BLOOD

John Childermass sits before a mean and smoky fire at a rough tavern in Goathland on the North Yorkshire Moors. He is well known as a magician and although he has never written or published upon the subject he is nevertheless an object of fascination among the magical societies of England. Occasionally he will be persuaded to give a speech to one of these groups or a lecture at Starecross, England's foremost school for magicians. But, on the whole, if one was to desire a meeting with the man who knew and worked with both Strange and Norrell and who is the guardian of the Raven King's book, one's best chance is to come across him as he is now, taking his ease at one of the many inns of Yorkshire. Much to the relief of Mr Childermass this rarely happens, and therefore he is not often disturbed by the prurient interest of the curious.

On this night he sits alone, the book has passed out from an excess of gin and now snores quietly beneath a table. Childermass will not disturb it, indeed he often prefers it like this and is quite willing to purchase the gin necessary to achieve this state of affairs. Often does he wish that the book would act in a more book like manner, that it would remain silent and still and allow itself to be read. Most of all he wishes it would go where it was taken without argument. He also wishes it would wash more often and he believes, quite rightly, that it is the only book in existence that needs to be scrubbed in a horse trough at regular intervals if its writing is to remain legible, if not comprehensible.

He rubs his wrist, there is a strange scar there that bothers him occasionally. He does not remember receiving the wound but he associates it with the book. In shape it resembles one of the many, silent symbols with which he has become so familiar. He has also noticed that it will tingle and itch when he contemplates the letters of the book or even, as now, thinks about its mystery. On this night it burns with a special agony that sends sharp bolts of pain down to his finger tips. Thoughtfully he flexes his hand, but then, hearing the click of the latch, looks up to see another man enter the parlour; a tall, well dressed stranger whose face is concealed by a hat pulled low. Nevertheless he seems familiar to Childermass although he cannot recall ever seeing him before. He is not therefore surprised when the stranger seats himself on the other side of the fire. But he is surprised, shocked even, when the stranger pushes back his hat and stares directly into his eyes, for the pain in the old scar becomes an agony of infinite dimensions as though he has plunged his arm into a furnace. He bites his lip to prevent himself from crying out, tasting his own blood, copper in his mouth. Suddenly the man leans forward and grabs his wrist. In an instant the pain is gone as though it has never been , in its place a comforting warmth. The stranger releases him and sits back, watching Childermass closely as he stares down at his wrist seeing the now painless scar swollen and red, like a brand.

“Do I know you,Sir?” Childermass asks, but he is certain that he does. Even though he remembers no name or past meeting this man is as familiar to him as his own face in a mirror.

“I know you, John Childermass,” the other man replies. “I know you well. We have met many times before.”

Childermass knows this to be true, memories flicker in his mind, for a moment he grasps at them and sees this man, again and again, a chain of fragments that go back as far as his half forgotten childhood. Then they are gone, like the mist that vanishes in the morning light. Feeling suddenly slow and stupid Childermass rubs his hand across his face as though brushing away cobwebs. He closes his eyes, feeling the dark curtains of sleep begin to close around him. “I do not remember,” he murmurs.

The other man stands and leans over him, placing his hand upon his forehead. “There is magic in the blood,” he whispers, and then, with an amused glance at Vinculus snoring beneath the table, he is gone.

As morning dawns Childermass wakes beside a dead fire remembering nothing of the night before but for a dream that seems stuck in his mind and won't shake free. A dream in which he lies beneath a tree that drips blood onto his naked body, its streams and rivulets making signs, symbols that he can read in his dream, that explain to him the answers to every question he has ever asked, resolving every doubt, solving every problem. Though in the light of day he can no longer recall the message that they spelt, only one phrase remains and it nags at his memory throughout the day. 'There is magic in the blood'.

The phrase repeats itself to him as he rides south across the moors, Vinculus walking, and talking, at his side; complaining that he slept beneath a table when he could have had a bed, demanding gin, demanding food. Childermass ignores it all, the constant and repetitive phrases drowned out by the words in his head, words that fall into rhythm with the sound of Brewer's hooves. 'There is magic in the blood'.

By evening they are at The Black Swan at Kirkbymoorside. Childermass has paid for a room with a private parlour, he has also purchased a sharp knife and a small bowl. He stares at Vinculus who glares warily back at him.

“You will remain still,” Childermass says, balancing the knife in his hand. “you will remain still and silent, and when I am done you may have all the gin that you wish.”

Vinculus eyes the knife and nods, silently, within moments he is lying supine before the fire, naked but for a cloth tied about his loins. He watches in curiosity as Childermass bares his own arm and opens a vein, bleeding himself into the bowl. “You are mad,” he whispers, a mixture of awe and horror colouring his harsh voice.

Childermass glances at him and then returns his gaze to the red ribbon that flows down his arm. “There is magic in the blood,” he says quietly. Then, crouching beside Vinculus, he takes a quill cut from a ravens wing feather and dips it into the blood, beginning to trace over the familiar symbols on Vinculus's body in shining red lines that glimmer in the firelight.

The moment the quill first touches its living canvas Childermass feels it in his own body, as though the King's letters are being inscribed upon his own flesh in letters of fire. He grits his teeth against the pain and continues, cutting, bleeding, writing; labouring through the hours of his task until it becomes a form of ecstasy that transcends pain and threatens to lift him entirely free of his body as a burning flame released upon the wind, to consume and destroy.

He finishes his task with a flourish that snakes down the back of the left ankle and there, finding no more letters to trace he opens his hand to find the black feather quill glued to his flesh with congealed blood. He scrapes it free with a cry and upon legs numb with kneeling he staggers into the bedroom, tearing his clothes from his ravaged body. There, in front of the mirror, he stands naked, staring at the fiery letters arrayed upon his body. As he watches they flicker and begin to fade. He turns to see Vinculus in the doorway smeared red with blood, a laughing ghoul that sneers at him. “well?” asks the bloody apparition. “Can you read them now?”

Childermass shakes his head. “No,” he replies, “but now, at last, I know what you are.”