Ancient Appetites (The Wildenstern Saga Book 1)

by Oisin McGann

  “An engimal came through here,” Nate said to her. “A really big one.”

  “My God, people could have been hurt. Shouldn’t someone try and catch it before it does any more damage?”

  “Someone already has,” he muttered. Then, raising his voice, he said: “Look, we need to go, Tatty.”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. It’s just as well; these trousers are starting to rub between—”

  “I don’t need to know, Tatty,” he said, cutting her off.

  “What happened to the people, do you think?” she went on. “I expect they’ve moved into one of their other houses.”

  “I doubt they had another house, Tatty. Somebody will have taken them in, I suppose. If not, they’ll have gone to the poorhouse … Although most people would rather die than end up there.”

  “Really? Why? What’s so bad about it?”

  He thought about it for a moment. He knew very little about the poorhouses.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t see how they can be that bad—I mean, they’re there to look after people, aren’t they? Although Charlie Parnell says people die in there all the time. He says he heard that they take children away from their parents.”

  “Oh? And how long has Charlie Parnell been trying his luck?”

  “Nate, don’t be crude,” she giggled, blushing. “Anyway, how can somebody be so poor that they live in this poky little shed of a thing when there’s so much work to do around here? Don’t they want to work? Father’s always saying there’s so much to do. Why don’t we pay poor people to do it? They wouldn’t be poor any more if we did that, would they? Then everybody could live in proper houses.”

  “I don’t know, Tatty …”

  “I think it’s terrible,” she went on. “Look, they don’t even have room for a piano. There doesn’t even seem to be a sink or a bath. How did they keep clean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t really seem fair—us being so rich when they’re so poor, does it?” she mused.

  “Our wealth is good for the country,” Nate said. “If we weren’t rich, things would be a lot worse. We create jobs, we pay wages and buy goods, and all that money we spend here trickles down to the poor, you see? It’s all for the best.”

  Tatiana nodded slowly. Then, looking at the wrecked cottage, she added:

  “Perhaps it should trickle a little quicker?”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he urged her impatiently.

  “Maybe I’ll set up a hospital right here.” She climbed onto the saddle behind him.

  “That would be very noble,” he said, growing more and more exasperated.

  Turning Flash round, he found that some wire from the wreckage had become tangled in the velocycle’s front wheel. He reached down and pulled it free, wrenching at it with unnecessary force and making the engimal flinch. It was time to head back to the house, he decided. Seeing Trom’s tracks had spoiled his good mood. He had loved the huge engimal as a child—the great, dull, clumsy brute had been a constant source of wonder for him … until he had found out what it was used for.

  Tatiana leaned her chin on his shoulder.

  “Nate, do you remember the Famine?” she asked over the sound of Flash’s engine.

  “A little bit,” he replied. “I was very young.”

  “What was it like?”

  He found himself thinking of the bog bodies that lay a few miles away in Gerald’s laboratory and he shuddered slightly. They reminded him of the nightmarish things he had seen as a child.

  “I don’t remember a lot,” he said. “It didn’t affect our lives much. But sometimes we’d take a coach into town and Mother would pull the blinds to stop me from seeing what was outside. That just made me curious, of course, so I peeked out whenever I could.

  “It was as if the dead had risen from their graves. People who were little more than skeletons wandered the roads, their clothes hanging on them like ragged curtains. I saw starving children with swollen bellies; it was the oddest sight—fat bellies on bodies that were little more than skin and bone. Gerald told me later that it’s a side effect of hunger that can be caused by gas or water retention. The oddest sight. It’s hard to describe a starving persons face … It’s … It’s like they’ve died, but their soul hasn’t left their body. And they have a horrible look of despair. I heard there were rotting corpses in the roads and the ditches and lying out in fields in the middle of nowhere. You could smell them when you passed them—there’s nothing as bad as the stench of decaying flesh. If the poor didn’t die of hunger, they were killed by disease. It was everywhere. I remember Mother being terrified that we would catch the fever. A lot of children did. You didn’t have to be poor to fall sick, and it was a horrible way to die.”

  He fell silent, his eyes on the rough road that would lead them back to the house. He remembered being appalled at the way people had lived in some of the tribal villages along the Congo River. It had seemed unbelievable that human beings could still live in such squalor in this day and age—in this Age of Enlightenment. The sooner the Industrial Revolution reached Africa the better. But now, seeing through Tatiana’s eyes the poverty that surrounded them here at home, he realized that industry was doing nothing for his own people. Peasants here lived in worse conditions than anything he had seen in the Congo or in the shanty towns on the Cape. It was no wonder so many of them were getting worked up about it. Not that it gave them an excuse to go around murdering people.

  It was like Tatiana said: there was plenty of work to do. Anybody who wanted to improve their lot only needed to put their backs into it. And if the rebels thought they were going to change things by attacking his family, they had another think coming.

  “Nathaniel,” his sister said into his ear, “how much of this land is ours?”

  “All of it,” he told her. “Everything you see.”

  It was Francie’s day off and he normally spent it with some of the other lads from the stables if he could. He got one day off a month and Dublin was too far away for him to visit his family unless he could get a lift there and back. But his father had sent him a message to meet him in a pub near the estate, so once he had finished his chores for the morning, he cleaned himself up and got ready to go out.

  On the way out he stopped in to look at the big velocycle, as he so often did. He had managed to touch it a couple of times now. and he thought it might be starting to trust him. He dreamed of being allowed to take it out for a walk … or a roll, or whatever.

  It appeared to be in a bad mood when he looked over the wall at it. It was twitching and rubbing its front wheel against the wall, making frustrated grunts. Francie knew the signs. Something was irritating it, and it was fidgeting like a horse with a stone in its hoof. He licked his lips, thinking about how much trouble he could get into if he interfered with an engimal. But after helping to blow up a crowded cemetery, the risk of trying to ease an expensive machine’s discomfort was small potatoes. He slowly climbed over the wall and lowered himself into the stall. The engimal turned to look at him.

  “There y’are, Flashy old thing,” Francie said in a sympathetic tone. “I’m not goin’ to hurt yeh. And yer not goin’ to hurt me either, are yeh, Flash? No, yer not. I’m just goin’ to get in here and see what’s up with yeh. And then we’ll make it all better for yeh. How’s that sound, eh?”

  He edged closer, nervously noticing how the velocycle had bunched up as if ready to lunge forward. Stretching out his hand, he kept making soothing noises.

  “Sssh,” he told it. “There y’are now. That’s it, Flash. Let’s see what’s wrong.”

  Going down on one knee, he gently stroked the engimal’s front wheel, sliding his fingers up to its right front leg, which it had been rubbing against the wall. Flash trembled with tension but made no move to stop him. He realized it wasn’t just being aggressive. It was afraid. He knew then that it must be in pain. Feeling around the metal muscles of its leg, Francie’s finge
rs found their way down to where its ankle joint held the wheel. Something jagged and sharp was caught there and the engimal flinched when he touched it.

  “That’s it, isn’t it, boy?” he said softly. “Let’s just have a look and see what yev got there.”

  It was a piece of rusty wire, wrapped around the axle joint where it met the wheel. It had probably got caught up out on the road somewhere. He tugged carefully and Flash flinched again and growled.

  “It’s all right there, lad,” Francie reassured it. “’S just a bit o’ wire. Not to worry—we’ll have it out in no time.”

  Getting a better grip, he pulled the end out and, with tender movements, unwound the rusted wire. He could see where it had chafed against the engimal’s metal skin. The last tangled length of wire grated against the wheel and Flash let out a sudden snarl, slamming Francie back against the wall. The boy winced as the back of his head whacked off the wood, but he didn’t panic as the wheel crushed his torso against the wall. The wire had cut the crook of his index finger and he sucked on it, eyeing the machine. There were flecks of rust in the cut, and he stretched over and washed the finger in the water trough. He took his time doing it, determined to show he wasn’t afraid of the engimal.

  Flash did not release him, but it didn’t lean any harder either. With its weight, it could have crushed his chest like a matchbox. Stroking the wheel that was pressed against his ribcage, he reached in and finished unwinding the offending wire, pulling it free.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. There now,” he said at last. “How’s that for yeh?”

  The velocycle hesitated for a moment and then backed away. It made a noise that sounded like a mixture of apology and grudging appreciation. Francie stared at the magnificent machine with a hint of a smile on his face.

  “You ’n’ me,” he said breathlessly. “We’re goin’ to be friends … aren’t we?”

  XVII

  A GRADUAL RESURRECTION

  FRANCIE MET HIS father in the smoky atmosphere of McAuley’s, a pub not far from the Wildenstern estate. This was the first time Shay had ever come up here to meet him. Francie sat on a stool at a rough wooden table beside his father, sipping on a pint of warm stout and wiping away the foamy moustache it left on his top lip.

  “There’ll be no more robbin’ from nibbles and clodhoppers,” Shay was saying to him in a lowered voice. “It’s rich folk and nothin’ else for me from now on. Absolutely deffiney—no more small-time. What’s the point in robbin’ from them as don’t have a ha’penny worth takin’, Francie? Sure it’s these toffs’ fault that we’re thieves in the first place, yeh know what I mean? I wouldn’t be such a gouger if I hadn’t been oppressed since I was born.”

  Francie listened quietly, wondering what his father wanted. He didn’t point out that his mother had been born into the same circumstances as Shay, and was as saintly as any woman alive. Being poor didn’t make you a thief. His ma had never stolen a thing in her life and she’d tried to teach Francie to be the same. There wasn’t a hope of that with Shay around.

  “We’re goin’ to be like that English fella from the stories,” his father was saying. “Yeh know … the one who lived in the woods and robbed the rich to give to the poor. Wha’ was ’is name?”

  “King Arthur?” Francie suggested.

  “Tha’s the fella. King Arthur. Anyway, we’re turnin’ over a new leaf. From now on, we’re goin’ to be like him.”

  “So are we goin’ to be givin’ to the poor, then, Da?” Francie asked skeptically.

  “One leaf at a time, Francie.” Shay gave him a sly look. “One leaf at a time.”

  He was about to go on when an old man came over to them with a glass of stout in his hand. Placing it in front of Shay, the man slapped his shoulder and gave him a nod.

  “Good on yer, son,” he muttered. “Have one on me. It’s about time the swells got what was comin’ to ’em!”

  Without another word, he turned and walked back to a group of men who were leaning against the worn wood of the bar. They looked over in Shay’s direction and there were a few winks and some of the sideways nods of the heads that passed for a salute in this part of the country. Giving his son a smug look, Shay raised the glass to them. They raised theirs in return.

  “What was all that about?” Francie asked.

  “It’s been goin’ on for a few days,” Shay replied under his breath. “Word must’ve got about in Fenian circles that I was in on the explosion in the cemetery. They think I’m startin’ a revolution or somethin’. My arse! Still, it’s good for a few pints, wha’?”

  Francie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. First his father blows a Wildenstern funeral to smithereens; now he was trying to pull the wool over the eyes of the Fenians. They wouldn’t take kindly to being fooled—and there’d be hell to pay if any of them ended up in Kilmainham Gaol or the cellars of Dublin Castle because of his da’s explosive cock-up. And then Shay leaned over, slipped an envelope into Francie’s hand and explained what he wanted his son to do.

  That was when Francie finally decided that his father was completely off his head.

  Nathaniel hit the floor hard, landing on his back with Clancy gripping his arm and shoulder. Nate kicked the older man in the chest before the arm-lock came on, and wrenched his arm free, flipping back onto his feet and putting some distance between them. He was breathing hard, but Clancy was panting in short bursts and Nate knew there wasn’t much left in him.

  “You’re losing your touch, old man,” he taunted his manservant.

  “It’s not lost just yet, sir.”

  The servant closed on him again, jabbing with his left and then aiming a front kick at Nate’s groin. Nate pivoted around it and landed a spectacular double roundhouse kick, striking Clancy’s calf and then his ribs, winning a grunt of pain from his opponent. He had little time to enjoy it—as his foot pulled away, Clancy caught the ankle and rammed the heel of his hand into his master’s sternum. The blow stopped Nate long enough for Clancy to sweep his other leg out from under him and send him crashing to the floor again.

  “You’ve got to watch those high kicks, sir,” Clancy told him, bending forward and wincing as he rubbed his bruised ribs. “You don’t want to be standing on one foot for too long.”

  They were in the family’s gymnasium, sparring on the wooden floor, dressed only in loose trousers and undershirts. It was a room about the size of two tennis courts, with a high ceiling and small square windows along the very tops of the longer walls. Motes of dust floated in the shafts of late afternoon light that painted oblongs across the floor. Around the edges of the room was a wide range of training equipment for gymnastics, as well as for fencing and other fighting arts. A large selection of weapons lined the wall at one end.

  “I’ll have you winded before long,” Nate retorted.

  “Not much good if you keep ending up on the floor, Master Nathaniel.”

  Nate had sparred with Clancy since he was a boy, and he relaxed the master-servant formalities while they were fighting. It was no fun having an opponent who did whatever he was told. They had both outgrown their various instructors and Clancy had proved himself useful as an all-around coach. Indentured into the service of the Wildensterns as a child, the footman had been training in these skills for most of his life.

  “I’m out of practice,” Nate breathed as he got to his feet. “Didn’t get much while I was away. One more round?”

  “I am at your disposal, sir.” Clancy took up a defensive stance.

  They were about to go at it again when Silas walked through the door. With his thin frame, his mop of dark hair and his pale skin, he was an older, less flamboyant version of his brother Gerald. Silas shared much of his little brother’s intellect, but none of his imagination. It made him the perfect choice for the position of Edgar’s private secretary and one of the family’s chief accountants.

  “Nate, you were supposed to be up in my office half an hour ago,” he said stiffly. “Your father told me t
o run over the books with you.”

  “I don’t want to run over the bloody books,” Nathaniel answered back, relaxing his stance for a minute. “The books can take a flying bloody leap for all I care.”

  “And what should I tell the Duke?” Silas regarded him with an expectant expression. “He’ll doubtless want to know why the accounts are taking a flying leap. You know how he pays attention to these things.”

  Nathaniel swore under his breath. He glanced at his manservant.

  “What?” he snapped. “I know you were going to say something.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to comment on your affairs, sir,” Clancy said.

  Nate made to turn away, but the footman continued:

  “After all, this is your business, sir. And I’m sure you’d want to keep it that way—seeing as you are so determined to be your own master, sir.”

  There was a barely perceptible raise of his eyebrow. Nate stared back at him, grinding his teeth. There were times when he could swear his manservant was attempting some kind of hypnosis with these coded messages of his. Sometimes it wasn’t clear who was really in charge.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, turning to Silas at last. “I’ll take a look at the books tomorrow … after breakfast. How’s that?”

  “Splendid,” Silas replied. “I’ll have them waiting.”

  He strode back out, closing the door behind him. Nate sighed, picturing the pile of leather-bound ledgers with their columns upon columns of figures. If there was a hell on Earth, he was sure that accountancy was involved somehow. Bouncing on his toes, he raised his guard and nodded to Clancy.

  “Right, now I’m really going to trounce you.”

  Neither had time to land a blow before Gerald burst through the door, sweating and disheveled.

  “They—!” he gasped, then ran out of breath and started coughing, holding up his hand for them to wait for him to finish.

  Nate and his footman stood there as Gerald got over his coughing fit and tried to catch his breath.