by Adam McOmber
I lowered the canteen from my lips, and the creature was gone, as if it had never been there. I assured myself the vision was a product of sun-sickness and that I merely needed to get myself back to the auberge.
7th—I have not been able to put the vision of the creature out of my mind. On top of that, my sun-sickness is still with me. No food will stay in my stomach. The Brothers seem concerned, talking of dementia. Romegas himself visited my bedside, and I asked him if there was some species of white ape living on the island.
He raised his brow. “I suppose it’s possible. Some animal might have been brought over from the Africas. There was once a large cat that threatened an outlying village. But an ape is not likely, signore. Why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “A symptom, very likely.”
9th—Rumors are circulating among the men that a council of war was held last night to determine whether our battalions should be moved on into Stamboul and then toward Crimea. I am in no state to go to war. My remaining symptoms are as follows: extreme fatigue and dizziness, dryness of the mouth and eyes, and perhaps worst of all, night terrors. I awake nearly every night, drenched in sweat, and see the creature standing in my quarters—often hovering over my bed to examine me. I remain very still, and it puts its face close to mine. Such a face it is—not like an ape at all, but somehow more human. Like some hybrid or missing link. But the eyes are the worst. Empty sockets. Sometimes after I’ve stared into them for a long while, I can see my own face reflected back from the depths of the holes. As if I am trapped down there, deep inside the white ape.
I’ve gotten it in my head that I do not suffer from sun-sicknesses, but rather the vision of the white ape at the temple infected me in some way—perhaps the air of that place put some disease in me. I feel that if I could only find the papers of Theodore de Baras, all would be made clear. I’d make sense of the ruin and what befell me there. But there seems no space in the auberge I have not searched which could contain the private library that Romegas mentioned.
I decided to walk the sunbaked streets of Città Vecchia, among black-hatted priests and clerical students. I stopped villagers nearly at random to ask if they knew of a white ape which inhabited the island. People began to treat me as if I was mad and finally, an old woman spoke to me in a voice barely audible above the din of the street. “You have been to Crendi?” she asked.
I told her I had.
“You went to pay homage to our Lady?”
“No,” I said. “I paid no homage.”
“Then you must make a sacrifice.”
“What kind of sacrifice?” I said. “What’s required?”
“You must decide that for yourself, Englishman,” she said, moving off into the crowd before I could ask another question.
By evening light, I made my way toward the ruins once again. It seems the wildflowers have all perished in this intolerable, baking sun. All that remains are blackish weeds that cover even the most modest patches of soil. The weeds have nearly obliterated a stone wall that runs alongside the path. The plants looked like a disease, spreading out from the central infection of the ruin.
I brought with me the severed finger from the reliquary, doing so almost on instinct, as one might bring a rosary to church. When I stepped into the shade of the temple, I took the finger from my pocket and studied it in the dim light. It looked just as it had in the auberge, desiccated and timeworn.
Just then, the temple walls appeared to swell and contract around me, as if I was inside a great stone lung. I placed the ape finger on the altar. “Is this what you want?” I asked the darkness. “Will this suffice?”
There was no answer, of course, and I felt foolish and even sicker than before. I took the finger from the altar, thinking I would still return it to the reliquary. It was when I turned to leave the temple that I saw the creature once again, crouched alongside one of the broken walls. The beast was digging in the dirt, making a small mound of soil. When it looked up, I felt a cold fear. I’d interrupted its business. It rose to full height, and I stared into the pits it used for eyes. They were the color of the space between the stars.
I attempted to make my escape, but the beast blocked my path. I stumbled back and fell against the altar. The beast came at me, putting its rough hands around my throat. It brought its face so close, and I was there inside of it once again, staring out from those terrible eye sockets. And worse yet, I felt it was now also inside of me.
How I made it back to the auberge, I do not know. But writing this, I feel that I am no longer alone. The creature has joined itself to me—like a rider on my soul. Is it possible that my experiments with Jane made me susceptible to such an experience? Did she open me to these alien elements of the universe?
I felt a flood of guilt reading this and wanted to stop. I had opened Nathan to this world, after all. And it was one that he could not possibly hope to control. I read on:
—I’ve grown sick of my silent searching. I feel full of the beast. At the auberge, I cornered one of the Brothers, a small man who could not defend himself, and told him I’d bring him harm if he didn’t take me to the private library, the one that held the papers of Theodore de Baras. I showed him my knife, and he complied. The library was located behind a tapestry in the burial vault. Of course it was. Why hadn’t I searched the vault more carefully?
The dead Brothers in the walls watched as I entered their sacred storehouse. Candlelight played off my blade as I asked the weak monk why Romegas had sent me to the ruin at Crendi in the first place. “Was I meant to be some sort of sacrifice?” I asked. “Or was it merely a means of disposing of me?”
The monk shook his head, cowering.
I showed him the finger I’d stolen, no longer afraid of being found out, no longer caring. “And this?” I said. “What does this mean?”
He seemed stricken by the sight of the ape finger and would not speak.
I told him to give me the papers of Theodore de Baras and leave me. I sat in the stone library and read the papers slowly by candlelight, translating the Italian. In de Baras’s words, I discovered not more of the same philosophical musings I’d come across in London, but a detailed description of a series of horrors that he’d enacted in order to explore what he called the Empyrean. His words changed my entire understanding of my current situation and of Jane’s. I intend to take the papers to her. I’ll show them as proof. And I’ll hope to God she will believe what they say and take action.
The narrative ended abruptly here. Nathan left the rest of the journal blank, except for a few symbols he’d drawn near the end and then scratched out. What horrors had he read of in de Baras’s papers, and why hadn’t he shown the papers to me upon his return to England as he intended? Who or what had prevented him from doing so? I was left to sit and wonder.
CHAPTER 21
By the time Maddy finally returned to me, St. Dunstan’s Day was nearly upon us. She arrived at Stoke Morrow in one of her more boyish ensembles—a pair of plum-colored bloomers and a dark vest. She’d pinned her black hair and tucked it under a bicycle hat, and I wondered if this clothing was meant to provide some kind of protection against the day.
The afternoon sky was cloudless, and we walked together in the garden toward the Roman ruin. I wanted to take her arm and talk to her about everything I’d learned from Nathan’s journal, but she still had such an air of coldness about her. I didn’t want to drive her away again.
“We shouldn’t have argued,” I said.
“I’m not here to talk about that, Jane,” she replied, stiffly, adjusting her cap. “I’m here to discuss how St. Dunstan’s might prove useful to our search.”
“Are you feeling better then?” I asked. “Physically, I mean.”
“There’s still nausea in the morning,” Maddy said. “But the doctor tells me I’m fine.”
“Any idea what’s the matter?”
“I don’t—” she said, trailing off. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”
&
nbsp; And because she seemed much improved, both physically and mentally, I accepted this. I wanted nothing more than for both of us to feel at peace. We left the garden and went to my dressing room to look for clothing that might be used for costumes at the festival’s masque. I spoke carefully, keeping things cheerful, though I could not help but ask the question that had been nagging me all morning. “Maddy, did Nathan ever show you any papers he brought back from the war?”
“Papers?”
“Yes, perhaps a manuscript in Italian? They would likely have been the writings of the monk Theodore de Baras.”
“No, Jane, nothing of that sort,” she said. “Are you finished reading his journal yet by the way? I’d like to have a look.”
“Not quite finished,” I lied.
“You are the slowest reader, Jane.”
“I know, Maddy. I know.”
• • •
The festival was held at twilight on the southern edge of the Heath, close enough to Stoke Morrow that Maddy and I could walk and did not need a carriage. Torches flickered hotly on the festival grounds, casting living shadows in the oak groves. Silver bells rang out, and the air smelled of the burning tapers that were carried in honor of the saint’s canonization. A series of tableaus were enacted on a wooden stage draped in aubergine tapestry to portray seminal events in the life of the saint—his birth, his near death during an affliction of boils, his near marriage to Lady Ephesia, and of course his numerous duels with the Devil, which culminated in Dunstan’s catching the Devil by the nose with a pair of fire tongs and nailing a horseshoe to one of the creature’s black hooves.
Men and women of Hampstead Town had come dressed as figures from allegory and myth. The whole event had quite a pagan feel. It seemed impossible that the festival should happen without Nathan Ashe, who had once dressed as Artegal, the knight of justice, and drunk so much wine that he began to believe he was Artegal, going around and challenging everyone to a sword fight.
Saint Dunstan’s story reminded me of Mother Damnable’s, though he was lauded and she was loathed. Such was the way with men and women. He was a Benedictine monk who’d temporarily made his home in a hovel near Parliament Hill during the eighth century after being expelled from the archbishopric in Canterbury on the grounds of being a magician. Further charges against him were particularly curious, as he was said to have possessed a harp that played the anthem “Gaudent in Celis Animæ Sanctorum” of its own volition whenever the Devil came near. Apparently the Devil came often to Dunstan, as the harp was said to be heard over the Heath both day and night. The notion of the automatic harp, of course, reminded me of my own unnatural association with objects, and so I sympathized with Dunstan. His harp seemed not wicked at all, but rather a useful tool. He was exonerated during his own lifetime, and when he died, his body, interred at Glastonbury, did not decompose but remained incorrupt, smelling of sweet flowers. At times it was even said to weep.
A rumor circulated that a relic of Saint Dunstan was to be produced at this year’s tableau, and everyone conjectured as to exactly what that relic might be. A jawbone seemed likely, as that sort of relic was in fashion. Others believed it would be the tongs that Dunstan once used to grab the nose of the Devil. I knew that whatever was produced would be some form of counterfeit and couldn’t bother myself to care. Maddy and I had other business to attend to.
We walked the grounds together, closely studying the revelers dressed in their medieval garments, knowing that Nathan might be tempted to appear. He claimed to like the festival more than Christmas, after all. Others must have had the same idea. I saw a somber Lord and Lady Ashe in the crowd as well as Inspector Vidocq, who wore a golden mask that was meant as a representation of the sun god, Helios. He was followed by two agents of the police in black hoods. Their costumes made me think of night following day.
Maddy leaned close to my ear and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’ve brought Nathan’s pistol,” she said, patting the purse she carried on her belt. She wore a brass breastplate and a pair of her father’s pants, claiming to be Britomart, a female knight who represented chastity.
“You did no such thing,” I said. I’d decided not to wear a costume at the last minute, wanting to be no one but myself.
“Of course I brought it,” she replied, taking a candle from a towheaded child who was distributing them through the crowd. “What if we run into difficulty?”
“What difficulty would we find at the Festival of Saint Dunstan? We’ve been coming here since we were girls.”
“The world has changed,” was Maddy’s only response.
• • •
We did not run into difficulty per se, or at least not difficulty in its traditional guise. But it was during the festival that we came across Pascal Paget and Alexander Hartford. I was surprised to see them together, as Pascal had earlier expressed reticence about even being in the presence of Alexander. The two came up out of the southern woods. Pascal was chasing Alexander, who moved with some determination. Alexander was meant to be Hypnos, god of sleep, and wore a loose black shirt with ribbons on the sleeves and a pair of dark riding pants. A red poppy was pinned above his heart. He’d pushed up his silver mask so it rested on his forehead, and his entire face was revealed. Pascal was Thanatos, daemon god of death. He wore gold face paint around his eyes, carried a replica of a broadsword, and had a pair of black wings tied to his back with what looked like bailing wire. Remembering the story of their love affair, I was moved by these costumes, and I wondered if they’d chosen them independently, mourning their past.
I overheard enough of their argument to understand that Pascal was pleading with Alexander to stop whatever it was he intended to do, and Alexander was telling our French comrade to simply turn around and walk back into the woods—that the matter was none of Pascal’s concern.
Pascal’s face was flushed, and there were tears in his eyes, streaking the gold paint. When he saw us, he nearly succumbed to some sort of swoon. Alexander, on the other hand, brightened. His ruddy American face lit like a lamp. “Jane Silverlake,” he said, “just the girl I’ve been looking for.”
“Whatever for?” I asked, already on guard.
“You certainly wanted nothing to do with us at the Silver Horne,” Maddy said.
Alexander produced an envelope from inside his tunic. I recognized the fine paper and the dark wax seal. “I’ve brought you this message from Master Day,” he said. “Not many receive word from him. It’s quite an honor.” Clearly, Ariston Day had not made his prior letter to me public to his Fetches.
“You don’t have to accept this honor,” Pascal countered.
Alexander held onto his smile, but barely.
I took the letter and broke the wax seal, reading quickly. It was written in the same elegant script as the previous missive—hard lines of ink plunging and rising—but the tone and content of the message was quite different.
Miss Silverlake,
I was clearly not direct enough in my previous invitation. Allow me to rectify that. You should know that I am aware of what you did on the night of Nathan Ashe’s disappearance. Moreover, I’m aware of what you are. Come to the Temple of the Lamb, and we will speak frankly.
The letter was signed simply: A.D.
A chill traveled from the letter, up my arm, and toward my heart. He was aware of what I’d done that night and of what I was? I thought again of myself at the stone fissures, waiting for something—or someone—to rise. The pieces of shale lay around me like so many broken teeth.
A complicated feeling of disgust and hope washed over me as I creased Day’s letter and put it in the pocket of my dress. I wondered if he could really tell me something about what had happened that night.
“Well, what did it say?” Maddy asked.
“Ariston Day wants me to see him in Southwark.”
“She’s not going into that pit,” Maddy said to Alexander, “and if you know what’s good for you, you wouldn’t go back either.” Her tone made me concerned t
hat she might take out the pistol and begin waving it about.
Alexander was not thwarted. “Miss Lee, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. And Master Day doesn’t expect you to understand. He wishes only to speak with Miss Silverlake. She understands.”
I looked into Alexander’s emotionless eyes and realized he’d been completely taken over by Day. The vessel of his body had been compromised, emptied of its essence and filled instead with Day’s will. Like Corydon Ulster, Alexander was no longer the boy he’d once been. He’d become a Fetch.
“I’ll see him tomorrow,” I said.
Pascal looked horrified. “Jane, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Maddy made as if to touch my arm, but I pulled away.
“She does,” Alexander countered. “Master Day said she would understand, and she does. She understands perfectly.” Looking at Pascal, he said, “You aren’t at all who I thought you were. Not at all.”
“Don’t mistake me,” I said. “It’s not because I understand Ariston Day. But I want to find out what he knows about Nathan’s disappearance. Even if he lies, and I’m sure he will, his stories will at least provide direction.”
Alexander’s grin broadened at this. “Yes, I suppose that’s the case.”