Obsidian Mirror

17

I dream of the scarred man. He comes and stands at the foot of my bed, and he is half angel, half demon. He says, “Don’t try to use the mirror. The mirror will possess you. The mirror will devour your soul.”

He is too late. I have already discovered that.

My house is a fortress, locked and bolted and barred. But ghosts and phantoms flicker here, in polished surfaces, in glass and crystal.

And someone is watching every move I make.

Journal of John Harcourt Symmes

“WHO IS HE?” Sarah snapped.

“Like I said.” Piers lowered the crowbar reluctantly. “He’s is a changeling. He’s with the Shee. Venn knows him.”

Gideon laughed. He flicked his coattails and sat, as if relishing the comfort.

She was astonished at him. He was thin, almost insubstantial, as if his very being had worn away through centuries. And yet under the fever-bright eyes and the crazy costume, there was a lost boy, someone so far from everyone else, there was no way back, and she understood that only too well.

Not only that, his presence here was a sudden fierce hope for her. The Shee, if they existed, were reputed to be creatures that lived outside time. To them, all times were the same.

She thought quickly. “Jake brought you here?”

Gideon shrugged. “Foolishly, I thought he wanted to help me. But he only wanted me to operate the machine. That was all he cared about.”

“And what do you care about?” Sarah quietly watched as Piers turned back to the black mirror.

The boy smiled, bitterly. “Going home. Though that is not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing is left. They took me centuries since. Now I can’t leave the estate, so Summer says.”

“Summer?”

“Their queen. She’s told me many times. If I even set the toe of my foot on the unenchanted earth, I will dissolve into the dust I should have been five hundred years ago. She taunts me with it. I have no idea if it’s true, or if so much time has truly passed. Living with them—there’s no day and night, no seasons. No ageing.”

“But…the Wood…it’s real.”

“The edges are.” He shrugged. “As you go in deeper, it changes. You come to a strange place, where it’s always warm, the leaves are always green. Another world, not like this.”

She looked at him. “An ageless land of summer. It sounds perfect.”

Gideon allowed himself a small, hard smile. “You think so? These creatures, they’re not like us. Like you. They are beautiful and they think only of themselves, their music, their cold laughter. No ambition, no future, no past. They exist, like the wind. They’re like butterflies mostly, but even butterflies die. The Shee don’t die. They don’t fear death. They have no fear at all.”

She shivered. For a moment she had the briefest glimpse of how his life must be, the precarious never-ending balance between fear and boredom. And then understanding came, and she stared at him.

“That’s why you’re here! You think the Chronoptika can get you home!”

Piers turned. “What?”

The boy’s green eyes flickered a warning. For a moment she paused. Then smooth as a snake she said, “I was saying the Chronoptika is our only way of getting Jake and Venn home. We have to do everything we can…”

“And you think I’m not?” Piers was weary and irritable. “I don’t intend to be a slave forever! Come on, let me out into the stables and lock the door after me. And you, Gideon, go back to Summer before she finds you missing. No one here can help you, and the last thing I want is her causing mayhem. I can’t deal with her. Not without Venn.”

He stood before the mirror, and they saw his warped, curved image stare curiously into its darkness. “Who may be dead for all we know.”

Wharton slammed and locked the final window. The casements were ancient, the fastenings frail with rust. It would be so easy to break in. Though perhaps the siege of the snow was more to be feared than some prowling stranger and his hungry wolf.

He turned to Rebecca. “Right. That’s the lot. Go and check the cloister, though God knows what passageways and doors there are under this place.”

“There’s an old story about a tunnel from the Abbey down into the river gorge.” She turned, eyes bright. “Maybe we should explore! It’s a way they might use to get in.” Her eyes were wide with excitement. She’s acting, Wharton thought.

“What about your family? Won’t they be worried about you?”

For a moment she just stared. Then her eyes flickered and she said, “Oh no…. that’s okay. They won’t worry.”

“Phone them.”

“No signal.”

He nodded at the landline. “Use that.”

She seemed reluctant. But when she picked it up she put her ear to it only for a moment and then held it out to him, and even before he took it he knew what he would hear.

Silence.

He turned, worried. “Go on. Check the cloister. Quick.”

When she’d gone, he crossed to the study and rummaged in the mess on the shelves till he found an object he’d glimpsed yesterday, a battered ancient transistor radio. There still seemed to be some life in the battery; he tuned it carefully, noticing with a shock how his breath clouded. With the power off, the house was rapidly getting colder. And he desperately needed to find out what was going on in the outside world.

Suddenly a local voice blurred out of static.

…whole of the West country. Blizzard conditions have forced the closure of the M3, and all major roads across Dartmoor are severely affected. Motorists have been forced to abandon their cars and…

The voice faded.

“Blast.” Wharton rubbed his numb fingers and tried again.

…emergency services. Police have advised…in outlying areas…not to leave home unless their journey is absolutely necessary…

“Great.” It was clear they were trapped here. The drive would already be knee-deep.

…Other news. A young woman…

His hand went to the off switch and stayed there, paralyzed.

…missing for two weeks from the Linley Psychiatric Institute in Wintercombe, Devon, has been found. Sarah Stewart walked into a police station in Truro yesterday, and…memory loss…she has…iving…uncle in Penzance…

He swore, grabbed the radio. Shook it, stared at it.

In a final dying whisper it said,…Today in Parliament the prime minister…

Silence.

Wharton sat back and breathed out a cloud of astonished breath. Then, to two of the black cats that sprawled on the desk, he said, “What the hell is going on here?”

The cats blinked back at him.

As soon as she was alone, Rebecca slipped through the cloister to the small outer gate and dragged it open. The snow was already falling heavily, every crack and crevice dusted with it; it blew horizontally into her face and the cold stung her eyes to tears. She wore a woolen hat pulled down over her ears, but still the blizzard sounded like the hissing of endless static.

“Where are you?”

She dared not shout. Wharton was too close. Beyond the gate was nothing but snow, all the overgrown lawns lost in it, the very trees invisible.

And then he was there, a darkness darting out of that blinding white world, and he helped her drag the door shut and click the icy padlock, Rebecca dragging the bar across.

Maskelyne leaned against the wall, coughing.

He looked half frozen, hunched up with shivering, his lips pale blue with cold.

She said, “Sorry. I couldn’t…”

“What’s happened?” He hugged himself, numb. “You were so long.”

“It’s all gone wrong! You wouldn’t believe! Venn and Jake have…journeyed. Isn’t that what you say?”

His scarred stare was so stricken, she had to look away.

“Where? When?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“No I mean when? What interval of time?”

“No one knows. Piers is scared stiff.”

So was he. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, the thin fingers clutching the lank dark hair. “Rebecca this is unbearable. To be so close, and to…”

“You can still take it. The mirror. I’ll help you.”

“The mirror is no use without the bracelet.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe…”

“Rebecca?” Wharton’s yell made them both jump.

Maskelyne turned like a cat. He slipped out into the cloister and ducked behind the low wall just as Wharton ran through the inner door.

“All secure?”

“Yes. Fine,” she said, breathless.

“Good. We need to get back. I want to talk to Sarah.” He turned, abruptly and so tense with agitation, she said, “What’s wrong?”

“Apart from everything, you mean?” He shrugged, and she realized suddenly that even this big, bluff man was scared. Scared and angry. “I want answers, Rebecca. Because this whole bloody charade is getting dangerous. And I’m worried sick about Jake.”

He stormed into the house and she followed, glancing back at Maskelyne, who rose out of the cloister and watched her like a ghost.

I am desperate to make my first public demonstration of the machine, but I must be so careful! I must do nothing until I am sure of its powers, or I will look such a fool. There are plenty of mule-headed bigots in the Royal Society who would scoff at my claims, so I must proceed with utmost care, and not ruin my triumph by impatience.

Five times now I have managed to create the vortex in the mirror. I have had to supply a vast amount of voltaic energy, and create a magnetic field so powerful, its effects can be felt streets away.

I have also destroyed two rooms in my house as the result of explosions and a recent fire. But wonderful things have happened.

First, there is a terrible compulsion to enter the mirror. Rather like Odysseus, I have resorted to tying myself down in my chair before beginning the experiment and fastening the chair itself with chains to a pillar in the basement. Even so the drag yesterday snapped the ropes and I was hurled forward with such force, I bloodied my head, and only my hand leaving the controls saved me.

Who knows in what time or place I would have found myself?

I see such things in the obsidian glass!

I have seen a green meadow, backed by wooded hills and a small blue lake. Perhaps Cumbria, perhaps Wales. I have seen a room so dark, it might be underground, and heard singing there, in some tongue I could not identify, and then a figure garbed in some cloak, for an instant, before the void. I have tossed in meticulously weighed samples of minerals, wood, vegetative matter.

All have vanished

None have returned.

I have analyzed the variations in gravity, the harmonics of the mirror’s curve, the strange alterations in its weight and mass.

And today, I shall make my first experiment with a living creature.

The dog is one I picked up from the streets; the alleys of London swarm with such curs. It is of some mongrel variety, terrier-like, with a black ear and a great black blob on its flank.

A trusting creature, it allowed me to scoop it up and bring it back in the carriage; it ate hungrily of a whole plate of beef and then composed itself for sleep. Now it lies snoring and snuffling.

But someone has just knocked on the door.

As I look down from the window, I see it is a man. He looks up. He has dark hair.

He is a stranger.

Jake tasted the vile brew again; this time it was infinitely worse. He put the chipped china cup down politely. “Thanks.”

Moll looked at his face. “Too sour for you?”

“No. It was lovely. Thanks.”

“Eat, then.”

She waved at the selection of faintly rancid pastries, obviously stolen from the bins of some bakery. He picked one up and took a cautious bite. He had no idea what it was, and didn’t want to ask.

They were sitting on the floor of a tiny space that Moll called her “crib”—a heap of dirty blankets and possibly clothes, and they were taking tea. He wasn’t sure if the girl was playing some game of make-believe or was deadly serious; certainly her pride in having him there seemed only too real.

The crib was a small balcony or box, high up on the side of the theater. If he stood up, he would be looking down into where the front rows had once been, but now that space was a makeshift squatter camp of flimsily constructed shelters, tents, even small buildings made of poles and partitions and props and scraps of once bright theater curtain. On the wide stage itself men sat and drank, women roared with laughter, dogs and babies fought. It stank of gin and ordure, the roof greasy with candle soot.

It was a vision from a nightmare.

“Look,” he whispered. “I don’t have much time. These men…”

“Filchers.”

“Okay. These filchers. I need to find them. Fast.” He had sudden fears of the men selling the bracelet in some dingy pawnshop, of it tossed among a heap of useless metal, slithering unnoticed to the bottom of the pile.

“I told you. I know them and I’ll show them.” Infuriatingly complacent, she was eating what might have been half a sausage; she gave a quick sideways jerk of her head. “They’re down there. But wotch they don’t see you.”

He turned and peered down. “On the stage?”

“Wiv the drabs.”

“The what?”

“Drabs. Trulls. The tarts!” She slipped up behind him and jabbed a thin finger, and he saw them.

Two men, one thickset, the other, the one he’d kicked, a skinny ferret-thin man. They were sprawled among a pile of broken scenery drinking; one had his arm around a frowsty-looking woman in a torn red skirt and not much else.

“Right,” Jake said. “I get it. But the stuff they stole—the bracelet—where is it?”

She wriggled next to him and waved the sausage past his nose. “They’ll have the stash up there, where they keep all their stuff. See look, a-hanging.”

He saw. High up, suspended from the rickety walkways above the stage, looped with ropes and pulleys, a leather bag swung high and safe.

“No one can get at it there,” Moll said thoughtfully. “Leastways, they don’t think so.”

Jake frowned. The men were drinking immediately below. “Including me.” He shuffled back and turned around. “But I have to get it back, Moll. I have to.”

She pushed the dirty cup at him. “It’s fine. Don’t fret. Drink yer tea and sleep for a bit. I’ll keep watch, and soon they’ll be snoring. And then, you and me, we can climb up. See? I’ll show you a way. Easy as kiss-me-hand.”

Jake took another absent slurp of the brown liquid.

Below, the raucous shouts of laughter broke out even louder.

Wharton stormed into the kitchen.

Sarah turned. “This is Gideon. A friend.”

The boy’s presence threw Wharton right off track. Who was he? How had he gotten here? He felt for a moment as if the whole tangle was a dream; that he would wake up soon in his narrow bed in the school and see the fresh white Alps behind the pile of books to be marked on the windowsill.

Behind him, Rebecca came in, a little breathless. She stared at Gideon.

Then Wharton said, “Never mind him, Sarah. Who are you?”

“What?” She had that wary, careful glance he was beginning to recognize. “I don’t…”

“You’ve been lying to us since the start. You’re not this escaped patient. I just heard on the radio that that girl’s already been found. That was just some story you used to get in here.”

“What?” Rebecca said.

“It’s true. Look at her face.”

Sarah knew she was pale with dismay and frustration. Rebecca came and stood by Wharton, folding her arms. Gideon perched on the table, feet dangling, watching with interest.

Rebecca said, “Is this true?”

Suddenly she was tired of pretense, of being alone among them. “All right. So what if it is.”

Wharton came up to her and stared in her eyes, and his hurt would have made her ashamed if she had let it, but she had to think about ZEUS now, about the others who were lost, about the black hole Janus would make of the world.

“Is that all?” he said.

She shrugged. “I can’t explain. Not to you. To Venn.”

She expected anger but instead, very gently, he reached out and turned something hanging at her neck, and she realized he had the half coin in his fingers, that it had slipped out of her scarf and that he was staring at it in strange disquiet.

He dropped it and stepped back.

“Lock the door,” he snapped.

Rebecca ran and slipped the bolt, standing with her back to it.

Wharton’s eyes were steely. He faced Sarah without moving. “I want to know exactly who you are, lady. Where you came from, what you want here. No lies, no excuses. And I want to know now.”