How the Stars did Fall (7 page)

“What is it you gentlemen require?” she asked.

“Two rooms,” Tennyson answered.

“Twenty dollars apiece.”

Faraday’s eyebrows rose at the price, but Tennyson placed his hand on his shoulder, reassuring him.

“Still an inclusive figure, yes?”

“Of course. Whiskey. Women. Laudanum. Whatever it is you gentlemen desire.”

Tennyson produced from his coat a pouch with some of the gold they had acquired and handed it to the mistress. She walked over to a counter and spilled the gold coins out, setting them one on top of the other like some new Tower of Babel in miniature, the edifice teetering under the candlelight. While the mistress weighed the gold, she whispered a song to herself in a Slavic tongue to the rhythm of the music emanating from the halls of the manor.

“Pape satan, pape satan aleppe,” she began.

The mistress opened wide the doors, the music gusting out. A mischievous tune and to it danced a host of whores fair and foul, some as young as fourteen. A few hoary widows and one pregnant, her bulbous protrusion heavy with the burden of life, and a babe sitting on the floor playing with a wooden horse and women of seemingly every extant tribe, the full palette of skin colors on display, and one walleyed androgyne naked in the center of the hall, dancing and dancing. Some of the women sat on the laps of men and some danced in a circle, each following the other, a procession of wanton desire, and at the center of all their striving a master of music performed, his tunes flowing outward like a gentle breeze so sweet it rendered that whole country and all of the warring bands upon it as mere emblems of a world too absurd to actually be.

Tennyson and Faraday took a seat and the mistress brought them a tray bearing a bottle of whiskey, unopened, and two glasses. And while they poured themselves some whiskey, the music ceased. The musician, bearded and wearing a long yellow cloak and a bright blue vest, handed off his instrument to another and took his bow and all of the patrons clapped for him. He sat next to Faraday. With no signal from him, the mistress brought the musician his own tray. This one held an already-lit opium lamp and a pipe and a bowl and some opium paste laid out on a plate like a garnish. The mistress took up a portion of the paste with a needle and held it above the lamp for a while, the heat slowly cooking the pea-sized mass. Then she placed that portion in the bowl and the musician, as if taking this as his cue, took the pipe and set it across the flame and inhaled the vapors coming up from the bowl.

This whole scene left Faraday transfixed, for he had never seen anyone partake in that manner, but while he stared at the musician and his gaudy dress, a woman sat next to him and took his hands in her own. Not wanting to offend, Faraday did not break her grasp. And when the whore asked if he wanted to dance, in a heavy Russian accent, he only smiled and did not answer.

“Be careful with that one,” the goateed musician said to Faraday. “Her grandfather was a gypsy of some importance and the souls of the gypsies do not transmigrate into the afterlife but hang around their descendants, guarding them.” After saying that, the musician took another deep draw of the opium vapor and paused as if thinking about some profound fact that had suddenly occurred to him. Then his head fell back and he let out a roar of a laugh.

Faraday took up the whore’s offer and the two of them danced together to the now-diminished tune, and they drank together and as they circled the room they let go and each found another partner and danced some more, until the circle completed itself and Faraday and the whore found themselves in the crowd and joined together again. By now night had set in and the many candelabra and chandeliers that illuminated the hall burned ever brighter, and when the dancers passed by the flames, their shadows drew upon them, climbing the walls like escaping phantoms. Finally the whore whispered in Faraday’s ear, calling him to her room, and the couple left together, climbing a narrow staircase and into a hallway lined with more candelabra and macabre paintings of three-headed dogs and men in white robes standing in an ancient courtyard, their unfurled scrolls bearing the number nought nought one, and one painting of a solitary Indian with long hair and a colored face playing the quena.

Inside her room, the woman sat on the bed. Faraday found a bowl filled with water and wet his face. Then he undressed himself and sat in front of the whore. She did not move. Did not speak. Faraday initiated contact but the woman did not respond to his touch. He thought he ought to be more direct so he told her what he wanted her to do to him.

“You want me to do what?” she asked. And she laughed at the nakedness in front of her. “You know you will die, soon? He has his eye on you. There is no way to hide.” she said. Her voice sounded the same but the way she said it was strange and masculine.

Startled, Faraday answered as if addressing not the woman but some other being which had just entered their circle. “I’ve been through bad and worse already. Nothing ahead I can’t deal with.”

The woman stared back, her face blank. Then she began to sob and mumble something incoherent in her mother tongue, and she dropped her eyes and when she lifted them again and beheld Faraday the sobbing turned to wailing. A dreadful, high-pitched wailing. Faraday tried to console her.
 

“What’s wrong?” he said.
 

But either she did not understand or could not express whatever assailed her. Soon the mistress found them and helped the woman off the bed and into the kitchen for a drink of water.

“What did you do?” the mistress asked.

“Nothing.”

“Go back. I will help her.”

Returning to the main hall, Faraday saw that Tennyson and the musician had begun a conversation. They sat next to each other, the gaunt musician with his cavernous face and the portly doctor. The figure of one exaggerating that of the other.

“This is Mr. Lynch,” Tennyson said. “He’s a traveler like us.”

“Are you? And where are you headed, Mr. Lynch?” Faraday asked.

“Just Lynch is fine. And I am a wanderer, more properly. A traveler implies I have a destination in mind, whereas in truth I let the wind take me wherever it may. With my instrument, I have been welcomed into many houses.”

“It is a rare craft, that.”

“And a most noble one,” Tennyson added.

“You flatter me, doctor. But I am not speaking of music, precisely. I practice another, older craft.”

“And which one is that?” Faraday asked.

“I will leave it unsaid.”

“A painter, perhaps? Though who can say which came first, painting or music?”

“I do not know for certain, but I would venture music is older,” Tennyson said.

“Faraday, may I speak to you of something grave?” Lynch asked.

“Grave, you say. What do you mean?”

“It is about your sister. You should find her. Help her. I see darkness ahead for her. Something pursues her, and will to her death if it is not stopped by some exterior power.”

“You know of my sister. Is this your craft, after all? Are you a seer?”

“I practice many disciplines.”

“I’m not a believer in seers.”

“Take it as you will. But I will give you another token to prove the truth of my words. Many years ago a great calamity occurred in the heavens and it appeared as if the stars themselves were falling from their perches into the great dark beyond. The Leonids, they called it. Well, I tell you, look to the heavens tonight, for the stars will fall once again and you will know I speak the truth.”

These words disquieted Faraday and he stared at Lynch’s face for a few seconds trying to read it, to sniff out a lie, but the musician stared back, his eyes steady. Faraday’s response was to leave, despite Tennyson’s protestations that they had paid to stay longer than the short time they had so far spent in the place. But Faraday prevailed and they took their horses from the stable and rode down the mountain and back onto the road.

“Hold on now,” Tennyson said, trying to get Faraday to stop his horse. But Faraday would not stop, so the doctor made his horse go faster until they were close enough that Tennyson reached out and took hold of the other horse’s reins, bringing it to a stop.

“We paid to stay the night there. Where are we going to sleep out here? What are we going to eat? Come on, let’s go back. She will allow us in again.”

It took a moment, but as soon as Tennyson had stopped talking he noticed that Faraday’s eyes were moist.

“Are you crying?” Tennyson asked.

“Of course not. It’s the cold wind in my eyes.”

“Have you let that trickster get the better of you? I have known many charlatans in my time and every one of them hid behind some religious or mystical veneer. He is no different.”

“And what if he is right? You know why I came out here. What if my father’s debtors have found another way to satisfy their claim?”

“So you intend to do what? Ride to your father’s farm?”

“Yes.”

“Will you ride all through the night? Could you not leave in the morning?”

“I cannot stay there. Not while my family suffers without my aid. Will you ride with me?”

“I cannot go with you to your father’s farm.”

They rode all afternoon and into the evening until the road passed by a forest. Then they rode into that forest, seeking shelter among the trees. They rode on until the forest grew thick enough to block out much of the dying sun’s light and a moist air hung around the ground. They stopped only to give the horses a drink from a little stream, then they kept on, until suddenly, like a column of light, the last rays of the day entered in through a clearing that opened up among the trees. All around the clearing they found what looked like the remains of a large Indian camp. There were clay pots and plates, empty baskets, leather cots, garlic cloves, broken boughs, spoiled cabbage and many chipped arrowheads brought together to make a mound. A burned-out remnant of a large fire stood out at the center of the camp. Faraday approached it and felt the ash and the dirt where the fire had been.

“It’s cold,” Faraday said, “at least a few days old. Maybe a whole lot more.”

Inside the clearing they found enormous boulders of sandstone squatting over the grass. Set in a circle, the stones made a clearing within a clearing, and hiding in the center of the circle sat another stone, this one polished and cylindrical with a smooth and flat top. An altar. There were no inscriptions but Faraday guessed the position of the stones was itself an inscription of a kind.

They tied their horses to the trees and laid out blankets on the grass near the center stone. Tennyson collected kindling from the surrounding brush and piled it up and made a fire. At night while they drank from their skins and ate dry jerky they looked up at the stars and watched and waited. They saw no stars falling. While they were eating, Tennyson brought out a bottle of wine and uncorked it and poured it into wooden cups, one for each man.

“It is a pity that we must separate, but I will not dwell on sad things. Rather, let us toast to our accomplishments…” Tennyson paused, then added: “And the continued health and security of our families.”

Faraday held the cup in his hands but would not taste the wine. He got up and felt the cool rock. Signposts and stand-ins. Tools with which to measure out the end of the world. Then he looked up, checking the sky again for falling stars. Finding none, he felt a relief, for it meant Olivia might be safe after all. Still, he had to be sure and going home was the only way.

He allowed himself a sip of the wine. Then he took in the whole cup and more. The bottle soon fell empty onto the grass. Then as they lay around the fire, sleep threatening to overcome them, Tennyson got up and blessed the sky thrice in mockery of the pious.

“Holy Father, please forgive us our sins. Let our sleep be safe and our dreams filled with the images of naked women,” he said.

“Let up the silly superstition,” Faraday said.

“You are right,” Tennyson said and, lifting his plump mass, he looked up and intoned: “Bless us our daily bread, thy kingdom come, as it is in the heavens, let it be so in the earth.”

“The wine’s gone up to your head.”

“And not yours?”

“I can handle my wine.”

“You can barely speak without stuttering.”

Before long they slept and the fire died down until only faint embers still burned and then even those last gasps were no more, a wisp of smoke the only remnant. They slept huddled close to the center stone, covered in fur blankets, until the sky came alight with falling stars, the brightness interrupting their slumber. The Leonids appeared above them like the warring legions of the heavenly host, their numbers countless, and the two men, still drunk, could do nothing but stare in awe. One hour passed, then another, and the skies gave no sign of letting up. Halfway into the third hour those burning bodies began to peter out, and as if following them, another set of figures appeared. Not in the sky but on the earth. They came on foot, pulling their horses behind them, and Faraday and Tennyson only heard them once they reached the clearing. By then, the Indians already loomed over them like grinning shadows. They had come in the dead of night in numbers, armed with bows and arrows and long spears and tomahawks. With strips of hide, the Indians blindfolded Faraday and Tennyson, and they set the white men down over their horses like cargo and rode out away from that ritual ground deeper into the forest, the last few Leonids still passing over them.

Chapter Seven

Arriving at his home, Daniel found Molly sitting quietly in front of the fire, drinking water. She had cleaned her face up somewhat, all of her youthfulness and beauty now unmarred. Daniel sat next to her.

“You need to leave this city. Tonight. It’s not safe here.”

“Is my father dead?”

“Why would you think that?”

“He told me he would kill my father.”

“The Good Man?”

Molly nodded. “Told me how he would do it, too. Is my father dead?”

“Yes, I saw him die.”

Now Molly turned her face towards the fire and drank some more of her water.

“Where will I go?” she asked.