Atticus addressed the room:
“My name is Atticus Turner,” he said. “Like you, I’m here as a guest of Mr. Braithwhite, but I’m afraid I’m still in the dark as to why. I came to Ardham looking for my father; I haven’t found him yet, and I don’t know what Mr. Braithwhite wanted with him, and I don’t know what Mr. Braithwhite wants with me.” He paused and looked around at their upturned faces, to see if anyone cared to volunteer the information; but they only went on staring and scowling.
“I don’t know what Mr. Braithwhite wants with me,” Atticus continued, “but I do have a theory. And I was hoping you gentlemen wouldn’t mind helping me test that theory.
“I understand you all belong to a club called the Order of the Ancient Dawn. I happened across a copy of your by-laws this morning, and I’ve been looking through it.” He drew out the red book from inside his suit jacket and held it up. “I hope that’s not a breach of security,” he added, acknowledging the looks of consternation this caused. “I know fraternal societies like to keep secrets. I’ve got some experience with that. My father and my uncle George, here, they’re both members of the Prince Hall Freemasons, and there are certain things they just won’t talk about.
“You gentlemen familiar with the Prince Hall Freemasons? I know you’ve heard of the Masons, but Prince Hall—this might interest you—Prince Hall was an abolitionist who lived in Boston at the time of the Revolution. He joined the Massachusetts militia to help fight for independence. And he wanted to join the local Freemasons, but because he was a colored man, they wouldn’t let him in. So he and a group of other freedmen formed their own Masonic lodge.
“I have to say, I was disappointed to read in your rulebook that Prince Hall wouldn’t have been welcome to join your club, either. Not surprised,” he added, looking at Preston. “But disappointed.
“But then I kept reading, and I found out there’s a loophole—a membership clause that supersedes all the others. Men who are related by blood to Titus Braithwhite are automatically considered members of the Order. Not just eligible for membership—they’re members, period. Don’t even need to apply.
“Of course, ‘by blood’ is a vexed phrase, and there’s something like ten paragraphs in the by-laws spelling out who does and doesn’t count as a blood relation. But the way I read it, a direct descendant of Titus Braithwhite would certainly qualify. Assuming there was such a person.
“And there’s more! Braithwhite members of the Order are special members. How does the book put it? ‘Not just Sons of Adam, but Sons Among Sons.’” Atticus glanced up at the banner over his head. “Sons Among Sons, that’s a nice play on words . . . But what it means is, Braithwhites are club officers. They’re empowered to call lodge meetings—and to give orders to other members. Orders that must be obeyed.
“Which brings me back to my theory,” Atticus said. “I think the reason I’m here has something to do with the fact that I’m a direct descendant of Titus Braithwhite—and maybe not just a descendant, but the last one. I’m not a hundred percent sure that’s the case. It’s a hypothesis. But I think you gentlemen know the truth of it and I believe that’s why you’re here.
“Now if it is true, I could just order you to tell me, and by your own rules you’d be bound to. I could do that, but the fact is I’ve traveled a long way in the past few days, and I’m tired, and at this point I’d rather be talking direct to Mr. Braithwhite. So what I’m actually going to do is this: As a Son Among Sons, I’m going to have you all stand up, right now, and walk out of this room. Leave your glasses and your plates where they are; just take yourselves. Go out that door and through the foyer and outside, onto the front lawn. You can use the benches if you like. But you stay out there, until either I or Mr. Braithwhite tell you it’s OK to come back inside.
“Gentlemen,” Atticus concluded, “that is an order.”
Silence as he finished. Preston had his cane in a death grip and looked as if he himself were being strangled; nor was he the only Antenaut exhibiting signs of abject fury. As the moment stretched out, Atticus had time to wonder whether he’d guessed wrong, and he felt George and Letitia tense, waiting for the mob to erupt.
Then a chair scraped, and Atticus turned to see a red-faced Son of Adam getting slowly to his feet. The man gave a curt bow and turned and started for the door. The other two lodge members at that table were the next to rise, and then two at a table next to them. And then they were all standing, even Preston, though he didn’t bow.
As the Antenauts went out to the foyer, the servants began their own exodus through the kitchen. William lingered to close the doors behind the departing lodge members before following the rest of the staff. Which left Atticus, George, Letitia, and the young man at the back corner table, who alone among the white people had thoroughly enjoyed Atticus’s performance. As Atticus walked over to him, he applauded, holding up his hands to display his silver ring.
“I know you already know this,” the young Antenaut said, “but the by-laws actually state that the Son Among Sons is the oldest Braithwhite present. Which in this case happens to be me. I’ve got a year and ten days on you.” He grinned. “Not that those other idiots know that. And not even that old fart Pendergast will risk breaking the rules . . . Just as well. He’d probably smash the jaw of any ordinary Negro who talked to him that way.”
“He might try,” said Atticus.
Braithwhite’s grin broadened. “It’s Caleb, by the way,” he said. “Would you like to sit down, Atticus?” He gave a nod, and a chair on Atticus’s side of the table slid out on its own. Atticus blinked but didn’t flinch. He remained standing, placing a hand on the chair back.
“Caleb,” Atticus said. “And Samuel Braithwhite, that’d be your father?”
“That’s right.”
“But it was you driving the Daimler, right? And you’re the one who picked up my father in Chicago.”
“That was me,” Caleb agreed. “My father’s not much for long road trips.”
“Why bring my father into it?” Atticus asked. “I’m the one you really want, right? The one your father wants, for whatever . . . Why not just come get me?”
“Because there are rules,” Caleb Braithwhite said. “You had to come of your own free will, and if I’d asked you, you might have said no. Would have said no, is my guess . . . But we can’t refuse our fathers, can we?”
“Where is my father?”
“Safe. And he’ll stay that way, as long as you do what you’re told.”
“I want to see him.”
“I’m sure you do.” Braithwhite paused, mouth open, as George and Letitia came and stood beside Atticus. “Now, now,” said Braithwhite; George let out a grunt and dropped the steak knife he was holding. As the blade clattered to the floor, Braithwhite shifted his gaze to Letitia, who was poised with her hands open at her sides.
“I want to see my father,” Atticus said. “Now.”
Braithwhite continued to eyeball Letitia.
“Mine first,” he said.
There was a service elevator in the kitchen. “Family only,” Caleb Braithwhite said as he pulled open the gate.
“It’s all right,” Atticus told George and Letitia. “Wait down here for me.”
“You two should finish dinner,” Caleb said. He looked over at William, who was hovering in the background. “Take care of them, will you? And send someone down to the village to fetch Delilah.”
“Yes, sir.”
The elevator rose slowly. Caleb Braithwhite used the time to share another rule. “My father isn’t a tactful man,” he said. “He may say things that make you want to hit him. But I’d advise you not to waste the effort. He’s immune.”
“To being hit?” Atticus said.
“To a long list of things.”
“Maybe I’ll just hit you, then.”
Caleb smiled. “You might try,” he said.
On the third floor, the elevator opened into a small private dining room. A table with a single chair at
its head held the remains of a meal.
There was a painting on the wall opposite the elevator. More abstract than the portrait downstairs, it showed a crowned figure in robes standing beneath a pink sky. This kingly figure had a hand outstretched towards a line of shadow shapes issuing from a stand of trees. Those closest to the trees were little more than dark blobs, but those nearer to the king had begun to sprout limbs and heads and tails, though even the one at the king’s feet was not quite recognizable. A dog, maybe.
“Father?” Caleb Braithwhite called, standing by one of the room’s two doorways. In the distance there was a loud slam and a rattle of something falling. Then silence for a bit, and finally, approaching footsteps.
Samuel Braithwhite didn’t look like a wizard or a king. He looked like a banker after hours, or maybe an inventor in the Edison mold. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned and he was wiping his hands with a rag as he came in. He seemed neither surprised nor especially pleased to find Atticus in his dining room, but as though determined to make the best of the intrusion, he spent several moments looking Atticus up and down.
“He’s darker than I expected,” Samuel Braithwhite said finally. “Are you sure he’s the right one?”
Caleb nodded. “It’s him.”
“My guests are all out on the lawn.”
“Yes, sir. That—”
“William called up and told me what happened. How did he get a copy of the by-laws?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Caleb said. “He’s had the run of the house all day. I suppose he just found it.”
“Hmm.” Braithwhite regarded his son through narrowed eyes. “And when you saw what was happening downstairs, why didn’t you put a stop to it?”
“I—”
“Never mind. I know why.” Braithwhite sighed. “So . . . It’s Turner, is it?”
“Mr. Turner, to you,” said Atticus.
“Do you have any idea the bother you’ve just caused me? The Sons of Adam are insufferable enough under the best of circumstances. Now I’ve got to meet with them when they haven’t had their supper.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you.”
“You don’t know the meaning of sorry. Yet.” Braithwhite gave his hands a final wipe and tossed the rag on the table. “So, Mister Turner, you want to know what you’re doing here?”
Atticus nodded. “I guess it’s not to share in the family fortune.”
“No,” Samuel Braithwhite said. “You are the family fortune.”
“Come again?”
Rather than repeat himself, Braithwhite gestured at the painting on the wall. “What do you think of this artwork, Mr. Turner?”
Atticus shrugged. “Not really my thing,” he said.
“The artist’s name was Josef Tannhauser. He was a contemporary of Titus Braithwhite’s. Not a lodge member, but he had similar interests. He died in a Boston asylum in 1801. This painting, one of his last, is called Genesis 2:19. Are you familiar with the verse?”
Atticus shook his head.
Braithwhite quoted: “‘And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.’ In Tannhauser’s conception, this act of naming is much more than a simple matter of picking labels. Adam is sharing in the creation, assigning each creature its final form and its station in the hierarchy of nature.”
“Putting everything in its place,” Atticus said.
“Exactly. At the dawn of time, just for a moment, everything is where and as it should be, from God to man to woman down to the lowliest wriggling creature.” He looked at Atticus. “And then entropy sets to work, as it will. Paradise is lost; Babel and the Flood bring confusion and disorder; what was an elegant hierarchy becomes a mess of tribes and nations. Of course,” Braithwhite added, “it didn’t really happen that way. Biblical literalism is for the simple. But it’s a useful parable.”
“About entropy,” Atticus said. Entropy and history and social evolution, or devolution: The red book had had a lot to say on those subjects. “And that’s where you come in, right? You and your Order, you’re going to turn things around, find a way back to the Garden. With magic.”
Braithwhite pursed his lips. “That’s a vulgar word,” he said. Looking pointedly at Atticus: “A simple man’s word. We’re not magicians. We’re scientists. Philosophers of nature. Nature,” he repeated, rapping his knuckles on the dining table. “Nature is solid. Nature has rules. People who go on about magic believe that anything is possible. It isn’t. You don’t just wave a wand and turn lead into gold. It doesn’t work that way.”
“How does it work, then?”
“For the majority, it doesn’t work at all. Nature holds itself impervious to the wishings of would-be sorcerers. But.” He reached for the table again and ran his hand slowly over the wood grain. “There are cracks. Not exceptions to the rules, you understand—there’s no such thing—but special cases, natural anomalies that can be discovered and exploited by men of sufficient vision. Even then there are strict limits on what’s possible—a token wonder here and there is all most seekers can hope for. Only the most extraordinary of natural philosophers can move beyond that, to truly great works.”
“Men such as yourself.”
Braithwhite, sensing he was being mocked, grew testy. “My full potential has yet to be demonstrated,” he said. “But I’m already more powerful than any other living initiate. You’d do well to keep that in mind.”
“What about Titus Braithwhite?”
“He was one of a kind. A genius of the art.”
“Yeah,” said Atticus. “And how’d that work out for him, in the end?”
“Badly,” Braithwhite acknowledged. “It’s perilous work, to challenge entropy, and genius is no guarantee against accidents. Titus Braithwhite understood the risks. He chose to push on, regardless.”
“And burned the house down.”
“Fire was part of it,” Samuel Braithwhite said. “We still don’t know precisely what happened that night. An Ardhamite villager named Tobias Foote, who was long believed to be the only survivor of the catastrophe, said that before it imploded, the lodge blazed with every color in nature and some outside it. The sight drove Foote mad—he ended up in the same asylum as Josef Tannhauser and died within the year. I have the diary he kept before he passed. It’s gibberish, for the most part, but among the ravings are hints of the existence of a second survivor—a ‘dark woman’ who fled into the Wood just as the house began to glow.
“But that discovery came much later. At the time, it was an unmitigated disaster. All the best minds in the Order perished. The handful of lodge members who weren’t present for the ritual were all second-rate hangers-on, and in the wake of the catastrophe, they scattered. A huge body of esoteric knowledge was lost and the work the Order had been undertaking came to a dead stop.
“It wasn’t until the beginning of this century that my father rediscovered some of that lost knowledge and began putting the pieces of the Order back together again. We’ve made great strides since then, had some extraordinary successes, and we’re ready now, we think, to take up the great work that was interrupted in 1795. But the world hasn’t stood still either. When the Order of the Ancient Dawn was first founded, the age of kings was only just giving way to the age of the common man—and Titus Braithwhite’s horror at that prospect was part of what drove him to take the chances he did. I can only imagine his horror today, after a hundred and eighty years of the common man. And all of that is nothing compared to what’s coming in the next few decades. So you see, we need to act quickly. We’re running out of time.”
“Well, that’s all very important-sounding,” Atticus said. “But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“Adam’s Sons, Mr. Turner,” Samuel Braithwhite said. “Adam’s Sons: The power of the true philosopher is carried in the blood—and Titus
Braithwhite, a Son Among Sons, was a very powerful man. You are a reservoir of that power. Diluted, no doubt, and also tainted somewhat, but still useful for the work we have to do. The Order of the Ancient Dawn requires you.”
Atticus looked from Braithwhite to his son, searching their faces for some sign that this was all a big put-on, a rich man’s elaborate joke. The truly funny thing was, he wasn’t the least surprised; while reading the red book, he’d imagined something very much like this. It was just that it sounded so much more ridiculous spoken aloud.
“You require me,” Atticus said. “To be your magic Negro?”
But Braithwhite didn’t see the humor of it. “I don’t think you’ve grasped your situation,” he said. “I can understand why you might be confused. The problem is you’re two very different things at once. On the one hand, you’re the avatar of Titus Braithwhite, the closest thing to him still walking on this earth. It’s out of respect for that that I’ve treated you the way I have: inviting you to my house instead of having you dragged here; keeping you not just safe, but comfortable; welcoming you, feeding you, clothing you.
“All that, for Titus Braithwhite. But at the same time, yes, you’re Turner, the Negro. And that I have no particular respect for. I’ll tolerate it—in my house, even in my presence—for the sake of the other; but my tolerance isn’t infinite, and you’re already testing the limits.”
Immune, Atticus thought, hands itching to turn into fists. Be interesting to test the limits of that. But he hadn’t forgotten why he was here and didn’t step to.
“I want to see my father.”
“If I let you see him, will you stop bothering my other guests? Will you behave?”
“I’ll leave your guests alone,” Atticus said. “As long as they do the same for me.”
Braithwhite pursed his lips again. But if the old man’s exasperation was plain, so was his desire to end this conversation. “Take care of it,” he told his son. “And see that he doesn’t cause any more trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” Caleb Braithwhite said.