by Chico Kidd
‘Maybe someone else got here first.’
‘Ah hell, I hope not. All that brainwork and nothing to show for it.’
Alan swung his light morosely around, setting bats skittering as it passed them.
‘No. Nobody else would be daft enough.’ Suddenly he spotted something on the wall, and back-tracked with the torch. ‘Kim!’
Together they peered at the roughly-carved inscription.
AN THOU CANST READ THE vii BELLS WHEREAT THE MAGUS DWELLS THOU MAYST KNOW A THING MOST RARE WHEN THAT THE MESSAGE IS MADE CLERE.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Kim. ‘A treasure hunt. I hate this sort of thing, I really do. Trust you.’
‘One reference,’ said Alan gloomily. ‘Just one reference to bells in the Abbey, and who knows what became of them?’
‘Hold the light steady. We should be okay with this film.’
Later, in the pub, they held a council of war, having brushed cobwebs and other less identifiable though equally unpleasant things off each other as best they could.
‘What we need is a local history society,’ said Alan.
‘No, first let’s see if there’s a second-hand bookshop in town, or even a junk shop. You never know.’
‘I have the feeling none of this is going to be easy.’
Good fortune was not evident at first. In a narrow musty bookshop, the kind of establishment Alan was chronically unable to pass by, they searched the shelves in vain until the proprietor, a middle-aged man with a professorial air, took pity on them.
‘Can I help? Looking for anything in particular?’ he asked.
Kim, who had been momentarily seduced by a book of old photographs of the area, jumped slightly, but Alan replied eagerly.
‘Fenstanton Abbey. I believe it had a tower, and bells?’
‘Yes - though hardly one person in a million would know that. Well?’
‘We’re ringers, you see—’
‘Alan, he doesn’t want to know that.’
‘Ah, were you ringing over at All Saints, earlier?’
‘No, not today, but I came here a week ago for a ring, and you see, I’m a writer, and I sort of got interested in the Abbey. So we thought we’d poke around again today, and see if we could find any details.’
‘Like what happened to the bells,’ put in Kim.
The bookseller puffed out his cheeks and expelled air. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ve got a fair amount of stuff at home - which I suppose you could see, but I don’t want to let it out of my sight. No offence, but I don’t know you.’
Alan suppressed a surge of anger. ‘Just seeing it—’ he began.
‘That’s fine,’ Kim interrupted smoothly. ‘I can photograph anything we need, if that’s all right with you. I’ve brought plenty of film.’
‘Well, if you’d like to come back about five,’ said the bookseller, ‘you can toddle along with me. My name’s James Rendall, by the way.’
‘Alan Bellman.’
‘Good name for a bellringer. Sorry, I expect everyone says that.’
‘And this is Kim Sotheran.’
The bookseller shook hands. ‘You know about Roger Southwell, do you?’
‘Only that he was some kind of magician.’
‘Alchemist, really,’ James Rendall corrected him, ‘although his interests seem to have extended quite a bit further than that. Anyway, they say he hung bells in his tower to keep away an evil spirit which was haunting him. But you can read all about that later.’
The Journal of Fabian Stedman I: The Maiden
It is a proverb with us in England, that every pavan has his galliard: by which expression is declared, That be a man never so wise or learned, yet every sage hath his moments of folly. Which expression is most apt in the matter of all men, for who can declare himself free from folly, whether it be in the cause of love, or avarice, or power over other men?
This day to ring St-Mary bells with the Scholars (the weather excessive hot and dusty), whither by and by comes Roger Southwell, journeyman to my master Daniel Pakeman (and wherefore they call themselves Scholars is a mystery to me for there is not amongst them any virtuoso or learned man that I can see); had nothing of him but nonsense, I never knew such a fellow for taking offence, or giving of it; he is forever drab-bing an you believe his tales; for myself I do not, he being so truthful as a Dutchman.
I took but little note on Roger, for I was listening to an account of the charring of sea-coal that Hugh Bishop had lately witnessed, in order to burn out the sulphur and render it sweet; how twas done was but by burning the coals in such earthen-pots as the glass-men melt their metal in, so firing these coals without consuming them; they put a bar of iron in each crucible or pot, the bar having on one end an hook so that the melted coals may be drawn out sticking to the iron. Then they do beat off the half-exhausted cinders, now deprived of their sulphury and arsenic malignity, the which can then make up sweet and clear pleasant chamber fires.
I fell once again to thinking of this ringing of bells, the which is only practised in this isle of ours: How admirable it is that in such a short time it hath increased, and that the depth of its intricacy is found out; for within these thirty or forty years last past, changes were not known, nor thought possible to be rang. And now we ring changes, ad infinitum, nor can any number confine us.
And on a paper I did prick out a pattern that I think three bells might follow most melodiously, that one might then leave the pattern and be replaced by another, that even the treble might ring, for wherefore should he be ever constrained as he is? But I will think more on this.
To return to this black man Roger Southwell, who was in such an ill humour this day, speaking much nonsense about the daughter of Master Pakeman (at which Nate Mundy hath nonsense of his own, that Master Pakeman hath a young mistress, the which I can tell him is not true; —I have seen her, she is most fair, quoth he; however I do believe that all he hath beheld is the man’s daughter Ann).
Roger saith he hath seen the girl in church, and means to seduce her Attentions through his art. For I must note that he fancies himself an alchemist or magus or some such; though for myself I think a man must study many years and be of altogether more sober temperament than the good Roger, an he would be a mage. Though I have seen Ann Pakeman myself and she is a comely Maiden, who would not be like to look with favour upon the journeyman of her Father.
However I expressed my scepticism to Master Southwell who then addressed me thus:
—Fabian do you come to my lodging when that we are done here and I shall show you how it is that I mean to woo Mistress Ann.
And I would fain see this thing, as what man would not, and went with him to his laboratory, and found it most wondrous strange. Tis a mean little attic, if the truth be told, and nothing in it but a pallet and by the window (the which letteth in so much light as a penny-candle) a bench.
Twas this bench that drew my attention, for upon it sate all manner of arcane things, alembics, glass ware of many and divers kinds, sulfurous powders, bottles and jars, dried animals, and, horrid to relate, human bones and a very skull, a mortar and pestle (the which inside was most strangely discoloured), divers books (one lay open, I read its title, Pretiosa Margarita Novella, the which I understood to signify, A New Pearl of Great Price), and many other items too numerous to mention.
Roger then showed me a substance like unto pitch in a jar the which he told me was called Mummy and sold by pothecaries as a specific.
—It is hot in the second degree, he saith, and good against all bruisings, spitting of blood, and divers other diseases. There are two kinds on it, the one is digged out of the graves in Arabia and Syria of those bodies that were embalmed, and is called Arabian Mummy, and that is what this is. The second kind is only an equal mixture of the Jews lime and bitumen, and is of no use at all.
Strangest of all, in a large jar (that which they do call a Jordan, which is to say not a chamber-pot) a most hideous thing: I cannot describe it for it had no shape, and it s
tank like unto a midden, and gave off much heat.
—Tis an homunculus, Roger says to me, an it grows it will become a mannikin and be my servant. And more he told me too, about its making from shit and semen and other bodily excretions. I thought that it never looked like anything living, but I said naught to Roger. I had much misjudged the man; that he studied was plain to see; I remained sceptical about his powers; however he made for me a most persuasive demonstation that cuicunque in arte sua credendum est}
Taking from his workbench some powders and a phial of viscous liquid he mixed all together and anointed his face with a portion of the resulting unguent, a dab on each chap and one on his front, and one more at his throat. Amazed I beheld his features change, not as one might suppose a melting and re-forming as of tallow heated, but a little disturbance of the air like unto that which one may see above a road in summertime.
In but an instant I beheld standing before me the semblance of a handsome lord, as unlike Roger as could be: no more the scowling visage but a face as comely as any man might wish, an he were vain about his appearance, which I am not.
—Just so will I woo Ann Pakeman, quoth a voice which was not Roger’s neither; I could not speak a word being confounded and stricken utterly dumb.
—What thinkest thou, Fabian? asked he.
—Tis wondrous strange, I replied.
—No, he said, it is strange and wondrous too, and laughed. Wouldst thou go with me, he said.
—Whither, I asked.
—Why, to speak with Mistress Ann, when I go thither. I will have need of aid, an my plan progress as it should.
So doth our understanding of the world increase, as we apprise new things; so did I learn that Roger Southwell is a very mage, and that such magic as he hath shewn me is a thing any man can accomplish an he but have the knowledge and the cunning and the will withall.
1 You can trust a man when it comes to his own art
So doth the art of ringing increase, and mayhap will ever continue, parvus et parvus.2 Philosophers say, No number is infinite, because it can be numbered; for infinite is a quantity that cannot be taken or assigned, but there is (infinitum quoad nos3) as they term it, that is, infinite in respect of our apprehension.
Now I do not remember how may sennights passed after I apprised of Roger Southwell’s intent that he put his plan into hand; there was a great moil in the city and the churches all filled of folk affrighted of the Puritan-laws.
By which time there were certain of us young men who pledged ourselves to his cause, as it were, acolytes as you might say; nor will I deny it although it sheweth me in a bad light. I can but say I was young (as were we all) and youth and lust do not combine to make sober gentlemen.
We had not been denied the details of Roger’s wooing of Mistress Ann; how he had captivated her in his strange guise (and did he have other means at his disposal, conjectured I, thinking of love-philtres and such like); how she had been much enamoured of his semblance, not knowing that it was merely a seeming brought about by the art of magic; how she knew him under the name of Walter Kyd of Grayes Inn (being so bemused by his arts as not to wonder what such an one might be at, a-wooing the daughter of a printer); much of her sighs he hath told us, and of how she spake of even his name as beloved, though as we knew it was no name of his.
On such sand is faith built, by men who think it be a rock.
However he had not yet had from this dell her maidenhead; until one night he did consider that she was so far in affection for him that she would be sure to go away from her father his house with Roger. To this end Roger hath told off his acolytes (the which include myself) to accompany him, in a guise which he himself hath crafted.
We met five accomplices, Roger, myself, and three other ringers of our acquaintance, Thomas Audley (a clerk in the office of the Audit of Excise), Hugh Bishop, of Spittle-fields, and Matthew Boys, a writer of music and airs sore idle under the rule of the Puritan-folk (though they say the Usurper doth joy in church music there’s little enow of employment in that trade); none of us were amazed by Roger’s transformation, having all now been made acquainted of it.
More to concern us was our own: for Roger gave to each of us a talisman to wear and a small phial containing a portion of his efficacious unguent, and bade us each to touch his face with it in that certain way which he hath shewn us when he did give the word, that Ann or her father (if he should chance to wake) might not know us; although they were like to know only myself, apprentice to Master Pakeman these vii weeks.
So that night we found ourselves with Roger Southwell outside the house of my master, and Roger bade us anoint our faces with his potion. I put two fingers of my left hand into the pot and felt the substance for the first time: cold and thick it was, an it were a pease-pudding, and vile to the touch; nevertheless I applied it to my face, having no wish to be recognised by my master. Although it is truly said, Audentes fortuna invat;A and in truth I did feel bold, and fortunate too.
The touch of the unguent called to my mind that time when first I saw Roger use it: as then I saw, so nowfelt a tingling and blurring of my sight; when it was done I felt no different, but the face I saw reflected in a nearby window was not my own. Mayhap we three were so forspoken by our bully-Roger that we no longer saw any strangeness in such a transformation.
2 little by little
3 infinite as far as we understand
4 Fortune favours the daring (Virgil, The Aneid)
That night was so strange and dream-like an one as I can remember: I must needs set it down ere it fade from my memory. Eager was the air; and Roger passed like unto a shadow into the courtyard of my master’s house, under the light of the stars so pale and cold, and the planets that he doth conjure, and the pale sliver of the moon in her newness, and stood as a player in the theatre transfixed. (Although the canting faithful-broth-ers closed the playhouses when that I was but a child so I do not speak from mine own observation. However they would fain have also closed down the brothels and we do all behold how far they did succeed in this endeavour.).
—Mistress Ann, he called in a voice so soft as I thought she was not like to hear. Mistress Ann, it is Walter Kyd come with my friends to fetch you away.
Then above us there opened a casement and Ann Pakeman leaned out, a lanthorn beside her so that although it was a dark night I could see her very clear; her abron locks unbound, her pale Arms and neck; And I was quite stupefied with an heat of mine own.
—Come, whispered Roger. Come to me, mine own love, and we’ll go hence.
And then I would swear my heart did stop, for the door below did open and the voice of Master Pakeman called out, Who’s there?
But Roger smil’d in the darkness, and cast towards him a sprinkling of liquid that sparkled in the starlight as it were very stars itself.
—See and hear naught but what I desire, Roger rounded in the night’s ear, so soft as a man bespeaking his lover.
—Who’s there? cried Master Pakeman again.
—Hush, old man, Pantalone, calls Roger (and in sooth he might have been Old Iniquity), our errand is not with thee but with thy neighbour.
—Samuel Salter? enquires Master Pakeman, and I saw the cleverness of this Roger Southwell, for my master hath no love for Master Salter and would rejoice to see him discomfited. Whatever glamour Roger had cast was having its effect for it seemed Master Pakeman was confused and knew not that twas his own house which was assailed.
—Do you but rest silent, quoth Roger, and let us go about our business.
—Nay, sirra, quoth Master Pakeman, do you have designs gainst Master Salter I must know them, for they may lie with mine own.
And I saw Roger’s silent smile of triumph. Seest the house of Samuel Salter, he said in a voice the softness of silk; pointing the while at the house of Daniel Pakeman.
—Aye, says that bemused worthy.
—Tis my intent, quoth Roger, to steal the man’s wife and thus discomfort him.
—Twill do so,
replied my master. But you will need accomplices.
In spite of my new semblance my bowels were in turmoil, for Roger then did gesture to the place where we three stood. Without a second glance, Master Pakeman addressed us thus.
—Welcome, gentles, mine aid is yours in this adventure.
All this time Ann had observed us from above; and I was more certain than before that Roger had magicked her, for she seemed unsurprised.
—How to get her down? asks Master Pakeman. For know you that Samuel Salter bars his doors against the coming of the night.
—We have a ladder, replies Roger, do you steady it and I will climb to the lady’s chamber.
Now my very skin was crawling as if ants and spiders were running over’t. I looked full in the face of Master Pakeman, and saw nothing but what I ever did see, a man of middle years, hair grisard; excepting, mirabile dictu,5 that he did not in one whit recognise me.
Up the ladder then goes Roger and returns with Ann Pakeman while that her own father steadies their descent, grinning the while like unto a fool. And presently Roger departs with Ann, and I and Thos Audley and Hugh Bishop and Matthew Boys to our own beds; glad I am not to live in Master Pakeman’s house as do most prentices with their masters.
On the morrow, some sort of confused election of parliament called by 0. Cromwell (pretended Protector); up betimes and to my master’s workshop, where all is in turmoil and making as much noise as a bear-garden.
—What goes on, I asked Bartholomew Knox, the first man I saw, that you are all stirred up like unto a nest of ants?
—Calamities and maledictions, Fabian, quoth he; someone hath stolen Master Pakeman’s daughter away.
I clothed myself in surprise; but Knox knows no more, and how should he so?
—There looks to be no work done this day, he says, do you go home presently.
But I said nay: Why my indenture doth not permit that, and you know it well, Master Knox, having been prentice yourself in your time.
—Tis true, says he; keep yourself apart then, and do you not vex Master Pakeman further.