Merciless Reason

by Oisin McGann

  Duffy, Dempsey and their men were to meet him in Dublin, but he had something to do here first. On reflection, he should have brought a horse, but the beast did not like horses, and horses most definitely did not like the beast. Dublin was a long way from here, and he would need some kind of transport to get back. There was an inn at the other end of Glenmalure where he might buy a horse—he had the money—but even that was a long walk away. He wasn’t even close to the road.

  Opening his jacket, he reached inside and pulled out his mother’s letter. The one she had written to his father. The one she had not finished before he imprisoned her in the asylum. There was one piece of it that he kept turning over and over in his mind as he walked. He read the lines again:

  I have always known that you were raised in an environment that brutalized you and encouraged the most predatory and ruthless instincts within you, and I have spent my entire married life struggling to come to terms with the conflicting sides of your character—the implacable leader of men that is your public face, and the tender, loyal and loving husband that so few people see.

  Nate kept thinking of his own son and how he had deserted him—how he had deserted all of the people he had loved. And then, after having his eyes opened in South Africa and seeing how the intelligent particles had destroyed a civilization, he had been forced to face the violence in his own nature and the consequences of allowing it to overwhelm him.

  He had once believed that he was more like his mother than his father, even though he had not known her long. His years spent defending Berto while his brother, as Patriarch, had tried to reform the family, had shown Nate a side of his own character he had found disturbing. Reading his mother’s words again, he wondered how she could ever have considered Edgar Wildenstern loving or tender. Nate put his hand up to his ear. The air was cooler and instead of hurting him, it helped ease the throbbing in the side of his head. He thought back to the fight on the train, the gun-fight in Limerick, the bare-knuckle match in the Peggy Sayer in Boston and all the other conflicts in which he had been involved. He would not have thought himself a man of violence, and yet his life was filled with it. Was this circumstance, that it was forced upon him, or did he actually seek it out? Could he have lived his life by the standards he demanded of himself, and avoided these conflicts? He was not like Daisy, he knew; with her iron principles, her disciplined mind. She had always refused to sink to the family’s levels. The same could not be said for Nate.

  In truth, he was more like his father than he wanted to admit. He knew little enough about Edgar’s early life. Perhaps the only real difference between them was that while Edgar had chosen to immerse himself in the family and control it, Nate had fought to get out of the family. He had tried to change his circumstances.

  And yet here he was, about to return again. The rightful Wildenstern Patriarch was coming home. And he knew that when he walked through those gates once more, violence would be inevitable.

  As if to underscore this thought, Nate heard a low, rumbling growl. He turned to look over at the trees that butted up against the sloping cliff to his right. There was the faintest rustle of something heavy in the undergrowth under the shadows of those trees. Nate tucked the letter back into his pocket and stood up. Two lights gleamed out at him, one slightly duller than the other. A low, bulky shape crept forward out of the tree line. Its front wheel was nearly a foot wide, it was about four foot tall at the shoulders and nearly three across. The horns that acted as handlebars arched up, curving back from the sides of its head, a shadowy shape behind those glowing eyes. The crunch of heather being crushed beneath its wheels could be heard as it came closer, its size and shape difficult to make out behind the light. Its snarl was like a grindstone chewing on gravel. It drew closer still, steam exhaling from its nostrils. It raised the volume of its engine to a roar … and lunged forward.

  Nate stood his ground as the thing rushed towards him. It covered the thirty yards between them in an instant, missing him by inches as it charged past, skidding into a turn as it jumped the stream, sending rocks flying from its spinning back wheel. It stopped there, head and shoulders low as if ready to pounce, growling and trembling as it locked Nate with its intense stare.

  He knew its powerful, sleek form as well as he knew his own face. Formed of silver metal and black ceramic, with markings of red and gold, its horse-sized body stretched between two pairs of muscular legs holding wide wheels which could withstand high speeds and all manner of terrain. It had haunted this area for centuries, before Nate had caught it and become its master. He had not tamed it—this thing would never be tame—but it had once accepted him and trusted him.

  When it turned its head slightly to the side, he noted the ragged scar across the left side of its face. The eye on that side was duller too. Nate winced. He had given the beast that scar. They had not parted on good terms.

  “Hello, Flash, you old cur,” he whispered. “I need you back.”

  The growling velocycle, the Beast of Glenmalure, slinked forward and rubbed its head against his chest and he wrapped his arms around its neck.

  “I’m headed home, old friend,” Nate said. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  Nate whooped with the thrill of the speed, clinging to Flash’s back without a saddle as they tore down the road that ran along the valley. Clouds of dust billowed out behind them, the road ahead picked out by the beams of Flash’s piercing eyes. They leaped off humps in the road, Flash’s engine letting out deep-throated roars that terrified the occupants of the few scattered cottages along the road. It had been some time since they’d heard the beast so close to their homes.

  Flash swept into a left turn and raced up a hill flanked by forested slopes on either side, on the road that would bring them to Laragh, and the main road through the mountains to Dublin. It was a wonderful, twisting turning route up into the hills and Nate relished the thrill of maneuvering Flash at high speed along the narrow road. They swung round a tight corner, Flash’s rear wheel digging into the clay as it bounded forward—

  The back of Nate’s head hit the hard surface of the road even as he was abruptly aware of a sharp pressure on his shoulders and throat. He couldn’t breathe. The world tilted sickeningly around him. He was lying on his back on the road and his neck felt as if it had been cracked like a whip, his throat as if it had been struck by a burning strap of leather. There was a line of pain across his chest and shoulders. Putting a hand to his head, he groaned, struggling to regain his addled senses. If this was another of Gerald’s ambushes, he was in serious trouble. His pistol had fallen from his belt. The one in his boot was within reach, but he was too stunned to coordinate his hand and leg together to pull it out.

  He noticed the rope suspended horizontally above and behind his head. It was stretched across the road at chest height. That was what had knocked him off Flash’s back. Any further theorizing was pushed aside as a revolver was pointed at his face.

  “Stand and deliver, your money or your life!” a voice barked at him.

  Nate squinted up at the dark, trying to focus his blurred vision on the masked figure who held the gun.

  “I didn’t think highwaymen said that kind of thing outside of cheap novels,” he remarked.

  “You’re rich enough to ride an engimal,” the figure sneered, “but stupid enough to come through my domain at this time of night? A perfect victim. Your money, you dog, or I’ll—”

  The robber’s threat was cut off in mid-breath as Flash hit him from behind and flattened him against the road, one big wheel pressing down on the miscreant’s back. The man, who appeared shorter than average, cried out in a rather high-pitched voice. Pinned there by the mighty velocycle, he squealed in frustration. His pistol was just out of reach, so he went to pull another one from his belt, but Flash gave a low rumble of its engine and the robber went quite still.

  Nate sat up and sighed, rubbing his neck and the bac
k of his head.

  “Jesus, perhaps this stuff does seek me out,” he muttered.

  Standing up, he wobbled for a moment, waited until he had found his balance, and walked over to his attacker. A black tri-cornered hat lay on the ground near the man’s head—though he seemed more a boy than a man. He wore a black headscarf covering his hair. Nate picked up the old-fashioned hat and stared at it in bemusement.

  “Who are you supposed to be, Dick bloody Turpin?” he asked. “What century do you think you’re in?”

  The robber lifted his head and looked up. He tried to twist around to face Nate, but Flash gave a grunt and he went still again.

  “Nate?” he said in a girlish voice. “Nate? Is that you?”

  Nate knelt down and pulled the headscarf off the boy, to reveal that he was not a boy at all.

  “Tatty?”

  “Nate? Oh my God! Nate!”

  He pushed Flash off her and lifted her onto her feet. She was dressed in a man’s clothes, her tunic, trousers, belt, riding boots and cloak all colored black. Apart from the distinctive hat, she looked every part the scoundrel. Her arms were around him in an instant and she hugged him as if he was the only thing holding her to the earth. He hugged her back, squeezing her into him. They didn’t say anything at first—she just heaved great sobs as she pressed her face into his chest, and he tucked his chin over her shoulder, stroking her blonde hair. His aching chest and back reminded him of his fall and he lifted his head to look into her face.

  “I have to say, I was hoping for a less violent welcome home from you. What are you doing out here alone at night?” he asked, falling back into his big brother role because he was unsure what else to say. “Have the Wildensterns sunk so low they’re resorting to highway robbery? Or are you out to try and catch this infamous Highwayboy?”

  She pulled her head back and wiped her eyes, her eyes adopting a hardened look that took him by surprise.

  “Oh, Nate,” she said with a smirk. “I am the Highwayboy. I’ve been robbing people for years.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again.

  “I give the money to the poor, of course,” she said. “Well, most of it, anyway. I treat myself to the odd dress or piece of jewelry from time to time. But most of it goes to help people who are too sick to work, or can’t pay their rent on our estates. I break into Oliver’s office and get their names from his files—find the ones who are the worst off. I like to think of myself as a redistributor of wealth … or a thieving philanthropist, whichever you prefer. My God, I can’t believe you’re back! And you’ve got Flash back too! Oh, this is wonderful! And …” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed his clothes “… And what is that charming smell you’ve brought with you? Good heavens, when did you last wash? Still … even so, this is the best thing that could have happened!” She thumped him in the chest—it was a surprisingly sound thump and he coughed a little. She laughed, and then her expression suddenly changed to one of petulant outrage: “But here now … why didn’t you send word you were coming?”

  “Clancy sent a coded message to Daisy months ago,” he replied. “She definitely received it—she’s been in contact with Duffy and Cathal’s father since we landed in Cork. You mean she didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” Tatty snapped, turning away to walk a few steps along the road. She stamped her foot a couple of times. “The deceitful little witch. I’ll pull her ruddy hair out by the roots.” Putting her face in her hands, her shoulders shuddered as she took some deep breaths. “Oh, Nate, it’s been so awful! You’ve no idea what we’ve been through … what … what it’s like to live in that house now. It’s much worse than before. Gerald is a cold-blooded monster who toys with our lives … he’s drained the family’s money and he’s carrying out some bizarre experiments on engimals and now he’s taken Cathal away somewhere and I can’t bear to think what he might be doing with him. And he’s brought that bloody Brutus back from the grave, and now that ogre is running things in the house and in the company and he’s as bad as any of the others—”

  “Brutus is alive?”

  “…And he’s treating Daisy like a secretary and she’s … she’s fit to go out of her mind with all the conniving that’s going on; she’s doing her best but they’re too much for her, you know? She’s trying to set up some plan to bring Gerald down, but he’s so bloody devious, I think she’s just going to get herself into even more trouble!”

  Her shoulders and body slumped and Nate came over to hold her again.

  “And I’m so glad you’re here,” she whimpered. “Daisy and I … we just need someone else to be strong for us, just for a little while. But it’s got so bad … and Gerald’s so damned … so damned powerful and clever. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do either.”

  “I’m so sorry I left,” Nate said to her, taking her face in his hands. “But it had to be done. And now I’m back, and we’re going to stop Gerald. Whatever it takes, we have to stop him. We were always stronger when we were together. But you have no idea how dangerous he could become. Listen to me now, Tatty. I have to go on to Dublin, but I’m coming home soon. And Gerald knows it. He’s been trying to stop me all along the way, and when I walk into that house, all hell is going to break loose. You have to be ready. I’m not going to ask you to run from it, or hide away. I know you better than that. But you must be prepared for the worst, do you understand?”

  Tatty nodded and he hugged her again. He closed his eyes and wished he didn’t have to let her go. Finally, he was within reach of home; not the bricks and mortar and marble of Wildenstern Hall, but those precious few people who really mattered to him. His thoughts went to Daisy. She was only a day’s horse-ride away now. Much less at Flash’s speed. But he wasn’t doing this alone. Like Tatty, he needed to be prepared for what was coming.

  “Oh, I know where Gerald’s secret lair is,” she said, as if just remembering.

  “He has a secret lair?”

  She nodded, brushing some loose hair back off her face.

  “He’s too difficult to follow, but once I’d learned who his lackeys were, I was able to follow them. Some of them are a thick as a bag of hammers—I suppose that type asks less questions. Anyway, he’s carrying out his experiments in this mine in Glendalough. I slipped Daisy a note, so she knows too.”

  “So she doesn’t know you’re the Highwayboy?”

  Tatty shook her head. “No. I … I … I just never got round to telling her. At first I thought she wouldn’t approve, and then … well, I suppose I just enjoyed being this mysterious figure.”

  “How intrepid of you. Some things don’t change, I see,” he chuckled. Pushing her back at arms’ length, he said, “I can’t delay much longer. We only have a few minutes. Tell me about my son.”

  XXVIII

  TAILORING ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY

  IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE DAWN, and the streets of south Dublin were empty and quiet. In less than an hour, the bugler in Portobello Barracks nearby would blow reveille to wake the soldiers, the drivers of the horse-drawn omnibuses would set about harnessing their animals and the lamp-lighters would be doing their rounds on the streets, walking along with their ladders, extinguishing the streetlights. But the gas-lamps still burned, diffused in the mist that rose from the canal, and through their pools of light a slight-figured, bent old man with a turkey neck and long thin hands walked along a narrow street leading to the Grand Canal.

  Rudolf Bloom was one of the finest tailors in Dublin. More than ten years before, he had arrived from Hungary and built his business up from scratch. He had kept his relatively modest home in the small Jewish community on the South Circular Road, but his business premises were in the wealthy, predominantly Protestant, area of Rathmines. He was on his way there along the dark streets, much earlier than normal, having been summoned by a man who had once been one of his most important customers.


  Once. The man was something of a mystery now. It was all highly irregular. Some time ago, Bloom had been sent a telegram by a man named Clancy—one of the Wildensterns’ most trusted servants. The message instructed him to make a suit to precise measurements and charge it to the Wildenstern account. A man’s measurements were like a portrait to Bloom, and he immediately recognized the dimensions as being almost identical to those of the missing Duke of Leinster, Nathaniel Wildenstern—Clancy’s former master. This had immediately posed a moral quandary for Bloom. The telegram had been confidential, but the man’s disappearance had caused much pain to the Duke’s family. Should he inform them or not?

  Bloom was no fool. He was aware of the Wildensterns’ formidable reputation. They were the most influential family in the country, one of the most influential in the world. And the new head of that family, Gerald Gordon, had shown himself to be a distracted, rather capricious type with little sense of duty or social responsibility—unlike the Duke’s sister-in-law, who handled the family’s accounts and was a paragon of respectability and style.

  But Mister Gordon scared Bloom. He had made it clear in his press releases that Nathaniel Wildenstern must be found at all costs. If Bloom had knowledge of his whereabouts and kept them from Gordon, and Gordon found out, it could be the ruin of the old master tailor. And Bloom had a beloved wife who suffered from crippling arthritis, and a good-for-nothing fool of a son who dreamed of life as a writer in Paris but could not even get anyone to read the great tome of a book he had written. Bloom could not afford to lose the Wildensterns’ business. After receiving the telegram, he had made the long and inconvenient journey to Wildenstern Hall to inform the family personally about his anonymous customer.

  And now Nathaniel Wildenstern was coming to be fitted for his suit, before dawn, and in secret. Only Bloom himself was permitted to serve him. Nobody else was to be trusted. It was all highly irregular, but Bloom prided himself on good service.