The Revolutions (22 page)

Atwood sighed, and poured himself tea. “The forces arrayed against me are great. And subtle. Any beggar I pass by as he lies in the road may be my enemy. Any woman who smiles at me or glances my way. Any shopkeeper or cab-driver or policeman. I do not even trust the cats or the pigeons. My enemies are not some criminal conspiracy. They are London; they are all of its old magic.”

“Those kidnappers looked like common criminals to my eye.”

“So much the worse for your eye, Shaw.”

“Podmore owns a lot of newspapers. Man about town. I’m certain we can find out where he lives.”

“Of course. I was a guest at his house last November! But to attack him in his place of strength would be disastrous.”

Atwood sipped his tea, then frowned at Arthur’s sceptical expression. “My enemies are not to be taken lightly.”

“I take them very seriously, indeed. I expect the police would too—arsonists and kidnappers and knife-wielding maniacs…”

“I refer to their magic. They caused the storm last winter.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Oh, you have, have you? I hope I’m not boring you.”

“Mr Gracewell believed that they caused the storm, and so did Mrs Archer. Which reminds me: who is Mrs Archer? Your friends seemed quite put out to hear you’ve been employing her.”

“
Archer
,” Atwood sighed. He went to the mantelpiece and found a case of cigarettes. “Archer! You’re quite right, Shaw. I kept her involvement a secret from the others. You put me in an embarrassing spot. Jupiter will want an explanation.”

“Well—who is she?”

“An awful old woman. You have no idea how old or how awful. Even my father was scared of her. There are—Mr Shaw, there are old ways of doing things. Do you understand what I mean? Old-fashioned superstitions. Bats and rats and eye of newt. The calling up of devils.”

“Devils?”

“Black cats.
Et cetera.
Nonsense, of course. The modern practitioner of the art understands that there are no devils; there is only the will. Nothing but. But old nonsense is sometimes more efficacious than the new-fangled kind. Nobody in London knows the stars quite like Mrs Archer. Nobody has watched them for quite so long. And so I enlisted her aid, yes, that’s true—it was necessary in the construction of the Engine, Shaw! The others don’t always understand necessity.”

He lit his cigarette, tossing the match into the fireplace.

“She doesn’t know what we’re doing. Piecework, that’s all. She has certain talents that we can use. We told her nothing. You steer clear of her, do you hear, Shaw?”

Arthur poured himself some thick black tea.

“So Lord Podmore caused the storm,” he said. “Mrs Archer said it was … how did she put it? She said they did it to bugger about with her stars.”

“No, no—well, in a way. The storm that you saw was merely a side-effect. The wind, the rain, and so on. That was the smoke, not the fire. The shadow, not the act. No, Shaw—they moved the spheres. Or, rather, they moved the Earth in relation to the spheres. Ever so slightly—ever so very slightly—just the tiniest degree, almost immeasurable, even if there were tools to measure it.”

He held up his thumb and forefinger, almost touching, to illustrate—as if that somehow made anything clearer. “Can you imagine the strength that would take? What it must have cost them? How much they must hate and fear me? And yet, that was enough to render years of calculations, and experiments, and observations, and plans quite obsolete. Jupiter and I were engaged in an experiment at the time, and it was a miracle we weren’t stranded, too—we
fought
our bloody way back! And in the physical realm it caused floods and wind—did they mean to flood Gracewell’s Engine, or was that luck? I don’t know. A good magician is always doing two things at once.”

“You know, if it weren’t for the storm, I would never have met Josephine.”

Atwood said nothing. He stood beneath that horrible gory painting, smoking, while Arthur drank the last of the tea.

“I should see if Josephine’s all right,” Arthur said.

“No, no. I’ll send someone up to ask Abby.”

“Abby?”

“The maid,” Atwood said. “Who helped you dress Josephine last night, and is presently sitting with her.”

“Ah. Yes. A good girl.”

“Come with me. I want you to see something.”

“No, Atwood.” Arthur stood. “I’ve seen quite enough for one night.”

Atwood smoked his cigarette, breathing in until the tip of it was bright red. Then he quickly stubbed it out on the mantelpiece.

The room went dark, as if the cigarette had been the only light in it, though Arthur was sure that just moments ago there had been a lamp on the wall behind him. In the darkness he could make out the shadow of Atwood’s head, the line of the mantelpiece, the white face of hungry Saturn in the painting behind Atwood’s head.

Saturn lifted his mad bloodshot eyes up to meet Arthur’s, and opened his long bloody maw to speak.

Arthur swore and dropped his teacup.

“Ha!” Atwood said.

The room was lit again—as it had always been—and the painting was still.

“What—”

“A parlour trick! Shaw, you won’t last five seconds if someone like Podmore sets his sights on you. If you mean to be of any use, then come with me.”

*   *   *

They went together down to Atwood’s library. Arthur scratched at his stitches as he followed Atwood. His wound was hot, and itched furiously. A good sign. Whatever else he was, Mr Sun was clearly a first-rate doctor.

Servants had tidied the library a little since last night. The multi-coloured lamps that had stood on the table were gone, replaced with a single, sensible white light. The paraphernalia in the corners had been straightened up, and the rifle that Arthur had last seen in the hands of one of Atwood’s Company—the fellow in the black suit—now hung on the wall over a writing-desk.

Atwood collected something from a shelf. Two pieces of card and a book. “Sit,” he said, and they sat at the table. Atwood tossed one card across to Arthur, and placed another one in front of himself. He opened the book to a middle page and consulted it, his finger tracing slowly down lines of what appeared to be Greek.

The two cards appeared identical. Both were made of thick white card, and were about the length and width of a book. On one side they were blank. On the other there was a painted design consisting of a black dot surrounded by a circle of pale watercolour yellow, which in turn was surrounded by a ring of pale blue, and around the outside of it all was a ring of pale red.

“What—”

“Shh.” Atwood turned a page, and continued reading. His lips moved, like an actor committing his lines to memory.

“What is this?”

“A
tattva
,” Atwood said, with the air of someone explaining to a hopeless bumpkin which fork to use.

He closed the book with a
thump
that echoed in the empty library. He stood, and lit a little stick of oily incense.

“Opium?” Arthur said.

“You do have a vivid imagination. Are you afraid I plan to
shanghai
you?”

Arthur said nothing.

“Now—you have a little magical talent,” Atwood went on, sitting again. “Certainly you don’t have the gift that Josephine has. But we shall see what we can do with you.”

“Get on with it, will you?”

“I want you to understand where Josephine is.”

“Mars, I’m told.”

Atwood shook his head. “Listen. The Cosmos is ordered into nine spheres of being. Each has a different energy state, and different laws. The planets are the signs of those spheres within our own sphere.”

“But—”

“
Listen
, Shaw! Ordinarily you would have to suffer through many years of initiation to understand this, but we have no time, and I have no patience. The Sphere of the Sun is at the peak of creation,
fons et origo
. The Sphere of Mars lies below ours in the Cosmic Ordering. That is to say, it has a lower energy state—it is colder, and slower. ‘The light is not above one-half, and its heat one-third of ours.’ Daniel Defoe said that. Not so cold as icy Jupiter, or the unthinkable depths of Saturn, but cold enough. If it has inhabitants, they may be like our friend in the room next door—simple and frail creatures. Do you see? Ripe for exploration.”

“Exploration.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you plan to do there?”

“We shall test our courage and our will against the universe itself.”

“This is madness, Atwood.”

“We won’t go far tonight. An evening stroll down a country lane; that’s all. But you must see, and understand.”

“I’ll see what there is to see, I suppose.”

“You say that as if that isn’t the very hardest thing in the world to do. Now, listen. Focus your gaze upon the black dot—there, do you see? On the
tattva
. Empty your mind; think of nothing but my voice. Do not blink. Do not move your gaze. Not yet! When I say. Soon you will see that the red circle will vanish, then the blue, and lastly the yellow…”

It worked just as Atwood said it would, though it took some time, because at first whenever one of the circles began to fade to white Arthur found his attention drawn to where it had been, and then there it was again. But with a little discipline, the card was soon white as a snowfield, but for the black dot. Arthur thought it a very striking optical illusion. Meanwhile, Atwood chanted something. It was Greek, Arthur thought, or mostly Greek, and he didn’t know what it meant. But sometimes there were words of English in it—for instance, sometimes Atwood said
Up!
and Arthur felt a tug that nearly caused him to stand. Sometimes he said
Down!
and Arthur felt his stomach lurch as it does when one wakes from a dream of falling. At the edge of his vision, the walls of the library seemed to recede. He felt that he was on the verge of fainting.

Arthur stared at the dot. He’d taken it at first for a tiny spot of black paint, but further investigation revealed a very small and intricate design. It must have taken extraordinary patience and a steady hand to paint so small. The dot was a black hexagon. Within that was a black hexagram. Within that was a circle. And within that was another hexagon. Around the edges of his vision there were lights now, as Atwood named the planets and the stars. Within the hexagon another hexagram, and within that, another circle. Up! and Down! Atwood named the numbers and the gods. A hexagon, a hexagram, a circle. He fell. A hexagon, a hexagram. A ray of black light spiralling down into the dark, touching each point of the star as it descended: a black star, weaving a black star. When Atwood’s voice said
Wake! Now!
Arthur jumped up from his chair. Up and up, weightlessly. There was no chair. He was nowhere at all. All around him was darkness, lit with stars. He looked down and couldn’t see his hands or his feet or anything at all.

“Steady.” It was Atwood’s voice, from behind Arthur’s shoulder, or where his shoulder would have been; but Atwood was nowhere to be seen. Arthur felt terrible vertigo. Unwisely, he looked down.

Above him and around him were stars. Beneath him, at an unthinkable distance, was London—or, more accurately, Atwood’s house. Most of the rest of the city was fog, except for Rugby Street, the Museum, parts of the river. Atwood’s house was fog too—it was made of fog—a shape in the clouds—faint fog in a mirror. Arthur could see dimly through its roof, as if it were the wax-paper window of a doll’s house, and he could see himself and Atwood sitting around a table, faint grey demi-solidities in the mist …

He felt himself descending.

“No,” Atwood said. “Not until I permit it.”

End this trick at once
, Arthur tried to say, but he couldn’t speak.

“Look up,” Atwood said.

The stars, again, all around, and darkness. In the infinite distance, where one might on a clear night ordinarily expect to see the Milky Way, there was a faint rainbow of coloured light. A cold wind rushed past Arthur’s head, or where it seemed to him that his head should be—as if he were standing atop Nelson’s Column at night.

“The first gyre. Thank me, Shaw. There are thousands in London who would give up all that they have for such a vision.”

Arthur tried again to demand that Atwood end his trick—that he let him
down
.

“No,” Atwood said.

Arthur was afraid, and very angry.

He looked down again, and tried to
will
himself down. Atwood’s voice boomed
No
, and Arthur shook, buffeted by the wind. The misty earth below him reeled as he spun weightlessly and at great speed, tumbling in orbit. By the time he regained control of himself and looked down again, the misty scene far below might have been Africa, for all he could tell, or the Pacific.

“See, Shaw? You have a great deal to learn.”

Atwood’s self-satisfied voice sounded from just beside Arthur’s ear. Arthur stumbled and turned towards Atwood as if he might somehow be able to hit him. Atwood breathed
no
and Arthur was off again, tumbling head over heels, over Antarctica and the Cape of Good Hope and Bombay—he thought he saw great grey cloud-elephants in the zoo—and Land’s End and who knows where else.
A girdle ’round the Earth
, he thought,
in forty minutes
 … but forty minutes was for ever, it seemed. Overhead, the stars were all shooting—white lines of pure crystalline motion. He dug in his heels—or he would have, if he’d had heels—and came to a halt over John O’Groats. Grey rocks and grey sea and ragged islands. Atwood was there behind him laughing
no!
and Arthur was off yet again, the clouds tumbling beneath him, the stars zigzagging above. Like a cat Atwood followed him, and as soon as he next came to rest, Atwood repeated his trick. Arthur was furious. He had a sudden notion of what it might look like to someone below, if they’d looked up, if there
was
a
below
: a great fat oaf of a comet in shirt-sleeves bouncing back and forth across the sky, uttering curses! He laughed, then, and he began to master his anger. He told himself that the clouds, the stars, were only illusion. He’d been hypnotised. The clouds weren’t there, and he was still in Atwood’s library.