The Printer's Devil (8 page)

‘Well, get on with it,’ he told himself firmly, and approached the railings for the third time. As soon as he got through, he saw why it looked not as it had before.

It was no longer whole. The massive slab on top of the monument was cracked through into three separate pieces, scorched black in the centre. For a long instant Alan did not understand what it was that he was seeing, and then he realised what it must be: the tomb had been struck by lightning.

As he understood this, his heart gave a wild thump. This was almost as if it happened
for
him, as if he were meant to find something. For a moment some deep-buried part of him quailed, telling him frantically that it was far too much like the actions of some
deus ex machina
to be anything good; but he scrambled over the railings, disregarding the warning, and the next instant was tugging at the smallest piece of stone, which despite being the least of the three fragments was nonetheless murderously heavy.

Stone creaked and squealed on stone, and rain ran down Alan’s neck, as he succeeded in shifting it a quarter of an inch. He stood back, fuming, and was suddenly visited by the fervent wish that he was in Italy with Kim. But, as if it were already too late, he turned his attention back to the tomb.

‘Bloody thing,’ he observed, crossly. He stuck his fingertips into the crack and heaved with all his strength. The rough triangle of stone came loose abruptly and Alan jumped back in alarm, swearing, fearing for his toes; but with a hollow echoing boom the piece thus dislodged fell inside the box of the monument. Alan looked round wildly, expecting to find someone alerted by the noise, but calmed his galloping heartbeat a moment later by realising that there could be no-one in range
(Only Roger Southwell, ha, ha, he thought),
since the only building in view was the church, and that was redundant.

Fumbling his torch from his pocket, he stepped up on the little ledge surrounding the tomb and shone the light inside. It appeared to be full of grotty-looking debris, he saw with disappointment. Perhaps he wasn’t the first to follow the clues after all.

No,
he thought a moment later; it was all too bloody complicated for anyone who’s not some kind of a lunatic to go through all that. More than a little reluctantly he stuck his arm inside, up to the shoulder, and felt around somewhat gingerly. His fingers encountered cobwebs, and shrank from encountering their weavers. Nothing. He withdrew his arm, and shone the torch in again.

Without much hope, he pushed at another section of the broken lid. Much to his surprise, it moved, though noisily, sufficiently to allow him to climb in and poke around in the crumbly dirt. He scrabbled in the slippery debris, dust and other matter transformed by the relentlessly falling rain into something between mud and slime.

Ten minutes later his wet, sore fingers encountered a smoother texture, and he found what he presumed he had been looking for: a small metal-bound box. He could see no catch or opening on it, so he put it on a flat stone and hit it as hard as he could with another, but nothing happened, so he stuffed the box inside the front of his parka - it was too big to fit in the pocket - and sprinted back to his car through the dripping woods.

Walloping the box with his spade had as little effect, so he put his find on the passenger seat and drove back home with his foot on the floor, wishing, for the first time in years, for his old BMW. Every so often he looked down at the box covetously, and smiled.

Despite these frequent glances, he did not see the moment when it opened. Later he tried to convince himself he had heard a click, but was not at all sure. He parked the car inelegantly outside their house, wheels slewed, seized the box in one greedy movement, and ran indoors.

He found himself shivering uncontrollably as with a fever, and forced himself to put on dry socks and a dressing-gown and turn on the gas fire before spreading the contents of the box on the rug before him.

The Journal of Fabian Stedman
II: The Homunculus

The preachers do tell us Jesus Christ was the Son of God, incarnate for the sake of mankind, living the life of a man that we should be saved; but I never heard tell that he did lay with a woman (not even the Magdalene) so how could he know what it is to be as man, and whole? That is a question I could never ask my father, nor do I think my brother Francis would be amused; he was ever a serious youth and he is grown to a serious man; our mother once said she thought I must be a changeling, so different were we in humour, though Francis be the elder.

When that Ann Pakeman died I did think that my father would incontinently remove me from my indenture to Master Pakeman; I know not what my master wrote to him; or even whether he did write to him at all; Roger Southwell, I am sure, he would have dismissed his Service save that Roger was in no wise to be found. Certes I kept my own head very low over my work in the months following and worked like a diligent apprentice; taking great care,
quieta non movere
.
¹

Although much of my waking moments my thoughts dwelt else-where, upon Catherine Alsop’s form to be exact. She had got off a gammer a potion of some kind which the beldam had said would stop her conceiving; for my Catherine had said to me the first time that we lay together:

Hast got a child on me, Fabian?

And I said I knew not but that whether or no I would wed her; but how can a prentice wed; how feed a wife and child? Hence the potion. Although I never quite believed in its efficacy, she did not quicken, so it must have worked.

Many a time and oft I did wonder what had become of Roger Southwell, that had fled not from the wrath of Master Pakeman, for he cared not a whit for such, but I do think from his own grief. For I never had heard nor seen hide nor hair of him, as men say. Nor had I seen Hawkin Kemp the craven since that night, although the widow Kempe still did abide with her brother. my master.

I had kept the puppy’s sword for mine own, for it was a good blade, and I had not owned such until then, which is a lack in a gentleman, the which I do aspire to, after all, as do all we prentices and journeymen.

And I did have a man make for me a scabbard for it, and both these I kept under my paliasse. I minded quite well that had he been more fortunate or less of a yellow-belly he might have hurt me, and I grew accustomed to wearing the sword, though not in sight of my master; though at the first I had no particular skill with it, this I did make shift to remedy, presuming upon the goodwill of Hugh Bishop whom was late a soldier, to coach me in its use until that I was of a good proficiency.

Nor had I neglected the art of ringing, having made many notes bearing upon this treatise towards which I work, and attending with others of like mind to ring on divers occasions.

I have made from simple beginnings a pleasing production for five bells to ring: Pleasing at this time only upon the paper on which it is pricked, with a symmetry that I think will sound very well, for I have given much thought to a pattern or Principle, in which all the bells would follow the same path; excepting only the Tenor, for he must needs keep the rhythm, when the Treble is no longer a marker. I find this production has a fascination all dis-proportionate to the mere act of writing it out and altering the work on paper. For I have not yet introduced my fellow ringers to it, judging that the time be not ripe, and indeed there are many of them to whom Grandsire Bob is a mystery whose depths they may not discover.

¹
i.e. let sleeping dogs lie

There are many types of men who ring changes; and I have observed that ability comes not, as one might assume, from native wit or cunning. In the main a type of man who is cunning with mathematics or music like unto that Matthew Boys will do well, for he can follow paths in his mind and knowe where the bells will go; but a man who is involved with matters less structured than these, as ’twere a painter, perhaps, or a poet - I mean, a man who will use his fancy and not restrict himself to what doth occur in the world, not that such an one is permitted overly much exercise of his talents by the Puritan-preachers - he will in no wise make an excellent ringer; the other will progress farther than he will.

Having said which I must confess that I cannot name myself as belonging either to one type or the other, being neither a mundane man nor a fanciful, though perhaps a philosopher of sorts. For although - to cast it in its most basic image - I be involved in mundane matters on the one hand,
videlicet,
the craft of printing and learning of my trade, the which consists of very much rote and is a most exacting craft withal, yet I am not lacking in fancies of mine own. That these at this time do centre in the main upon Catherine Allsop cannot be denied, but I do consider other matters also. This art has little to do with humours melancholic or choleric, though I do not consider that a man of fiery humour would have the forbearance to learn to ring, being too impatient to aaster the art of bell-handling.

This thought hath brought me round again to consideration of Roger Southwell, a choleric man I would one time have said but have been proved in error; for such an one would not have acted as he did when that Ann Pakeman died; nor been a Magus neither. I do not like to think upon that night; ’twas a very horrid thing to see that poor dell a corpse in the street. Tis no whit distressing to see a beggar dead, or a rogue, but a pretty wench of seventeen years deserves no such end.

Kemp should have died that night, ’twould have been a better thing for him to die than she; oft-times I have wondered an if I should have killed him when that I had a sword at his throat; and I also wonder why it was that I did not do so. And although I have no great liking for my master Daniel Pakeman it is fearful to see him now so shrunken, for it appears that he hath aged a score of years since that night.

Considering Roger Southwell brought back to my mind the potion he had given to me.

-Tis not a love-philtre, said he, rather will it make people see you as you would wish to be seen; Or not, as the case may be.

This I took to mean that Catherine would see how I did love her, but an I would visit her without any one knowing, then I should not be seen. And since I have never pretended to be any thing that I am not, the which I do hope is passing honest, possessed of a good wit, and hard-working, I may believe that Catherine doth lie with me not under any bewitchment save that of love. But this potion, which I must needs employ to be with her in the house of her father, is not endless, and how shall I contrive to visit her when that it is all gone? Tis only rarely that she is able to come to mine own lodging, and that not likely for the night.

So run my thoughts while I work, and while I am alone; and while I write this journal. And now it is very strange thing to have to set down, that the thought of Roger Southwell hath in some wise materialized the man, an if my thoughts were made incarnate. For we were yestereve lately finished ringing a merry peal when that he entered the ringing-chamber and greeted us so he had not been absent these many months; for myself I was so confounded by his appearance as if he had been an apparition or a phantom.

So when that we had stood up our bells there was much converse about what Roger had missed these months past; though I did note that he said not overmuch of how he himself had passed the time, nor of whither he had been.

Not until we had adjourned our gathering to the
Swan
did he give me any inkling, and that not until the others had departed. He was dressed for travelling, looking very gallant, and his boots, although new, bore marks as of hard use; he looked at me in a strange manner.

-I see many questions, he said. Sooth to say I have been on a pilgrimage, and I’ve been given leave to speak of it to thee. The which seemed a puzzling turn of phrase.

-What pilgrimage is this? I asked.

-I will tell thee all by and by; but how goes it with thee?

-I answered his questions with but little interest, for I was eager to know more concerning his own doings. At length he fell silent; I observed his features closely; Like his late master he bore the appearance of being older than his years, but with Roger ’twas rather an if he had acquired the wisdom of age than its signs of mortality.

-So, says I, what of this pilgrimage, whither did you journey, to what city was’t?

And he replied, -Twas not to any city, nor town, nor country, nor principality, nor to any place that thou mightst call a place, Fabian; not to any place in this world.

And at those words I felt a great shudder through my body. -What mystery is this? I asked.

-A mystery indeed, he said, and spake quieter, Tis a journey all must make do they look for power.

-A magical journey, says I, a journey of the mind; and Roger did nod like he is pleased at my perspicacity.

-In part, though I travelled in body also. Know thou, Fabian, a man can be no true Magus without he make this voyage, but it harroweth the soul, I was barely strong enough to return. I have visited the stars and bathed in their pure argent-vive, I have journeyed to the moon and heard the music of the spheres. It was like unto the
Quintasensia,
but twas I that was being transformed from a base metal into gold; long I journeyed; long was the way, and longer the returning.

As he spoke of this my shoulders prickled and my hair felt like to raise in the air. I would have thought him horn-mad but that his tones were as ever sober and reasoned.

Seeing my face he smiled and said, -Dost disbelieve what I say, that thou sitst there mute as a fish?

-I cannot but believe you, I said, for I have beheld too many demonstrations of your art to think you a liar. But wherefore do you tell such things to me?

-I have my reasons, quoth he; one is that thou sensest the magic, it speaketh to thee. Thou dost know it dos not do so to other men?

-Ay, said I, for I once mentioned it to Matthew and Hugh, nor had they never felt it.