Quicksilver (6 page)

“It’s supposed that you are different.”

“Herculean, perhaps?”

“Well…”

“Do you have any idea why I’m different, Mr. Root?”

“I do not, Dr. Waterhouse.”

“The tavern it is, then.”

B
EN AND
G
ODFREY ARE SENT
back to Boston on the ferry. Daniel scorns the nearest tavern—some sort of long-running dispute with the proprietor—so they find the highway and ride northwest for a couple of miles, drawing off to one side from time to time to let drovers bring their small herds of Boston-bound cattle through. They arrive at what used to be the capital of Massachusetts, before the city fathers of Boston out-maneuvered it. Several roads lunge out of the wilderness and collide with one another. Yeomen and drovers and backwoodsmen churn it up into a vortex of mud and manure. Next to it is a College. Newtowne is, in other words, paradise for tavern-keepers, and the square (as they style it) is lined with public houses.

Waterhouse enters a tavern but immediately backs out of it. Looking into the place over his companion’s shoulder, Enoch glimpses a white-wigged Judge on a massive chair at the head of the tap-room, a jury empaneled on plank benches, a grimy rogue being interrogated. “Not a good place for a pair of idlers,” Water-house mumbles.

“You hold
judicial proceedings
in
drinking-houses
!?”

“Poh! That judge is no more drunk than any magistrate of the Old Bailey.”

“It is perfectly logical when you put it that way.”

Daniel chooses another tavern. They walk through its brick-red
door. A couple of leather fire-buckets dangle by the entrance, in accordance with safety regulations, and a bootjack hangs on the wall so that the innkeeper can take his guests’ footwear hostage at night. The proprietor is bastioned in a little wooden fort in the corner, bottles on shelves behind him, a preposterous firearm, at least six feet long, leaning in the angle of the walls. He’s busy sorting his customers’ mail. Enoch cannot believe the size of the planks that make up the floor. They creak and pop like ice on a frozen lake as people move around. Waterhouse leads him to a table. It consists of a single slab of wood sawn from the heart of a tree that must have been at least three feet in diameter.

“Trees such as these have not been seen in Europe for hundreds of years,” Enoch says. He measures it against the length of his arm. “Should have gone straight to Her Majesty’s Navy. I am shocked.”

“There is an exemption to that rule,” Waterhouse says, showing for the first time a bit of good humor. “If a tree is blown down by the wind, anyone may salvage it. In consequence of which, Gomer Bolstrood, and his fellow Barkers, have built their colonies in remote places, where the trees are very large—”

“And where freak hurricanoes often strike without warning?”

“And without being noticed by any of their neighbors. Yes.”

“Firebrands to furniture-makers in a single generation. I wonder what old Knott would think.”

“Firebrands
and
furniture-makers,” Waterhouse corrects him.

“Ah, well…If my name were Bolstrood, I’d be happy to live anywhere that was beyond the reach of Tories and Archbishops.”

Daniel Waterhouse rises and goes over to the fireplace, plucks a couple of loggerheads from their hooks, and thrusts them angrily into the coals. Then he goes to the corner and speaks with the tavern-keeper, who cracks two eggs into two mugs and then begins throwing in rum and bitters and molasses. It is sticky and complicated—as is the entire situation here that Enoch’s gotten himself into.

There’s a similar room on the other side of the wall, reserved for the ladies. Spinning wheels whirr, cards chafe against wool. Someone begins tuning up a bowed instrument. Not the old-fashioned viol, but (judging from its sound) a violin. Hard to believe, considering where he is. But then the musician begins to play—and instead of a Baroque minuet, it is a weird keening sort of melody—an Irish tune, unless he’s mistaken. It’s like using watered silk to make grain sacks—the Londoners would laugh until tears ran down their faces. Enoch goes and peers through the doorway
to make sure he’s not imagining it. Indeed, a girl with carrot-colored hair is playing a violin, entertaining some other women who are spinning and sewing, and the women and the music are as Irish as the day is long.

Enoch goes back to the table, shaking his head. Daniel Water-house slides a hot loggerhead into each mug, warming and thickening the drinks. Enoch sits down, takes a sip of the stuff, and decides he likes it. Even the music is beginning to grow on him.

He cannot look in any direction without seeing eyeballs just in the act of glancing away from them. Some of the other patrons actually run down the road to
other
taverns to advertise their presence here, as if Root and Waterhouse were a public entertainment. Dons and students saunter in nonchalantly, as if it’s normal to stand up in mid-pint and move along to a different establishment.

“Where’d you get the idea you were escaping from intrigue?”

Daniel ignores this, too busy glaring at the other customers.

“My father, Drake, educated me for one reason alone,” Daniel finally says. “To assist him in his preparations for the Apocalypse. He reckoned it would occur in the year 1666—Number of the Beast and all that. I was, therefore, produced in 1646—as always, Drake’s timing was carefully thought out. When I came of age, I would be a man of the cloth, with the full university education, well versed in many dead classical languages, so that I could stand on the Cliffs of Dover and personally welcome Jesus Christ back to England in fluent Aramaic. Sometimes I look about myself—” he waves his arm at the tavern “—and see the way it turned out, and wonder whether my father could possibly have been any more wrong.”

“I think this is a good place for you,” Enoch says. “Nothing here is going according to plan. The music. The furniture. It’s all contrary to expectations.”

“My father and I took in the execution of Hugh Peters—Cromwell’s chaplain—in London one day. We rode straight from that spectacle to Cambridge. Since executions are customarily held at daybreak, you see, an industrious Puritan can view one and yet get in a full day’s hard traveling and working before evening prayers. It was done with a knife. Drake wasn’t shaken at all by the sight of Brother Hugh’s intestines. It only made him that much more determined to get me into Cambridge. We went there and called upon Wilkins at Trinity College.”

“Hold, my memory fails—wasn’t Wilkins at
Oxford
? Wadham College?”

“Anno 1656 he married Robina. Cromwell’s sister.”

“
That
I remember.”

“Cromwell made him Master of Trinity College in Cambridge. But of course that was undone by the Restoration. So he only served in that post for a few months—it’s no wonder you’ve forgotten it.”

“Very well. Pardon the interruption. Drake took you up to Cambridge—?”

“And we called on Wilkins. I was fourteen. Father went off and left us alone, secure in the knowledge that this man—Cromwell’s Brother-in-Law, for God’s sake!—would lead me down the path of righteousness—perhaps explicate some Bible verses about nine-headed beasts with me, perhaps pray for Hugh Peters.”

“You did neither, I presume.”

“You must imagine a great chamber in Trinity, a gothickal stone warren, like the underbelly of some ancient cathedral, ancient tables scattered about, stained and burnt alchemically, beakers and retorts clouded with residues pungent and bright, but most of all,
the books—
brown wads stacked like cordwood—more books than I’d ever seen in one room. It was a decade or two since Wilkins had written his great
Cryptonomicon.
In the course of that project, he had, of course, gathered tomes on occult writing from all over the world, compiling all that had been known, since the time of the Ancients, about the writing of secrets. The publication of that book had brought him fame among those who study such things. Copies were known to have circulated as far as Peking, Lima, Isfahan, Shahjahanabad. Consequently more books
yet
had been sent to him, from Portuguese crypto-Kabbalists, Arabic savants skulking through the ruins and ashes of Alexandria, Parsees who secretly worship at the altar of Zoroaster, Armenian merchants who must communicate all across the world, in a kind of net-work of information, through subtle signs and symbols hidden in the margins and the ostensible text of letters so cleverly that a competitor, intercepting the message, could examine it and find nothing but trivial chatter—yet a fellow-Armenian could extract the vital
data
as easy as you or I would read a hand-bill in the street. Secret code-systems of Mandarins, too, who because of their Chinese writing cannot use cyphers as we do, but must hide messages in the position of characters on the sheet, and other means so devious that whole lifetimes must have gone into thinking of them. All of these things had come to him because of the fame of the
Cryptonomicon,
and to appreciate my position, you must understand that I’d been raised, by Drake and Knott and the others, to believe that every word and character of these books was Satanic. That, if I were
to so much as lift the cover of one of these books, and expose my eyes to the occult characters within, I’d be sucked down into Tophet just like that.”

“I can see it made quite an impression on you—”

“Wilkins let me sit in a chair for half an hour just to soak the place in. Then we began mucking about in his chambers, and set fire to a tabletop. Wilkins was reading some proofs of Boyle’s
The Skeptical Chemist—
you should read it sometime, Enoch, by the way—”

“I’m familiar with its contents.”

“Wilkins and I were idly trying to reproduce one of Boyle’s experiments when things got out of hand. Fortunately no serious damage was done. It wasn’t a serious fire, but it accomplished what Wilkins wanted it to: wrecked the mask of etiquette that Drake had set over me, and set my tongue a-run. I must have looked as if I’d gazed upon the face of God. Wilkins let slip that, if it was an actual
education
I was looking for, there was this thing down in London called Gresham’s College where he and a few of his old Oxford cronies were teaching Natural Philosophy
directly,
without years and years of tedious Classical nincompoopery as prerequisite.

“Now, I was too young to even think of being devious. Even had I practiced to be clever, I’d have had second thoughts doing it in
that
room. So I simply told Wilkins the truth: I had no interest in religion, at least as a profession, and wanted only to be a natural philosopher like Boyle or Huygens. But of course Wilkins had already discerned this. ‘Leave it in my hands,’ he said, and winked at me.

“Drake would not hear of sending me to Gresham’s, so two years later I enrolled at that old vicar-mill: Trinity College, Cambridge. Father believed that I did so in fulfillment of his plan for me. Wilkins meanwhile had come up with his own plan for my life. And so you see, Enoch, I am well accustomed to others devising hare-brained plans for how I am to live. That is why I have come to Massachusetts, and why I do not intend to leave it.”

“Your intentions are your own business. I merely ask that you read the letter,” Enoch says.

“What sudden event caused you to be sent here, Enoch? A falling-out between Sir Isaac and a young protégé?”

“Remarkable guesswork!”

“It’s no more a guess than when Halley predicted the return of the comet. Newton’s bound by his own laws. He’s been working on the second edition of the
Principia
with that young fellow, what’s-his-name…”

“Roger Cotes.”

“Promising, fresh-faced young lad, is he?”

“Fresh-faced, beyond doubt,” Enoch says, “promising, until…”

“Until he made some kind of a misstep, and Newton flew into a rage, and flung him into the Lake of Fire.”

“Apparently. Now, all that Cotes was working on—the revised
Principia Mathematica
and some kind of reconciliation with Leibniz—is ruined, or at least stopped.”

“Isaac never cast me into the Lake of Fire,” Daniel muses. “I was so young and so obviously innocent—he could never think the worst of me, as he does of everyone else.”

“Thank you for reminding me! Please.” Enoch shoves the letter across the table.

Daniel breaks the seal and hauls it open. He fishes spectacles from a pocket and holds them up to his face with one hand, as if actually fitting them over his ears would imply some sort of binding commitment. At first he locks his elbow to regard the whole letter as a work of calligraphic art, admiring its graceful loops and swirls. “Thank God it’s not written in those barbarous German letters,” he says. Finally the elbow bends, and he gets down to actually reading it.

As he nears the bottom of the first page, a transformation comes over Daniel’s face.

“As you have probably noted,” Enoch says, “the Princess, fully appreciating the hazards of a trans-Atlantic voyage, has arranged an insurance policy…”

“A posthumous bribe!” Daniel says. “The Royal Society is infested with actuaries and statisticians nowadays—drawing up tables for those swindlers at the ‘Change. You must have ‘run the numbers’ and computed the odds of a man my age surviving a voyage across the Atlantic; months or even years in that pestilential metropolis; and a journey back to Boston.”

“Daniel! We most certainly did not ‘run the numbers.’ It’s only reasonable for the Princess to insure you.”

“At this amount? This is a pension—a
legacy
—for my wife and my son.”

“Do you have a pension now, Daniel?”

“What!? Compared to this, I have nothing.” Flicking one nail angrily upon a train of zeroes inscribed in the heart of the letter.

“Then it seems as if Her Royal Highness is making a persuasive case.”

Waterhouse has just, at this instant, realized that very soon he is going to climb aboard ship and sail for London. That much can be read from his face. But he’s still an hour or two away from admitting it. They will be difficult hours for Enoch.

“Even without the insurance policy,” Enoch says, “it would be in your best interests. Natural philosophy, like war and romance, is best done by young men. Sir Isaac has not done any creative work since he had that mysterious catastrophe in ’93.”