REMEMBRANCE

There came a time in the early months of 1818 when John Childermass, travelling north through Doncaster, left Vinculus drinking gin at the Red House and went on alone. All was as he remembered, the field black with ravens that rose with a croaking and flapping of wings as Brewers hooves scattered them into the silent white sky. The two holly trees stood sentinel still and as Childermass passed between them he considered the changes that had taken place in the year since he had passed them before. Norrell was gone and so was Strange, magic in England was no longer the province of two magicians but had become the heritage of all. No longer did yellow curtained charlatans ply their disreputable trade in the cities and the towns; instead the country was now filled with genuine magicians and even the meanest village boasted of its wise woman or wart charmer who could truly deliver upon their promises.

John Childermass himself was by no means the least of this new breed of magicians, his name was spoken where ever magic was practiced and his dark clad presence was welcomed in all the societies of magicians that had formed or reformed after the events of the previous year; and yet, as he passed between the ancient trees, he experienced a moment of regret for all that had passed, all that had been lost, all that had been exchanged for that which had been found. This melancholy nostalgia, not normally a part of his character, was perhaps caused by the ageless, unchanging nature of the fairy road down which he travelled. As he approached the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart the corpses hung from the thorn trees, the serpents devoured them still and in the clearing beneath the tower the champion awaited him, blank face and empty eyes set in a familiar face, the prescribed words upon his lips.

Childermass pulled on the reins and dismounted, leaning thoughtfully against Brewer’s brown flank, absently running his finger down a faint silver scar upon his cheek. “Lascelles.” he said and smiled a cruel smile at this apparition from the past. “Do you know me?” he asked, stepping forward to stare into the blue eyes that would not meet his but would stare instead both past and through him to a sight or scene invisible to all but he.

“I am the Champion of the Castle of the plucked Eye and Heart…” tonelessly the creature that had once been Henry Lascelles repeated the words, “I am sworn to protect the Lady of the Castle…”

“Indeed,” Childermass murmured, taking the once handsome face between his hands, stroking the slack cheeks with his thumbs, glancing up at the lighted window and the eager figure silhouetted there. “The Lady has nothing to fear from me. I do not doubt that she will be disappointed in her pleasures this day.” He paused, studying the face of the other. “Henry Lascelles,” he asked again, “do you know me?”

For a single moment a spark of confused recognition flared in the empty eyes, flared and failed. “I do not know,” he whispered, “I do not remember.”

Childermass grinned, “Then let me remind you.” So saying he pressed his mouth to Lascelles and bit down upon his lips until the copper taste of blood coated his tongue. “Do you remember me now?” he breathed as carmine spilled from his lips to stain the white linen of his shirt. He grasped the pale hair in his fist, pushing the unresisting body to its hands and knees upon the soft green grass of the clearing, ripping the clothes from its frame until the fleshly remains of the man who had once been Henry Lascelles knelt naked and shivering before him.

For a long moment they remained so, and so still was the clearing it seemed that even the serpents paused in their grisly work as the world held its breath, waiting for the act that could not be undone, for the final scene of a drama begun long before in a different world. Then, with as little ceremony as a butcher that slaughters an unresisting beast John Childermass, a bitter smile upon his bloody lips, released himself from his clothes and allowed the serpent to devour the body before him.

When he had done, when he had spent himself upon the ravaged flesh, he adjusted his clothes, wiped the blood from his mouth and with a booted foot stepped down upon the back of Lascelles neck, grinding his weeping face into the dirt. “Remember me now.” he said and turned away to mount the horse that stood patiently cropping the grass.

As the horse and rider crossed the clearing the figure in the window leaned forward and the iron bound door to the tower swung open. Childermass glanced down the dark corridor thus revealed, past the festoons of cobwebs to the shadowy stairway beyond and then he looked up toward the window. He shook his head, laughed aloud and rode back down the fairy road to Vinculus and the Red House.