The Bone Clocks (63 page)

“
I
saw that! Where’s it from?”

I look at Arkady, who shrugs slightly in reply. “It’s what the icon of the Blind Cathar does, shortly before it decants a soul.”

Holly addresses me with a fresh urgency. “Listen. The weekend Jacko went missing. That dot-to-eye on a forehead thing. I—I—I had a—a daymare in an underpass, near Rochester. I left it out of
The Radio People
, it just read like a bad description of an acid trip. But it happened.”

Arkady subasks me,
What if Xi Lo was cording images to her during the First Mission?

Why keep that from us?
I hunt for a better idea
. What if Jacko and Holly were already corded, as two psychosoteric siblings?

Arkady’s biting his thumb knuckle, a habit from his last life
. Possibly. The cord’s remnants may have led Esther to Holly as you fled the Chapel. Like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.

“ ’Scuse me,” Holly’s saying, “but I
am
still here. What’s Jacko got to do with this medieval monk and a Napoleonic engineer?”

The candle flame in its stained-glass jar is tall and still.

“The Blind Cathar and the engineer talked,” I say, “and agreed upon a covenant, a pact of mutual assistance. We can’t be sure—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. This monk had been in his Chapel of the Dusk for, what, six hundred years? Now he’s inviting up visitors and making deals. What’s he been eating since the Middle Ages?”

“Naturally, the Blind Cathar had transubstantiated,” I explain.

Holly leans back. “Is transwhateveritis even a word?”

“The Blind Cathar’s body had died,” says Arkady, “but his mind and soul—which, for the purposes of our chat, are the same—had entered into the fabric of the Chapel. The Blind Cathar interfaced with Pfenninger via the icon.”

Holly considers this. “So the builder became the building?”

“After a fashion,” Arkady replies. “You could say so.”

“The bridge and the garrison at the Sidelhorn Pass were finished ahead of winter,” I pick up the thread, “and Baptiste Pfenninger returned to his family in Martigny. But the following spring he went on a fishing trip up to Lake d’Emosson, where, one evening, he took a boat onto the water. The boat was found, the body never was.”

“I get it,” Holly says. “The same as Hugo Lamb.”

Rain is softly muttering at 119A’s windows. “Jump forward six
years to 1805. A new orphanage opened its doors in the Marais district of Paris. Its founder and director was a sturdy Frenchman called Martin Leclerc, whose father had amassed a colonial fortune in Africa, and who now wished to give sustenance, shelter, and scripture to the capital’s war orphans. 1805 was a bad time to be a foreigner in Paris, and Leclerc’s French had a Germanic slant, but his friends attributed his foreignness to a Prussian mother and a Hamburg education. These same friends, many of whom were the cream of imperial society, did not know that Martin Leclerc’s real name was Baptiste Pfenninger. One imagines the accusations of insanity that would have greeted the idea that Leclerc had set up his orphanage to source and groom Engifted children. That is, children who showed evidence of psychosoteric voltage or an active chakra-eye.”

Holly looks at Arkady, who narrows his eyes like a pondering interpreter. “Psychic gifts. Like you, aged seven.”

“Why would a … a Swiss engineer, who faked his own death and is now a French orphanage owner—right?—want psychic children?”

Arkady says, “The Anchorites fuel their atemporality by feeding on souls, as Marinus said. But not just any old soul will do; only the souls of the Engifted can be decanted. Like organ donation, where only one in a thousand is a compatible match. Around every equinox and solstice, the soul’s owner has to be lured up the Way of Stones into the Chapel. Once there, the hapless visitor stares at the icon of the Blind Cathar, who then decants the visitor’s soul into Black Wine. The body is disposed of through a Chapel window, and the Twelve Anchorites assemble at a ritual known as a Rebirthday where they drink the Black Wine, and for a season—three months or so—no cellular subdivision occurs in their bodies. Which is why Hugo Lamb’s body has remained in its midtwenties state, while his mind and soul are over fifty years old.”

Holly suspends judgment, for now. “Why’s Pfenninger now in Paris when you get to the ‘Chapel’ via a ruined Swiss monastery?”

“Any Anchorite can summon the Aperture anywhere.” Arkady
lowers his palm over the candle flame. “And open it anywhere, too, from the inside. The Aperture’s why this War’s gone on for 160 years. For all intents and purposes the Anchorites are able to teleport themselves from place to place. It’s both the ultimate getaway car and a method of surprise attack.”

Holly’s voice cracks as she realizes something: “Miss Constantin?”

“Immaculée Constantin is Pfenninger’s deputy. We don’t know why the First Anchorite recruited her as the Second, but she was the governess of the girls’ wing of the Marais orphanage. No less a personage than Talleyrand referred to Madame Constantin as ‘a Sword-wielding Seraphim in a Woman’s Form.’ Eighteen decades pass and we find her in Gravesend, grooming Holly Sykes. She made a rare error in your case, however, by spooking you, so that one of my ex-students brought you to my attention. I inoculated you by draining off your psychosoteric voltage and rendering you unfit for Black Wine. Miss Constantin was annoyed, of course, and although she never forgot Holly Sykes or her promising brother Jacko, she moved on.”

“The arithmetic keeps them busy,” says Arkady. “The Anchorites keep their numbers to twelve, so each individual member must source a decantible guest once every three years. Their prey can’t be drugged, bagged, and dragged up to the Chapel. Anchorites must befriend their prey, like Constantin befriended you. If the prey isn’t conscious and calm during decanting, the Black Wine’s tainted. It’s a delicate vintage.”

The figures in the painting watch us. The stories they could tell.

“Am I to understand,” Holly gathers her strength, “that Miss Constantin and the Anchorites abducted Jacko and … drank his soul? Is this what you’re really saying?”

The clock’s tick is either loud or quiet, depending.

“The thing about Jacko is …” I close my eyes and subsay
Wish me luck
to Arkady, “… he was one of us.”

Maybe it’s thunder somewhere, or maybe a garbage truck.

“Jacko was my brother.” Holly speaks slowly. “He was seven.”

“His body was seven,” says Arkady. “But his body was the vehicle for the soul of Xi Lo, an Horologist. Xi Lo was much,
much
older.”

Holly’s shaking her head, wrestling with this outrage.

I ask, “Remember when Jacko had meningitis, when he was five?”

“Of course I do. He damn nearly died.”

The only way is on. “Ms. Sykes, Jacko
did
die that day.”

This is an affront, a trampling, and Holly’s at breaking point. “
Er
, sorry—but he bloody didn’t die! I was bloody there!”

There’s no way to make this easier. “Jack Martin Sykes’s soul left his body at two twenty-three
A.M.
on the sixteenth of October, 1981. By two twenty-four, the soul of Xi Lo, the oldest and best of Horologists, was in possession of your brother’s body. Even as your father was yelling for a medic, Jacko’s body was out of danger. But Jacko’s soul was crossing the Dusk.”

Ominous silence. “So …” Holly’s nostrils dilate, “… my little brother’s a zombie, you’re saying?”

“Jacko
was
Jacko’s body,” says Arkady, “with Jacko’s habits of mind, but with Xi Lo’s soul and memories.”

She shudders, lost. “Why
say
such a thing?”

“Good question,” says Arkady. “Why would we, if it wasn’t true?”

Holly stands up and her chair topples backwards. “It usually comes down to an attempt to get money.”

“Horology was founded in 1598,” Arkady says aloofly. “We’ve made a few investments down the years. Your nest eggs are safe.”

Behave
, I suborder Arkady. “Consider Jacko’s oddities,” I ask Holly. “Why would a British boy listen to Chinese radio?”

“Because … Jacko found it soothing.”

“Mandarin was Xi Lo’s mother tongue,” I explain.

“
English
was Jacko’s mother tongue! My mum was his mum! The Captain Marlow was his home. His family’s us. We loved him. We still do.” Holly’s blinking back tears. “Even today.”

“And Xi Lo–in–Jack loved you too,” I say gently. “Very much. He even loved Newky, the smelliest dog in Kent. None of that love
was a lie. But none of what we’re telling is a lie, either. Xi Lo’s soul was older than your pub. Older than England. Older than Christianity.”

Holly’s heard enough. She picks up the knocked-over chair. “My plane flies back to Dublin this afternoon, and I’ll be on it. As you spoke, there were … bits I believed, bits I can’t. A lot of it, I just don’t know. The dreamseeding stuff was incredible. But … it’s taken me so long to stop blaming myself for Jacko, and you’re ripping that scar tissue off.” She puts on her coat. “I lead a quiet life with books and cats in the west of Ireland. Little, local, normal stuff. The Holly Sykes who wrote
The Radio People
, she
might’ve
believed in your Atemporals, in your magic monks, but I’m not her anymore. If you are Marinus, good luck with … whatever.” Holly retrieves her handbag, puts the green key on the table, and goes to the door. “Goodbye. I’m off.”

Shall I suasion her to stay?
subasks Arkady.

If her cooperation is coerced, it’s not cooperation
.

“We understand,” I tell Holly. “Thanks for visiting.”

Arkady subreminds me,
What about Esther?

Too much, too fast, too soon. Say something nice.

“Sorry I was rude,” says Arkady. “Growing pains.”

Holly says, “Tell Batman’s butler goodbye.”

“I will,” I answer, “and au revoir, Ms. Sykes.”

Holly has closed the door.
By now the Anchorites’ll know she’s here
, substates Arkady.
Shall we have Ōshima shadow her?

I’m unconvinced.
Pfenninger won’t abort his meticulous plans on a premature strike.

If they suspect that Esther Little is walled up inside Holly’s head
, Arkady’s fingers make a gun,
they’ll strike all right, and hard
.

I drink cooled tea, trying to see this morning from the Anchorites’ view.
How could they know that Esther’s in Holly?

They can’t know for sure
. Arkady cleans his glasses on the sleeve of his Nehru shirt.
But they could guess, and off her to be safe
.

“ ‘Off her’? Too many gangster films, Arkady.” My device trills. The screen reads
PRIVATE CALLER
and I intuit it’s bad news even
before I hear Elijah D’Arnoq: “Thank God, Marinus. It’s me, D’Arnoq. Look, I just found out: Constantin dispatched a cell to abduct and scansion Holly Sykes. It won’t be consensual. Stop them.”

The words sink in. “When?”

“Right now,” answers D’Arnoq.

“Where?” I ask.

“Probably at her hotel. Hurry.”

Ō
SHIMA
’
S WAITING ACROSS
the road as I emerge, his collar up and his rain-spotted porkpie hat angled low. He points with a jerk of his head in the Park Avenue direction, subsaying,
I guess we failed the interview
.

I recognize Holly from behind by her long black coat and head-wrap.
My fault. I told her that Jacko was older than Jesus
. I step aside for a skateboarder.
More urgently, D’Arnoq was just in touch
, I subreply,
to say that a cell has been sent to pick her up for scansioning
. I put up my rainbow umbrella as a shield and we set off, Ōshima matching my pace and position on the south side of the street, me on the north.

Remind me
, subsays Ōshima,
why we don’t just suasion her into a nice deep sleep and then go in subhollering for Esther?

One, it’s against the Codex. Two, she
is
chakra-latent, so she may react badly to scansion and redact her own memories, unraveling anyone who is in residence. Three … Well, that’s enough for now. But we’ll need her goodwill, and should only suasion her as a last resort.

The green man flashes as Holly reaches Park Avenue, so Ōshima and I rush, dodge traffic, and get honked at to avoid being stranded on the island in the middle. We lengthen our strides and get to within twenty paces of Holly. Ōshima asks,
Do we have a strategy here, Marinus, or are we just following her like a pair of stalkers?

Between here and her hotel, let’s just secure her some head space to let her consider what she’s just learned.
New leaves and old trees drip, gutters slosh, drains gargle.
With luck, the park will work its
magic on her. If not, we may have to use ours
. A doorman peers up at the rain from under an awning. We reach Madison, where Holly waits in the drizzle while I stand in the doorway of a boutique, watching that dog walker, those Hasidic Jews, the Arab-looking businessman over there. A couple of cabs slow down, hoping to lure a fare, but Holly is gazing into the small green rectangle of Central Park at the far end of the block. Her mind must be in turmoil. To write a memoir in which psychic events irrupt occasionally is one thing, but for psychic events to dreamseed you, serve you Irish tea, and spin you a whole cosmology, that’s another. Maybe Ōshima’s right; maybe I should suasion her back to 119A. A metalife of 1,400 years is no guarantee that you always know the right thing to do.

DON
’
T WALK
turns to
WALK
and I miss my chance. Crossing Madison, I taste paranoia, and glance at people in the waiting vehicles, half expecting to see Pfenninger or Constantin staring back with hunters’ eyes. The last block to the park is busier with foot traffic so I’m even jumpier. Is that iShaded jogger with the baby stroller really a jogger? Didn’t that curtain twitch as Holly passed by? Why would a young surveyor with his tripod watch a gaunt woman in her fifties so closely? He eyes me up as well, so maybe he’s just not fussy. Ōshima keeps pace on the pavement opposite, blending into the morning bustle far better than me. We pass Saint James’s Church, whose red-brick steeple once towered above this rural neighborhood of Manhattan. Yu Leon Marinus attended a wedding here in 1968. The bride and groom will be in their eighties now, if they’re still alive.