Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

by Susanna Clarke

  The boy said that he was already a king in Faerie. He named the fairy king who was his overlord. No one understood.4

  That day he began his unbroken reign of more than three hundred years.

  At the age of fourteen he had already created the system of magic that we employ today. Or rather that we would employ if we could; most of what he knew we have forgotten. His was a perfect blending of fairy magic and human organization – their powers were wedded to his own terrifying purposefulness. There is no reason that we know of to explain why one stolen Christian child should suddenly emerge the greatest magician of any age. Other children, both before and since, have been held captive in the borderlands of Faerie, but none other ever profited from the experience in the way he did. By comparison with his achievements all our efforts seem trivial, insignificant.

  It is the contention of Mr Norrell of Hanover-square that everything belonging to John Uskglass must be shaken out of modern magic, as one would shake moths and dust out of an old coat. What does he imagine he will have left? If you get rid of John Uskglass you will be left holding the empty air.

  From The History and Practice of English Magic, volume I, by Jonathan Strange, published by John Murray, 1816

  46

  “The sky spoke to me …”

  January 1816

  It was a dark day. A chill wind blew snowflakes against the windows of Mr Norrell’s library where Childermass sat writing business letters. Though it was only ten o’clock in the morning the candles were already lit. The only sounds were the coals being consumed in the grate and the scratch of Childermass’s pen against the paper.

  Hanover-square

  To Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary Jan. 8th, 1816.

  My lord,

  Mr Norrell desires me to inform you that the spells to prevent flooding of the rivers in the County of Suffolk are now complete. The bill will be sent to Mr Wynne at the Treasury today …

  Somewhere a bell was tolling, a mournful sound. It was very far away. Childermass barely noticed it and yet, under the influence of the bell, the room around him grew darker and lonelier.

  … The magic will keep the waters within the confines of the rivers’ customary courses. However Mr Leeves, the young engineer employed by the Lord Lieutenant of Suffolk to assess the strength of the present bridges and other structures adjacent to the rivers, has expressed some doubts …

  The image of a dreary landscape was before him. He saw it very vividly as if it were somewhere he knew well or a painting that he had seen every day for years and years. A wide landscape of brown, empty fields and ruined buildings beneath a bleak, grey sky …

  … whether the bridges over the Stour and the Orwell are capable of withstanding the more violent flow of water which will certainly ensue at times of heavy rains. Mr Leeves recommends an immediate and thorough examination of the bridges, mills and fords in Suffolk, beginning with the Stour and Orwell. I am told that he has already written to your lordship about this matter …

  He was no longer merely thinking of the landscape. It seemed to him that he was actually there. He was standing in an old road, rutted and ancient, that wound up a black hill towards the sky where a great flock of black birds was gathering …

  … Mr Norrell has declined to put a period to the magic. It is his private opinion that it will last as long as the rivers themselves, however he begs leave to recommend to your lordship that the spells be re-examined in twenty years. On Tuesday next Mr Norrell will begin to put in place the same magic for the County of Norfolk …

  The birds were like black letters against the grey of the sky. He thought that in a moment he would understand what the writing meant. The stones in the ancient road were symbols foretelling the traveller’s journey.

  Childermass came to himself with a start. The pen jerked from his hand and the ink splattered over the letter.

  He looked around in confusion. He did not appear to be dreaming. All the old, familiar objects were there: the shelves of books, the mirror, the ink pot, the fire-irons, the porcelain figure of Martin Pale. But his confidence in his own senses was shaken. He no longer trusted that the books, the mirrors, the porcelain figure were really there. It was as if everything he could see was simply a skin that he could tear with one fingernail and find the cold, desolate landscape behind it.

  The brown fields were partly flooded; they were strung with chains of chill, grey pools. The pattern of the pools had meaning. The pools had been written on to the fields by the rain. The pools were a magic worked by the rain, just as the tumbling of the black birds against the grey was a spell that the sky was working and the motion of grey-brown grasses was a spell that the wind made. Everything had meaning.

  Childermass leapt up away from the desk and shook himself. He took a hurried turn around the room and rang the bell for the servant. But even as he waited the magic began to reassert itself. By the time Lucas appeared he was no longer certain if he were in Mr Norrell’s library or standing upon an ancient road …

  He shook his head violently and blinked several times. “Where is my master?” he said, “Something is wrong.”

  Lucas gazed at him in some concern. “Mr Childermass? Are you ill, sir?”

  “Never mind that. Where is Mr Norrell?”

  “He is at the Admiralty, sir. I thought you knew. The carriage came for him over an hour ago. I dare say he will be back shortly.”

  “No,” said Childermass, “that cannot be. He cannot have gone. Are you sure that he is not upstairs doing magic?”

  “Quite sure, sir. I saw the carriage leave with the master inside it. Let me send Matthew for a physician, Mr Childermass. You look very ill.”

  Childermass opened his mouth to protest that he was not ill at all, but just at that moment …

  … the sky looked at him. He felt the earth shrug because it felt him upon its back.

  The sky spoke to him.

  It was a language he had never heard before. He was not even certain there were words. Perhaps it only spoke to him in the black writing the birds made. He was small and unprotected and there was no escape. He was caught between earth and sky as if cupped between two hands. They could crush him if they chose.

  The sky spoke to him again.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  He blinked and found that Lucas was bending over him. His breath was coming in gasps. He put out his hand and his hand brushed something at his side. He turned to look at it and was puzzled to discover that it was a chair-leg. He was lying on the floor. “What … ?” he asked.

  “You are in the library, sir,” said Lucas. “I think you fainted.”

  “Help me up. I need to talk to Norrell.”

  “But I told you already, sir …”

  “No,” said Childermass. “You are wrong. He must be here. He must be. Take me upstairs.”

  Lucas helped him up and out of the room, but when they reached the stairs he very nearly collapsed again. So Lucas called for Matthew, the other footman, and together they half-supported, half-carried Childermass to the little study upon the second floor where Mr Norrell performed his most private magic.

  Lucas opened the door. Inside, a fire was burning in the grate. Pens, pen-knives, pen-holders and pencils were placed neatly in a little tray. The inkwell was filled and the silver cap placed on it. Books and notebooks stood stacked neatly or tidied away. Everything was dusted and polished and in perfect order. Clearly Mr Norrell had not been there that morning.

  Childermass pushed the footmen away from him. He stood and gazed at the room in some perplexity.

  “You see, sir?” said Lucas. “It is just as I told you. The master is at the Admiralty.”

  “Yes,” said Childermass.

  But it made no sense to him. If the eerie magic was not Norrell’s, then whose could it be? “Has Strange been here?” he asked.

  “No, indeed!” Lucas was indignant. “I hope I know my duties better than to let Mr Strange in the house. You still look queer, si
r. Let me send for a physician.”

  “No, no. I am better. I am a great deal better. Here, help me to a chair.” Childermass collapsed into a chair with a sigh. “What in God’s name are you both staring at?” He waved them both away. “Matthew, have you no work to do? Lucas, fetch me a glass of water!”

  He was still dazed and dizzy, but the sick feeling in his stomach had lessened. He could picture the landscape in every detail. The image of it was fixed in his head. He could taste its desolation, its otherworldliness, but he no longer felt in danger of losing himself in it. He could think.

  Lucas returned with a tray with a wine-glass and a decanter full of water. He poured a glass of water and Childermass drank it off.

  There was a spell Childermass knew. It was a spell to detect magic. It could not tell you what the magic was or who was performing it; it simply told you whether there was any magic occurring or not. At least that was what it was supposed to do. Childermass had only ever tried it once and there had been nothing. He had no way of knowing whether or not it worked.

  “Fill the glass again,” he told Lucas.

  Lucas did so.

  This time Childermass did not drink from the glass. Instead he muttered some words at it. Then he held it up to the light and peered through it, turning slowly until he had surveyed every part of the room through the glass.

  There was nothing.

  “I am not even sure what I am looking for,” he murmured. To Lucas he said, “Come. I need your help.”

  They returned to the library. Childermass held up the glass again and said the words and looked through it.

  Nothing.

  He approached the window. For a moment he thought he saw something at the bottom of the glass like a pearl of white light.

  “It is in the square,” he said.

  “What is in the square?” asked Lucas.

  Childermass did not answer. Instead, he looked out of the window. Snow covered the muddy cobbles of Hanover-square. The black railings that surrounded the enclosure in the centre shewed sharply against the whiteness. Snow was still falling and there was a sharp wind. Despite this there were several people in the square. It was well known that Mr Norrell lived in Hanover-square and people came here, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Just now a gentleman and two young ladies (all, doubtless, fanatics for magic) were standing in front of the house, gazing at it in some excitement. A little further off a dark young man was lounging against the railings. Near him was an ink-seller with a ragged coat and a little barrel of ink upon his back. On the right there was another lady. She had turned away from the house and was walking slowly in the direction of Hanover-street, but Childermass had the notion that she had been among the onlookers only a moment before. She was fashionably and expensively dressed in a dark green pelisse trimmed with ermine, and she carried a large ermine muff.

  Childermass knew the ink-seller well – he had often bought ink from him. The others were, he thought, all strangers. “Do you recognize anyone?” he asked.

  “That dark-haired fellow.” Lucas pointed to the young man leaning against the railings. “That is Frederick Marston. He has been here several times to ask Mr Norrell to take him as a pupil, but Mr Norrell has always refused to see him.”

  “Yes. I think you told me about him.” Childermass studied the people in the square a moment longer and then he said, “Unlikely as it seems, one of them must be performing some sort of magic. I need to go down and see. Come. I cannot do this without you.”

  In the square the magic was stronger than ever. The sad bell tolled inside Childermass’s head. Behind the curtain of snow the two worlds flickered back and forth, like images in a magic lantern – one moment Hanover-square, one moment dreary fields and a black writing upon the sky.

  Childermass held up the wine-glass in preparation to saying the words of the spell, but there was no need. It blazed with a soft white light. It was the brightest thing in the whole of that dark winter’s day, its light clearer and purer than any lamp could be and it threw curious shadows upon the faces of Childermass and Lucas.

  The sky spoke to him again. This time he thought it was a question. Great consequences hung upon his answer. If he could just understand what was being asked and find the correct words in which to frame his reply, then something would be revealed – something that would change English magic for ever, something that Strange and Norrell had not even guessed at yet.

  For a long moment he struggled to understand. The language or spell seemed tantalizingly familiar now. In a moment, he thought, he would grasp it. After all, the world had been speaking these words to him every day of his life – it was just that he had not noticed it before …

  Lucas was saying something. Childermass must have begun to fall again because he now found that Lucas was grasping him under the arms and dragging him upright. The wine-glass lay shattered upon the cobbles and the white light was split across the snow.

  “… the queerest thing,” said Lucas. “That’s it, Mr Childermass. Up you come. I have never known you taken like this. Are you sure, sir, that you don’t want to go inside? But, here is Mr Norrell. He will know what to do.”

  Childermass looked to the right. Mr Norrell’s carriage was turning into the square from George-street.

  The ink-seller saw it too. Immediately he approached the gentleman and two young ladies. He made them a respectful bow and spoke to the gentleman. All three turned their heads and looked at the carriage. The gentleman reached into a pocket and gave the ink-seller a coin. The ink-seller bowed again and withdrew.

  Mr Marston, the dark young man, did not need any one to tell him that this was Mr Norrell’s carriage. As soon as he observed its approach, he stood away from the railings and moved forward.

  Even the fashionably dressed lady had turned and was walking back towards the house, apparently with the intention of looking at England’s Foremost Magician.

  The carriage stopped in front of the house. The footman descended from the box and opened the door. Mr Norrell stepped out. He was so wrapped up in mufflers that his shrunken little form appeared almost stout. Immediately Mr Marston hailed him and began to say something to him. Mr Norrell shook his head impatiently and waved Mr Marston away.

  The fashionably dressed lady passed Childermass and Lucas. She was very pale and solemn-looking. It occurred to Childermass that she would probably have been considered handsome by the people who cared about such things. Now that he looked at her properly he began to think that he knew her. “Lucas,” he murmured, “who is that woman?”

  “I am sorry, sir. I don’t think I ever saw her before.”

  At the foot of the carriage steps Mr Marston was growing more insistent and Mr Norrell was growing angrier. Mr Norrell looked around; he saw Lucas and Childermass close at hand and beckoned to them.

  Just then the fashionably dressed lady took a step towards him. For a moment it seemed that she too was going to address him, but that was not her intention. She took a pistol from her muff and, with all the calm in the world, aimed it at his heart.

  Mr Norrell and Mr Marston both stared at her.

  Several things happened at once. Lucas loosed his hold of Childermass – who dropt like a stone to the ground – and ran to help his master. Mr Marston seized hold of the lady around her waist. Davey, Mr Norrell’s coachman, jumped down from his box and grabbed the arm which held the pistol.

  Childermass lay amid the snow and shards of glass. He saw the woman shrug herself free of Mr Marston’s grasp with what seemed like remarkable ease. She pushed him to the ground with such force that he did not get up again. She put one small, gloved hand to Davey’s chest and Davey was flung several yards backwards. Mr Norrell’s footman – the one who had opened the carriage door – tried to knock her down, but his blow had not the least effect upon her. She put her hand upon his face – it looked like the lightest touch in the world – he crumpled to the ground. Lucas she simply struck with the pistol.

  Childermass could make v
ery little sense of what was happening. He dragged himself upright and stumbled forward for half a dozen yards, scarcely knowing whether he was walking upon the cobblestones of Hanover-square or an ancient road in Faerie.

  Mr Norrell stared at the lady in the utmost horror, too frightened to cry out or run away. Childermass put up his hands to her in a gesture of conciliation. “Madam …” he began.

  She did not even look at him.

  The dizzying fall of white flakes confused him. Try as he might, he could not keep his hold upon Hanover-square. The eerie landscape was claiming him; Mr Norrell would be killed and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

  Then something strange happened.

  Something strange happened. Hanover-square disappeared. Mr Norrell, Lucas and all the rest of them disappeared.

  But the lady remained.

  She stood facing him, upon the ancient road, beneath the sky with its tumble and seethe of black birds. She raised her pistol and aimed it out of Faerie and into England at Mr Norrell’s heart.

  “Madam,” said Childermass again.

  She looked at him with a cold, burning fury. There was nothing in the world he could say to deter her. Nothing in this world nor any other. And so he did the only thing he could think of. He seized hold of the barrel of the pistol.

  There was a shot, an intolerably loud sound.

  It was the force of the noise, Childermass supposed, which pushed him back into England.

  Suddenly he was half-sitting, half-lying in Hanover-square with his back to the carriage-steps. He wondered where Norrell was and whether he was dead. He supposed he ought to go and find out, but he found he did not much care about it and so he stayed where he was.

  It was not until a surgeon arrived that he understood that the lady had indeed shot someone and that the someone was himself.

  The rest of that day and most of the following one passed in a confusion of pain and laudanum-dreams. Sometimes Childermass thought he was standing on the ancient road under the speaking sky, but now Lucas was with him talking of maids-of-honour and coal-scuttles. A tight-rope was strung across the sky and a great many people were walking on it. Strange was there and so was Norrell. They both had piles of books in their hands. There was John Murray, the publisher, and Vinculus and many others. Sometimes the pain in Childermass’s shoulder escaped from him and ran about the room and hid. When this happened he thought it became a small animal. No one else knew it was there. He supposed he ought to tell them so that they could chase it out. Once he caught sight of it; it had flame-coloured fur, brighter than a fox …