by Adam McOmber
“Who is the Roman girl?” I asked, intrigued.
Nathan turned the worn manuscript page. “It doesn’t say any more about her. This is only a partial document, I think. There appear to be pages missing. But listen to this, Jane.” He began reading again:
The music of the spheres is the vibration that all matter emits. It is said to be inaudible to the human ear. Only God and his angels can perceive it. Yet I now believe there are those gifted few who apprehend these vibrations. And through the cracks, they can see even the silent place—that which existed before the Word. I pause here to relate historical instances. In particular, a woman spoken of on the island of Malta, known only as the Lady of Flowers.
“Stop,” I said. I could feel my heart beating quickly in my chest. I’d never revealed the name my mother had spoken to me. Nathan hadn’t even paused when he’d read it in the manuscript. “Give me the book, Nathan.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I held out my hand. “Just give it to me.”
He did as I asked, and the codex moaned when I touched it. A faded woodcut on the yellowed page showed a woman in a long and twining robe. Wrapped about her body were coarse vines that bloomed with mouthlike flowers—gaping things. Horrid. The woman’s expression was disdainful. She stared out at me, knowing more than I knew. I thought of the oval painting concealed in the wardrobe at Stoke Morrow, and then I thought of my mother’s own words: She’s there, blooming in the darkness, silent and waiting. How was it possible that Mother’s Lady was here in this medieval text?
The parlor around us was spinning. Objects creaked. I continued to stare down at the picture, looking into the woman’s hard, black eyes. She, in turn, stared back at me, concealing the answer to all the mysteries I longed to solve. The desk between Nathan and me wanted to split open and reveal the terrible white forest beneath.
I let the book fall from my hands.
At some great distance, Nathan was saying, “Jane, are you quite all right? Can you hear me, Jane?”
CHAPTER 10
I left Maddy in the southern woods, Vidocq’s record of Ariston Day still hidden in the pocket of my dress. Despite the fact that Maddy wanted to begin an investigation, I still didn’t think it was wise to share the stolen information with her. I arrived home and spread Vidocq’s papers on my father’s writing desk, reading his meticulous script. I learned that “Ariston Day” was not the man’s actual name but one in a series of pseudonymous affectations. Day was born Archibald Douglas in County Sligo, Ireland, to a destitute farmer who’d taken his own life shortly after the birth of his son. Several other monikers were listed: “Aristotle Dorn” and “Agathon Demeter.” Day alternately presented himself as being from Italy, Greece, and the Russian Empire. He had no perceptible Irish accent and was, Vidocq wrote, “largely a product of erasure.”
What came next was more troubling. The Theater of Provocation was apparently not Day’s first foray into cults. The first such gathering was short-lived, assembled from boys who were Day’s peers in County Sligo. This was before Day made his pilgrimage to Rome—an event that Vidocq said transformed the Irish boy into a philosopher and a possible mystic. The Sligo group met in a disused sheep barn outside of Day’s humble village. According to records of the local magistrate, the meetings were halted by order of law after one of the members—Sean Fellhorn—had been spiritually “violated.” The specific act of violation was not named in the magistrate’s documents, but according to hospital records, Fellhorn became so corrupt he could no longer be allowed in the proximity of women. The boy also refused to read from the Bible and would not speak his father’s name. Vidocq wrote:
As is often the case with the ridiculous court systems in out-of-the-way villages, the punishment for the corruption of young Fellhorn did not suit the actual crime. Ariston Day (then called Archibald Douglas) was to be hanged for leading the boy astray, but by some miraculous last-minute overturning of the magistrate’s rule, he was set free. This precipitated Day’s escape from County Sligo and his perpetual life in hiding.
The second cult, which was of a more extravagant and nefarious nature, came to fruition in Suffolk after Day returned from his stint in Rome. Day based the Suffolk cult on the Eleusinian Mysteries, a series of ancient initiation ceremonies that were meant to honor Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, the queen of Hades. In order to participate in the Eleusinian Mysteries, Greek boys who’d reached the age of puberty were sworn to a vow of secrecy and sent into a system of tunnels where they were terrorized by priests and hierophants who were dressed as primeval monsters. The terror was intended to purify the boys—to make them heroes. It also provided them with visions of enlightenment that they were sworn never to share with anyone.
Day gathered his Suffolk cult in Saint Rudolph’s cave, a narrow shaft that opened onto a ballroomlike subterranean chamber, which he filled with burning tapers and the effigies of animals made from sticks and pelts. As with Day’s Fetches, the Suffolk boys were sworn to secrecy. Little was known about the rituals performed in the cave, though they were later believed to have involved some form of blood rite, as many of the boys bore similar scarification on their necks and chests. The reign of Day’s Suffolk cult ended when one of his young followers was found naked in the woods one winter morning, mumbling something about the opening of the Heavens and a procession of angels. The boy later died in a hospital room from what was deemed exposure, and though no injunctions were placed on Ariston Day, he was soon enough gone from Suffolk, only to reappear nearly a year later in London.
“Throughout all of this,” wrote Vidocq,
Day’s goal has remained consistent. He wishes to achieve a large-scale transcendence in which humankind will be returned to what he imagines an original “Paradise”—his so-called spiritual bedrock. It is this grand delusion, this wish to be the world’s savior, which makes him so dangerous. He will do anything to reach his goal, and my fear is that Day has found his perfect match in Southwark. He has learned to avoid the vigilant eye of small communities. Southwark is a chaos where he can submerge himself and experiment with his Fetches to his heart’s content. I should note that I have made a thorough investigation of the Temple of the Lamb but cannot find sign of either Day or his Theater of Provocation. The proprietors of the tavern claim to know nothing of him. My search continues.
The papers made no specific mention of Nathan’s case, but the inferences were frightening indeed. Ariston Day was not to be trifled with, and he was certainly capable of doing harm in his search for grand transcendence. Day’s letter indicated that he believed me to be the key to his endeavors. It was likely he thought I had some connection to the original Paradise, and I worried that he believed I could provide that connection through the Empyrean itself.
I folded the sheaf and lowered it into the fire, which Miss Anne had recently stoked, and though the papers burned, my thoughts of Ariston Day persisted.
• • •
Before I could further agree or disagree with Maddy’s plan to circumnavigate Vidocq and take the investigation of Nathan’s disappearance upon ourselves, we were off in her black carriage, shuttling toward Hyde Park for our rendezvous with the Fetches at a tavern called the Silver Horne that bordered the park’s silent pastures. With us was the Lees’ shepherd dog, Ferdinand, a mangy sort of animal that had not been bathed in some time and made me wish I hadn’t asked for protection.
“You’ll promise me you aren’t going to do anything foolish,” I said. “The Fetches aren’t your run-of-the-mill society boys—at least not anymore.”
Maddy scratched Ferdinand on his awful head and replied, “Honestly, Jane, when have you ever known me to behave foolishly? And you know my feelings on this subject—once a society fop, always a society fop. My guess is we could strong-arm the whole lot of the Fetches if we so choose.”
“You’re worrying me, Maddy,” I said. “More so every day.” I sat back against the hard bench seat of the Lees’ carriage and watched the nar
row streets of London ripple by. Yellow London brick had an interesting effect on my talent. I could hear the bricks marching, as if they were an army, gathering to protect the city.
It was fortuitous that Pascal did not come with us, as his beloved Alexander Hartford was the first Fetch we encountered at the Silver Horne—an establishment of dark oak and cozy gas lamps that was tucked away in an alley off Oxford Street. The Horne was not visible from the street itself. Only the faint glow of firelight reflected on the damp alley bricks betrayed its presence, making it a better environment for the cult of Fetches than a street-facing tavern like the Boar’s Head or the Three Cranes. The Horne smelled of liquor, old cigars, and the brittle leather that upholstered its benches. At least three groups of Fetches were gathered at round tables within, all young men in red coats. The boys seemed restless, as if they hadn’t had enough sleep, and when Maddy and I passed over the threshold (our entrance was a bit sopping and less than elegant due to the rain), they all looked up with doggish faces. I was glad to see the messenger who’d come to Stoke Morrow was not in their number.
“Ladies,” Alexander said in his flat American accent. He was Boston born, his father a shipping magnate, and his presence was nothing like Pascal’s. I would have never marked him for an invert. He was blond and brutish, taller than most of the boys in the room. He was the sort of young man who should have been cheerful. In fact, he had been cheerful not so long ago when I’d first encountered him. But his once silvery blue eyes had turned to lead, and there was a new weight around his jaw. Alexander had become a serious individual, perhaps even morose, and though he had a near-empty pint in his hand, he didn’t seem a bit drunk. “I didn’t think you were the kind of girls to come to a standard unaccompanied,” he said.
“We’re not,” Maddy replied, pulling back on the leash of Ferdinand, who was, in turn, straining forward to sniff at Alexander’s jackboots. “But we’re hoping you men would be civil enough to help us find our friend.”
“Competing with the French inspector, are we?” Alexander said, nudging the boy next to him to rouse him from his stupor. The other boy was of a thicker sort, with a low Dorchester brow. Alexander introduced his companion as Master Rafferty, and Rafferty mumbled some slurry greeting before tipping back his pint glass to take another drink.
“Our investigation has nothing to do with Vidocq,” Maddy said. “All we want is to find Nathan. No legalities.”
“We don’t know anything more than we’ve already told the inspector,” Alexander said. He seemed bored by our presence, but I had a feeling that his boredom was an act to cover restless nerves. “That’s the God’s honest truth, Maddy. We all liked Nathan Ashe. We want him found. He’s one of us, after all, and we Fetches stick together.”
I looked at Rafferty as Alexander spoke, and there was some wince of pain in his heavy face. Was it remorse? It passed too quickly for me to tell.
“So you won’t mind explaining to us exactly what went on at the theater that night,” Maddy said, “the details of the provocation or whatever it was called.”
“You girls know the Fetches are sworn to secrecy,” Alexander said. “What good is a secret society if you start telling every woman in London about it?”
“Forgive me if the rules of boys’ clubs don’t interest me,” Maddy said.
“Probably better if you were on your way.” Alexander gestured toward the door with his pint. “Place gets rowdy as evening wears on. The boys can get a little—restless.”
“Please, Alexander,” I said. “We’re only looking for a bit of information.”
“I am sorry,” he replied, suddenly earnest. “It’s just—there’s nothing I can say.”
I was surprised that Maddy backed down at that, suddenly ushering me toward the exit, jerking on Ferdinand’s leash. I paused long enough to call back, “Pascal would like to talk to you, Alexander. Sleep and Death, remember? You owe him a final conversation, don’t you?”
Rafferty laughed at this, clapping Alexander hard on the back. Alexander looked queasy, but I didn’t care. I was, in fact, glad to trouble him. He’d left Pascal in an utter lurch, and a person like that deserved his share of public humiliation.
“Why didn’t you press Alexander?” I asked Maddy when we’d cleared the door of the Silver Horne. “He surely would have at least spilled some bit of information.”
“Because the other boy looked like he wanted to speak to us alone. Go slowly, Jane, and watch.”
Maddy was correct. A few moments later, before we’d reached the carriage waiting for us in the alley, a drunken voice sounded behind us. Ferdinand issued a warning bark, and Maddy hushed him. Rafferty appeared, still carrying his pint glass as he half-jogged to catch up with us.
“You girls,” he said.
“Yes, us girls,” Maddy replied.
We all stood there for a moment looking awkwardly at one another, letting the rain drench us further.
“You want to know about the provocation on Nathan’s last night?” Rafferty said finally. “I’ll tell you about the provocation, but you got to do something for me in return.”
“I can’t wait to hear what,” Maddy said.
“You have to promise that one day you’ll both let me take you out—make an evening of it. I heard Nathan Ashe used to take you out, and well—I don’t know. I’d like a chance to have an evening,” he said.
There was something so humble about this request; I wanted to tell Maddy to tread carefully.
“You want to take us to dinner?” Maddy asked. “That’s far more innocent than what I was expecting, Mr. Rafferty.”
“You can call me Paul,” he said, bracing himself with one hand against the stone wall of the alley.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because I have no love for those boys in there,” he said. “I’m not as much of a flaunter as they are. My family doesn’t make money. I don’t even know why Mr. Day invited me into the group. Some told me he took a liking to me—that he likes fatter boys sometimes—but that’s disgusting to me.”
“Likes them for what?” Maddy asked.
Paul Rafferty made a sour face. “For whatever he gets up to in the solar above the theater. It ain’t the kind of thing you say to girls.”
“An evening with both of us,” Maddy said. “You’ll have it, Paul.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about her offering me without my consent, but I remained silent.
“I don’t care about their bloody secrets,” Rafferty said, as if convincing himself. “You want to know how the thing went off that night?”
“We very much do,” Maddy said. “Let’s find some shelter where it isn’t quite so wet.”
The three of us stepped beneath the awning of a nearby shop, and the rain continued to pound London as Rafferty told his tale.
“Here’s how it went,” he said, “the last night anybody saw Nathan Ashe. The provocation was called The Royal Hunt. Maybe you know that already. We Fetches built a forest in the rooms under the Temple of the Lamb. Hard work. Lots of lifting. Most of those boys can’t do a thing like that. I ended up putting up most of the trees myself. And that night in our forest, we hunted a stag.”
“An actual stag?” I said, thinking of the creature I’d seen in the painted forest when I touched Nathan’s Bible.
Rafferty shook his head. “It was a bloke playing at a stag. The stag was Nathan Ashe.”
I wondered, momentarily, if I had been granted a vision of Nathan’s final night. And if I was seeing those moments, who but Nathan could communicate such images to me? What had he been trying to tell me?
“You hunted Nathan?” Maddy asked, incredulous.
“He wore a pair of ridiculous stag’s horns,” Rafferty said, “and a pelt around his shoulders. He tried to hide from us in the forest. It was dark as Hell in there. The only light came from our lanterns. And he was scared because Ariston Day told him that if we caught him, we were allowed to hurt him—just like in a real hunt. And a
bunch of the boys wanted to hurt Nathan because he’d become a favorite of Mr. Day’s. Don’t believe what Hartford tells you about all of us being friends. The Fetches were jealous of Nathan. One of them stuck him with a phony spear. Nathan was bleeding. They would have done worse if they caught him, I’m sure.”
“How did they plan to hurt him?” Maddy asked.
Rafferty shrugged. “The usual ways, I suppose.”
“But did they hurt him, Paul?” There was a note of desperation in Maddy’s voice.
“We didn’t find him,” Rafferty said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Something went wrong with the provocation. Nathan got sick. He was dragging his left leg, and his arm was limp. He’d told us early that evening they’d gone numb because of some experiment he’d been undertaking with you, Miss Silverlake. He said his body was not his own.”
“He spoke of me to the Fetches?” I asked.
“Spoke of you often,” Rafferty said, solemnly. “We thought he’d be an easy mark—the way a stag that’s hurt is easy. Alexander Hartford, that buddy of yours in there who’s no proper buddy at all, was the Huntsman General. He kept blowing on his stupid bleeding horn.”
I heard the sound of the horn from my vision—a bright high note in the darkness. The recollection of it made me cold.
“The call of the horn echoed through the theater,” Rafferty said, “and I thought it might bring the whole ceiling down on us. We thought we had him, you know? Nathan was just in front of us—we saw his shadow there with the stag horns and the fur at his shoulders. And Alexander even said something like—he’s ours, men. The stag is ours. But once we got around the tree, old Nathan Ashe wasn’t there. He’d—well—he’d disappeared. And there was this odd smell in the air. It reminded me of the time my mother took me down to see the Egyptian mummy at the British Museum. The smell was sweet, but somehow like death.