CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

In the small cottage across from Penhelyg Church, the Reverend Mr Owain Dee pours nettle tea from a steaming stoneware pot. Henry – sitting at the small table overlooking the mine, its hillside blotched with the eddies of spoil-heaps – clasps his mug quietly between his hands in grave contemplation.

‘I confess, I cannot think what to say to you,' the vicar says finally, placing the teapot in the centre of the table. ‘You, a Tresilian!'

Henry lifts his mug to his mouth, tests the temperature with his tongue. Rests it down again.

‘I don't …' Henry stops. Can hardly find the words.

He still feels shock, disbelief, unable to fathom the truth of what he has been told; in the space of a few hours his life has turned on its axis, the past he thought he knew blurred like watercolours on wet canvas.

Henry Talbot is, in fact, Henry Tresilian, not a Foundling at all. He has a mother. He has a sister, a twin. But as strange and wondrous as all that is Henry has not forgotten the means of how he discovered it, that there are ultimately more sinister dealings at play.

Lady Gwen – his mother, he corrects himself – said the reason why he had been sent away was because Julian had meant to kill him, planned to sacrifice both himself and Linette as part of some bizarre ritual. It is, Henry sees now, why Dr Evans is dead, to get him out of the way – Julian deliberately orchestrated Henry's return, which can mean only one thing:

He intends to finish what he started.

‘I didn't know who else to speak to,' Henry tells the reverend now, gripping his mug tight, the warmth of hot nettle seeping into his palms. ‘I don't know what to do. Lord Pennant is magistrate, but he is also part of the Order. He'll do nothing, just like he did with Heledd Einion.'

Mr Dee sets down his tea.

‘Even if you were to report to an honest magistrate, what you have told me is so far beyond the realms of reality that any court of law would easily throw it out. Hearsay, conjecture. You'd be accused of libel. Besides some cryptic notes in a spell book and the claims of Lady Tresilian who – I am sorry to add, but the truth of it is necessary to my argument – has long been considered a woman of unstable nature, you do not have any concrete proof. With your birth being unregistered … well, do you not see the quandary? A name in a Bible could easily be added at a later date. Ultimately, you are accusing men of the peerage. Julian Tresilian has the ear of high office, and with the support of Lord Pennant and Sir John Selwyn he is formidable, unlikely to be doubted. If one has money, then the law can be bent without a second thought.'

Henry sits forward in his seat. ‘You understand the import of what I say though, don't you? Julian arranged for me to return to Penhelyg. Somehow he tracked me down, and now that I am here he means to finish what he began all those years ago. Linette and I are in danger.'

‘So you keep saying.' The vicar looks down at the torn skin of parchment Henry brought with him, Julian's untidy scrawl. "To ensure salvation the bargain must be struck with the sacrifice of one's own ancestral lifeblood, the bond of two united",' he recites. ‘Of course it is troubling.'

‘It's more than that! Lady Gwen said that Julian had promised a vast fortune if we were sacrificed. His wording, it is most particular. "Ancestral lifeblood": a relation. "Two united": twins. That much is clear. The only thing I don't understand is the first part of the passage. "To ensure salvation." Salvation from what?'

The reverend taps his finger on the rim of his mug. ‘What did the other pages in the grimoire say?'

Henry sighs. ‘It was all written in a language I did not understand.'

‘Hebrew or Theban perhaps. Lady Tresilian spoke of Solomonic magic; those are the most likely to be used in such ancient texts. Hebrew is a Semitic language, familiar only to one native to the Levant, or, of course, an experienced scholar such as Julian. As for Theban … Well, it is less a language and more a writing system, specifically a cipher of the Latin script. That is why it appears here as an alphabet. Interesting,' Mr Dee adds, pointing at the two lines of Latin, ‘that Julian should use full Latin here. " Clavis umbrarum ". " Magus goetia ". Perhaps he required something easy to pronounce. Theban text, and Hebrew for that matter, are very difficult to read. They don't, you see, have quite the same nuance.'

Henry takes a sip of his tea, ignores the tart burn.

‘Can you assist me with the Latin?' He taps the two lines the vicar just referred to. ‘What do they mean?'

Mr Dee wets his lips.

‘Well, the word " magus " could be used to describe a magician, a sorcerer, a member of a spiritual caste. Even a priest. But in this context, together with the second word " goetia ", I believe it simply means magic. " Goetia " refers to the evocation of demons or evil spirits. So, in literal terms, " magus goetia " loosely translates as the Magic of Demons.'

‘And " Clavis umbrarum "?'

‘Hmm.' His expression shifts into one of deep contemplation. After a moment he says, ‘Let us break it down. The word " clavis " means key, which as you know refers to an instrument with which to open a lock. " Umbrarum " translates to something like "of the shadows".' The vicar looks pensive. ‘A strange mix. Let me see. Yes. Key can also symbolise the key to mastering a talent, and shadows …' A beat. ‘Did you know that the word "shadow" in Latin actually has multiple meanings? It can mean shadow, yes, but also shade, ghost … or demon. I think, then, the literal translation of " Clavis umbrarum " is this – the key to summoning demons.'

Henry stares down at the parchment, remembers his mother's words.

‘The Shadow Key,' he murmurs.

‘Yes, that's a fair translation.' The reverend lets the words sit between them a moment. ‘In regards to your other question, the salvation Julian Tresilian refers to …' He turns the page around so Henry can look at it upright, taps the first of Julian's notes:

Whosoever breaks a covenant with Almighty Berith will be devoured by a beast of darkness, and that sinner's soul shall belong completely unto Him.

‘It is quite obvious,' he says. ‘If Julian does not complete the sacrifice – if he breaks his promise to Berith – then he will die himself and lose his soul.'

The reverend says this with such seriousness that Henry cannot quite manage to hide his contempt.

‘Surely you do not think Berith is real?'

‘Surely, after everything you have seen and heard since coming to Penhelyg, you cannot be so sure he is not?'

Henry hesitates. He thinks of the lights in the cavern, those so-called corpse candles down in the mine before the accident, admits that there at least he has no explanation. Two red, one blue. Red for a man, blue for a child. He pictures the cold bodies of Pedr, Hywel and Afan. No, he has no explanation, but there must be one.

‘How can you believe in God,' Henry asks, ‘yet also believe in these ridiculous superstitions?'

‘Because, my dear boy, they are all connected! Myth and religion go hand in hand; to believe in one you simply must believe in the other. Besides, many legends, such as our Lady of the Lake, speak to a more rational sense of us. They are life lessons –' here he slaps his palm with the edge of his fingers – ‘thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill … or, in that unlucky man's case, do the lady physical harm. If one ignores these lessons there is always a cost, and all of it reinforces our belief in the supernatural, the spiritual and the afterlife. The same person who believes in the tylwyth teg also marks the door of their home to ward off the Devil.'

Henry shakes his head. Mr Dee smiles kindly.

‘I understand your cynicism, I truly do. For a man of science such as yourself it is to be expected. But think, Dr Talbot – Tresilian! – of the most important debates of our age. Could the Devil be dethroned by reason and Man be liberated from superstition by science? Even if one were to find a persuasive argument in favour of such a claim, it still would not be considered! The problem is that the existence of God is ingrained into our very being, and not even the greatest scientific minds such as Isaac Newton could dispute His existence.' At Henry's look of mild surprise the vicar says, ‘Oh yes, I read widely during my training! Indeed, Newton saw God as the masterful creator of all, believed that all which has been discovered in the name of science was created by God in the first place. And if God exists so too does the Devil, for one cannot exist without the other.'

Henry pushes his mug away. ‘I respect your faith, I do, but I cannot be persuaded to believe in the existence of either. Lady Gwen … my mother … she told me once that within each of us there lies a devil, and I have never heard a truer word spoken. We are all capable of doing terrible things. The Devil doesn't have anything to do with it. Julian acts from his own wickedness, no one else's.'

‘Are you so sure? Indeed, we are all capable of acts of evil. But why? The Devil comes to us in pleasing shapes, so it is no wonder we lesser beings are often led astray. But Lucifer rarely takes it upon himself to do the leading. As I said before – God has angels to do his bidding, the Devil has demons to do his.'

‘Demons like Berith.'

‘Yes, like Berith.' He takes another sip of tea, swirls the liquid in his mouth, seems to ponder his next words deeply before continuing. ‘I admit, I'm not familiar with the name, but there are many within the Devil's circle that are not directly mentioned in the Bible. Of course, considering the connection to Solomonic magic, a demon such as Berith would not be referred to explicitly in the scriptures anyway.'

‘No?'

Mr Dee shakes his head. ‘Remember I said " goetia " referred to the evocation of evil spirits? Goetic spirits are the demons associated specifically with black magic, those summoned by King Solomon to build his temple.' He hesitates. ‘My memory is hazy, of course. My orders were conducted many years ago now, but I seem to remember these demons are named in the first section of a seventeenth-century grimoire called Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis – or, if you wish for the English – the Lesser Keys of Solomon.'

‘Yes,' Henry says, remembering its ageing spine. ‘Julian owns such a book.'

Sagely, the vicar nods.

‘Originally called the Spirits of the Seals, they're also known as the seventy-two Princes of the Hierarchy of Hell. The Lemegeton differs from other goetic texts because entities are compelled into obedience with the promise of a sacrifice, rather than asked for simple favours without some means of return. This Berith is likely one of them.'

‘The promise of a sacrifice,' Henry echoes. ‘And, according to Julian, Linette and I are that sacrifice.'

The vicar taps his mug. There is nothing more to say, it seems. Henry rubs his eyes.

‘Look, what do you suggest I do? Whether this Berith is real or not the fact remains that Julian does believe, and means us harm. If he thinks his own life is at risk then that makes him all the more dangerous.'

‘Indeed, you are quite right.' Mr Dee considers a moment. ‘I'm afraid that all I can suggest is for you and Linette to rally. Never go anywhere alone, ensure safety in numbers. If it will make you feel better then by all means write to Bow Street. I might be wrong – your Mr Fielding may take your claims seriously and endeavour to take action.'

‘Is there no one closer? Where is the next magistrate?'

‘I'm afraid I do not know. There is a county sheriff – a Robert Evans of Bodweni – I believe, but Bala is near sixty miles away.'

Sixty miles. Such a distance might as well be London, for all the good it will do.

Henry sighs. It is growing late. Out of the window he can see the sun beginning its slow trajectory across the sky, a glowing sphere of molten gold. He looks at his pocketwatch (his father's pocketwatch) – a little after seven – and stands, holds out his hand for the reverend to shake.

‘Thank you, Mr Dee.'

‘I'm sorry I cannot be of further help,' he says. ‘It is most distressing, most distressing indeed.'

Henry pushes his chair back under the table, retrieves the torn page of the grimoire from its top and folds it away into his pocket. It is just as he is turning in the direction of the door that his attention is caught once more by the spectacular wall of lovespoons. He crosses the small sitting room, looks at them hanging on their individual hooks. What was it Mr Dee told him they were? Tokens of love . His gaze goes to the spoon he picked from the wall the first day he came here, the one made up of intricate knots intertwining a heart and, decided, Henry turns to the vicar.

‘May I purchase one?'

Mr Dee looks surprised, but then he reaches out to the wall and plucks the lovespoon Henry points at from its hook.

‘This is a lovely one,' he says, gazing down at it. ‘Took over a week. These knots, you see, mighty fiddly. Am I right in thinking this is for Miss Carew?' Henry colours. The vicar nods knowingly. ‘You are welcome to it, but may I impart some advice?'

‘Of course.'

‘Be mindful of a pretty face.'

Henry drops a coin into the reverend's waiting palm. ‘I think I'm old enough to know what I am doing, Mr Dee.'

‘I'm sure you are,' comes the reply, and when the vicar passes him the lovespoon Henry clasps it tight between both hands.