The Anatomist's Dream

by Clio Gray

  Zehenspitze gasped, his eyes and cheeks bright with excitement.

  ‘He didn’t mean to do it,’ Kwert went on quickly. ‘He’d no notion of it, but that was the outcome all the same. And then there’s the miracle of St Lydia’s to come to terms with.’

  Zehenspitze let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. He was a Podognomist of the first order and believed in what he did, but he was also an on-the-ground agitator and Kwert was flinging revolutionary gold dust at his feet.

  Philbert had thoroughly checked every stall and booth for folk he knew and found no one familiar. He was right at the back end of the fair where it abutted onto the killing-grounds, men squatted like knots of toads on the mud-churned field, some holding down animals or winching them up on pulleys so as to slit their throats, funnelling their blood into barrels, slicing the hoisted animals, gutting them with nonchalance, skinning them down, peeling their flesh away from their bones. The smell was stomach-churning, the sight morbidly fascinating, the grass beneath the lamps black with blood, steaming with the heat of disgorged intestines, spilt guts, the stinking slurry of last half-digested suppers, all poured as filth upon the ground. Heaving, Philbert sat down heavily, spittle awash in his mouth. Down below he watched a man stagger and lurch amongst the several small and dirty pigs he’d got in exchange for his smaller and dirtier sheep. Nicolas Groben. Philbert butt-shuffled backwards into the shadows. The last thing he wanted was another encounter with that man. Instead he encountered another.

  ‘Frightened, boy?’ asked the person into whom Philbert had inadvertently bumped.

  ‘No,’ Philbert answered quickly, jumping to his feet. ‘But the smell’s not good.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said his new companion, ‘nor is it pleasant to witness the life-force drain from a body, even one so unclean as the pig.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with pigs,’ Philbert said, hard and sure in his new bravery. ‘They’re very clean animals, if left to themselves.’

  ‘Of their flesh you shall not eat, and their carcasses you shall not touch,’ intoned his interlocutor. ‘You wouldn’t eat your pig if you had one, would you, boy?’

  Philbert shuddered, and agreed he most definitely would not. He could tell from the man’s get up that he was a Rabbi, just like Ridente, presumably here to oversee the slaughtering, elect from whom he would advise his congregation to buy their meat in the upcoming days. Not too far away was Groben, pigs unsettled and nervous. He yanked one up from its tether and got it between his legs to steady it, but it was too frightened to obey. It struggled and kicked, squealing horribly as Groben whacked it several times with a stick on the side of its head, panting hard, thick arms bulging, neck pulsing, legs astride the animal as it dropped. He let go the stick, stuck a knife into the creature’s throat, the gut-wrenching screams rising up terrible in the night. Enough for Philbert, who moved to intervene no matter the consequences, but down came the Rabbi’s hand on his shoulder like a sack of stones, keeping him still as Groben fought to slice his blunt blade through the struggling, squealing skin, the pig pushing and rearing until Groben cursed, grabbed at the tether and wrapped it hard about the animal’s neck, pulling it tighter and tighter about its half-sliced throat until it choked, grunted and lay still. Groben breathed hard, stabbing his knife into the ground, taking a rest before he went at the next one, casting his shadow over the last two terrified, stamping, huffing, squealing pigs awaiting their turn. Groben went to stand, then took a single step to the side, a spasm arcing through his body as he dropped his knife, stood still, silhouetted against the light of the many fires and lamps lit on the slaughtering ground, then down he went, slumping into the hurdles, knocking the tethers from the iron spike in the ground, releasing the pigs who went running, running, a small ripple of confusion as they made their way into the night.

  ‘A good escape,’ the Rabbi commented as if he’d been expecting it. ‘That man was not worthy to remain in the bundle of his life, his heart torn in two within him. He took blood badly, and now the blood has taken him.’

  The Rabbi released Philbert but he didn’t leave immediately. He was still absorbing the fact that Groben had presumably had a heart attack, wondering vaguely if he should go for help. Not that the Rabbi seemed bothered.

  ‘Death is forever breaking upon the shores of our lives and can never be stopped.’

  Philbert thought about that as he saw the small-bearded Fager running up to the prostrate form of Nicolas Groben. He raised one hand as if about to sound the alarm, before lowering it again. He looked around him but no one was paying ­attention. He cast his eyes once up the bank but couldn’t have seen Philbert and the Rabbi in the dark, nor Philbert’s smile as Fager gently lifted the small dead pig and carried it away, Nicolas Groben lying dying, blowing weakly through the mud and blood about his mouth and nose, small bubbles pushing once, twice, thrice, then burst and were no more.

  32

  Give a Man Luck, then Throw him into the Sea

  Philbert had nightmares: a multitude of red Kroonks wading in a sea of blood, Groben laughing, hauling them in with a monstrous hook the size of Philbert’s crooked arm. He kicked himself awake, throat thick with panic, skin covered in sweat. The draggled curtain was pulled back suddenly from their cobbled-together tent and Kwert appeared, cheerful as the streaming sun.

  ‘Good news!’ Kwert was saying merrily. ‘Time to rise, Little Maus, I have the most excellent news!’ He passed over a bowl of cold water so Philbert could wash his face and hands. ‘Eat!’ Kwert commanded, pointing to fresh baked rolls, thick yellow butter beginning to melt beside them. ‘While you’ve been snoring your big head off I’ve been plying my trade, as has Zehenspitze, and between the two of us we’ve found us a ride to the north!’ Kwert creaked on his heels, and Philbert ­swallowed quickly at the news, choking on the hot bread, Kwert bashing him on the back without sympathy, impatient at the inter­ruption, whilst he continued to speak.

  ‘We’ll be riding in style, in a carriage with a certain gentleman who calls himself Il Conte Umberto Petitorri,’ Kwert announced.

  ‘Called who?’ Philbert answered, tightening his breeks about his waist.

  ‘Umberto Petitorri,’ Kwert replied. ‘A Cercatore di Meraviglie – a Seeker of Wonders – travelling around the continent gasping at this and that.’ There was a slight overtone of disgust to his voice as he spoke these last words, but not the next. ‘And just as well for us, I might add, for he’s very anxious to meet you, Little Maus. You and your marvellous head. And we don’t have much time – we must pack up immediately.’

  This last Philbert understood well enough, and was happy for it. During his previous afternoon’s wanderings he’d caught sight of several fliers about the Murderers of Lengerrborn. The descriptions were vague – red-robed monk, boy with big head and hat – but enough for anyone to work it out if they knew Philbert and Kwert. He was eager to be gone, disgusted with himself for sleeping so long – despite it being his first proper night’s sleep in weeks. Kwert and Zehenspitze had been busy and, through their network of contacts, discovered Maulwerf was heading away from his usual patch, going instead up towards the neck of Schleswig-Holstein, where the land was being tugged apart by the Danes from one side and the Prussians from the other, and apparently in sore need of amusement. The turning up of Il Conte and his offer had been the icing on the cake.

  Kwert was already starting to roll their blankets and tie them with cord, stow their few possessions into a bag while Philbert dressed.

  ‘I got a good price for the donkey,’ Kwert said, thanking heaven for Brother Langer and his generosity.

  Philbert poked at a small place on the base of his foot where a thorn had lodged a couple of weeks before and not yet come out.

  ‘And you think we can trust this Godsend?’ he asked ­casually, Kwert looking over in surprise.

  ‘Well he can’t know us,’ Kwert said. ‘We only got here last night,
and by pure chance he came upon us this morning.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Philbert agreed. ‘And it’s a way out.’

  Zehenspitze bustled up to make his goodbyes, hugging Kwert, gifting him a pair of new crutches.

  ‘He’s an odd one, that boy.’ Zehenspitze nodded at Philbert as he began shifting their gear up the way, giving the old friends some privacy. ‘Fire and ice in him now, after what he’s done. And that, Kwert, can go either way. Just keep an eye out, is all I’m saying. Take care, old friend, until we meet again.’

  33

  Peacocks and Deep Wells

  Kwert and Philbert got to the arranged meeting place on the easterly bridge as it passed over the Weser. Petitorri’s carriage was luxurious, lined with red and gold brocade, driven up front by a large-boned, morose lad several years Philbert’s elder, and it was this servant, Goffaggino, who found his master’s new monkeys dawdling nervously by the bridge, looking around them, hoping the midday appointment hadn’t been forgotten. He checked that they were the expected passengers, held open the carriage doors and almost pitched them in alongside their baggage before slamming the doors closed again, informing them that Petitorri was already walking on ahead. Kwert and Philbert exchanged glances, but nothing could take the bright edge off their day.

  The carriage swayed alarmingly as Goffaggino hauled himself into his seat but a moment later they were trotting over the bridge like gentlemen, gazing out of the open-sided carriage as the river passed below, watching people clear the way defer­entially as they went. They clopped their way through the last of Bremen town, saying goodbye to the point-gabled houses, the spires and the sheep. It was a glorious day, so fresh the air nipped their noses, the sky so clear they could see the land for miles and miles beyond the buildings, and the cloud-pale face of the moon as it dipped towards the west.

  They were well on their way out of the city when Goffaggino called out to his passengers:

  ‘That’s Il Conte up ahead – the one with the blue stockings.’

  They heard him chucking the twin-yoked horses on and craned their necks out of their respective windows the better to seek their patron. He wasn’t difficult to spot, and Philbert could hear Kwert chuckling even with his neck out on a stalk and his ribs in tatters. To say the man’s stockings were blue was an understatement – they howled out their blueness, they were bluer than the blue sky above them, a turquoise so bright they would have made a kingfisher covetous. And, as he walked, the silk of his blue stockings rippled gently, creases catching the sun like mirrors. His jacket was no less remarkable, its velvet being a deep-blushed scarlet, not unlike the colour of Kwert’s erstwhile habit, but so plush it could take a man’s finger in up to its second joint. He was a gaily coloured boat bobbing down a stream; heads turned, skirts swept out of his way, men gazed after him open-mouthed, small children ran behind him ­imitating his undeniable waddle of a walk and the way he twisted his cane around and around in his hand as he went. He was short and well-made, shoulders wide, legs slightly bowed beneath his weight.

  ‘Have you ever seen a peacock, Little Maus?’ asked Kwert, ‘because if you haven’t, look on.’

  They both withdrew their heads as the carriage came alongside and kept pace with Petitorri, Goffaggino calling out loudly:

  ‘Will it suit you to get in now, Sire?’

  Petitorri turned his head, face shining like a pomegranate beneath a lime-green hat that resembled a squashed-up concertina.

  ‘Ah, Goffaggino. What a morning! As my old nurse used to say: Il buon di si conosce dal mattino: well begun is half done, and I do believe I’ve started my day just right and it can only get better.’

  Goffaggino snorted, but Petitorri affected not to notice and carried on with his exceptional good humour. He puffed himself up, preening the white ruff on his breast and waddled alongside the carriage, thrusting his head in through the window as Goffaggino slowed the horses’ pace.

  ‘Aha! So we have managed to meet up with our new friends! I had worried the plan was too vague, but you are surely ­welcome.’ His beetle-shiny eyes swivelled towards Philbert. ‘Ah, amicóne, what a truly marvellous hat!’

  Goffaggino stopped the carriage and jumped down to open the door for his master, who duly got in while Goffaggino ­rearranged himself back onto his driving seat, setting the ­carriage rocking dangerously for the few moments the two of them got comfortable, Petitorri mincing his pointed feet around the mound of his guests’ baggage, sighing theatrically, a strong waft of scented violets permeating the air.

  ‘Ah!’ he patted himself down and set his stick between his legs, leaning on it with both his hands. ‘What a morning! What a pleasure! What a delight to sit down in the company of new friends.’ He took a small lace handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his temples before extending a plump, purple-gloved hand to Kwert. ‘Herr Kwert, I’m sorry our talk this morning was so brief, but today we shall make amends, yes?’ Kwert nodded graciously, but Petitorri hadn’t finished. ‘So many sights I’ve seen,’ said the Count. ‘So many fairs have I visited, and yet this is the first time I’ve had real live carnival characters in my carriage.’

  Kwert nudged Philbert and Philbert, on cue, removed his hat, feeling like a Lengerrborn cat-slice in a jar.

  ‘Ah, caro ragazzo! Can it be true?’ the Count leaned forward and poked a bejewelled finger at Philbert’s head, squeaking with delight. ‘Sweet Mary, Mother of Angels! What a lucky man I am. I go around the world with my Goffaggino, seeking out wonders and miracles. I’ve seen Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe in Paris, taken the steam railway from Nürnberg to Fürth, visited the Great Mosque at Cordova. And yet here today the marvels have come to me.’

  Petitorri smiled, lips drawn back over small white teeth separated top-middle by a tidy gap that might have been made for firing out melon pips. It seemed a propitious moment for Kwert to bring out a bottle of cherry brandy. Petitorri accepted a ­generous glug in a silver goblet he produced from a box table – not that it stopped him talking, which seemed to come as natural to him as breathing.

  ‘Twice I’ve toured Europe since leaving Italy with my half-wit servant Goffaggino.’ The carriage lurched as he spoke and Petitorri shouted curses in several languages. ‘He dropped me down a well once. Near broke my buttock-bone in two, but I’ve a special interest in the subterranean. Sewerage systems are the only way forward for civilisation. The towns I have been where the filth is piled and poured into the streets! It is enough to make one slice off one’s nose.’

  This statement brought Hochwürden and Hermann to mind, Philbert switching his gaze from the chattering peacock to the outside world, following the sun as it smoothed its way across the sky, watching the rosebay and meadowsweet sway on their stems in the ditches by the lanes they were travelling, the moon fading to invisibility as they passed the day by. It was evening when they alighted at an inn, and when Petitorri tucked into his veal and mutton pie he stopped talking long enough for Kwert to put in a few words.

  ‘We really are immensely grateful for your help,’ he said, Petitorri waving a hand with largesse, his mouth full of pastry crust. ‘And I gather from what you said back in Bremen that you once met Doctor Ullendorf?’

  Petitorri nodded his head, eyes bright as a blackbird’s. Philbert stopped eating, unnerved by this new revelation Kwert had omitted to mention. He didn’t like this strange magpie of a man who filled his hours with anecdotes, going hither and thither, without reaching any obvious endpoint.

  ‘Ah yes, Doctor Ullendorf,’ Petitorri sighed, having cleared his plate before the rest of them were halfway through. ‘I’d heard of his unusual anatomical collection and sought him out only last year at his home.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And to think he took me to that Westphal Club,’ he shivered theatrically. ‘What a disaster! I don’t suppose you’ve heard, you being on your travels and all, but Ullendorf is dead – shot to pieces. The militia raided that
Westphal Club in Lengerrborn a month or so back, having tailed one of those anarchist ­revolutionaries there on the personal orders of Metternich ­himself. Von Ebner he was called, the place packed wall to wall with his followers and no better time to strike. What a scandal!’ He shook his head. ‘Such a pity because – despite his politics – Von Ebner was a great scientist, God rest his soul.’ Petitorri crossed himself, and bowed his head. ‘Had an intellect you are unlikely to meet twice in a lifetime, and a singular ­cruelty, to my mind, that he was there to meet Ullendorf – two great minds were crushed by the stone intended only for one.’

  A large peach cobbler arrived at that moment, slapped onto the table courtesy of Goffaggino, who’d sat apart all this while, followed immediately by a splatter of custard from the accompanying jug. Petitorri frowned, waiting until his manservant had removed himself again to his own table and the jug of beer he poured freely into a tankard, before going on, Kwert and Philbert uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation, hanging on every word as they’d not done before.

  ‘Von Ebner,’ Petitorri continued in the same conspiratorial vein, ‘was only there because he’d been invited to Lengerrborn to view Ullendorf’s latest wunderkind.’

  Kwert fumbled his fork around his plate, failing to prevent the escape of several peas, Petitorri observing without interest as said peas rolled from Kwert’s plate to the rickety table and then to the floor. He chose that moment to lean back in his chair and look from Kwert to Philbert and then back again. None of the concerned whisper about him now, nothing but the blank-eyed stare of a bull about to gore a man right through his belly, words picked and precise, chilling Kwert and Philbert to the bone.