The Book of Dead Days Page 10

“But there was something,” said Boy.

  “What?” said Willow.

  “Why I couldn’t get to see the Master of Burials.”

  “Oh, spare us!” snorted Valerian. He crossed the room and began to fiddle with some bits of the camera, cursing occasionally when he couldn’t manage with only one hand.

  “I thought you might be interested,” Boy said to Valerian’s back. “What you said about him doing some strange studying and so on.”

  Valerian ignored him.

  “Tell me,” said Willow to Boy. “What was it?”

  “Well, I got talking to this woman at the gate. It seems he’s obsessed with some animals he owns. It’s all he spends his time doing. He’s got this collection of animals, but they’re all strange—he’s got bird-headed snakes and dogs with cats’ heads. There’s cats with wings, and Willow, he’s got dragons! They’re tiny, but I saw them all!”

  Willow stared at him in wonder.

  “You’re sure?” she said.

  “I saw them with my own eyes. Snakes with birds’ heads. Fish with a head at each end. And the dragons! But the thing is, they’re all dead. I think he wants to make them live. I don’t think he’s doing his real job at all—he just spends all his time in this huge room under the glass dome, working on them.”

  Willow shook her head.

  “Dragons? Real dragons?”

  “Yes,” said Boy. “They’re small, but—”

  “Poppycock!” said Valerian. Neither of them had noticed that he had been listening. “There are no such things.”

  “I saw them.”

  “Tell me,” Valerian said. “What exactly did you see?”

  Boy looked at Valerian and suddenly he hated him. Why did he have to treat him so badly all the time? Boy did his best, he always did what he was told, he worked hard, and yet all the man ever did was snipe and bark and criticize. Valerian looked at him now, and Boy expected his face to be full of scorn, but as he held Valerian’s gaze, Boy saw that he was earnest, even interested. He was listening.

  “What did you see?” asked Willow in a reassuring voice.

  “Animals,” said Boy. “And there were lots of them. And they were all weird. None of them looked like anything I’ve ever seen, or seen pictures of, or even heard of. They were all lying on his great table. On marble slabs.”

  Boy paused. He pulled a face.

  “Oh! There was so much blood.”

  “Blood?” asked Valerian, with real interest.

  Heartened, Boy went on.

  “Yes, blood, and . . . things, from taking them apart.”

  “The animals?” Valerian asked.

  Boy nodded and scratched his nose.

  “So he is dissecting them?” Valerian said.

  “He’s taking them apart,” said Boy. “To see why they won’t live, I suppose.”

  “These animals,” said Valerian, “all of them are strange, perverse things? Like nothing you have seen before?”

  Boy nodded.

  “And you think he’s trying to make them live?”

  Boy nodded.

  “And he’s taking them apart to see why they don’t?”

  Boy nodded.

  Valerian shook his head.

  “No,” he said gently, “he’s not taking them apart, he’s trying to put them together.”

  Boy tried to remember exactly what he had seen.

  “Could it be that?” Valerian asked.

  Boy nodded.

  “I think,” said Valerian, “I think we should pay another visit to the Master of Burials. We’ll get the name of the cemetery where Gad Beebe is buried yet!”

  He began to rummage all around the Tower room, pulling out various peculiar devices and equipment.

  “But, Valerian,” said Willow. “Valerian!”

  “What is it?” he shouted back. “We don’t have the time!”

  “You were going to tell us. About what’s happening to you.”

  “Yes,” he snapped, “I’ll tell you on the way. Here, Boy, take this. It’s delicate. Be careful! And, Willow, this bag, if you please. Very good.”

  Having checked around the outside of the building using the camera, they hurried from the Yellow House. As they went, Boy saw the paper with his name on it on the table and snatched it up, unseen. If Valerian didn’t want it, then he did. It had his name on it after all—and Boy reasoned therefore that it belonged to him.

  3

  But Valerian did not tell them on the way. He did not tell them about the approaching horror, about the road that Fate was leading him down.

  Instead he instructed them as they walked in the use of the pieces of apparatus they were carrying, repeating himself until they understood.

  When they reached the residence of the Master of City Burials, Valerian had stared at the woman in the pillar, gazing deep into her eyes without saying anything for a long time. Finally he spoke, in a low and soft voice.

  “You will go and tell the Master that Valerian is here to see him. Tell him I can make his animals live.” Boy and Willow watched amazed as without a word the old woman shuffled off her stool and went to do as she was bid. It was just as if Valerian had cast a spell on her.

  Five minutes later a small door within the main door opened, and they hurried inside.

  Valerian and the Master stood facing each other in the grand entrance hall, sizing each other up. The Master was a short man, only a little taller than Boy. He was not quite as ugly as Green, but it still made Boy uncomfortable to look at him. His nose was pushed back; his eyes were small and overshadowed by huge hairy eyebrows. His hair was thin and greasy. He smelt terrible; his clothes were stained and, despite their original quality, were now little better than rags.

  “Valerian! How strange to see you again.”

  “A pleasure to renew your acquaintance. How long has it been?”

  “Never mind that,” the Master snapped, his brow creasing. “How do you know of my work?”

  “All the City knows of your work,” lied Valerian.

  Good start, thought Boy.

  “I myself have admired your noble and valuable . . . investigations into this . . . subject,” Valerian went on.

  He’s losing it, Boy thought. He doesn’t really know what to say.

  “And I believe,” Valerian concluded, “that I may be able to help you.”

  “Do what?” said the Master of Burials.

  Valerian opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again.

  “You said you could make them live,” said the Master.

  Valerian shifted a little where he stood.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe I can.”

  “Believe?” shouted the Master of Burials, furiously striding right up to Valerian. Though Valerian towered a foot or so above him, Boy was amazed to see that the Master seemed to intimidate him. Boy had never seen anyone do this.

  “Believe?” cried the Master again. “I thought you said you could do it! If you can’t, you can get out of here and stop wasting my time. This is important work. Important! I have history to think of! How will my name be written across the pages of history if I cannot achieve this . . . masterpiece!”

  He stared up at Valerian, then turned and spat on the floor. “Get out of here! Be away from here!”

  Valerian stepped forward.

  “No!” he cried. “No, I can do it. With my two assistants here, I shall do it. Show me your animals. In return all I want is a little of your knowledge.”

  The Master of Burials spun back to Valerian and held his gaze steadily for a long time.

  “You had better be serious,” he growled, “or you will visit one of my cemeteries very much sooner than you had planned.”

  He beckoned them forward, opening the door to the Dome.

  “I already have,” said Valerian under his breath, and looked at Boy and Willow. “Pray we get this right.”

  4

  Boy looked up to the roof of the Dome, where a few hours before he had clung
to the frosty glass like a human fly.

  Boy and Willow, who had spent all of their fragile lives in the City, were used to disgusting sights and noxious smells, but nothing could have prepared them for this. Even Valerian put his hand to his mouth and nose.

  The inside of the Dome was the most ornate, richest, most extravagantly decorated slaughterhouse. Under the glass Dome above their heads the whole room was one vast experiment. Solid wooden workbenches of elaborate design formed a semicircle. The top of each was finished with a thick marble surface. There the horror began.

  Animals, normal ones, lay dead all over the room. Larger beasts rotted in boxes on the floor, while the smaller specimens hung from hooks or lay in trays on the worktops. From the darkest corners whimpers and howls came from various unknown creatures.

  Bits of bodies were lined up on other workbenches. A pair of dog’s legs, a row of crows’ wings and four cats’ heads were just some of the foul sights they took in with their hasty glances.

  The Master was at the far side of the room, at the workbench where Boy had observed him through the glass late the previous evening.

  “Come on then,” he snarled. “Come and see my beautiful creations!”

  He waved them forward.

  Boy and Willow stared at each other as they walked behind Valerian to the Master. They tried not to look around them, but they were fascinated and repelled in equal measure by what they saw. They were used to seeing carcasses and hunks of animals hanging in butchers’ shops, but this minute and precise dissection of dogs, sheep, cats, birds—all still furred and feathered—was something else. Seeing this display of muscle, brain and bone made Boy wonder why things lived and then died, and what the difference was.

  Then it got worse.

  Boy and Willow caught up with Valerian, where he stood inspecting the Master’s lifework.

  “This is what I saw!” Boy whispered to Willow, but Willow had covered her mouth with her hand, either to stifle a cry or to stop herself vomiting.

  On the ranks of marble slabs in front of them lay the animals. A creature the size of a cat lay in a glass tray. Its body seemed to be that of a weasel, but it had a long cat’s tail and its head had once belonged to a large bird. There was no sign of any joins; the Master had evidently become a good craftsman.

  Next to the bird-weasel, in a tank of some foul chemical, a large fish with the head of a dog floated obscenely on its side. Further along the workbench were dogs with cats’ heads and bird-headed cats.

  And then there were the dragons. At first sight there seemed nothing else they could be but dragons—baby dragons. The largest was perhaps a foot long. It had the body of some greenish-gray lizard and seemed to have its own tail, and possibly even head. Large, powerful, beautiful wings with feathers the color of a golden sunrise adorned the creature’s back.

  As they looked closer they could just see a hint of some fine gut thread hanging down across the dragon’s belly from where the wings were attached.

  Valerian was hard at work now, praising the Master’s genius, his insight and his skill.

  “And I curse the evil luck that has dogged you,” he went on.

  “You are right!” cried the Master, his eyes glowing. “It is bad luck. What else can have prevented every single one of my fine creations from living?”

  “Indeed,” said Valerian.

  “I do not merely throw these bodies together,” the Master went on. “Oh no! Look!”

  He took them to another table and lifted the skin over the haunches of a small deer to show where he was attaching an eagle’s legs.

  “See? I link all tendons and tissues and fibers just as they should be. Every organ and vein and artery is thought of! I put back all the blood they lose. Why should they not live?”

  “Why indeed?” echoed Valerian.

  Boy and Willow looked at each other.

  “None of them are sick,” the Master rambled on, “before they come here. They are all well. I only allow the healthiest animals to go under my knife! Why then should they not live?”

  “Indeed,” Valerian went on. “Unless . . .”

  He paused for effect.

  “What?” the Master cried breathlessly.

  “Unless . . . I have some small knowledge in Natural Philosophies. It may be the case—it may be that there is some small but vital spark that is required to set life in motion.”

  “And what is this vital spark?”

  Valerian’s onstage again, Boy thought. Acting a role, exhibiting his magical skills, as he had done at the Great Theater every night for years.

  And now the Master was snared. Valerian turned to Boy and Willow with a flourish.

  “The apparatus!” he declared, and Boy and Willow set their canvas sacks on the floor, carefully lifting out the things Valerian had given them to carry.

  The Master stared at what he saw; he was a mixture of excitement, worry and ignorance. Under Valerian’s direction Boy and Willow set up the equipment.

  From inside a wooden case Boy pulled a long glass tube, about two fingers thick and an arm’s length. It had a metal cap at each of its ends and a small screw point for attaching a copper wire.

  Willow lifted out her piece. It was a wooden-and-metal-cased object, the size of a bucket. It was round, like a small barrel, with a handle on one of its flat sides. On its top was another screw point, to which Valerian quickly attached a length of copper wire. The other end was soon fixed to Boy’s glass tube.

  “Now,” said Valerian, “which specimen do you want to live first?”

  The Master was nearly beside himself hopping from one foot to the other.

  “Now?” he cried. “You can do it now? Just like that?”

  “I can,” stated Valerian in a booming voice, “on one condition.”

  The Master didn’t even break step.

  “Yes! Anything! Anything! Just make my animals live!”

  “We require information. On a burial in the City. You will promise us this if—when I make your beasts come alive?”

  “Yes,” said the Master, now almost weeping with excitement. “I promise! You have my word!”

  “Very well. Show us your latest creation. Is there anything you have recently finished?”

  “The dragon! The dragon!” shouted the Master, hopping and pointing frantically.

  They lifted the equipment closer to the dragon, so that it was within touching distance.

  What if we really do bring it to life? thought Boy. What if we don’t?

  Valerian said, “Now! Like I told you.”

  Suddenly he winced in pain. He took another swig from his small bottle, and after few seconds lowered his head. He nodded for them to start.

  Willow knelt down by the barrel-thing and began to wind the handle. No one spoke. The tension in the room was truly electric. The barrel hissed and crackled and fizzed.

  Then Boy, who was holding the glass tube, made a mistake.

  Hold it by the glass only, Valerian had warned, but Boy forgot. Losing his grip on the tube and fearful of dropping it, he touched one of its metal ends.

  Instantly he shrieked. His hair stuck up in the air and his feet smoked slightly. He dropped the tube.

  By a miracle it did not break.

  “What is this nonsense?” screamed the Master. “Are you trying to ridicule me?”

  Valerian hurried forward.

  “No, my friend! No! This is just a demonstration of the immense power we will instill in your creation!”

  He picked up the tube and shoved it back in Boy’s hands.

  “Get it right, idiot!” whispered Valerian in his ear. “Or I’ll cut you up like one of these brutes!”

  Dumbly Boy held the tube again as Willow gaped at him. He felt as if his brain had been fried. His hair still stuck up vertically; he looked like a brush on legs. It felt like—it felt like the time he’d tried to pick the lock on the Yellow House and had been blown backward across the street.

  Boy realized that Valerian wa
s using the same power now—something shown to him by Kepler, no doubt.

  “Again!” cried Valerian. “Willow. If you please.”

  Willow wound again, and this time Boy held the tube only by the glass.

  After a minute Valerian cried, “Enough!”

  He took the tube from Boy.

  “Boy! The wires!” he cried.

  Boy undid the wire from the tube, being very careful only to touch its leather sheath, avoiding the metal clips.

  Valerian took one last look at the Master and approached the dragon.

  “Behold!” he cried, and touched the metal tip of the tube to the legs of the creature.

  Immediately they began to twitch and flex.

  Next Valerian touched the wings, and they too sprang into life, opening and then relaxing.

  “It lives!” cried the Master. “It lives!”

  He began to jump up and down, hitting his hands against the side of his head.

  “I have done it at last! I am a genius!”

  He approached Valerian, arms open wide. Valerian took a step backward and held up his hand. “Your promise.”

  The Master smiled.

  “Anything you want! Just name it!”

  “I need to know where someone is buried.”

  “You have a name?” asked the Master, scuttling to the side of the room. There he pulled on a purple rope that hung from the ceiling. A distant bell tinkled and a servant appeared. He looked a little surprised to have been called at all, and even more surprised to see that his master had guests. “Sir?”

  “Get this man whatever he asks. You will need the alphabetical register of burials. Now leave me! I have many more animals to bring to life!”

  Valerian looked nervously at Boy and Willow, who were studying the dragon.

  “Yes,” he said to the Master, “I am sure you have much to do. We will leave you. All you have to do is turn the handle to charge the wand, then touch it to your animals. You may keep the equipment,” he added graciously.

  Boy looked at the dragon. It had stopped twitching and now lay lifeless on the marble slab, but the Master had not noticed. He was too busy winding the handle of the charger, talking to himself, trying to decide which of his bizarre beasts he would bring to life next.

  Valerian looked at the servant.