Night Music

by John Connolly

  And as one door was locked, so another was opened. He heard the cellar door creak, and light footsteps descending its stairs. Felder did not rail. He did not fight or scream. He simply followed the sound.

  Knight was in the cellar. He sat slumped in a chair, his head back, his eyes, now just ruins in their sockets, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The walls of the cellar were lined with jars, none of them empty.

  They won’t like it.

  On a workbench rested a bag, and beside it a set of bright, clean surgical instruments. Felder saw unmarked potions in bottles, and powders and pills ready for use. He looked again at the jars, and at what they contained, floating in preservative. He had heard of women like Dr. Lyall. Young unmarried girls with reputations to protect, wives who could not explain away a new child when their husbands were fighting in foreign fields, mothers with bodies so worn that another baby would kill them, all came to Dr. Lyall or others of her kind, and they did what the medical doctors would not. Felder had never considered the price that might have to be paid, the burden to be carried. She had marked them all on her wall, the red dots of her visitations.

  Thank you.

  Confluence. Existence and nonexistence, tearing at the fabric of reality, at the walls between universes.

  For killing me.

  One more mirror stood in the cellar. Felder saw himself reflected in it: this Felder, this moment, fixed by the decisions and actions that had led him to the house. The walls drew away from him, leaving only shadows behind, and out of those shadows emerged children, some little more than crawling newborns, but others older and more watchful. Their rage was a cold thing, for there is no rage quite like that of children. He experienced it as a multitude of surgical hooks and blades cutting into his flesh. His reflected self began to bleed, and he supposed that he must have been bleeding, too, although he could see no wounds. He could feel them, though, deep inside.

  He died slowly, or one of him did, the only version that he would ever know. In the logic of his dying he understood that, in another universe—in many universes—the torment of Dr. Lyall by her children would continue, but in this one it had concluded, just as his own must surely, mercifully end.

  As the life faded from him, a line of ink moved inexorably across the filthy wall, then faded away to nothing.

  THE FRACTURED ATLAS—FIVE FRAGMENTS

  I. THE DREAD AND FEAR OF KINGS

  Couvret was waiting at het Teken van de Eik, the Sign of the Oak, for the ship that would take him at last to England. He had been at the inn for weeks and was growing uneasy. Rumors of impending Catholic retribution were reaching the ears of Huguenot refugees, and Couvret did not believe that he was safe in Amsterdam. Only when he had put the North Sea between the Continent and himself would he feel any sense of ease.

  His wife and child were dead, taken by the red plague. The news had reached him at almost the same time that Henry of Navarre had broken his siege of Paris and retreated before the advance of the Spanish-Catholic relief army under the Duke of Parma. Couvret had fled with the rest and had not looked back. It was said that Henry’s siege had caused the deaths of a quarter of the city’s population. The Catholics would make someone pay for it, but it would not be Henry. Already there were whispers that he was considering converting, and overtures had been made to Rome on his behalf.

  But Henry’s situation had been complicated by the death of Sixtus V shortly before the lifting of the siege, and the subsequent failure of his successor, Urban VII, to live for longer than twelve days after his election. Sixtus’s passing would probably have been welcomed by Henry, Couvret thought: the former Felice Peretti was a fierce opponent of the Reformation and had sanctioned Philip II’s ultimately doomed plan to invade England. Since Urban’s demise, the cardinals had elected Nicclò Sfondrati to the papacy as Gregory XIV, but Gregory was frail. The Spanish cardinals had arranged his election in order to strengthen their position against France, further constricting Henry’s room for maneuver. If Henry were not a Catholic by Christmas twelvemonth, Couvret would himself become a Jew.

  God, Amsterdam was cold—almost as cold as the Dutch themselves. Couvret had no love for the Calvinists, but his enemy’s enemy counted as his friend, and the ongoing conflict between the Spanish and the Dutch was the only reason he had journeyed so far. But this was a dangerous city: the Calvinist suppression of Catholicism had succeeded only in inspiring a virulent strain of Counter-Reformist zeal in the Low Countries, and now seminaries were reopening, and Catholic missionaries were reestablishing footholds in Protestant districts. As one of Henry’s legal advisers, Couvret was a wanted man. If his true identity became known to any of the Catholic zealots lurking in the shadows, his life would be forfeit.

  The English ship’s captain had assured him of safe passage in the interests of their shared Protestant brotherhood, although those bonds were less strong than the demands of commerce, and Couvret was being forced to pay a small fortune for his berth. He didn’t care. There was nothing left for him here, and he would find work in London. He had in his possession letters of introduction to two lawyers at the Inns of Court, and he had been assured of a warm welcome from both.

  But for now he was forced to wait at the Oak until word came to him that the ship was ready to sail. He kept mainly to his room and tried to speak as seldom as possible when away from the precincts of the inn, for fear that his accent might draw the wrong kind of attention. Instead he ate and drank in solitude, studied his Geneva Bible, and thought on his lost wife and daughter.

  Yet even for one in Couvret’s circumstances, the need for human company—if only to bask in its reflected warmth—was sometimes overwhelming, and so it was that he found himself in a corner of the Oak, far from the fire and the greater mass of those who had come to that place. He had dined on hutspot for the fourth night in a row, for it was both filling and cheap. Before him was a glass of jenever, and beside it some sugar and a spoon. He listened discreetly to the conversations going on around him. He had only a little Dutch, but the Oak attracted men of many nations, mostly of the wealthier kind and connected to the business of shipping. The common sailors ate and drank elsewhere.

  A hunted man—if he is to survive the ordeal—learns to anticipate the approach of his pursuers, but may also develop a sense for others who are themselves the object of a hunt. So it was that Couvret’s attention was drawn to a figure seated to his right, who kept to the shadows and did not converse beyond what was necessary to secure food and drink. Couvret simply registered his presence without drawing him into conversation and contented himself with his own company. It was, then, with some surprise that he was distracted from his thoughts by the appearance of a full bottle of jenever on his table, held in the left hand of the stranger.

  “May I offer you a drink?”

  Couvret looked up at the questioner. He was a man of exceptional thinness and pallor, his hair long but fine, so that his scalp was visible through the strands. His clothes struck Couvret as well made, but cut for a larger physique. Either they had once belonged to another, or the role as quarry ascribed to him by Couvret had taken its toll on him as much physically as psychologically, for Couvret had no doubt now that this man was living in fear for his life. His eyes were those of a rabbit who sees the shadow of the hawk, and whatever alcohol he might already have taken had failed to still the trembling of his hands.

  “No, thank you,” said Couvret. “I was about to retire for the night.”

  He might have wished for company, but not such as this, for fear of drawing the same pursuers down upon both of them.

  “You are Couvret,” said the man.

  Couvret managed to hide his shock. Even the English captain did not know him by that name.

  “You are mistaken. My name is Porcher.”

  He rose to leave, but the man placed a hand on his shoulder. He might have been reduced in both body and spirit, but he was still strong. Couvret could have struggled against him, of course, and prevailed, but
the action would almost certainly have drawn attention to them.

  “You are no swineherd, nor do you come from such humble beginnings. You don’t have to fear me. I will not reveal your secret. My name is Van Agteren, and I ask only for a little of your time. In return, I promise you a share in this bottle, and a tale.”

  “Again, I tell you that you are mistaken.”

  “Perhaps. Then let you be Porcher, and I shall remain Van Agteren. The offer stands. Come, we are both in need of conversation and companionship. Your room will still be waiting for you in an hour, and will be no less empty for the delay in its occupation.

  “And,” added Van Agteren, “I would consider it an act of Christian fellowship, and after you have heard my tale you will understand the value of such a service. So, may I sit?”

  Couvret appraised the Dutchman. His training in the law had convinced him of his ability to judge a man’s character within minutes of meeting him, and he detected in Van Agteren no signs of malice or hostility, only a deep fear kept under control by an act of will. Yes, a predator circled above him, but Couvret lived under a similar threat, and he was lonely, and tired of his own company.

  “Sit,” he said at last, “and I will listen to your tale.”

  Van Agteren was a native of Tilburg, in the south of the country. His family lived in the shadow of St. Joseph’s Church, or the Heuvelse Church as it was known to the people of that town, which explained the origins of his name, for Van Agteren meant “from behind” in his language, and referred to one born in the vicinity of a great building. He was a clever boy, and at an early age he began to train as a clerk to the famous Dutch scholar Cornelis Schuyler, a man particularly learned in arithmetic, geometry, and astrology.

  Tilburg was a strange town in which to find one such as Schuyler: it had grown up around a “herd place,” the shared pasturelands for sheep, and was filled with weavers and looms. Schuyler lived in a small, cluttered house close by the Kerkpad of the Church of St. Dionysius, called the Heikese Church, and he rarely left its precincts. He would tell Van Agteren that all he needed for his work was contained “out there”—gesturing to the papers that took up every shelf space in the house—and “in here,” tapping his head. Of course, this was not entirely true, and a steady stream of visitors came to Schuyler bearing documents and maps, and scientific instruments the purposes of which were unknown to Van Agteren, indeed obscure to all but a handful of the most brilliant of men, his master among them.

  Schuyler was a widower, with only one daughter, Eliene. She took after her father, and was a more able assistant to him even than Van Agteren, although her sex required her to be discreet about her gifts, and retiring in the presence of the old men who came to visit her father. A degree of affection gradually arose between Eliene and her father’s clerk, and the subject of marriage was broached, but only in private. Schuyler was fiercely possessive of his daughter, but also fond of Van Agteren, and it seemed to the young lovers that a match between them might meet all of their needs, for it would assure the scholar of the continued presence of Eliene, Van Agteren not wishing to leave Schuyler’s employ.

  One night, in the winter of 1589, a knock came upon the door of Schuyler’s house, and it was put to Van Agteren to answer it. A laborer stood on the step, a package under his arm, and asked if the gentleman was home, for he had found something that he believed might be of interest to him. It was late, but Van Agteren admitted the man and brought him to meet Schuyler, who was engaged in the dissection of the body of a monkey sold to him by the sailor who had owned the little creature until its death. The sailor had wept as he pocketed Schuyler’s coin.

  The laborer explained that he was engaged in work in the vicinity of the Heuvelse Church. A house nearby had collapsed, and another, larger one was to be raised in its place. The laborer was one of those responsible for digging the foundations, and while doing so he had come upon the item that he now presented to Schuyler.

  It was a book, of a most unusual and expensive character, bound in a hide unfamiliar to Schuyler or Van Agteren, upon which scars and traces of vein were visible. It was a deep red in color and reminded the younger man uncomfortably of fresh meat. Schuyler made as if to open it and inspect its contents, and the laborer laughed.

  “I wish you better luck than I had, mijnheer,” he said.

  The book would not open. It was as though its pages had been smeared with glue, and then stuck together. Schuyler took a thin blade and gently tried to separate the leaves, but it was no use. The book would not yield its secrets to him.

  “Perhaps it is a false book,” said Van Agteren.

  “What do you mean?” asked Schuyler.

  “At Utrecht I once saw a volume of the Tetrabiblios that looked to the naked eye like any other, but was revealed to be only the imitation of the work. It was more box than book. The scholar who owned it used it to hide gold from thieves who would have no interest in his library.”

  Schuyler ran a thumb along the tops of the pages.

  “Yet this feels like paper to my hand,” he said. He tapped the cover all over, listening for changes in tone that might reveal a hollow interior, but heard none. “I believe this to be a true book,” he concluded, “but how it has been so closely sealed, I cannot tell.”

  The collapsed house belonged to one Dekker, a most ignorant man. It was highly unlikely, therefore, that the book belonged to him. The laborer confirmed this by informing Schuyler that he only discovered the volume after breaking through a thin layer of rock and stone far below the level upon which Dekker had built his original house.

  “Strange, too, mijnheer,” said the laborer, “is that one moment the book was not present, and then it was. I did not uncover it. I simply turned and saw it before me. As you can see, it is not even stained or damaged in any way.”

  This was true. The book was without blemish, which was extraordinary for something that had presumably been lying in the ground for so long. Schuyler wondered aloud if it were not possible that the book had been dropped there by a passing other, or had fallen from a window, but the laborer assured him that the plot was not overlooked in a way that could have allowed for the latter, and he was entirely alone when he discovered it, which ruled out the former. And yet the third option, that the book might have been buried, seemed beyond belief, given that the laborer had been breaking through a layer of ancient stone when it was found.

  One final possibility did present itself: the laborer had stolen the book and was now trying to make a little money from the only man in Tilburg who might appreciate the value of such an item. But Van Agteren knew the laborer and had no reason to believe that he was anything but honest. He whispered the same to Schuyler, for he was by now adept at telling the direction of the old scholar’s thoughts.

  Finally, Schuyler consented to give the laborer some coin for his trouble, and promised him more if the book proved to be of unusual value once opened. To Van Agteren’s surprise, the man did not try to haggle, and neither did he object to the small sum handed over to him by the scholar. He simply pocketed it and left, doing so almost with a sense of relief.

  Van Agteren escorted the laborer to the door and took his arm on the step.

  “You could have got much more for that book had you taken it to Eindhoven or Utrecht,” said Van Agteren.

  “I know that,” said the laborer. “In truth, I had considered making the journey to Eindhoven, but now I am glad that I did not. I just wanted to be rid of the book, and had I the wealth to do so, it is I who might have paid your master to take it from me.”

  “Why do you say this?” asked Van Agteren.

  “You have not yet touched it,” said the laborer, “nor held it in your hands. It is like being in contact with a living thing. It pulses and smells of blood. I found it just today, but I did not want it to remain a night under my roof. Even your master’s coin may end up in the coffers of the Heuvelse Church, for I fear that any food or drink bought with it might end up poisoning my family and me
. And—”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  The laborer was looking out into the night, as though expecting to see someone emerge from the mist.

  “Before I left my home to come here, I glimpsed a shape in the fog—a man, but larger than any man that I have ever seen, yet also indistinct. He was watching the house, and I am certain that he followed me here. I thought that I could hear his footsteps under the sound of my own, but when I looked back, I saw nothing, and I can find no trace of him now. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  With that, the laborer left, and Van Agteren never saw him alive again. A wall collapsed on him the following day, and he was dead by the time his colleagues retrieved him from under the stones.

  Van Agteren returned to Schuyler’s study and found him examining the book, testing its spine and covers for some concealed mechanism that might cause the volume to open.

  “Extraordinary,” said Schuyler, stroking the cover of the book. “Feel it, Maarten. It is warm to the touch, like living flesh.”

  Van Agteren had no desire to lay a hand on the book, not after what the laborer had told him. He shared the details with his master, but Schuyler just laughed, remarking that the fog often played games with his own perceptions. Van Agteren departed, closing the study door behind him. In the hallway he met Eliene carrying a candle.

  “Who was that who came here so late?” she asked.

  “A laborer. He found a book in the ground and brought it to your father for examination.”