Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  ‘Expecting me?’ Jerame glanced at him warily, wondering if in the intervening years since they studied at Medical School together, Tartarus had become as mad as his patients. How could he have known Jerame was coming today?

  ‘Let’s talk in my office.’

  Brownish light filtered into the dark-walled room; Jerame placed his gloves and hat on the desk.

  ‘Drink?’ Tartarus held up a glass decanter containing a brackish liquid, looking suspiciously, Jerame thought, like old embalming fluid. He shook his head. Tartarus poured himself a glass and drank it down.

  ‘Ahh. Keeps out the damp.’ He grimaced, showing teeth stained as yellow as the liquid he had just swallowed.

  Jerame began to wonder if he had been wise in coming. But Tartarus was the only expert on disorders of the brain in Sulien – and at Medical School his quirkily enquiring mind had distinguished him as the genius of the year, the star pupil.

  ‘Long years ago I asked you a question. A question you could not then answer.’

  ‘Why? That was the question you asked, I seem to recall. A hundred questions in that one word. Why the Accidie? Why is it irreversible? Why Iridial –’

  ‘Yes, yes. And you said to me you would investigate the Accidie from the viewpoint of modern medical thought. Away with the superstitions, the legends. Observed facts and scientific conclusions – that was the only way forward.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t let me draw my own conclusions,’ Tartarus said; a gleam of resentment lit his eyes, dull as old varnish in the brown light.

  ‘I wouldn’t let you dissect her!’ Jerame cried.

  Tartarus shrugged and reached for the decanter.

  ‘So much for modern scientific investigation. But Iridial is long dead. Why are you here today?’

  ‘It’s my daughter Orial. She –’ Jerame faltered, hands toying with the fingers of his gloves. ‘She is showing all the same signs.’

  ‘Your daughter too. So I was right?’ The gleam had become acquisitive. ‘Intriguing. It so often skips a generation. It would be most instructive to examine her –’

  ‘Impossible. You see – I haven’t told her. I – I didn’t want to alarm her.’

  Tartarus folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘To consult you. You’re the expert.’

  Tartarus paused. He seemed to be considering the matter.

  ‘You must give me your word – on our sacred Doctor’s Oath – that you won’t poach my research.’

  ‘Damn your research! I want to save my daughter.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Jerame followed the glimmer of Tartarus’s shabby white coat down interminable gloomy corridors until he stopped and ushered Jerame into an ill-lit chamber lined with shelves.

  The sour stink of the room was overpowering; some vile stale chymical miasma that seemed to have pickled the dusty interior and stained the window pane.

  ‘There! A fine specimen. A unique specimen.’

  Tartarus brought out a glass jar.

  Jerame saw that it was a brain. A human brain, floating in a hideous discoloured liquid.

  ‘The only one of its kind. Look at the right hemisphere – overdeveloped, hm? If I lift the top section so that you can see better –’

  ‘Whose –?’ Jerame, experienced practitioner that he was, felt a sudden rising surge of nausea.

  ‘You can clearly see these extraordinary neural pathways –’

  The pungent stench of the cloudy chymical vinegar was making Jerame’s stomach heave.

  ‘Ophil!’

  ‘The subject’s name was Serafine. I didn’t perform the dissection, you understand. That honour fell to my predecessor.’

  ‘How can you be sure she had the Accidie?’ The suffocating stink was sickening Jerame, filling his nostrils with its pungent odour of decay.

  ‘Read this entry in the Register here. “Serafine in an extreme manic state. She cannot abide a note of music to be sung or whistled within earshot. It sends her crazy. She also claims she can hear the music in others’ minds. All the time.” ‘

  ‘A kind of musical telepathy?’

  ‘A cacophony. A din. A chaos…’

  Jerame nodded slowly.

  She sits naked on the floor, her hands clutched over her ears, rocking to and fro, to and fro. Her pale face is twisted with a silent agony, her hair, unwashed, unbound, streams wildly about her shoulders, tarnished golden snakelocks. ‘Make it stop, Jerame,’ she whispers, ‘make it stop!’

  ‘… caused no doubt by this rapid degeneration of the neural pathways.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Jerame struggled to make sense of the information. ‘That the musical gift is nothing but the result of some – physical defect in the brain? This – malformation?’ He tapped at the clouded jar with his finger.

  ‘Defect, malformation… what can we do but speculate? If it is a Lifhendil inheritance – what were they like, these Lifhendil? Did they practise some form of telepathy? Oh, I’ve many theories, Jerame. All hypothetical. This is the only evidence. Apart –’ and his eyes seemed to gleam again in the dusty room ‘– from your daughter Orial.’

  ‘You are not laying a finger on her! I will not have her used as part of your experiments, to prove some crackpot hypothesis –’

  ‘Then you’ll let her go the same way as Iridial? Your decision, Doctor.’ Tartarus lifted the jar and placed it back on the shelf alongside the other diseased specimens.

  ‘Let her go? You speak as if there were some cure!’

  ‘By the time you brought Iridial to me, she was past help. Her mind was irreparably damaged and I could see no pattern to it.’

  ‘You’re certain there is a pattern?’

  ‘Oh, come now, Jerame. Don’t tell me, after all these years as a medical practitioner, you still subscribe to the “madness is possession by evil spirits” school of thought? Neural pathways.’ He tapped the jar again, disturbing the cloudy ichor. ‘That’s the clue. Dissect a normal brain… and compare the two. The Lifhendil brain is distinctly different.’

  From somewhere deep inside the Asylum came the echo of distant laughter.

  Jerame took out his handkerchief and mopped at his brow. He had broken out in a sick, cold sweat.

  ‘Wait till you see what I’ve installed upstairs. Come.’

  Tartarus locked the specimen closet and, taking Jerame’s arm, led him back along the corridor. Even in the sepia light filtering in through the high grilled windows, Jerame could see damp stains on the walls, cracked plaster, signs of neglect.

  Up the winding tower stair they went until Tartarus flung open a door at the top.

  ‘What is this place?’

  Coils of wire dangled from the ceiling; tall glass vats of transparent liquids stood beneath. A wooden chair was placed in between the vats; leathern restraints hung at the arms and seat. A curious smell made-Jerame sniff, trying to identify the chemical. Acid; yes, it was definitely acid.

  ‘My electric chamber.’

  ‘Hm! Torture chamber, more like.’

  ‘You are looking at the most revolutionary method of treating the insane in all Tourmalise. You are looking at the future.’ Tartarus danced around the bizarre equipment, fingers conducting an imaginary experiment. ‘It’s in its earliest stages – but the results are quite astounding.’ ‘Electric? You’re harnessing the power of lightning?’ A helmet stood beneath the chair; Jerame picked it up and turned it round in his hands.

  ‘Not harnessing. Creating, controlling!’

  The helmet consisted of a circular band of metal with crossed bars, like a crude crown, and the whole was encased in leather straps.

  ‘You direct electrical currents into the brain through this? But – that’s an appalling thought! You could fry your patients alive –’

  Tartarus snatched the helmet from Jerame’s hands.

  ‘D’you think I’d use it on my patients if I hadn’t tested it on myself first?’ He popped it on t
o his wild hair and grinned at Jerame.

  ‘You?’

  ‘After the initial shock I felt completely restored. Renewed! There was some blurring of the memory. But as we only administer the minutest of doses, that was soon restored. The treatment seems to re-order the thought patterns in the brain most satisfactorily.’

  Jerame sat down heavily in the chair.

  ‘You must meet Adelys.’ Tartarus prowled around the chamber, a jagged black shadow. ‘The poor woman was in the most desperate state. Since I treated her, she has quietened down and is docile and calm once more –’

  Jerame slid his hands slowly along the wooden arm-rests. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be strapped in, to feel the metal band tightening around the forehead. And then the juddering shock of the electrical spark, the ensuing convulsions –

  ‘No. I won’t let you experiment on Orial.’

  ‘There was a time when you put your trust in science. What’s happened to that trust?’ Tartarus took off the helmet and hooked it over the chair back.

  Jerame regarded it with loathing and suspicion. Instrument of torture, devil’s instrument. He went over to the slit window and gazed out. And yet… what other treatment was there? Suppose he was rejecting the only possible hope of a cure?

  Far below the Avenne glistened like a slick of oil in the river marshes. Water. The ever-present lure… and the ever-present threat to her life.

  A sudden violent commotion broke out below.

  ‘Doctor Tartarus!’ a desperate voice called as the sounds of a struggle grew louder. ‘A sedative! Quick!’

  ‘We’re never off-duty here,’ Tartarus said with a wry curl of the lips. He seemed in no hurry to go to the aid of the nurse. ‘Fool! I warned him she was in a violent humour today. He never listens.’

  ‘I’m keeping you from your patients,’ Jerame said hastily. ‘I’d better be on my way.’

  The great door clanged shut behind him. He stood on the weed-cracked path, listening to the screams and cries of the unfortunate inmate and her attendant until they dwindled to nothing and all he could hear was the faint, sad whine of the wind off the river marshes.

  The woman lies weeping on the ground, her shoulders heaving. Orial approaches slowly, cautiously. She wants to comfort her – and yet she is afraid. The terrible weeping makes her sad. So sad.

  She kneels down beside her and puts her arm around her.

  ‘Orial make it better, Mammie…’

  ‘NO!’ The woman rears up. Her face is distorted, her rainbow eyes wild, waterfall torrents streaming down her pale cheeks. ‘Go away. Go away!’

  Orial shrinks away. Now she is crying too, crying that her mammie has shouted at her, crying that everything is so wrong–

  ‘Aiieeeee.…’

  And what has happened to Mammie’s face? Raw claw marks stripe the white skin with red, she has torn the earrings from her lobes, has raked her own nails down her cheeks.

  Orial stares, too terrified to move.

  ‘Take the child away! Don’t let her – let her –’

  Someone scoops Orial up, carries her away, but still she can hear Mammie crying, so lost, so pitiful.

  ‘Don’t – let her – remember me like this –’

  ‘Mammie!’ Orial sat up in bed, still rigid with terror.

  Iridial’s gown lay on the floor in a heap where she had cast it last night, the blue ribbons crumpled.

  She gathered the gown up and, smoothing out its folds, laid it on the bed. In the daylight it seemed to have lost its glamour, like the bruised petals of a flower that had faded in the night.

  She dressed and came slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs, dreading to hear his voice suddenly shouting at her in anger.

  I am old enough to make my own decisions. And I will not be kept a prisoner in my own room.

  But his office was locked.

  She peeped into the dining room and saw that the breakfast Cook had set out had hardly been touched; the qaffë had gone cold in the pot. Even as she stood gazing down at the congealing mess of scrambled eggs, wondering if the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach was hunger, Cook came in.

  ‘Heaven’s sakes, why do I bother preparing food if neither of you is going to eat it?’ She began to pile dishes on to her tray, muttering to herself. Orial helped her.

  ‘Where is my father?’ she asked.

  ‘Out. Went out. Gone to visit some rich old so-and-so with more money than sense, like as not.’

  If Jerame could go out, then so could she. Orial took her cape from the hook and set out for the Crescent.

  The aria came to a sudden halt in mid-phrase. Orial looked up and saw that Khassian was staring at his hands. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  ‘Illustre?’

  He started.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’ll… take a few minutes’ rest…’

  ‘I – I wondered if you could give me some advice.’

  ‘Musical advice?’

  Maybe it was not the best moment to mention the matter.

  ‘I compose too. A little –’ she added hastily. ‘I’ve never had any guidance. I know our style in Sulien must seem somewhat… provincial. But –’

  ‘Show me,’ he said tersely.

  She took the folded manuscript paper from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table in front of him: ‘Moon Eyes and Silver Hare.’ She was ashamed to see how untidy it looked, how the notes which had excited her so much as she spun them together looked so dull on paper.

  He sat down to study them. His maimed hand twitched impatiently under the concealing drifts of lace.

  ‘Well?’ she said quietly.

  ‘It’s – it’s –’ He seemed to be casting around for words. ‘It’s a pretty tune. It has a – a certain naive charm.’

  His hesitation told her that he did not really regard it as worthy of his attention.

  ‘If I had my cithara I would play it to you. It’s based on an old Sulien tale. This part – the leaping figure – is the hare.’

  ‘You seem undecided here as to the correct way to notate the rhythm of the accompaniment figure. Was it de-da-de-de? Or de-da-de-de? You have to be precise. And look at this part-writing. Doubled notes…’

  ‘Grammatical errors. I’ll correct them.’

  ‘Mm.’ He appeared bored with it already. ‘You’ve much to learn.’

  His curtness shocked her into silence; a sigh escaped her lips, so soft it was hardly audible. It was all she could permit herself; she was, after all, only an untutored girl – and he was the Illustre Khassian. She should be grateful for his advice…

  Why, then, was it that she felt as if his criticism had blighted her creation, as if a lethal breath of frost had shrivelled the life from the simple song?

  Khassian crossed the broad sweep of lawns that curved down from the Crescent, making for the shade of the great cedars. A worn path led to a verdant walk beyond, past moss-encrusted statues and crumbling urns, tumbled with cascades of ivy.

  As he walked, scuffing up cedar needles from the soft carpet underfoot, notes came floating into his head, light as soap bubbles. He ignored them.

  They would not be ignored.

  Damn it, why were they so persistent? It was a child’s tune, a simple melody, absurdly simple, plaguing his memory.

  Where had he heard it before?

  He sang a few notes aloud, hoping to exorcise it –

  And remembered.

  It was Orial’s tune.

  Now the tune seemed skewed, its simplicity tainted by his feelings of guilt. He had treated her badly, and for reasons which were nothing to do with her but with emotions he had thought long-buried.

  He had forgotten her youth, her inexperience. He had criticised her work as brutally as if she were a Conservatoire student.

  Why, when he looked at her, had he seen – for a moment – Fania?

  It was not her fault she remined him of long-dead Fania. She did not know, she could not know, he had had a sister,
a sister who had not lived to fulfil the promise of her early years.

  He sat down on a wrought-iron bench painted a dark and flaking green and watched a flutter of sparrows squabbling over crumbs of bread.

  Maybe there had been guilt mingled with a child’s uncomprehending grief. The golden, gifted boy, who had envied Fania’s promise, her brilliance that threatened to overshadow his… Could the dark thoughts that had clouded his mind have made her vulnerable to the smallpox?

  The boy Amaru shrinks into the shadow of a doorway as another doctor is ushered into the house and hurried upstairs. Hushed voices whisper, the bitter smoke of fever herbs wafts down the stairs, barely disguising the foetid smell of the darkened sickroom. He has become invisible; his parents stare through him as they confer in urgent undertones with the doctors, the servants rush past unseeing, bearing bowls of water, towels…

  And once or twice, once or twice he hears a thin, high voice crying out, crying out his name. ‘A… mar…’

  When he tries to go to her, they won’t let him in. They hold him back. Their strained faces, their dark, sunken eyes, terrify him.

  ‘You can’t go in. You mustn’t go in.’

  ‘She’s calling for me!’

  ‘She’s feverish, she no longer knows what she’s saying –

  He stares at the gilded icon of the Prophet Mhir, the painted wreath of jagged rose-thorns framing the Prophet’s face, gold leaf and dark jewelled colours. Only the thorns, long and jagged, look real. The boy can feel them tearing at his heart –

  ‘Don’t let her die. Please don’t let her die.’

  Unanswered prayers…

  The ethereal angel’s voice that had made Prince Ilsevir and the court weep no longer called his name. It was silenced for all eternity.

  ‘Fania,’ he whispered to the sparrows.

  Maybe since that day he had been courting death, seeking expiation for the quirk of fate that had allowed him to live – and Fania to die. Maybe that was what had sent him back into the burning Opera House…

  Orial took a taper, held it to the lantern flame and then lit, one by one, the lotos candles she had brought to perfume her mother’s shrine.