The Fatal Tree (14 page)

W
ithout his Burley Men to distract him with their squabbling, arguing, and assorted nasty habits, his lordship the earl at last found a modicum of solitude and quiet. It was not, however, an altogether welcome change. The cell was more peaceful, yes, but the days seemed immeasurably longer. Without his gang around him, filling the fetid air with their idle natter and incessant bickering, Burleigh had long hours of silence to fill and nothing with which to fill them.

For a man more accustomed to a life of unfettered action, this was a novel and uncomfortable condition. Time and again, Burleigh found himself lost in contemplation of thoughts he had never before seriously entertained. Like a dog returning to its vomit, his thoughts turned to his benefactor, the baker.

Why this should be, he could not say. One moment he would be sitting slumped in a corner of the cell, and the next he would be grinding his teeth over something the good-natured baker had said or done. The sum of all his problems had a name, and that name was Engelbert. Even the word was an affront. Why, it was the name for a clown, a buffoon – not a name for a man.
Engelbert
. What was that in English? Drawing from his meagre store of German, Burleigh was able to cobble together the English approximation as something like “Bright Angel.” What parent in their right mind would name their son Bright Angel?

Asinine as that might be, the name was a mere trifle, a trivial curiosity. What was it about the man that brought Burleigh’s blood to the boil? The more he thought about it, the more he assured himself that there had to be something substantial beneath the surface. What was it about the well-meaning fellow that rankled, that galled, that raised the bile to Burleigh’s mouth the moment he clapped eyes on the merry oaf? Was it his manner? His unfailingly cheerful demeanour, that perpetually pleasant disposition with which he met whatever barbarity life threw at him? Was it the big baker’s inane affability or his idiotic do-gooding that provoked hatred? What was the inflammatory thing, the thing that demanded, and received, such a strong response from Burleigh?

Certainly, there was nothing in the man’s physiognomy to incite such loathing. The baker was not unattractive in his way, though this quality could not be ascribed to any particular physical attribute; no, his features were regular and unremarkable. It was, Burleigh decided, more that Engelbert radiated a kind of natural warmth and, for lack of a better word, goodness. Engelbert’s sweet nature shone through his rather ordinary exterior, transforming it into a far more appealing and pleasing aspect.

Be that as it may, what was there to be so bloody cheerful about? Life was hard and life was deadly. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten – that was the Law of Nature, the only law the world knew. Burleigh had learned that cruel lesson as a child of the streets, and it had served him faithfully ever since. Anyone who did not recognise that most basic law of life deserved whatever they got – Engelbert Stiffelbeam included.

One day, a week or so after Tav, Con, Mal, and Dex had been taken away, Etzel arrived with his regular food parcel. Burleigh, to avoid giving the insufferable baker whatever satisfaction he derived from performing this good deed, refused to acknowledge his benefactor’s presence. Since the Burley Men were no longer around to spoil the effect with their grovelling thanks and unctuous exclamations over Engelbert’s unwarranted largess, the earl remained on his mat with his face to the wall, silent – despite the baker’s best attempts to rouse him.

Later, after Engelbert had gone, Burleigh rolled over and regarded the little heap of provisions left for him. In the single shaft of natural light that shone down from his grated vent hole he saw the perfect white and brown loaves produced by Etzel’s bakery; the plump, greasy sausage purchased in the market; the firm yellow apples; the jug of sweet new wine – all so neatly arranged for him as if in a study for a still life painting, a work of art, an arrangement of beauty. Burleigh realised then that there was something more than simple do-goodism in the act. It had an aim, a purpose… but what?

After a time, the earl’s hunger got the better of him; he rose and, kneeling over his provisions, began portioning them for the week ahead. Taking one of the loaves, he broke it and pulled off a piece and ate it. Then, still kneeling, he picked up the wine and took a drink. In this way, he broke his fast. The simple meal of bread and wine eased his hunger and satisfied; it was good and wholesome. There was a rightness about it that went beyond the basic elements.

In the act of eating Etzel’s food, Burleigh glimpsed something of the attitude behind the offering, and he had an epiphany: Engelbert Stiffelbeam was not the problem – it was his Jesus.
Why should this be?
Burleigh wondered. What difference did it make to Burleigh what the big oaf believed?

The Grand Imperial’s chief baker might also believe in pinkspotted green leprechauns for all he knew; people believed a multitude of ridiculous things up to and including the existence of mermaids, unicorns, and fire-breathing dragons. But those deluded beliefs did not inspire in him the same visceral disgust. And just like the imaginary unicorns that haunted the dells and hidden glades of folklore, Jesus was merely an irrelevant nonsense. The brutal indifference of the world proved that much beyond doubt; and Jesus, God’s insipid Son, was a phantom, a figment, a myth. In actual fact, the whole of religion everywhere, so far as Burleigh could discern, was a ragtag bundle of superstition and make-believe: wholesale foolishness concocted by lunatics, peddled by charlatans, and swallowed by the ignorant benighted masses.

Burleigh had always held that organised religion amounted to a kind of madness, a collective insanity embraced by the weak and powerless because it allowed them some small degree of comfort, a grain of solace in the face of the harsh reality that their lives were meaningless, existence had no purpose, and there was no good, wise, all-knowing God looking out for them. The naked truth was that existence had no significance beyond the random shuttling of mindless forces that had produced a blob of sentient matter that was here one day and gone the next. The lives of most human beings had as much meaning as the candle flame that is lit, burns for a time, and is then snuffed out, never to be seen again.

Real men, strong men, rational men of the world did not need such childish fantasies to strengthen a feeble, fragile psyche, or provide a way to avoid staring into the dark abyss of a cold, unforgiving reality. For the greater mass of humanity, however, better a merry fantasy than the bitter, bracing truth: there was no God, no purpose, no meaning in life, and nothing beyond the grave.

Burleigh took another mouthful of bread and was savouring its simple goodness when a thought popped into his head: “
If there is no God, then everything is permitted…
”

Where that had come from, he did not know, but Burleigh certainly recognised the sentiment and wholly agreed with it. As an aphorism, it was something he might have said himself once or twice and, if pressed, he could have argued the case most eloquently.

“There is no God,” Burleigh declared in his mind – as he would have proclaimed aloud if there had been anyone to hear him. “Thus, every man is free to do what seems right to him.”

From the shadowed dampness in the far corner of his cell emerged a dark figure, as indistinct as the shadows it inhabited, its thoughts manifest as a ghostly shade. “
Every man does what is right in his own eyes
,” offered the Voice helpfully.

“Exactly,” replied Burleigh, nodding in agreement. “Every man is free to do whatever pleases him for whatever reasons seem best and by whatever means best serve his ambition.”

“If there is no God, there cannot be any objective moral standard. No one can say what is right or wrong. Therefore, whatever a man does cannot be either acclaimed or condemned by anyone. It simply
is.
”

“Correct,” agreed Burleigh firmly. “If there is no objective standard against which actions may be judged, there can be no right or wrong.”

“
By the same token
,” continued the Voice, growing more insistent, “
whatever befalls a man cannot be judged as acceptable or unacceptable. In a universe of no direction or purpose, whatever happens cannot be considered good or bad; it is simply something that happens, an event without significance.
”

Again, Burleigh agreed, though with less certainty than before. He could feel the drift of his thoughts beginning to carry him toward an unseen, possibly unwanted destination.

“
Then why do you rage so against your plight?
” asked the Voice. “
What happens simply
is –
no meaning, no purpose, just the random collision of events with no significance beyond their immediate interaction.
”

“Ah!” challenged Burleigh. “A man ought to have recourse to justice at least. The accused ought to be able to face his accusers and answer the charge.”

“Ought? Where does this
ought
come from?”

“It is only simple fairness,” insisted Burleigh, with less enthusiasm than before.

“Are we going to talk about unfairness and injustice? I thought we had laid that to rest. Why drag all that up again?”

Burleigh had no reply. He hurt, and the pain was real – maybe that was reason enough to complain.

The Voice was quick to pounce on this.
“You hurt, so you attribute the pain to unfairness, to injustice? Who do you imagine cares to hear your complaint?”

“It hurts!” Burleigh insisted. “I do not care who hears about it!”

“Your hurt is a fantasy, a figment, a phantom. There can be no hurt where there is no law. Every man is free to do what he likes. The magistrate likes to keep you locked up. Where is the harm?”

“But he ought
not
to like it!” snapped Burleigh, losing his patience.

“
Again with the
ought
!
” chided the Voice, fading back into the shadows and becoming once more merely a damp patch of mildew on the wall. It whispered, “
It seems, brother, that you do not truly believe your own philosophy.
”

“Bugger philosophy!” growled Burleigh. “I bloody well want out of here!”

Another week passed in the dank cell beneath the Rathaus – another week of misery for its once-proud occupant. Truly, Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, was proud no longer. He was wretched, and knew himself to be so. Indeed, he very much suspected that he was even worse than he knew.

With each passing day, he felt more fragile and unstable – much, he imagined, as an egg – one that had been broken and emptied, and then patched together again with all the cracks showing and some of the pieces missing. He lurched restlessly about his cell trying not to think, for thinking only brought new torrents of misery.

He was in the throes of another bout of painful introspection when the sound of his door swinging open on its rusty hinges startled him. So lost in the maze of his thoughts was he that he had not heard the footsteps in the hall, nor even the key in the lock. He stopped pacing and turned to see the familiar form of the baker framed in the doorway, light streaming in around him.
Bright Angel, indeed
, mused Burleigh.
Come to torment me again.

The gaoler muttered something, and Engelbert stepped into the cell with his bag of provisions and a great smile on his broad face. “I have news for you,” he announced happily, moving to the centre of the cell.

Burleigh said nothing, only stared – half fascinated, half dreading what his good-natured nemesis might say next.

“Your friends are to be released!”

Raising his head, Burleigh glowered as the baker stooped to open his sack.
Friends,
thought the earl.
Where are my friends?
The alchemists and courtiers he had cultivated at the palace… where were they now? In the long months of his confinement, none had come to his aid, none had spoken for him, all had deserted him. “I have no friends,” Burleigh replied, his voice a low, husky rasp.

“The men who were with you – they were your friends, no?” said Etzel.

“Hirelings,” the earl sniffed. “They worked for me. Nothing more.”

“I am your friend,” declared Etzel cheerfully. He lifted out a fresh brown loaf of rye bread and laid it carefully on the folded cloth that served as the earl’s table.

“You!” sneered Burleigh, the old anger stirring once more. “
You
are the reason I am here.”

Engelbert shrugged and withdrew a chunk of cheese wrapped in muslin and placed it beside the loaf, then reached in for a clay jug of beer. “You know the reason you are here, I think.” He pulled out handfuls of apricots and stacked them neatly on the cloth. “There is a prison cart leaving the city. Your friends are to be taken to Pilzen, where they will be released at the border. But they must promise never again to enter Prague.”

Burleigh said nothing for a long moment, then asked, “Will I see them? My men – will I see them again before they leave?”

“I do not think so,” allowed Engelbert. “But I will ask.”