Catherine Fisher - Obsidian Mirror

… whole of the West country. Blizzard conditions have forced the closure of the M3, and all major roads across Dartmoor are severely affected. Motorists have been forced to abandon their cars and…

The voice faded.

“Blast.” Wharton rubbed his numb fingers and tried again.

…emergency services. Police have advised…in outlying areas…not to leave home unless their journey is absolutely necessary…

“Great.” It was clear they were trapped here. The drive would already be knee-deep.

…Other news. A young woman…

His hand went to the off switch and stayed there, paralyzed.

… missing for two weeks from the Linley Psychiatric Institute in Wintercombe, Devon, has been found. Sarah Stewart walked into a police station in Truro yesterday, and…memory loss…she has…iving…uncle in Penzance…

He swore, grabbed the radio. Shook it, stared at it.

In a final dying whisper it said,… Today in Parliament the prime minister…

Silence.

Wharton sat back and breathed out a cloud of astonished breath. Then, to two of the black cats that sprawled on the desk, he said, “What the hell is going on here?”

The cats blinked back at him.

As soon as she was alone, Rebecca slipped through the cloister to the small outer gate and dragged it open. The snow was already falling heavily, every crack and crevice dusted with it; it blew horizontally into her face and the cold stung her eyes to tears. She wore a woolen hat pulled down over her ears, but still the blizzard sounded like the hissing of endless static.

“Where are you?”

She dared not shout. Wharton was too close. Beyond the gate was nothing but snow, all the overgrown lawns lost in it, the very trees invisible.

And then he was there, a darkness darting out of that blinding white world, and he helped her drag the door shut and click the icy padlock, Rebecca dragging the bar across.

Maskelyne leaned against the wall, coughing.

He looked half frozen, hunched up with shivering, his lips pale blue with cold.

She said, “Sorry. I couldn’t…”

“What’s happened?” He hugged himself, numb. “You were so long.”

“It’s all gone wrong! You wouldn’t believe! Venn and Jake have… journeyed. Isn’t that what you say?”

His scarred stare was so stricken, she had to look away.

“Where? When?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“No I mean when? What interval of time?”

“No one knows. Piers is scared stiff.”

So was he. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, the thin fingers clutching the lank dark hair. “Rebecca this is unbearable. To be so close, and to…”

“You can still take it. The mirror. I’ll help you.”

“The mirror is no use without the bracelet.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe…”

“Rebecca?” Wharton’s yell made them both jump.

Maskelyne turned like a cat. He slipped out into the cloister and ducked behind the low wall just as Wharton ran through the inner door.

“All secure?”

“Yes. Fine,” she said, breathless.

“Good. We need to get back. I want to talk to Sarah.” He turned, abruptly and so tense with agitation, she said, “What’s wrong?”

“Apart from everything, you mean?” He shrugged, and she realized suddenly that even this big, bluff man was scared. Scared and angry. “I want answers, Rebecca. Because this whole bloody charade is getting dangerous. And I’m worried sick about Jake.”

He stormed into the house and she followed, glancing back at Maskelyne, who rose out of the cloister and watched her like a ghost.

I am desperate to make my first public demonstration of the machine, but I must be so careful! I must do nothing until I am sure of its powers, or I will look such a fool. There are plenty of mule-headed bigots in the Royal Society who would scoff at my claims, so I must proceed with utmost care, and not ruin my triumph by impatience.

Five times now I have managed to create the vortex in the mirror. I have had to supply a vast amount of voltaic energy, and create a magnetic field so powerful, its effects can be felt streets away.

I have also destroyed two rooms in my house as the result of explosions and a recent fire. But wonderful things have happened.

First, there is a terrible compulsion to enter the mirror. Rather like Odysseus, I have resorted to tying myself down in my chair before beginning the experiment and fastening the chair itself with chains to a pillar in the basement. Even so the drag yesterday snapped the ropes and I was hurled forward with such force, I bloodied my head, and only my hand leaving the controls saved me.

Who knows in what time or place I would have found myself?

I see such things in the obsidian glass!

I have seen a green meadow, backed by wooded hills and a small blue lake. Perhaps Cumbria, perhaps Wales. I have seen a room so dark, it might be underground, and heard singing there, in some tongue I could not identify, and then a figure garbed in some cloak, for an instant, before the void. I have tossed in meticulously weighed samples of minerals, wood, vegetative matter.

All have vanished

None have returned.

I have analyzed the variations in gravity, the harmonics of the mirror’s curve, the strange alterations in its weight and mass.

And today, I shall make my first experiment with a living creature.

The dog is one I picked up from the streets; the alleys of London swarm with such curs. It is of some mongrel variety, terrier-like, with a black ear and a great black blob on its flank.

A trusting creature, it allowed me to scoop it up and bring it back in the carriage; it ate hungrily of a whole plate of beef and then composed itself for sleep. Now it lies snoring and snuffling.

But someone has just knocked on the door.

As I look down from the window, I see it is a man. He looks up. He has dark hair.

He is a stranger.

Jake tasted the vile brew again; this time it was infinitely worse. He put the chipped china cup down politely. “Thanks.”

Moll looked at his face. “Too sour for you?”

“No. It was lovely. Thanks.”

“Eat, then.”

She waved at the selection of faintly rancid pastries, obviously stolen from the bins of some bakery. He picked one up and took a cautious bite. He had no idea what it was, and didn’t want to ask.

They were sitting on the floor of a tiny space that Moll called her “crib”—a heap of dirty blankets and possibly clothes, and they were taking tea. He wasn’t sure if the girl was playing some game of make-believe or was deadly serious; certainly her pride in having him there seemed only too real.

The crib was a small balcony or box, high up on the side of the theater. If he stood up, he would be looking down into where the front rows had once been, but now that space was a makeshift squatter camp of flimsily constructed shelters, tents, even small buildings made of poles and partitions and props and scraps of once bright theater curtain. On the wide stage itself men sat and drank, women roared with laughter, dogs and babies fought. It stank of gin and ordure, the roof greasy with candle soot.

It was a vision from a nightmare.

“Look,” he whispered. “I don’t have much time. These men…”