The White Forest (26 page)

B
y the time Maddy finally returned to me, St. Dunstan’s Day was nearly upon us. She arrived at Stoke Morrow in one of her more boyish ensembles—a pair of plum-colored bloomers and a dark vest. She’d pinned her black hair and tucked it under a bicycle hat, and I wondered if this clothing was meant to provide some kind of protection against the day.

The afternoon sky was cloudless, and we walked together in the garden toward the Roman ruin. I wanted to take her arm and talk to her about everything I’d learned from Nathan’s journal, but she still had such an air of coldness about her. I didn’t want to drive her away again.

“We shouldn’t have argued,” I said.

“I’m not here to talk about that, Jane,” she replied, stiffly, adjusting her cap. “I’m here to discuss how St. Dunstan’s might prove useful to our search.”

“Are you feeling better then?” I asked. “Physically, I mean.”

“There’s still nausea in the morning,” Maddy said. “But the doctor tells me I’m fine.”

“Any idea what’s the matter?”

“I don’t—” she said, trailing off. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

And because she seemed much improved, both physically and men
tally, I accepted this. I wanted nothing more than for both of us to feel at peace. We left the garden and went to my dressing room to look for clothing that might be used for costumes at the festival’s masque. I spoke carefully, keeping things cheerful, though I could not help but ask the question that had been nagging me all morning. “Maddy, did Nathan ever show you any papers he brought back from the war?”

“Papers?”

“Yes, perhaps a manuscript in Italian? They would likely have been the writings of the monk Theodore de Baras.”

“No, Jane, nothing of that sort,” she said. “Are you finished reading his journal yet by the way? I’d like to have a look.”

“Not quite finished,” I lied.

“You are the
slowest
reader, Jane.”

“I know, Maddy. I know.”

•   •   •

The festival was held at twilight on the southern edge of the Heath, close enough to Stoke Morrow that Maddy and I could walk and did not need a carriage. Torches flickered hotly on the festival grounds, casting living shadows in the oak groves. Silver bells rang out, and the air smelled of the burning tapers that were carried in honor of the saint’s canonization. A series of tableaus were enacted on a wooden stage draped in aubergine tapestry to portray seminal events in the life of the saint—his birth, his near death during an affliction of boils, his near marriage to Lady Ephesia, and of course his numerous duels with the Devil, which culminated in Dunstan’s catching the Devil by the nose with a pair of fire tongs and nailing a horseshoe to one of the creature’s black hooves.

Men and women of Hampstead Town had come dressed as figures from allegory and myth. The whole event had quite a pagan feel. It seemed impossible that the festival should happen without Nathan Ashe, who had once dressed as Artegal, the knight of justice, and drunk so much wine that he began to believe he
was
Artegal, going around and challenging everyone to a sword fight.

Saint Dunstan’s story reminded me of Mother Damnable’s, though he was lauded and she was loathed. Such was the way with men and women. He was a Benedictine monk who’d temporarily made his home in a hovel near Parliament Hill during the eighth century after being expelled from the archbishopric in Canterbury on the grounds of being a magician. Further charges against him were particularly curious, as he was said to have possessed a harp that played the anthem “Gaudent in Celis Animæ Sanctorum” of its own volition whenever the Devil came near. Apparently the Devil came often to Dunstan, as the harp was said to be heard over the Heath both day and night. The notion of the automatic harp, of course, reminded me of my own unnatural association with objects, and so I sympathized with Dunstan. His harp seemed not wicked at all, but rather a useful tool. He was exonerated during his own lifetime, and when he died, his body, interred at Glastonbury, did not decompose but remained incorrupt, smelling of sweet flowers. At times it was even said to weep.

A rumor circulated that a relic of Saint Dunstan was to be produced at this year’s tableau, and everyone conjectured as to exactly what that relic might be. A jawbone seemed likely, as that sort of relic was in fashion. Others believed it would be the tongs that Dunstan once used to grab the nose of the Devil. I knew that whatever was produced would be some form of counterfeit and couldn’t bother myself to care. Maddy and I had other business to attend to.

We walked the grounds together, closely studying the revelers dressed in their medieval garments, knowing that Nathan might be tempted to appear. He claimed to like the festival more than Christmas, after all. Others must have had the same idea. I saw a somber Lord and Lady Ashe in the crowd as well as Inspector Vidocq, who wore a golden mask that was meant as a representation of the sun god, Helios. He was followed by two agents of the police in black hoods. Their costumes made me think of night following day.

Maddy leaned close to my ear and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’ve brought Nathan’s pistol,” she said, patting the purse she carried on her belt. She wore a brass breastplate and a pair of her father’s
pants, claiming to be Britomart, a female knight who represented chastity.

“You did no such
thing
,” I said. I’d decided not to wear a costume at the last minute, wanting to be no one but myself.

“Of course I brought it,” she replied, taking a candle from a towheaded child who was distributing them through the crowd. “What if we run into difficulty?”

“What difficulty would we find at the Festival of Saint Dunstan? We’ve been coming here since we were girls.”

“The world has changed,” was Maddy’s only response.

•   •   •

We did not run into difficulty per se, or at least not difficulty in its traditional guise. But it was during the festival that we came across Pascal Paget and Alexander Hartford. I was surprised to see them together, as Pascal had earlier expressed reticence about even being in the presence of Alexander. The two came up out of the southern woods. Pascal was chasing Alexander, who moved with some determination. Alexander was meant to be Hypnos, god of sleep, and wore a loose black shirt with ribbons on the sleeves and a pair of dark riding pants. A red poppy was pinned above his heart. He’d pushed up his silver mask so it rested on his forehead, and his entire face was revealed. Pascal was Thanatos, daemon god of death. He wore gold face paint around his eyes, carried a replica of a broadsword, and had a pair of black wings tied to his back with what looked like bailing wire. Remembering the story of their love affair, I was moved by these costumes, and I wondered if they’d chosen them independently, mourning their past.

I overheard enough of their argument to understand that Pascal was pleading with Alexander to stop whatever it was he intended to do, and Alexander was telling our French comrade to simply turn around and walk back into the woods—that the matter was none of Pascal’s concern.

Pascal’s face was flushed, and there were tears in his eyes, streaking
the gold paint. When he saw us, he nearly succumbed to some sort of swoon. Alexander, on the other hand, brightened. His ruddy American face lit like a lamp. “Jane Silverlake,” he said, “just the girl I’ve been looking for.”

“Whatever for?” I asked, already on guard.

“You certainly wanted nothing to do with us at the Silver Horne,” Maddy said.

Alexander produced an envelope from inside his tunic. I recognized the fine paper and the dark wax seal. “I’ve brought you this message from Master Day,” he said. “Not many receive word from him. It’s quite an honor.” Clearly, Ariston Day had not made his prior letter to me public to his Fetches.

“You don’t have to accept this
honor
,” Pascal countered.

Alexander held onto his smile, but barely.

I took the letter and broke the wax seal, reading quickly. It was written in the same elegant script as the previous missive—hard lines of ink plunging and rising—but the tone and content of the message was quite different.

Miss Silverlake,

I was clearly not direct enough in my previous invitation. Allow me to rectify that. You should know that I am aware of what you did on the night of Nathan Ashe’s disappearance. Moreover, I’m aware of what you are. Come to the Temple of the Lamb, and we will speak frankly.

The letter was signed simply:
A.D.

A chill traveled from the letter, up my arm, and toward my heart.
He was aware of what I’d done that night and of what I
was
?
I thought again of myself at the stone fissures, waiting for something—or someone—to rise. The pieces of shale lay around me like so many broken teeth.

A complicated feeling of disgust and hope washed over me as I creased Day’s letter and put it in the pocket of my dress. I wondered
if he could really tell me something about what had happened that night.

“Well, what did it say?” Maddy asked.

“Ariston Day wants me to see him in Southwark.”

“She’s not going into that pit,” Maddy said to Alexander, “and if you know what’s good for you, you wouldn’t go back either.” Her tone made me concerned that she might take out the pistol and begin waving it about.

Alexander was not thwarted. “Miss Lee, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. And Master Day doesn’t expect you to understand. He wishes only to speak with Miss Silverlake.
She
understands.”

I looked into Alexander’s emotionless eyes and realized he’d been completely taken over by Day. The vessel of his body had been compromised, emptied of its essence and filled instead with Day’s will. Like Corydon Ulster, Alexander was no longer the boy he’d once been. He’d become a Fetch.

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” I said.

Pascal looked horrified. “Jane, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Maddy made as if to touch my arm, but I pulled away.

“She does,” Alexander countered. “Master Day said she would understand, and she does. She understands perfectly.” Looking at Pascal, he said, “You aren’t at all who I thought you were. Not at all.”

“Don’t mistake me,” I said. “It’s not because I understand Ariston Day. But I want to find out what he knows about Nathan’s disappearance. Even if he lies, and I’m sure he will, his stories will at least provide direction.”

Alexander’s grin broadened at this. “Yes, I suppose that’s the case.”

•   •   •

After the boys departed, moving off in separate directions, Maddy and I made our way to the torchlit field where the traditional tableau of Saint Dunstan’s life was taking place. A crowd had amassed, and it appeared the show had already begun.

“Tell me why you’re being so foolish,” Maddy said. “You can’t imagine that traveling into Southwark to see the Devil himself is a wise choice.”

“What if Ariston Day is the only person who knows what happened to Nathan?” I said.

She paused at this. “Well, you’re not going alone,” she said. “Pascal and I will accompany you.”

“Absolutely not,” I responded. “Day has asked to see me, and I’ll go. I don’t want to endanger anyone else.”

She gave me one of her knowing looks. “Stoke Morrow only boasts one carriage, Jane. Your father will have it with him. Will you ride a horse into London to see Mr. Day? I wasn’t aware you had a saddle.”

I glared at her. “You’re so utterly manipulative, Maddy. Remind me again why I remain friends with you.”

“Because you have no other choice,” she said, not unkindly.

“If you must come,” I said, “you’ll stay in the carriage and wait for me.”

“Whatever pleases you, Jane,” she said. She enjoyed the fact that she was gaining the upper hand, but I knew that being in control would not be to her advantage. She did not know everything that I knew—nor the full reason for my visit.

Light from tapers turned faces in the crowd eerie in the purple dusk. The character of Dunstan was played, as usual, by a priest from Gravesend who cultivated his long mealy beard all year in preparation for the role. Onstage, Dunstan was having a vision of the harrowing of Hell. Demons, both fat and thin, gathered in a circle around the old priest and were in the process of prodding him with various metal instruments that looked like they’d been taken from the local tannery.

“I thought that old priest died last winter,” Maddy whispered.

“Possibly he did,” I said. “His body looks fairly corrupt.”

Dunstan moved downstage, making room for his vision to appear at the center. The demons were a group of hairy blacksmiths from Paddington, and they’d paused their torment long enough to move
some pieces of scenery and reveal the craggy mouth of Hell, which looked like a papier-mâché cave draped in black crinoline. I knew the story well enough, having watched it every year since I was a child. After the crucifixion, Christ was said to have descended into Hell to gather the worthy and bring them up with him to their rightful place in Heaven—and during a particularly trying period in his life, Dunstan apparently had a vision of this tremendous event.

The mouth of Hell was surrounded by flame light. And from the mouth came the face of a great dragon with a jaw that swung open on a brass hinge. The dragon howled taunts at Christ, fire pouring from its throat, acrid smoke drifting from its nostrils. But, of course, Christ was not afraid. He raised his hand to the dragon, and screams issued from its leathery insides.

“Who’s playing Christ this year?” I whispered to Maddy. “He’s new, isn’t he?”

“How should I know?” she asked. “Maybe it’s the actual Christ, and he’ll come down and talk some sense into you.”

Then the great dragon’s mouth fell open and remained so. In the dragon’s throat was a wide hallway on which painted screens showed the ruddy cliffs and precipices of the Hell.

Proserpine, the queen of the underworld, was brought forward, writhing on a catafalque. She was dressed all in white with flowers in her red hair, and she moaned as if in ecstasy. I’d heard that the young woman who played Proserpine was actually quite a prude in life and intended this moment as some sort of statement against bodily pleasures.