Wormwood

by G. P. Taylor

  From the brightness of the crisp morning sun, Agetta was plunged into the musty darkness of the shop with its smell of damp paper. It reminded her of the beach at Rotherhithe with its stink of rotting fish guts piled on the drying sand at the end of the market. The large vaulted ceiling was like a cathedral. Long strings of dusty cobwebs swayed back and forth, shimmering in the light of the candles that lit each aisle.

  Agetta heard the words of Yerzinia echo in her mind: ‘the bookseller … London Bridge’. Here she was in Bibblewick’s Bookshop. She had never been in such a place before. It was a vast room of dark oak, made from the boards of ancient shipwrecks. High on the wall was a ship’s figurehead, a painted lady dressed in fine purple and blue robes and staring down upon rows of dust-laden shelves stuffed to bursting with volumes of leather-bound books.

  Gently closing the door behind her, Agetta shut out the tolling bells of the church on the corner of Grub Street. They beat and clanged the chorus that God wasn’t dead, calling sleepers to wake up, rise from their beds and step into the light of the sun that would break the charm of darkness. Inside the bookshop the titled walls dulled the noise of the bells.

  Agetta became increasingly aware that in this maze of tall shelves she was being watched. She looked up to the figurehead, whose dead eyes stared back at her. Mice scuttled across the floor around her feet and into the walls. She walked carefully and slowly between two long shelves of books that reached upwards from the floor to three times her height. She could feel a lump grow in her throat as she tried to breathe without making a sound, all the time feeling that someone was there, someone she could not see. There was no sign of the shopkeeper, just row upon row of book-cluttered shelves from which fell showers of fine white dust, blown by a draught through the cracked floorboards and clouding each aisle.

  Agetta stopped, stood still and listened. From the corner of her eye she saw a small dark shape dart from shadow to shadow. The shop creaked and groaned. She could hear the faint sound of water far below. Then she felt warm breath on the back of her neck, blowing against the collar, and heard the sound of children whispering. She turned towards the noise; the shop was still empty.

  Suddenly from the top shelf there was a slithering of damp leather against wood. A cloud of dust and mouse dirt welled up from the floor like a spiralling whirlwind. A large, leather-bound black book fell to the floor, its thick spine clattering against the dirty wooden floorboards and then falling open like a black swan shot from the sky.

  The choking cloud engulfed Agetta as she pressed herself closer to the shelves. Again she heard the faint whispering of children’s voices goading her in her fear. ‘Who is it?’ she shouted. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  A childish giggle sounded from behind the bookshelf. Agetta wanted to run, to escape from the shop and into the light. From above her head again came the slithering of another leather book being pushed from the shelf by unseen mischievous hands. The thick paper crunched against the hard wood, then the book crashed to the floor spine first, falling open. Again the sound of quiet laughter echoed in the aisles as if a hundred children surrounded her.

  Agetta could feel a breeze blowing up and through each crack of the floorboards, bringing with it the smell of the river. The pages of the book began to blow like the October leaves, falling open at a page with thick, black writing.

  Carefully, she edged her way along the side of the bookshelves, looking up to see if another book would fall upon her. Dust billowed around her feet like a thick cloud, then as soon as it had appeared it vanished again, leaving her staring at the book, its yellowed pages sprawled open. Her eyes were drawn to the bold black writing that appeared to have been scrawled by hand across the page:

  Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful,

  Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me …

  Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men!

  Agetta quickly read each line, her heart telling her that these were special, prophetic words, just for her. They were words spoken by creatures that had no human voice and chattered in children’s laughter, playing games of chance with her imagination. She was a slave to fate, and trapped in a maze of secret knowledge. The sound of teasing laughter came again.

  From far below her feet Agetta heard something or someone large being dragged across a stone floor. Candlelight jumped through the gaps between the large oak floorboards, and Agetta lay in the dust and peered down through a large crack into a cellar. Far below, a small chubby man with wispy hair and a balding head dragged a long fat sack across the cellar floor. The man dumped the sack in the corner of the cellar and turned to the door. Agetta saw him no more – but then she heard the muffled thud of heavy footsteps clodding on a wooden staircase, rising from the deep like the approach of some sea monster.

  She ran into the next aisle. It was empty, there was not a sound. All around her were endless shelves and books, a myriad of confusion. She ran along the aisle, turned, and ran again, trying to find the door to the shop. With each turn she knew she was being taken further from freedom as the maze of books drew her closer to its centre.

  The chatter of small feet began to chase her, and childish laughter filled the air. Agetta ran even faster as books tumbled from shelves to the floor behind her, clattering against the boards like heavy rain. She ran left, then right, and with each turn the footsteps got closer, the whispering of tiny voices growing louder and louder. And then, in an instant, Agetta was in the centre of the shop. A large three-legged desk overflowing with papers towered above her. At its side was a small set of steps set below a worn oak standing-plate. To the right was a large door, slightly ajar, through which the smell of the river spewed from the darkness beyond.

  The laughter and the chase stopped, the small voices disappeared, and all was deathly quiet as an eerie stillness filled the room. The papers began to blow with the strong salty draught coming from the cellar. Heavy footsteps beat against each tread. Agetta knew she would not be alone for much longer, and panic flooded through her as she thought what to do. To run meant enduring the chase of ghostly children, to stay meant she would face her future alone. The eye-scar burnt brightly beneath a home-made bandage, its throbbing growing more intense as a rush of blood charged through her veins. The words of Yerzinia came again: ‘the bookseller, London Bridge …’

  Suddenly the cellar door burst open, and before her stood the chubby man with wispy hair and balding head. He smiled at Agetta as if he had been expecting her. In his arms he carried a large bundle of books.

  ‘Tides coming in, had to move these, they are precious, very precious. Didn’t want to get them wet.’ He looked at Agetta and smiled. ‘Make yourself useful, come and give me a hand with these.’

  The man struggled under the weight of the books. Agetta hesitated, then stepped over to help him, taking from him three large volumes of musty paper bound in linen. She read the gold letters on each spine: Dialogues of the Dead, The Nature and Plan of Hell, The Art of Dying Well.

  The bookseller saw the look in her eyes. ‘They’re for a prisoner in Newgate,’ he said. ‘He’s bound for the gallows. A proper gentleman who wants to prepare himself for what is to come.’ He dropped the rest of the books on to the floor. ‘You can put them on that chair. They are a special order to be collected.’ Then he stopped and pulled out a large piece of white cloth from the pocket of his waistcoat and with it wiped his sweaty forehead. ‘I’m Thaddeus Bracegirdle, but you can call me Mister Thaddeus. Now, what can I get for you?’

  Agetta didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m … I’m …,’ she floundered like a dying fish gasping for air. ‘I’m looking for something.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ he said, as he looked her up and down. Thaddeus was a small man with a pot-belly. He had wiry grey hair that straggled to his shoulders and had been swept over his growing baldness. It was his sparkling eyes that intrigued Agetta. She knew she had looked into them before but knew not where. When h
e smiled she saw that he had false teeth that appeared too large for his mouth, though they were skilfully crafted from enamelled copper and fitted with strong springs that caused his mouth to jump open with every spoken word.

  ‘Do you know what you are looking for? It always helps.’ He tried to pile his hair on the top of his head. ‘I’m an Oxford man myself, that’s where I got my love of books. They can bring happiness to dull lives and be the transport to delight, taking us to places and giving us thoughts we could never achieve on our own.’ He stopped and looked at her bandaged hand. ‘What did you do?’ he asked.

  ‘It was burnt,’ she replied quickly. ‘A candle burn. Doctor Sarapuk said I have to keep it covered …’

  Thaddeus looked at her as if the name of Sarapuk had registered within him. He grunted and stared at the books scattered around the shop. ‘Been busy today, looks like they –’ He stopped what he was saying as if he had realised he had given away too much already. ‘Ah yes! Books! Did you know that they give you dreams?’ He took Agetta by the hand and walked her to the low window at the back of the shop that overlooked the Thames. ‘Read a book and dream for a week, that’s what I say. Forget cheese or curdled milk, if you want to dream, read a book. Better still read one of mine!’

  Thaddeus ran his finger along a shelf of books as if looking for a particular one. He grabbed a thin green volume and handed it to Agetta. ‘This one’s mine,’ he said proudly. ‘It started life as a dream, one of those dreams you have before you wake. I remember it well.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Agetta asked as she looked through the pages.

  ‘It’s about a man who spent years of his life looking for something and then he met someone and fell in love and he never had to search again.’ Thaddeus looked at the river out of the window. A strange melancholy fell over them both, and for several minutes they stared in silence upon the changing scene. Far below, little red and green boats carried people back and forth across the Thames, and small waves lapped against the far shore. A pillar of cloud wafted up from a tall chimney by the leather-works in Southwark village, touching earth to sky and towering over the green fields that ran along the riverside.

  It was as if they searched the horizon for something that they had lost, something precious that had escaped them. The tide changed; beneath them the old Thames sighed as deep swirls of white water broke against the thick columns of the bridge. Thaddeus looked down at a struggling boatman who frantically tried to escape the whirlpool.

  ‘A wise man crosses the bridge whilst only the fool goes beneath it. They say that on the Feast of St Clement, just as the sun rises, a whirlpool appears under the bridge. As the sun strikes the water, if you dive from the bridge into the centre of the maelstrom you will be taken from this world and into another. A place of beauty and mystery where we are no longer slaves to fate, chance, kings and desperate men.’

  The words sent a shudder through Agetta and broke her dreaming. Her whole body shook, as if gripped by a sudden force.

  Thaddeus saw what had taken place. ‘Happened to me once. Like someone had walked straight through you. You just have to hope they came out the other side and don’t start playing mischief with you,’ he said as he looked around. It was as if he wasn’t speaking to her but to someone else, someone who was nearby and listening to their every word. He looked again at the book in her hand. ‘Many a man’s desire has come from the pages of a book. They are like fires to the imagination. A revolution can be started by one word, a single sentence can give man courage to fight any battle.’ He stopped suddenly, as if he had forgotten something vitally important. ‘In all this talking I forgot to ask your name. It’s my fault, I always speak too much.’

  ‘Agetta Lamian,’ she replied dreamily. ‘From the lodging house on Fleet Street.’

  He looked again out of the window as if he hadn’t heard her reply. ‘There’s only one book I need for my collection, and then I can die a happy man. It’s a book so rare that if I were to have it then I could regain someone I lost so long ago.’ He turned and stared at Agetta, his lips thinned and angry, and a tear rolled slowly across his cheek. ‘I almost had the book once. Had a place set aside on my keep shelf, but before I could take it, it was snatched from me, never to be seen again. With it I lost the only person who I have ever cared for. She was a young girl just like you, a smile like yours and a heart of fire. She wanted more than a young scholar at Oxford. Her life was set for greatness, mine for obscurity. She left me something I could never forget and that I’ll carry till the day I die.’ Thaddeus rubbed the palm of his right hand.

  ‘Does this book have a name?’ Agetta asked, wanting to help him. ‘I could search all the bookshops in London. I can read, you know. Then you could get the book and the girl you lost.’

  ‘Why help me?’ Thaddeus sat on a ledge and stared out of the window. ‘You don’t know me, never met me before.’

  ‘But does it have a name?’ she said insistently.

  ‘The Nemorensis … It’s called the Nemorensis,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s an old book written thousands of years ago. A beautiful creation.’ He was suddenly animated again, his melancholy had vanished. ‘Such a book would be worth all I had, such a book would be worth dying for …’

  The name of the Nemorensis etched itself into Agetta’s mind. It was like a key being fitted snugly into a lock and slowly turned. She repeated the word over and over again, and pictures of another world flashed across her memory. Her hand began to ache painfully as fresh blood seeped through the bandages. She held her hand close as the throbbing and the pain increased. Thaddeus grabbed hold of her to stop her from falling. Agetta sat on the window ledge, hoping the pain would go away. In her mind the thought of the Nemorensis churned and swirled over and over, welling up in her throat as if she was being forced to say the word.

  ‘NEMORENSIS!’ she shouted out like a woman strapped to a birthing chair. ‘NEMORENSIS! NEMORENSIS!’ Relief was etched in her face as the spell took hold and the pain ebbed away from her hand. She knew this was Blake’s book, the one he had spoken of on the night of the sky-quake.

  She looked down at the bloodstained bandages that Thaddeus began quickly to unwind. He lifted the linen swab from where the wound had been to reveal fresh new skin. Gone was the burn, there was no scar. Staring back at them was a bright red mark etched in black, in the shape of an eye. Agetta curled up her hand – there was no pain.

  Thaddeus looked at her. ‘I knew there was something strange about you,’ he said as he folded away the bandages. ‘I was meant to meet you today, you have been sent to me. I know that mark well. It burns into the hand like a seed and when the time is right it bursts forth to grow in the mind. These last days have been –’

  ‘They have been dreadful,’ Agetta interrupted. ‘So incredibly strange, things that I have never experienced before have been around every corner. I have had no one to tell. My father would …’ She stopped speaking and looked at Thaddeus.

  ‘He would think you were fit for Bedlam and as far gone as a Vauxhall mollie. I know Cadmus Lamian. He’s not a dreamer or a seer. Feet fixed to the soil and a belly washed with gin.’

  Thaddeus and Agetta laughed. For the first time she felt a deep sense of relief, that in this man she had found someone who would understand her.

  ‘I know what you have gone through, and in Mister Thaddeus you will always have a friend.’

  There was a sudden and urgent jangling of the doorbell. Thaddeus looked at Agetta and gestured for her to be quiet. ‘Go find a book. They will not bother you when we have a visitor in the shop. It takes special ears to hear where they are and not everyone has that.’

  The sound of metal-tipped heels tap-tap-tapped across the shop floor, purposefullly heading through the aisles of books towards them. Agetta pretended to be busily looking at the bookshelf in front of her whilst Thaddeus returned to his desk, climbed the steps and stood on the waiting-plate, from where he could see every aisle of the shop. He took a pair of thick-wi
red spectacles from the pocket of his waistcoat, put them on the end of his nose and peered into the gloom.

  Walking towards Thaddeus down the long aisle of history books was a tall man dressed from head to foot in black and wearing a floppy hat pulled down over his face. His tunic was etched in gold braid, his boots crisp and bible-black. The man turned the corner and stood before Thaddeus, who peered down at him over the top of his spectacles like some large ferocious owl. The man stared at Thaddeus, raising one eyebrow and smiling through steely lips.

  ‘I’m looking for a book,’ he said loudly, his accent making Agetta turn suddenly to face him. The shock of seeing the man threw her back against the shelves, startled. It was the man from Holborn, the stranger from the dream. He looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Three times in as many days,’ he said in his soft voice. ‘I would say that you are following me.’

  Thaddeus interrupted quickly. ‘Is it a special book you are looking for, sir? I see from your clothes you are not from these parts.’

  ‘You are a very clever man and right on both counts. The book I am looking for is very special. It was once mine, but I somehow mislaid it many years ago.’ He paused and stared at Agetta. ‘Stupid of me, really. It is not the kind of book that should fall into the wrong hands, it contains too many family secrets.’

  ‘You must come from a fine family to have books written about you!’ Agetta said boldly. ‘No one would ever want to write anything about me.’

  ‘It is more important to be known well by one person than to have the favour of the whole world,’ the stranger replied.