Prospero Regained (33 page)

What if it happened here? The thought of suddenly seeing life from the point of view of a lost soul filled me with terror. True, something like that had already happened when I had entered Astreus’s dream and found myself in the Tower of Pain, but that only increased my trepidation. I dreaded the thought of experiencing even a single moment of such horror again.

If only these unexpected glimpses into other people’s souls were because of the weakening of some spell Father had cast upon me. Then, once we finally rescued Father, I could beg him to restore it!

All the hope that had buoyed me since the tiny silver star had rested upon Mab’s hand fled. I could remember how seeing the star on his palm had cheered me, but I could not recall why I had felt it was significant. No one doubted that Father was a wise and splendid magician. So, why should it be important that he had learned the trick of giving elemental spirits souls? Did that mean that he was honest with his children? Or that he always used his knowledge for good?

No. It meant nothing.

In retrospect, I felt very grateful to have met Malagigi and to have learned about the Brotherhood of Hope. If I had been forced to walk through this accursed place while believing that every man and woman here had been damned by God for eternity, I feared the horror of it would have been too cruel to bear.

I thought of Eurynome, descending from Heaven to save mankind in the Garden. For the first time, I wondered: why had God breathed life into the homunculi the demons had made—the ones that became mankind? Were we not damned from the start because we lived so near the corrupting nature of the demons, whose mere proximity harms the human soul? It was almost enough to make me want to believe the more traditional version of the Garden of Eden story.

How ironic,
I thought sadly.
The
Book of the Sibyl
claimed Bitter Wisdom was the Handmaiden of Eurynome. By that definition, I should be far more qualified to serve my Lady now than I had been in my innocence
.

*   *   *

AHEAD
loomed the towering columns of the Dis Stock Exchange. Far above, the sculpted Classical figures upon the building’s pediment buried their faces in their hands or pulled at their hair, expressing sorrow and woe. Some did worse things, such as tearing out their own eyes or gnawing off their own arms. We gazed up in silent horror and then followed the crystal ball between the enormous Corinthian columns and into the building.

The trading floor in New York City had once been the grandest indoor space in the nation, but this chamber dwarfed even its earthly counterpart. Nonetheless, it was tremendously crowded, with well-dressed men and women in gloves and gowns gathered around all the circular podiums. They stood motionless: their heads tilted, listening. The only movement came from ghostly paper tickets that skittered across the smoldering, polished, wide-beam wood floor. Here and there, they burst into curls of flame. The chamber was filled with the scent of burnt paper.

We found Cornelius sitting against a marble wall, motionless. His staff was in his hand, and a bowler hat lay upon his lap. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit with a white collar and a narrow tie. After so many years of seeing him with a bandage across his face, it was strange to see his pale, lifeless eyes. They made him seem older and yet more vulnerable.

As we crossed the floor to him, our heels clicking against the hot, smoldering wood, I thought about his recent falling-out with Logistilla, who used to be one of his closest cronies. I had never thought of Cornelius as principled, yet he had drawn the line at helping Logistilla cheat crooks and cripples. Perhaps, he had a core of integrity after all. I certainly hoped so, considering the substantial influence he had over the movers and shakers of the world.

In my mind’s eye, I always saw my brother Cornelius leaning over to whisper into the ear of some sovereign, aristocrat, company owner, or C.E.O., the amber atop his staff—later remade into a white blind-man’s cane—glittering brightly. Those in power soon came to realize my brother’s worth, and he had often served as an ambassador, either secretly or publicly.

The story of Cornelius’s life was the story of the Powers that Be, of secret deals, unrevealed reasons, all the unseen things that really moved the cogs of business and politics. While the inner workings of the
Orbis Suleimani
were a mystery to me, I knew this subtle, secretive, globe-spanning organization, which decided how history would be viewed by humankind, was under the sway of Cornelius. What my brother lacked in sight, he often made up for in foresight.

It had been Cornelius who first came up with the idea of our family forming a company. He had been the one who suggested the idea of hiding our dealings with the supernatural world under a veneer of mundane business. This had not been so important back in the early seventeenth century when the Prospero Transport Company first received its royal charter. Now, however, with modern surveillance and taxation methods, it was essential.

No wonder Cornelius would not sell me his shares! Over the last fifty years, as I had labored to build up and improve Prospero, Inc., I had come to think of the business as mine. Cornelius, on the other hand, must still think of it as his. He conceived the very concept of the company and then made it a reality. Between that and his cautious concern for the future, he would not want to let go of his portion of Prospero, Inc.

This revelation brought understanding, but not sympathy. Cornelius was a cold, calculating man. I respected him, but I could not bring myself to like him much. I understood why he might value Prospero, Inc., but that created no desire to share it with him.

As we neared him, his voice spoke from above us:
They won’t come for me. No one in the family ever remembers me. That is the reward I have earned for all my years of selfless service. I’ll be all alone, forgotten. Forever dwelling in the dark.

“Don’t be an ass!” Erasmus bent down and yanked him to his feet.

“Erasmus? Is that you? Thank Heavens!” Cornelius, the calmest and least demonstrative of my brothers, grabbed Erasmus’s hand tightly. Titus rushed forward and grabbed both Erasmus and Cornelius in a bear hug. The three of them embraced, laughing. Cornelius reached up and touched their faces.

I looked around but could see neither an indication of how he came to be dressed in out-of-fashion garments nor any sign of his original belongings. That was too bad. We had all been hoping Cornelius might have some food left among his things.

My brother stooped and picked up his staff, a slender blind-man’s cane with a sphere of amber set into the top—its white length was still tied with a black warding ribbon Erasmus had placed upon it to keep the dangerous King Paimon from influencing us without our knowledge—and set his bowler upon his head.

“Ready when you are, Brothers,” Cornelius spoke with a note of cheer I had seldom heard in his voice.

I looked around at the group of us, and it struck me. We were all together! I paused a moment and glanced at each sibling, drinking in their faces. If, in the troubles to come, anything should happen to some of us, I wanted to be able to remember the family at this moment.

Gregor stood in the midst of the Exchange. Without his red robes, the difference between his lithe present self and the stockier physique of his past was more pronounced. He held his new staff before him with both hands, as a priest might carry a cross, his expression calm and prayerful. To his left, Ulysses sat upon Caliban’s shoulders with Mephisto standing just beside them. Ulysses and Mephisto both seemed to be in good spirits. The former usually took things lightly, but he had seemed particularly cheerful since Logistilla had restored his true shape. The latter had a distant wistful smile. Funny to see the two of them together, both slender, wiry, and light-heartedly. I had never before noticed how similar they were.

Erasmus was still grinning at Cornelius. He took Cornelius’s arm and hooked it over his own. The two of them looked so natural together, with Titus, Cornelius’s full brother, smiling beside them. Theo waited stalwartly beside me, his eyes alert, keeping watch for dangers. He had not forgotten that we were in Hell or that Ulysses had originally been captured by demons not far from here. Mab stood beside him, scratching his stubble. Next to him was Logistilla, who had been staring down her nose fastidiously at the men who stood frozen in the exchange around us. As Titus came to stand calmly beside her, his hand resting protectively upon her shoulder, Logistilla shrieked. A moment later, she covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes were peering fervently upward.

I looked around, seeing nothing. Then, listening, I heard it, too. As if from the air above our heads, our own voices were speaking.

Logistilla’s voice said:
So, Big Sister lived like a prisoner in her own castle? Why does that make me feel sooo good?

Titus’s voice growled:
If Caliban looks at her that way again, I don’t care if he’s Mephisto’s man, I’m going to crack his skull, squeeze it like an orange until the juices run out!

A rich bass spoke that sounded familiar. It took me a moment to realize it was Gregor’s real voice, not his damaged gravelly whisper:
What a sorry lot we Prosperos are. How many of us, by right, deserve to remain in this God-forsaken place? Maybe I should slay us all and do Heaven a favor
.

Caliban’s voice mused:
My nose is stuffed up again. Wonder if I could pick it without anyone noticing?

Ulysses’s spoke idly:
This robe really doesn’t suit me. Wonder if Gregor could be conned into giving me his turtleneck and slacks. I’d look far better in them than he does. Or better yet, Cornelius’s suit. Now that’s sharp!

Cornelius’s voice was repeating in a soft, stunned tone.
They’re here. They came. I can’t believe it!

Erasmus’s voice cried in despair:
My life is a field strewn with ash, like that wasteland we crossed. Oh, Maria, how I have failed you!

Theo’s voice chuckled:
Boy, I looked fine when I fired my staff! Wonder if Miranda noticed?

Mab’s voice said:
What the…?

Mephisto’s voice chirped:
I’m hungry. Wonder if anybody brought cheese?

And my voice … To my dismay, I heard my own voice repeating aloud the dour thoughts running through the back of my mind—the kind of thoughts I usually dismissed:
First Father, now these Voodoo dolls. Do I have any thoughts of my own? Oh, my lost love! Would that you had not been cruelly murdered!

Beside me, Theo’s face slowly turned red. Mephisto lowered his head, concentrating. He hugged his arms and hummed a song. Above us, his voice fell silent. Noticing this, a panicked-looking Gregor immediately began to pray. His voice stopped as well. Logistilla tried to pray, but her voice-over continued:

Our Father … Darn! How does that prayer go? What’s the point of praying anyway? God never listens or answers. If there even is a God. Would a God of Goodness leave Galeazzo in that forsaken hellhole? I wonder if he was happy to see his mother. Oh, wait! I’m supposed to be praying! Oh, how my mind does wander!

Then, Titus touched Gregor’s shoulder. Gregor tapped his new staff. Blessed silence fell.

The souls of the damned in the range of his staff’s effect stirred and looked about. Several approached us, attempting to join our group. They tried to speak to us or gesticulated imploringly, two of them doffing their black bowlers and holding them meekly before their chests. But, of course, we could not hear what they said. Gregor threatened them with the Seal of Solomon, and they quickly retreated. As we moved toward the door, and the effect of the
Staff of Silence
passed beyond them, they froze again and stood motionless listening to the Voice.

The eerie thing was that Gregor’s staff did not silence only the outside voices. The monologue that had been berating me both in my head—the voice I had assumed was my own—fell quiet, too. I could think positive, practical thoughts and could consider negative consequences, but no self-effacing repulsive thoughts rose to confound me.

The
Staff of Silence
may always have had this effect, only I had never had a reason to notice before.

As I wound my way through the finely dressed locals, who milled about, bewildered, within the effect of the silence, I thought about my voice-over. Lost love? Since when had I began thinking of Astreus as my love?

I blushed a dark crimson. A better question might be: Why had I assumed that I had meant the Elf Lord instead of Ferdinand?

Then it struck me. The demons were affecting our thoughts.

Our very minds were not our own. What actions we had taken in our lives, what mistakes we had made, had been at their urging? I knew my anger at Erasmus was fanned by them, but what else? Had it been my idea to stay at home when London was burning, back in 1666, or was that thought caused by demons? Had it been my idea to play my flute on the bridge, or had that come from them, too?

The whole subject made me feel as if something were crawling on the inside of my skin. I shivered and shook my head as if I could shake out the bad thoughts. The others must have come to similar conclusions, for their faces were pale and their expressions ranged from baffled to disturbed.

As we reached a sparsely populated area near one of the bronze-colored round booths, Ulysses gestured from Caliban’s back for everyone to come together. We began gathering about the
Staff of Transportation,
preparing to depart.

A pile of colored tickets near our feet burst into flame. It burned without a crackle, though the scent of burning paper grew stronger. Erasmus blithely stepped over it and put his arm on Ulysses’s shoulder. Then, he abruptly pulled back and motioned to Gregor, moving his finger across his throat and pointing at the
Staff of Silence.
Gregor nodded and tapped his staff. Sound came rushing back.

“This is too good an opportunity to miss.” Erasmus pointed at Mephisto, who was lounging against the booth, clicking his fingers in his ear to hear the noise of it. “Are you the family traitor?”