The Spirit Well

CHAPTER 29

Douglas awoke to the sound of the bells of Matins. Sore from his night in the cramped confines of the confessional cubical, he stretched and then peeked out from behind the drape. Seeing that no worshippers had yet entered the church, he quickly roused Snipe, and both crept away. Though the sky was light with the coming sunrise, the streets of Oxford were still steeped in shadow. At the crossroads the bailiff was dozing at his post; Douglas gave him a wide berth all the same. Once past the guards’ station, the two furtive figures proceeded along Cornmarket Street to the market square- empty save for a bench in front of a butcher’s stall that was occupied by a sleeping man wrapped in a cloak with his hat over his face. On the upper floor of a large house in one of the narrow side streets leading from the square, Roger Bacon, friar and professor, had his private chambers. Douglas had marked the place on previous visits and, assuming that was where the ecclesiastical authorities were holding the professor, Douglas reckoned he might be able to reach him.

The entrance to the lodging house was not locked, so Douglas and Snipe slipped into the tiny vestibule and made their way up the wooden staircase that creaked with every step. A single door at the end of the hall gave access to the only room at the top of the house. Surprisingly, there was no lock on the door; neither was it chained. It, like the door to the master’s tower study, was barred by simple board planks nailed crossways to the doorposts. The door itself could be opened to allow food and drink and other necessaries to be passed through. A determined captive could easily have escaped, but the renowned “Doctor Mirabilis” was a captive of conscience; no doubt honour held him more securely than iron.

Douglas put his hand to one of the boards and pulled; the resistance offered gave him to know that they would require tools if they were to gain entry-not an insurmountable problem, but likely to be more noisy than he would prefer. Waking up people at the crack of dawn would not advance the cause.

“Come, Snipe,” he whispered, turning away. “I’ve seen all I need to see.”

Outside they found a dry place to hunker down until a more convivial hour. Later, when the town began to stir, they crawled from hiding and joined the early-rising folk. Douglas bought two savoury pies from a baker and two jars of beer from a brew mistress with a cask in a barrow; they ate their pies and drank their ale, and watched the square slowly trundle to life.

As they sat eating, there arose a tremendous squawking and honking. From the street to the east there appeared three figures-a man and two young girls-herding a flock of long-necked geese. The man held a slender staff, and the girls each wielded a bendy willow switch, expertly keeping the flock together. They moved into the square and began setting up a flimsy pen made of wicker hurdles pulled from a stack against a wall. While they were about this chore, another poulterer likewise set up his pen a little distance away.

The next arrivals were a farmer and his wife who carried a long pole between them on which a dozen or more live chickens were hung by the feet. The two placed the pole on a simple wooden frame that appeared to be set up for this purpose. The farmwife then produced a basket of eggs and settled herself on a stool to wait for customers. Other farmers appeared-some with chickens, others with ducks or pigeons-and several folk bearing great billowing sacks of feathers.

“The poultry market,” Douglas mused, finishing the last of his beer. “Come, Snipe-let’s go before I start sneezing.”

Douglas rose and returned the wooden jars, then went back to the lodging house where Master Bacon was incarcerated. As before, no one was around, so Douglas simply knocked on the door; it was opened a few moments later, and the long, unshaven face of the great scientist peered blearily out.

Douglas was taken aback at the change in the master’s appearance: stoop-shouldered in a filthy robe, his flesh slack and pasty, the eyes usually so keen with the bright light of an unquenchable intellect were now dull and watery; indeed, the scholar’s whole demeanour seemed bowed with a grinding fatigue of care.

“Yes?” he said, his voice a creaking rasp. “Was there something?”

“Master Bacon,” began Douglas, somewhat uncertainly.

“Do I know you?”

“Indeed, sir. It is Brother Douglas-from the abbey at Tyndyrn.” There was no immediate response, so he added, “We have spoken in the past about your work with a particular manuscript in which we share an interest.”

This last produced a result, as a glimmer of recognition lit the face briefly, then flickered out once more. “Ah, yes. I remember you,” the master replied vaguely. “God be good to you, brother. I hope this day finds you well.”

“And you, brother.” Douglas hesitated, then asked, “Are you permitted to receive visitors?”

A faint smile touched the scholar’s lips. “Strictly speaking, no. But”-he peered beyond his guest into the narrow corridor and landing-“ as you see, visitors are not exactly clamouring for my attention. It will do no harm to allow an exception.”

“I would not like to make trouble for you, master. Or make your present difficulties worse.”

“The worst, I fear, has already happened.” The most intelligent man in Oxford shook his head lightly. “A brief visit cannot further aggravate my present difficulties, I assure you. And a visitor is cheer itself to me just now. Pray, speak-and let me feast on the sound of a voice not my own.”

“As you will, master,” replied Douglas. Turning to Snipe, he gave a whispered command, and the feral boy turned and started away.

“A moment, if you will,” called Friar Bacon after him. He moved aside, leaving the door ajar, only to reappear a moment later bearing a large crock with a wooden lid. “If you would do me this kindness,” he said apologetically. “My night pot-it must be emptied, and I so loathe tossing it out the window into the street. I find the practise barbaric.”

He offered the crock through the lattice of boards blocking his door. “I do most humbly beg your pardon, but-”

“Of course.” Douglas took the crock and passed it to Snipe. “Empty this outside,” he said, “and stay at the bottom of the stairs. Give me a whistle if anyone comes in.”

Snipe uttered a low, throaty growl of displeasure, but took the crock and retreated into the shadows of the staircase. They heard the door slam, and all grew quiet once more.

“I am indebted to you,” said Roger Bacon.

“On the contrary, master. It is I who am in debt to you, and I mean to repay you as best I can.”

“You are too kind, brother, too kind.” He offered his wan smile once more. “It is months since I had a visitor. I have almost forgotten how to behave. I could wish I had some refreshment to offer you, but I have only what they bring me one day to the next, and that is little enough. What was it that you wanted to see me about?”

“It is about a manuscript,” replied Douglas. Putting his hand into his sleeve pouch, he withdrew a small scroll of parchment and passed it through the wooden bars.

Friar Bacon slipped off the binding ribbon and unrolled the scroll, holding it before his face. “My eyes have been giving me difficulty of late,” he explained as he read. “These rooms are so dim, and I never can get enough candles.” He scanned the scroll more closely. “Yes!” he said, his voice quickening. “I remember this. You are the scholar from Tyndyrn. Did you write this?” He shook the parchment in his hand. “I once made a simulacrum of this, I believe.”

“Yes, master, that is so,” confirmed Douglas.

“I cannot think what happened to it.”

“We discussed the origin of the text, and you most generously provided a translation,” Douglass offered, quickly skating over the fact that he had ordered Snipe to steal the professor’s notes to aid his deciphering work. “I came to ask you to ascertain if I have rendered the text correctly.”

“Ah!” Bacon returned to his scrutiny of the manuscript. He read, his lips moving slightly now and then, nodding to himself. “Well, well,” he said, looking up at last. “I think we shall have to begin calling you professor.”

“But is it accurate? What I have written-is it correct?”

“Oh, indeed. Correct in the main, and in most particulars.”

“Most?”

“There are a few small errors,” allowed the master, falling naturally into the role of a teacher. “But considering the difficulty you faced, it is a most worthy achievement. You are to be congratulated, brother.”

“Thank you,” replied Douglas. Relief, unexpected as it was pleasurable, swept through him. It was better news than he had hoped to hear. “But would you mind showing me where I have gone astray?”

“Not at all.” He held the scroll up to the makeshift bars of his cell. “You see this symbol-how it curves to the left? What does a left-curling spiral indicate?”

“A retrograde interval,” answered Douglas.

Bacon nodded. “And the four small points along its length?”

“Those represent physical way markers to be used for calibrating time.”

“Just so,” said Bacon. He raised a cautionary finger. “ When such marks as these are above the line, or on the outer side of a curve, they represent way markers, as you say.”

“Yes?”

“But the meaning changes when such marks are to be found below the line or on the inner side of the curve.” The priest smiled. “What have we here?” He tapped the symbol in question with a long finger.

“Three dots on the inner curve,” replied Douglas.

“And what does this configuration represent?”

Douglas stared at the tiny symbol and wracked his brain to remember. “Intersections?”

“Portals would be more precise, I believe-conjunctions of several pathways-a nexus, if you will.”

“Portals,” sighed Douglas in agreement. “Of course.”

“As for the rest, the orientation and location alignments-these are all rendered correctly.” He re-rolled the scroll and passed it back through the barrier. “Of course, I would need access to my papers in my tower study before I could offer a definitive judgement on your work. But for purposes of discussion, I think we can conclude that you have translated the cypher with admirable success. It is a most subtle and demanding art, but you have plumbed the depths of the mystery set before you. I salute you, brother. My congratulations.”

“Your praise means more to me than I can say, master.”

“I hope I do not have to remind you that the knowledge you have gained is to remain the province of your own keeping. It is not to be shared by a wider public.” He regarded Douglas with solemn urgency. “As you can see”-he indicated his own predicament with a wave of his hand-“the authorities do not treat kindly truths that confound their own more limited understandings. The stake awaits anyone who ventures too far into realms deemed unacceptable for investigation.” He paused, nodding for emphasis. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Completely,” Douglas assured him. “I hasten to assure you that no one shall hear of our inquiry from me. I intend to guard the secret most jealously. Indeed, I have already destroyed all my notes and jottings regarding the phenomenon and its delineation in theory.”

Roger Bacon offered a sad smile. “That is for the best-though one could well wish otherwise. One day, perhaps, the world will be a place where knowledge such as this can be lauded-not hidden.”

There was a noise in the stairwell below, and a moment later Snipe’s pale moon face rose in the shadows. He placed the chamber pot on the landing and made a hurry-up gesture before disappearing again.

“Someone is coming,” said Douglas. He picked up the crock and passed it to the master. “I will leave you now.”

“Yes, you should go,” urged Bacon. “My keepers are bringing me bread and water. It would be best for both of us if they did not find you here.”

“Unfortunately, I must return to the abbey tonight. But is there anything I can get you before I depart-anything at all?”

The master shook his head. “My needs are simple, and as such are supplied. Still,” he added as the thought occurred to him, “one could wish for a little more parchment.”

“Say no more,” replied Douglas, moving away from the barred door. “I will see that it is in your hands before I leave.”

“And a horn of ink?”

“You shall have it-and candles too.”

“Thank you, dear friend. You are a very saint.”

“Not at all,” Douglas answered from the staircase. “It is I who should be thanking you. Farewell, Doctor Bacon-until we meet again.”

“Go with God, my friend,” called Bacon, closing the door once more.

On the landing below, Douglas met a robed church official ascending the stairs and, behind him, a squat fellow carrying a pail in one hand and a pike in the other. He could not avoid being seen, so he smiled, bowed, and wished them both a good day-all the while moving towards the door. He collected Snipe, who was hovering about the entrance like a sullen cloud, and hurried off across the market square. He lingered in town long enough to visit the chandlers and purchase a dozen large candles, then went on to procure some parchment and a flask of ink, some uncut quills, and a new pen knife. He arranged for all these things to be taken to Master Bacon’s lodgings when the church bells tolled prime.

“Come, Snipe,” he said. “We had best make ourselves scarce for a while.” He struck off down the street in search of an inn where they could wait for the Oxford Ley to become active and the assault on the Skin Map to begin in earnest.