My tears disturbed Pericles mightily. He held out a much used wooden mortar for my inspection. A quantity of chalky green spheres rolled about within. “Don’t take on so, ‘Lilah. Look’ ee here, I took the liberty of mix in ‘ up the stuff as should be sprinkled on the thing that wants animatin’. No reason we couldn’t try it anyhow, go down swinging, give old Coister a run for his—”
“Oh, Pericles, how could you imagine that such nonsense could aid us?” I wailed, striking the mortar from his hands. As the tiny spheres sailed across the study, I went on to demand how any man in his right mind could ever mistake a simple practice exercise in Greek like—here I confess to reciting it entire—for magic of true potency!
“And I suppose you are the arbiter general for what will pass muster as magic in these sorry days, eh, m’ gel?” said a voice whose harsh and thunderous tones made Mamma’s small chamber quake to the rafters.
“Well, if that don’t beat all hollow,” Pericles murmured, coming to lay protective hands upon my shoulders.
I gasped and crumpled the black handkerchief into a soggy ball. The sight I saw, dear Caroline, would have sent a lesser woman into an access of the vapors. For there, fresh from the portrait now an empty frame upon the wall, stood my great-grandpapa, Thomas Crafter.
He was splendid, if dated, in the finery of a previous age.
His jowls were much redder, more wobbly, and far more overwhelming in person than in paint. He rolled one of the unused pellets from Pericles’ animation spell between thumb and forefinger as he strode towards us. Three paces off, he took a deep, snuffly breath and bellowed:
“Blight and gall, is that the stench of a bloody American I smell? In my house?”
“Sir, please!” I exclaimed. “You are speaking of my betrothed.”
“What?” The apparition drew near, nostrils flaring, as if he had the power to divine everything about me by scent alone. “One of my direct line to wed a—a—a double-damned, tea-dumping, tax-evading traitor to the Crown?”
To his credit, Pericles stepped between us and readily admitted to his nationality. “I heard tell of you, sir,” he addressed Great-grandpapa boldly. “I know as how you don’t take too kindly to us Yankees. But hate us or not, my mam always did say as how she heard you was a man of business first. I’ve got a proposition to lay afore you that I think you’ll find mighty attractive.”
Great-grandpapa screwed up his florid face most needlessly at Pericles’ accent—an idiosyncratic locution which I am sure you will find charming, darling Caroline. Yet despite his obvious distaste for the American rendition of our common tongue, he showed a spark of interest in the words themselves. “A proposition?” he echoed. A sarcastic laugh made his pendulous lips bob like corks asea. “Do you not think that in my present state I might be a shade ... beyond the temptations of commercial dealings?”
“No, sir,” Pericles maintained. “You was born a New England man, like it or not, and it’s said we raise ’em so’s not even the grave can keep our merchants from a good deal.”
This time Great-grandpapa’ s laugh was not so scornful. “Very well, pup,” he said. “And what is this deal you would offer me?”
“A plain swap,” Pericles said. “Your help for my life and the saving of hers.” He made an heroic gesture indicating my modest self. “If you hate us Americans that powerful bad, here’s your chance to have one right where you want ’im, and do your worst.”
“Is that so?” Great-grandpapa seemed amused. “Well, well. Live long enough and you shall see everything, they say. Die long enough and you shall see more. A noble American, begad! One willing to lay down his life for Lady Fair. And for this, I can have your worthless hide?”
“Aye, sir, and free of tariff, too,” Pericles riposted.
Now the laughter which shook Great-grandpapa’s jowls was from the heart. “Strike me dead—deader—here’s sport! Tell me, lad, when I collect my fee for services rendered, do you expect me to devour you, drink your blood, or merely flay you alive?”
Pericles remained steadfast. “Whatever takes your ghostly fancy, sir.”
“Just so, just so.” Great-grandpapa wiped away the phantom traces of merriment’s tears. “Well, what takes my fancy, boy, is that you say what’s brought you to a pass where you’re so willing to give your life into these rough hands. Sharp, now!”
“Permit me,” I interposed, and with dear Pericles’ consent went on to explain, at some necessary length and with as much elegance as my state of trepidation might allow, the circumstances of our present situation. I ended by saying, “Pray succor us, dear Great-grandpapa. If not for the sake of that dread price which Pericles so willingly offers you, nor for the fact that his Crafter blood transcends his abhorred nationality, then for the memory of my dear mamma, your grandchild.”
Great-grandpapa gave me a most peculiar look, then turned to Pericles and inquired, “You mean to marry her, lad? Take her back to America with you after you’re wed?” And when Pericles assented, added—I know not why—”All that high gale and low dramatics ... that’s vengeance enough on the whole ’nation of ’em.” Before I might ask his meaning, he went on to remark, “Coister, eh? It seems I recall the family—miserable excuses for magicians, all. Couldn’t turn bread into toast unless they sold their souls to Satan first. And now this jumped-up scion of theirs wants to command Death himself? Haw!”
“Death,” I repeatedly somberly, dabbing the last few tears from my eyes with the black handkerchief. “And my person.”
“He wants you, too?” I know not why Great-grandpapa was so puzzled by this intelligence. “Hasn’t the poor bedlamite ever heard you talk for any length of—? No matter. He is also an American. It must be something in the water. Never mind. Come here, child. Let me see that black rag of yours. There is a scent to it I find strangely familiar, and if it is as I suspect ...” It was a decidedly odd sensation when his hands brushed mine, that he might inspect the black kerchief, but no odder than the veritable storm of guffaws which racked his body once he had completed his examination of that item.
“Great-grandpapa, I fail to see the humor,” I said severely.
“You would,” he replied, when he was able. “America deserves you. Nay, don’t pull that beldame’s face with me, m’gel. You’re a Crafter, right enough, and there’s more than a touch of the Talent to you, unless my nose for such things betrays me. God helps them who help themselves, as your turncoat Ben Franklin would put it. Hark to me, you pair of boobies, and I’ll give you the means you need to save your hides without paying me an inch of ’em.”
He beckoned us close and whispered certain secrets into our ears before fading from our ken, nevermore to return, if I have anything to say in the matter.
So it was that when a horrid cry of “EUREKA!” reverberated through the house, followed by heavy footsteps galloping up the stairs, I was not quite so moved to distraction as one might have expected formerly. Nor was I at all undone when the study door burst open and Renfrew Coister stood triumphant before us, brandishing a small, exquisitely jointed wooden skeleton in his hand.
For you see, dear Caroline, I had used the black handkerchief and Great-grandpapa’s counsel to procure us a little company.
“Put that down, Coister,” said the gentleman in black. “I don’t like men of your stripe taking liberties with my person.”
The astounded Coister goggled at our visitor after the fashion of a herring monger’s best merchandise. His eyes darted from the wooden skeleton to the gentleman in black, perceiving in the fleshless fingers and eyeless sockets of each a distinct resemblance. “It cannot be!” he cried, shaking the articulated simulacrum until the limbs rattled. (Our caller, to his credit, gritted his teeth and by sheer force of Will did his best to remain unmoved by this harsh treatment.)
“Stop that, if you please,” said Death (for it was He). “You can’t hope to control me with that poppe
t now.”
“Why not?” Coister demanded, at his least gracious. “I found it myself, in the bottom of her mother’s old bridal chest. She had it disguised as copy of Jonathan Edwards’ sermons, but a little prodding soon dislodged that threadbare glamour. I used the proper procedures, said all the right spells, and now it is mine! Control the symbol and you control the thing symbolized!”
“Not,” said Death, “if someone gets to the thing symbolized first.” He made a shallow bow in my direction, his bony fingers extended towards the black handkerchief. This I had, as per Great-grandpapa’s instructions, spread out upon Mamma’s table and dusted lightly with a mixture of dried herbs Pericles had gathered from the array of glass containers lining the attic shelves. “Precedence is precedence, Coister, old man. I believe that the lady has first dibs,” the Grim Reaper remarked.
“What in Hell’s own name are ‘dibs’?” Renfrew Coister swore mightily.
O Caroline, it was as if the monumental nature of his blasphemy tore the world asunder! Pericles leapt forward, exhorting him to mind his tongue in the presence of a lady. Coister snarled even worse oaths and drew from the air itself a dagger wherewith to work mischief upon my unarmed cousin. Yet ere Pericles could notice the sharp welcome awaiting him at Coister’s hand, the very firmament flashed, there was the overpowering scent of tansy, and in mid-leap Pericles Crafter vanished to be replaced by—
But you already know the manner of Lord Cranbrooke-Purslaine-Dewberry’s irruption into Mamma’s study, being as you were the agent thereof. Dear Caroline! How ingenious of you to use my spell of transportation to exchange the equivalent masses of Pericles and Dewy! Especially since Dewy had a sword.
Ah, could you but have seen the man’s presence of mind! How many other youths of his delicate upbringing would have the acumen to perceive, immediately upon arrival in medias quite perilous res, that the wisest course of action was to draw his blade against Coister’s own steel and, with a minimum of fuss, cause the reptile’s head to part company with his shoulders?
Of course it did make rather a dreadful mess. The whole spectacle was too much for my already hectic nerves. I believe I heard Death remark, “Well, I’ll just be clearing this away for you, shall I?” before I sank into blissful unconsciousness.
The rest you must know: How Papa and Stepmamma, freed from Coister’s spells, returned to find me upon the parlor divan insensible, unchaperoned, and alone with Dewy. How, in simple charity, I made judicious application of Mamma’s bezoar to free that noble gentleman’s rational processes from all previous artificially induced attractions. How he and I both realized that, much as our unformed and juvenile affections had been so foolishly granted elsewhere, more mature considerations of Duty, Honor, and Mutual Respect conspired to but one possible conclusion:
Caroline, I married him.
Given what I have told you, I assume you will henceforth desist from sending me letters which can at best be called ill-thought and at worst, libellous. You can not deny that I have attempted to explain all ere this; no more can you deny that you have destroyed my previous missives unread, for your childish behavior whenever the post arrives has been noticed by the neighbors and placed you foursquare upon the barbed tongue of Gossip.
I am therefore sending you this letter in the hands of my trusted cousin, Pericles Crafter. Your breeding, if not any inborn sense of restraint, should prevent you from staging another tantrum while he is present to await a reply. I rely upon your usually sweet disposition to receive him kindly and cheer him up somewhat. Heaven alone knows why he has turned so sullen! I gave him the fusty old skeleton to take home to his “mam” the very day that Dewy and I announced our betrothal. Whatever more could the silly boy want?
I am sure you two will find some common cause in which to pass an idle hour of polite conversation. Why, think of it, Caroline! You might even have some distant kinship to the Crafter line, seeing as how it was your own Talent which allowed you to exchange Pericles for my dear, darling Dewy! Perhaps Cousin Pericles might be able to aid you in the development of this magical gift. May you learn, as I have, that education is its own reward.
It is my fondest wish that together you and he might persuade each other to look back upon the events of which I have written in a more rational, less romantically overwrought manner. Romance is all very well for the poets, but live in America?
Moi?
Faithfully I do remain
Your Sincere Friend,
Lady Delilah Cranbrooke-Purslaine-Dewberry “The Alders”
Huntingdon shire
England
Anno Domini 1807 —1815
Perhaps there is something about having the Talent that attracts situations where it is needed. Today we would call that coincidence. In an earlier age: fate or the Hand of God. Whatever the reason, it makes life for most Crafters quite exciting, and can have other benefits as well.
Anthea was ten years old when she met the ghost.
He was really a very nice ghost, everything considered—but Anthea wasn’t in the mood to consider very much. She had just fled into the library to have a good cry, for Nanny had told her, rather sharply, that Mama had no time to listen to Anthea’s whining just then. Poor Anthea positively dissolved, but Nanny scolded her sharply. “Away with you, aggravating child! When I’ve such a headache! You mustn’t make such a noise!” So Anthea had run out and down the long, creaking stairs to the first room that had a door to it, which was of course the library, crying as though her heart would burst. She threw herself in among the cushions on the window seat, though they reeked of damp, and wept and wept and wept. With all her heart, she wished that her real Nanny hadn’t died, and left her to the mercy of this ... this stranger, this rude country girl who knew nothing of the proper behavior of a nanny, and cared nothing for Anthea’s feelings. She wept on and on as the gloaming faded into a gloomy dusk, not caring that there wasn’t a single candle lighted.
“Such a fuss,” rumbled a hollow voice. “Why, it’s enough to wake the dead.”
Anthea gasped and sat bolt upright, instantly furious that anyone should intrude on her grief, blinking her tears away, or trying to—then gasping again as she saw the glimmering old suit of armor where surely there had been none before. And it lacked a helmet! Nothing there but its bare shoulders.
“Who are you?” she cried, looking about. “Why have you brought this pile of tin here?”
“This pile of tin, little mademoiselle, is myself,” said the hollow voice—and so help her, the suit of armor stepped away from the wall and clanked over to the tall wing chair, where it sat!
Well, actually, it didn’t clank, really. In fact, it didn’t make a sound. It only seemed that it should have.
“Well, that’s better,” the hollow voice said. “I’ve little use for a watering pot. Tears increase the damp so, and my armor’s apt enough to rust as it is.”
“Why, how rude!” Anthea cried, anger drowning fear. “And how cruel of you, sir, to play such a trick upon a poor girl in her misery! Take yourself out of that suit of armor on the instant!”
“That I fear I cannot do, little mademoiselle,” said the armor. “I died in it, so I’m stuck in it, if you follow my meaning at least, until I find my head.”
“Your head?” Anthea could only stare. Well, actually, no, she could have screamed, too—but at the moment, she was far too confused for that. “Why have you lost your head? Over what?”
“Over a battle, actually—though I could say, over a young lady.”
“I knew it!” Anthea clapped her hands. “Whenever a proper gentleman has lost his head, there’s romance in it! Poor fellow, did she not requite you?” Then she came to her senses, and indignation rose. “Why, this is quite unkind! Who are you, sir, and how dare you play such a prank upon a grieving maiden?” She was rather proud of that “grieving maiden” she had thought it up herself, without any help
from Mrs. Radcliffe or her books. “Come out of that suit of armor, and be done with this deception!”
“I fear it is no prank,” said the hollow voice, “and as to who I am, why, I am Sir Roderick le Gos, Knight Bachelor, sworn to the service of the Duke of Kent.”
“Le Gos?” Anthea frowned; the name tugged at her memory. Hadn’t Father mentioned ...
“Yes, little mademoiselle, le Gos is the old form of your own name, Gosling. It has transformed itself down through the centuries, but you and I are Gosses still.”
“Centuries?” For the first time, a thrill of fear touched Anthea’s heart. She quelled it sternly—after all, the chap seemed nice enough. “You can’t mean ... you aren’t ...”
“The family ghost? Yes, I am, actually. Not all that many can see me, though—your mama can’t at all, of course, but she’s not a Gos by blood. Even you will probably find that you can’t see me in ten years or so. But for the moment, we can chat quite companionably—if you don’t find my aspect too horrifying.”
“Not a bit, for I can’t find your aspect at all.” Anthea frowned. “Where is it?”
“I carelessly misplaced it some centuries ago, a hundred miles or so to the north and west. It was during a battle against some border raiders, you see—Scots who had the audacity to object to being ruled by King Edward, don’t you know, and thought to make his subjects suffer in his stead. It wasn’t generally known, but a band of them had managed to catfoot it down from the North Country, bravely resisting temptation all along the way, so they could set up a broil entirely too close to London. They raided and retreated into the forest, where they seem to have made common cause with a band of outlaws, and came surging back out at the oddest moments to wreak havoc and plunder.”
The Crafters Book Two Page 12