The Society of Thirteen (15 page)

Chapter 43

There was a palpable feeling of anxiety in the air as the four remaining members of the Society of Thirteen gathered once more in the club library.

‘I heard this morning that the coroner confirms that Symmonds died of natural causes,' said Sir Tyrrell. ‘The police are no longer looking for the Indian.'

‘It's a terrible business,' said Mr G. Hayman. ‘Poor John.'

‘John's death is a tragedy but we should not allow it to distract us from the matter in hand,' said Lord Ringmore, coldly.

‘I'm afraid Inspector Longdale has not yet recovered the book,' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘And yet, as a result of the police's actions, Harry was able to lay his hands on it.' Lord Ringmore pulled the book out from a pocket in his coat and placed it on a table.

‘Longdale set a bunch of thugs after them,' said Clay. ‘They provided an excellent distraction. This time I saw the girl turn the mud from the riverbed into a weapon. The power they wield is remarkable. It could create a stage show the like of which the world has never seen before.'

‘A stage show –?' barked Sir Tyrrell.

‘Thankfully,' interrupted Lord Ringmore, ‘Mr Hayman was on hand to rescue the book from such an inconsequential fate and remind Harry where his loyalties lie.'

‘We all have our agendas, don't we, Ringmore?' said Clay.

‘Well,
some
of us would use this power to better the world,' said Sir Tyrrell. ‘So, what now? We know we need a thirteen-year-old without parents, but what must we have them do?'

‘My research has revealed the answer,' explained Mr G. Hayman. ‘The child uses a wand or staff to make a shape in the ground. When they step inside that shape the lifeblood infects them.'

‘Have you learnt what shape it is?' asked Clay.

‘Yes. Going back through my notes, I realised that the answer has been right in front of us since the beginning,' said Mr G. Hayman. She flipped the book around to show the symbol on the back. ‘This shape. The circle within the triangle within the circle. This is the Creation Spell, gentlemen.'

Clay clapped his hands together in excitement. ‘Then all we need is a subject.'

‘I have a nephew of thirteen. He would be perfect. He was orphaned following the death of my dear brother last year,' said Sir Tyrrell. ‘I've been like a father to the boy ever since.'

‘Can he be trusted?' asked Mr G. Hayman.

‘He is a Tyrrell and therefore totally trustworthy.'

‘And yet there are now two children out there who are already wielding such power,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘If we are to control this power we must first contain it. We must draw the orphans back to us.'

‘A Conjuror of our own will give us bargaining power,' mused Clay.

‘I agree,' said Mr G. Hayman.

‘As do I,' added Sir Tyrrell.

‘Very well, then we will try out your nephew first then use him to entice the orphans back,' said Lord Ringmore.

Chapter 44

Mondriat led Tom to a patch of wasteland between two factories that churned out smoke from huge chimneys. In the summer there was probably enough grass to call it a park but in the winter it was abandoned and desolate, save for a few stray dogs.

‘If you want to locate your aunt, you must create a hunting potion,' explained the magpie.

‘A potion? Why not a spell?'

‘Spells can harness great power, but a potion is more potent, as it draws out the essence of the lifeblood itself.'

‘What ingredients do we need?'

Mondriat laughed. ‘You think we need a bubbling cauldron and eyes of a newt, I suppose?'

‘No,' said Tom. ‘It's just  …  what then?'

‘First, you must dig your cauldron.' Mondriat tapped his beak on the ground.

‘It's frozen solid. How can I dig?'

‘You hold the answer in your right hand,' replied Mondriat.

Tom looked at his staff.

‘With this?' he said.

‘With that.'

Tom tried to ram his staff into the ground but it barely made any impact at all.

‘What are you doing?' squawked Mondriat. ‘You're a Conjuror! When I say to use your staff, I mean use it as a staff, not as a stick. Use your power, your strength. Find a spell within you that will create the cauldron in the earth.'

Tom nodded and placed both hands on one end of the staff. He knelt down and moved it instinctively in a spiralling motion. He could feel the raw energy rise up through it. He closed his eyes as though in prayer. The staff vibrated and, when Tom opened his eyes, he saw it had created a perfectly circular hole in the ground.

‘Not bad for your first attempt,' said Mondriat. ‘Now, draw the Creation Spell around the cauldron.'

As Tom completed the final line he felt the power pulsate from the ground.

‘The Creation Spell is the basis of all magic,' said Mondriat. ‘The circle summons the illuminated energy, the triangle harnesses shaded energy.'

‘There is good and bad magic?' said Tom.

‘Good and bad are words used by unInfected souls. A dog may be good or bad. A song may be good or bad. We are not talking about dogs or music. The energy of the Earthsoul, shaded or illuminated, is beautiful.'

‘So how do I make a potion?'

‘A potion requires liquid. Blood, in fact. Your blood, to be precise.'

‘My blood?' said Tom, alarmed.

‘Just one droplet of your own, exquisitely Infected blood. You'll barely notice it.'

‘Is there a spell to draw out my blood?'

‘Some things you don't need magic for.'

Before Tom could ask what Mondriat meant, he flew onto his arm and jabbed his beak into Tom's hand.

‘Hey!' protested Tom, pulling his hand away to see that Mondriat had pierced his skin and that a droplet of blood glistened on his palm.

Mondriat fluttered up to the safety of a nearby tree. ‘Now hold your hand over the cauldron and allow the blood to drip in.'

Tom scowled at him but followed his instructions, allowing two drops to fall into the hole then sucking the wound dry. As the red droplets hit the centre of the hole they hissed like eggs hitting a hot frying pan. Red liquid oozed from the pores of the earth, filling the hole. White steam rose from the surface of the potion.

‘How will this help me find my aunt?' asked Tom.

‘The Earthsoul knows all,' said Mondriat. ‘The lifeblood held in this cauldron contains all of time and space. The past dwells with the present. The present mixes with the future. Nothing is impossible and no question is unanswerable, but the answers must come from within.'

‘Meaning?'

‘You must drink the potion.'

‘Drink it?' said Tom. ‘Drink my own blood?'

‘This is not your blood,' replied Mondriat. ‘This is a potion made from the pure moisture of the Earthsoul. You must drink it then hold the question in your mind.'

‘I have no cup.'

‘The cup,' said Mondriat, hopping along the branch. ‘I always did forget the cup.'

Tom dropped to his knees and crawled tentatively towards the bubbling liquid. It smelt strange. He cupped his hands and lifted a handful of the liquid to his mouth.

To his surprise, it was the most exquisite thing he had ever tasted. He lapped up more, then dropped down and pushed his head into the hole, not caring that the liquid splashed around his face. He greedily guzzled it down. When he had drained the hole of every drop he rolled over and looked up at the overcast sky. Mondriat was speaking but he could no longer hear what he was saying. The clouds shifted, creating shapes as the bright sun eagerly sought a way through. These were the shapes of nature. This was the Earthsoul speaking. The clouds swirled around and formed a child's face he knew to be his mother. He watched her age and grow. A second figure appeared, a faceless man who took Tom's mother in his arms. Tom wanted to cry out but there was a flash of light and the sound of screaming. His mother reappeared, alone again. He watched her belly swell as a child inside grew. With another dramatic swirl of clouds, she was holding the baby in her arms. The baby became a boy and he recognised himself, but the image of his mother faded into the background and he saw his aunt standing behind him in her place. She placed a hand on his shoulder and led him away.

Tears obscured Tom's vision. The image moved further and further away, as though he was flying up into the sky, until he looked down on London. He saw the curve of the river, the living snake-heart of the city. Forever flowing. He saw every living, breathing thing, moving like ants on the ground, going about their business, unaware of their insignificance. Tom could have identified the position of anyone or anything, but there was only one who mattered.

Tom sat upright and looked at Mondriat.

‘Well?' asked Mondriat.

‘I know where she is,' he replied.

Chapter 45

Esther had always been quick on her feet, but now, with every sense heightened, she could have navigated the busy market with her eyes closed. The calls of the stall-owners echoed in her ears. Whereas once she had taken great comfort from such hustle and bustle, today it only reminded her of her isolation.

She stopped next to a fruit stall where a woman was carefully considering every piece of fruit in minute detail, much to the stall-owner's annoyance. Esther noticed her purse poking out of her basket. Taking it would have been the easiest thing in the world. Even without magic Esther could have snatched it and vanished into the throng before the woman knew it was gone.

The woman turned around and saw her standing behind her. Esther saw the flash of fear in her eyes as she looked for her purse and the relief that swept across her face when she found it still there.

Esther left the market and walked up Bushfield Street where there were more stalls, selling jewellery, brushes and combs, snuff tins and other knick-knacks. She approached one filled with silver and gold necklaces. The owner was an oriental lady wearing an exotic red and gold blouse.

‘You see something you like?' she said.

Esther's eyes were drawn to a necklace with a delicate silver chain and a hanging pendant.

‘You like this one?' said the stall-owner.

‘I don't know,' replied Esther.

‘This one is very special necklace. Look.' The stall-owner pressed the side of the pendant and it clicked open. ‘Inside you can put a picture of a loved one  …  or leave as is.'

The lady turned it around to reveal a tiny mirror inside.

‘Take a look.' She handed the necklace to her. She showed no concern that Esther might run away with it. ‘No one is as important as the one you see in there.'

‘How much is it?' asked Esther.

‘For you, special price. For you, five shillings,' said the woman.

Ever since Hardy had counted out the money earned from the robbery of Lord Ringmore's house she had wanted rid of it. It was a reminder of the betrayal. There was no question of haggling for a better price.

She paid and the oriental lady handed her the necklace. ‘It will bring you luck.'

Esther put the chain over her neck then tucked the pendant out of sight. She felt its coldness against her skin as she headed towards Brick Lane. There, she found a quiet corner where there was no one around and pulled out the pendant. When she opened it she saw her face reflected in the tiny mirror. There had been no mirrors in the orphanage. Mother Agnes had called them ‘windows of vanity'. Esther looked into her own eyes, so unfamiliar, so strange, and so full of fear. In her right hand, she felt her staff move, scratching the shapes into the dirt.

The world melted around her. Or was it she who was melting? For a moment, Esther was utterly alone, then, she saw a woman standing where her reflection had been. She had dark hair and eyes as black as the night. She stared back at Esther. She scrutinised her. She examined her.

‘Who are you? demanded Esther.

The woman did not reply but threw her head back and laughed. Frightened, Esther stepped back, stumbled and tripped.

‘You all right, love?'

She was back in the street again, sitting on the ground. A cloth-capped man, pushing a large cart of lemons, had stopped upon seeing her fall.

‘Don't touch me,' she warned.

‘Only being friendly, weren't I?' he replied.

Esther stared at him until he shrugged, mumbled something under his breath and walked away.

Her hand found the pendant. It was still open. She lifted it again and looked into the mirror. This time she saw only her own face reflected. The dark-haired woman, whoever she was, had gone from the mirror, but the sound of her laughter still rang in Esther's ears and the image of her face remained imprinted on her memory. She looked at the back of her hand. The wart had gone. She snapped the pendant shut and tucked it out of sight.

Chapter 46

The vision in the clouds had revealed to Tom that his aunt lived in a cosy-looking cottage, halfway up Highgate Hill, with a small neat garden and flowers in the window. It was not what he had expected. He knew his aunt had only given him up because she couldn't afford to keep him, so how could she be living in such a place?

Tom had felt groggy after drinking the potion, but the journey across London gave him time to clear his head. Mondriat had respected Tom's wishes and was keeping his distance. He landed on the cottage roof as Tom pushed open the gate and walked up the path.

A neighbour, washing her doorstep, stood up to peer over the fence. Tom stared back until she looked away and returned to her work.

When he banged on the door a baby started crying inside.

‘Who is it?' cried a female voice.

Tom didn't know how to answer, so he said nothing and knocked again.

‘Hold on. I'm coming.' His aunt's voice was harsher than he remembered, but he was in no doubt that it was her.

The door opened and she appeared, exactly as she had looked in the vision, except that she held in her arms a screaming child. ‘Yes?' she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

‘I –' Tom began.

‘It had better be important,' she interrupted. ‘I'll never get her down again now you've woken her up.'

‘I'm Tom.'

‘Tom? I don't know any Toms. Are you one of them kids from number thirty-nine? Locked yourself out, have you?'

‘I'm your nephew, Tom,' he said.

‘My nephew  … ' She laughed at first, but slowly the laughter fell away and the colour drained from her face. ‘Good God. How the devil did you find me?'

‘Does it matter how?' asked Tom.

‘It matters to me,' she snapped. ‘They said you wouldn't be able to find me. They promised.'

‘Things have changed now,' said Tom. ‘I've changed. I can look after us now.'

The baby choked on its own screams. ‘Don't be so stupid, child. I don't need you to look after us. I've got a family. Can't you see?'

A boy appeared by her legs, staring sullenly at Tom. ‘Who is it, Mummy?' he asked.

‘No one,' replied his aunt.

‘I ain't no one,' said Tom.

‘You can't be here,' she said. ‘My Charlie will be back soon. He won't want to find you here and you don't want to be found here by him, neither.'

‘I understand why you had to leave me,' said Tom. ‘You couldn't afford to keep me, but it'll be all right now. We're family.'

‘I left you because Charlie didn't want to bring up my sister's runt. And why should he? I did what I could for you.'

‘You washed your hands of me!' exclaimed Tom.

‘And now you're back, knocking on my door, making a scene.'

The neighbour had stopped all pretence of scrubbing the doorstep and was blatantly staring over the fence at the scene.

‘Who is he, Mummy?' asked the little boy.

‘I told you. He's no one,' said Tom's aunt.

Tom looked at the child. ‘I'm your cousin, Tom.'

‘Don't you listen to him.'

‘How old is he?' asked Tom.

‘Never you mind.'

‘I am five,' said the boy, proudly.

It was the age Tom had been when his aunt had left him on the doorstep of the orphanage. The anger bubbled up inside of him. Esther had been right all along. His aunt didn't want him. She had never wanted him. Raw pain tore at his insides.

The boy was crying now too.

‘What you doing with that stick?' demanded his aunt.

Tom looked at his right hand. His staff was moving.

‘When my Charlie gets here  … ' The rest of his aunt's threat was drowned out by the blood pounding in Tom's ears. ‘There was always something wrong about you  … ' she said. ‘I was glad Charlie made me give you away  …  You hear that, Tom? Glad.'

Tom looked at his aunt with renewed clarity. He raised his left hand and touched the doorframe. The shaking that had filled his body moved through his fingertips into the walls of the cottage. His aunt looked up, terrified, as the building began to shake. On the roof, Mondriat flapped his wings and flew to a nearby tree.

‘What've you done, Tom? What you done?' demanded his aunt. She pushed past him, holding the baby in one arm and dragging the other child behind her.

‘Goodbye.' Tom turned to leave. He didn't need to stay to watch the huge cracks snake through the building, sending shards of glass flying from the cracked windows. He didn't need to see the building crumble to dust while the children screamed and the neighbours rushed out to stare. He didn't need to take in the magnificence of what he had done. Why would he need to see it when he had so perfectly imagined it?