The Spirit Well be-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  CHAPTER 20

  In Which a Good Doctor Is Hard to Find

  London in the year 1818 took some getting used to but, thankfully, the layout of the main thoroughfares had not been altered since the Romans first laid them down over the footpaths made by the Celts along the wide rolling river known to the locals at the time as Afon Tamesas, but now known as the Thames River. Wilhelmina did not know the original name of the river, but not many did. As the coach rumbled over the engineering marvel that was the London Bridge, Mina shook her head at the multitude of water conveyances on show below. Boats of every size and description filled the grey water: ferry boats, both oar-driven and coal-powered; steamboats pulling barges loaded with cargo; sailboats, from ocean-going schooners with crews of a hundred to single-manned ketches; ironclad warships bristling with guns; sleek pleasure boats with striped canopies; tug boats, tenders, and taxis plying the waters looking for employment… so many boats that Mina imagined she could have hopscotched across the water from the Embankment to South Bank one boat deck at a time.

  Nor were the city streets less crowded. As with the water, every manner of land vehicle ever invented seemed to want to cross the bridge at the same time. Horse-drawn coaches and carriages accounted for most of the traffic, but there were also carts aplenty; Wilhelmina counted no fewer than forty-nine handcarts, seventeen donkey carts, nine mule carts, eight goat carts, five horse carts, and a dozen or so pulled by dogs. Foot traffic filled in every available gap, and Mina thought it a wonder pedestrians were not continually falling beneath moving wheels of one sort or another.

  When the coach finally reached its destination, Wilhelmina disembarked and was pleased to find that she recognised some of the more familiar city landmarks such as Blackfriar’s Bridge and the Tower of London; navigating her way around would not pose undue difficulty-providing she knew where to find Thomas Young. The only scrap of information she possessed was that he was a member of the Royal Society. Find the society, she reckoned, and with any luck that would lead to the good doctor.

  Thanks to her judicious purchases at M amp;S, she blended in well enough with the other pedestrians as she walked along the road she knew as Victoria Street, heading towards Whitehall. As she came in sight of the Palace of Westminster, she saw a line of street vendors selling everything from tortoise shell combs to sugared almonds; they were standing by their handcarts pestering passersby with their sales pitches. The nearest one was selling ribbons; he, like many of the others, had bushy sideburns and a droopy moustache and was plying his wares with gusto.

  “Good day to you, sir,” Wilhelmina said nicely. “A bit of the red, please.” She pointed to a glistening spool of crimson satin.

  “Right away, miss.” He fetched the spool and produced a pair of scissors from his apron pocket. “How much would ’ee like?”

  “Oh, about-so much.” She held out her hands a few inches apart. “How much would that be?”

  “Well, this red is very dear, it is. Comes all the way from China, don’t you know.” He held the shears, ready to snip.

  “How much?”

  “Thruppence, miss. A’right?”

  Mina nodded. She fished around in her sack of coins for three pennies-grateful once more for Cosimo’s thoughtfulness in providing some ready cash. The ribbon man snipped and rolled the ribbon carefully. “That’un won’t run in the rain, miss.”

  “Thank you.” She paid the man and pocketed the ribbon. “I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me how to find the Royal Society?”

  “Eh? Royal Society, is it?”

  “Please.” She batted her eyelashes. “If you could point me in the right direction, I would be much obliged.”

  “Much obliged, is it?” Removing his cap, he looked her up and down. “Well, if I was wantin’ to find the Royal Society, I would just trot along the way you’re going like, and when I got a little way past Whitehall Palace, I’d start asking folk around there the way to Somerset House. It ent far.”

  “Somerset House,” echoed Wilhelmina.

  “That’s where they keep it, my darlin’.”

  “My thanks, sir. You have been a gentleman.”

  The compliment made the fellow smile; he raised his hat to her, which brought a hoot from his near neighbour. “Hoo! Lookit Sweet William there!”

  Wilhelmina blew the fellow a kiss and resumed her walk and, following the ribbon seller’s advice, was soon standing outside the pale stone facade of the sprawling edifice of Somerset House-an impressive, imposing pile built right on the Thames so that visitors could arrive and depart by boat. The size of the place and the overpowering grandeur took her aback somewhat, and she spent a moment planning her assault. Then, with a plan firmly in mind, she made her way to the nearest of several doors off the street, pushed through, and found herself in a large garden. An arched entrance stood across the courtyard, which she crossed before entering the main building. She was immediately met by a man in the black livery of a servant, who demanded to know her business.

  “I am looking for Dr. Thomas Young,” she replied simply.

  The doorman regarded her sceptically. “Women are not permitted entry,” he intoned dryly.

  “I do not wish to join the society,” Mina said crisply. “I merely wish to speak to Dr. Young. I have it on good authority that he is a member of the society.”

  “Indeed, madam,” confirmed the servant. “Dr. Young is the current president of the Royal Society.” He tilted his head so that he looked down his nose. “It is my opinion that he would not wish to be disturbed.”

  “I thank you most kindly for your opinion, to be sure,” countered Mina sweetly. “But I believe that the good doctor himself will be the best judge of whether he wishes to see someone who brings him valuable scientific information.” She had made up that last bit, but thought she could back up the claim in any case. “Now, if you will be so kind as to tell me where I might find him, we will put your ill-considered theory to the test.” She gave the man a superior smile. “Shall we?”

  Perhaps unaccustomed to dealing with such stroppy, headstrong females as the one standing before him, the doorman quickly acquiesced, saying, “I regret to inform you that Dr. Young is not in residence, madam. But if I were of a mind to locate him, I would inquire at his medical practise, the offices of which are to be found in Harley Street.”

  “There, now,” said Wilhelmina. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” She thanked the fellow for his help and was soon making her way to Harley Street, the traditional home of London’s medical establishment. She located Dr. Young’s offices by reading the large brass nameplates outside the doors and went inside, where she was politely informed that Dr. Young was away on one of his scientific expeditions.

  “He is in Egypt this time of year,” the woman explained. “We do not expect him to return before the autumn.”

  That was that. Wilhelmina was back on the street within two minutes and heading for the nearest cafe or restaurant where she could collect her thoughts. She found a tidy little eatery on a nearby cross street where she sat with a warm pork pie and pot of tea, contemplating her next move: a visit to Black Mixen Tump. That was the next place listed on the back of the note Cosimo had left for her at the pub in Sefton-on-Sea. She reasoned that if she went there she might find another note, or another clue of some kind. Though where Black Mixen Tump might be-or even what — she had no idea, but reckoned a visit to the British Library would give her access to whatever maps or geographical guides were to be found.

  Nor was she disappointed. The Ordnance Survey, recently published, contained an exhaustive index that did indeed list the place. It gave precise coordinates to said feature in Oxfordshire, which Wilhelmina copied down, drawing a neat little map of the area for future reference. The day was advancing as she left the library, and the sun, having long since crossed the midday meridian, was now beginning to fade in the west as clouds drew in. To save time and shoe leather she hailed a hansom cab and told the driver to take her to
the nearest overland coaching office.

  As the cab jostled its way across cobbled streets, Wilhelmina marvelled again at the amount and variety of street life. Pre-Victorian London was veritably awash with a restless tide of surging humanity and a multitude of wheeled conveyances. In her time in Prague, she had grown used to a more mannered, less frenetic pace, and she much preferred it. Still, the sights, sounds, and smells-garbage and horse manure chief among them-occupied her until she reached her destination.

  The office was in the stable yard of the George Street Inn across the river in Southwark, where a clerk in a short green jacket and long brown apron advised her that she could go to Oxford and take another coach from there to Banbury and then prevail upon the locals there to help her find the place. “There’s only a day coach to Oxford,” the clerk told her. “It leaves at crack o’dawn. You’re welcome to wait for it here, but if you’ve got a penny or two, you’ll find more comfortable accommodation at yonder inn.”

  Mina purchased her ticket and, taking the clerk’s advice, crossed the stable yard and took a room at the inn. She endured a rather loud supper in noisy company and a rather sleepless night in a flea-infested bed, but was waiting, washed, and breakfasted when the coachman called for passengers to board. There were five, of which Wilhelmina was the only woman; she slept some and made polite conversation with her fellow passengers. The coach reached High Wycombe late in the afternoon, which necessitated another night at an inn, before undertaking the final push to Oxford early the next morning.

  After a third night at a coaching inn-this one a cut above the others, in the centre of Oxford-she hired a private carriage to take her to Banbury, where, at the Fox and Geese public house, she was given directions to the tump and a bit of friendly advice from the landlord. “I wouldn’t go up there after dark if I was you, miss. It ain’t safe-leastwise not for respectable folk.”

  “Whyever not?” wondered Wilhelmina.

  “Strange happenings up there.” He frowned and, laying a finger beside his nose, added, “Say no more.”

  Mina thanked him for his advice and took a light dinner and an early night. The next morning she attempted to hire a coach to take her to the tump, but when that failed, she set off on foot. Armed with her sketched map and a packed lunch provided by the innkeeper, and aided by a well-marked track and a fresh, bright day, she had no difficulty finding her way.

  Seeing it for the first time as a shadowy, hulking mass against the yellow sky gave the place a weird, menacing cast that brought her up short. She stood in the farmers’ track and stared at the dread Black Mixen as at an apparition. Something about the shape-so unnaturally perfect with its smooth tapering sides and perfectly flat, level top surmounted by three aged oaks twisted and gnarled by time-suggested sinister rites and unspeakable practises. Despite the fine afternoon sunlight all around, the tump itself seemed steeped in perpetual shadow, brooding and ominous.

  Mina retrieved her ley lamp from a pocket and held it up, as if it were a flashlight and Black Mixen a darkness to be illuminated. There was no sign of activity from the device, so she stowed it away again and found a dry place under a tree to sit down and relieve her feet. There was no telling what she might find on the other side; it was best to rest while she could. She opened the cloth square containing her lunch and started in on the brown bread and thick slab of pale cheese the innkeeper had prepared for her. After that, she peeled the boiled egg and had a bit of the pork pie; she also had a bottle of small beer and an apple. She ate slowly, and the afternoon dwindled around her; then, much refreshed by the meal, she resumed her assault on Black Mixen Tump.

  Upon reaching the base of the hill, she saw a narrow footpath spiralling up the side of the mound and followed it to the top. The way was steep, but she soon reached the summit and paused a moment to catch her breath. The high plateau gave unobstructed views of the countryside all around, and Wilhelmina walked all the way around the perimeter but saw no one about. So much the better, she thought. If she was going to experiment with ley travel on the tump, she did not want an audience.

  She took out the ley lamp once more-still no activity, so she conducted a closer examination of her surroundings. This was quickly accomplished. Apart from the three old oaks, fascinating as they were, there was not much to see-except for a single stone she found embedded in the turf near the centre of the hill. Broad and flat as a paving stone from someone’s garden, there was nothing at all remarkable about it. As twilight was a little way off yet, she decided to sit down and wait to see if anything might happen.

  She sat, her legs drawn up, her chin resting on her knees, and closed her eyes. Tired from her long walk, she was soon asleep. Fragments of dreams, disjointed and disturbing, flitted through her subconscious. She awoke with a start to the sound of raucous laughter. Looking around, she saw that the sun had gone down and the sky above was filled with circling rooks-their cackling call the disembodied laughter of her dream. Having grown stiff sitting on the stone, she unfolded herself and stood, and instantly became aware of a warmth emanating from her pocket. She took out the ley lamp; it was not only warm to the touch, but the little blue lights were all aglow within the filigreed metallic carapace.

  On her initial survey of the tump top, Wilhelmina had detected no indication of a ley line anywhere. Not only that, but there did not seem to be room enough for a line of any length. But the blue lights were aglow, and they did not lie. So, holding the lamp in front of her, she began walking slowly, first one direction, then another, watching the lights. She quickly noticed that the little blue indicators glowed more brightly as she neared the centre of the mound and dimmed as she moved away. The strongest reading came when she stood directly on the flat stone marker.

  “This is it,” she murmured. “Now what?” How did one traverse a ley that was not a line, but a point?

  As she was considering this, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced around to see two dark shapes racing towards her across the level plain of the tump. Shielded by the trees until they were almost upon her, she had but a glimpse, but it was enough to know that they were after her.

  Whipping the ley lamp out of sight, she turned to meet her pursuers.

  “Oi!” shouted the nearest one. “Stand right there! Don’t you move a muscle, me darlin’!”

  Wilhelmina felt a sudden surge of energy flash up around her. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood erect. She could feel the tingle on her skin and a faint crackling of static snapping around her ankles. The very air tingled.

  The men rushed closer. Dressed in long, dark cloaks and widebrimmed hats, their faces grim and determined, they closed on her with swift strides. One of them produced a pistol. “Put your hands up, girly,” he ordered.

  His companion threw out a hand, caught his arm, and spun him around. “Don’t tell her that!” he cried. “That sets it off!”

  But it was already too late. At the sight of the gun, Wilhelmina had instinctively raised her hands. Her fingers tingled with the pent power flowing around her. She raised her arms higher, the air grew misty, and she saw the disbelief register on the men’s faces. One of them let out a shout, but his words were lost in the scream of the wind suddenly swirling around her.

  The world grew hazy and her vision quavered and she was enveloped by the shimmery, glowing halo of high-energy photons-an earthbound aurora borealis. At the same time she became aware that pressure was building around her, crushing down, squeezing the air from her lungs. Instinctively she resisted, holding herself upright. Burleigh’s two thugs made a rush towards her. She gave a little hop, and the world winked out in a fizzing pop like that of a firecracker tossed into the air.

  Mina blinked, and when she opened her eyes again she was standing in the dazzling white light of a blistering sun on a wide, stone-paved path lined on either side with statues, hundreds of them, stretching for a thousand metres or more, each one with the head of a man and the body of a lion-an avenue of sphinxes. One loo
k at the impassive granite face gazing at her from the nearest statue and Wilhelmina Klug knew beyond any doubt that she had arrived in Egypt.

  PART FOUR

  The Omega Point

  CHAPTER 21

  In Which Time Is Measured in Empires Crumbled to Dust

  Somewhere between shutting her eyes and opening them again on the new day, Cass had changed her mind and decided that instead of trying to find her way home by herself, she would to return to the Zetetic Society. They were offering help, after all, and help was what she needed right now. If they could describe for her what was happening and how it worked-well, that was well worth hanging around an extra day to find out. While she still had no intention of joining them, or getting mixed up in their mysterious machinations, whatever they were, simply getting a few answers to some questions- like: what was the best and quickest way home-would be no bad thing.

  That decided, Cassandra shared a noisy breakfast with the nuns and orphans of Saint Tekla’s and helped with clearing and washing the dishes. Then, free to follow her bliss for the day, she started off for her visit to the society. At the convent gate, one of the sisters approached with a thin cotton robe of drab green. “Pour vous, mon amie,” she said, holding out the garment.

  “For me?” wondered Cass. “But-”

  “ S ’il vous plait,” insisted the nun. “C’est mieux, ma soeur.” She pointed to Cass’s clothes and held out the gown for her to put on. It came to Cass that it was the same kind of drab robe she had seen on women going into the bazaar-less than a burka, but more than a housedress- that would, in her case, be useful for keeping her modern dress covered. She understood then that the sisters, having noticed her odd garb, were trying to protect her from difficulty.

  “Merci,” said Cass, accepting the robe. She allowed the nun to help her into it. “ Cella-la est bonne, ma soeur. Merci.”