Ancient Appetites (14 page)

'. . . I don't care if she had a voice like a magpie,' Gerald was saying. 'I wasn't listening to her anyway. I was lost in the depths of her eyes.'

They each took off their top hats, putting them in the boxes behind their saddles and taking out leather riding caps instead.

'It's wha' was coming ou' of the depths of 'er
throat
that had my attention,' Nate retorted in a slurred voice, wrapping up his chain. 'Was like listenin' to nails on a blackboard.'

Flash was giving him a funny look. Nate patted its head and went to swing his leg over the saddle. The velocycle jerked to the side and Nate missed, his leg coming down so hard he lost his balance and nearly fell over.

'Whash got into you?' he asked the engimal.

He tried to mount the velocycle again, but again it twisted out his way. Nate tried for a third time and this time he did fall over, landing clumsily in the mud.

'F' Godsshakes!' he roared, flailing around as he tried to stand up again. 'Stand still, damn you!'

'I don't think it wants . . . you riding it while . . . while you're drunk.' Gerald chuckled as he swayed back and forth on the saddle of his own engimal, taking his goggles from his coat pocket.

'I'll ride it when and where I like!' Nate bellowed. 'Oi'm in charge 'ere!'

'It looks it,' Gerald snorted. 'Get on the back here – I'll give you a lift. Otherwise you'll have to find a cab.'

'Right!' Nate snapped, giving Flash a petulant kick. 'You're in my bad books now. You'll just have to follow us home. And don't go chasing any bloody rabbits or the like. Stay right behind us, y'hear me?'

Flash looked subdued and a little hurt. It rubbed its front wheel up against Nate's leg.

'Don't start,' Nathaniel said to it. 'I'm really annoyed with you.'

He climbed on behind Gerald and pulled on his goggles. They rolled out into the street with Flash trailing behind. The city was empty and dark at this hour and Gerald smacked the side of his beast hard with his riding crop, egging it on through the deserted streets. Neither rider was in a fit state to be in the saddle, and with each corner they came dangerously close to falling off. With no stirrups to steady himself, Nate hung onto Gerald's waist and tried to hug the velocycle with his thighs. Gerald shouted at his machine, his voice loud and raw in the quiet night air.

The wind rose and the rain began to fall more and more heavily, until it was cascading down in a wall of spray that turned the night scene to brushstrokes in the light of the engimals' eyes. They crossed the Grand Canal and raced up Rathmines Road. Gerald leaned into a hard turn right on the muddy corner that led to Rathgar. The velocycle skidded, lost its footing and suddenly slid out from under them, sending them tumbling across the road.

It happened so fast that Nate barely had time to register he was falling before he found himself prostrate on the ground, the wind driven from his lungs. He sat up and winced, working his right shoulder, which felt as if it had been badly twisted. His coat sleeves were torn and the skin of his right palm was in ribbons, embedded with muck and small stones. His knees were in a similar state, visible through the rips in his trousers.

Gerald was on his knees, his hand to his mouth as if he were in danger of throwing up.

'Are you all right?' Nate asked him.

His cousin held up his other hand for a second.

'Got hit in the mouth by the handlebar,' he said at last, spitting out some blood onto the wet ground. 'Think I've lost a couple of teeth.'

'Oh, bad luck,' Nate said. 'Front ones?'

'No, no.' Gerald felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue. 'I'll keep my dashing good looks, thank God.'

The engimal was lying on its side, groaning, but didn't appear to be too badly injured. Flash coasted up and stopped beside Nathaniel. It uttered a worried gurgle.

'Don't give me any of your sympathy' he exclaimed, pushing at the velocycle. 'This is your fault and you know it.'

W
hen they finally got back to the house, tired, filthy, sore and dishevelled, they went straight up to Gerald's rooms. He lit a couple of the gas-lamps and took some iodine and gauze out of a cupboard.

'We need to clean out your hand,' he said, ushering Nathaniel to a stool at an empty table. 'It could get infected. Are you hurt anywhere else?'

'Just a sore shoulder and some bruises. And I skinned my knees too. I'll put some coins on them before I go to bed.'

Nate was gripping a handkerchief to his injured palm and when he opened his fingers, the linen was stained with blood. Laying his hand on the table, he bit his lip as Gerald poured iodine over the torn flesh – causing it to sting like a flash-burn – and started to use a gold-tipped tweezers to painstakingly pick out the stones and bits of grit.

'Are you sure you're sober enough to be doing this?' he asked.

'Not really, no.'

Nathaniel looked around the room, searching for something to take his mind off his wounded hand. His eyes fell on the four shapes covered by sheets at the end of the room. The tweezers dug into his hand and he yelped.

'God Almighty! Can't you be a bit more careful?'

'Sorry.'

Nate drew a hissed breath in through his teeth as he felt the metal tips probing his damaged palm. The wind blew rain against the windows and there was a distant rumble of thunder.

'Let's have another look at your bog bodies then,' he said. 'I need a good laugh.'

'If you like.'

Gerald finished cleaning the wound and told Nate to rinse it under the tap before putting on a bandage. Then they walked down the half-lit room to the tables where the leathery bodies lay. Lifting off the sheets, they gazed at the distorted, flattened forms in silence. The room flashed – lightning turning everything to black and white for an instant. A glint of metal caught Nate's eye and he leaned over one of the male bodies, examining the right hand.

'Look,' he said. 'That's gold.'

On the ring finger of the hand was what appeared to be a misshapen signet ring. Nate took his bloodstained handkerchief and rubbed some of the dirt off it. He gasped at what he saw. The ring bore the Wildenstern crest. His father wore the same ring, given to him by his father before him. This corpse . . . this man, whoever he was, had been a Patriarch.

'Well, I'll be damned,' Gerald breathed.

There was another flash of lightning, making them blink. Nate saw another glint of metal; this time it came from between the dead man's bared teeth. Squeamish about touching the cadaver with his bare hands, he pressed down the teeth of the lower jaw and reached into the mouth with his hankie.

'There's something in here,' he whispered.

Sticking his fingers down into the throat, he felt a hard shape and pulled at it. It came away and he held it up, gripping it with his handkerchief. It was a grimy gold coin. They both exchanged looks and Nate peered into the mouth.

'There's more,' he said.

Sliding his hand in again, he pulled a second and then a third coin from the throat. The dead man's gullet was full of gold coins.

'He didn't do this himself Gerald muttered softly. 'Somebody stuffed those in. It might even have been what killed him. Imagine that! Imagine how much somebody would have to have hated him to ram
gold
down his throat . . .'

'And not take it
out
again when he was dead,' Nate finished for him.

Thunder cracked and rolled outside. Rain lashed against the glass, running down it in streams.

He could still see metal in there. Slipping his bare fingers between the teeth, he tried to reach it. The coin was far down in the throat, but he almost had it—

The jaw suddenly clamped shut on his hand. He let out a terrified scream and pulled his hand out. The grip was feeble and he freed himself easily, but he screeched again for good measure.

'Jesus!' he cried. 'Jesus Bloody Christ! What the
bloody hell. . . ?'

Nate started hyperventilating, but Gerald was ignoring him completely. Seizing a small pair of tongs from another bench, he rushed over to the body and tipped back the crushed head. He reached down into the mouth with the tongs and pulled out the last coin. The leathery corpse coughed and drew a weak, ragged breath.

'Get me a bellows and the galvanizing apparatus from the cupboard over there!' Gerald yelled at his cousin.

'It. . . it bloody bit me, Gerald!'

'It was a gag reflex,' Gerald barked at him. 'He was trying to breathe.'

He turned and stared at Nate with a strange light in his eyes, his face like that of a saint struck by a divine vision. Lightning shocked the room white again and thunder crashed against the windows.

'He's alive,' Gerald said in a hoarse gasp. 'It's impossible . . . completely impossible. But he's
alive!

Nathaniel gazed in utter disbelief at his friend. For a moment he was sure that Gerald had lost his mind. But then he looked at his own hand and saw that it was bleeding again. The bog body took another wheezing breath and Nate saw the chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly. He and Gerald looked at each other. And then they turned to look at the other three corpses.

It was to be the longest night of their lives. As Gerald tried to resuscitate the reanimated man, Nathaniel probed the throats of the other three bodies. Each one was jammed with coins or gold jewellery. Moments after he had gingerly cleared each blockage, he heard the dry rasp of air from desiccated lungs. The butler, MacDonald, was summoned, along with Clancy and a small cadre of the most trusted servants. The entire floor of the building was sealed off and Edgar was informed.

The Patriarch limped down to the laboratory on his cane, wearing a dressing gown over his nightshirt and flanked by his Maasai footmen. Standing over the revived cadavers, he watched as servants used bellows to gently push air into the lungs of the bog bodies whenever they failed to breathe by themselves – but breathe they did. He listened dispassionately as Gerald explained what had happened.

'How is this possible?' he asked at last.

'I . . . I could only guess . . . theorize, sir,' Gerald replied nervously. 'Nothing like this has ever happened before. There is no precedent.'

'Then
theorize,
damn it, man.' Edgar scowled. 'We have dead bodies drawing breath before our eyes! Tell me how this can be!'

'There must have been some kernel of life left in them,' Gerald stammered, running his hand through his hair. 'I don't know how, Uncle. Some animals hibernate for long periods – but they still need to breathe. Insects can lie dormant, sometimes for years . . . but . . . I don't know. It's almost as if these preserved bodies are like the dried husk of a seed that can still sprout leaves. Clearly,
aurea sanitas
is at work here . . . but I . . . I've never ever heard of anything like this. It shouldn't be possible.'

Edgar sniffed loudly, clearly unsatisfied with the explanation.

'Are they capable of recovering? Will they be able to speak – to walk?'

'I don't know, Uncle.'

The Patriarch turned his attention back to the bog bodies.

'Will they be able to have children?'

Gerald shrugged helplessly, baffled by the question.

'We'll see if Warburton can tell us any more,' Edgar grunted.

'If he can, then he'd be lying!' Gerald retorted, more aggressively than he'd meant to. Composing himself, he added: 'There is nothing in the world of medicine to prepare someone for this situation, Uncle. Let me continue to work on them and see what can be done. Please! If I need assistance, I will be the first to say it.'

Edgar stared at him for what seemed like an age . . . and then nodded. Turning to the room at large, he gestured to Gerald's four new patients.

'Not a whisper of what is happening here must go beyond these walls. Of the servants, only you here are to know of it. I do not need to tell you what will happen to you if utter so much as a word of it. As for the family, we will include only those closest to me, and whatever scientific minds Gerald feels might be needed.

'Gerald, you will be responsible for their treatment and also for uncovering their past. If this man was a Patriarch, I want to know which one. There are too many questions unanswered here.'

With that, he walked out of the room. Gerald looked over at Nathaniel and gave a tired but triumphant smile.

And so the work began. Gerald wrote out a list of the things he needed and men were dispatched to find them. Two footmen stood by each body, ready with a bellows in case their breathing failed. Using a stethoscope, Gerald discovered weak, thready and painfully slow heartbeats and listened to lungs that sounded like brittle paper bags. He inserted gold needles into key
aurea sanitas
points over each body and connected them via wires to a galvanizing apparatus that ran a low-voltage electrical current into the leathery flesh. This was a technique he had pioneered which had been proven to stimulate
aurea sanitas's,
recuperative properties.

Using an eyedropper, he dripped water into their throats, to see if they were capable of swallowing, and therefore rehydrating their bodies. Every breath, every waking moment seemed to require supreme effort for these preserved people, but eventually they began to drink. As his confidence in them grew, Gerald added sugar to the solution.

Nathaniel helped where he could, following Gerald's instructions, but he was working in a daze. He could not comprehend how any of this could be possible. Gazing down at the first man they had brought back to life after his centuries-long sleep, Nate wondered what kind of eyes lay beneath those sunken eyelids. As if parting the petals of a flower, he delicately pulled back one of the dark-brown eyelids to see. Deflated against the wall of the hollow socket, he found a shrivelled yellow ball with a bleached pupil. Clancy was standing next to him and tilted his head to look closer.

'If they do wake up, do you think they'll be blind?' Nate asked quietly.

'I think that remains to be seen, sir,' Clancy replied.

Gerald joined them, his fatigue starting to show through his zeal.

'There are other questions to ask, Master Nathaniel, if these extraordinary souls recover,' Clancy added softly, careful not to let the other servants hear him. 'It is clear that they were killed . . . or at least attacked and then buried in the belief that they were dead. This was an act of hateful vengeance. And to be buried in a peat bog as they were was a fate most often reserved for those who died in disgrace, or were being punished for the most serious of crimes. What kind of people were they to deserve such a death?

'But there is one more thing to consider,' he went on. 'Because if this man here was a Wildenstern Patriarch – though evidently not a
popular
one – and he regains his faculties, then he will be by far the oldest living male in the family line.'

Clancy turned to look at Nate and Gerald. He could see that with everything that had gone on, they had not even considered this.

'He could claim the family' Nate said. 'He could take over from Father.'

Outside, dawn was starting to creep across the eastern sky.

Francie shifted around restlessly in the narrow bed, unable to settle. Beside him, his bedmate, Patrick, tugged angrily on the thin blanket.

'Francie, will yeh stop yer fiddlin'!' he muttered. 'Some of us're tryin' to sleep, y'know!'

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Francie rolled out of bed and felt around in the dark for his clothes, which lay in an untidy pile on the floor. He was half dead with exhaustion but knew he was not going to sleep. He had been unable to doze for more than an hour at a time since the explosion. His nerves were raw, he felt sick and he was cold all the time. Memories of the disaster and the men who had died constantly forced their way into his thoughts. Guilt and fear washed over him in waves. This was the third night now and still he couldn't find peace.

It was still raining outside; the storm had been blowing for two nights and there had been less work to do. Normally he would have been happy about this, but now he found that work offered the only relief for his uneasy mind. He couldn't light the lamp with all the others asleep, and in his weary daze he managed to pull both braces onto one shoulder and put his hat on backwards before he straightened himself out.

Hugging his coat tightly around him against the night's chill, he crept down to the hay stalls at the far end of the long attic, opened the trap door and, hanging from the ledge, dropped down into the darkness and the pile of hay that lay below. Brushing himself down, he walked through the stable, listening to the breathing of the horses. Some of them were awake, moving nervously as the storm blustered overhead.

He had returned to the stables after the explosion looking as if he'd been buried alive. There was no way he would have been able to wash his clothes in time, and he only had a spare shirt; no other trousers, boots or jacket. He had considered fleeing the grounds, but his father's words had stayed with him. They had to act normal. Francie had still been trying to come up with an excuse for the state of his clothes when Hennessy had walked in. The old man had taken one look at him, strode forward and wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly.