“He’s a monster!” I screamed.
The Corazzieri grabbed me under the arms, lifted me up with ease, and dragged me from that place.
“My deepest apologies Your Honour — Your Holiness,” said Sir Thomas. I felt that he must be bowing to the Pontiff and making his apologies. The Germans were in an uproar and I needed no translation for the guttural curses that reached my ears.
“Sir Thomas — stop him!” I cried, though I could see, looking back over my shoulder at the horrible scene, that Sir Thomas was a red-faced mixture of shame and alarm and desperate apology.
It was not much later that, carried out to a guardhouse with my hands tied behind my back by a rough length of sisal rope, I was given a cup of water by stern-faced Corazzieri who spoke not a word of English. No words were needed for me to see what they wished to do to me, but it being in the Pope’s holy — or unholy, as it were — domain, they could not let their baser instincts free.
To my amazement, a slender, well-dressed fellow in a dove-grey morning coat, elegantly-worked pale cream waistcoat, striped trousers and gunmetal jacket stepped into the guardhouse and spoke rapidly to the Corazzieri in Italian. Behind him stood a winded and amazed-looking Sir Thomas, who, no slouch in dress himself, looked quite the rude unsophisticate beside the newcomer.
The Corazzieri answered, rather haltingly, I thought, then one of them turned and I felt his blade releasing the rope around my wrists. To let me know that I was released, he gave me a sharp shove in the kidneys. With a groan, I stumbled forward and Sir Thomas put his arm about my shoulder.
“Oh, thank God,” said Sir Thomas. “I’m ever in your debt, sir. Anything that I may —”
“Think nothing of it,” said the elegant man in an unmistakable American accent.
“Sir,” I said, standing. “Please, you must listen to me. There is something — the matter — with the Pope.”
The elegant American smiled, showing a great expanse of good white teeth. “Oh, dear. Sir Thomas tells me you’ve had rather a long journey, and have been quite overdone by it. I think it best that both of you return with me to the consulate. We shall see what is —”
“Consulate?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Sir Thomas. “This is Mr. Greene, the American Consul. He was completing some paperwork in an antechamber when the commotion occurred. I cannot thank him enough. His cool head saved the day.”
He offered me his hand, which was clad in a delicate glove of the same pale cream colour as his waistcoat.
I took his hand, and to my horror, found that the fingers felt stiff and cold, exactly like those of Osiris.
But I had learned my lesson well from the horrible events in the Quirinal Palace. By the greatest effort of will I had yet mustered, I forced myself to continue shaking the cold and lifeless hand and to look steadily into his strange, dead eyes as if there was nothing whatsoever the matter.
“I thank you, sir,” I said. “I cannot think what came over me. How can I ever atone for such an — I just do not know what happened.”
“Please,” said Mr. Greene. “Come back with me to the consulate. We shall have you looked at by my personal physician. A most excellent character is Doctor Rossetti.”
I did not think that I wanted to see Doctor Rossetti at all.
“You are much too kind,” said Sir Thomas. “Again, how may I be of service to you, Sir?”
“You shall do me the greatest favour by seeing that this young man is looked at by a physician.” The odd green eyes narrowed, and an ironic smile curled about his lips. “I understand that sunstroke is a most serious condition. It cannot be allowed to continue unchecked.”
“Really — I am quite all right. I just need to rest, I feel. I have become overtired,” I said.
Sir Thomas leaned forward and began to protest, but I looked into his eyes and made a wordless plea.
At once, Sir Thomas’ broad, honest face changed, and he demurred to the American.
“He is quite exhausted,” Sir Thomas said. “I do believe it would be best for us to retire to our lodging.”
The American shook his fine, elegant head. “I am gravely disappointed,” he said.
“We owe you such a great deal,” said Sir Thomas. “Perhaps you and your wife would care to dine with us at our lodgings. I can assure you of the finest meal, and —”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Greene. “If it’s good wine, then — and cigars?”
“Of course,” said Sir Thomas.
“I’ll see you at what, then — half past eight? Or nine? We dine later here as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I’d say nine-ish,” said Sir Thomas.
I had begun to clutch his wrist and squeeze, but he paid no notice.
With this agreed upon, the two gentlemen said their good-byes, and I was forced once again to take the hand of the terrible creature that called himself an American Consul.
On the way back to our rooms, I begged Sir Thomas to write and cancel the dinner.
“Nonsense!” said Sir Thomas. “Dicky, you do need to see a doctor. But what harm can there be of a decent meal, a bit of claret, and a smoke afterward? Greene’s a capital fellow. I shouldn’t know what I would have done had he not come out and settled matters right away.”
“I don’t like him,” I said, aware that I sounded like a petulant child.
Sir Thomas laughed and waved his hand — a sign that the conversation was at an end. After a few blocks had passed us by, he turned to me and said, “Just stay a bit. Then you can retire pleading illness. Surely, no one would object to that.”
Biting my lower lip, I nodded. Sir Thomas was right — no one would ever object to that.
The lady of our lodgings, upon hearing that Mr. Greene was to attend dinner that evening, burst into frenetic activity. It seemed that the American was not only well-known for his dashing figure about town, he had become a popular arbiter of taste. She and her husband were, not to put too fine a point on it, eager to impress, believing that a good word from him would bring in dozens of wealthy American lodgers, who were much in demand in general throughout Rome — notorious for their free-spending ways.
We were to have veal, with peas and a home-made sauce with pasta. She sent her older son, a boy of about twelve, out for good loaves of fresh bread, which you must know, is of the highest quality throughout Italy and of equal quality to the French patisserie, of which they are so proud. As to wine, a young “falerno” was chosen, which was a light, slightly sweet pale wine of a sort that I cannot imagine any Englishman drinking instead of his claret or port — unless he were in Rome, as we were, and then there was nothing better.
I had become excited about this meal and enjoyed sitting in the kitchen while the lady of the house went about her preparations, and her two buxom young daughters shelled peas, or cracked eggs into the well of flour set to make the noodles.
After a bit, she shooed me out of the kitchen, and I went up the outer stairs to my room to nap. I woke quite some time later to a rapping at my door — she had sent the older boy up to fetch me, and he made it known by gestures that I was wanted for supper.
With a heavy heart, I tied my cravat, buttoned my waistcoat, and slipped my boots back on, trudging down the stairs and into the charming alcove where we usually dined. There being only the two daughters there, still setting out the silverware and china, I went into the sitting room.
I saw the smoke trailing into the hall, and Sir Thomas had already lit a narrow cigar and stood puffing enthusiastically by the window overlooking the courtyard, while Greene sat in one of the two maroon leather chairs, examining the humidor with keen interest and fiddling with the matches.
I greeted them, with my heart quailing at the sight of Greene’s smooth dark hair, dark and perfect moustache, and perfect features.
“I thought we were expecting Mrs. Greene,” I said.
“Yes,” said Greene as he rose and greeted me with a slow, intolerably wicked smile. “I’m afraid she wasn’t feeli
ng well. I didn’t think Sir Thomas would mind, however. The absence of female loveliness is a blight, of course, but at least we shall not be limited in our topics of discourse.”
How such a creature could mimic the very nature of life, I shall never understand. His actions — his every word and gesture — were lifelike in the extreme. Yet I saw the dead, soulless machine behind those eyes — behind his perfect features. I knew that, should I but bring my blade to his cheek, it would be exactly as it had been with Osiris. I would stab and stab, and there would be no blood, merely black, ichorous oil.
“Dicky,” Sir Thomas said through a fog of smoke.
I approached him and shook his hand, as we were accustomed before dinner.
“You won’t believe what Greene was able to have delivered,” he said.
“No — I dare say I won’t,” I said.
“You recall I was telling you how there was some difficulty with the larger antiquities, with shipping and the city tax and the port tax and so-on? A tedious nonsense —”
I allowed that I did recall his complaints regarding the weight and volume of various purchases.
“Greene has fixed it all. In fact, the most particular treasure I acquired is in the foyer as we speak. Care to take a look with us?”
Of course I would take a look with them, so we repaired from the sitting room and within moments were standing in the foyer, which was no foyer at all, but rather an open courtyard built around a small fountain adorned with spitting dolphins placed tail to tail. At the far side of the courtyard stood a narrow, two-doored mahogany cabinet, much like a clock case, only with no face.
“An armoire?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Sir Thomas. “Go ahead, open it.”
As soon as I touched the rusted iron latch, I heard a scratching noise. Atop the cabinet stood Blue Jack, the fairy soldier. He was waving his arms and shouting something that I could barely hear.
I felt my mouth fall open, and nearly uttered a cry of surprise, but by the greatest force of will, remained silent.
I looked over my shoulder at Sir Thomas, and his expression had not changed.
“This workmanship on the lintel, what sort of carving is it?” I asked. There were a few crudely-carved flourishes and flowers, as if an untutored hand had tried to duplicate a Louis Quinze frieze. I pointed at the spot where Blue Jack stood, protesting in his tiny voice. The fairy unfurled his wings and hovered directly above the cabinet.
Sir Thomas grumbled and muttered, “Oh. Well, it’s French, so I suppose it —”
Greene announced in a hearty voice, “It’s a capital example of its sort. Delightful!”
It was clear that neither of them saw the fairy, nor had any idea he was warning them off.
The infernal monster Greene’s expression was so glad and interested that Sir Thomas burst out laughing, and shouldered past me, throwing open the cabinet before I could stay his arm or utter a word.
“Don’t you see?” asked Sir Thomas.
“Close the door!” I cried, staggering back, my arm shielding my eyes.
“Richard!” Sir Thomas exclaimed.
Greene had begun to laugh again, a high-pitched, insane sound. Blue Jack flew by my ears and was whispering for me to destroy it.
“How?” I asked, reeling around the small courtyard.
Sir Thomas turned, trying to calm and comfort me, but there was no calm or comfort. Never would there be again.
What was in the cabinet, you ask?
A seated figure, wearing an absurd yellow silken blouse, tattered and torn, a red felt vest worked with yellow and gold piping, and upon its head, a round red fez with a dangling gold tassel falling into its eyes.
It knew that Sir Thomas’ back was turned. As Greene continued to chortle, the cabinet, the horrid thing opened its eyes and smiled hideously, then gestured with its dark, strange, long-fingered hands.
Sir Thomas, looking searchingly into my face, discerned that something had changed within the cabinet, and he spun on his heels, only to see a motionless figure that had immediately shut its eyes and lowered its hands at the first sign of movement.
“It’s just an automaton,” said Sir Thomas. “A mechanical fortune-teller. One winds up the figure in the back of the cabinet, and then it moves and utters grunts and groans and produces a fortune. They’re all pre-written, Richard. It cannot —”
“It’s him,” I said, feeling myself grow faint. “Him!”
“Now,” said Blue Jack, flying about my head and shoulders. “It’s your last chance. The American won’t dare harm you in front of Sir Thomas. It would be too risky for their plot for him to do both of you in at once.”
“What do you mean?” I asked the fairy.
Thinking that I had addressed him, Sir Thomas took my left hand and led me toward the awful creature. I would have sworn it was grinning at me. Right there! Right in front of Sir Thomas.
“Try for the eye again. You injured it before, Richard, you did!” said the fairy.
I cried something wordless then, and drew the holy dagger from my breast.
I plunged my dagger into the cabinet, rending, tearing. Again and again I jabbed at the creature. A dreadful, tinny organ-grinder sound emerged. Steam came from holes here and there. The black and ichorous blood of the creature began to issue forth.
Both Sir Thomas and Greene rushed to stop me. Sir Thomas had hold of my jacket, and Greene’s cold, inhuman fingers descended like bands of iron upon my upper arm.
But I had the strength of desperation. “It’s the great God Osiris! I must destroy him — before he destroys us all!”
“Richard!” Sir Thomas screamed. I heard, but could not heed the desperation in his voice. “Mad,” he said. “Greene, help —”
I indeed had the strength of the very mad, and the holy blade was as sharp as I could have hoped. I aimed for the horrible eyes, but due to Greene’s claw-like grasp on my arm, my aim went astray, and the knife first knocked the fez off the dreadful bare head, and then the tip sank into its forehead. There, I met with resistance, and pressing harder, the knife traced a jagged path across its forehead, and promptly skipped across the dreadful translucent right orb and onto the creature’s temple, and thence, across its cheek.
This served as a sort of flaying for the leather-like skin, and I reached up, tearing my left arm free from Sir Thomas’ grasp. I took the horrid, cold, damp stuff in my hand and tugged.
Immediately, the whole face came forth, as neatly as one removes a glove from one’s hand.
Beneath was a grinning metal simulacrum of a skull, made of gears and springs — a clockwork face.
“Good God!” Sir Thomas said.
“He’s insane!” Greene cried.
“There, Blue Jack,” I declared. “I have done it! He shall not recover from this!”
As Sir Thomas and the hideous Greene dragged me away, I let the unnatural flayed skin drop to the cobblestones, and felt the strength leach from my limbs as I too sank to my knees, and then fell on my side, exhausted.
“Blue Jack — Richard, what are you —”
“The fairies!” I said. “They are killing the fairies. Osiris — and —” I turned to see Greene peering down at me with his unnatural green-glass eyes.
“Mad,” said Greene. “The poor fellow.”
“It’s sunstroke,” said Sir Thomas. “We were long in the sun in the Sinai. And on the Nile. I’m afraid the longer we travelled, the worse he became.”
I grabbed Sir Thomas’ collar and tried to draw him close. Blue Jack hovered about, whispering encouragement, but I could not make Sir Thomas see him, or understand.
Behind him, the clockwork face began to move. The jaw worked, and it gnashed its teeth and rolled its eyes. It needed no skin or covering. It was still horribly alive!
Immortal, just as Osiris had said. He had discovered the secret of immortality. I did not want this — I’ve never wanted this.
After some time, they brought me to a better place; quiet, a
t least, where I may paint as I wish.
For these past ten years, I have been depicting a scene of Blue Jack, Oberon and Titania, Queen Mab, and the great fairy Sorcerer. It is important that I do this. Although I am kept from direct harm in this place, I know that he is out there. Watching. Waiting.
Blue Jack says that more fairies die every day, and that more men and women are no longer themselves, having been replaced by these infernal mechanical simulacra of men and women.
So I must paint, and show these fairies, as the day may soon come where they — and men and women — are no more.
I am, yrs., Richard Dadd, in the year of our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Five, in her Majesty’s care, at the Royal Hospital of Bethlem, London.
For James P. Blaylock.
The Peculiar Case of Sir Willoughby Smythe
Judith Tarr
And all should cry: “Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle ’round him thrice,
And close your eyes in holy dread:
For he on honeydew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise!”
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge
“Kubla Khan”
Lady Albemarle’s maid was the latest fashion in automata: sleek, French, and indescribably chic. It glided into the Book View Café on that drowsy summer afternoon, so lifelike and yet so unmistakably mechanical that it evoked a frisson in even the conscientiously imperturbable Miss Emma Rigby.
Emma did not indulge in either boredom or tears, but she was oh, so very weary of this safe, secure, and utterly undramatic life. Certainly she had not expected it to be any of those things when she left her previous employer in Paris with much affection and little regret, and travelled to London with Lady Ada Lovelace and Mr. Charles Babbage and the estimable Madame Magdala.
There, instead of danger, adventure, and a life of mystery and intrigue, Emma had found herself employed in the Café, serving tiny china cups of exquisitely brewed coffee to well-to-do patrons, and learning the ways of the mighty mechanical Catalogue that delivered the books of the Café into the hands of those who desired them. It was not that Emma had any objection to menial duties — they provided a useful disguise in certain situations — but she had hoped to advance beyond them.
The Shadow Conspiracy II Page 4