The Bone Magician (5 page)

Sybil lay on a plump cream cushion on the table. Beneath the cushion a black velvet cloth hung to the floor where it sat
in soft folds. She was wearing a white foot-length gown knotted at the feet and pulled tightly around the neck. A scarlet embroidered sash was loose around the waist, and pinned to her left shoulder was a delicate glittering brooch in the shape of a
butterfly. Her hands were clasped across her chest and she wore three rings on each hand. Her long dark hair was arranged to frame her pale face and her head rested on a tasselled velvet pillow. Her eyes were closed, her long eyelashes brushing her
cheeks, and her lips were red. There was no evidence of the parallel depressions across her body made by the cart wheels that had so
cruelly ended her short life. Mr Gaufridus prided himself on the peaceful look he
achieved on the faces of his customers. He loved nothing better than to hear the words ‘She looks as if she is asleep’ (even though, of course, he had made rigorous checks to ensure that this was not the case).

He was rarely disappointed. Those were in fact the very words the poor girl’s family had uttered only two days ago when they saw
her. Her mother had burst into tears yet again and all the while her father paced the small room, cursing the carriage that had run her over. He cursed even louder a certain youth, a Mr Henry Belding, who had by some trickery managed to woo their
daughter and entice her over to his side, the south side. Mr Gaufridus had watched all this with an unchanging expression and a gentle consolatory murmur whenever he deemed necessary.

‘How could it happen?’ wailed her mother again and again. ‘My darling Sybil. So well brought up and yet she falls for
such an unsuitable lad. His father was a crossing sweeper, his mother a gin seller. The shame!’

‘Indeed,’ murmured Mr Gaufridus. ‘I cannot imagine the distress it must have caused you. At least now you may
take comfort from the fact that she is in a better place than with the son of a crossing sweeper.’

Sybil’s mother looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but Mr Gaufridus was giving nothing away. Facial paralysis could be
advantageous in his line of work.

Pin stood at the table and looked at the girl’s peaceful face. The air was cool and he could smell the familiar aroma of death. It
wasn’t unpleasant; in fact the smells that Pin most associated with death were not human at all but the undertaker’s herbal ointments used to preserve the skin. Pin was not a sentimental boy. In a city such as Urbs Umida, life was a gamble
and death was a daily occurrence. It was an interesting equation: as you grew older your chances of living longer increased. If you could get past two years, then you had a good chance of making it to ten. If you could get through to fifteen, then there
was a distinct possibility that you would make it into your twenties. And if you reached thirty, well, then old age was virtually guaranteed (old age commencing at forty and ending at forty-five).

Tentatively Pin reached out and touched the girl’s hand; it was as cold as he imagined the deepest parts of the Foedus to be. She
was young, no more than seventeen, and
it saddened him. He was minded of a line or two he had seen on a tombstone:

Those who die in the bloom of youth

Take beauty with them to heaven’s gate

Pin settled down on the bench. Sitting alone in the dark and chilly room his thoughts turned again to his father, as they
did most long nights. The whole Uncle Fabian business was a mystery. He knew what everyone thought, but he couldn’t believe it of his father. And he wouldn’t unless he heard it from the man’s own mouth. Murderer? It couldn’t be.
Yes, it looked bad for Oscar Carpue. There was no denying the dead body left in his wake. But there was no proof. Only the locals, and Coggley, putting two and two together when half of them couldn’t add up. Pin had added it all up again and again
and he reached the same conclusion every time. His father was innocent. But there was one little nagging fact. If that was the case, then why didn’t Oscar Carpue come back?

‘I shall think on it no more,’ he declared resolutely, and lay down on the bench with his hands under his
head and tried to empty his mind of troublesome thoughts.

When I first began to keep this journal, at my mother’s suggestion, I had not thought that I should ever make such a
strange entry as this – to relate the events of that night with Sybil in the Cella Moribundi. I could see from where I lay on the bench that my unexpected companions were three in number, of varying heights, all dressed in dark clothing, two
hooded, one hatted. They were not watching me so I decided to risk a third inhalation of the Foedus water. Just as I grasped the bottle the young man at the table spoke.

Are you sure he‘ ’s all right, Mr Pantagus?’

‘Don’t you worry, Mr Belding,’ came the reply, and I saw the older man give the frightened fellow a
reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘The boy will be fine. Might have a headache later on, but that’s it . He’ll put it down to experience.’

Mr Belding, a youth of perhaps eighteen summers, seemed satisfied with this explanation. Besides, he had other interests that were more
important than his concern for me. He turned back to the table and took the dead girl’s hand.

‘Poor darling Sybil, she’s so cold.’ He sounded surprised .

‘What did you expect?’ muttered the girl, and I detected a nervousness in her voice. Mr Pantagus looked over at her and smiled
benignly. ‘Just relax, Juno,’ he said.

‘It won’t be long.’

I watched as Juno pulled at a thin string around her neck, but whatever was at the end of it I couldn’t see for she cradled it in her
palm. Then she ran her finger under her nose leaving a smear, of some sort of unguent I supposed, across her philtrum. It shone softly in the candlelight From the shine on Mr Pantagus’s upper lip I deduced that he had done the same thing.

‘What’s that?’ asked Mr Belding. ‘Do I need some?’

Juno shook her head and motioned to him to be quiet.

In her right hand she held a delicate peardrop bottle on a silver chain. She began to circle the room slowly, swinging the
bottle back and forth, back and forth in a slow mesmerizing motion. As she passed, a smell as sweet as my own phial of Foedus water was acrid, and easily as powerful, drifted across to me. I inhaled it deeply, involuntarily. She continued on her way and
when she reached Mr Belding she stood behind him for a few seconds As soon as he took in the perfume he began to cough and sneeze.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a panic.

‘It’s merely a summoning potion,’ she said soothingly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘it’s just I’ve never done anything like this before ’

‘Well, we have,’ said Juno gently. And we must get on‘ ’

Gradually the whole room was suffused with the highly potent aroma. I watched intently through narrowed eyes as the girl took up a position
beside Mr Pantagus at the head of the body. Beneath her ho od her pale skin was luminous in the candlelight. Mr Belding waited anxiously at Sybil’s side.

Mr Pantagus reached into his cloak and pulled out a
small drawstring bag He loosened the tie and brought
forth a handful of dried herbs which he spread around the corpse’s head, muttering audibly but unintelligibly as he did so. Then he reached into the bag again to withdraw a small pile of brown sticks. He crumbled them quickly between his fingers
and scattered the powder along the length of the body. Some of the scents I knew – cinnamon and anise – but others were foreign to me.

Next he produced a wide-necked jar from up his billowing sleeve. He dipped his fingers into the dark liquid and flicked it about the room.
The air thickened with the smell of artemisia and myrrh. By now I was reeling, even as I lay, from this aromatic assault on my senses. Young Mr Belding, who seemed almost insensible with nerves and the heady aroma, watched the proceedings
open-mouthed, and all the while Juno stood back gently swinging the peardrop bottle.

Without warning, and with dramatic effect, Mr Pantagus clapped his hands sharply. Even my dulled heart started at the sudden noise. Then he
laid his hands on the dead girl’s forehead, threw back his head and began to speak from beneath his dark hood.

‘I call upon you, Hades! Lord of the lower regions! Master of the shades of the dead!’

His sombre tones sent a shiver up my spine and I trembled. Mr Pantagus continued his exhortation
.

And your patient queen, Persephone, mistress of the‘ seasons. Hear me, hear me now, and grant my request. Render unto us, for one
brief moment, the very soul of this dead girl and allow this man to speak once more to his beloved.’

His words hung on the chill air. Nothing happened. Then Mr Belding gasped and took a step backwards. And I too would have gasped had I been
able, for Sybil, until now lifeless as a stone, began to stir.

A shudder went through Sybil’s body from head to toe and she emitted a long whining groan. It made me want to cover my ears, but it
would have been better had I covered my eyes. To my horror and astonishment the dead girl’s eyelids flickered and opened. She turned her head towards Mr Belding and a smile spread slowly across her face. I blinked hard. Could this really be
happening? I watched, fascinated and disbelieving, but I cannot deny that what I saw felt very real.

Mr Belding, with tears in his eyes, leaned over and spoke with incredulous surprise. ‘My dearest Sybil, is it you? Is
it really you?’

‘Yes, Henry,’ whispered the girl in a strangely husky voice. ‘It is I, your Sybil. Speak quickly, my sweet, we
haven’t much time.’

The youth looked at Juno, who nodded to encourage him, and then he fell to his knees, his head resting on the table, and began to sob
.

‘You must forgive me,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘My last words were so cruel, spoken in anger. I cannot tell you how
much I regret them. And before I could say sorry, that cart . . . you . . . you . . .’ He faltered, brimming with emotion, then finished, ‘. . . were run over like a stray dog in the road
.’ With an
overwhelming sob he threw his arms across the body, his chest heaving and his shoulders shaking. He remained thus for some moments until Juno gave him a gentle nudge. ‘We do not have much time,’ she whispered.

Mr Belding attempted to regain his composure. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and smoothed his hair down on his head. He spoke
haltingly.

‘I’m sorry, Sybil,
for saying those things I did. Please do not leave me to regret my harsh words for the rest
of my life. I beg of you, tell me that you forgive me.’

I had not thought it possible for a three-day-old corpse to smile warmly, but Sybil, as deeply moved by this entreaty as I was, did just
that. She reached up to touch her poor Henry on the cheek.

‘I forgive you,’ she said and then lay back on the cushion. The young man was once again in the throes of uncontrollable
weeping and Mr Pantagus threw a rather concerned look at Juno. She pulled gently at Mr Belding’s sle eve.

‘It is over, we must go,’ she said quietly yet firmly. ‘It is foolhardy to stay any longer. If we are
found—’

‘Of course,’ he said and hiccuped.

Mr Pantagus opened the door and fresh cold air rushed in. Juno pushed Mr Belding towards Mr Pantagus, who pulled him through the door. She
made as if to follow but suddenly stopped in her tracks, crossed over to the bench and stared right into my unblinking eyes. She was so close I could see an eyelash on her cheek. She smelt of juniper, I remember, but then she was gone.