The equivoque principle cq-1

by Darren Craske

  'Mystical amulets, Holy Grails and alchemists' stones, Mr Reynolds? Indeed, they are all works of desperate fiction, and the belief of overactive imaginations. This quest we are currently embarked upon at this moment is one based upon reality.'

  'And I suppose you can prove that?' asked Reynolds.

  'Proof? You ask a man of the Church for proof of his word?' the Bishop said with a sarcastic smile. 'My, you are a breath of fresh air, Mr Reynolds. As a bishop I'm used to spouting all kinds of rubbish for the avid consumption of unquestioning minds, Mr. Reynolds. But if proof you seek, then how about this; if one were to produce one of these twinned vials, would that surely not prove the existence of the other?'

  As Reynolds watched in awed silence, from under the folds of his deep dark purple robes, the Bishop pulled a six-inch-long, jewel-encrusted silver crucifix attached to a broad leather strap. Holding the cross aloft, he twisted it in half, unscrewing it to reveal a hidden compartment in its base. He tipped the cross upside down, and a small, filigree-decorated, cork-topped glass vial fell into his open hand. Bishop Courtney plucked at it with his thumb and forefinger and tilted it towards the staggered moonlight through the window.

  Reynolds stepped closer, carefully inching himself towards the Bishop, his jaw gaping open. 'You're serious, aren't you? Is…is that it? The elixir of life?'

  'Unfortunately, no. This is but the reversal solution, Mr Reynolds, practical only if consumed within one hour of the primary solution, but like I said; why on earth would someone wish to reverse immortality?'

  Reynolds sighed noisily. 'If your alchemists went to the trouble of making an antidote, perhaps they realised that eternal life could be just as much a curse as a blessing.'

  CHAPTER XXXII

  The Consuming Mire

  LIKE A WHISPER ON the wind, Madame Destine heard a voice calling her name in the darkness. She blinked hard, and when she reopened her eyes, she was blinded. She waved her fingers in front of her face, feeling the breeze against her smooth, porcelain cheeks-but she still couldn't see. It was as if she were in a windowless, wall-less void, surrounded by reams of black curtains, frozen to the core of her being, too scared even to move. Suddenly, she felt herself grabbed by her shoulders. Someone was there in the blackness with her.

  'Madame Destine! Madame, please wake,' said a very anxious voice. 'It is me…Butter. Please wake up.'

  Something stirred inside Destine, and it was as if she was drowning, but the voice was giving her buoyancy, something in the distance on which to focus her attention. She gritted her teeth and pushed with all her might through the folds of black silk that encapsulated her, breaching through the material, into the real world, gasping for air. She rolled her pale blue eyes, searching the room for a recognizable face. Finding Butter, she fell limply into his arms, and he guided her gently to a seat, laying a crocheted shawl across her shoulders.

  'Madame, are you all right?' Butter asked.

  Destine eyed Butter's bruised face and split lip. 'I could ask you the same thing.'

  'I arrive not five minutes past and found you lying on floor, face twisted in terrible pain. You weep. Only a few moments ago you awoke,' said Butter, caressing the Frenchwoman's hair. 'You fainted perhaps, Madame?'

  'It's nothing to be concerned about,' Destine lied. 'It was just a bad headache. But what on earth has happened to you?'

  'I am well now, Madame, it looks worse than it is.'

  'I doubt that. Got into some trouble, did you? And how is Cornelius? Don't tell me he's gone and got himself killed?' Destine asked, half-jokingly.

  'Not yet, but tomorrow is another day,' said Butter.

  'So? Tell me what happened.'

  'We were in search of Prometheus. Fish market. Heard noises, and were beaten by many unknown assailants, Madame. We became locked in large…er…the boss call it "ice box". But we survive. Prometheus arrive in the nick of the time!'

  'Prometheus? You found him? Oh, thank God! Is he all right? Where is he now? I must see him,' said Destine excitedly, as she tried to rise from her seat.

  'Rest, Madame, is to be your first action, I think,' said Butter, gently easing her back down again. 'You do not look so well. Get back your strength.'

  'I am fine, mon ami. I have survived much worse than this.'

  'The boss has asked me to take you to him; they hiding at circus in Hyde Park until we get there. The boss desperately seeks you for what options to take. Seems lots of bad men in that Crawditch…one even know name of the boss. It is very late now, but in the morning time we shall leave.'

  'Of course, let me just get up.' Again Destine tried to stand, and this time her legs gave out beneath her and she fell clumsily into the high-backed chair. 'I think that headache took more out of me than I imagined.'

  'But that is uncommon, is it not?' asked Butter.

  'Very. Although recently, getting more frequent, perhaps the older I get.'

  Butter cocked his head to one side. 'Madame…it was a vision, yes? We spoke earlier of your worry over their clarity.'

  'I cannot hide anything from you, my friend,' admitted Destine. 'Sometimes, if I experience a particularly intense vision, my senses simply cannot cope with the overload-and my mind shuts my body down. I collapse.'

  'And this is what occurred today? May I ask…what was it about?'

  'It was…something that I wish to keep private for the moment,' Destine answered, teasing her bottom lip with her teeth. 'I am sure it was nothing.'

  Butter did not remove his stare from her form. The concerned expression that engraved itself upon his face was obvious to Destine. She turned her head away to hide her own apprehension.

  'Do you think this vision is to come true?' the Inuit asked. His innocent, almost childlike grasp of the English language made it difficult for Destine to ignore.

  'Let me answer your question with another question, Butter,' she said, a mask of dread swamping her features. 'Would you betray the trust of someone you loved if you knew it was the only way to keep them alive?'

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  The Lingering Dread

  BRIGHT AND EARLY the next morning, the lethargic daylight filtered through every window of Dr Marvello's Travelling Circus train, gilding the occupants in a golden hue. Madame Destine rose silently from her bed, her head still heavy from the previous night's premonition. She had never experienced one so real, so penetrating that it felt like she would be swallowed by the darkness, consumed by the void. She could still see the image of the grey-blue face when she closed her eyes, and it horrified her, just as the realisation that she recognized him-of that she had no doubt. She was sure that he was aware of her presence in the vision also, and that was possibly more terrifying to the Frenchwoman.

  Usually, when Destine experienced a glimpse of the future, it was as if she was the only audience member in an empty theatre, watching a show designed purely for her viewing. The vision she had experienced the previous night was entirely different. Aside from being more real than she had ever previously felt, it was as if she was an unwilling participant in the unfolding performance. It was as if she was sitting in the front row of the theatre, inches from the stage. It was an unsettling feeling, as if she had somehow taken a step into a much darker, much more uncertain domain, and her confidence was in tatters-not least due to the face of the man. It was a face she knew only too well, but had buried deep inside her memory.

  A loud knock rapped upon her cabin door, and Butter darted his head around the frame. 'Bonjour, Madame! Are you soon ready for leaving?' he asked.

  'What time is it?'

  'Nearly six o'clock, Madame,' Butter chirruped, with a smile.

  'It is unforgivable of you to be so happy at this hour, mon ami,' Destine teased, stifling a yawn. 'So, how are we to get to Hyde Park?'

  'I have spoken to station manager. There will be horse-cab waiting after one hour's time at front entrance. I will come for you in minute forty-five, Madame, and knock upon your door.'

  'Excellent,'
said Destine. 'I shall need at least that long to look presentable.'

  'Nonsense, Madame,' Butter said, slowly making his exit from the room. 'I shall engage breakfast straight away and deliver just here outside your door. Eggs, toast and hot tea will be ready soon.'

  As Butter had promised, everything had proceeded according to his precise timetable. The man's organisational skills made him indispensable to the more lackadaisical Cornelius Quaint. The horse-drawn Hansom carriage took nearly forty minutes to reach Hyde Park from Grosvenor Park station, and Madame Destine felt every bump in the road, and every stone underneath its wheels. It was a welcome, if slightly uncomfortable distraction from the myriad thoughts racing through her mind. Once she was away from the station, the fog began to clear from her eyes.

  With Butter to aid her, Madame Destine stepped down from the cab gracefully onto solid ground, decorated with a blanket of brown and green leaves upon the grass. She took a long sniff of the fresh winter air, and was instantly reminded of her home in France. There was a familiar scent on the wind. A crisp breeze skipped playfully around the hems of her long, billowing dress, but it was not something to darken her mood. Destine was safe now, amongst friends, and soon she would be by Cornelius's side-to her, the most safe and secure place in the whole world.

  After a brisk five-minute walk through Hyde Park, Destine was able to see the site where the circus was in the final stages of construction. The huge yellow-and-red-striped Big Top tent, positioned proudly as soon as they reached the top of The Meadow's hill, immediately stole her attention. Five smaller tents were scattered like tiny islands around the main tent, all decorated with the same bright colours, and Destine took in the full magnificence of what the circus folk had achieved so far. She could just imagine the circus in the midst of its prime time come the following day, with hundreds of people milling about from stall to stall and tent to tent laughing, cheering and cooing with delight. Butter pointed out Cornelius Quaint, standing in the distance next to a small canvas tent, his hands on his hips, beaming widely.

  He was wearing a short-cut, dark-purple velvet coat, reaching down just past his buttocks, over a thick, wide-collared shirt and a neat black waistcoat. A short, black silk scarf was wrapped around his broad, muscular neck, tucked into the velvet coat. Immaculate he may be, thought Destine, but this week had taken its toll upon him as much as her. In truth, this fact gave her little comfort.

  Above Quaint, a lavishly painted sign reading 'The Mystical Madame Destine: Fortunes Foretold, Futures Revealed' was hung above the opening entrance to the canvas tent, and Destine knew she was home.

  'Good day, Madame, come on inside,' said Quaint, motioning Destine inside the tent with a peck on her cheek. 'I trust you are well rested?'

  'I am feeling much better, Cornelius, thank you.' As Destine got closer she inspected the man and his wounds more closely. She saw the same dappled bruises about Quaint's face that Butter shared, with a gash to his cheek and a nasty purple-black hue under the rim of his right eye. She silently reprimanded him with a stern glare, and his eyes looked to the floor.

  'Don't look like that, Madame,' protested Quaint. 'It was hardly my fault.'

  'Some people are a magnet for trouble, like a wasp to jam, remember?' said Madame Destine, as she pushed past a dark curtain decorated with silver stars and glittering sequins. She stopped suddenly as she noticed the voluminous form of Prometheus, standing waiting for her with his arms wide open. Her eyes sparkled as she lifted her lace veil; and she skipped across the tent to embrace him affectionately, literally throwing herself into him.

  'Oh, do come closer, my great big bear, I am so, so pleased to see you,' she beamed. 'I thought we would never set eyes upon you again. You have my condolences for Twinkle's loss. Our little star will forever shine in the heavens above, Prometheus, you can be certain of that. She will be missed greatly by us all.'

  'I miss her so much already, Madame,' Prometheus replied.

  Madame Destine's jaw dropped and she spun around to Cornelius.

  'Sacre bleu! You can speak? What is this trickery?' she demanded. 'Cornelius-did you know he can speak?'

  'Yes, Madame,' confirmed Quaint. 'It's getting him to shut up that's difficult.'

  'Madame, c'mere yerself! Aye, an' it's good t'see ye again!' Prometheus said warmly, as he bent down and nuzzled his bristly beard into Destine's neck.

  The Frenchwoman batted him off playfully. 'Mon dieu, Prometheus, you smell like a dustbin! You need a bath.'

  'I can't argue with that, Madame,' agreed Prometheus.

  Destine stepped up onto her tip-toes and ran her hand along his cheek. 'Since when have you been able to speak, monsieur?' she asked. 'You simply must tell me.'

  Prometheus laughed. 'I thought you knew everything, Madame Fortune-Teller?'

  'No, you are confusing me with Cornelius,' Destine said with a wink towards Quaint. 'Oh, it is so good to have you home and safe, Prometheus.' Destine closed her eyes, and buried her head into the Irishman's expansive chest.

  As emotional as she was at seeing him, his words served to bite at her even more. Her faith in her ability to see into the future had been a nagging worry that had plagued her mind non-stop since she had seen the face in the mist. With Prometheus back amongst those who loved him, surely things would start to get back to normal soon, she thought.

  Soon, Madame Destine was up to speed with all current events, and Quaint had requested that she try her hardest to foresee which direction was the best one for them to take, one that would yield the best results in discovering just what was afoot in Crawditch. Quaint had often put his life into suspended animation until Destine had assisted him in finding the right road to follow. As his 'compass', he knew that if she pointed him in a direction, it would always ring true. But now, sitting in her tent, with Cornelius Quaint and Prometheus's faces appealing for her counsel, Destine was fighting an inner turmoil of her own.

  She recalled her question to Butter from the previous night: 'Would you betray the trust of someone you loved if you knew it was the only way to keep them alive?' and those words stung at her conscience. She thanked the stars above that it was she and not Quaint who was able to perceive the emotions of others, for her fear was hidden just beneath the surface, almost on parade for all to see.

  'Well, Destine?' asked Quaint. 'What should we do? We have a number of possibilities presented to us, but one thing I don't want to do is deliver Prometheus back into Oliver Dray's hands! I think it better that I visit Crawditch, if only to find out who wanted me dead-well…frozen first, but then dead-and we also need to poke around at Blackstaff prison to find out more about how this Hawkspear chap escaped. We know he's involved in this business up to his neck, but we don't know who's pulling his strings.'

  'Hawkspear's as close t'the Devil as ye can get, Cornelius, bar the pitchfork and pointy tail, but he don't have the brains for subterfuge. I'm surprised he's hidin' an' not out in th'middle of the street dancin', braggin' about his crimes. He wanted me t'know it was him that killed Twinkle…he knows it's tearin' me up…an' I'll bet he's just lovin' the fact that everyone in Crawditch thinks of me as a killer,' said Prometheus grimly, teasing his beard with his fingers. 'Don't forget I'm still a wanted man right now, Cornelius, so I am. I need t'clear me name, man.'

  'Prometheus, I understand how important it is for you, of course I do. We need to listen to the Madame here, and await her advice,' said Quaint. 'Destine, if you wouldn't mind…what are our options?'

  Destine's voice was tempered, and each syllable floated from her lips like the gentle caress of a butterfly's wings. 'Cornelius…I will try my best to aid you, but you must agree to take heed of what I say.'

  'Don't I always?' Quaint asked, looking the picture of innocence.

  Destine shot him a look that said 'Are you joking?' and smiled. 'You have an uncanny knack of prospecting my advice, Cornelius. You sift out the words that you do not like, and turn a deaf ear to them. What I am to reveal-if anything at all-will only
give you the bare bones of what your options are. It will not spell out what to do, step by step, word for word. The future is not like that. If I get the feeling that a particular avenue is your best road to travel, I'll need your assurance that you'll listen to me.'

  'I'll listen, of course,' Quaint said.

  Madame Destine nodded. 'But can you promise that you will hear me?' she asked with a knowing flicker of her eyelids.

  Prometheus nudged at Quaint's elbow.

  'What? Oh, yes, yes, Destine…I promise,' said Quaint begrudgingly. 'I will take heed if you say anything bad. Now come on…don't keep us all in suspense.'

  'Very well, I shall begin.' Destine rested her fingertips on her temples and closed her eyes. She was thankful that no one in the tent realised just how nervous she was at that moment, or she would have been even more so. The vision of the man in the mist was a heartbeat away, and this was her first attempt at a connection to the future since then. Carefully opening her mind's eye just a fraction, like the aperture of a camera, Destine allowed the sensations to flow in, a maelstrom of emotions to anyone without her lifetime of training. She allowed herself to float above the cacophony, filtering the white noise to make sense of it all. Sometimes she was flooded with images, sometimes a spoken word, or a snatch of a conversation, and sometimes it was only a vague feeling, like a barely forgotten memory. It was not her ability to see the future that made Madame Destine so special-it was her ability to make sense of and translate what she saw.

  Not without an appreciation of irony, predicting the future takes time and after a gruelling fifteen-minute wait, Quaint was getting restless.

  'Madame, I don't wish to rush you,' he said, 'but time is of the essence here.'

  Destine's eyelids flickered as she removed herself from her entranced state, and looked up at Quaint's appealing face.

  'Oh…sorry, Cornelius…I…have been given many powerful images and it is taking some time to determine their meaning,' she said quietly.