David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

While the spectacle of Mrs. Quince occupied the guests, Mr. Morrison did not allow his attentions to be divided. He stared down Mr. Olson. “Miss Derrick is not your property. Take your business elsewhere while you better recollect how to speak to a lady.”

The argument between these two men, Mrs. Quince’s scene, and the revelation that she had been dancing with Jonas Morrison—it was all too much for Lucy. She could remain there no longer, and made her way to the front door, ignoring the open stares that followed her. She thought she heard Mr. Morrison call after her. Lucy went out into the dark street and did not run, but walked quickly, thinking only of how much she wished to return to her uncle’s house. She would think of nothing else, for then she would have to consider how this dispute must be discussed even now, what would be said of her as a result of Mr. Olson’s rudeness and Mr. Morrison’s clumsy efforts at chivalry.

Snow was falling lightly, and the cold was bitter, the streets slippery with ice, making it difficult to walk as quickly as she wanted. Lucy had gone only to the corner of Grey Friar Gate when she observed a group of men heading toward her. There were some seven or eight of them, rugged-looking men of the laboring order, the sort she did not wish to encounter by herself under any circumstances, and least of all at night. They spoke and laughed loudly, radiating drunken pride and bravado. They were precisely the sort of men, in precisely the sort of state, to do what they must later regret. Lucy was suddenly afraid, but she believed if she turned to run, they would notice and follow—even if she could run upon such slippery streets.

Lucy turned away from them, toward the church and Pepper Street. She felt like a wounded bird attempting not to attract the notice of a cat, and thus far they’d shown no sign of concerning themselves with her. These were men in rough homespun clothes, and they all carried bulky objects upon their shoulders—tools and equipment and materials of some sort. Perhaps they were just workingmen, happy to have employment, done with their day’s labors, and wanting nothing so much as to see their wives and children and hearths. Perhaps her fear was without meaning or substance. Lucy turned her head for a better look and saw, in the dim streetlights, that what they carried with them were poles, pikes, hammers, and mallets, and all at once she understood. They were Luddites.

Lucy turned to run, but it seemed as though time changed and distorted around her. They were half a block away, and then they were encircling her, obstructing her—tall and menacing, smelling of earth and old sweat.

“Here she is then,” said one of them. “Miss Lucy Derrick.”

“What do you want from me?” Her voice was high and cracking. Lucy could feel her heart in her throat, hammering loud and hard, as though it might break free of her body. It seemed to her that something had shifted in the world. The rules she had always known, with the quickness of snuffing a candle, no longer applied.

“Oh, we don’t want to hurt you, girl,” one said. “You ain’t an enemy of the workingman, now are you?”

“I—I have no reason to be,” Lucy stammered. “You have not given me a reason.”

“But which side are you on?” asked the same man. “Do you favor the man who wants only to work for his bread, or do you favor the men who would build machines that crush us—men like that man you was to marry?”

“She ain’t marrying him,” said another. “She’s made her choice, so don’t frighten her.”

“I don’t want to scare her,” said the first man, “but I won’t have her quieting up on me, will I? Now, lass, do you mean to walk away from this Olson for good? Tell me now.”

“You’re the ones who broke his stocking frames,” she said.

He laughed. “Course we are. Who but us? Did it pierce your heart to see him suffer?”

“Enough!” The voice came from the back of the group. It wasn’t loud, but it was commanding, and every man in the group stopped. None looked, but they all ceased their motions and waited. Lucy felt herself freeze too. His voice made her uneasy. It had an unnatural sound that seemed almost to disrupt the workings of her body. It was foreign and somehow impossible.

It was the man she had seen outside Mr. Olson’s mill, and yet now he appeared somehow greater than what he had been then. There was something in him that terrified her, like a thing that she was not meant to look upon. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, and the broadest, and yet he did not look like a giant in a roadside show. His proportions were right and true. He appeared veiled in darkness, as though the shadow sought his face or was part of his face. For an instant she saw him in bits and pieces—his eyes, his mouth, his brow—and then he moved and the shadows rested upon him again, drawn like metal filings to a magnet.

“We are not here to frighten you,” he said in a voice deep and rumbling. “We know of you, and now you know of us. You understand what we stand for, do you not?”

“To whom do I speak?” cried out Lucy in a voice she hoped made her sound bold.

“You speak to our king and our general,” answered the first machine breaker. “He who shall tear down the rotten planks of this country and build it up afresh. You speak to Ned Ludd.”

Whatever this being was, Lucy understood he was not a man. He was something different, something terrifying. “Sir, I know of your cause, and I sympathize with your suffering, but I cannot join a revolution against my king.”

The strange shadowy man stepped forward, but then stopped and seemed to shake his head like a dog who has received a blow. His eyes were wide and bright, not glowing, but something near it. In a flash too quick for Lucy’s eyes to follow, he lashed out and grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand, pried open her fingers. It was the second time this had happened that evening, and the second time Mr. Morrison’s flower revealed itself.

Lucy had forgotten about it, but it was clearly no trivial thing. Ludd took it from her, pinching one petal with his thumb and index finger as though it were too dangerous to grip as she had gripped it. He whispered something at the flower, and then dropped it into his other palm. He closed his fist and opened it again an instant later, revealing a handful of dust. It reminded Lucy of one of Mr. Morrison’s little tricks, but this was no trick. It was magic, ancient and unfathomable.

“This is Rosicrucian work,” said Ludd.

“Then she sides with the enemy,” said one of his men.

“She cannot choose a side,” said Ludd, “when she does not yet know. We don’t ask for you to join us, Miss Derrick. We only want that you will not stand against us, and that you do your part. Can we ask that of you?”

“I do not know,” she said, “but I will do what I think is right.”

“See that you do,” said one of the others.

“Remember that pledge when you gather the leaves,” said another Luddite.

There it was again. “What does that mean?” asked Lucy. “Why do you tell me that, and tell me nothing of what it means?”

“You will know,” answered Ludd. “When you are ready, you will go to Newstead. But do not enter the abbey until you are prepared to fight for what you love.”

He and his followers now walked on, stepping into the darkness without further word, leaving her alone upon the street to wonder and doubt and marvel in her confusion.

17

W ORD OF THE INCIDENT AT THE GILLEY HOUSE SPREAD WITH ASTONISHING rapidity, but Lucy was preoccupied with the knowledge that she had actually met the supposedly mythical General Ludd, and that he had a particular interest in her life. To her, this revelation was far more important than an embarrassment with a man she did not wish to marry. Nevertheless, she was soon enough made to confront issues that preoccupied others. At the breakfast table, her uncle could not bother to swallow his dried prune before confronting her directly.