by G. P. Taylor
Lamian shuddered as if he had heard the words of a ghost. He grabbed the iron poker from the side of the fire and prodded Sarapuk in the chest three times. ‘Stop your gibbering, man,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re giving me the shivers, that’s church talk and there it should stay.’
Sarapuk slid from the chair, collapsing to the stone floor, grabbing hold of the wooden frame like a drowning man clutching for a line. ‘Aaht! What!’ he gargled as his knees smashed to the stone. ‘Long way … forgotten so much … Comes back, comes back … Stalks me in the night, a hound, running after me, chasing me.’ He woke quickly from his dreams, kneeling before Lamian as if he was about to pray to him. ‘I saw it, Cadmus, and the words wouldn’t save me. I could hear its feet pounding in the blackness, feel its breath chasing down my neck, there’s a creature loose and it wants to consume me.’ His eyes filled with tears as he sobbed the final words that choked in his throat. ‘Say you’ll protect me, Cadmus. Let us be more to each other than guzzlers of wine. You are my only friend and each night the hound gets closer to me!’
‘’Tis but a dream, a folly of darkness. There is nothing to fear.’ Lamian clutched the bright white feather like an ancient wand. ‘Look, this will protect you!’ He thrust the feather towards Sarapuk urgently. ‘Belongs to an angel. A finer creature you have never seen. Carried through the heavens on wings, and now it is mine.’
‘Looks like a swan to me. I have had my fill of angel feathers, pieces of the rabbi’s cross and dragon’s teeth. The world is filled with such things, all to be bought for a guinea with a claim that they can cure all.’ Sarapuk wrung his hands furiously, as if to rub off some hidden dirt that clung to him. ‘You are a friend and now a partner in my business, but angel feathers are not what I expected. There are thousands of bald-arsed swans parading their pink rumps through royal gardens and not one of them has given forth an angel feather!’
‘Ah!’ Lamian exclaimed, furiously frustrated. ‘This is not some trick from a menagerie, it is as real as you. I have seen the creature with my own eyes and plucked this feather from its wing with my own hands. It is not swan’s wings pasted to the back of a man. It is an angel.’
Sarapuk jumped up from the chair and grabbed the feather, holding it to the candlelight. His eyes searched each thick strand of gold that pressed together to glow liquid white. It had the feel of rich, precious metal and for its size was incredibly heavy. Sarapuk wafted the feather in the candle flame, hoping to burn Lamian’s fakery. The feather didn’t even smoulder or char. In the centre of the flame it glowed more golden-white. He laid it in the palm of his hand to check the weight as his lined face revealed the workings of his mind. ‘Who made this?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow.
‘I suppose it was he who made us all,’ said Lamian.
‘Rot! I believed that once but like so many things it was stolen away. Now I believe in what I can see and nothing else. When I find that which speaks of another world I will again believe.’ Sarapuk tapped the feather against the side of the table, and with each strike it began to vibrate and resonate. At first the note was so high that it could not be heard, but then as the strikes increased so the sound pinched at the ears like the squeal of bats.
‘It is a very strange thing,’ Lamian said as he reached out for the feather. ‘Do you believe me now?’
‘If I could see the creature then I would believe. I have searched for years for the secret place of the soul. I have anatomised the dead of every race, looking for where the soul hides itself within us. Neither in the brain or the gut can it be found. The heart is not its resting place and it could be decided that the soul does not exist. Yet to find an angel, a real living angel, would change all that. Do you know of such a creature?’ Sarapuk was impatient, his eyes hunting each movement that Lamian made for some hidden clue.
‘I can show …’ The front door slammed as a cold gust of wind rattled the windows of the room and blew bright against the embers of the fire. Lamian’s eyes flashed at Sarapuk to be silent. ‘Who is it?’ he shouted into the hallway. ‘Who is so late that they wake us at this time? We have no food till the morning.’
‘I am late, father,’ Agetta protested against his shouting. ‘I was kept back by Blake and the walk from Bloomsbury was crammed with people watching for another quake. Have you seen the new moon?’ Agetta spoke quickly, hoping to change the conversation as she hid her hand in her skirt. ‘I’ll be straight to bed,’ she shouted from the hallway.
‘Too big to say goodnight to your old man, eh, Agetta? Come in and bid us a good night,’ Cadmus said.
Agetta half-entered the room. She smiled at her father and nodded to Sarapuk.
‘You should be careful along the Strand, Agetta. It’s a place of nighthawks and mollies and not for pretty young girls.’ Sarapuk glared as he spoke.
‘It would be a brave man who took on my Agetta,’ her father replied. ‘Either that or a fool. She packs a punch stronger than any bare-knuckle fighter.’ Lamian raised his fists in mock battle. ‘Come on, Agetta, show him your right hook. Knock this lump off the side of my face!’ Lamian punched the air vigorously.
Agetta stayed on the other side of the doorway. She hid her right hand from view, not wanting her father to see the burn mark in her palm. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, I have done enough for one day,’ she said curtly.
‘Come on, girl,’ Lamian said, his tone changing to the point of insistence. ‘Come fight your old man!’
Knowing she could not refuse, Agetta stepped into the room, holding her right hand behind her back. She didn’t want to explain how the mark had scarred her hand; its dull ache was a reminder of Yerzinia, the carriage and the Absinthium. Dutifully she took a long swing at her father with her left hand, aiming to miss and hoping to keep her other hand out of sight.
‘With feeling, girl, hit as if you mean it,’ Cadmus said as he clenched his fist. ‘Come on, girl – you can do better than that.’ He cracked the air with a punch that made Agetta leap backwards.
It was instinct and years of this fighting that made her lash out. Without thinking she quickly jabbed her right fist through the air, striking her father on the side of his face. He reeled back, laughing.
‘Told you she could fight,’ he said as he dropped his guard and drew his breath. ‘She’s a proper fighter is my Agetta. Taught her the hard way – spare the rod, spoil the child.’
Agetta winced in pain from his words and the wound to her hand.
‘What’s wrong with you, girl? Hit your old man too hard?’ Cadmus looked at Sarapuk and laughed.
Agetta clutched her hand, holding back the tears. ‘I burnt my hand. A candle,’ she said. ‘It caught me on the palm.’
‘Let me see,’ Sarapuk interrupted. ‘I am a doctor, I can help.’
Before she could refuse, Sarapuk had taken two steps and grabbed hold of her hand and unfurled her fingers, exposing the palm to the candlelight. The eye-shaped sore stared back at him, the deep black line around the blood-red centre oozing thick green mucus.
Sarapuk quickly turned her hand away from her father. ‘Keep this well wrapped, especially at night, and show no one,’ he said as he put one arm around Agetta and pulled her closer to him. ‘And stay away from the place where you got it from, they will want more from you than you could imagine,’ he whispered.
‘What is it, man? Let me see!’ Lamian said sharply. ‘She’s my daughter, I should be knowing.’
‘There is nothing to know, Cadmus. She must keep it covered and show no one, not even you. Agetta has a burnt hand; she must keep it wrapped and do nothing to make it worse.’ Sarapuk looked at Agetta. ‘As your doctor I tell you to wrap it in linen and go to your bed, you will feel better in the morning. I will bring something for you to ease the pain.’
Agetta looked to her father. She knew by his look that he felt cheated out of knowing the truth.
‘You better do as Doctor Sarapuk says and get to bed. I will wake you in the morning. Be off with you now.’ Agetta left the room cradlin
g her hand. Lamian slammed the door shut behind her, its thud echoing coldly through the house.
‘Lot of fuss over a burn, Dagda. Sure it was just that?’ he asked.
‘I’m sure. I have seen many burns and that one is typical.
Now tell me, what of this angel? For that I would certainly give a lot of fuss.’
‘First we have a drink and let the lass settle. Then I will take you to a place that is the nearest to heaven we may ever get,’ Lamian replied.
Agetta closed the door to the room she shared with her mother. It was small and cramped, containing two thin beds with shabby horsehair mattresses. A candle burned by the side of her mother’s bed, giving off a dim light that made the room feel cold. She walked carefully across the cluttered floor, avoiding the slop bucket and the bag of flour that had been invaded by mites, then knelt on her bed and pushed against the stiff window frame. It gave way with a creak and the room was filled with fresh London air, bathing the walls in rich moonlight.
Her mother groaned in her sleep, and a hand reached out for the flagon of gin that rested on the table next to her. Mrs Lamian lay like a large whiskered seal stranded on a mound of shingle. Her head rolled from side to side, attached to her body by a long thin neck that disappeared into the ruffles of her sleeping coat. The sound of her rasping snores filled the room, broken occasionally by muffled groans as she waved her hands to brush away imaginary spiders.
Agetta looked out over the sparkling night. It was now bright and clear. Below, the fog clung to the pavement and weaved in and out of alley and street like a long white dragon, swirling its way to the river. She looked at her mother; the bed coat rose and fell with the timing of a clock. Jets of steaming breath blew from her nostrils into the cold air of the room, and the rattle of her lungs and her night tremors kept Agetta from sleep. She waited, watching each breath her mother took, even hoping it might be her last.
Rats scratched inside the wall, their gnawing adding to the cacophony of sleep as Agetta huddled herself in a thick blanket and closed her eyes, hoping the pain would go away and waiting for her mind to be invaded by the overwhelming desire that Yerzinia had said would come. She remembered the luxury of the coach with its soft leather seats, and the luscious fragrance of Yerzinia and her fine clothes. This was a world far away from the filth of her home. It was the world that she now wanted and would do anything to gain.
Her mother snored heavily, and each rasping of her nostrils stopped all possibility of sleep. Agetta watched the deep black shadows crossing the stained wall. She closed her eyes, waiting for the dawn, and the face of the stranger in Holborn filled her mind …
‘Little people should look where they’re going,’ the man said in a deep voice, ‘especially if they have already done this before.’
Agetta looked up. Etched in dark shadow, the stranger looked even taller and more frightening as he towered above her, his black floppy hat wafting in the riverside breeze. The thought of fighting flashed into her mind but her arms and legs were dream-numb, she was unable to move.
‘That is not a good thought,’ said the stranger softly. ‘Your face is connected to your heart and your eyes speak of what the soul can’t hide.’ He held out his hand. ‘Why be frightened of me? You don’t know who I am.’
Agetta couldn’t speak, the words choked in her throat. She reached out her hand to take his. The pavement consumed her, she was falling. Faces flashed by, hands grabbed and tugged her long hair as tattered corpses fell towards her.
There was a sudden long, growling moan. Agetta clutched at the bedclothes as she hit the hard wooden floor with a thud. Her mother snorted loudly. Outside the room Agetta heard the sound of footsteps carefully treading on the wooden staircase. Quickly she leapt back into her bed and pulled the covers over her face.
*
The door to the room creaked open as long fingers held the wooden frame. Under the dank blankets that filled her senses with their musty smell, Agetta knew she was being stared at but didn’t dare move.
‘Sleeping like babies,’ muttered her father as he turned to leave the room.
‘It’s good they don’t know what you are up to, Cadmus. You can never have too many secrets,’ Sarapuk whispered in his seething voice.
Agetta listened to the footsteps climbing the stairs to the locked attic room, her father talking to Sarapuk as they ascended the steep narrow staircase. She heard the key chain rattle against the door and the heavy lock clank open. He was too far away for her to hear what he said. Tiredness crept through her veins and soon the dark face of sleep overwhelmed her again.
‘You can never be too careful, Dagda!’ Lamian said as he shut the attic door and turned the key. ‘I have to keep him chained to the floor with a set of irons. I was told he was faster than Jack the Lad and would escape twice as quick.’ He showed Sarapuk through into an even smaller, darker room lit only by a faint light.
‘So this is your menagerie?’ Sarapuk asked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
‘My prize specimen! For which I paid a king’s ransom,’ Lamian replied.
‘So let us hope that he is real and not just a purveyor of swan feathers!’
Lamian pulled back a dirty curtain. ‘My little angel,’ he exclaimed proudly.
Sarapuk gasped with disbelief. There before him was a man dressed in a silver white coat without hem or seam, spun from a single thread and trimmed in shimmering braid. He had a thick-set jaw and dark skin with bright green eyes that sparkled like emeralds.
‘He is a very fine specimen, but I see no wings,’ Sarapuk said gesturing with his arms as if to fly.
‘That is the beauty of a true angel. I saw one once at the Piccadilly menagerie. He had fine giant wings that stuck through his linen shirt. They could even flap, but what you didn’t see was the leather straps that tied them to a human body. Six months later he was back again, this time as a centaur with the back legs of a dead horse strapped to him. Still people didn’t realise … But my angel is real and his wings are as beautiful as he is.’ Lamian gently stroked the creature’s face.
The angel didn’t acknowledge their presence. His gaze was firmly fixed to the floor, a look of deep sadness covered his face.
‘Does he speak?’ Sarapuk asked excitedly.
‘He sometimes speaks, but neither sleeps nor eats. He just stares at the floor. When he first arrived he glowed, his skin almost shone like burnished copper, his wings were bright white, but now … Somehow he has lost his will, something has changed in him.’
‘Something would change in me if I lived in such a place as this,’ Sarapuk replied, his shoulders shivering. ‘He looks like a man to me. I was expecting to see an angel at least.’
‘An angel he truly is, he is no trick or jester. Underneath that linen shirt is a pair of the finest angel wings London will ever see.’ Lamian spoke excitedly, his eye twitching as he rubbed the lump on the side of his head.
Sarapuk noticed that the creature was manacled to the floor with golden chains fixed to a metal band that clasped each thick bronzed wrist.
Lamian grabbed the back of the linen coat and lifted it high into the air. ‘There you see – wings! Flying wings! Angel wings! Real wings!’ Lamian laughed as he spoke, his eyes flashing over the creature’s back, still disbelieving what he saw. ‘What is amazing is that they can pass through the linen coat at will, and when he decides to do that they triple in size.’
The wings appeared to sit secretly in a recess in the creature’s back shaped to the contours of his body. They were the size of an eagle’s wings, with thick golden-white feathers that shimmered in the candlelight. Sarapuk’s eyes searched for the straps that he thought tied them to its back. He reached out and slid his hand behind the wings, searching in the hidden part of the creature’s back. Suddenly the wings of the angel flicked back and in a split second exploded in size, showering Lamian and Sarapuk in a wave of tiny silver sparks. Lamian dropped the back of the angel’s coat, which fell through the wings as if they wer
e not there. Both men jumped back, aghast at the sight.
The angel’s wings filled the small room and towered over the creature like a shimmering peacock tail, each feather emblazoned with a bright blue eye. Sarapuk hid his face with his hands from the searing white light that now emanated from the wings, almost blinding him. He peered through the cracks in his fingers as the wings pulsated brighter and brighter. The whole room was bathed in a golden glow. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, and the room was plunged back into the light of just one candle. The creature sat, his face sullen, his eyes fixed on a cockroach that scurried across the dirty floor, as if more strength had drained from his impoverished and chained body.
Sarapuk tried to remain calm as his thoughts ran rampant through his mind. ‘You can’t show him to anyone,’ he said quickly. ‘The world would go m-m-mad at the s-s-sight,’ he stuttered. Blood was pounding through the thin veins on the side of his face, throbbing with each beat of his fluttering heart. ‘If I were you, Cadmus, I would sell him to someone who could use this to good effect. Someone who could get to the bottom of his power, someone –’
‘Like you, Dagda? Someone like you?’ Lamian interrupted him in full flow. ‘He’s not for sale, to you or nobody. He’s going on display for all the ladies and gents to see at a guinea a time … and I’ll be a rich man.’
‘He’s an angel, Cadmus, a real angel. He must be examined properly. I have an electronic accumulator, we could see what would happen if he were electrified. It is the best medicine about and could cure his melancholy!’ Sarapuk shouted excitedly.
‘Quiet, man, there are lodgers here who would cut his throat for a farthing, and are so stupid that they would chop off his wings and sell them as swan feathers.’ Lamian pushed Sarapuk out of the room. ‘He doesn’t need any quack medicine, he is my future – and yours if you want it, but on my terms.’