The Society of Thirteen (22 page)

Chapter 67

As Tom's vision returned he could make out Mondriat staggering over the sleepers. Closer by, Olwyn and Kiyaya were standing in front of Esther. Tom wanted to go to her but he wasn't strong enough to get up.

‘Kiyaya, why are you helping this witch?' asked Esther.

‘In my land, the Infected are mistrusted,' replied the huge man. ‘We are feared. We are cast out. Here, they have been gone so long, they have become myths. A living myth is a powerful thing. That is why I travelled across the ocean. Once here, the book's power drew me to it, just as it did the magpie. I wanted to find out more about the object. Luckily the unInfected are easily manipulated. I needed John Symmonds to join the Society so I made sure he and Lord Ringmore crossed paths, but when he ceased to be useful I stopped his heart and watched him die.'

‘You killed him? You murdered an innocent man. Why? Why?' Esther felt sick with fear and anger.

‘When you have lived as many lives as I, you accept death more readily,' replied Kiyaya. ‘I no longer needed Mr Symmonds. I had met Olwyn Broe. She would help achieve that which I desired.'

‘What is it you want? What could she do for you?'

‘The Infected should walk tall, not cower in caves. I have lived in exile too long. Now is our time to rule.'

‘So why involve me and Tom?' asked Esther. ‘Why didn't you perform the Eternity Spell yourself?'

‘It is one thing to create the potion,' said Kiyaya, ‘you must also have someone to drink it.'

‘And I needed the right body this time,' said Olwyn. ‘This novelist is ideal. She can move around with the same freedom and respect as a man. She has independent means and powerful friends. She has respect. In this body I will ensure the Infected return to their rightful place.'

‘Are you saying you controlled everything from the beginning?' asked Esther. ‘Tom, Mondriat, Ringmore; it was all part of your game.'

‘Controlled?' Olwyn considered the word. ‘No. I
guided
. The book was never going to be discovered sitting in that shop, so I burnt it down. When it fell into Lord Ringmore's hands and he formed his Society, I knew I had found my targets, but my influence would have to be a subtle one. The best puppets are the ones that believe they pull their own strings.'

‘But me and Tom met Ringmore by chance.'

‘My True Reflection was always inside you,' said Olwyn. ‘Did you not sometimes find yourself doing things that surprised you? The day you left the orphanage, the day you travelled west and targeted Lord Ringmore, the day you performed the Creation Spell. My influence on the others was subtle but you, sweet girl, I was always your guardian angel, moving you like a marionette.'

‘Guardian angels don't deceive. They don't lie. They don't murder.'

‘Esther,' whispered Olwyn, reaching out to touch her arm. ‘I am telling you this now so you can see that I intend no further deceit. We are sisters of the lifeblood. You were my mirror for many years. Stay with me and together our power will know no limits.'

‘Esther doesn't care about power,' said Tom. He had finally found the strength to get up and stagger across to take his place beside her.

‘You care about power though, don't you, Tom?' said Olwyn. ‘You have proved yourself a powerful Conjuror this evening.'

Tom looked at her then back at Esther. ‘Not any more, I don't,' he said.

‘Don't be foolish, child,' said Olwyn. ‘You were happy to throw your lot in with Lord Ringmore in exchange for power. I can offer you so much more.'

‘I won't kill for it,' stated Tom. ‘I know what's right and what's wrong. All I care about is Esther and me. That's all that matters.'

Esther looked at him and saw finally that she had the old Tom back. The Tom who had left the orphanage with her in search of something better. The Tom who had followed her through the streets of London as they learnt how to survive. The Tom who was the only family she had ever known. Her friend, Tom.

‘How touching,' said Olwyn. ‘But since you will not join me, I will dispose of you both.' She moved her staff and raised her left hand.

The orphans heard the rumbling approach of a train behind them.

‘If I am to start afresh in this guise, these deaths must be explained away,' said Olwyn. ‘No one will understand why Sir Tyrrell, Lord Ringmore and a pair of orphans came down this tunnel, but when they are ploughed down by an unscheduled train, there will be no question about what killed them.'

The rumbling grew louder as the train thundered towards them. Esther raised her hand and tried to stop it but the train continued to roll in their direction. She tried to pull it apart but could feel Olwyn's strength in its turning wheels and its pumping pistons. Her powerful Conjury held every nut and bolt in place. As the train came into sight, Esther could see, on the front, the face of the dark-haired woman.

‘You cannot prevent this,' shouted Olwyn over the sound of the approaching train. ‘I am a vastly more experienced Conjuress. Whatever spell you try, I will counteract it. Neither of you can escape this death. It is your fate.'

Esther felt her hands shake as she struggled against her. Olwyn was too strong. Tom raised his hands too but neither could stop the approach of the train. Sparks flew off the wheels and the screeching noise reverberated off the walls. Tom spun around and sent the oil lamps flying at Olwyn, but Kiyaya made them fall to the ground. Tom drew the tiles from the walls, bringing them down upon Kiyaya's head, but with a tap from his great staff he vanished time and again, avoiding every attack.

‘Olwyn! Please, no,' cried Mondriat in the distance.

Steam filled the tunnel.

Everything was lost in darkness.

Esther felt Tom's shoulder against her own. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. All her life Esther had felt as though there was something guiding her but it hadn't been fate as she had thought. It had nothing to do with God or providence. Nothing was pre-written. She was in control of her own actions. She could decide what to do herself. Finally, the thoughts in her head were her own. Finally, she would make her own decisions. The right decisions. Esther took Tom's left hand in hers and looked into his eyes.

‘I won't let her succeed,' she said. ‘Not after all she has done.'

‘Then what?'

‘Do you trust me?'

‘Always.'

Holding his hand, they both moved in a circle, dragging their staffs on the ground, drawing out power. They could not stop the train, nor escape, but they no longer cared about that. They could feel the power of the Earthsoul all around them, its eternal strength keeping them safe. Esther could see into Tom's mind and he into hers. The orphans raised their hands and, with the smallest of movements, brought the walls crashing in on them.

The water that gushed into the tunnel wiped out everything in its path: the train, Olwyn, Kiyaya, Mondriat and Sir Tyrrell. All were caught in its ferocity. Tom squeezed Esther's hand tightly and, in place of the rushing violence of the water, was a vision: a memory.

Five years old, Tom sat in a corner, crying. The other orphans ignored him. The nuns had no words of comfort. He was all alone. He was sobbing because his aunt had left him and his mother was dead and if there was ever any hope, it was not here in this place. He had never felt such unending sadness, when a girl appeared. She was the same age as him but confident and with eyes that shone like pennies in the dirt.

‘Hello,' she said. ‘There's no need to cry. It will be all right.'

Tom turned away and continued to sob.

‘I'll be your friend if you like,' she said. ‘My name is Esther.'

Tom looked up at her. He stopped crying and smiled.

Amy knows she should go home. It is cold. It is late. The miserable soaps finished ages ago. She has been out too long. Her grandparents will have noticed she isn't in her bedroom. Perhaps they will call the police. Perhaps they will call the lady who comes on Wednesdays. Amy tries to remember if she's told her about the cemetery.

The cemetery reveals different things at night. When Amy moves the torch up her favourite gravestone she notices something she has never seen before. The shadows of the torchlight reveal a shape above the name. Carved into the stone is a circle inside a triangle inside a larger circle. Amy runs her fingertips over it. She swings the torch around to the other two gravestones and sees that the same shape is on them too. How has she never noticed it before? She wonders what it means.

Voices call her name.

‘Amy? Amy?'

‘Are you out there, love?'

‘You're not in trouble, Amy. Just answer us, please.'

The voices belong to her grandparents and to other people. She thinks the lady who comes on Wednesdays is one of them. A blue police light flashes through the trees. Amy is about to call out when she hears a tapping.

She turns. Sitting on top of Lord Ringmore's gravestone is a magpie. Its feathers are tattered and ruffled. She has never seen a bird like it. It reminds her of something but she's not sure what. It taps the gravestone with its beak. It taps the shape above Lord Ringmore's name. The circle within a triangle within a circle.

Amy looks down at the stick she picked up to protect herself. The bird flutters down to the ground and she understands what it wants. It wants her to draw the shape in the ground. She doesn't know how she understands this but she is sure this is what it means. Carefully, she does so.

‘Amy  …  Amy  … '

The voices are growing nearer.

The bird taps the middle of the shape on the gravestone. Amy understands. She steps into the centre of the shape and feels a sudden rush. She is dizzy and yet everything is clearer than it has ever been. She hears every rustle of every leaf in the cemetery. She can see her grandparents and the others, even though they cannot see her. The lady who comes on Wednesdays is with them. They don't look as angry as she expected. Amy wishes they would go away. She opens her eyes. She didn't even realise they had been shut. She looks at the bird.

‘So?' says the magpie. ‘Would you like to disappear, then?'

Where did the idea for The Society of Thirteen come from?

I've always wanted to write a book involving magic, but I needed it to be a magic I could believe in. Last year, I was up in Chester for a book festival when I wandered into a museum and saw a notice about a local history group called The Society of Thirteen (named so because of the number of people who formed it, I believe). I really liked the name so I jotted it down in my ideas book. It remained there for a while until I looked at it out of context and got thinking about how thirteen is an unlucky number. It occurred to me that there was a direct link between superstitions and stories of magic. They all have their roots in folklore, and there is lots of overlap. When I had made that connection, I realised that I'd found my way into magic. If I began with the idea that every superstition had some basis in the reality of magic, it would help ground my magic and make it something I could believe in. It became a very earthy magic, not something that could be bought in a magical shop, but rather something very natural. Once I began to see how it would work I realised that it wouldn't be something that would yield to anything as modern as language. My spells wouldn't be spoken while waving a flimsy wand. They would be drawn out of the earth.

Where did the word ‘Conjury' come from?

Having worked out the mechanics of my magic, I had to decide on the lexicon. Would I be writing about wizards, witches, warlocks, magicians or something else? Would they have wands, staffs or broomsticks? The solutions to these questions came from some background reading. While looking into stories of magic I came across the idea of
Cunning Men
. These were folk healers, generally considered less threatening than witches, due to their usefulness. As my story developed, I realised that there would be an element of non-magical trickery and misdirection. I began to see a link between cunning men, conning men and conjurors. That's when it became apparent my wizards would be known as conjurors. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea that one could literally conjure up power from the earth.

Why did you choose the term the ‘Infected'?

I knew very early on that gaining magical powers was going to involve some sacrifice. Given the orphans' Catholic upbringing, it felt right that there would be an element of selling one's soul in order to obtain such power. After all, if thirteen is the age one must be to discover magic then there must be a reason that has been remembered as an unlucky number. Of course, once you've established that terrible things will happen to those who don't perform the Mirror Spell, it would be disappointing not to see them.

How much research did you do for the book?

As usual, not as much as I'd have liked. I'm sure a good pedant could find lots of historical inaccuracies. I have taken various liberties with my London of 1891. The Theatre Royal, where Clay performs, would actually have been called Royal Standard Music Hall, although I did retain the real name of the proprietor, Mr Dickey. There was no flood in the tunnel under the Thames in 1891 either. More important than details like these is the evocation of a world that seems convincingly like late Victorian London. I relied on the same resources I used when writing
Constable & Toop
, but I also read a book about the relationship between Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Harry Houdini, elements of which dripped into the characters Lord Ringmore, Harry Clay and Mr G. Hayman.

What is the purpose of the epilogue and prologue in this book?

When I started, I thought Amy's story was going to be a much bigger part and run alongside the Victorian action but, as I wrote, the Victorian elements elbowed their way to the front, while Amy's story got pushed to the sides. That means there is a danger that some readers will consider those two chapters irrelevant and distracting. I hope not. I left them in for a reason. There are several points where characters think about the connection between story and history. This is one of the themes of the book. Amy creates her own stories from the snapshots of the past she finds on the gravestones. This is precisely what I do when I wander through cemeteries stealing names from gravestones and using them in my stories. Who knows if Amy's (or mine) are any more fantastical than the real lives of the real people?

Do you wander through cemeteries, stealing names from gravestones a lot?

Quite a lot, yes.

As with your previous books, this one delves into the darker aspects of life. Do you think subjects such as murder, death and disease are suitable for children's literature?

I do. I think children spend a lot of time making sense of all these things, and literature should not shy away from addressing them. It's only ever the adults I worry about when I do public readings. They're much more scared of this stuff than my usual readership.

Religion doesn't come out very well in this book  … 

I don't think that's true. Mother Agnes abuses her position. She is sadistic and mean and has nothing to do with what Christianity is supposed to be about. I intentionally made sure that Inspector Longdale had a more Christian approach to life. In an earlier draft, John Symmonds also demonstrated these qualities but then, unfortunately, he went and got himself killed.

Do you believe in magic?

No.

Finally, is it true you always write a song about each of your books and, if so, have you written the one for this book?

Yes and yes. I have finally got it in a shape I'm happy with. One of the biggest challenges with new songs is coming up with an interactive element that is different to my other songs, but, as I say, I think I have it now. The song is called
Thirteen is Unlucky
for Some
.