The Devil's Mirror Page 4

  He stretched his arm out between the bars of his cage, but his reach fell far too slort. He squeezed his naked shoulder painfully between the bars, extending his reach, but still his fingertips raked empty air, inches away from the ring of keys. Finally, exhausted, he went limp.

  Now she, from her cage, reached between the cold black iron of the bars, her tapering slim fingers writhing like little snakes in tie attempt to grasp the keyring. Grunting indelicately, cursing vulgarly, she stretched her pretty arm still further, one round ripe fruit of a breast crushed cruelly against the bars. A sheen of sweat covered her whole body, despite the dungeon’s chill. But still her fingers did not touch the taunting keys.

  He, watching her efforts, whined, ‘No use... no use...’

  She was loathe to give up so easily. Hissing an unladylike oath, she new unbent her shapely long legs and, wincing at the pins of pain that shot through them after the hours of squatting restraint, she forced them between the bars, towards the metal circle of keys that lay between them and escape. Her toes flexed and curled, reaching for the keys. Her legs stretched still further, as her full thighs now were scraped and squashed by the cage bars. Biting her lip, she gripped the bars with her hands and pressed her belly and loins relentlessly against the unyielding iron, almost splitting herself in two on the bar that separated her thighs, gasping in pain, her toes clenching and unclenching, the sweat streaming from her flesh, until, at length, with a moan of thanksgiving, her efforts were rewarded, her feet closed upon the ring, she felt the welcome cold shafts of the keys between her toes, and slowly, carefully, she drew her feet back towards the cage, reached out and seized the keyring in her hand, then fell back, slimed with sweat and the blood of scraped skin, panting, sobbing, victorious.

  Her lover in the other cage, eyeing the keys almost lasciviously, croaked, ‘The locks! Open the locks!’

  She inserted one of the dozen keys into the lock of her cage door. It did not fit. She tried the next. And the next. Both lovers cursed, despair flooding them again and filling the great space hope had excavated in their hearts, as she tried key after key.

  The tenth key worked. She swung open the creaking door of her cage and crawled out upon the stone floor of the dungeon. Slowly, agonisingly, she pulled herself to her feet and stood at her frill height, magnificently, nudely beautiful.

  Then, walking past his cage, she went straight to the dungeon door.

  ‘Wait!’ he cried. Would you leave me here?’

  ‘Who travels light travels best,’ she said, and unlocked the dungeon door.

  ‘Strumpet! Open this cage!’

  She laughed softly and blew him a mocking kiss.

  ‘You need me!’ he screamed. ‘You need me to overpower the guards, to steal horses, food, clothing. If you leave without me, I will bellow my lungs out, awaken the entire castle, the warder and the guards will apprehend you before you reach the first wall!’

  She looked at him thoughtfully. Then, smiling, she walked back to his cage. ‘I was but teasing you,’ she said, and released him.

  ‘I choose to believe you,’ he growled, ‘bitch!’

  The two of them swung open the heavy dungeon door. Quiet and swift, hardly daring to breathe, they padded on bare feet up a narrow corkscrew of stone stairs to the armoury. There, serried ranks of soldiers stood in wait!

  No: thus they appeared to be at first glimpse, but were soon revealed to be no more than empty suits of armour, the eye-slits as devoid of life as the sockets in the grinning skull below.

  Up more stairs they climbed, and skittered spiderishly along a pitch black, airless corridor so constructed that it seemed to grow narrower as they penetrated it, the ceiling built gradually lower and lower until they were obliged to crouch, the walls themselves so close together at one point they had to go in single file and then to crawl on their bellies through the foul air and impenetrable dark.

  It seemed upward of an hour before they felt cool air and, shortly after, crawled out and stood upright in a place no less dark but which felt to be a specie of tunnel. They ran blindly through what proved to be a vexing, labyrinthine network of such tunnels, often colliding painfully with hard stone walls, until they heard a liquid sound and knew the maze to be a system of drains or conduits or somewhat, for soon they were splashing in filthy, stinking water up to their ankles, then to their knees, then feeling panic seize them as the icy wetness lapped their naked backsides.

  An eternity of headlong splashing flight they suffered, hearing the chattering of rats and seeing their red eyes in the dark, before a pinpoint of light in the far distance brought hoarse sobs of triumph from their throats and they ran towards it pell-mell, splashing, sliding, falling, scrambling to their feet again and plunging on towards the blessed beckoning spot of light, out of the noisome water that now fell to below their knees, then to their ankles, until they were running in dryness again, the light growing brighter and bigger until, with aching limbs and flaming lungs, they burst out of the tunnel and into—The dungeon. The selfsame dungeon whence they had escaped. For there were the cages, with the doors standing open, and there was the dangling skeleton, and there was their amiable warder, a truncheon in his hand, greeting them with a gap-toothed smile.

  ‘A trick,’ the troubadour groaned, collapsing to his knees. ‘Aye, lad,’ the warder nodded. ‘A trick to pass the time and take your minds off your troubles.’

  The woman shrieked, ‘A fiendish trick! A trick to raise our hopes and dash them down again! A gloating demon’s trick!’

  ‘Now, now,’ the warder chided, ‘into your little cages, the pair of you, and quick about it or I’ll be obliged to break a bone or two with this...’ He raised the truncheon meaningfully. Taking the keyring from her hand, he locked them in the cages again.

  ‘All wet, are you, all wet and bare aid blue with cold?’ the warder said, solicitously. ‘Take heart, there will be heat enough at dawn.’ And, significantly, with broad winks, he opened a cabinet and took down a pair of branding irons which he placed upon a bench. ‘Aye, fire enough and heat enough,’ he grinned. From the cabinet he also took two long sharp blades, like gigantic paring knives. ‘Fire and heat and other things as well,’ he added, placing the awful knives next to the branding irons. He then closed the cabinet, squinted at the hideous equipment on the bench, and said, That be enough. For the First Day, at least, it be enough.’ Then, deliberately shaking the keyring and filling the air with its sour jangle, he walked towards the dungeon door, saying, ‘This time I’ll not be forgetting my keys, like a naughty knave. Good night, my lady, young sir, or rather, good morning, for dawn will break in less than an hour.’

  The door clanged shut.

  The Duke’s face wore an expression of shock. ‘Dead, you say? Both of them?’

  ‘Aye, that they be, Your Grace,’ replied the warder, ‘and by their own hands. Behind my back, they reached out from their cages and took the blades Your Grace bade me put upon the bench for them to look at. The Lord have mercy on their souls.’

  The Duke crossed himself, dismissed the warder, and turned to the tonsured clergyman at his side. ‘You heard, Monsignor? Smitten by remorse, consumed by guilt, they took their own lives.’

  ‘And, as suicides,’ solemnly said the priest, ‘plummeted straight to the fires of Perdition-there to suffer chastisement infinitely more severe than if they had died by your command.’

  ‘True, true, poor burning souls,’ said the Duke. ‘I never, as you know, intended bodily harm to come to them.’

  ‘Of course not. Such cruelty would have marred the good repute you bear among all men.’

  Those grisly tales I bade the warder tell them, those skeletons and other things, were but to harrow and humble their spirits for a night. Oh, I do repent me—’

  ‘Of those harmless tales and bones?’

  ‘Not they so much, Monsignor, as I repent my overtrusting nature that placed those two young people in temptation’s path. Is mine the blame? Is mine the hand that led them t
o depravity, discovery, and death?’

  The priest spoke firmly. ‘No! Your Grace’s guileless goodness cannot bear the blame for the sins of others!’

  ‘It is good of you to say it.’

  ‘You never could foresee or wish the death of your young wife!’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘You never could desire to yet again become a widower!’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  ‘And dwell in mournful loneliness once more!’

  ‘O doleful day!’

  ‘No man in all the realm can blame you.’

  ‘I pray not.’

  ‘The hearts of all your friends, your faithful courtiers, the meanest churls, the highest lords, His Majesty, the Church itself—all these mourn with you in this heavy hour!’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Father.’

  ‘But if I may, without offence, speak of your sudden sad unmarried state, I would remind Your Grace that a certain advantageous alliance is now possible with a family whose name is so illustrious I need not give it breath...’

  ‘At such a time as this,’ the Duke replied, ‘one cannot think of marriage. But when I have composed myself, then we may have some words anent that prince to whom you have alluded, and whose sister is, I do believe, of fifteen summers now and therefore ripe for wedding. To you, Monsignor, I leave all small details of the nuptial ceremony, which must take place, I need not say, only after what is called a decent interval.’

  ‘A decent interval, of course,’ replied the priest.

  Quoth the Raven

  Pushing a pound of hair out of his eyes, Corey Blake read the letter to his girl, Jennifer. They were between classes at the time, lolling at leggy length on the stretch of green outside the Humanities building. The letter was on stiff, costly paper that crackled when he unfolded it. ‘Listen to this, Jen,’ he said, ani read aloud:

  ‘My dear Mr Blake—’

  ‘What is he, British or something?’ interrupted Jen.

  ‘No, just an old square.’ He started again:

  ‘My dear Mr Blake:

  Your late father was a friend of mine. (That’s a crock, Dad couldn’t stand him.) It has been brought to my attention that you are now the owner of a certain item that once belonged to him: c copy of Graham’s Magazine, Volume 20. Number 5, May 1842, which is famous for including the first printing of Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’ I am prepared to offer you $1,000 for it, in tax-free cash, which may strike you as excessive (and indeed, it is considerably more than the Hen is worth on the open market), but I am a man in comfortable circumstances, and I assure you I can pay that sum, provided you meet certain conditions...’

  ‘A thousand dollars,’ said Jen. ‘You could finish school. Do you really have that magazine?’

  Corey nodded. ‘It’s in a safety deposit box, sealed in a transparent plastic envelope to keep it from falling apart. The damn thing is like a hundred and thirty years old. Just about the only thing Dad left me.’ He looked down at the letter again. ‘Where was I?’ He resumed reading:

  ‘... provided you meet certain conditions. They are these: At 8.00 p.m., on January 19th, the anniversary of the birth of Edgar Allan Poe, you will present yourself at The Raven

  Society, of which I am a member. You will bring the copy of Graham’s Magazine. There, in the presence of the officers and members of the Society, you will answer three questions I will put to you relating to the works of Poe. If you answer all three correctly, I will present you with the amount stipulated above and will take possession of the magazine. If you incorrectly answer even one question, you will forfeit both the magazine and the money. If you accept these conditions, you may signify simply by being present at the stated place, at the stated time.

  I remain,

  Very truly yours,

  Algernon DeWitt

  ‘That’s wild!’ cried Jen. ‘What is this Raven Society?’

  ‘A bunch of Poe nuts. My Dad belonged. It’s like that club the Sherlock Holmes nuts have, the Baker Street Irregulars.’

  ‘This DeWitt—is he for real?’

  ‘Oh, he’s loaded, all right. Bought most of my Dad’s Poe collection when Dad was dying and our money ran out. Paid him peanuts. But Dad held on to that one thing. And now DeWitt wants it.’

  ‘Hey!’ she suddenly squealed. ‘January 19th! That’s tonight!’

  Corey nodded. ‘I got the letter a month ago. That’s why I’ve been cutting so many classes—I’ve been boning up on the writings of Poe. Lucky I’m such a quick study—ask me something!’

  ‘You’re taking this guy up on his crazy offer?’

  ‘I sure as hell am.’

  ‘But you might lose and not get a penny! Why don’t you just sell it to a dealer?’

  Corey shook his head. ‘DeWitt is right. His offer is better than what I could get on the open market. A lot better. I checked. Want to guess how much that issue is going for in rare book stores?’

  ‘How would I know? I’ve heard you can get like a hundred dollars or something for old Superman comic books, so an 1842 magazine with the first printing of a Poe story... sounds like DeWitt is trying to get off cheap.’

  Corey said, ‘Ten bucks.’

  What?’

  ‘You can pick up a mint copy of that issue for about ten or twelve bucks. It’s just not that scarce.’

  ‘Then why is DeWitt offering—my God—a hundred times what it’s worth?’

  ‘He’s a nut. I guess he has his reasons. Anyway, I’m going there.’ He rose from the grass and brushed off the seat of his pants. ‘You want to meet me there tonight?’

  ‘Can’t we go together?’

  ‘I’ve got too much to do. More Poe cramming. And I have to make it to the bank before it closes and get the magazine out of the deepfreeze. Here’s the address on the envelope—see you there at eight.’

  The President of The Raven Society, a Mr Simpson, greeted them when they arrived. He was a gentle, white-haired man who pumped Corey’s hand and warmly said, ‘I knew your father. A wonderful man, wonderful. Please step into the library and meet the others...’

  The library was what one might have expected: panelled walls, deep leather chairs, a fine antique sideboard gleaming with decanters and glasses, the pleasant masculine aromas of pipe tobacco and leather (as well as a less agreeable, faintly acrid undertone that Corey’s nostrils recognised but his mind could not identify); and, of course, bookcases packed with the complete works of Poe, a fine oil portrait of the author, and (‘Nice touch,’ thought Corey) a pallid bust of Pallas, just above the chamber door.

  Corey and Jen were introduced to the Vice-President, the Secretary, the Treasurer, several assorted members, and, finally, to Algernon DeWitt He was a large, bald, bloated man (‘Buddha on an off day,’ thought Jen). His proffered hand, when Corey took it, felt like a rubber glove. ‘My dear boy,’ he said. ‘You don’t remember, but we met once before.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Corey. ‘I was five years old. I kicked you in the shins.’

  DeWitt laughed. ‘Total recall, how charming. Yes, you took instant exception to me, but I bear no grudge. Ah, and this is your lady fair...’ His eyes brightened with lust as he examined Jen, but blazed with feral fire when he spied the plastic-protected object Corey held under his arm.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked, licking his lips.

  That’s it,’ said Corey, placing the magazine casually on a mahogany table. ‘Open it up and check the merchandise, if you want.’

  DeWitt said, ‘That will hardly be necessary. Your father was well known to us. There can be no question of it being anything but genuine.’

  Simpson asked the young people if they wanted anything to drink. Both declined.

  ‘Then shall we begin?’ said DeWitt, with impatience. ‘Sure,’ said Corey. Everyone sat down, the leather chairs swallowing them.

  ‘First question,’ said DeWitt, champing at the bit.

  ‘One moment, Algernon,’ said Simpson. ‘Mr Blake... Core
y... may I call you that?... are you absolutely certain you want to play this little game?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s your business, of course, and Mr DeWitt’s offer is generous—I might even say outrageous in its generosity—if you win. But if you lose... well, I realise the magazine isn’t worth much today, but you’re a very young man, and perhaps the going price in ten or twenty or thirty years...’

  ‘Come, come, Simpson,’ snapped DeWitt. ‘The boy knows what he’s getting into.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Simpson said with a sigh. ‘I’m not sure that I do.’ His dislike of DeWitt was poorly masked. ‘The agreement, as I understand it, calls for three questions relating to the writings of Poe. The writings. Not the life. I emphasise that. No notes, no referring to books, no prompting from the sidelines. Everything from memory. Are you ready, Mr Blake?’

  ‘If Mr DeWitt is.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said DeWitt.

  ‘Then proceed,’ said Simpson, settling back in his chair. DeWitt leaned forward, looked Corey straight in the eye, and smiled icily. ‘First question,’ he said. ‘What is the name of William Legrand’s friend in The Gold Bug—the one who helps Legrand and Jupiter dig up the buried treasure?’

  Corey shut his eyes in concentration. He massaged the bridge of his nose. He chewed his lower lip. After about thirty seconds, he looked up at DeWitt.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Corey.

  DeWitt’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘And neither do you,’ Corey added, ‘He’s the first person narrator. Poe never bothered to give him a name.’

  ‘Very good!’ said Simpson.

  ‘Yes...’ DeWitt admitted. ‘You’ve done your homework, young man. All right, then, second question. You’re familiar with The Cask of Amontillado? Simply tell us the motto on Fortunato’s coat of arms—in Latin, please.’

  Corey smiled. ‘I know what you want me to say, Mr DeWitt. You want me to say Nemo me impune lacessit. But that’s Montresor’s motto. Fortunato’s motto is never mentioned.’

  ‘Correct!’ crowed Simpson. Turning to DeWitt, he said, ‘Watch your step—this young chap is more than you bargained for, I think!’