The Skin Map

  “ . . . and Kit here can help,” said Cosimo. Both men turned to him and seemed to expect some sort of reply.

  “I—uh,” ventured Kit, “would be happy to assist in any way I can, of course.” He was not at all certain what he had agreed to just then, but felt it was the right thing to do.

  “Splendid!” said Sir Henry. “More Oporto?” he said, proffering the decanter.

  “I don’t mind if I do,” said Kit, smiling the muzzy smile of the mildly intoxicated.

  While Kit nursed his drink, the other two talked about the impending experiment and how to sabotage it. Eventually, they agreed on a plan and Cosimo said, “There is just one small thing that’s come up, and I’d welcome your advice, Sir Henry.”

  “Of course, dear fellow. Anything. How can I be of service?”

  “We seem to have lost someone on our way here,” said Cosimo. “A young lady friend of Kit’s has gone missing. It appears she followed Kit and failed to complete the crossing.”

  “That is most unfortunate, I daresay.” The lord scientist clucked his tongue with disapproval. “What the devil was she playing at, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Sorry,” said Kit, speaking up. “It was all my fault. I was showing her about the leys and, well . . .” He gave a shrug of helpless ignorance. “I guess something went wrong.”

  “So it would seem.” Sir Henry gave a questioning glance to Cosimo. “One would have thought you might have taken the proper precautions.”

  “He has received no training from me,” replied Cosimo. “It seems he has picked up the knack on his own.”

  This information caused Sir Henry’s eyebrows to rise sharply. “Ah-ha!” he said. “Our young chap is a prodigy? A natural?”

  “I believe he is.”

  “Runs in the family, I suppose.” Sir Henry turned an appraising gaze to Kit. “So much potential. I, for one, would not like to see it wasted.”

  “He will be schooled, never fear,” said Cosimo with conviction.

  “What about the young lady in question?”

  “I know nothing about her whatsoever,” Cosimo said, turning to Kit.

  “Please believe me when I say I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong,” said Kit in his own defence. “I only meant to show her what had happened to me and, well, it happened again. In any case, all I know is that we were together in the alley and then we weren’t. She’s my girlfriend—”

  At Sir Henry’s puzzled expression, Cosimo interjected, “He means sweetheart.”

  “Ah!” said Sir Henry. “Pray continue.”

  “Wilhelmina’s gone, and I feel responsible,” concluded Kit. “I said I’d take care of her, but I lost her instead. We have to rescue her.”

  “Find her we shall, sir! Never fear,” replied Sir Henry. “And once we have found her, the young lady will be returned to her place of origin—of that you may be sure.”

  This made Kit feel better. “Then shouldn’t we start looking right away?”

  “Indeed, sir. I stand ready to offer my fullest assistance.”

  “As always,” said Cosimo, “your generosity runs far ahead of our request. We are most grateful.”

  The nobleman waved aside the compliment. “Tosh, sir! Think nothing of it.”

  “I was hoping you might have some idea about where we should start our search,” Cosimo continued.

  “Of course. Tell me, exactly where did the young woman go missing?”

  “On Stane Way,” answered Cosimo.

  Sir Henry pursed his lips for a moment, then took a sip of port. After a moment’s reflection, he sighed and said, “Yes, well, it would have to be there, I suppose.”

  “Is that bad?” asked Kit.

  “Let us say that it will multiply the difficulty of our task inestimably.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Stane Way is a particularly old and active intersection,” began Cosimo.

  “More circus than intersection!” offered Sir Henry. “There are at least five major crossings along that line—if not more. Your friend has presumably parted company with you at one of them. But consider the Stane ley as a corridor with doors opening to other rooms, do you see? Each of those other rooms has doors, and there is no telling where the doors from those other rooms might lead. In any case, I warn you,” he said sternly, his beard quivering at its point, “it will be dangerous. There are forces that wish us ill—”

  “Like those men?” wondered Kit.

  “We met Burley Men outside Sefton,” explained Cosimo.

  “Ah!” confirmed Sir Henry. “So the enemy are nosing around again.”

  “They know about my piece of the map.”

  “Do they now!” exclaimed Sir Henry. “This changes everything.”

  The nobleman grew reflective. Kit and Cosimo exchanged an uneasy glance. Sir Henry nodded to himself, then said, “I feel I must warn you both, Burley and his brutes are not the only danger we will face. There are others. Also,” he cautioned, “you must accept that it may not be a swift search. Such an undertaking will require a great deal of patience.”

  Kit considered this. “Is there no way to speed up the search? Thing is, Wilhelmina’s not a very strong person. She is barely able to cope with normal life—something like this could kill her. I feel terrible about getting her involved, and if anything happens to her, it’ll be my fault.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how she’s going to survive on her own.”

  “Be that as it may, we dare not rush headlong into a rescue,” replied Sir Henry. “Alea iacta est.”

  “Sir?” wondered Kit.

  “The die has been cast.”

  “No kidding,” said Kit.

  PART TWO

  The Macau Tattau

  CHAPTER 7

  In Which Wilhelmina Lands on Her Feet

  Stinging rain and a savage blast of wind left Wilhelmina standing in a muddy puddle gasping for breath. Wet to the skin, she smeared the water from her eyes with the back of her hand and looked around—instantly closing her eyes again: an instinctive reaction, the rational mind’s desperate attempt to maintain coherence in the face of a displacement so severe as to shatter reality to smithereens.

  London had vanished.

  In place of the lively, thrusting metropolitan conurbation was an empty rural wilderness of damp brown fields under low autumnal skies. In that briefest of glimpses, she had seen enough to know that whatever had happened to her threatened not only her perception of herself in the world, but sanity itself. In the grip of such a devastating shock, she did what anyone would do: she opened her mouth and screamed.

  She put her head back and wailed, opening her soul to the sky, broadcasting her terror to the four winds. She screamed and kept on screaming until black spots danced before her eyes, and then she screamed again—loud, ragged, ugly bursts that rent the air and made her red in the face. When she could scream no more, she clenched her fists and stamped her feet, her boots splashing up mud from the trackway until, forces spent at last, she crumpled, subsiding into whimpers and moans, shedding tears for her fractured world.

  Some part of her mind maintained a stubborn detachment, refusing to yield to the madness. Eventually, this practical awareness asserted itself, saying in effect: Get a grip, girl. You’ve had a nasty shock. Okay. So, what are you going to do about it? Sit all day in the mud and throw a tantrum like a two-year-old? It’s cold out here; you’ll freeze to death. Drag your wits together, and take charge!

  Shaking water from her hands, she got to her knees and, placing a palm against her soggy bottom, looked around. Her quick survey confirmed that she was on a simple one-track lane in the midst of a bleak countryside of tended fields, and that she was very much alone. “Kit?” she called, but heard only the lonely call of a low-flying crow.

  He’s toast, she thought, rising unsteadily to her feet. I’ll murder him in tiny little pieces. “Kit!” she shouted—and then it hit her: a rising wave of nausea that left her heaving in the middle of the trackw
ay. She vomited once, then again, and felt better for it. Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket, she made her way toward a field marker she could see a few hundred yards along.

  As she walked, she told herself that something very weird had happened and that whatever the explanation, it was all her loser boyfriend’s fault. The thought did not comfort her as much as she might have hoped, nor did imagining what she would do to him when she caught up with him again. The enormous strangeness of her undreamed-of situation at once dwarfed and engulfed all other concerns.

  People did not go jumping from one place to another with nothing in between. It simply did not happen. She was sure Kit had been up to something, but she had never—not even for a nanosecond—imagined that he might have been telling some loopy version of the truth. And yet, here she was in the middle of nowhere—plucked off the teeming streets of overpopulated London and dropped in a lonely country lane—more or less as Kit had said. So this must be Cornwall. Or Devon.

  She reached the marker stone and paused. There was nothing more to be seen except gently undulating hills—some wooded, some in grazing land—and ploughed fields stretching in every direction. She had no choice but to continue on until she reached a farmhouse or village where she could beg the use of a phone to call a taxi. Wrapping her arms around her, she plodded on and in a little while saw one of those old-fashioned wooden signposts with fingers pointing various directions. Her heart leapt at the sight. She picked up her pace and hurried on, soon to learn that the sign marked a significant road paved with square, hand-set stones.

  She strode to the sign and paused to read it. The faded writing was in two languages, neither of which she recognized: Cornish, she decided, and something else. Gaelic, maybe? Or, were those two the same thing? In any case, the nearest place indicated on the greyed and weathered signpost was twelve something. Miles, probably. Or kilometres. She hoped it was kilometres.

  Determined to put the unsettling strangeness of her predicament behind her and find the nearest human habitation, she stepped onto the road and began walking with purpose. After perhaps two or three miles or whatever-they-were, she heard a sound behind her—a slow, steady creak-clack-creak-clack. Turning around, she saw a horse-drawn wagon trundling along the road towards her. Obviously, a farmer, Mina thought. She hurried to meet the wagon, intent on hitching a ride to wherever he was going.

  As the vehicle drew nearer, she realised that it was not, as she had first imagined, a simple field conveyance, but a much more substantial vehicle: a large, high-sided affair with a cloth top drawn over curved hoops to form a round tentlike covering. The wagon was pulled by not one but two rangy, long-eared mules, and sitting on the driver’s bench was a very plump man in a baggy cloth hat. She stopped and allowed the vehicle to meet her, whereupon it slowed and rolled to a halt.

  “Hiya!” she called, putting on a chirpy voice in the fledgling hope that her damp and bedraggled appearance might be overlooked.

  “Guten Tag,” came the reply, which sent Wilhelmina instantly back to her childhood and her German grandmother’s kitchen.

  The unexpected oddity of encountering a Deutschsprachigen on the road only served to deepen her already fathomless confusion. Bereft of speech, she could only stare at the man.

  Thinking, perhaps, that she had not understood, the stranger smiled and repeated his greeting.

  “Guten Tag,” Mina replied. Grasping for her long-disused German, she said, “Ich freue mich, Sie kennen zu lernen.” The words felt lumpy and wooden in her mouth, and her tongue resisted making them. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  “Es tut mir Leid, Fräulein. Nein,” answered the man. He eyed her curiously, taking in her odd clothes and short hair, then squirmed in his seat and searched both ways down the road. “Sind Sie alleine hier?”

  It took her a moment, but the words came winging back to her as if from a very great distance. He’s asking if I am alone out here, she thought. “Ja,” she answered. “Alleine.”

  The fat man nodded, then spouted a longish sentence that again sent Wilhelmina right back to the German she had learned as a child—the long-outdated language of her grandmother, who had learned it from her immigrant grandmother, and much different from the Hochdeutsch Mina had studied in school. Nevertheless, she worked it out that he was offering her a ride to the next town. She accepted on the spot. The traveller put down the reins and stood, leaned over, and indicated the iron step ring projecting from the base of the wagon bed behind the front wheel, then reached down his hand. She placed a muddy boot on the step and accepted the offered hand, and was pulled effortlessly up and onto the wooden seat. As soon as she had settled on the bench, the man picked up the reins and gave them a snap. “Hü! ” he called; the wagon gave a jolt, the wheels creaked, and the mules resumed their languid clip-clop pace.

  They proceeded in silence, rocking over the uneven road. Now and then, she stole a glance at the driver of the wagon. Her companion was a well-upholstered man of indeterminate age, with a mild, pleasant demeanour. His clothes were clean and tidy, but so very basic as to be nondescript—consisting of a plain wool jacket of dark green over a rough but clean linen shirt and spacious breeches of heavy dark hopsacking. His shoes were sturdy ankle-high boots, well crafted, but scuffed and worn and badly in need of a shine. The plump fellow presented an altogether unremarkable appearance—save for his face: smooth, pink as a baby’s, round, even-featured, with pale blue eyes beneath pale eyebrows, and ample cheeks that glowed in the brisk autumn breeze beneath the fine haze of a thin, stubbly blond beard.

  It was that sweet-natured face that made him, she decided, for the countenance with which he faced the world wore an expression of benign cheerfulness—as if all that met his gaze amused and delighted, as if the world and everything in it existed only for his pleasure. He seemed to exude goodwill.

  Finally, Wilhelmina cleared her throat and said, “Ich spreche ein biss-chen Deutsch, ja?”

  The man looked at her and smiled. “Sehr gut, Fräulein.”

  “Thank you for stopping for me,” she said. “Ich bin Wilhelmina.” My name is Wilhelmina.

  “A good name,” replied the man, his own accent broad but light. “I, too, have a name,” he announced proudly. “I am Englebert Stifflebeam.” Lifting a plump hand, he raised his shapeless hat and made a comical little bow from the waist.

  The old-fashioned gesture touched her strangely and made her smile. “I am happy to meet you, Herr Stifflebeam.”

  “Please! Please, Herr Stifflebeam is my father. I am simply Etzel.”

  “Etzel it is.”

  “You know,” he confided cheerfully, “I almost did not stop for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I thought you were a man.” He indicated her strange clothes and short hair. He smiled and shrugged. “But then I said to myself—think, Etzel, maybe this is how they are dressing in Bohemia. You have never been out of München, so how do you know what they do in Bohemia?”

  Mina heard the word Bohemia and wondered at it. She had to think a moment to phrase the next question in German, then said, “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to be in Cornwall?”

  He gave her a strange look. “Bless me, Fräulein, but I have never been to England. This Cornwall is in England, oder?”

  “But we are in Cornwall now,” she informed him. “This is Cornwall.”

  He put back his head and laughed; it was a full and happy sound. “Young people must have their jokes, I suppose. No, we are not in England, Fräulein. We are in Bohemia as you surely must know,” he told her, then added by way of explanation: “We are on the road that leads to Prague.”

  “Prague?”

  Englebert regarded her with a look of pitying concern. “Ja, I think so.” He nodded slowly. “At least, this is what the signs tell me.” He examined her again for a moment, then said, “Could it be that you are lost, Fräulein?”

  “Jawohl,” she sighed, slumping back in her seat. “Most definitely, lost.” The despera
te strangeness of her plight came crashing in upon her with renewed vengeance. First London had disappeared, and now Cornwall. What next? Tears of fear and frustration welled up in her large dark eyes. She thought, What in God’s name is happening to me?

  “There, there, Schnuckel. Not to worry,” said her podgy companion as if reading her mind. “Etzel will take good care of you. There is nothing to fear.” He reached behind the seat back and produced a heavy woollen blanket, which he passed to her. “Here, your clothes are wet and it is getting cold. Wrap yourself in this. You will feel better, ja?”

  Accepting the blanket, she brushed at the tears with the heels of her hands. Schnuckel—it was what her grandmother had always called her, the same grandmother, in fact, whose German she spoke and whose name she bore. “Vielen Dank.” She sniffed, gathering the travel robe around her. As the warmth began to seep into her, she did feel a little better for his reassurance. Keep it together, girl, she told herself. You’ve got to keep a clear head. Think!

  Her first thought was that without a doubt her current predicament was all her low rat of a boyfriend’s fault. All that talk about laying lines, or whatever it was, and crossing thresholds into other worlds and all that malarkey. It was so . . . she searched for a word. Impossible. So utterly impossible. No rational and sane person would have, could have believed him.

  Yet, here she was.

  But where was that?

  “Excuse me, Herr Stifflebeam—”

  “Etzel,” he corrected her with a smile.

  “Excuse me, Etzel,” she said, “but where are we exactly?”

  “Well, now,” he said, sucking his teeth as he considered, “we are a little way from the village of Hodyn in the province of Bohemia, which is part of the great empire of Austria.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Where did you think we might be, if I may ask?”

  “I hardly know,” she replied. At least she was growing more comfortable with the language as, like a rusty pump that only required priming, the words began to flow more easily. “I was travelling with someone who has gone missing. There was a storm, you see, and I seem to have become a little confused.”