by Wolf, Jack
My Words met only with the swift Rush of oncoming Rain. The Storm had broken.
The Water drummed upon my Forehead, like a new Baptism. I put mine Hand up to mine Eyes to shield them, for even tho’ I could not see an Inch in the Darkness, I could not bear the Thought of being blind. “Bat?” I said. “Art there?”
“Poor Tristan Hart,” Bat said. “You do not see a thing.”
I reached out again in front of me, towards the Space from which emanated her Voice. “No,” I admitted. “I cannot see anything, Bat. Stand close, that I might know you by my Touch.”
It seemed to me an Eternity that I knelt there, muddy, drenched, and still bleeding, mine Hand outstretched, a pagan Adam, prayerless in the Dark. Then all on a Sudden I felt her small Fingers taking strong hold, sharp, wicked little Claws piercing like Scalpels into the Skin of mine unprotected Palm. I yelped aloud, and as a Reflex tried to pull mine Hand away; but she dug her tiny Talons deep into my Wrist, and pulled mine Hand up to explore her Face. Her infant Skin stretched like living Velvet beneath my Fingertips.
“I have lost my Mother,” Bat said. “If I fetch Nathaniel Ravenscroft to you, you will take me home, to her.”
The Darkness parted before mine Eyes, like a Veil. But before me, as clear as if upon a Stage, I saw not Bat, but only the Vision of My Self, standing in full Light on Mary Fielding’s Doorstep, reading Katherine’s Letter:
The Tale of Raw Head and the Willow Tree
“Katherine!” I shouted. My Voice was louder than the rattling Rain. “Katherine Montague!”
“Now you see,” Bat said. “And I go.” The Aire fluttered once; then there was Emptiness.
CHAPTER FOUR-AND-THIRTY
I perceived everything. I watched how I had stood upon the Fieldings’ Step and read the Epistle Katherine had sent; and how the World had unravelled about me, and re-woven itself into a Nightmare. I remembered every damning Character, every cursed Word of the Tale of Raw Head, which I had tried to make My Self believe a Fiction; which my Mind had for so many Months kept, under an obscuring Cloud of Unbelief, from Memory’s clear Sight. I cannot go on, she had explained, excepting thro’ Leonora. Black Words, in Katherine’s spiderweb Handwriting, spun themselves anew across the white Page of mine Imagination, laying open to my Conscience the Chapter Book of Revelation.
Bat was not, and she never could have been, my natural Daughter.
The Rain poured on over mine Head. I did not mind it.
The Tale of Raw Head and the Willow Tree
Once upon a Time, before Bloody Bones the Lover of Leonora hath saved her from the Vicious Goblins, she had a strange and evil Dream. And every Body said ’twas Nothing but a Dream, and she must Forget Everything about it; but Leonora knows it was a True Dream, not one of the Kind that mean Nothing, and are meere Passing Fantoms of the Night.
In the Garden of the House, there groweth a Willow Tree, and it is as Fair and Slender as a Girl, with leaves like Tresses and Bark like the softest whitest Skin; and when it rustleth in the Wind it sounds as if it is Whispering. And Leonora Dreamed she was this Willow Tree, come all to Life, and that the Willow Tree was Leonora.
The Willow Tree was sade because she had no one to Love, and she wished Daye and Night that she might have a Lover. Then one Summer’s Evening a tender Youth appeared beneath her Trailing Branches, and he was Dark and Beautifull as the Night Sky; and the Willow Tree fell Utterly in Love with him. But tho’ she Quivered and Shook, he noticed her not, and she was very sade.
But Willow was Patient, and she knew that if she waited Long enow, her Love would look up and see her, and so she bided her Time and Watched. And for Foure Yeares she waited, and he did not Look.
Then one Daye a Wicked Magician, who was really Raw Head, came along, and he saw how it was that the Willow was in Love, and he said to her: “I will Make you into a Woman, so that you may Shew yourself to him you Weep over, who is my Brother.”
So the Magician hath cast a spell upon the Willow Tree to change her shape; and now she Walks and Talks as if she is Really a Girl, and not a Tree. And she goes a-walking in Search of her Love, but she hath only gone a Little Waye along the Road when the Sunne beginneth to Drop toward the Horizon, and soon it will be Dusk. And she is Frightened because it is Christmas Eve, and very Cold. So she turns about and tries to run Home, but she is Lost. Then she sees an olde House in the Middle of the Wood, which looks exactly like her Home, and so thinking she is safe she Knocks upon the Door, and asks if they will let her in.
But she doth not Know that the House is an House of Goblins; and the Master of that House is Raw Head.
There was a sudden Flash of Light against mine Eyelids.
“Well,” said a Voice, breaking in upon me. “If it isn’t Tom O’ Bedlam.”
I opened up mine Eyes, which I had not realised that I had shut up. A featureless Form, thick set and broad as a Bear, a rattling Lanthorn held aloft in one great Paw, loomed up between My Self and the thinning Blanket of Sky. I started violently back, and toppled again onto the Grass, mine Hand missing by a Fraction that broken Edge that previously had felled and wounded me.
What Monster is this? I thought. Is it one of Viviane’s Hunters?
The titanic Brute leaned close in over me, thrusting his Lanthorn quite into my Face. I turned mine Head aside, and coughed. Even thro’ the Rain, I could not help but breathe the rank Miasma of Beer and Sweat that hung about the Stranger, like a Cloud of thunder Flies. Is it a Man? I thought. Surely, it cannot be! Yet verily it hath the Stink of one.
“Do not do that,” I said. “Stand away. You stink like a Pig.”
The Man, if indeed he was a Man, laughed, and in Reply shook his Lanthorn violently direct in front of my Nose. Wax spattered the Glass like a crushed Insect.
“Fool,” I said. “You will put out your own Light if you do that.”
“Ha! Dont ’ee like ’un?”
“I do not. Neither like I you. Remove your ridiculous Lanthorn and your disgusting Self from my Presence immediately.”
“Squeal on, Coney, caught in Snare. Not so brave now, be ’ee, wi’out yer high Horse and yer Stick? I doesn’t ’ave to do nothin’, I do reckon.” The Words were slurred; either the Speaker was extreamly drunk, or something else was amiss. Is it, really, a Man? I wondered.
Thunder pealed about mine Ears like an Alarum. The Rain fell faster. Then came a second Lightning Flash, closer, brighter than the first must have been, tho’ I had not properly seen it; and as it snaked across the eastern Heaven I saw, for a split Second illuminated by the Storm, the devilish Visage of mine Adversary.
It was the pig-Man.
I scuttled backward like a Crab.
Now the Willow Tree, thinking no Harm, doth not Recognise Raw Head, for he hath disguised his Appearance. But that Night she hears Someone a-Knocking at the Door of her Bedd-Room, and she goes to Open it, feeling no Feare.
Joseph Cox spat, deliberately, into the Grass, then steppt after me. “Filthy Jew-bred Whelp,” he said. “I ’opes they Gypsies do get ’ee. Idn’ no one going get no Answers off o’ them, I do reckon, if’n ’ee do have a Accident in th’Dark.”
And she hath opened up the Door and it is Raw Head, Raw Head in the Dark, while all the Family lies asleep. And he is Come Bursting into her Chamber with Wine and Laughter on his Lips, and he wishes her a Merry Christmas and Kisses her upon the Mouth, and she thinks that he will Leave. “O,” she says, “’Tis the Middle of the Night.” And he says: “The Middle of the Night, that is the Best Time for Mischief.” Then he hath seized Willow and he hath gone and Stoode beside the Bedd, and he hath a great Unkindeness in his Eyes.
“Tidn’ right,” the Monster said, “that a Tom O’Bedlam like you should ever ha’ laid down with a fine Beauty like she. What did she ever see in ’ee? If’n ’ee ’adn’t a bin yon Squire’s Pup she’d never even ha’ looked at ’ee. But she’m always been a Money grubbin’ little Bitch—”
And Raw Head he hath Torn the Curtain down, and
he hath Ravished the Willow Tree. It is all his Pleasure. And then Afterwards he says: “Kitty, you are a Woman. But you must not tell a Soule, or my delightful and compassionate Father will Throw us Both out in the Snow and we will Freeze to Death.”
Suddenly I was aware that the Rain had stoppt. Yet its Drumming still continued, deafening loud atop mine Head. “Beware your vile Tongue, Goblin,” I said, scrambling slowly, carefully, to my Feet. “I will not permit that you speak thus of any Woman. Let alone her.”
“I sh’l say whatever I do want,” Joe Cox said. “No bastard Jew tells me what to do.”
No, I thought. You work for James Barnaby! You are ripping out the Withy Wood. You are ravishing an intire Grove of Willow Girls.
“Raw Head,” I said, as Comprehension dawned. “You are Raw Head.”
Raw Head, Raw Head in the Dark. Raw Head come hither not at Viviane’s Command, but at his own Desire. Raw Head come to murder me and grub up my dear Katherine from her Bed, and steal her for his own. Raw Head come to make a final End of our Enmity, to duel with me unto the Death.
Did Barnaby not know that he had hired a Demon?
A Demon, not a Man, no, not a Man; not Joseph Cox. A Changeling, who could steal any Form; a Goblin Sorcerer, Knight and Prince, who had upon one horrible Night assumed the Shape of my beloved Friend and ruined the Life of the Woman I loved best in all the World: Leonora’s other Self: Katherine Montague.
Not a Man, not a Man; so what was he? A Cartesian Horrour; a Demon clad in possesst Flesh, Flesh that did not truly live, unless it was as an Automaton; Bone and Blood and Entrails all unsouled and conscienceless, yet all, mechanically, functioning. Matter animated by Evil, not by any Principle inherent within. Soule-less Flesh that endured no Pain, that felt neither Cold nor Wet upon its Skin. Clockwork, Clockwork.
And I had thought La Mettrie’s Proposition so different; yet all in that Moment I perceived that his Theory was not so far distant from Descartes’, for it tried to deal with the Difficulty surrounding Communication betwixt Soule and Body by denying the Existence of the one, but not the other. It was Nonsense, Nonsense; and I had been right, right all along.
As Erasmus, Curette in Hand, had indicated, as Dr Hunter had pronounced, Man is more, so much more than a soule-less Mechanical.
But this Raw Head was not a Man.
A yellow-brown Revulsion, deeper seated and more potent than any mere Disgust or Hate, uncoiled within me, like a wound Spring unexpectedly freed from the Catch that had held it in check for a Lifetime. It felt as if I had sustained a Blow to my Stomach. Winded, I struggled for my Breath.
“The only Way out,” I gasped, “is to smash the Clock.”
The Drumming filled mine Ears. With Effort, I caught my Breath again and looked up. The Clouds shifted above mine Head, and the Stars pricked the Dark. I saw the Goblin Raw Head raise up its Lanthorn, and its Physiognomy was twisted by Hatred and by Contempt into a Devil’s Mask, a Parody of an Human Face. It steppt forward, its Lip curled, and raised up its other Fist, preparing to strike.
So, it begins, I thought. I am no unsouled Machine. I am Man; Spirit and Matter unified, Body and Soule mixt together into one Being. I am, I am, and I am.
As Raw Head strode forward, I sprang full forcibly towards it, Head down like a Stag in Battle. A wild, deep Roar vibrated in my Chest, echoing in mine Ears louder than Thunder. My Forehead caught the vile Brute square upon the Chest, bowling it over with a Speed and Power that astonished me. It fell with a wet Crunch upon its Back. The Candle at once winked out; there was a small tinkling Crash as the Lanthorn flew from the Goblin’s Hand and landed some Way off amidst the Tussocks.
Rage overtook me. I leapt upon Raw Head’s Chest and pinned it fast to the Ground with my Knee. “Goblin Knight,” I cried. “Raw Head! Thou shalt neither murder me, nor bring Shame and Sorrow upon my Willow, whom I love more than my very Life! Thou art a Cancer on my Soule! Begone!” I balled up both my Fists, and with mine whole Strength I battered the fallen Monster over and again upon the Cheekbones and the Chin until the small facial Bones of the Skull creaked and slid away beneath my Blows, and my Hands were both too sore and bloody for me to continue the Beating any longer.
Eventually I sate up. The Drumming in mine Head had stoppt, compleatly stoppt, and all about me and inside me was Silence. The shattered Body of the Goblin Raw Head lay quite still beneath me, its animating Force seeming fled; and I, the living, ensouled Man; I, Tristan Hart; I, Bloody Bones—for was I not all of these?—was victorious. Katherine was safe.
The Sky was now comparatively bright, the Storm having passed over. I remained for several Minutes unmoving in the Stillness. Then, when I had caught my Breath, I looked again, in the fresh Light, at the felled Thing, which still wore the Appearance of Joseph Cox, altho’ it was perhaps hard to be certain in the Darkness; and I began, out of long established Habit, to examine the Body.
I discovered almost immediately that it was not yet dead. Moreover, neither was it intirely senseless; although it did not move, as I crawled about it, mine Hands passing swift over its Form, its Eyes opened surprizing wide in its battered Skull, and seemed as if to follow me, and its ruptured Lips opened as if in a vain Attempt at Speech.
As if it had an Injury beneath the Cranium, I thought.
My Pulse quickened.
There seemed to be a significant Amount of Blood; more, I thought, than could have resulted from my Phrenzy, and also emanating from the wrong Place. I felt around the Creature to discover its Cause, and found that it was lying upon that same Implement over which I My Self had tripped. I had been lucky, I thought; Raw Head’s Fall, or perhaps its senseless Weight, had flattened the vicious Object so that it had posed no farther Danger to me as I had carried forward mine Attack. I rolled the Body off the Implement, and carefully, with stiff Hands, I felt around it. I desired to ascertain for My Self exactly what it was, this Lump of broken Metal that had cost me, and also mine Enemy, Blood and Pain.
Still the Creature retained the Appearance of Joseph Cox. This puzzled me. Raw Head had been defeated; why therefore had it not given up his false Countenance, and revealed its own?
Unless Raw Head and Joseph Cox had always been one; unless the Evil that I had long ago sensed in Cox had been Raw Head’s own, and this smashed Body no temporary Flesh, but the Machine in which the Goblin Knight had hidden, undiscovered till tonight, these many, many Yeares.
Perhaps there was no Joseph Cox.
Perhaps there had only ever been the Goblin Knight.
With a little Effort, I wrested the metal Shard from the Soil’s grip, and wiped it upon my sodden Breeches. In the watery Moonlight I perceived that it was part of the Blade of a Scythe, its Tang still buried within a Fragment of wooden Handle. The Length of the Blade was missing, but the Fraction that remained was still as solid and sharp as a Broadsword, and almost as long. It was old and rusty, but, as had already been proved to me, it could be a formidable Weapon.
Or an Anatomist’s Knife, I thought.
I looked again at Raw Head.
I had remembered what was in my saddle Bag.
If it is a Simulacrum of a Man, I thought, a Man of any Kind, then it ought to possess the vital Organs of a Man; and it might require some of the Viscera necessary for the Processes of Life. It might require a Stomach and Intestinal Tract. It certainly hath both Skeleton and Muscle. But hath it a Brain, and an Heart?
Curiosity truly now had succeeded to the Crown which previously had been worn by Rage. I could not resist; the Imperative was as pressing and incontrovertible as a Caligulan Decree: I had to know whether Raw Head possesst an Heart. If it possess both Brain and Heart, I thought, Excitement growing in my Bowels, it might at Least shew me what Appearance hath an Injury to the Brain, even if ’tis not the spontaneous Injury associated with Stroake. I can learn something useful from this Creature, this defeated Enemy, this Raw Head.
Putting the broken scythe Blade to one Side, I rolled the Creature back into an useful Positio
n and laid its Arms flat beside it upon the Turf. For a long Time then I did nothing, whilst considering carefully the Steps by which it was best to proceed. Then I opened up the Creature’s Coat. Its Chest quivered. I put mine Hand upon the Sternum, and felt the Life hopping like a Toad beneath my Touch.
I had made my Decision.
With a great Effort, for the Creature was not light, I hefted it upon my Back, and with my saddle Bag clenched between my Teeth, and the Lanthorn, which I had recovered, in mine Hand, I began the long Tread towards the River Coller and those Ruins belonging to my Father that stood there; waiting, I knew now, for the time when I might make some practical Use of them.
Those Ruins were my Theatre.
As I staggered, slowly, thro’ the Night, I considered the Case of Joseph Cox. Cox had supposedly originated, I knew, somewhere in the West Country, and in his own Way he had been much more the Foreigner than I, for all my Jewishness. The whole Neighbourhood knew the Story of my Mother. But what could anybody truly know of a strange Man who turned up, as Margaret Haynes had told me Cox had done, as if from nowhere, without Name or Kin, and not even a proper Trade to place him. He had worked here as a hired Labourer, but who knew what had been his Trade before he had arrived in the Valley of the Horse?
He hath no Trade, I thought, nor Name, nor Kin, because in Truth he hath no Humanity. I remembered the Dream I had experienced upon my wedding Night, and it seemed to me that it had been a Warning. Pig-Man, I thought. Monster, Goblin, Fiend. You did not expect that I would have recognised you for what you were.
Finally, out of the grey Dark loomed the river Cottages, like a Ring of blue Stones. I stumbled thro’ the empty Gateway and made my way across the overgrown Soil to the first Doorway, and seeing the Door to be half off its Hinges, dealt it an hearty Kick, at which it fell inwards. Dust and Dampe rose up like Ghosts within, and then settled back into the Gloom. I coughed.