The Wolf of Whindale, page 20
Before I could enquire further of Thomas, however, Master Siskin reappeared. Slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, he made it back to his chair. He picked up his napkin and scrunched it into a ball. He put it down again. He turned to the Prince, who had now slid down in his chair a little and was quietly but perceptibly snoring.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ proclaimed Master Siskin, at a volume nicely judged, so as to awaken but not startle the royal sot. ‘Are you giving me to understand that you are not, after all, in a position to invest in my guns?’
Master Siskin was doing well to keep his countenance as he said these words, but the Prince, newly awoken from his slumber, ignored him, and spoke as if picking up a thread he’d put down but a moment afore. ‘And then, last summer, when I was in Turin, they – my parents, I mean – they wouldn’t let me visit King Victor Emmanuel. Vulgar Victor, they called him. All because he’d been rather naughty when he visited us at Windsor. Apparently, someone caught the old boy giving one of the scullery maids some fun. So they thought he was bound to be even more dissolute when at home, you know. So it was no go. Wasn’t allowed to visit him in case something interesting happened. Would’ve like to see Vulgar Victor. And his pretty maids, all in a row. Got dragged off to see the Pope, instead, who insisted on talking to me in French. Of all things. Didn’t see that coming. Finally got the old boy talking about something interesting – Roman Catholic hierarchy in England – when this one, here,’ – at this, the Prince jabbed his finger directly at Admiral Truce and looked him in the eye, which I’d noticed was not his usual habit, afore continuing – ‘this soft Johnny declares the visit over, and fairly drags me from the Curia, before there’s an incident, he says!’
In the silence that followed, Master Siskin, keeping his features very still, said that he was sorry to repeat his question, but, as the Prince’s five-hundred-pound annual allowance would fall short of the required investment by a factor of one hundred, would he nonetheless be investing in his guns, as he’d been led to believe, by some other means?
Call-me-Bertie heaved a sigh and said, ‘Well, yes, I gather that that was your little scheme, old chap. But as you see, they – my parents, I mean – they have me at their mercy with this allowance business. They keep a tight grip on the old purse strings, you see. So I’m afraid it’s no go. Came here to have a gander at your guns. And veh impressive they are, too. But … shan’t be investing. Sorry, old chap.’
At this news, Master Siskin’s face fairly closed altogether, and after that he hardly said three words until it was time to repair to the library for brandy and cigars. I know not what transpired there, for by this time I was exhausted from the day’s excursions, and so made my excuses to the company, in particular to Dean Dawdler.
By the time I got back to my room, the bandage felt as though it had grown tighter, and it pinched and bit me in a dozen places so that my hand felt ablaze with twitches and unpleasant sensations of every kind. My blood was all for dancing, like a water droplet on a hot skillet. I raised my hand above my head, hoping that this might relieve some pressure, but it was no help; I swung it low, and that made everything worse. I gripped my forearm, as if to strangle the sensations that were racing down it from my broken hand, and still it buzzed with sensation – and as I stood there, braced tight and breathing in little sighs and gasps, I looked and saw the bandage bulge, though I’d felt no corresponding sensation of movement in my hand.
If you have seen, as I have, a dead man lying under a blanket, and then you have seen the blanket move – why, what do you think of? You think of rats. And that’s the direction in which my thoughts leapt. It was impossible that a rat could fit in there, but I had an image in my mind’s eye of a baby rat swaddled in the bandages, and I couldn’t get it out of my thoughts. In any case, nowt, I thought, could be worse than this abominable feeling and supposing. Sickened, I could bear it no longer: I began to tear at the bandages, which smelt of rancid butter and were matted with sweat and some sort of pinkish syrup that made them cloy together and stick to my finger-ends. And then, as I finally peeled them loose, you can imagine my horror when I saw, sprouting in a terrible fork of flesh from the end of my right arm, not one hand but two. Above, the lumped remains of my old hand, with its familiar scars and missing fingers and all; below, where I’d thought I held the Knack, a copy of its elder brother, only smaller, curled and perfect, like an infant’s hand, or a doll’s, quite smooth and hairless and unscarred, except it was somewhat thinner and more bony than an infant’s hand should be. Pale and wet, it looked like it had been carved from unseasoned wood. And then, of its own accord, the new, diminutive hand flexed back, as though it were abashed at the attention I was giving it, until it lay all but nestled in the palm of the old, like an egg-spoon nested in a teaspoon. Everything felt suddenly warm and quiet, there was a rushing sound in my ears, and I – copiously, noiselessly – bowked, giving me the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the prawns and the lamb and the cherries I’d so recently consumed, a salmon-coloured slurry, the sight of which at once persuaded me to bowk again.
12 an extract: op. cit.
[ … ] Let us return to our Mithraic initiates. It was prophesied that, among those who took the final trial and survived it, a chosen one would be rewarded with the growing of a new right hand in place of the old, a gift of Mithras that would confer the greatest powers upon him. In the earliest extant reference, this appendage is called Dei manus: ‘God’s hand’. The nomenclature subsequently changed, however, either by textual corruption or intentional substitution, to the rather more secular donum manus: ‘given hand’. In the last of the surviving Latin texts, this has changed again to daemonium manus: ‘demon’s hand’. In English, it came to be known as the Knack.
For decades, the prophesy went unfulfilled. And then, in the fourth century AD, an imperial slave was born close by the Mithraic temple on Trajan’s Wall. As expected, when he came of age, he joined the army and took a Roman name, Claudius Marcellus. His original name has been lost. Even in his youth, Marcellus’ commitment to Mithras seems to have been fervent, though hindsight may have coloured the few accounts we have of this. In any case, his devotions were repaid in the form of a series of promotions, from contrascriptor (a clerk) to scrutator (inspector) and so on through the ranks of the Roman army until he was made beneficiarius, a privileged soldier. By this point, he had already joined the cult, and he rose through its ranks just as he had those of the army, at last becoming a Pater – at which point he made good on his long-held promise to Mithras, and cut off his right hand. The records tell us that he cut it off himself, and even, it is said, cauterised the wound himself. As this was not a requirement of the sacrifice, we may wonder whether his fellow initiates saw the embellishment as prideful. They would have been wise to do so, in the light of what came after.
Many a Pater before Marcellus had had his right hand lopped off, and in each case the survivor claimed to have been subsequently visited by Mithras in their dreams. We who live in a more cynical age might well respond, ‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’ But, as in all walks of life, many are called but few are chosen. And not a one of these Paters was chosen to receive Mithras’ most precious gift – until Marcellus. For now the prophecy came round, and, as foretold, Marcellus grew a new hand in place of the old: the Knack.
The records tell us that, as expected, the Knack conferred great powers upon Marcellus – and they also say that these powers, or else the malefic influence of the Knack itself, poisoned the man’s brain, and that with every day that passed there was less and less of Claudius Marcellus, and more and more of Mithras Sol Invictus. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I wonder about this. We know so little about the man, it is hard to be sure that his course changed significantly at this point. Was he not always turbulent? How else could a pagan have risen so high in the Roman ranks? In any case, Marcellus is said to have become increasingly quarrelsome and flighty; ever more easy to anger, ever more difficult to restrain. He swore many oaths, but he could not be trusted. St Aidan, whose account of this early history I have drawn upon for this lecture, says that an angel knows not whether it is the living or the dead that he moves among, and that, in a somewhat similar manner, Marcellus knew not whether it was a friend or a foe he had met. He was good for nothing but conflict, bloodletting, battle and slaughter. Marcellus had been born a pagan but became a Roman; now he was sliding back into his former category: the Latin sources that Aidan depended on begin by describing Marcellus as inimicus – that is, ‘not-a-friend’, which is to say an enemy who was a fellow Roman – but they end by describing him as hostis – that is, ‘alien’, which is to say a subhuman enemy. The scribes can barely find the language with which to describe the man.
Eventually, after leading an insurrection against the Roman army to which he had dedicated his life, after causing chaos throughout the region, and after many deaths, the man who was now Sol Invictus Mithras incarnate was tricked and trapped. The Knack was cut from him, and he was slain. The Knack could not be destroyed, so it was hidden deep underground. All remaining members of the Mithraic cult were buried alive in their Ordeal Pits. With only a few exceptions, all written records of the cult were expunged. Throughout the empire, the Mithraic temples – all four hundred of them – were destroyed, and Christian churches built on the sites where they had once stood.
Christianity was, of course, the latest, and the last, religion to have been adopted by the Romans. They borrowed Mithras’ birthday at the winter solstice and gave it to Christ; though, to speak fair, it had been Zeus’ birthday before that. And the idea that they may also have adapted that queer business of tearing and eating the flesh of their god, and calling it Communion – well, that was, in the eyes of the early church councils, the most diabolical heresy. Still, I would not recommend, at Christmastide, raising a glass of port to Dies Natali Invictus Solis. It seems to me that Mithras’ power lies in unlocking that which is imperfect in us, that which we have left unaddressed and unheeded, the means by which we defeat ourselves. In Marcellus, it was his prideful hubris. Who among us would ever want to be confronted by such a shadow? [ … ]
13 The Knack and the Shift
I spent the entire night staring in horrible fascination at my two right hands. Impossible as it sounds, my new one – the Knack, as was – seemed to grow during this vigil, and, though it was but a few scant hours afore the light of day started to keek between the curtains, already my new hand appeared a little less withered and bony, and a little more like a healthy hand, though still appreciably smaller than my old, mutilated right hand, which – and, again, this surely must have been an effect of my having stared at it fixedly so many hours – seemed to have waned as its younger sibling waxed. It was a knotty, decrepit thing.
I found that my new hand would sometimes move of its own accord, though by making a great effort I was able to control it … but then I’d wonder, had I truly made it move, or did it move of its own volition and then instantly convince me that its motion had been my idea? I could think of no perfect way to test this. Contrariwise, my old claw had grown very sluggard in obeying my commands.
As the dawn came on, sleep finally overcame me, and I drowsed and dreamt, and then jumped awake – a moment later, it seemed – to discover that Master Siskin had entered my room, opened the curtains, and was now bending over me, examining my monstrous new appendage, which I had very foolishly neglected to wrap once more in the bandages afore I dozed.
I made a rather belated move to hide my deformity.
Master Siskin finally looked up at me, and said, ‘So you couldn’t resist taking a peek inside the bandages, eh?’ His tone was more confidential than reproachful, but that might merely have been the effect of his hushing and shushing lisp, which seemed especially pronounced. ‘How long have you known it was thus?’
‘Only since last night,’ said I, while trying to waken myself as quickly as possible. It is a horrible thing, to know that you must be on alert when your thoughts are slow and foolish. ‘Did you know that this would happen to me?’
Master Siskin shook his head and returned his attention to the Knack. ‘There was no way to anticipate how the Knack would behave once fusion had taken place. When you first came here, your hand appeared to be burned beyond recognition. It was not clear whether it could be saved, or if you would survive. I’m afraid you ought never to have touched the Knack …’
I don’t suppose I’ve ever taken to a fellow who used the word ‘ought’. For me, it belongs in the same category as ‘ghastly’. I felt my contempt rise up on command at the sound of it, which helped me to come fully to my senses. I said that, as regards the noli me tangere Knack stipulation, this crucial part of the procedure had been very imperfectly communicated to me.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Siskin. ‘You were not properly prepared. Most unfortunate. You’re not to blame, of course. The fault lies with the chap who hired you. I’m afraid I rather read the riot act with him after he’d delivered you here …’
Siskin looked at me as he said this, and I am pleased to report that I met his gaze and kept my countenance. He was testing and probing – if he outright knew that I’d seen inside his killing-bottle of a cellar, I thought, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
Once this difficult moment had been overcome, I asked, ‘Why do you suppose the Knack has taken this hideous form?’
Master Siskin shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is trying to hide again. Such is its nature. It found itself attached to a man’s wrist; what better shape could it have assumed than a hand? Perhaps it is remembering a shape it assumed long ago … But it is idle to speculate. It is time, Caleb. It is time that we unburdened you of this responsibility once and for all.’
A great lurching wave of panic seemed to lift me up. ‘Now? That is, today?’
‘It must be today. My laboratory is ready. The stars are aligned.’
I had no idea whether his reference to sidereal propitiousness was literal or figurative, so I asked why it had to be done that day, especially.
‘I can’t quote the Good Book as expertly as you and Dean Dudley, but I believe it says, somewhere or other, that to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven …’
‘Ecclesiastes, chapter three. A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted …’ I looked at my weird new hand, which had, without my knowing it, formed itself into a diminutive, blue-veined fist. It looked like a bulb of summer garlic. ‘But … isn’t Call-me-Bertie still visiting?’
Master Siskin smiled indulgently, which, I thought, boded ill for me: ordinarily, my disrespectful epithet would have angered him, but he was willing to allow it today. It felt like a concession to a condemned man. ‘His Royal Highness has had to curtail his visit. I’m afraid he was discovered – well, as he might phrase the matter, he was discovered trying to give some fun to one of the maids. For her part, to her credit, she was doing her utmost to repel him. But the Prince would not be gainsaid …’
‘Who discovered them?’
‘Absalom! Yes, the faithful hound chased off the amorous prince!’
‘The great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Master Siskin absently, and I wondered again whether he recognised the quotation. Really, how a fellow could have such a fancy library but not twig to a bit of Bill Shakespeare was beyond me, utterly. ‘Yes, it’s a curious thing,’ he continued, lightly, ‘Absalom happened upon them just in time. Almost as though he’d been sent there expressly to protect the maid …’
I couldn’t think how to frame a response. Master Siskin was grinning at me now, which was altogether disconcerting, for I knew of his disgusting fangs, though they were hidden – almost entirely – by his moustaches.
At last he said, as though to dismiss the subject, ‘Well, I think our dear Madame Laguiole may have had something to do with it, don’t you?’
‘Noli me tangere,’ I said again.
‘Anyway, no harm done. Well, no harm done to the maid, anyway.’
‘There was harm done to the Prince?’
Master Siskin made a vague, expansive gesture. ‘I’d say he learned a valuable lesson. Thou shalt not give a maid some fun if fun is not wanted, or else thou might get bit!’
I gasped out a laugh, or laughed out a gasp. ‘Absalom bit Call-me-Bertie?’
‘The merest scratch, really. In any case, His Royal Highness, and his entourage, has left the premises in high dudgeon. I’m surprised the noise of it all didn’t wake you. You must sleep the sleep of the just! Good riddance to him, in any case. An allowance of a mere five hundred pounds! And the nerve to imply that he might be in a position to invest, that we might form a combination! Well, well. His leaving has allowed me to dismiss the hired staff ahead of schedule, so …’ – and here he drew up the hated wicker bath chair – ‘we will not be disturbed, Caleb. It is time.’ He threw back the blankets, leaned over me and swung me from my bed as easily as if I were a basket of chestnuts. He deposited me in the bath chair, and beamed encouragingly at me. I did my best to return the smile.
It is a hard thing to recall the terror I felt as I was wheeled from my room and along the gloomy hallways of Brink House, where silence once more reigned. I neither saw nor heard a sign of Madame Laguiole or Absalom or any other soul in the house, and so, of course, I was weighing up the likelihood of her betrayal having been guessed, and of my comrade having been killed already, and all our nascent plans thwarted.
