The Fatal Tree (18 page)

“I don’t think she’s ready yet. Can we give her a little more time?”

“We don’t have a lot of other options here. She needs a doctor. The sooner, the better.”

“How are we going to get her out of the cave and up to the ley line?”

“I’ll carry her.”

“Kit, be reasonable,” Cass pleaded. “Think about it.”

“I am thinking about it!” he declared hotly. “That’s
all
I’m thinking about right now – getting us safely out of here in one piece.”

“I know that, Kit,” she replied, matching his flare of temper. “And I thank you for it, but facts are facts. Carrying her is not a real option here. And with her arm the way it is – and who knows what internal injuries she might have – she cannot make the jump. End of story.”

Kit stared at her. “What do you suggest?”

“You could go and bring someone back.”

“And what if I can’t get back to you in time? Or if I get lost, what then?” he challenged. “Things have got very unpredictable lately, if you haven’t noticed.”

Cass bit her lip. He was right.

Kit pounced on her indecision. “This is the only way. We’ll just have to make it work. Once we’re on the other side, you can look after Mina while I go for help. But we all go together.”

Cass regarded the sleeping Wilhelmina with a doubtful look. “Okay. What if we give her the day to rest and get ready? We can try the ley line this evening.”

“I don’t know.” Kit ran a hand through his hair.

“She can’t move, Kit. We can’t drag her all the way up there.”

“Okay. I hear you,” he said, relenting at last. “But we’ve got to find a way to get her in good enough shape to travel.” He followed Cass’ gaze to Mina’s inert form. “How do you propose we do that?”

“Feed her, keep her warm, give her plenty to drink. And there’s another thing we could try – willow bark.” At Kit’s raised eyebrows, she explained, “It’s a natural form of aspirin. The Native Americans used it as an anti-inflammatory and painkiller.”

“I can find a willow tree. What do you need?”

“Just some strong young branches to scrape. I can make it up as tea and get her to drink some. It could help.”

Kit nodded, glad to be doing something useful. “It’s a plan. Sit tight until I get back.”

T
he clickety-tap of the gaoler’s heavy hobnail boots in the stoneflagged corridor roused Burleigh from his morose stupor. He heard the iron key in the lock and the creak of the half-rusted door swinging open. The earl, curled up in his corner, did not raise his head when the man called his name and told him to stand. “On your feet,” the turnkey called, stepping farther into the cell.“You are wanted upstairs.”

At this Burleigh pushed himself up onto an elbow. “
Bitte?
” he said. “Pardon?”

“Get up and wash your face.”

“Why? Where are you taking me?”

“You will find out soon enough.” The turnkey took his shoulder and gave him a push to get him moving. “
Schnell!
We don’t have all day to waste.”

On the contrary, Burleigh
did
have all day to waste, but he obeyed – if only for the novelty of the request. He shambled to the water butt and dipped in his hands and splashed tepid water over his face; he smoothed down as best he could his wild, overgrown mass of hair and beard, then allowed himself to be shackled and led from his cell. He was marched along the corridor and up three flights of stairs. The climb left Burleigh breathless and weak-kneed, and slightly disoriented.

“In here,” the gaoler said, pushing him through one of the doors at the top of the stairs. The prisoner stumbled over the threshold and into the daylight blazing through the two windows overlooking the square.

Stunned, Burleigh stood blinking, half shielding his eyes with his hands, trying to get used to the brightness. The room was bereft of furniture except for a low wooden bench against the wall opposite a tall, narrow window and, between the two doors on the third wall, a large wooden desk behind which sat a man busily writing something in a great leather-bound ledger. “What is it?” intoned the man absorbed in his work.

“I have brought the prisoner you requested,” the gaoler said.

“Over there.” The man pointed with his quill at the bench. His nostrils flared with disgust at the stink as Burleigh passed by his desk. “Sit down and wait until you are called.”

The gaoler stepped back and took his place to one side of the door to forestall any attempt at escape. They waited. Burleigh, after so many months in the dark recesses of the Rathaus, was happy just to sit and allow the blessed sunlight to wash over him, bathing his light-deprived senses. After a time, the outer door opened and a skinny youth bustled in carrying a roll of paper tied with a red ribbon.

The court clerk held out his hand to receive the document and then motioned the young man away again; he loosed the knot, unrolled the document, and read for a moment. Then, apparently satisfied that all was in order, he pushed back his chair and turned to the door behind him; he gave a single knock and stepped inside, reappearing a moment later. “Come,” he said. “The magistrate will see you now.”

Burleigh was hauled to his feet, his shackles were removed, and he was pushed toward the inner office. He shuffled into a large book-lined room and was brought to stand before an expansive leather-topped desk occupied by a sharp-featured man in a curly black wig and a stiff-starched white collar tight around his thin neck. The man did not deign to acknowledge his visitor’s presence.

“Herr Magistrate,” intoned the clerk after a moment. “The prisoner you requested is presented.”

“Name,” the magistrate said without raising his eyes from the papers spread out before him. When Burleigh did not reply quickly enough, he glanced up. “State your name for the records.”

“Burleigh,” the earl said, his voice a raspy croak. “Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland.” The title sounded ridiculous in the circumstances, even to him. The magistrate glanced up sharply and cast a critical eye over him as if to ascertain the truth of this assertion, then shrugged and, dipping his pen, entered a line on the paper.

Chief Magistrate Richter waved a narrow hand at a corner of the room. “Is this the man who assaulted you?”

Burleigh glanced around to see Engelbert Stiffelbeam standing behind him. He had not noticed anyone else in the room. “This is the man, yes,” replied Etzel.

Herr Richter nodded slowly and returned to his papers. After a moment, he said, “And is it your intention to have the charges levied against this prisoner set aside and dismissed?”

“That is my intention,” said Etzel evenly. “I wish to have him released.”

“You make this declaration under your own volition and of your own free will?”

“I do, yes, Chief Magistrate.”

“No one has paid you to do this, or promised you anything of material value, or threatened you in any way in order to persuade you to make this request?”

“No, Herr Magistrate, no one has given me anything. Nor has anyone promised me anything or threatened me. I do this because Jesus has commanded us all to forgive those who have sinned against us.”

The magistrate gave a little snort, whether of agreement or annoyance, Burleigh could not tell. Herr Richter, Chief Magistrate of Prague, dipped his pen again and made a note on his paper. Then, replacing the pen, he folded his hands and looked up into the prisoner’s face. “These charges are hereby answered. Time served in prison shall be considered just and sufficient punishment for the aforementioned crime. Therefore, it is the decision of this office that the prisoner will be released from captivity pending further charges arising from matters relating to subversion of authority and interference with the lawful work of His Majesty’s court.”

Burleigh heard the words “released from captivity” and his heart lurched in his chest. But before hope took flight, the sternfaced official continued; pointing at Burleigh with his pen, he said, “You are hereby released on the provision that you remain in the city until all legal proceedings are concluded.”

“I am to be released?” said the earl, unable to trust what he had heard. “But where am I to go?”

“That is none of my concern,” replied the magistrate sternly. “So long as you remain within the city walls, you can go where you like.”

“My purse, my money – it was taken from me when I was brought here. I will need it.”

“Any property you may have possessed is forfeit to the crown until any and all matters arising from any and all cases against you shall be adjudicated,” the magistrate intoned curtly. “That is the law.” He looked hard at Burleigh. “If you have no money, you can be declared a destitute and charges of vagrancy can be brought against you.”

“If my purse is forfeit, how am I to pay my way?”

“That is not the concern of this office.”

Burleigh stared at the man. “So then… ?”

“You will be returned to gaol to await further legal proceedings. Is that your desire?”

“He can stay with me.” Engelbert moved to stand beside the earl. “I am sorry,” he told Burleigh, “I meant to say this before.” To the magistrate, he said, “If you please, sir, he will stay with me and work in my kaffeehaus to earn his keep. He will not become a vagrant.”

“See that he does not,” replied Herr Richter. “I agree to release him to your care on the condition that you stand surety for him until judgement is rendered. You are responsible for his upkeep and must see that he fulfils all his obligations. His debts and trespasses become your debts and trespasses – understood?”

Etzel looked at Burleigh as if judging the worth of a sack of flour. “I understand, Chief Magistrate.”

Herr Richter reached for the little brass bell at the corner of his great desk and gave it a shake. Pavel, the clerk, appeared momentarily and took his place beside the magistrate, who said, “These men have agreed to the conditions and stipulations of the court; see that they sign the appropriate documents.”

Turning once more to the former prisoner, the magistrate gave his head a slight shake – as if he still could not decide what to think about all this – then sighed and, pushing back his throne of a chair, stood up to deliver his provisional verdict.

“Under the conditions just specified and agreed,” said the high official, “I hereby authorise the release of the prisoner to the care and custody of Engelbert Stiffelbeam, baker in this city, until such time as the court shall summon Archelaeus Burleigh to receive the judgement of this court regarding all remaining charges against him.”

Burleigh, not quite believing what had just happened, looked around at the still-open door behind him. “I am free to go?”

“You are free” – the magistrate thrust a finger at the document now in his clerk’s hands – “providing you obey the agreed stipulations and conditions.”

“I can go now?”

Nodding, Herr Richter said, “There are papers to sign. The clerk will see you out.”

Not twenty minutes later, the earl emerged from the shadow of the Rathaus into the glorious light of a splendid midsummner afternoon. He paused to breathe the clean, fresh, sun-washed air and the warmth of the gentle rays on his pallid skin. It felt like tiny electric fingers dancing all over him, and he closed his eyes to savour the feeling and marvel that he had never felt anything so wonderful in all his life.

T
hat first day of freedom and light after so many months in the dim, noisome dungeon cell was intoxicating, and Burleigh wandered the city streets in a daze. Unaware of the effect of his wan and dishevelled appearance on the respectable citizens of Prague, he roamed the busy thoroughfares, lost to the world and lost to himself in the random chaos of his thoughts.The sun had long since set and shadows claimed the streets when he at last turned his feet toward the Old Town Square and the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus to find Engelbert putting up the shutters for the day. “
Guten Abend
,” Etzel called when he saw Burleigh strolling up. “Have you had a good walk?”

Burleigh regarded the baker with an empty, uncomprehending stare, then mumbled, “I shall go out again tomorrow.”

Etzel smiled and nodded. “I would do the same. And tomorrow you must buy some new clothes and get a haircut too, I think.” He rubbed his hand over his own round head. “Yes, I think so.”

Burleigh looked down at his ragged clothes and rotten shoes and what he saw struck him as indescribably funny. He threw back his head and laughed, his voice pattering across the swiftly emptying square. The few passersby who heard him stole anxious glances in his direction before hurrying on. “You might be right,” Burleigh admitted and, still laughing, went inside and up to the room Engelbert had prepared for him.

That night, Burleigh and Engelbert dined together in the kitchen of the Grand Imperial; they were served by some of the younger staff and kitchen helpers who then joined them at table. It was simple, satisfying food of wurst and cabbage, fresh bread and butter and beer; and Burleigh ate, chewing his food with the grim determination of a stoic under torture. After the meal, exhausted by the turns of the day, the earl took a candle from the table and went up to bed. Closing the door behind him, he stood for some time gazing blankly around the room – at the solid oak bed with its clean white linens and down-filled pillow, the little table and basin of fresh water, the chair at the foot of the bed, and the rug on the floor.

“You knew I would be released?” he had asked Etzel when first shown the room. “You never doubted?”

“The magistrate is a reasonable man,” Engelbert had told him. “And reasonable men cannot remain unreasonable forever.”

With these words echoing in his mind, the earl slowly came to himself once more. He crossed the floor and placed the candle on the table. He then shed his clothes, washed in the basin, and donned the oversized nightshirt Etzel had laid out for him. He slipped between the cool, fresh sheets and immediately fell asleep. The moment he closed his eyes on that eventful day, perhaps that is when those innocent words began their work; perhaps that is when ferment began.

Though the sleeper passed the first hours of the night in blissful repose, in the small hours before dawn he grew agitated and restless and, at last, wakeful. He opened his eyes, and panic descended upon him like a sodden blanket. One moment he was at rest in peaceful slumber, and the next he was wide-awake and staring into the darkness as into the abyss. When he could endure that no longer, he threw back the blankets and rose to pace the boards in the pale, silvery moonlight seeping through the shutters.

His mind was a confusion of half-formed thoughts and words and voices and he knew not what – all churning and sliding, emerging and fading… only to materialise again before shading into other yet more outlandish fragments. He could not seem to hold on to any thought or idea for more than a mere second or two before it was snatched away and replaced by another equally short-lived scrap of mental detritus. Perhaps it was the darkness, or being shut up in a room after so many months in an underground cell, but whatever the reason, Burleigh could not remain still any longer. Pulling on his ratty coat and stuffing his bare feet into his shoes, he reached for the doorknob and, pausing to take a breath, twisted it and threw open the door – half expecting to be met by the gaoler. There was no one waiting for him, however. Burleigh stepped out onto the landing and stopped to listen. The house was quiet; all was at peace and rest.

Stealthy as a shadow, Burleigh crept to the next room and opened the door. Moonlight from a half-open shutter bathed the form of Engelbert, asleep in his eiderdown bed, his head cradled in the crook of his arm. The earl saw the sleeping man and stared as if at an apparition, or the luminous vision of a saint, an angel made flesh: innocent, trusting, beyond the vulgar cares of the world. The sight of the virtuous Engelbert produced an instant and violent reaction in Burleigh. Such holy and blameless virtue must not be allowed to live in this world unscathed; it must be punished, eradicated, obliterated, destroyed.

This was not a thought that crossed the earl’s rational mind: it was a visceral reaction, a raw emotion untamed by any process of reason. Burleigh saw Engelbert upon the bed, the soft silver moonlight bathing his benign features, and a terrible rage and loathing gushed up inside him, sweeping away any last vestige of coherent thought.

Two silent steps brought him into the room. Three more carried him to the bed where he stood, looming over the tranquil figure – so defenceless, oblivious to all harm, sunk deep in the untroubled slumber of a righteous man, the whisper of a smile on his broad, cheerful face. The urge to smash that face, to crush that skull, to deform and debase those inoffensive, good-natured features seized him, and Burleigh felt a thrill of pleasure ripple up his spine to the top of his head. Here would be recompense for the suffering he had endured; here would be sweet, satisfying revenge.

Burleigh clenched his fists into hate-filled clubs and his lips tightened in a grimace of primal rage. He raised a hand to strike, savouring the moment of release, and… the moment passed, and then another, and still he did not strike. He wanted nothing more than to demolish that gentle cherubic face – but wait! He had already done that!

Once before, all those months ago, unrestrained by any will or authority other than his own, he had completely given in to that urge and had struck; he had reduced that benevolent visage to a sodden mass of bruised and bloody tissue, and what happened? What had happened, indeed? Here was the same face – more winsome, more pleasant than ever – while his own handsome features had grown haggard and grey and ravaged by a short eternity in prison. But that was not the worst – far from it!

In a flash of insight, Burleigh glimpsed the barrenness of his own existence; his heart was an immense, hollow cavity that could never be filled. The mere sight of Engelbert threw his lack into painfully sharp relief. In that instant, he understood that the paucity of his own life could not abide the rich fullness enjoyed by a simple, good man like Engelbert. Those two things could not exist in the same world: one of them would have to go. And since he was powerless to do away with Engelbert – he knew that now – it was himself that must be eliminated.

Burleigh saw this clearly, and the sight was marvellous to behold. It was as if he had been walking through life with his eyes swathed in burlap, and now the binding strips had been stripped away. Instantly, he understood how the man born blind felt when the physician removed the surgical bandages and glorious light suddenly flooded into his dark world. He was that man.

“I see it now!” he murmured, his breath catching in his throat. “I see.”

Up from the bottomless pit of loathing rushed a flood of disgust and revulsion – disgust for the vicious, venomous wickedness of his life, and revulsion for the depravity of his existence. He had given himself wholly to the unstinting pursuit of ruthless ambition and unrestrained greed, where every kindness had been either shunned or abused, and every good encountered returned with evil. He was a liar, a cheat, and a fake – even his name was a deceit! His entire life was one monumental fraud.

With his new clarity of vision, Burleigh saw himself as a poor, crabbed, miserable creature, with a soul as tiny, black, and hard as a burnt-out cinder. In the blinding flash of revelation, guilt came crashing down on him with the deadweight of all his crimes and transgressions; heavy as a tombstone slammed onto his shoulders, he staggered beneath the crushing burden of his guilt. He could not stand.

Beside the bed of his saving angel whose face shone so brightly and serenely in the moonlight, Burleigh sank to his knees and felt the limitless disgrace of the wretch who knows himself to be lost and doomed, fit only for well-deserved destruction. Dry-eyed – beyond sorrow, beyond remorse – for with sins and iniquities beyond counting, what would a few salty tears avail? Instead, he beat his breast with a fist clenched like a rock and his face burned hot with shame.

The shame! The shame was devastating, more distressing than anything he had endured in prison, greater even than the guilt that bent his back, greater than he could bear. “God!” he moaned. “Please, God, please.”

The words escaped his lips before he knew what he said, or even what he expected God to do for him. What did he expect of God?

Instantly, words came back to taunt him. His words, spoken to another blameless soul he meant to destroy, spoken with spite and spleen, and with supreme certainty:
There is no God! There is only chaos, chance, and the immutable laws of nature. In this world – as in all others – there is only the survival of the fittest.

The arrogance of those words appalled him. The insufferable vanity stole the very breath from his lungs. The wilful, pig-ignorant folly of that proclamation and the ghastly conviction with which it had been declared astounded and unnerved him. How could he have been so stupid, so absurd, so utterly, abysmally, unspeakably mindless? How could he have been so wrong? Prancing around like a bell-hung fool, spouting incoherent nonsense as if it were unassailable truth… How could that have happened? How was it possible to be so deluded, and deluded so absolutely?

Burleigh had no answer; he had only the abject humiliation of the realisation that much of what he previously thought and held to be true was a pile of stinking garbage. He realised that now, and knew just how very wrong he had been. Bereft of hope, he knew himself for the vile and wicked creature he was, and the knowledge pierced deep and hard in a stroke that left him desolate, demeaned, and broken. Like an insect first dazzled by the flame, then destroyed by it, Burleigh felt the searing heat of his destruction and, past the point of no return, reeled toward it.

Down the stairs and into the kitchen he went – he did not even remember leaving Etzel’s room. Two of the young serving boys were curled up on the floor near the big oven; otherwise the shop was empty. A hollowed-out automaton, an animated shell of a human being, the earl walked out the kaffeehaus door and into the night. He thought – if it could be called a thought, for it was more of a compulsion – that he would end the madness. He would walk to the river and throw himself into the water and rid the world of his empty, meaningless existence.

The Old Town Square was deserted; there was no one about this time of night. Burleigh was alone with his agony as he stole along the moonlit streets, hastening toward the city gates and the river where he would consign himself to the unforgiving water and put an end to the misery. How he would open those barred gates, he did not know. His was not a rational plan; there was no plan, no thought – there was only the bedrock conviction that the world would be a far better place without him in it.