by G. P. Taylor
The shop door slid open and the sound of heavy breathing filled the bookshop as a large creature scraped at the floor with long, sharp claws. Mist from the street flooded into the bookshop and began to blot out the light from the candles. In the doorway stood a tall man with long wiry hair and a thick country coat. In one hand he clutched the reins of a squat black creature, half-dog, half-monkey, that sniffed the air as it panted in its harness and stared into the shop through blood-red eyes.
‘If they are here then the Diakka will find them,’ the man said as he looked back into the carriage.
Tegatus pressed the long flat stone at the base of the fireplace and pushed Agetta through the gap between the stone pillar and the brazier that sizzled as it consumed a fresh holly log. The back of the fire tilted and they both stepped through the opening into a small room filled with wood smoke. In the corner, a narrow set of steps led up into the wall and the darkness. The boy stepped through the wall and stood between them, his outline etched in smoke for Agetta to see for the first time.
From outside they could hear the Diakka dragging itself across the wooden floor, getting closer and closer.
17: Aurora Sanguinea
The thick black mud of the Holborn streets stuck to Bonham’s boots as he scraped them against the iron scouring plate outside 6 Bloomsbury Square. Blake scurried by and into the house, clasping the golden hilt of his sword and cursing the night under his breath. He didn’t wait for Bonham to follow him, but stamped up the stairs leaving a trail of black footprints across the fine weave of the Turkish carpet that covered the wooden boards of the long hallway. He fumed with anger at not finding Agetta and the book. He could feel himself being drawn deeper and deeper into black bitterness and resentment. The world is full of fools who delude themselves and critics who cannot see the poisonous warts that sprout from their own faces like rat droppings, he thought to himself, his hatred growing towards everyone who had ever condemned his new science as magic.
He turned and looked at Bonham, who prodded precisely at the dirty soles of his riding boot. Blake had known him for many years, but their friendship had been tormented with misunderstandings to which he had turned a blind eye. Like a saint he had carried Bonham through deep water, allowing Bonham to steal his own ideas. Now as he stared at him he saw someone who could never have an original thought of his own, a man for whom he had nothing but contempt.
Blake took the sword from his belt and stabbed it into each stair as he climbed towards the observation room. The long passageway was littered with the debris of violence from the night before. Wood chunks stuck out from the plaster walls like hedge-pig spines, and a harvest of green, leafy fungus grew from the place where the feet of the Sekaris had trod. In the observation room, Blake looked at the empty shelf where he had so preciously hoarded the Nemorensis. All his hope had gone, he thought, and his quest for understanding now rested within his imagination. No longer could he rely on the Nemorensis to guide and direct him.
The Sekaris lay on the table, the fine red handkerchief still covering its leafy green face. Blake crossed the room and prodded the creature with the tip of his sword. Its skin was hard and firm against the blade. They would have to believe him, all those preened poodles that masqueraded as scientists. The Royal Society could not laugh at him now, Blake thought as he contemplated slicing the creature like a cured ham and serving it to them with cold cabbage. He bent over and examined the hide of the creature, looking at the glistening drops of dew that slowly seeped from its skin. He picked at the thick leaf that formed its ear, pulling it from the head with a sharp tug. He held it to the light of the candle as he rubbed the waxy covering between his fingers. It had the touch of chocolate and the smell of rough tobacco. The skin-leaf reminded him of Oldenberg’s Coffee House on the night they had taken a goat and transfused its blood into Joshua Oldenberg. The man had become a marvel of London society, bleating and butting from that day on, transformed by the sanguine elixir from server of dark rich coffee to a chewer of lane grass and parsley.
‘My sole is rotten,’ Bonham said as he walked unannounced into the room. ‘I gave a fortune for these boots and one hour in the mud has eaten its way through them like paper.’
‘It is a sign of the times,’ Blake replied.
Bonham stood uncomfortably close to him and looked over his shoulder as Blake examined the creature further. ‘Where did it come from?’ he asked casually, prodding it with his finger.
Blake didn’t answer, trying to bury the conversation in silence.
‘It must be some new creature from Africa,’ Bonham said. ‘I once saw an animal with a neck so long that it could eat from the top of a tree. It had horns on its head like a devil and a tongue that could lick its own eyebrows.’
‘Interesting,’ Blake replied in a whisper.
Bonham wandered across the room to the telescope and peered into space through the brass eyepiece.
‘How many days until mayhem comes to London?’ he asked.
‘Fifteen, sixteen. There is plenty of time to get out and leave for safety.’
‘Your comet looks closer than I would expect,’ Bonham said as he turned from the telescope.
‘So you’re an astronomer now, Isaac?’ Blake replied, irritated at Bonham’s concern for his comet. ‘Let me see.’ He stomped across the room and pushed Bonham out of the way.
He stared through the eyepiece at the comet. It was now the size of a fist in the centre of the lens and bright enough to be seen clearly with the eye. The dragon tail had vanished, and Blake saw for the first time that the comet had changed course and was several days closer to the earth than the book had told him.
‘Isaac, we have a problem,’ he said as he stared into space. ‘The sky dragon comes at us from a different part of the heavens, and by dawn it will be visible in the morning light. The Nemorensis was wrong … or I was wrong.’ A look of panic flared across his face. ‘We have two days at the most before our judgement is upon us.’
Blake stepped back from the telescope and rubbed his eyes as if to rid them from the sight of the dragon. He trembled as he walked to the window and looked down on the square.
Outside, London woke from its slumber. In the growing light people began to fill the streets with their daily clamour. Already at this dark hour coachmen clattered across the cobbles in their carriages. Children gathered barefoot on the corner to beg from passers-by, and milkmaids waddled under the weight of the large churns they carried on ox-yokes that dug sharply into their shoulders. All were oblivious to the impending fate that hung in the sky above their heads.
‘They have no idea,’ Blake said remorsefully as he watched the people pass by beneath him. ‘There is nothing we can do. If we tell them it’ll cause even more death.’ He paused and looked at Bonham. ‘Flamberg is right, better for them to die suddenly in ignorance than slowly, knowing that the heavens are going to fall upon them.’
Bonham didn’t reply. He looked into the mirror above the fire as he warmed his feet.
‘I have this overwhelming desire to tell them all what is going to happen,’ Blake said as he opened the metal clasp and flung open the sash to lean out in the street. ‘There’s a comet coming and you’re all going to die!’ he shouted as loud as he could above the cacophony. There was no response, not even a turning of one single head. Blake shouted even louder to the groundlings. ‘In two nights your lives will be blasted from the planet and all you care about is food in your belly and gin on your tongue!’
‘Leave it, Blake,’ Bonham said, pulling him away from the window. ‘It’s of no use, man. How can you be so certain it will strike sooner? The book said –’
‘The book was wrong, I was wrong. I don’t know how it happened. It was very clear. When I read the Nemorensis it told me that from seeing the comet to it striking the earth would be twenty-one days. Now when I look through the telescope it is clear that we have very little time. The beast has turned and I think it comes to devour the earth.’
B
lake stopped speaking and closed his eyes. He felt as if his mind had been torn in two and strange hands had pulled his brain apart. He gripped his head with both hands. ‘I feel there is a battle taking place for my mind, Isaac. In one breath I have to help them, in the other I care not if the whole world is destroyed. I am going to tell Yeats what has happened – he will tell the world through the Chronicle, and then I can leave this life with a clear conscience.’
‘That’s a rash thing to do. The man can’t be trusted, he’s not one of us. Surely you should tell Flamberg and allow him to spread the news.’ Bonham spoke quickly, his eyes flashing from Blake to the open window. Suddenly he rushed towards Blake, his arms outstretched as if he were about to push him from the window to the street below.
‘I brought you gentlemen some breakfast,’ Mrs Malakin commanded as she burst into the room with a tray of hot meat and coffee. She saw Bonham lurching forward to push Blake. ‘No!’ she shouted, and Bonham grabbed Blake and pulled him back from the window.
‘By Hermes, Blake, I thought you were going to fall,’ Bonham said as he looked sharply at Mrs Malakin. ‘You were swaying with the madness that has taken your mind, all that you have endured has been too much for you.’ Bonham looked again at Mrs Malakin. ‘Make ready his bed chamber, he needs to rest,’ he said, guiding her from the room. ‘Come, Sabian, you need sleep. There’s plenty of time for you to meet with Yeats if you must. Come to your room and rest a while. I will take care of you.’
Bonham led him quickly from the observation room and along the passageway to where Mrs Malakin busied herself making ready his chamber. Blake sat on the bed as Bonham pulled the doctor’s muddy boots from his feet and covered him in his night coat, then fed the fire with several small logs.
‘Sleep, my dear Sabian, and soon the light of day will ease the troubles of your mind.’
‘What of the comet?’ Blake asked wearily, his mind overcome by waves of anxiety that he had never known before.
‘The comet will still be there and together we can devise a plan for the city.’
‘Dear Isaac, I even began to mistrust you. Now I know true friendship,’ Blake said as he tried to make sense of the confusion in his mind. ‘I feel as if I am fit for Bedlam.’
‘This madness can even creep into that which we hold most precious,’ Bonham replied as he ushered Mrs Malakin from the room and led her along the landing to the servants’ stairs. ‘He is not to be disturbed, do you understand, Malakin? No nursemaid for him. The doctor needs his sleep.’
Mrs Malakin was pushed into the dark, twisting stairwell and the door was slammed and locked behind her. Bonham hurried back to the observation room and pulled the window shut, firmly securing the black metal catch. He turned to the mirror and preened himself in the reflection of the mercury lens, wiping away the dark stains of mud from under his eyes. In the looking-glass he saw the Sekaris on the table behind him, a lifeless hand dangling towards the floor. Bonham smiled to himself in the mirror.
With his left hand, Bonham checked his pocket, feeling for a small glass bottle with a wooden stopper. He reached further and, clasping the rim carefully, lifted it from his pocket. The thick, deep blue glass shone with the light from the fire. Bonham gently pulled on the wooden stopper and stared at the opaque liquid that filled the bottle. Still holding the top in one hand, he dipped his little finger into the fluid and touched his tongue, tasting the salty solution.
Bonham crossed the room and pulled the handkerchief from the creature’s face. He looked down at the Sekaris and saw the wound from the pistol shot. It had grown crisp and hard, its outer edges flaked with green mud. With his little finger he dripped several drops of the liquid from the bottle into the wound.
‘Angel tears shall bite your wound, like the teeth of the hound.
Salted water, tears of Grace, holpen spring of new life,
Fire for spirit, earth for shelter, bring this temple down with strife.’
Bonham repeated the spell several times as he washed the wound with the angel tears. He dipped the tip of the handkerchief into the bottle and wiped the eyes of the creature as he spoke aloud long incantations. Then he poured the remaining liquid over the lips of the beast and put the bottle back into his pocket.
The angel tears glistened on the green skin of the Sekaris. Bonham examined the creature for any signs of life and listened for the sound of a beating heart. It was cold, damp and very dead. Bonham knew that this was not a worldly beast; its hardened flesh and golden eyes spoke of a dimension beyond his understanding. Foolish meddler, he thought to himself, as the lifeless creature stared back at him.
Bonham searched the room with his eyes, believing that somewhere in amongst the cupboards and papers would be something he could use to complete his task. He had once seen Blake use an electrometer on a dead frog and had watched in awe as every muscle in the tiny creature juddered and jerked as Blake churned the handle of the osolator, sending sharp sparks of internal lightning through the electrometer and along thin strands of copper wire into the frog. There had also been the time when Blake and he had summoned the spirit of a long-dead soldier as they recited rhymes from the Book of Nebukathosiz. It had appeared like a shadow and had spoken to them for several minutes, telling of how the soldier had been murdered in the Two Brydges Inn and no one had yet found his body, entombed by a layer of bricks in an upper room. Together, he and Blake had journeyed to the boundaries of science, magic and understanding. They had shared more secrets than brothers.
A sudden thought now gripped Bonham, filling him with the great desire to see the creature alive and to release it. He frantically searched every cupboard until he found the electrometer. Bonham unwound the reel of copper wire and led it across the room to the table. He entwined the strands around each wrist of the Sekaris, then crossed the room and quickly whirled the handle of the machine. The smell of smouldering mud filled the room like sulphurous spewings from hell. Bonham looked up and saw the charred wrists of the beast burnt like tinder-dry flax. The electrocution had failed; it brought only the stink of a Spitalfields butcher.
He cleared away the experiment, making sure the wire was wound precisely around the coil and the instrument placed carefully back as if it had never been disturbed. And then an idea came to him, to breathe his own life into the beast. It was a thought conjured from the depths of his soul, placed in his mind by a silent hand.
He looked at the Sekaris with its leaf-mould face, sunken eyes and crispy red lips that allowed marsh gas to rise through its blackened teeth like a will-o’-the-wisp. He knew what he had to do, and it was a feeling that left him in no doubt. Bonham kissed the creature and breathed into its mouth as deeply as he could, nearly choking with the stench that blew back into his face. It clung to his skin and hung from his mouth like a gossamer beard of swill. He ran to the window and fought with the catch to gasp the fresh morning air and clear his lungs.
Nothing happened. There was no life in the creature. It stared at the coved ceiling with its white moulded plaster and embedded pictures of Greek gods. Bonham spluttered in his failure and held his face in disbelief. He picked the sword from the fireplace with a mind to cut the head from the Sekaris and lay it at the feet of Lady Flamberg.
In the room below, Mrs Malakin rattled the furniture as she set the fire and polished the grate. Bonham placed the sword in the stand by the fireplace and walked from the room, pulling the broken door behind him. He looked back through the smashed panel, but the creature didn’t move, death gripped it in its velvet glove. Bonham ran quickly down each flight of stairs and on towards the front door, slamming it behind him, shuddering the whole house. He looked left and right through the morning mist that draped itself over the trees in Bloomsbury Square. Without warning a jet-black carriage stopped before him, its windows black-boarded and locked. The driver was wrapped in a thick oilskin coat with a collar that hid his face.
Bonham reached into his pocket and took from it a bright white pipe. ‘Is your lamp well lit?’ he
asked the driver, who nodded back without speaking a word. ‘Then we shall drive together. They say that London Bridge is a fine place to find your future.’
*
High above, Blake still lay in his four-poster bed with its dark green curtains, red canopy and thick horsehair mattress. He slept fitfully, his mind tormented by monsters.
In his nightmare he was trapped in a long cold cellar, and he knew that somewhere in the surrounding dark a stranger lay in wait. He could hear his breathing but couldn’t see his face. He was a child again, lonely and afraid, with no one to help him or take away the dread. Then came the tap-tap-tapping of the blind man’s stick against the cold wet stone. Blake could feel his presence filling the cellar and oppressing him.
In a sudden sweat-filled panic he decided to run. But he was rooted to the spot, his feet clasped to the earth with oak roots that burst from his boots and into the brick-tiled chamber. He tried and tried to lift his feet from the surface but they were drawn deeper into the ground.
As the tapping of the stick got closer and closer, Blake knew he would be discovered and that his shame would be known. But there was one word that, if proclaimed, would take away the stranger that searched for him. Frantically he tried to remember what he had to say, and as he reasoned with himself he felt the thick bark spreading from his feet and climbing his legs, encasing him in a coffin of oak as his legs turned to wood.
Then he realised he was on a driftwood raft, being rolled though a chamber on a strong current as rats dropped from the roof to escape the flood. They jumped over him and clung to his back. In the distance a bright light burnt in the tunnel, sending its rays through the blackness and blazing into the water.
Blake tried to drag his soul from sleep and shook himself to rid his mind of the terrors that beset him. Finally he awoke and looked around the darkened room. He couldn’t be sure if he was still dreaming or transported to another world that in some strange way looked like his own. By the curtains at the far side of the room, he could see the outline of a man.