by Jeffrey Ford
“No ‘Indian Caves’?” I asked, getting a little impatient with the history lesson and trying not to show it.
“Let me check the system,” she said.
She turned and walked away, taking the candle with her, and the darkness came up around me. I followed her across the room to a rolling ladder, which she climbed most nimbly, all the while holding her candle. She pulled something from one of the shelves before descending.
The archive was Garrick’s dream come to life—shelves and drawers and cabinets containing various and sundry articles and clippings from myriad local newspapers and magazines—all catalogued, filed, and cross-referenced according to a system devised by Mrs. Pease. How the materials were chosen—and the criteria by which they were arranged—was a mystery. I briefly wondered what would happen if Mrs. Pease was no more, but I pushed the thought from my mind.
After descending from above, she handed me the candle and ordered me to follow close behind her. She led me toward the back of the room. Three times she stopped and dug through a few file drawers before moving on. I started to wonder if she knew what she was looking for or how to find it.
“Why all the stops?” I asked.
“Everything is cross-referenced so you can eventually get to anywhere from anywhere within the system.”
I tried to picture what she was talking about but drew a blank. “I’m not getting any younger, Mrs. P.”
“I just passed a note concerning the listing of your articles in the archive,” she said as we pushed on through the dark from one wall of filing cabinets to the other.
“How are my pieces listed?”
“Under ‘Feverish Wanking.’” She laughed.
“Less feverish, the older I get.”
“Ahh. This is what I was looking for,” Mrs. Pease said with a note of satisfaction. She pulled out a waist-high drawer and fished around inside with both hands. An exceedingly large book was her catch. “Back to the desk,” she said. We turned around and I served as candleholder all the way back to her office area. Once there, she set the book down and opened it. She lit the gas lamp sitting on her desk, and we both leaned in to peruse the giant pages of colorful maps.
“These are Mitchell maps of Manhattan,” she said.
She turned a few pages until she settled on a page that contained an image of the northern half of the island. “You see, here?” she said and pointed to a spot at the extreme northwest corner, bordered by the Hudson River.
“I’ve never been there,” I said.
“Me, neither,” said Mrs. Pease. She tapped the page at that spot with her forefinger as she spoke. “This is where the Dutch supposedly bought Manhattan from the Carnasee tribe for sixty guilders.”
“I’ve heard the story.”
“No doubt it’s nonsense. There’s an enormous tulip tree right here,” she said, pointing with her pinky to be more exact. It’s over 250 feet tall. If you can find that and walk due west toward the Hudson through the surrounding woods, you’ll come across a considerable outcropping of schist rock. In those natural walls there are caves once inhabited by Indians on fishing expeditions to the area. Since the time of the Dutch they’ve been known as the Indian Caves.”
My first reaction was disappointment, realizing how far I’d have to travel to find Ahab, all based on Ishmael’s suspect word. I closed my eyes and tried to picture where the rocky shore met the Hudson. I couldn’t see it. When I opened my eyes, Mrs. Pease was gone. I heard the sound of a file drawer sliding open somewhere in the distance and knew she had retreated deep into the system. I called, “Try to get some sun.”
Her voice came back: “It’s going to snow soon.”
I let myself out.
18
On the street, the temperature had dropped. Walking aimlessly along, I tried to picture Mavis and I launching an assault on Malbaster and the Host at some cave in the woods in the northern wilds of Manhattan. Our odds of success struck me as less than promising. I was going to need at least a few more conscripts to the cause but couldn’t think of anyone. I mulled the idea of asking Garrick to hire some thugs for me, but when I’d spoken to him about the end of the Ahab run, he hadn’t seemed unduly upset that I was moving on from that theme. The chances that he would make the hinges squeal on his money chest and hand over cash for mercenaries was slim.
I thought of Misha, but she was getting along in years and had two bad knees. The only other possibility was my brother-in-law, Tommy, who might be willing to muster some police support. I headed south along the docks of the seaport where he usually could be found, either rousting vagrants or drinking free ale in one of the oyster joints. I finally caught up with him at a little place called the Rooster’s Tooth across from the Coffee House slip.
He was sitting with the owner of the place, drinking a tankard, as usual. When I appeared before him, he sent the owner away and said to me, “George, you look like you’ve got something to say that I’m not going to like.”
I sat down opposite him. I wasn’t really sure how to begin. After all, he’d already warned me to steer clear of Malbaster and the Host.
“Well?” he said.
“Do you remember that fellow who was with me a week or so ago?”
“The one who had resolved to kill all the criminals in New York in order to save his boy?”
“Yes, that one. Ahab.”
“What happened, George?” he asked wearily.
“He was snatched by Malbaster, and I have it from a reliable source the poor fellow is having his consciousness eradicated by the yellow smoke.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I intend to rescue him.”
Tommy took a swig of his ale and stared at me for a few beats. “What did I tell you?” he said.
“I couldn’t stop Ahab from searching for his son. The man’s obsessed.”
“George Harrow, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. You couldn’t stop yourself from writing articles about him for the Mirror. Did you forget that I’m your biggest fan? Even your own sister doesn’t read your work as reliably as I do. You just ignored me. The way you saw it, you were in charge and nothing could go wrong.”
“Tommy, I swear . . .”
“I warned you.”
“It’s a man’s life. Don’t the police want to catch Malbaster?”
“Where is he holed up?”
“Some place called the Indian Caves.”
Tommy laughed. “Is this real or another one of your cockeyed stories?”
“It’s true.”
“You wouldn’t know anything about a disturbance at a certain French restaurant in the Crystal Palace, would you?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Word is Malbaster was on the scene. There was gunplay, a window was broken, and a colored fellow was tossing knives around.”
“Sounds exciting,” I said.
“I can’t help you, George. I’ll buy you a gin or two, but I can’t muster forces for an assault on dreamland.”
I gave up on Tommy. We had a few drinks and talked about Ivy and the kids and Mayor Westervelt’s attempts to rehabilitate the police force. We parted amicably, and as we started off in opposite directions—I toward home and Tommy down toward the Battery—the last thing I heard him say was, “The fucking Indian Caves,” followed by laughter.
I decided to go home and catch a few hours of sleep. Along the way an errant thought slipped into my mind: Arabella Dromen. Initially, I’d not considered her as an ally in the Indian Caves adventure, but only as a charming beauty my mind no longer had the wherewithal to resist. I watched her image float by behind my eyes, saw her smile, and noticed her hair was now undone and hanging loose. It flowed down over her shoulders and framed her alluring face.
I stopped in my tracks when I realized I might be able to convince her to come to the Indian Caves with Mavis and me to rescue Ahab. I’ll promise her a shot at Malbaster, I told myself. With that thought in mind, I passed right by James Street and headed n
orth. The image of Arabella Dromen revived me. In no time, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house.
I tapped the knocker on the front door and Otis answered. I thought he was going to chase me away, but instead he ushered me inside and led me along a dim hallway to a closed door. He stopped and gave two knuckle raps.
“Yes?” Her voice sounded through the wood.
“Harrow here to see you.”
“Send him in,” she called.
The butler opened the door and I passed into a room that was painted blue. Gas lamps cast wavering shadows across the walls. Arabella was sitting at a table, pen in hand, furiously writing. She wore a white muslin gown. I immediately noticed the smoldering pipe resting on a brass plate, smelled the opium swirling in the air. She motioned me toward a chair with her free hand, but her pen hand never stopped moving. The words rolled out upon the paper.
After filling two more pages, she laid the pen down and looked up. “Mr. Harrow,” she said and smiled.
“Miss Dromen.”
“Did you have something you wanted to tell me?” she asked.
It dawned upon me that I was staring at her. “Yes. I’ve come to inquire if you’d like to help me save my friend, Ahab, from a fate worse than death.”
I told her about Malbaster and what I believed he was doing to the captain. I thought perhaps I was making progress when at one point she said, “Poor man.” Then she lifted the pipe from the brass plate and pulled a small lamp with an open flame, no globe to contain it, across the desk to her. She held the metal bowl of the pipe over the fire and when the drug was smoking hot passed it to me. I took it, put it to my lips, and drew in that which I was just railing against in my description of Malbaster’s undoing of Ahab.
I handed her back the pipe after three hearty puffs—I wanted her to think I was trying. Once in her possession she began the process again by filling and lighting it. “Is this what you want me to do?” she said. “Come with you tomorrow night to the Indian Caves? Attack Malbaster’s operation and rescue Mr. Ahab? And if Malbaster is present, I get to kill him?” She took a voluminous draw on the dream stick.
Her straightforward summation of the affair struck me as funny, and I laughed. She tried to retain an expression of seriousness, but soon streamers of yellow smoke leaked out the sides of her mouth, and then burst forth in a torrent and swamped the room. All of a sudden I found my mouth dry and my eyelids heavy. I felt calm and giddy and dreamy all at once. Looking around, I noticed that the flickering of the gas lamps made the blue walls appear to move like undulating waves.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“A story,” she said. “A novel that I create extemporaneously. My hand moves faster than my mind. It’s a tale told by the universe. I’m merely the conduit.”
“Automatic writing?” I asked.
“Something like that. Dispatches from a transcendental state.”
“For this you need the smoke?”
“It helps me connect with the everything.”
“This is the work you spoke of last time I was here? One Hundred Nights of Nothing?”
She nodded. “I need to finish the manuscript or my publisher will be quite cross. I’ve tried to explain that one cannot just summon creativity at will, but . . .” And here she trailed off as her gaze shifted back to the papers on her desk.
“I’m in the booksellers all the time, looking for ideas. Why is it I’ve never seen your name on a book?” I asked.
“I use a man’s name. Mr. Perseus Smith. Look for it. I’m in all the shops in town.”
“Why a man’s name?”
“Because I want to be paid.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“What else? The most important subject in the world. The life of a woman.”
“Which woman?”
“Her name is Seraphita. She set out with her husband and child in a boat along with others, fleeing persecution. They sailed the great ocean, heading from north to south. After visiting a jungle country near the equator, a plague broke out aboard the ship and everyone on the vessel died but her. The boat was hailed by a whaling ship, but when the captain discovered that her ship had been infested with the plague, he would not take her aboard. Instead he had his men tie a long rope to a lifeboat and tow her, afraid for the health and safety of his crew.
“Seraphita wept at night for the loss of her husband and child, and the captain begged her to silence her grief as it was making his crew uneasy. But she could not contain her sorrow. In time, the ship’s surgeon fed her bad meat and foul water in an attempt to quietly finish her off. Before that could happen, though, the captain cut the tow line and left her to the mercy of the currents. The poor creature was nearly dead from the poisonous food and dying of thirst. As luck would have it, the boat washed up on the shore of a strange island, uninhabited by men but full of wondrous and beautiful creatures. She lived out her life, and over time, transformed into a manticore.”
Hearing again the story Madi had recently told me about a younger Ahab made me dizzy with shock.
“Do you know what a manticore is?” she asked.
I couldn’t answer at first.
“It’s a creature of many creatures,” she said. “The face of Seraphita, the body of a predator cat, and the deadly tail of a scorpion.”
“What if I told you I’d been chased by one?” I said.
“In your dreams?”
“In an old warehouse. The book, are you going to publish it?”
“It’s my ambition,” she said.
I wanted to respond to her but became instantly weary beyond reason. I no longer had energy to speak. My breaths came slow and rhythmically, my thoughts flowed like a stream, a passing of images becoming other images. Only my eyes remained open, and I was dreaming while still awake. Every few seconds Arabella came back into view and I caught a glimpse of her writing away like mad.
I was gone somewhere adrift in a tempest of thoughts and visions set to the sound of wind chimes tinkling, though there was no draft in the room nor any chimes as far as I could ascertain. The next thing I knew I was in Garrick’s office, but sitting in his seat was Ishmael. “Look, Harrow,” he said with the same kind of basso profundo voice as Garrick, “there is in fact a secret magical connection between the book and the voyage. You need to take control of the narrative.” With that he puffed on a huge cigar and the smoke instantly filled the office. I choked, trying to catch my breath. There was suddenly a cup of water at my lips and the cool relief revived me somewhat. The smoke of Garrick’s office cleared and I was back in the blue room, Arabella standing next to me, administering sips of water.
When I’d stopped coughing and gasping, she went back to her chair and left the water in front of me. “You’ve been away for over an hour, Harrow. Did you have a pleasant journey?”
I shook my head to clear it. “More than an hour?” I said. “It seemed mere minutes.”
“Time, a maniac scattering dust,” she said.
“That story you told me about the woman, Seraphita, is nearly the same story Madi told me about Ahab. Only in his version, Ahab was the captain in question.”
“Every so often there are episodes where a confluence of fictions come together to shape reality,” she said. “It’s a time when, if understood in all its ramifications, the pen actually is mightier than the sword. From the moment I met you and Madi, I could feel that our stories had been mixing from long before that. Notice, my manticore has been appropriated by Malbaster. He must also be a fictioneer. What’s the story he’s telling?”
“Paranoia, fear.” I said.
“I am a devotee of the works of Emerson and believe he’s professing that the mind is a reality engine—it creates reality or at least in some part it helps to create reality. Malbaster draws his power from the fear he instills. He may not tell his story with ink and a pen, but in blood, and his book is terror. What’s more, he’s a consummate liar. In telling you the early story of
Ahab, Madi somehow told me the early story of Ahab, and the woman in the boat infiltrated my vision. We’re sharing in each other’s plots.”
I nodded, still in a daze. At first, I had no idea what she was talking about, but slowly it dawned on me that even I was in the insane position of having to agree with her. It was the only thing that even came close to explaining the corollaries between certain stories. How else to explain the predictive nature of my article that recounted, almost to a T, Ahab’s fate. In reaction, I felt profound wonder and not a little fear.
“This phenomenon, the confluence of fictions, does it come and go, like the weather?” I asked.
“More like a fever,” she said, and she returned to her work.
19
The day perished with a whimper into night and Mavis emerged from an alley a few buildings away from my house. At the same instant, Miss Dromen’s private coach, piloted by Otis, drew to a halt out front. I was still slightly dazed from my experience with the dream stick, but at least now sober enough to reckon that Arabella’s theory of the confluence of fictions was insane. I slipped into the cab and was unnerved to find Arabella dressed in men’s trousers, a dark green cape, and a derby, and holding a short-barreled shotgun. I inquired if it was loaded and she laughed.
“It was my father’s. He kept it aboard ship—an English coach gun.”
Mavis, in black coat, black trousers, black hat, and a charcoal beard and mustache, entered the cab a moment after me. She sat next to Arabella. And then we were off. “The Indian Caves,” I said aloud and shook my head in disbelief. The thought of it made me shudder.
“It’ll be a few hours,” said Arabella.
“You know how to get there?” I asked.