by Shamus Young
“So let’s assume he is telling us the truth,” the captain said. “Would it hurt the princess if we were to take his head off?”
“Possibly,” she said, looking down at the book again. “The cleanest, safest way of resolving this would be to recover the vigor from this one and restore it to her. Then we could be sure that he would stay dead and that she would recover fully.”
“That means doing sorcery, doesn’t it?” the captain said warily.
“Yes.”
The captain let out a long, uneasy breath. They were obviously on shaky ground here. He seemed to let this idea settle before he spoke again, “Do you know how to do it?”
“No. Research will be required. And I’ll need the specimen.” There was murmuring from the men at this.
“Are you talking about bringing this... thing back to Grayhouse?” This came from Jack, the fellow who had been cursing and stomping on Gilbert.
“Do you have better lodgings?” the woman asked. “I shall need use of my library and tools, and would prefer to have a roof over my head while I employ them.”
“We are charged with exterminating these monsters, not making them our pets!” Jack fumed.
“We are charged with protecting the people - and Her Majesty in particular - from supernatural threats,” she reminded Jack. “Killing the unliving is one means to that end. This is another, however unsavory you may find it.”
“We are not bringing a God-damned abomination back to the lodgings given to us by Her Majesty,” Jack shouted.
The captain raised his voice to match Jack’s, “Kicking this slab of dead flesh did not earn you a sudden promotion, Mister Stanway, and so I remain in charge. If your concern is for holiness, then perhaps you ought to see to your own blasphemy. And if your concern is for Her Majesty, then ask yourself which is more precious to her? I imagine she would gladly trade our home and everything in it to have her daughter returned.”
Jack stood, which caused the cart to wobble slightly, “We don’t even know that she’s in any danger at all. This creature is certainly filled with lies, and I can scarcely believe you’re entertaining them. I should almost think you were bewitched.”
The captain stood also, but he was suddenly quiet. “Are you charging me with bewitchment, Mister Stanway?”
A long silence hung over the cart. The two men met each other’s gaze and held their stalemate for several moments. “No,” Jack said at last, retreating slightly. “I’m only saying it is unlike your custom to show deference to the unliving.”
“Not to the unliving, but to Her Majesty.”
Jack looked around. “Does no one else stand with me?”
The reply was silence. Jack sat down. “Very well, I have nothing more to say on the matter.” His tone seemed to indicate otherwise.
“Good. Go around and knock on a few doors. Let folks know the abomination is dealt with, and don’t say more beyond that. They’re spooked enough and are probably expecting the end of the world, so be gentle with them. Speak to the priest and tell him he can have his church back. He’ll be glad for that.”
The mood cooled once Jack left with the other member of the Watch. This left only the captain and the woman.
“So how do we get it inside of Grayhouse?” the captain asked.
“I can walk when not bound,” Gilbert offered.
The captain looked down at him, “You’ll be quiet if you know what’s good for you. I’m not so delighted with this plan that I won’t just take your head off if I find half a reason, and I’m inclined to go against your requests, so perhaps you’d best keep them to yourself.”
The woman peered down at Gilbert. “You should not antagonize the captain. If you knew anything at all about necromancy you would realize your peril. If the captain takes your head, you won’t return to death. Your spirit will remain bound to that dried skull on your shoulders, helpless and without the use of your body. Many necromancers have been buried so, trapped in darkness without hope. The illegitimate Pope Adrian II was buried this way a thousand years ago, and we could dig his head up today and find him still screaming for release.”
Gilbert nodded and kept quiet.
She turned back to the captain. “So, to simplify the problem down to its essentials: He can walk in, or we can carry him.”
“Allowing him to walk unbound is out of the question,” the captain said firmly. “However polite he is now, we can’t be sure this isn’t some ruse. Or he could turn feral. We might put him in chains, but then we’ll be leading a man in chains, and anyone that sees us entering Grayhouse will want to know why we’re keeping a prisoner there instead of putting him in a proper cell. ”
“So we have to carry him,” the woman said. “I don’t know that carrying a body around will look any better than leading about a man in chains. I wonder if we would get a casket here in town?”
The captain leaned back and considered this, “A casket? I suppose that would be preferable to hauling the body around like a sack of potatoes. Would still set jaws in motion, if it were seen.”
“We could make sure to bring him in during the night.”
“That would make us look even more suspicious, but less likely to be seen.”
Gilbert did not like the sound of this plan at all. He thought about what would happen if they changed their mind and simply decided to bury him.
It turned out that there was a coffin available. Several, in fact. An enterprising carpenter had heard all the gossip concerning the Witch Watch and the church being closed, and had anticipated that there would be a demand for them before the week was out. He’d built three of them during the day, with more planned, and was slightly put out when he discovered that only one of them would be needed.
The Witch Watch made every effort to support their deception. They placed Gilbert in the coffin (which was a tight fit) and nailed it shut, and then sent for the priest to have him perform the long-form Final Rites of Resting on the ‘body’. These unnerved Gilbert even more than being sealed in the coffin, and he counted it the worst part of the ordeal. Gilbert had never noticed before how much of the rite was dedicated to commanding the deceased (in the name of God) to stay so, and calling down penalties (also in the name of God) on them if they failed to comply. He thought it curious that the church put so much of the blame and punishment on the departed, and never stopped to address the question of what other people might do with your body once you had left it. This struck him as being like arresting a man for burglary because his house had been robbed. Was he responsible for his return to this world? Could he have refused? He wondered.
Once that unpleasantness was over, Gilbert felt himself being loaded onto the cart, and they began the bumpy journey to London.
Mr. Brooks,
I apologize for the delay in sending this letter. My duties with The Ministry of Ethereal Affairs are consuming a considerable portion of my waking hours. The remainder of those hours is spent attempting to raise a young girl. This has left little time for the conducting of correspondence, even with dear friends.
Alice is thriving, looking less like a child and more like her mother each day. She begs you for more watches, or watch parts, or tools, or any other items you may not want. Quite to the contrary of your purposes, giving her a few trinkets to play with did not satisfy her curiosity, but intensified it. She took the broken items you provided and combined the parts to form a single working whole. She now wears this watch constantly, much to my pride and to the frustration of everyone else. She has been reminded many times that a pocketwatch is not a proper adornment for a lady, but I would rather have my daughter demonstrate mechanical genius than fashion sense.
Before I address your question, allow me to correct some of the sloppy language you used in your letter. Specifically, the usage of the various words we have for people who use magic.
A WIZARD is someone who can invoke or command some of the primal forces of nature. They can, with no special equipment or training, cause supernatural p
hysical activity around them. Fire is by far the most common, and in the last few years we have encountered perhaps a half dozen such wizards. Others can cause moisture to form in the air around them, which appears like momentary rain. I have also read about (but have not personally witnessed) individuals who can cause wind to blow or hurl small objects about. Less reliable texts mention wizards who could command arcs of lightning to strike. Regardless of the form it takes, this activity is physically exhausting for the wizard.
When I took this position, it was thought that less than one in a million people possessed the power of wizardry. As our work at the Ministry of Ethereal Affairs (PLEASE do not refer to us as ‘The Witch Watch’ again, I beg you) progressed, we revised that to one in a half million. I suspect that we are still under-estimating their numbers. I do not mean to suggest the number of wizards is increasing, only that they are more common and well-hidden than anyone dared guess.
By contrast, a SORCERER is someone who can create supernatural events through the use of sorcery circles. They write commands in circular patterns on the ground in order to bring about this magic. The commands must adhere to a rigid system of rules in order to have any effect.
The word WITCH applies equally to both kinds of magic users, and I must say I do not like the term at all. It was created in a time where people did not know or understand the difference between wizards and sorcerers, or even that there WAS a difference. Indeed, both the courts and the church still charge people with witchcraft, without bothering to designate which sort.
As I’ve gone through old records, I’ve often been saddened and frustrated by this imprecision. Over the last hundred years, almost a thousand people have been executed at Tyburn for capital witchcraft. Not once did anyone bother remarking whether the condemned was a wizard or a sorcerer. If they had only noted these very simple details, we would now be able to answer many important questions: How common are wizards? Is our confiscation of materials keeping up with the execution of sorcerers, or are there unknown books still in circulation? How many wizards are also sorcerers?
I suspect there is nothing that can be done to correct the use of “witch” in the papers, but I urge you as a man of education to be less reckless with your words.
Which brings me to your question. What is done with confiscated books? We keep them in a residence that has been provided to us. They are labeled and sorted, so that we know where each book was found and under what circumstances. I’m well aware that The Church would be enraged if they knew we were keeping these. In addition, I’m sure a great many aspiring sorcerers would delight to obtain them. I have often thought that it would be wise to find a more secure location for the books, but I can’t request for more secure facilities without explaining why. Right now the only thing keeping people away from them is that nobody knows they exist. Perhaps this is the most secure lock of all.
In friendship,
Sir Donovan White
Director, Ministry of Ethereal Affairs
June 2, 1875
Grayhouse
III
Grayhouse was a sprawling construction of red brick, adorned with many tall windows and almost as many chimneys. It sat in London, sleeping in a neighborhood otherwise filled with busy upheaval. All around, small houses and open lots were gradually being cleared to make way for manufacturing buildings. The neighborhood was dirty and noisy, even at night.
The members of the Ministry of Ethereal Affairs often said that the building was “a gift from the Queen”, but this was somewhere between hyperbole and jest. In truth, it came into the hands of the ministry from Prince Albert, and it came into his hands through a convoluted series of transactions involving nobles and politics, most of which were quite beyond a person of Alice’s station. At some point the place had been in the hands of someone named Gray, and their name clung to the address even after ownership passed on. Many people mistook the name of the house for a description of it, and would either show up looking for a grey house or attempt to correct Alice on her spelling in their correspondence.
Since middle age, Prince Albert had campaigned to extend leniency to “medicinal sorcery”. A side-effect of this initially unpopular move was that he needed to show people (and the church, in particular) that he wasn’t an apologist for sorcery in general, and that his aim wasn’t to legitimize and evangelize the dark arts to England’s impressionable, God-fearing youth. So the Ministry of Ethereal Affairs was created. An amusing novelty at first, they gradually captured the public attention through the papers. People were more inclined to like and trust the Witch Watch (as the papers came to call it) because their methods more closely resembled the system of due process given to other sorts of criminals. By contrast, the church had a reputation for poking swords into anyone found too close to a forbidden book then praying that God would forgive them if any of the slain had been innocent of reading it.
This fame worked against the members of Ethereal Affairs. Their exploits were usually greatly exaggerated, even before publication. From there common folk would assume they were missing out on the most thrilling parts, and made sure to add those themselves if they repeated the tale later. This meant that the members of the ministry were watched closely by their neighbors, and the newspapers seemed to employ people with no other purpose than to loiter around Grayhouse and look for news that could be spun into gossip. This fact was foremost in the minds of Captain Turpin and Alice White when they arrived home to find an electric streetlamp had been constructed in front of Grayhouse.
“Someone has stolen all of the darkness from in front of our house,” the captain said.
“What’s that doing there?” asked Private Archer indignantly.
”They’ve been building these all over the city for years. It was bound to happen on our street sooner or later,” Alice said.
“Just our luck they did it now,” Archer muttered.
There was nothing to be done about it. Perhaps if they had more time they might have concocted some other disguise for their cargo, but they were all too tired for creative subterfuge. All four of them carried the coffin into the house, right under the light.
“Where now?” asked Archer, once the coffin had been set in the entryway and the door closed.
Alice thought for a moment, “The library. It’s above the street so we won’t have to worry about folks looking in. It will be near my books and tools, and there’s plenty of room. And there’s only one way in, which makes it easier to guard.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to chain it up in the basement?” Turpin suggested.
“We can chain it up anywhere we like, but I don’t know that the basement is a superior place to be assaulted than the library. And I’d rather not have to work down there.”
The library was very much Alice’s domain, as there was rarely any occasion for the others to visit. It was a large room with a high ceiling. The tall windows faced the disheveled, overgrown garden behind the house. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a great many unshelved books were piled in front of those, forming a miniature city. On the wall opposite the door was Alice’s workbench, which no one else dared touch. It was covered in fine tools like those used by a watchmaker, and had many open books and scrawled notes piled high. In the center of the room was a large table that was seldom used, except as a temporary holding spot for unsorted books.
They moved the table off to one side and set the coffin in the middle of the room.
“Now, one of us needs to stay here and protect you,” Turpin said to Alice once they had put the burden down.
“Protect me?” she asked incredulously.
The captain nodded at the coffin in reply.
Alice rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly. It’s still in its box. Go home and sleep. All of you.”
The captain shook his head. “I won’t hear of it. As long as the abomination is here, you should have a man guarding it. Who is going to take first watch?”
Out of habit, they all looked towards Jack. He was the
most stalwart of the men, and made light of hardship. But he said nothing. He had spoken very little since the decision to bring the abomination home.
“Right,” said the captain. “Private Archer it is.” Archer opened his mouth to protest, stopped himself, and shut it again.
“Good lad,” said the captain, clapping him on the shoulder. The other boys should have dropped our four guests off at the lockhouse. They’ll probably be asleep by now. I’ll send one of them along soon so you can get some rest.”
The captain bid them good night and left. Jack had already walked out of the room without saying a word.
“Well,” Alice said, turning to Archer, “if you must stay then you can help me get this thing open.”
“Now?” Archer asked, eyeing the box nervously. “Shouldn’t we wait until we have more fellows on hand? In case something goes wrong, I mean.”
“Nonsense.”
Suddenly they heard someone on the stairs. A moment later the captain poked his head into the room, “Alice! Under no circumstances are you to open that box!”
Her arms fell to her sides. She had already fetched her crowbar. “I see no reason to wait.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but there are many good reasons nevertheless. But I am too tired to teach you wisdom tonight.”
“It’s morning, really,” she said. The sky was already beginning to brighten slightly.
“All the more reason for you to seek sleep. I will see you this evening, and then we can set you to work on this project. In the meantime, if you really can’t sleep you should call on Mr. Moxley and see if there is any truth in these rumors about the princess.”
Alice sighed as the captain left again.
Resigned, Archer took a chair facing the coffin and began his frequent ritual. He drew out his well-worn straight-stemmed Peterson Pipe and set to cleaning it. He spent a great deal of time on this, far more than most smokers might consider reasonable or productive. Once it was cleaned to his satisfaction, he loaded it and lit it, then set to work cleaning his rifle with the same level of care and attention. He puffed away on his pipe as he did this. The curious thing about Archer was that he never seemed to extend the same passion and diligence to the rest of his work. His uniform was never as neat as those of the other men and his boots were never as shiny. He lacked punctuality and was prone to slouching.