by Jeannette Ng
He led the way down the spiral staircase from my room and along a gallery of ethereal landscapes. Even as we walked, the scenes caught my eye, a disquieting mix of familiar hills and trees and rivers with strange skies and stranger hues.
“Are all these places in Arcadia, Mr Benjamin?” I asked, slowing before a series of mountains that clutched at the ground like the knuckles of a six-fingered fist.
“Yes,” said Mr Benjamin. He frowned, eyes darting again. “And no.”
“Some are real and others not?”
“No.” He licked his lips with a black tongue and swallowed uncomfortably. “But also yes.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t much of an answer, Mr Benjamin.”
“Realness is a strange, strange thing in these parts, Miss Helstone.”
I stopped, lighthearted curiosity fleeing as I saw the final painting in the long gallery. My mouth dried at the sight of the landscape before me: it was a riverbound glade, dripping with willow trees. An impossible river curled itself around the wooded island in a tight, protective spiral. It seemed achingly familiar.
The willow trees leaned lovingly over the encircling river and caressed the water with its whispering leaves. I thought of uttered secrets, and an odd shiver crawled up my spine.
“Miss Helstone?”
I heard the gnome’s footsteps as he walked back to me, having continued with the confidence that I was following. I did not take my eyes off the circle of willow trees.
“Is this a real place?” I heard myself ask, but my voice sounded distant to my own ears.
“Real and not real.”
“Is it possible, then, for me to go there?”
“At a price.” He gave a shrug, but his heart wasn’t really in it.
I breathed a deep sigh, setting aside the memories that knotted painfully in my chest. I forced myself to look at my gnome companion. “You are being unduly cryptic again, Mr Benjamin.”
“I do apologise. That is most rude of me.” He was articulating even more than usual, his mouth exaggerating the motions in a parody of the Oxford Voice. He looked behind himself again, with all the air of a child about to thieve from the pantry.
“Are you quite alright, Mr Benjamin?”
“No, no, not really. No.” One more furtive glance behind and the gnome took off his spectacles. He cleaned them on his ragged waistcoat. “I am quite afraid of the Pale Queen.”
“Mab?”
He cringed. “Best nae say ’er name, Miss ’elstone.”
I couldn’t place the accent that came over his gravelly voice, but as he furrowed his brow and met my gaze, all comparisons to a child’s nervousness fled. There was true terror in his eyes.
“Is there a reason why?”
He shook his head. He lowered his clouded eyes and re-affixed his spectacles to his face with shaking hands. His accent returned, but there lingered an earthiness. He somehow seemed more real. “There are some things you learn not to risk in these parts.”
“Risk?”
“There is a sort of old power to names, Miss Helstone. I would take heed of it.”
“I- I will.” I gave him what I hoped to be a brave, cheering smile.
“They say the Howling Duke and the Chief of Winds are more cruel. They say He Who Commands Fear is stronger, more powerful. The Keeper of the Markets is more calculating. The Colourful King, She Who Sleeps For The Mountains and the Lost Emperors are more unpredictable, more changeable… This is all true, you have to understand.” He swallowed, visibly. “But I daresay I fear the Pale Queen the most.”
“Why?”
Mr Benjamin grinned at my question, his lips stretching tight over his blunt, brown teeth. There was no humour in it. “Because she is most human.”
The great hall was at the heart of what I had thought of as the oldest part of the castle, with stone arches etched with geometric patterns and enormous, empty fireplaces. The dog lounged, a spill of black ink on the sheepskins. A minstrel’s gallery peered down at us.
Laon sat by himself at the head of a long, long chair-lined table. He had draped himself across the gilded throne and cradled in his hand a squat glass of wine. His eyes were just a little too distant. He did not look at me when I entered.
A place had been set out opposite him at the bottom of the table. Mr Benjamin herded me into it.
A tureen shaped like a crouching rabbit waited for me. It was made of porcelain, with its long, sleeked back ears forming a handle along its back.
“We should start. Ariel isn’t joining us,” said Laon.
Again, her name.
They must have grown close when he first arrived and she was a friendly, near-human face among the fae. She must have been a welcome reminder of humanity, a haven.
“I see,” I mumbled. I was grateful for her absence and I had no urge to ask the reason. “Is she well?”
“Quite. She’s simply spoilt her appetite on cucumber sandwiches and biscuits.”
“I didn’t know she was so fond of taking tea.” I uncovered the sweet carrot soup. It was purple, dark and bruise-like, with shades of beetroot red clinging to the spoon when I stirred it.
“Don’t forget the salt,” said Laon.
“I know,” I said, scattering salt onto the soup. “I’ve been here for quite a while. Waiting for you.”
My brother made no reply, and we ate in silence.
Despite its disconcerting colour, the soup was rich and sweet in its flavour. There was a gamey note to it that made me wonder if there was rabbit in the stock.
“Where have you been, Laon?” I asked.
“I… I’ve…” he hesitated. He brought his wineglass to his lips but did not drink.
“You can tell me.”
“The letters.” The glass clinked gently as he put it down again. “They didn’t reach me. Distances are unreliable in Arcadia.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“They sometimes like to pretend it can be measured in miles or hours travelled, but it’s far less predictable than that. I’ve had distances given to me in numbers of daydreams and revelations, as though I’d only arrive somewhere after I’ve had an epiphany or–”
“No,” I interjected. “Laon, I’ve asked Miss Davenport and Mr Benjamin but I’ve not gotten a straight answer. I was worried about you.”
“I was at the court of the Pale Queen.”
“Mab?”
He nodded. “I was petitioning The Pale Queen for access into the lands under her control, that is to say – I’m not sure if there is a correct term yet – inner Arcadia. To make true progress here, I need to head inland, beyond the ports that trade with humanity and beyond the puppetry of the fae. They put us here, apart from their towns and cities, purposefully isolated so we cannot do our holy work. It is why for all his time here, Roche only converted one–”
“Mr Benjamin.” In the corner of my eye, I could see the gnome giving me a brief wave. I returned it.
“Yes, him.”
“And she is resistant?”
“To say the least.”
“Are there not others you can petition? After all, Arcadia is not a singular land with a single monarch.”
“The Pale Queen is already, by far, the most approachable and sympathetic to the human cause. She wears a face, after all.”
“Is that good?”
Laon sighed, long and despondent. “The treaties that granted the Society the right to be here are badly drawn. Or rather, they do not grant us any advantage. We are merely an afterthought in that process. To the merchants with their weights, to the politicians with their lies and to the cartographers with their lines.” He held up his glass as though in a toast and drank deeply. His sarcasm was palpable. “There would be no new countries without their greed.”
“I was given books to teach the local children with,” I said, sipping the spiced ginger tea. “Maps and… fairy tales. Seems strange to think I ever thought those might be useful.”
“The Society
thinks many things,” he said. “But the truth is, I am left to simply beg for a chance to attempt my duty. For all my months here, I cannot tell you what fae society is like beyond the frivolities of court life and the controlled bartering that happens in their markets. I have no parishioners, no populace to tend to. It has been impossible to even approach them about faith.”
The next course was fish, heavily spiced with mint and fennel. Though the slight flickering of the candlelight and the wide leaves of the mint masked it, the fish was subtly luminous.
“I am a missionary in name alone,” said Laon. “We are surrounded by empty, formless mists not for our own protection.”
“Perhaps they fear us.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“I had read that fae are elemental in nature. Paracelsus, I believe, proposed it?” I said. Salt seemed to dim the fish and it appeared more grey than silver when my knife glided into it. “Could that not be used to predict their temperaments? We could appeal to their elemental impulses when speaking of the divine.”
He swirled the wine in his glass, avoiding my gaze. I could tell he was being careful with his words. Gone was that intimate carelessness that we shared, where we simply spoke our thoughts. There was a time when we would lie under the apple tree and we could not tell what words were uttered and what words were thought; they were all intertwined and interwoven as we were.
“So,” my brother began. “I would talk to the undines of how the Lord Above is the Fountain of Living Waters and how He is the one who divided the Red Sea?”
“Yes, and to the gnomes, you could speak of how He is the Rock of Our Salvation. The sylphs, perhaps, could be swayed by the thought of his command over the heavens.”
“It has a certain rhetorical simplicity, but I confess I am not convinced by the Paracelsian argument about the nature of fae.”
“I see…” I hesitated, taken aback. “Is there a reason?”
“The model is practically medieval, more shaped by superstition than reason,” he said. “And it is more than just various groupings of fae can be understood through their elements. It is an understanding of Arcadia as much as its inhabitants. And underpinning it all is the idea that Arcadia is constantly separating its elements, that they are unbalanced here, that as we push to the edges of our known map the cohesion of the world is collapsing.”
“And as certain elements come to the fore, this affects the climate and temperaments of Arcadia?”
“If we start arguing such, we have to accept that Saharan deserts and the monsoons of India are not only equal in their elemental composition – whatever that may mean – but also that they are somehow better mixed than here.”
“But Arcadia is different. All this,” I flung a gesticulating arm around us, causing Diogenes to let out a whine. “This is not Yorkshire, not home.”
“It’s different, it’s not the alchemical composition of the world that makes it so. Mr Benjamin is not more closely aligned to earth than you or me.”
“This place isn’t just strange because of it having strange people,” I snapped, frustrated with his explanations. “There is something deeper.”
“That doesn’t make Paracelsus right.”
“I’m not saying the theory is right. I’m saying you’re not trying to understand.”
“But even in its broader, more populist strokes the theory is wrong,” he continued. “Whilst some individual or even types of fae seem to follow the broad thematic impulses of the elements, they are no more governed by them than you or I. It is an illusion of a pattern. Akin to saying that the Scottish are of fire and that the Welsh are of earth.”
“I cannot know that. You cannot limit my knowledge and then reprimand me for ignorance.” A warmth flushed to my cheeks, though I did not know if it was anger or shame. My eyes dropped to the silver fish. I was breathing heavily, pulse rushing. Laon had always shared his books with me, taught me his lessons and smuggled me his notes; for all that our educations treated us differently, I had thought there was an unspoken pact between us. I had thought we were alike. “I can’t know what you know. I have not been allowed to–”
“And yet I found you wandering in the mists.” He was scoffing.
“It’s been weeks. I’ve waited for you, for weeks.” I was pleading, pathetic. My voice was a whine, a whimper. I hated myself. “I needed–”
“No, you came here. You demanded. You threw your temper at Ariel–”
“I did. But–”
“You left the castle walls.” He would not meet my eye, but I could see it now, the rage simmering in his averted gaze.
It was then, too, I realised my own rage. I had been gripping the table, and I had half thought it was to steady myself, but I knew then I was willing myself not to stand and march over to slap him.
“It is very dangerous out there, Cathy. In the mists. Anything… I cannot–”
“What cannot you do, Laon?” I could feel my fingers growing numb. “Have you not done it all? Have you not gone to university? Have you not left England? Have you not made yourself a grand explorer, triumphant conqueror and–”
It stung. I knew it stung.
“Do not blame your confinement on me.” His voice was very cold, very slow. “I am not your gaoler.”
“Do not shame me for knowledge that has been denied me. Do not patronise me over the position to which I have been born.” I saw him flinch, but I continued. “I had thought the respect you had for me was mine by right, as your sister and equal. Not granted to me on your whim. To be begged and earned, however tenderly.”
“Cathy, I didn’t mean–”
“You may not be my gaoler, Laon, but you are as good as.”
“You have to understand, I am as much a prisoner as you.”
“Your cage is larger, then.”
“Still a cage.”
“But you would have me beg for you to share it. That I need to earn my place beside you. That it is contingent on your love.” I took a deep breath. “I am not here to beg, Laon.”
He said nothing at that and Mr Benjamin slipped in to serve the last course.
The rest of the meal passed in silence, punctuated only by the chiming of the cutlery against our plates. My anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared, but my brother remained rigid in his demeanour. Still, he would not look at me. Our argument, however impetuous, had not been the balm of Gilead that I had fleetingly hoped it would be.
Chapter 12
The Secrets of the Past
Every Missionary Society should have prepared, and be able to put into the hands of every new Missionary, a brief Manual of the language, customs, notions, and religious ideas of the province or country to which he is going; including a few rules or hints respecting climate, dress, health, food, etc.
This the Missionary should learn by heart, and know thoroughly by the time he reaches his station.
With such an efficient preparation, let every missionary, on his arrival at his sphere of labour, strive to enter as much as possible among the people. That he may learn the language thoroughly, let him devote a considerable time each day to its acquisition. Let him walk abroad, and though he cannot speak much, let him see much, and familiarise himself with all the outer manifestations of native life. For the first year or two, his principal attention should be given to the language and to books about the natives.
Gregory Day, “Good Practises,” The Religious Intelligencer,
for the Year Ending May 1834
I read Roche’s journal that night.
My hands danced coyly on the spine and over the leather cover with its strange half-moon scorch marks. I remembered the warnings of Reverend Hale, his restrained insulations far more effective at stoking my fear than hyperbole.
Noticing my hesitation, I counted ten heartbeats, braced myself and opened the book.
Nothing happened: no lightning struck; no stray breeze brought cold fingers down my spine; no invisible hands snatched the journal from mine. It simply
lay open, ready for my eyes to harvest its secrets.
The first pages were mundane enough, mostly an account of his journey to Arcadia. I swallowed, still unable to rid myself of the lump of fear in my throat, and kept reading.
October 21, 1839. – I intended to leave Plymouth, in the company of Captain Peter Kensington and his family, sailing south; but I am infected by a shivering fever – I had taken more than eighty grains of mercury and a great quantity of opium, to be delivered from it.
October 29. – I left the family of Captain Peter Kensington; and began my sea-voyage to Arcadia, sometimes called Elphane. Its secrets are within reach.
November 1. – I find the seas disagreeable to my constitution. Captain Samson Furneaux assures me that his navigator is truly terrible and it would be no time before we are sufficiently lost as to be within sight of the Faelands.
December 13. – I arrived at Port Maskelyne, where I was very kindly and hospitably received by Colonel Stanners, the Honourable South Sea Company's Political Agent, and the rest of the British residents. I am told that from here, the journey to Elphane should be swift.
There were three hands at work in the journal: The first was, of course, the Reverend himself. He had a wide, straight way of writing that undoubtedly came from years of careful discipline. I smiled at the memory of my brother struggling with his letters. We used to write miniature journals and newspapers for our toy soldiers and he was never quite able to make his as neat and as tiny as mine.
The origin of the other two hands within Roche’s journal I could not guess at, but one was crowded and curled tight; the other was sloping and flat with its author’s rapidity. The former wrote a smattering of entries, but the latter seemed primarily confined to marginalia.
The first few months were prosaic enough. Roche arrived in Arcadia and was met with a number of fae, many of whom had extravagant titles such as the Astrologer of Blood and the Duchess of Time. He described the various misfortunes involved in hiring a housekeeper, though none of the applicants sounded like the elusive Salamander. Once given the castle, Roche was not permitted to leave it, but fae regularly called on the castle to talk with him. They engaged him in a series of debates about theology that frustrated the missionary for he was convinced that he won each and every one with rhetoric and logic, yet turned no souls to Christ.