He turned to Pin. ‘Tell me, can you imagine anything worse than that?’
Pin, convinced that Mr Gaufridus must be planning to bury him alive, was backing towards the door.
‘I . . . I can’t,’ he replied.
‘Good,’ said Mr Gaufridus, ‘then you will understand why I have made ‘‘all this’’. True, there are those out there who build coffins with alarms and bells and flags, but not I. It is too late to ring a bell when you are buried. The damage has been done, not to your body but to your head. I, Goddfrey Gaufridus, have addressed the real root of the problem.’
‘Which is?’ asked Pin shakily, still eyeing this strangely cool character with deep suspicion.
‘That a person should be dead before he is buried.’
‘Oh,’ said Pin. So he is not going to bury me alive, he thought, but it was little comfort.
Mr Gaufridus continued. ‘You will, in the course of your employment with me, have to know how to use all of this apparatus.’ As he spoke he took Pin by the elbow and manoeuvred him towards the table. ‘Perhaps you could oblige?’ he said, and he helped Pin up and laid him down.
‘This is one of the first machines I ever designed and I have to say I am very pleased with it.’ He pulled off Pin’s boot and sock and slipped a ring of leather around his big toe and tightened it. Poor Pin, his suspicion now replaced by utter bewilderment, tried to raise himself up on his elbows, but Mr Gaufridus, oblivious to his discomfort, pushed him back down.
‘Do you think if you were merely asleep that this might wake you?’
As he spoke Mr Gaufridus reached up and began rhythmically pulling down on the overhead handle. The cogs and wheels began to turn and Pin’s foot started jerking violently upwards in a terrible syncopation.
‘It might,’ said Pin, raising his voice to be heard above the creaking hinges and the rattling of the chain. ‘But I am sure that I would have to be in a very deep sleep for someone to think I was dead in the first place.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Gaufridus was thoughtful. It was rare he had the opportunity to test his inventions on a live body and he intended to make the most of it. ‘Then let us try this,’ he declared. He opened a slim drawer in the chest behind him and withdrew a rather long needle with which he poked, quite firmly it must be said, the exposed sole of Pin’s foot.
‘Aaaarrrgh,’ shouted Pin, and he leaped off the table, forgetting that he was still attached to the toe-pulling machine. The result could have been catastrophic except that Mr Gaufridus grabbed him before he could bring the whole machine down from the ceiling. Wordlessly, though tutting occasionally, Mr Gaufridus extricated him from the tangle of leather and strings and chains. After that Pin declined to take part in any more demonstrations, refusing the tongue-yanker with a firmly closed mouth, and insisted that Mr Gaufridus merely tell him about the equipment. Whether he was disappointed or angry, or even equivocal about the matter, could not be gleaned from Mr Gaufridus’s visage, but he agreed to Pin’s terms and the two of them then spent the next hour examining all sorts of instruments and devices designed to ensure that the deceased was just that, and not sleeping or in a coma or drunk.
The devices were many and varied. It seemed that Mr Gaufridus had run the gamut of pain-inducing practices that might be usefully employed to waken the dead. These stretched from the uncomfortable – toe-pulling and ear-tugging – to the rather more painful – knuckle-whacking and shouting in the ear – to the unimaginably excruciating, details of which can be found in Mr Gaufridus’s book on the subject, Dead or Alive? (a few copies remain in legible condition). Even the waters of the Foedus were put to good use. When bottled they increased beyond recognition in strength and odour, and Mr Gaufridus was quite sure that one whiff was enough to wake the dead. As he went from one invention to another, Mr Gaufridus expounded his theory that a dead body should be lighter than a live one on account of the soul having left it.
‘How much would a soul weigh?’ asked Pin.
‘A very good question, young man,’ said Mr Gaufridus. ‘It is easy enough to construct a set of scales, of course, but to have a person on them at the exact moment life leaves their body, that is the difficulty.’
Pin was confident by now that Mr Gaufridus was just the sort of person to solve such a problem. By the end of the morning, despite his initial doubts, Pin had to admire Mr Gaufridus’s determination that none should be buried alive. It was a lofty ideal indeed. Mr Gaufridus, encouraged by Pin’s curiosity and intelligent questioning, was happy to offer him the job.
‘Apart from watching bodies,’ asked Pin, ‘what else exactly will I be doing?’
Mr Gaufridus thought for a moment. ‘All sorts, my dear fellow, all sorts.’
And ‘all sorts’ was a wholly reasonable description of Pin’s duties. He spent his days toe-pulling, sole-pricking and tongue-yanking, not to mention fitting in coffin carpentry – the precision of his dovetail joints was much admired by Mr Gaufridus – and even the sincere consolation of grieving relatives. By night, if there was a body to be watched, he lay dozing on the bench in the Cella Moribundi, contemplating the change in his fortunes, secure in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed. As the weeks went by Mr Gaufridus relied more and more on Pin to look after the day-to-day running of the undertaking business while he spent his time maintaining and constructing his elaborate machines. Pin even began to sense changes in Mr Gaufridus’s mood from the tiniest alterations in his expression.
Tonight, however, when Pin arrived, Mr Gaufridus was merely tidying up and making ready to go.
‘Your last night with poor Sybil,’ he said, indicating the door into the Cella Moribundi with a nod. ‘She’ll be gone tomorrow.’
Pin bade him goodnight. He listened until he heard the door to the street slam shut before crossing the room and stepping into the Cella Moribundi. He didn’t mind the dead bodies really, there was little room for the squeamish in this city, and the benefits of actually having a job far outweighed the disadvantages. Granted Mr Gaufridus’s basement room wasn’t the warmest of places – after all, dead people preferred to be kept slightly chilled – but it was better than being out on the street.
Southerners were quite happy to sit with their dead for the requisite seventy-two hours. In fact, they turned the three days of waiting into a sort of party in the dead person’s honour. Northerners, on the other hand, considered this practice rather vulgar (not to mention inconvenient) so undertakers usually employed a fellow, in this case Pin, to sit with the corpse in their place. And of course, in some ways it was a measure of wealth that a family could afford to pay extra for this service. How they liked to tell their neighbours of the extra expense incurred by tongue-yanking.
If by the third day the body still showed no signs of life, then it was considered safe to bury it. By then it was usually quite apparent in other ways that the soul was well and truly gone. Pin, with his sensitive nose, knew before most when a body was on the turn, so perhaps it was fitting that he should end up with such a job. There were benefits to having such a gift. A keen sense of smell enhances a dull existence. All the same, thought Pin, as he went towards his lifeless charge, in a city such as Urbs Umida, he couldn’t help but think that life would have been rather less unpleasant if he had the sensory capacity of an ordinary mortal as opposed to that of a dog.
Chapter Five
Memento Mori
Sybil lay on a plump cream cushion on the table. Beneath the cushion a black velvet cloth hung to the floor where it sat in soft folds. She was wearing a white foot-length gown knotted at the feet and pulled tightly around the neck. A scarlet embroidered sash was loose around the waist, and pinned to her left shoulder was a delicate glittering brooch in the shape of a butterfly. Her hands were clasped across her chest and she wore three rings on each hand. Her long dark hair was arranged to frame her pale face and her head rested on a tasselled velvet pillow. Her eyes were closed, her long eyelashes brushing her cheeks, and her lips were red. There was no evidence of
the parallel depressions across her body made by the cart wheels that had so cruelly ended her short life. Mr Gaufridus prided himself on the peaceful look he achieved on the faces of his customers. He loved nothing better than to hear the words ‘She looks as if she is asleep’ (even though, of course, he had made rigorous checks to ensure that this was not the case).
He was rarely disappointed. Those were in fact the very words the poor girl’s family had uttered only two days ago when they saw her. Her mother had burst into tears yet again and all the while her father paced the small room, cursing the carriage that had run her over. He cursed even louder a certain youth, a Mr Henry Belding, who had by some trickery managed to woo their daughter and entice her over to his side, the south side. Mr Gaufridus had watched all this with an unchanging expression and a gentle consolatory murmur whenever he deemed necessary.
‘How could it happen?’ wailed her mother again and again. ‘My darling Sybil. So well brought up and yet she falls for such an unsuitable lad. His father was a crossing sweeper, his mother a gin seller. The shame!’
‘Indeed,’ murmured Mr Gaufridus. ‘I cannot imagine the distress it must have caused you. At least now you may take comfort from the fact that she is in a better place than with the son of a crossing sweeper.’
Sybil’s mother looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but Mr Gaufridus was giving nothing away. Facial paralysis could be advantageous in his line of work.
Pin stood at the table and looked at the girl’s peaceful face. The air was cool and he could smell the familiar aroma of death. It wasn’t unpleasant; in fact the smells that Pin most associated with death were not human at all but the undertaker’s herbal ointments used to preserve the skin. Pin was not a sentimental boy. In a city such as Urbs Umida, life was a gamble and death was a daily occurrence. It was an interesting equation: as you grew older your chances of living longer increased. If you could get past two years, then you had a good chance of making it to ten. If you could get through to fifteen, then there was a distinct possibility that you would make it into your twenties. And if you reached thirty, well, then old age was virtually guaranteed (old age commencing at forty and ending at forty-five).
Tentatively Pin reached out and touched the girl’s hand; it was as cold as he imagined the deepest parts of the Foedus to be. She was young, no more than seventeen, and it saddened him. He was minded of a line or two he had seen on a tombstone:
Those who die in the bloom of youth
Take beauty with them to heaven’s gate
Pin settled down on the bench. Sitting alone in the dark and chilly room his thoughts turned again to his father, as they did most long nights. The whole Uncle Fabian business was a mystery. He knew what everyone thought, but he couldn’t believe it of his father. And he wouldn’t unless he heard it from the man’s own mouth. Murderer? It couldn’t be. Yes, it looked bad for Oscar Carpue. There was no denying the dead body left in his wake. But there was no proof. Only the locals, and Coggley, putting two and two together when half of them couldn’t add up. Pin had added it all up again and again and he reached the same conclusion every time. His father was innocent. But there was one little nagging fact. If that was the case, then why didn’t Oscar Carpue come back?
‘I shall think on it no more,’ he declared resolutely, and lay down on the bench with his hands under his head and tried to empty his mind of troublesome thoughts.
Pin snapped back to wakefulness from a light doze. The room was in complete darkness – the candles had all gone out – so he slid off the bench and went carefully to open the door. Someone was moving about in the workshop.
‘Mr Gaufridus?’ he called.
Pin felt a rush of air and heard the sound of soft cloth flapping. As he opened his mouth to shout a hand came around his face and pressed a damp rag hard over his mouth. He felt his eyes become heavy and his body go limp – and then nothing.
Chapter Six
Pin’s Journal
When I first began to keep this journal, at my mother’s suggestion, I had not thought that I should ever make such a strange entry as this – to relate the events of that night with Sybil in the Cella Moribundi. I could see from where I lay on the bench that my unexpected companions were three in number, of varying heights, all dressed in dark clothing, two hooded, one hatted. They were not watching me so I decided to risk a third inhalation of the Foedus water. Just as I grasped the bottle the young man at the table spoke.
Are you sure he‘ ’s all right, Mr Pantagus?’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Belding,’ came the reply, and I saw the older man give the frightened fellow a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘The boy will be fine. Might have a headache later on, but that’s it . He’ll put it down to experience.’
Mr Belding, a youth of perhaps eighteen summers, seemed satisfied with this explanation. Besides, he had other interests that were more important than his concern for me. He turned back to the table and took the dead girl’s hand.
‘Poor darling Sybil, she’s so cold.’ He sounded surprised .
‘What did you expect?’ muttered the girl, and I detected a nervousness in her voice. Mr Pantagus looked over at her and smiled benignly. ‘Just relax, Juno,’ he said.
‘It won’t be long.’
I watched as Juno pulled at a thin string around her neck, but whatever was at the end of it I couldn’t see for she cradled it in her palm. Then she ran her finger under her nose leaving a smear, of some sort of unguent I supposed, across her philtrum. It shone softly in the candlelight From the shine on Mr Pantagus’s upper lip I deduced that he had done the same thing.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mr Belding. ‘Do I need some?’
Juno shook her head and motioned to him to be quiet.
In her right hand she held a delicate peardrop bottle on a silver chain. She began to circle the room slowly, swinging the bottle back and forth, back and forth in a slow mesmerizing motion. As she passed, a smell as sweet as my own phial of Foedus water was acrid, and easily as powerful, drifted across to me. I inhaled it deeply, involuntarily. She continued on her way and when she reached Mr Belding she stood behind him for a few seconds As soon as he took in the perfume he began to cough and sneeze.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a panic.
‘It’s merely a summoning potion,’ she said soothingly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘it’s just I’ve never done anything like this before ’
‘Well, we have,’ said Juno gently. And we must get on‘ ’
Gradually the whole room was suffused with the highly potent aroma. I watched intently through narrowed eyes as the girl took up a position beside Mr Pantagus at the head of the body. Beneath her ho od her pale skin was luminous in the candlelight. Mr Belding waited anxiously at Sybil’s side.
Mr Pantagus reached into his cloak and pulled out a small drawstring bag He loosened the tie and brought forth a handful of dried herbs which he spread around the corpse’s head, muttering audibly but unintelligibly as he did so. Then he reached into the bag again to withdraw a small pile of brown sticks. He crumbled them quickly between his fingers and scattered the powder along the length of the body. Some of the scents I knew – cinnamon and anise – but others were foreign to me.
Next he produced a wide-necked jar from up his billowing sleeve. He dipped his fingers into the dark liquid and flicked it about the room. The air thickened with the smell of artemisia and myrrh. By now I was reeling, even as I lay, from this aromatic assault on my senses. Young Mr Belding, who seemed almost insensible with nerves and the heady aroma, watched the proceedings open-mouthed, and all the while Juno stood back gently swinging the peardrop bottle.
Without warning, and with dramatic effect, Mr Pantagus clapped his hands sharply. Even my dulled heart started at the sudden noise. Then he laid his hands on the dead girl’s forehead, threw back his head and began to speak from beneath his dark hood.
‘I call upon you, Hades! Lord of the lower regions! Maste
r of the shades of the dead!’
His sombre tones sent a shiver up my spine and I trembled. Mr Pantagus continued his exhortation.
And your patient queen, Persephone, mistress of the‘ seasons. Hear me, hear me now, and grant my request. Render unto us, for one brief moment, the very soul of this dead girl and allow this man to speak once more to his beloved.’
His words hung on the chill air. Nothing happened. Then Mr Belding gasped and took a step backwards. And I too would have gasped had I been able, for Sybil, until now lifeless as a stone, began to stir.
A shudder went through Sybil’s body from head to toe and she emitted a long whining groan. It made me want to cover my ears, but it would have been better had I covered my eyes. To my horror and astonishment the dead girl’s eyelids flickered and opened. She turned her head towards Mr Belding and a smile spread slowly across her face. I blinked hard. Could this really be happening? I watched, fascinated and disbelieving, but I cannot deny that what I saw felt very real.
Mr Belding, with tears in his eyes, leaned over and spoke with incredulous surprise. ‘My dearest Sybil, is it you? Is it really you?’
‘Yes, Henry,’ whispered the girl in a strangely husky voice. ‘It is I, your Sybil. Speak quickly, my sweet, we haven’t much time.’
The youth looked at Juno, who nodded to encourage him, and then he fell to his knees, his head resting on the table, and began to sob.
‘You must forgive me,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘My last words were so cruel, spoken in anger. I cannot tell you how much I regret them. And before I could say sorry, that cart . . . you . . . you . . .’ He faltered, brimming with emotion, then finished, ‘. . . were run over like a stray dog in the road.’ With an overwhelming sob he threw his arms across the body, his chest heaving and his shoulders shaking. He remained thus for some moments until Juno gave him a gentle nudge. ‘We do not have much time,’ she whispered.