Rotherweird (Rotherweird #1)

by Andrew Caldecott

Junoesque

Books reflect interests; interests inform personality and personality decides a course of action. Instinct told Finch that these collections had been assembled by opposing forces, and if that were the case, the Manor had at different times been home to both the virtuous and the malevolent. He had the uncomfortable thought that its closure all those years ago must mean that the latter had triumphed and somehow remained a threat . . . but how?

Fanguin ducked the enquiry. ‘I’m looking at a bottle, and a bottle is looking at me. In polite society only a glass stands between us.’

An old rage burned – so many startling gifts, so much knowledge gleaned along the way, and yet what a mess Mankind had made of everything.

He could never get a straight answer as to who the Ferensens were or where they came from. This Ferensen acted as the countrysiders’ Mayor in all but name, as Snorkel’s rule neglected them.

Heavy black nails pockmarked the massive oak front door.

Yet she could not avoid the horrors elsewhere – a man recoiling from a telescope, eyes bleeding green and scarlet thread, as beside him a hairless monster was hunted down. Beyond a scene teemed with barred cages, perfect cubes, some empty, some housing monsters; others held a mix of man and animal or animal and bird.

O Felix, How did the double helix Fashion you? He took out his notebook, and his spirits rose.

‘Grotesques, finely drawn, danced on the margins, some tailed, some clawed, some winged.’

‘Mixology is an art form.

By flickering candles he christens himself and his new recruits the Eleusians. In London he has noted the coats of arms that decorate the banners, carriages and fireplaces of the rich and powerful.

‘You sit in the stern, admire my technique and bale like a loony – piece of cake.’ ‘Bale?’ ‘What else are buckets for? Just remember, the long scoop beats the quick dip every time.’

After Fanguin’s sustained burst, advancing years and his new retirement diet of Sturdy and risotto were taking their toll.

On the frontispiece of the book he wrote GRAND SURVEY of ROTHERWEIRD Her Exterior Fittings By Reginald Gorhambury To his surprise, Bo Tavish embraced the plan. Gorhambury’s hours reversed, breakfast becoming supper, and supper breakfast. He fitted in his petit point between six and eight in the evening, shortly after getting up.

True to his new regime and mission, Gorhambury slept through the entire Fair.

‘The accused sought no pity from the Court. He said he would be back, and that vengeance would be his. He said another would come to pave the way. Yet his countenance lacked the usual arrogance. Sentence was duly carried out. The other accused, all Eleusians, were sentenced to tabula rasa et exsilium—’ ‘Tabula . . . what?’ asked Gregorius Jones. Ferensen returned, still pale, but answered, ‘Tabula rasa is Latin for another effect Wynter discovered the mixing-point could have: place the stones in a particular place and you can wipe the mind. So the authorities turned it on the Eleusians, and then added exile for good measure. The defendants were left with the empty brains of a newborn baby, as good as a sentence of death, or so they believed.’

‘Your letter mentioned Wynter’s book of arms – The Dark Devices. Nobody else knows of it – nor did I until the book revealed itself. So how could you? Then there’s your name. In my job you can smell an anagram a mile off, even a German one. Ferensen. Add an H for Hieronymus, jumble the letters and you get fernsehen, meaning to see into the future, which is what a seer does.’ Finch added in a whisper, ‘Good evening, Hieronymus Seer.’

A strange apparition in white shorts and running shoes, naked from the waist up, descended the steep slope, half-skidding, half-jogging. ‘Glorious morning,’ said the apparition with an easy heartiness.

Only a monk would have described the ensuing hour as a passionate encounter, more a mix of tussle, fumble (mainly Oblong), warm embrace (mainly Orelia), and occasional laughter. Yet both emerged the better, having discovered a mutual point of suffering in their reservoirs of unspent affection.

‘Why give me freedom from government?’ ‘Isolation is the price your subjects must pay for their freedom. Here, alone in England, the study of history will be forbidden.’ ‘Why so?’ ‘Let them study the past and they’ll find the way to the other place. Rotherweird must live in the present, and keep itself to itself. Let nobody in, let nobody out. We will build you a new house, suitably imposing for a governor, where you must keep hidden the trial record and Wynter’s more demonic possessions – including that very particular book.’

‘Had Box Street been a living thing, it would have been old, blind, stooped and asthmatic.’

At the mouth of the chamber a cat stood on its haunches, ribs glowing orange-red, fire licking at its open mouth. Jones disengaged, jumped to his feet and cried, ‘Run!’ at the actress, and this time she did, dropping the gates at her feet. Judging the cat to be the more dangerous enemy, Jones followed to cover her back. The creature sent a spout of flame after them, but did not follow. Its flanks reverted to bone and fur.

On the rim of the valley the actress stopped. A sprinkling of lights marked Rotherweird Town. She got out of the car and bowed to them – her finale, her curtain call.

He and the midsummer flower were one. He was the Green Man, Lost Acre’s last hope. The veins in the sky were now crimson. In the open meadowland, a column of red rose from the ground like a fiery door. Salt felt the warmth calling him. Slowly the Green Man edged towards it, more tree than plant, all foliage and twisted branches covered in flower.

She noticed that dawn and dusk were the most dangerous times, and that most creatures afforded her a degree of respect, presumably under the misapprehension that she had ousted the spiderwoman.

‘And who is Proteus?’ gabbled Gregorius Jones. ‘The god who can forever change shape,’ said Finch.

‘Congratulations. The game is won, and we’ve learned how to learn from history, how to make history, how potent history can be. But sometimes – like now – history should be left to its own devices.’