The Anatomist's Dream (39 page)

‘Why do men do such things?' he asked, returned to the world a mere mannequin of what he'd been, all skin and bone, pike tattoo crinkling across the dehydrated skin of his scalp. ‘Why do men do such things?' was all he could say, a question to which there was no adequate answer, no matter how many times the survivors thought on it and talked on it in the coming days. The accusation bandied about by that nameless woman – that the Fair itself was to blame – was not a strong argument. The response to Harlekin's little play on the opening day of the Frost Fair proved only that the majority of folk in attendance already believed vehemently that independence for Schleswig-Holstein was the way to go. The slaying of the two flagsmen on the roof of the castle gave no clues, only that someone somewhere disagreed with the Atheling Rupert's boastful claims to various European crowns. Only Maulwerf and Philbert knew about Lengerrborn, but Maulwerf found it difficult to make a direct connection from what had happened there to what had happened here, from that action to this. The death of two Schupos surely couldn't possibly be worth that much to anybody. But neither Maulwerf nor Philbert knew what had happened at the Cloth Fair after Philbert had left. They didn't know about Brother Langer's daring tripwire rescue of Federkiel, nor that this had been tied in with the Lengerrborn escape and that both incidents together gave the powerful of the region the creeping fear that their authority was losing its grip, as it had already done elsewhere, and this was not to be tolerated. Time to stop this revolution dead in its tracks.

41

Realisation

The news of what had happened at the castle and the Frost Fair began to move and grow, like a sheet of ice spreading from a riverbank in winter, until it crossed the entire extent of Schleswig-Holstein from the North Sea to the Baltic. By then Maulwerf and the rags of his Fair of Wonders had departed, heading back to Finzeln to wait the winter out, mend what could be mended, drinking too much wine in Herr Volstrecken's cellar, mourning their dead.

Philbert, though, didn't go with them. He gave Lita a letter for Corti telling him some of what had happened since Ullendorf broke into his head, and how it seemed to him that some of Corti's music had seeped inside him, blowing through him like Corti's breath through his reeds, making the world a little fuller, a little deeper, everything taking on a significance it had previously lacked. He also wrote about how Ullendorf had died, and how sorely he would be missed, ending by telling Corti of a carillon of cats he'd seen at the Cloth Fair and later at Magendie's, that went by the name of a Felisophone – cats in cages, nails on sticks, sticks attached to buttons that the Felisophonist played to produce a weird chorus of wails and shrieks and hisses.

Everyone's
head seems to be like that
, he wrote,
or
mine at least
–
a cat-filled cage waiting to
be prodded and poked into action
,
a ramshackle orchestra from
which I try to extract some kind of order
,
and maybe even a durable tune or two
.

Philbert brushed Maulwerf's velvet waistcoat for the last time and Maulwerf shook his hand and wished him well.

‘It has been a pleasure, sir,' said Maulwerf solemnly, ‘and an education. And I know we'll see you again soon. Great things, I was told,' he added, tapping his stick against the wood of his cart as he geared up for leaving. ‘Great things, Philbert, and don't you ever forget it.'

That great things, and not necessarily good ones, had already happened to Philbert and the Fair they neither of them mentioned, and if Maulwerf was relieved to see Kwert's protégé leaving he kept it to himself. Lita cried, clutching at Lorenzini's arm which doubled as prop and handkerchief, but did not attempt to dissuade Philbert from his course. They were the last people to whom Philbert said goodbye, handing over his letter for Corti as he did so, bowing low to them both.

‘Until May, then,' Philbert said, for he'd promised he would do his utmost to meet up with them at the next Cloth Fair at Brother Langer's Abbey. Philbert had no idea if he would make it there or not, but it didn't seem a bad promise to make. He had Kwert's knapsack slung about his neck, and in it was the
Philocalia
that held his mission like a nut within its shell. He would take those last words of Federkiel's to Lengerrborn and to Helge, if she was still alive. He knew it wasn't the smartest move, that someone might recognise him and turn him in even these many months later. He had the advantage of having Amt Gruftgang and the surviving Schupo, Ackersmann, on his side, for surely they would protect their miracle, if only to keep the church of their Lady St Lydia alive. So perhaps not so absurd a plan as it first appeared, besides which Philbert saw it not so much a plan as a duty, and one he meant to carry out, one way or another. He was no longer the naïve, knuckleheaded yard of skin and bone as when he'd first joined the Fair. The intervening years had been kind as well as cruel; he'd outgrown himself, older on the inside than on the out, a person who knew his own mind and understood both his limitations and capabilities. He had on his large head the hat that La Chucha Lanuga had made for him with its squares of green silk and little mirrors, and had at his side his companion, Kroonk, and that was all Philbert needed.

He set off on foot down one of the snow-strewn paths ­meandering out from the castle grounds and the frozen river and into the surrounding forests, heading away from winter towards the west. He looked back only once, to see Lita and Lorenzini clasped together like the two halves of a walnut, Oort and Otto holding up their hammers in a farewell salute, Maulwerf sitting on the bridge of his cart with hand held high. Philbert gave a single wave before turning and disappearing into the forest, Kroonk waggling her red behind beside him: a boy with his monstrous head hidden within his monstrous hat, ready for anything the world had yet to throw at him.

For the first time in his life he was treading his path alone and was not afraid, indeed was happy for it. Life was his for the taking, and by God he meant to take as much of it as he could.

42

Would You Go Into the Abode of Goodness?

The narrow lane going up the hill was just as Philbert remembered, every pock and cobble exactly as he had laid out in his head. The great wrought iron gates were still extant, though rusted now to immobility, overgrown with traveller's joy and errant honeysuckle. Philbert walked between them up the winding drive, the currant bushes on either side wild and leggy. Despite this general overview of decay he could see a dim light in one of the downstairs windows, and the wooden door was stout and strong, though no longer looked so huge as it had once done. The brass globe still hung from its dangling rope and he grasped it without hesitation and swung, the bell ringing deep inside the house. His mouth went dry when he heard a few steps in the hallway that lay beyond the door, his palms ­prickling, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing erect. The door opened and a girl stood before him, and Philbert blinked, saw the colour of her dress like cornflowers in bloom.

‘Kadia?' he asked, uncomfortably aware of how hot his face had suddenly become.

‘Oh my!' she said. ‘Oh my, oh my, oh but you must come in!'

And in he went, right into Ullendorf's old home in Lengerrborn, and out from the familiar kitchen came a familiar figure and Philbert's throat went tight to see her and he took off his hat and smiled, for there was Helge, statuesque and floury as was only right, smelling of everything that was good. She gasped and put a hand across her mouth, and then rushed forward and grasped Philbert by the shoulders and drew him to her.

‘Oh, my little Philbert,' she said softly, hugging him close and tight for a few moments before releasing him. ‘Oh my dear child,' she said, and then began to laugh as Kroonk kroonk kroonked about their legs as she waddled in, heading straight for the kitchen as if it was the one place in the world she had always been meant to be.

‘They took me away that night they raided the Westphal Club,' Helge was saying, now all were seated comfortably around the kitchen table and Helge had retrieved several strudels and other delicacies from her pantry. There was much to explain on both sides, but it was Helge's turn to go first.

‘It was a hellish night,' she went on, ‘an awful night, Philbert, and I'm not even going to try to describe it.' She shook her head, knowing that bad as it had been it would've been a whole lot worse if she'd not been protected by the soldiers who'd ­initially come to the house to arrest her, her tarrying and delaying them by feeding them up with as much food and wine as she could find. ‘I honestly thought I was going to hang,' she continued, wiping a few tears from her cheeks as the memories came flooding back of the rancid stink and dankness of the cell into which she'd been thrown, and of the terrible man who had interrogated her, a man who took more pleasure in inflicting cruelty than many of his underlings had stomach for, who believed himself a humourist when he made jokes about the same. ‘And I'm sure I would have been hanged,' Helge continued, ‘except that a couple of days later Schupo Ackersman had me released into his care, just as a group of soldiers arrived from the fort to take me away. And he said the strangest thing to me, Philbert, when we were back in Lengerrborn. He asked me to pray for him – can you believe it? He told me he'd seen an angel and because of it had been delivered and was going to use the rest of his life ­putting things right.'

Philbert said nothing. He'd closed his eyes as Helge told her short tale, but now he opened them again, and opened them fully. He could have told her he was that angel and thereby, by proxy, both Schupo Ackersmann's and Helge's deliverer, but he did not, because he also knew he was the indirect cause of all that had happened at the Westphal Club and the reason her brother, amongst others, had died. Here it was, stark and plain: the two sides of his so-called destiny laid out like thrown dice – death and destruction on the one hand, deliverance on the other. Nothing great in any of it, all come about by chance, dependent on time and space and being in one place at one moment and not another. Just like everyone and anything else. He'd been singled out by Kwert because he'd been born with a head that grew differently from others and held its own secrets, his taupe a cave in the country of his body into which memories seeped, a cavern run through with tunnels and walkways he could wander at will; hidden pools leading the one into the other, just like the Great Magendie's reservoirs; spirals of a ­neverending snail that twisted and turned within its ever-growing shell. And if anything was great about him then it was this: his ability to soak up other people's stories, all hemmed into the fabric of the walls within his head, his only job to keep them safe and pass them on so they were not lost. He smiled, and took Helge's hand within his own, and asked only one question.

‘And how did Kadia come to be with you?'

Helge and Kadia exchanged a look, but it was Kadia who answered.

‘I think a lot about you when I am in the Cloth Fair,' she said, in her imperfect German, ‘and about the man in the cage.'

Philbert drew in a sharp breath. He'd been so astonished and elated to find Helge alive, and Kadia with her, that he'd completely forgotten about Federkiel for the moment.

‘
You are my nest of spheres, my prism of light, the heptagon of my days
,' he recited slowly, at which Helge nodded, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth.

‘Quite,' she said shortly, ‘but let's get back on track. Kadia came to me because of you, Philbert, and everything that ­happened at the Westphal Club – God curse the place. It was she who went to the prison and to Ackersmann afterwards to ask after me.'

Kadia looked down at her cornflower blue dress and glanced shyly at Philbert. ‘You give me flowers,' she said. ‘No one ever give me flowers before.'

Philbert blushed, remembering the poor posy of closed-up Stars of Bethlehem he'd given the girl before he and Kwert left the Cloth Fair almost exactly one year before. He looked at Kadia, and Kadia looked at Philbert. They were both young then, their combined ages barely adding up to the mid-twenties, but they were not so young they didn't recognise this might be the start of something.

‘I'm glad,' said Philbert after a few moments.

‘Not half as glad as I,' Helge was smiling broadly, the look that had passed between this boy and this girl not having escaped her notice. ‘Better a housemaid than a seamstress,' she added, ‘and better a boy with a big head than a boy who has no head at all.'

They were interrupted at that moment by someone opening the front door and hallooing himself in. Philbert jumped up in alarm but Helge placed her hand on his arm.

‘We've not told you all,' she said, standing as the kitchen door opened. ‘Let me introduce you to my husband, Philbert. I believe you've already met.'

If Philbert thought he could be no more surprised by the turn of events than he had already was then he was much mistaken, for in came a man he certainly had met before, though he was greatly changed. He was spruce, plump and tidy and obviously alive. It was Federkiel, having survived the cage and the island and returned to earth with his mind relatively intact. His reappearance was one of many discoveries Philbert made while in Lengerrborn, not the least of which was that his bid to bring Federkiel's dying declaration of love to Helge had already been delivered by Federkiel himself.

There were many embraces that night at Ullendorf's Anchorage, many glasses of wine poured and drunk, many tales told that took up their new abode in Philbert's head. The story of Brother Langer's rescue of Federkiel was for Philbert the most astonishing. How the man had managed it was beyond his ken, but if ever sainthood was deserved by anyone then Brother Langer had to be head of the queue; and not far behind him would be Schupo Ackersmann, still the Chief Schupo of Lengerrborn, but every last penny of his pay and pension he could spare went into the restoration of Our Lady St Lydia – his route to salvation – Amt Gruftgang spearheading the cause.

The following day Helge took Philbert to witness it himself. He was greeted with amazement and enthusiasm that bordered on adulation, and no matter how many times he tried to explain, both Ackersmann and Gruftgang saw and heard nothing but that Philbert was a Child of God and the instrument of His work, Lengerrborn resurrected and cleansed because of his ­stepping on its streets.

‘You saved me,' Ackersmann insisted, ‘and all those people in the prison. You freed them and you freed me, and Amt Gruftgang too.'

Philbert shook his head at these words but there was no changing them, nor the fact that the folk from Lengerrborn were now pouring into the church of Our Lady
St
Lydia like ants on sugar. Carpenters had volunteered to provide new pews; silversmiths had donated new candlesticks and the vessels needed for mass; seamstresses, Kadia amongst them, had sewn new vestments for the new choirboys who were volunteering by the dozen. The churchyard had been cleared of weeds, the lych-gate now a tidy vista of roses, the board repainted with its shell and dedication, the undercrofts stripped of liverwort and moss, replastered and repainted. Later on in the year, on Lydia's feast day, Gruftgang would once again lead his congregation into the spiral maze below the church itself, right to its heart.

‘And it was in Our Lady St Lydia that Helge Ullendorf ­married her Professor Federkiel,' said Fatzke, appearing on the scene, ‘with Kadia as Maid of Honour and me as best man, and ­fittingly they held their reception in the newly decked out Westphal Club, a snub to every solider and every authoritarian who has tried to keep us down.'

Lengerrborn was a different town from when Philbert had first been there; it was as if the entire place had taken a deep breath and revitalised itself. Philbert supposed that having almost half of your eminent citizens shot for no good reason might do that to a place. God knew, he'd had the same reaction, the breaking of death on his shores and all that. He knew more, and that the most of it was the privilege of still being alive and that no soothsayer in the world could give you a reliable indicator of how long you would remain so. Life was life. You could be here one second and gone the next, no way to predict which way the dice would fall.

The day before Philbert left Lengerrborn he went through the shroudways and out onto the shore of the lake and rowed himself over to the Öde Insel. Brother Langer Hansnarrwurst was there, still recuperating from his twice-broken legs, reduced from his former bulk to a thin reed who needed to be rolled out in a chair by Brother Jaspis, Langer's keeper and carer ever since the rescue of Federkiel.

‘At least I can still witness the glory of the day,' Langer said, as Jaspis wheeled him around the island, Philbert following. ‘And I have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever I've done in this world I've done the best of it.'

Philbert smiled. A saint in the making, just as he'd supposed, spewing more wise words than a frog does spawn. Later, they built a fire and cooked the fish they'd caught in Langer's nets.

‘You read to me once from Kwert's book,' Brother Langer said, as the night was drawing in and the fire growing dim.

‘I still have it,' Philbert said, bringing the
Philocalia
from his knapsack. ‘Would you like me to read from it again?'

‘I would,' said Brother Langer, ‘that same passage, if you can find it.'

Philbert didn't even need to look, for he remembered the words Kwert had found for Brother Langer as if Kwert was still at his shoulder, prompting him on.

Would you go
into the abode of goodness
,
and the tents of the
blessed
?

Then go into the mountains
,
the forests
,
and the
deserts
.

See the birds flying
,
feel the breeze through the
trees and the soft wind blowing
;