27

Into the Shadows

It was evening, and all were sat on logs outside the guest rooms, the fire jumping over lumps of spitted lamb and beef, eaten down to the bone. The smell of charcoaled meat wafted over them as they burned fingers and tongues on blackened chestnuts just scraped from the glowing ashes. Fatzke had invested in a few pouches of exotic aromatic tobaccos and the plug he was smoking gave a pleasant hint of aniseed to the air. It was still light, but only just, the sounds of the thinning crowds milling about the town rising and falling with the opening and closing of tavern doors. Monks could be heard singing the psalms of compline:

In pace in idipsum dormiam et requiescam . . .

In peace will I sleep and rest, for Thou, O Lord, have ­established me in hope . . .

They’d stuffed themselves with roasted meats, pickles, ­turnips and wine. Kadia was leaning against the wheel of Fatzke’s cart that had been brought into the yard to pile on the linens, ­grograms and wools she’d bought for her sewing back in Lengerrborn. In amongst those soft piles were Fatzke’s sacks of useful implements – as he called them – acquired in exchange for some of his ring-dials and mouse-traps and whatever else he’d brought along for the purpose. For them another night and day awaited in the Cloth Market, but Philbert was adamant that in the morning he and Kwert would be away.

He’d figured out how to intercept Maulwerf’s Fair of Wonders, assuming they followed their usual route. It wouldn’t be ­immediate, but it was possible, and this much he’d told Kwert earlier that afternoon, after which Philbert had taken a brief foray out into the fringes of the Market to pick up any news, avoiding the one or two he thought might recognise him from previous fairs, but eager for news of Maulwerf.

‘So what did you enjoy most, Philbert?’ asked Brother Langer, his belly wobbling as he practised his dancing puppets on his toes. Philbert considered.

‘I saw a man who stuck pins and needles in his body without crying out,’ he replied. ‘And an enormous brindled cat in a cage who growled and roared when people poked at him with sticks. And there was a black man sticking his hands in molten lead, burning all his skin away before curing himself. I know it’s a trick, but I can’t figure out how he did it.’

Kwert laughed feebly, his thumb going automatically to the gap in his gums, which still bled a little, and spilled the beans.

‘It’s all to do with expectation and sales pitch. The basin is painted to look red hot over its fire, but has an insulated base to keep out the heat. And it’s not lead inside but quicksilver, and the man has a capsule of vermilion hidden between his fingers. He puts his hands into the bowl, screams, splits the capsule as he lifts his bleeding hands to the crowd. Then out comes the magic potion, which is nothing more than rubbing alcohol to remove the dye, and hey presto he’s cured and everyone ­clamours to buy his secret elixir. Old as the hills,’ Kwert finished. ‘Old as the hills, and no miracle but by the Grace of God’s great world.’

Philbert nodded, filing the information away, pleased to have the mystery solved, interrupted by Fatzke who started prattling about a new kind of jug he’d bought with its spout halfway down the side so it poured the milk before the cream, the gravy before the fat, thinking it was a grand idea until it was pointed out to him that the inventor had got the thing the wrong way round, because everyone knew the best part of the milk was the cream, and the best part of the gravy was the dripping. Fatzke sulked, shoved in another plug of tobacco and set it to light, sending the smell of burning cherries into the oncoming night. Philbert was sorry for Fatzke. He liked the man and owed him a great deal, so decided to distract the little crowd by reading a couple more of the fliers they’d been given when they’d first arrived.

‘Let’s see what’s on tomorrow,’ he said, for only he and Kwert knew they’d be leaving at dawn. ‘There’s the counting horse, the talking dogs, the acrobats and jugglers, the funambulist on his high-wire, four identical girls playing four identical tunes on four identical mandolins . . .’ Shuffling through the flyers he came across a couple he’d not seen before. ‘There’s this cow of the desert that’s called a camel,’ he began again. ‘It’s got a hump on its back like an oversized saddle and can apparently go for three months without drinking any water . . .’

Fatzke spat and Brother Langer smiled.

‘Go on,’ Kwert encouraged. ‘Your reading is getting really good, Philbert.’

Philbert beamed, picking up the last sheet, which looked the dullest and the most covered in writing. He cleared his throat in the manner of a town crier, but didn’t get too far.

‘Decree from the Militia of the Crown Prince of . . .’ He stopped, having come across several words he couldn’t pronounce, skipped over them and went on, ‘. . . announcing that in view of . . .’ He paused again, more words he didn’t recognise, curiosity goaded by the picture below that showed a man in a cage hoisted from a pole sticking out from one side of a building, looking ruefully at Kwert who smiled and took the flier from him.

‘I know, I know,’ Kwert began, ‘I should never have tempted fate by – ’ Kwert’s eyes scanned the contents of the page. ‘But, my God,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t believe such barbarity in our own country. Why would men do such things?’ The others turned as Kwert held out the piece of paper to no one in particular.

‘Does anyone know anything about this?’ Kwert asked, a hint of his old strength back in his voice. ‘Fatzke? You always seem to know what’s going on – have you heard about this?’

Fatzke took the paper and looked at it upside down, eyes skittering over it as he shook his head. ‘I can’t make out the ­letters,’ he blustered, unwilling to admit he couldn’t read. ‘It’s getting dark and the writing’s very small . . .’ Brother Langer took pity and fetched the paper from him, tilting it to catch the light from the fire.

‘Decree from the militia . . . yes, yes, a-hum . . . shall be ­dangled in the cage for the three days of the Market and then . . . may the Lord have mercy . . .’ Langer’s voice was very quiet and he crossed himself. ‘I do believe they mean to kill the poor man.’

‘After they’ve tortured him,’ Kwert said hotly, trying in vain to push himself to his feet, hands flailing for his sticks, ‘and no doubt he can tell them nothing. The poor soul probably had nothing to do with the Westphal Club.’

‘But Kwert,’ Brother Langer nodded his head towards Philbert, who was sitting very still before the fire, Ullendorf hat low on his brow. ‘What if he was there? What if he knows? You can’t expect him not to say anything. Why, he may have told them everything already.’

Fatzke puffed impatiently at his pipe.

‘You may be more educated than I,’ he grumbled, ‘and the light may be a little dark for my eyes, but there’s no need for you to speak in riddles. What does the dratted thing say?’

Brother Langer dropped his arm, his puppets falling over, forgotten in the dust.

‘Ah Fatzke, it’s yet more of this thing from Lengerrborn.’

Brother Langer glanced at Kwert and Philbert. They’d told him the broad outline of their misfortunes before the island, but none of them comprehended the true consequences of what had happened to Ackersmann and his men. He’d only just learned it himself from Jaspis. He’d meant to broach the subject this ­evening, but it had all been so peaceful, and Philbert had left the Abbey only for a half hour or so, so where had been the harm? He grimaced, then filled them in.

‘Brother Jaspis told me that the soldiers took some of the Westphal prisoners with them for interrogation to the fort over the hill there, most still interred. The monks give them food and water through the bars, but they’re badly treated, some chained to the walls upside down. And now, well, I don’t disbelieve it after this,’ he indicated the piece of paper, sighing deeply before going on. ‘This is a decree, stating that one of the prisoners is being kept in a cage in town, strung at just the right height so people can throw stones and spit at him and the like in support of their country. He’s to stay there for the Market’s duration when – assuming he’s not already dead – they’ll string him up like a sausage on the last night, for the general entertainment of the crowds.’

Fatzke sucked at his pipe and nodded his head as if it ­happened every day; Gruftgang tutted loudly and Kadia went white as a newly washed sheet.

‘There is a proviso, of course,’ Langer went on, ‘and that is to compound lies with treachery. They want to know who ­murdered the policemen in Lengerrborn, and they mean to make this man tell of the conspiracy or hang.’

Kwert hoisted himself up ineffectually on his sticks. ‘We cannot let this happen. I must give myself up. Tell them it was my doing. You can get Philbert away . . .’

Brother Langer laid his hand on Kwert’s arm and although the pressure of it was light, Kwert collapsed like a pile of kindling.

‘That would be madness, Kwert, and you must know it. The man will die one way or another. You cannot believe they’ll actually allow him to go free, and giving them another mouse to play with will serve no purpose at all. But there will be quite a few folk here from Lengerrborn and if they know him, well, they may see things differently. Philbert has been out and about,’ he held up his hand as Philbert tried to interrupt. ‘Oh, only for a short while, I know that, lad, but you don’t exactly blend into the crowd, and there are plenty folk for whom swapping the life of a man they know for a stranger’s, even if that stranger is only a boy they’ve glimpsed once, wouldn’t seem so bad.’

Philbert sat rigid, as did Kwert.

‘Pah!’ said Fatzke unexpectedly. ‘Nobody except us knows what the Schupo said, apart from a couple of doctor quacks, and they all have their heads up their own arses.’

‘But the soldiers,’ Gruftgang said slowly, sucking painful gasps of cold air over his diseased gums, ‘they’ll know. They left a man, remember? After they’d taken the others away?’ He sounded defeated, hollow as his crypts.

Brother Langer shuffled his toes in the ash then rubbed his big hands together. ‘We’ll get you away in the morning, first light,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you over the canal. Jaspis will help.’

‘We couldn’t possibly . . .’ Kwert began, but Philbert interrupted and leant forward to clutch Langer’s hand in his own.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We were going to leave then anyway, but we would surely be glad of your help.’

And that was the evening gone, fizzled out with the fire, nothing left to say. Brother Langer helped Kwert back to his bed; Fatzke and Gruftgang went to check they had tied their loads properly to the cart. Kadia sat with Philbert a small moment.

‘You,’ she said, and put a small hand out to his cheek. ‘I think you look after Raspel and Allah will look after you.’

And then she and her faded bluebell posy were gone too. Only Philbert sitting there by the fire. He picked up the flier and stared at it hard, cursing himself for not having been able to recognise the words, the import, everything they meant. Then he shoved the paper into his pocket, jammed his hat hard down on his head and took off into the shadows, taking the trace of path that headed from the infirmary garden up to the small guard-house by the midden tip.

‘Have to get something,’ Philbert said, and the sleepy monk nodded, ‘back soon,’ and he nodded again.

Philbert rounded the Abbey wall heading back towards the centre of the town, the dull glow of cooking fires flickering and smoking in front of the food stalls, the remains of ox-carcasses and sheep dripping into their embers, men and women sitting around them, drinking, talking, leaning against one other, discussing the day, just as Philbert had done half an hour since. He followed the lanes leading to town’s square, homing in on the splashing of the large public pump that lay at its centre and found the place awash with noise and young bloods chucking each other into the shallow pool that formed around it, spoiling the drinking water for the next morning. He’d reached his destination, could see what he’d come looking for swinging gently in the breeze, the untidy huddle inside inert and unmoving. The cage was just above a normal man’s head-height and it began to move violently from side to side as it was hit by a ­barrage of objects flung by the youths as they emerged dripping from the pump-pond: bottles and jars, squashed pumpkins and cabbages and whatever else they could lay hands on. Philbert could make out a face hidden amongst dirty rags, bruises and blood, as if he’d fallen into a mill-grist or been pounded by stones, his clothing wet and soiled, ringed with crusts of blood and pus. The bars of the cage were stuck with bits of rotten vegetables and even from where Philbert stood he could smell the filth and urine. The youths at the pump decided they’d had enough of taunting what couldn’t hit back – time to head off back to the tavern to warm themselves up. They flung their last missiles as they left, loose stones from the street, old fruit-pits from their pockets. They set the cage and its contents swinging; they swore and spat, threw horse manure from the streets in handfuls. ‘Filthy pig . . . Traitor . . . Murdering bastard!’ Never mind that they were probably all three themselves, or would be during the coming years of revolution.

Philbert emerged from the shadows once the group had passed on, laughing and shoving one another, boasting about what they’d done. He moved beneath the cage, saw the close-up knot of flesh, skin pummelled, covered over in cuts like a crow run over by a cartwheel and left to die by the side of the road. The man had been woken from unconsciousness by the youths’ barrage and he unrolled slightly, clutching at his prison with grimy fingers.

‘No more, no more,’ he mumbled, his few teeth wobbling visibly in white gums. ‘I can tell you nothing. I know nothing.’ His words were choked, drowned by a deep up-welling of phlegm.

Philbert stood beneath the cage as if beneath a crucifix, Christ’s sad head bleeding onto one shoulder, the rags of his misery clinging to the bones of his broken body. He took off his hat to take a closer look and, as he did so, the hands at the bars began a gentle tremor, the man choking out a cry, poking a finger through the bottom of the cage, stretching down towards the boy below. And Philbert recognised that finger, or the way it pointed, and he cocked his head to see the man’s battered face the better, rearranging the pieces here and there until they fit.

‘Is it Herr Federkiel?’ he whispered, shocked to see this man from the Westphal Club who’d described the shapes of potatoes and had wanted to measure Philbert’s head with his callipers.

‘Ah ah,’ groaned the prisoner, his voice thick with throat-rust, words scratching out as if with broken nails upon a crumbling wall. ‘It’s that boy,’ another awful rasp, ‘but how can it be? How can it be?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Philbert murmured. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

The cage rattled alarmingly and Philbert moved away ­instinctively, fearing it would fall.

‘No, no, no,’ it was the dripping of an old tap as the man tried to speak again. ‘A moment, just a moment,’ like warped wood, ‘don’t go, oh please . . .’ A long, long sigh, wind down a draughty chimney, as he got himself together. ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’

‘It’s Philbert,’ said the boy, tears squeezing from his eyes as he looked at the pathetic bundle suspended up above him in the night air.

‘Ah,’ gasped Federkiel. ‘Yes, yes, of course . . . so much I forget; my head is filled with scrambled eggs. All soft and steaming on hot buttered toast, just like Helge used to make.’ He stopped, swallowing a sob. He’d been beaten and interrogated, felt urine seeping down his leg, leaked brown liquid into the seat of his pants, made to lick up his own filth when he didn’t tell his interrogators what he couldn’t tell. His fine clothes had been ruined, his glasses lost, his precious measuring instruments stamped under uncaring feet. He’d seen his friend Schnurrhenker down on his knees, tired and bewildered, tears running silently down his face, holding up his shackled hands as the padlocks were undone and ripped from him so as not to waste them, the guns being raised, the shots in the woods outside Lengerrborn as dawn broke; the soldiers getting bored with kicking their weaker cargo into movement, watching the corpses rolling down the bank towards the river as Federkiel forced himself on, slipping in the splattered excrement of the soldiers’ horses, unable to understand how it had all happened; relieved when they finally got to the fort and were thrown into dungeons so at least they could rest. And then had come a second wave of prisoners, apparently escaped from one prison only to run directly towards another, yet another mystery Federkiel couldn’t understand, yet another sounding out of guns in the woods in the middle of the night; and then the dawn, and the calling out of his name – which had been the only piece of information he’d been able to give them throughout his long hours of torture about the Westphal and its apparent web of spies and rebels about which Federkiel knew absolutely nothing. And, for Federkiel, it all stopped here, halfway between heaven and earth, and somehow here was that boy again, the one with the head, a boy who was running across the square to the pump and bringing back a cannikin of water for Federkiel, which seemed the greatest kindness he’d ever known.

‘Ah,’ he felt a deep happiness as he drank that water down, as if that single draught could wipe away the misery his world had descended into, and he leant down against the bars and put his one good eye to them so that he could see Ullendorf’s wunderkind.

‘How excited we all were that night,’ he whispered, difficulty in every word he spoke, grinding out of him as flour from beneath a heavy quern, ‘to meet both you and Von Ebner – such a great man, and we were to meet him at last.’ He coughed, and there was blood in that cough and it splattered down in a fine mist upon Philbert’s hat as he held it in his arms. ‘Such a mind, such great ideas . . . me and Heinrich often talked after we’d been to the club, sitting at Helge’s table, eating Helge’s fine peach-dumplings, or the schnitzels she had left for us . . .’

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, wanting to hang on to the memory, keep it close, taste it, smell it. Then he shook himself, poking skinny fingers through the bars.

‘Will you do something for me?’ he asked, and he could just make out a movement down below him where the boy still stood.

‘Of course,’ Philbert whispered, unsure whether Federkiel had heard him, he’d gone so quiet, before starting up with what was obviously a great effort.

‘Give Helge a message for me. Tell her what I should have told her years ago . . .’

Philbert’s throat was so tight he couldn’t speak, and anyway could not have brought himself to tell this broken man that Helge was missing, probably dead, just like her brother.

‘Tell her,’ Federkiel’s breath was fast and urgent, as if he’d thought of these words over and over again and now was the only time he was going to get to say them. ‘Tell her she is my nest of spheres, my prism of light, the heptagon of my days . . . can you remember that, Philbert?’

‘I can,’ he said. And he could. The moment the words were spoken he knew every one of them even if he had no idea what they meant. It was like a song that gets stuck in your head after the one and only time you’ve heard it. And then Federkiel closed his eyes and closed his lips, and Philbert stood there for a few moments in case there was more.

‘I’ll tell her,’ he said, and lifted up his hand towards the cage but couldn’t quite reach those fingers clawed around the bars, untroubled that the very last words Federkiel might hear in his life were a lie. Sometimes lies were better than truth, Philbert knew it now if not before, and put his hat back on and returned to the Abbey, no one having realised he’d been gone.