Wormwood

by G. P. Taylor

  6: Malus Maleficia

  Mrs Malakin waddled along the long hallway of 6 Bloomsbury Square. The clattering of the tapping-handle against the brass plate echoed irritatingly through the house. She wheezed angrily as she walked, gulping her breath and wiping the black soot stains from her fat rosy cheeks with the hem of her apron. The hallway was filled with a haze of smoke from a freshly-lit fire in the drawing room, where the fumes struggled to escape through the narrowed vein of the crow-blocked chimney.

  ‘Yesterday! Everyone wants things to happen yesterday!’ she said as she struggled to the door.

  ‘The door, Mrs Malakin! Can you get the door?’ Blake’s voice tumbled down from the observation room. ‘It’s Bonham and the others, ask them to wait in the drawing room.’

  Mrs Malakin nodded to herself, muttering under what breath she had left. She unbolted the door and let in the night. Before she could give any greeting, Bonham pushed her out of the way and stepped into the hall, followed by two men in fine wigs and frock coats.

  ‘Doctor Blake,’ Mrs Malakin said as she gasped in the cold night air, ‘would like you in the drawing –’

  Bonham didn’t speak. He appeared to be deeply agitated as he led the distinguished guests into the drawing room. He sniffed the air, frowning at the small thin man who followed closely behind. The ceiling of the room was obscured by a thick white cloud of smoke that hung in the air and stung the eyes.

  ‘He wants you to wait here,’ said Mrs Malakin as she slammed the door behind them and fought the urge to lock them in the room for ever. She tried to laugh, but lungs wracked by the fumes from years of bleaching cloth allowed her only a hollow cough.

  Sabian Blake ran down the stairs clutching his small oriental cap, his blue silk house coat billowing out like a ship in full sail. Mrs Malakin lurched out of his way to avoid being cast down the stairs into the kitchen.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Blake shouted loudly before he had opened the door. ‘What a night awaits us all. Everything is set and –’ He flung open the drawing-room door, and smoke wafted out into the hall. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘let us not wait here. The stars are rising and tonight I have something to show you that will astound even the hardest cynic.’

  Bonham stepped out of the smoke into the soft milky candlelight of the hallway. The other guests appeared from the drawing room like ghosts from the grave.

  Blake greeted each one by name. ‘Mister Yeats … Lord Flamberg … Welcome!’ He clapped his hands together and smiled. ‘Let us wait no longer, what I would have you see is soon to rise from the depths of heaven.’ He turned and gestured for them to follow up the stairs.

  ‘I hope this won’t take long, Blake,’ said Yeats in a precise voice as he combed his long thick beard with his fingers. ‘I have a table at cards waiting. I can’t see what all the fuss is about. Bonham was most adamant it had to be tonight. Acting like a madman.’

  ‘Let God preserve us from madness and Bedlam,’ replied Blake quickly. ‘If what I believe is true then what you see tonight may herald more insanity than anything you have seen in the King’s madhouse.’ Blake stooped on the stairway and turned to face the men. ‘I must ask you before we go any further. What you see tonight is a secret to be kept until the proper time. You, Yeats, are here not for any grasp of science but for the fact of the scandal sheet you call a newspaper. In three days’ time you can broadcast to the world what you see tonight. Is that agreed?’

  Yeats looked to the floor and wiped his long thick fingers along the banister rail thoughtfully. He held out a dust-stained finger to Blake. ‘Dirt! It’s everywhere, and it’s my job to tell the world about it. Kings and slaves, rich and poor. None of them can escape it. It fills our streets and it fills our minds and I am here to expose it to the world.’

  ‘Yes, and to whoever wants to buy the London Chronicle,’ Bonham butted in. ‘Do you agree with him or not? If it is aye then we carry on, if not I will throw you down the stairs and you can go and play cards with your mollies.’

  Yeats turned and towered over Bonham. He was a giant of a man with a thick, rugged brow, steel-blue eyes and the frame of a wrestler. Yeats feared no human adversary. ‘You will what, Bonham? Throw me where, Bonham?’ He seized Bonham by the collar of his coat and with one hand lifted Bonham from his feet and suspended him in the air. ‘Would you like to fly? You could be the first scientist to experience the wonder of flight.’ He lifted Bonham even higher, holding him towards the stairwell and the drop to the floor below. ‘I am in this, Bonham, because I smell a good story and I’ll keep your game as long as I have to.’ Yeats laughed and dropped Bonham to the stairs.

  ‘Gentlemen, let us continue. The stars will not wait, and we have so much to talk about and so much to see.’ Blake quickly paced up the remaining flight of stairs to the observation room.

  The large brass telescope pointed out to the night sky. It was set to the very crown of heaven where the sky was at its blackest and the dim light from the London streets could not penetrate. Far below, life went on as usual, unaware of the events taking place above.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Blake said as he ushered them in excitedly. ‘Gather round and I will explain what you are about to see.’

  Blake spoke to Yeats as if he was the only one to be convinced. He knew that Lord Flamberg and Bonham would believe whatever he had to say. They were Royal Society men and knew Blake well. To convince Yeats was vital – he could tell the world of Blake’s Comet. For several minutes Blake spoke of what he had found, pacing the room vigorously, waving his hand and pointing to the sky. The gathering listened quietly. Even Yeats stood and watched his every move, intrigued as to what would come next.

  ‘You see, gentlemen, this could mean the end … The end of life from here to Paris. Or the comet could miss the earth and shower us with rocks from space. How do you tell that to the world without them all going mad or hanging me as a liar if I’m wrong?’ Blake stopped speaking and looked at the men.

  ‘So how do you know it will strike here?’ Yeats asked cautiously, pulling on his beard.

  ‘From the height of the comet in the eastern sky and from the turn of the planet divided by the distance it has travelled so far it will either smash into the earth or pass five miles above our heads. Whatever happens there will be devastation never seen before.’

  ‘The comet – if it is to strike the earth, when will it happen?’ Lord Flamberg asked anxiously.

  ‘I cannot be sure, but I know that in twenty days we will either still be here or the dust of Cheapside will be mingled with our bones.’ Blake walked to the telescope. ‘It is time for you to see for yourselves. There is some cloud, but the comet can be seen. It is getting closer with each day, much closer.’

  Lord Flamberg stepped forwards and looked through the lens of the telescope at the monster that hurtled through deep space towards them. There was complete silence in the room. The candlelight flickered in the breeze from the open window, and the sound of clattering hooves in the street echoed coldly like the slow march of a funeral procession.

  Yeats looked on impatiently, awaiting his turn. He rummaged in his coat pockets, turning out scraps of torn paper on to the floor and tapping the heel of his shoe against a loose floorboard. Finally Lord Flamberg stepped away from the telescope. Yeats saw a strange look sweep across his face. He stepped to the eyepiece and stooped down to look into space.

  There before him was a ball of reddish-white light, a speeding mass the size of a fist, its long tail stretching off into the distance. To Yeats it looked like an exploding star, hanging against the black backcloth of space like the lights on London Bridge floating above the river in the October mist.

  ‘Is that it? Is that what all the fuss is about? It’s beyond the heavens, man! How can you worry about that?’ Yeats asked in his deep northern voice.

  ‘If you knew the first thing about science you would be greatly concerned,’ Flamberg replied before anyone else could speak. ‘From the shape of the comet’s tail it is clea
r that it is coming towards us. Your job is to break the news to the world, but not the truth … That would be too much for people to understand – and we cannot have London alarmed, there could be a revolution.’

  ‘So what do you want me to say? “Comet found, night spectacular to illuminate London”? I know, even better: “The hottest thing since the Great Fire and it’s coming right to your doorstep!” Is that the headline you want me to write? Who’s to say there isn’t some other fool scientist watching the thing right now and about to tell the world what you don’t want them to know?’ Yeats pulled angrily on his long beard.

  ‘That’s why on Monday next you must publish that Blake has found a comet,’ Flamberg said as he closed the window to the room and pulled the curtains over the glass. ‘Say that it will miss the earth, and that I have confirmed Blake’s calculations. The Royal Society says –’

  ‘The Royal Society, that wonderful collection of misfits and charlatans! Blind them with new science! Is that what you’d have me do?’ Yeats asked. ‘Look what happened the other night. One tremor and the whole city was in uproar, there were over a hundred people killed. Explain that to me. What caused that? Why did all the dogs in London go mad? None of you can give me an answer. Science, my dear friends, has been held in the balance and found wanting. You should all stick to trying to make gold from lead. Isn’t that how it all started? Glorified sorcerers, the lot of you!’

  Yeats walked to the door, pushing Bonham out of the way. ‘You’ll get your story, Flamberg, but I want to know what is happening, and if it is going to hit I want my carriage to be the first on the North Road out of this stinking city. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing business.’

  Yeats slammed the door and stormed down the stairs. His heavy frame could be heard rattling each step and thudding towards the front door. There was a loud bang as he left the house.

  The scientists stood in the dim candlelight and looked at each other. ‘What will he do?’ Bonham asked as he cautiously broke the strange silence that had fallen in the room.

  ‘He is my man,’ said Lord Flamberg, calmly. ‘He will do what I say and he knows it. Without my money he would have no paper, but that is not common knowledge.’

  ‘Why now, Blake? First the tremor and now the comet. Is there more to this than we will ever know?’ Bonham asked quietly, his eyes searching the room. ‘If I were a religious man I would say this was the last judgement and this creature in space is the creator’s way of bringing an end to us all. He promised never again to send a flood, but there was no mention of stars falling to the earth.’

  ‘You are right,’ Blake said. ‘As you quite rightly say there is no mention of stars crashing from space, and what we observe is a scientific problem, not a spiritual one. As scientists it is our duty to our craft to give good, clear insight into what is happening and give a warning to the world in due season.’

  ‘Or no warning at all,’ Lord Flamberg said coldly. ‘I don’t think we should tell the people anything. The King as our patron must know so he can go to a place of safety, and our families, servants and fellow members of the Society. It should be done in a way as to not attract any panic, but I will tell Yeats that no mention shall be made of where the comet may strike. The London Chronicle will ridicule any scientist or quack doctor who dares to say the comet will strike the earth.’ Flamberg paused, and a surge of dark inspiration rushed through him. ‘We could invite all the people to a party to see the star pass the earth. Ours could be safely out of the way in the north, and theirs could be in Hyde Park by Triple Tree.’

  ‘They would be condemned to death! It would be a disaster,’ Bonham said in disbelief.

  ‘Would that be such a bad thing?’ asked Flamberg. ‘It would only be finishing what we started with the Great Fire. There is a need for the world to be cleansed of ignorance, superstition and fear. This could be a way of achieving such an outcome. What you call a disaster I would call an opportunity.’ Flamberg looked at the two men. There was a passion in his eyes that Blake had never seen before. ‘Newgate can’t hold any more prisoners and Bedlam is crammed with the mad. An apocalypse of this magnitude would clear London of every ounce of scum that litters its streets. Not a bad evening’s entertainment.’ Lord Flamberg smiled at Blake. ‘Yeats and I will take chocolate with you at Nando’s coffee house tonight at eleven. I bid you goodnight, and may we all keep this a secret.’

  Flamberg walked to the door of the room and, pushing past Mrs Malakin, quickly left the house.

  Bonham looked at Blake. ‘You never told him what it said in the Nemorensis. You had an opportunity to tell him everything and you didn’t,’ he said angrily. ‘What about the prophecy? Wouldn’t Lord Flamberg think differently if he knew of the book?’

  ‘Flamberg would think the same whether he knew of the Nemorensis or not. I cannot trust him enough to explain about what we know. He is a scientist, he knows little of faith. The Nemorensis is the truth of the universe, it is science, reason and all that is eternal mixed together in one perfect truth. Lord Flamberg has his feet stuck in the clay of human reason. The science of the Cabala is beyond him.’ Blake looked to the cabinet where he had hidden the Nemorensis. ‘It must be kept a secret.’

  He looked anxiously at Bonham, his brow furrowed with worry. Blake drew in a long breath. ‘I have something to tell you. You will think I am mad. Last night I read the Nemorensis from cover to cover, and as I turned the final page there before my eyes was another page with more inscriptions. They talk of a power coming into the world when Wormwood strikes, but that is not all.’ Blake rubbed the sweat from his forehead. ‘This morning I went back to check my work, I took the Nemorensis from the cabinet, unwrapped the book and then opened it at the last page. There were two new pages, new inscriptions with hand-etched words in the margins. Believe me, Isaac, I am not going mad.’

  Blake rushed to the cupboard and, taking the long brass key from his pocket, opened the thick lock that kept the doors tightly shut. With much ceremony he took the Nemorensis from the shelf and carried it to the table.

  ‘See for yourself.’ Blake pointed to the new work.

  Bonham stared in disbelief. ‘Did you do this, Sabian?’ he asked as he flicked the pages back and forth, his eyes searching for any clue as to how the pages had been inserted.

  ‘You won’t find a stitch or glue,’ Blake replied. ‘It is as if they grow from the spine like the leaves of a plant reaching for the sun. They are stuck fast. I tried to pull one from the book today, but with all my strength it would not move or tear.’

  Bonham flicked to the final page. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It speaks of torment and destruction, fire and brimstone. The earth will shudder and this will be the start of a time of great suffering. The Nemorensis speaks of a creature. A man who can fly and has escaped from the heavens. He has the answer to our questions.’

  ‘Do you believe this, Sabian? Books that grow and comets that will destroy life?’

  ‘I believe what I can see and experience. I search for truth.’ Blake stopped speaking and walked across the room to the window. He pulled back the curtain, forming a small chink through which he stared out into the square. ‘Come and see,’ he called to Bonham. ‘Every night, all night, under the trees stands a man. He is watching this house.’

  Bonham peered through the gap in the curtain. There, far below in the shade of the elm trees, Bonham could see the dark figure of a man and the ember glow of a clay pipe.

  ‘He’s there all the time,’ said Blake. ‘Followed me to Piccadilly and back. He dresses like a Huguenot, black hat, long black coat and never a smile.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just a refugee from the persecution. A refugee waiting to rob you for what money you have.’ Bonham laughed.

  ‘You may laugh, Isaac, but this whole situation grows stranger by the day. I believe there are powers at work that we know little about. If he is a Huguenot, then he will not be here on Sunday morning. The appeal of the church bells will be too muc
h for him to resist.’

  ‘So why don’t you follow him? He will have to eat or sleep somewhere and even the French are not so blatant as to relieve themselves under an elm tree.’

  ‘I have watched him, and he doesn’t eat or sleep. He is there when I go to bed and again when I rise. He never moves unless I move. When the wind blows, he just turns up his collar and props himself against the side of that tree. If I hadn’t seen him close to I would say the man was a ghost.’

  ‘Even the living have a way of haunting us,’ Bonham said as he stared down to the street. ‘Shall I go and offer him supper? Perhaps he would be more comfortable if he came and rested with you, so you would both know where each other –’

  ‘So he could slit my throat and have done with it?’ Blake replied.

  ‘Well, let us see the man’s face,’ Bonham said. He dragged the telescope towards the window and thrust the lens through the chink in the curtain.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Blake. ‘What’s happening to him?’

  As the two men looked on, the stranger began to vanish before their eyes. First his legs turned to silver embers that danced like the sparks of the fire. Then his hands burnt white hot as the light engulfed his arms and torso. Then, suddenly, he was gone. The leaves of the elm tree blew across the grass. There was no sign of the man, he was no more.

  Blake stared into the darkness. The light from the tavern cast eerie shadows through the trees. Dying leaves hung like dead men from the branches and rattled against each other. Through the square danced imps of river mist that swirled in the lamplight. He looked again and again, believing that his eyes had told untruths.

  Neither Blake nor Bonham saw the small squat creature that hobbled through the dirt of the street below their window and scurried like a hungry rat down the cellar steps of the house and through the open scullery door.

  7: The Bibblewick of London Bridge

  A tiny brass bell jangled above her head as Agetta tried to sneak through the small opening and into the shop. The sign above the door read in bold letters: ‘Bibblewick Books – Thaddeus Bracegirdle – Bookbinder & Seller.’ The words were surrounded by the gold-painted pages of a large book. In the swift river breeze it flapped backwards and forwards on its hanging-post, welcoming all to a new world.