Wyntertide

by Caldecott, Andrew

  Today he had visited the underwater island of Rotherweird and reacquainted himself with its rare, even unique, striations of coloured rock.

  Bill Ferdy, taking the dogs out, watched the half-naked figure disappear back into his tower. Even the dogs, who loved Ferensen, held back, disliking the scent of stagnant water. Ferensen uncharacteristically ignored Ferdy’s wave of welcome and the publican closed his door with a heavy heart.

  In the darkness of his refuge, among tanks of water and trailing weed, Ferensen felt better – but for the unexpected burning candle on the central table. He did not like candles these days. His eyes narrowed. Someone had also laid the fire.

  The boy moved from the shadow and even in his befuddled state, Ferensen recognised the urchin from the mudflats of Shoreditch, snared by Slickstone and delivered to Wynter: the impossibly beautiful boy, the first and only pure, untouched by time and his immersion in the mixing-point.

  ‘Stop this,’ said the boy.

  ‘I would if I could,’ Ferensen protested, the words bubbling out with difficulty.

  ‘It is a question of will.’ The boy stooped and lit the fire before handing Ferensen a locket containing a loop of golden hair secured with a pin. Ferensen’s eyes welled with tears and his body started shaking. The boy opened the door and carried out the tanks one by one. He bedded the plants in the stream below the house and emptied the water. He did not hurry; the memento from Ferensen’s sister needed time to do its work.

  ‘She is alive then?’ he said at last as the boy sat in front of the fire.

  ‘As she was.’

  ‘Entire?’

  ‘Ferox unpicked the spider in the mixing-point. He had the stones. Why he did that, I don’t know.’

  Ferensen felt an unaccustomed thaw in intellect and body. The boy’s name came to him, a Wynter word, punning myth and reality: Tyke or Tyche, an urchin boy or a Greek goddess of luck. Tyke had always had a gift for soothing away anxiety.

  ‘It wasn’t Ferox,’ he murmured. ‘Wynter used Calx Bole for his last experiment and created a shapeshifter. Bole murdered Ferox and took his shape.’ Ferensen had no sense of how much Tyke knew – he had been inscrutable even before his immersion – but the boy merely nodded at the revelation. ‘Why does Morval not come herself?’ added Ferensen, his deep hurt evident.

  ‘You can guess the reasons,’ he said calmly. ‘She will come in time.’

  On reflection Ferensen did understand. She feared seeing him, centuries on: he had aged, but she, he suspected, locked in the spider’s body, had not – As she was, Tyke had said. She might have read books in her underground lair in Lost Acre, but she had no idea of the modern world. She was not ready; she was still in recovery. Or had Tyke told her to keep her distance? Ferensen thought not – the boy never commanded anyone, preferring passive benevolence, as now.

  Ferensen went to his sideboard, cut several slabs of cheese and poured two glasses of Ferdy’s beer before changing his trousers and pulling on a heavy jersey. The locket had shocked him into revival – he had suffered nothing compared to his twin and yet she had guarded her humanity.

  His manners also returned. ‘It’s good to see you, Tyke. How do you live?’

  Tyke accepted the food and drink before replying, ‘We bind books.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Fortemain taught us.’

  Fortemain: the name Ferensen had suppressed the longest. Fortemain, who had not only rescued the afflicted but who had brought Oxenbridge back – while he, Ferensen, had preferred his nature studies to confrontation . . .

  ‘Fortemain survived?’

  ‘We took over Wynter’s old house for a time,’ Tyke stood up. ‘But . . . I must go.’

  Ferensen shook Tyke’s hand. ‘Remember, I don’t exist in Rotherweird Town – and out here the name is Ferensen, plain Ferensen.’

  ‘I’d advise your friends to keep an eye on Orelia Roc – and whoever guards Escutcheon Place.’

  In his losing struggle with the lure of water, Ferensen had quite forgotten his friends, and now he felt ashamed. Tyke would not elaborate, and Ferensen could not blame him; the story of the Eleusians had been riddled with betrayal and in recent weeks he had hardly been a model of reliability.

  As Tyke slipped into the woodland by Ferensen’s tower, moving with remarkable stealth, Ferensen had a disturbing thought. Had Wynter placed others in the mixing-point to ensure their longevity in the expectation that they too would be there on Wynter’s return?

  And, if so, had any survived?

  He decided that coffee would best consolidate his return to the human world. He lit the fire and reached for his most potent tin: the Black Bodrum Nightraiser Special. A serious think was called for.

  8

  Any Other Business?

  Scry’s electric performance before the Guild’s assembled Court secured her immediate election as an honorary Apothecary, and influence – but there was so much to do in so little time. She explained to Thomes the need to deploy the Guild’s scientific supremacy if power were to be won and held.

  Levamus.

  Within days, the Apothecaries had suspended all work for the outside world. Energised by the promise of power, they laboured over devices of surveillance and repression, with Thomes at the helm and Scry as their eminence grise.

  *

  Mrs Fanguin caught this change in pulse and, almost as quickly, its cause.

  Thomes made a rare visit to her kitchen and announced curtly, ‘We’re all busy. So from now on, deliver direct to my study.’ He placed directions on the table. ‘Nowhere else, mind.’

  On her first delivery to the Master, the proprietor of The Clairvoyancy unexpectedly rose to greet her.

  ‘Estella Scry,’ said Thomes, seizing a white chocolate confection.

  Scry’s face contorted with suspicion. ‘She’s not an Apothecarian, so why is she here?’

  By way of reply, Thomes offered Scry a marzipan mouse from the tray. ‘She tickles the taste buds.’

  Scry smelled, licked, nibbled and gave judgement. ‘To judge any Court’s quality, look first at the cook and the jester. Courtiers are easy to come by.’

  Thomes blinked. For all her undoubted gifts, Scry could be very odd.

  She quickly turned to business, as if Bomber were not there. ‘I understand you have regular meetings with the North Tower. I’d like to attend the next.’

  Bomber left the room in a divided frame of mind. She had not warmed to Thomes or the Apothecaries, nor to Scry, but set beside the inertia of her home life, she found the Guild’s palpable energy and sense of purpose stimulating. She liked a compliment, too.

  *

  Meetings between the Apothecaries and the scientists of the North Tower alternated between their two widely contrasting homes. The North Tower might be older, but it could not compete in budget, décor, laboratory resources, manpower or architectural grandeur. The Apothecaries had always had money.

  Valourhand had often accompanied Strimmer to these high-level discussions, but no longer since their acrimonious split. The meeting agenda held promise: a well-funded joint project on theoretical underwater nuclear devices. Strimmer liked the subject: water’s high inertia enhanced the potential for shockwaves and the radiation science was challenging.

  His antennae twitched on entering the Hall; the Apothecaries boasted several nuclear physicists, but none were currently visible. Instead, he was greeted by the Master and a matronly woman whom he recognised as the owner of The Clairvoyancy.

  ‘Don’t frown, Strimmer,’ said the Master. ‘Miss Scry is a valued honorary member.’

  ‘Miss Scry sells New Age mumbo-jumbo.’ He spoke as if Scry were not there.

  She responded by sitting down as if he were not there. She picked a rogue hair off her skirt before flicking a drop of cream into Thomes’ coffee before her own, again as if Strim
mer were not there.

  ‘Allow me to explain,’ continued Thomes, ushering Strimmer to the Founder’s portrait. He started with the golden letters woven into the sleeves.

  Strimmer distrusted Gurney Thomes. His predecessor had been a serious scientist who had immersed himself in the work in hand. Thomes, though undoubtedly clever, appeared to be a dilettante with an undeclared personal agenda. Now he was indulging in weird inscriptions and fortune-tellers. He wondered what Scry charged for massaging the Master’s ego.

  ‘A painter prophesies an unspecified act of levitation more than three hundred and fifty years later. Leave Miss Scry to her ley lines and let’s get on with proper business, shall we?’ Strimmer said flippantly.

  Thomes looked apologetically at his latest honorary member. He had warned her, predicting Strimmer’s rudery.

  Scry had a very different perspective: Strimmer’s paper had shown insight, and a refreshing lack of scruple. She put down her cup with a dainty flourish. ‘The past has talons in the present, Mr Strimmer.’

  ‘Assertion, assertion, assertion,’ replied Strimmer, unable to look her in the face.

  Thomes explained the figures. ‘It’s clever: the numbers represent the difference in daylight between the longest and shortest days of the year, and more importantly, they fit this latitude this year at the Winter Solstice.’

  ‘If you’d care to listen,’ added Scry, ‘there is more. Study the Popular Choice Regulations and you’ll find that this election, uniquely – if there is one – falls on the Winter Solstice.’ She stood up and faced the portrait as if conversing with the Founder before continuing, ‘The date was determined by a calculation fixed the very year this was painted. And you will note the letters on the sleeve, which I combine to read levamus: a coming to power.’

  Thomes’ nose twitched; Scry had withheld the detail about the election until now. However, excitement overcame his disquiet. ‘The election falls on the Solstice? We rise then?’ Mayor Thomes: he saw himself swathed in finery and enveloped by cheering crowds.

  This time Strimmer did look at her. ‘How could you know?’ he asked, impressed by the extraordinary coincidence between the painting and the law, notably a matter for calculation, not clairvoyance.

  ‘It is my job to know. That’s what I do.’

  ‘Like Let the cards speak?’ he mocked.

  ‘Yes, more or less like them . . .’ Scry had her opening; as if from nowhere, a Tarot pack materialised. ‘And as you ask – flick any six, Mr Strimmer.’

  Her oddly limpid eyes looked him straight in the face. Dare you.

  Strimmer obliged and she flipped each of the chosen cards proud of the rest, collapsed the pack and dealt two rows of three: the Devil, the Chariot and Death over the Hierophant, the Magician and the Wheel of Fortune.

  Scry ran a finger along the top row. ‘Someone you knew ended badly and may have deserved it, but his past bears on the future.’ The finger descended. ‘The lower row is more interesting. The Emperor shapes the world, but the Magician is superior, changing reality through illusion. Enemies are tricked into acting as friends. The Wheel of Fortune is quite a last card. Destiny, Mr Strimmer, or as some say, Fate, beckons you.’

  ‘What about the Hierophant?’ He gritted his teeth as soon as the question slipped out. How could he be so foolish as to be drawn in?

  ‘He or she is a medium for contact with these other powers,’ replied Scry.

  Hokum, thought Strimmer, but . . . The first three could well be Slickstone – taking the chariot as the Rolls Royce. As for the Devil, Sir Veronal was no saint. The second trio intrigued him more. Before dealing, Scry had gathered the pack with a distracting whip of the wrist – so had he chosen the cards, or had she?

  Thomes intervened egotistically. ‘Miss Scry, might I suggest that you dealt my cards, as you were looking at me. The first row clearly concerns our late Master, an inconsequential so-and-so. The Magician represents science, and myself as leader of the Apothecaries. You are the Hierophant, bringing me to my destiny, our rise, the Wheel of Fortune – levamus!’

  Scry cocked her head but said nothing as Thomes surged on, persuaded by his own eloquence. ‘Look at the card: the Hierophant may wear a pope’s hat, but the face is decidedly feminine.’

  Scry rose decorously, smoothed her pleated woollen skirt with her palms and threaded her handbag into the crook of her arm. Ever the matron, she buttoned her cardigan, before offering a parting shot. ‘In your radiation calculations, Mr Strimmer, Caesium-137 merits more attention. And, gentlemen, do remember the Wheel of Fortune indicates an opportunity, neither more, nor less. You must engage to make her spin.’

  The meeting did not survive her departure for long. Thomes had not even troubled to read Strimmer’s paper.

  ‘Someone you knew ended badly . . .’

  Old History

  1570. A riverbank on the Rother.

  Hieronymus Seer cherishes this season: spring on the cusp of summer, with many distractions from the horrors of the other place, although he never goes there now: out of sight, out of mind.

  His sister Morval does, however, perverting her gifts in the Eleusians’ service, recording their manufactured creatures in her exquisite style. He knows she works under duress, but he has not yet realised it is to save his skin, not hers.

  Today it is damselflies, which abound in the freshwater pools south of the Island Field. Unlike dragonflies, they hold their wings flat to their bodies. The wings are equal; the eyes separated. He judges the word ‘fly’ inapposite. These creatures stop, look, shoot forward, stop again. They are true predators; like hawks they hover and strike, taking mosquitoes on the wing. Dart is the word, he decides.

  He squats on his haunches, the better to admire the slim tubular bodies blue as cobalt or ruby-red. If only Morval were there to record them . . .

  A noise in the water behind him is too vigorous for a rising trout. As he walks to the bank, a pipe appears, then a head in a most peculiar mask, with glass for eyes. The hands are lifted and the creature removes its artificial head.

  It is Fortemain.

  He removes his strange outer skin, settles down and feverishly draws from memory Rotherweird Island’s rock strata as accessed from the underwater caves. Without looking up, he says, ‘I have to disguise my work or they’ll use it for their own ends. And not a word about my river-suit, Hieronymus, not to anyone.’

  ‘Why play a fish to find the heavens?’ Seer wonders.

  ‘To find the wherewithal to find the heavens,’ replies Fortemain mysteriously.

  Half an hour later, he lays down the pen, bundles his papers and returns to a familiar subject. ‘You and Morval should escape while you can.’

  ‘I can’t desert this valley. It’s my place of study.’

  ‘You’re both in real danger.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Wynter needs Morval – nobody can record for him as she does. Anyway, he has ears and eyes everywhere. At least this way she stays alive.’

  Fortemain cannot shift Hieronymus’ mix of obstinacy and inertia. He folds his suit, gathers his papers and leaves silently with a short wave. His disappointment in his friend grows with every failed attempt. Why is he so blind to the fragility of their existence?

  1571. Rotherweird.

  In Lost Acre, Fortemain has found the winking man. The sphere the priest showed him would fit exactly. He checks the underlying strata beneath the henge in Lost Acre and the church in Rotherweird and they match exactly.

  He begins to think his private ambition may be realisable, but frets over what Wynter might achieve if he acquired this knowledge. He hopes that as science advances, he will be able to explore these complexities in greater detail.

  *

  Morval Seer knows her time is nearing its close, for The Roman Recipe Book and The Dark Devices approach completion. Slickstone habitually wears a gloating
smile; she knows he will have her pulled to pieces in the mixing-point – how dare a swineherd’s daughter refuse him! What kind of creature he will meld her with, she dares not imagine. Her nerves fail; scarlet deltas stain the eyes and she fears for the stillness of her hands, her ability to hold a line. Her complexion loses its bloom, her body its shape. Her brother is no comfort, apparently insensitive to the fact that his disengagement looks like acquiescence.

  She sits in her room in the Manor surrounded by pens, brushes and the wherewithal for making paint. Wynter has not restocked the more expensive materials like ultramarine and azurite, another portent of her approaching fate.

  Fortemain comes to her, but before he can speak, she says calmly, ‘You can’t stop him.’

  ‘Oxenbridge will,’ he replies, but how can he get a message across wider England to a man they have not seen in years? ‘I have to leave – but Morval, I’ll find you, whatever they do. And remember, all can be reversed.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Whatever he does can be undone,’ he says firmly.

  She shrugs as if to say, little hope of that, but she is reconciled to her loss. With so little to lose she is a husk of her former self. She thinks only of him. ‘You’re dressed for a journey.’

  ‘I have to go to ground. We will stop him, but he may return, and someone must be here if he does.’

  ‘To be there then, you must have—’ Eyes wide, she whispers, ‘What have you done?’

  ‘A wicked experiment to do long-term good,’ he replies. ‘I can only ask you to trust me.’

  He looks himself and he sounds himself. So, what has he done? ‘Until whenever, then,’ she says.

  They kiss each other on the cheek, neither wishing their parting to be so chaste.

  *

  Fortemain turns away, unable to tell her of his self-inflicted wound, and still less of the reason. He makes his way to the outhouse where the familiars are kept. He expects a guard, but there is none. He quickly finds the pidgeboy, fastens the tiny capsule to one leg, gives instructions and releases him.