 13