far from certain how I have come to be who I am in such a time and place as this. I mean these things not, you understand, in any philosophical sense but rather in a literal and material one. I have, of late, been endeavouring to uncover the truth. I have visited wise men. Oracles. Priests. Doctors. Magicians. Sages of every stripe. Though they’ve cast no light. Not a man jack of them.”
The boy nods, more from courtesy than comprehension.
“Nonetheless, whilst I pursue this... mystery I wish also to do good.”
“Then you are a philanthropist, sir?”
“Yes. I suppose I am. As much as is possible. Though my time does not always seem to be my own. And I am greatly concerned that the part of my life which I shall spend as any force for good is soon to come to an end.”
“Sir?”
“In recent nights, in certain dreams and visions, I have seen several clues. I have been vouchsafed details of the future. Glimpses only. Fragments of the puzzle. Last night, I saw something of what I shall become. A new kind of creature. A new kind of... intelligence. There are storm clouds gathering above me. My destiny approaches.”
“A man may make his own destiny,” says the boy. “A man can outwit fate.”
“Do you think so?”
An earnest nod. “I do.”
Cannonbridge seems to brighten. “Then perhaps I shall. And perhaps you will too. What I meant to say was that the debts of your father need not overwhelm you.”
“I hope that you are right,” says the boy and they walk on in a silence that now seems almost companionable, as if each has found some succour in the other.
Cannonbridge begins again. “In what I have seen of the future, Charles, you will endure. And not merely endure but thrive .You will write often and well.”
“Truly, sir?”
“Truly. But more than this I cannot say.”
“I see... then thank you, sir.”
They speak of many other things—of the city and the river, of shadows and money, of family, of fog, books, stories, the forging of myth. At last, they come to Camden Town, a place but lately claimed by the city, and along a freshly paved road to Number Sixteen, Bayham Street.
A pump stands opposite the house. Beyond it are lanes and open fields. Here there is still birdsong.
Cannonbridge takes a purse from his pocket, heavy with coin, and presses it into the boy’s hands.
He says: “I hope this may be of some help.”
The boy, proud, hesitates.
“Please. This... stuff. This money, it seems to make so great a deal of difference to people. It can be the difference—I have observed—between happiness and misery.”
The boy ducks his head. The purse, accepted, is slipped adroitly into a pocket.
“This will pass,” Cannonbridge says. “Remember that.”
“Will we meet again?” asks the boy.
“I think that we shall. Many years from now.” There is sadness in the man’s voice. “But when we do, if my suspicions are correct, I fear that I may be greatly changed. Our encounter may not be as happy or as providential as this.”
“You will be changed by... age, then, sir? By time?”
“By age, yes. But by something else also. And then, my boy...”
“Yes, sir?”
“You must not trust me. Do you understand? I shall not be benign.”
The boy nods gravely. “But can you not thwart it, sir? Whatever it may be. Surely you must try. You must try not to let yourself be so transformed.”
The man smiles sadly. “Goodbye, Charles. Thank you for your company and for the conversation.”
The boy holds the purse tightly in his pocket. “Thank you, sir.”
Cannonbridge turns and walks away.
For a time, Charles watches him go, curious, a little afraid and in no particular hurry to go inside to face the tears of his mother, the drawn and sullen faces of his siblings. For an instant before the author vanishes into the gloom, Charles is almost certain that he spies something in the visitor’s wake, something made of ebony, blacker even than the shadows, something more animal than
The boy nods, more from courtesy than comprehension.
“Nonetheless, whilst I pursue this... mystery I wish also to do good.”
“Then you are a philanthropist, sir?”
“Yes. I suppose I am. As much as is possible. Though my time does not always seem to be my own. And I am greatly concerned that the part of my life which I shall spend as any force for good is soon to come to an end.”
“Sir?”
“In recent nights, in certain dreams and visions, I have seen several clues. I have been vouchsafed details of the future. Glimpses only. Fragments of the puzzle. Last night, I saw something of what I shall become. A new kind of creature. A new kind of... intelligence. There are storm clouds gathering above me. My destiny approaches.”
“A man may make his own destiny,” says the boy. “A man can outwit fate.”
“Do you think so?”
An earnest nod. “I do.”
Cannonbridge seems to brighten. “Then perhaps I shall. And perhaps you will too. What I meant to say was that the debts of your father need not overwhelm you.”
“I hope that you are right,” says the boy and they walk on in a silence that now seems almost companionable, as if each has found some succour in the other.
Cannonbridge begins again. “In what I have seen of the future, Charles, you will endure. And not merely endure but thrive .You will write often and well.”
“Truly, sir?”
“Truly. But more than this I cannot say.”
“I see... then thank you, sir.”
They speak of many other things—of the city and the river, of shadows and money, of family, of fog, books, stories, the forging of myth. At last, they come to Camden Town, a place but lately claimed by the city, and along a freshly paved road to Number Sixteen, Bayham Street.
A pump stands opposite the house. Beyond it are lanes and open fields. Here there is still birdsong.
Cannonbridge takes a purse from his pocket, heavy with coin, and presses it into the boy’s hands.
He says: “I hope this may be of some help.”
The boy, proud, hesitates.
“Please. This... stuff. This money, it seems to make so great a deal of difference to people. It can be the difference—I have observed—between happiness and misery.”
The boy ducks his head. The purse, accepted, is slipped adroitly into a pocket.
“This will pass,” Cannonbridge says. “Remember that.”
“Will we meet again?” asks the boy.
“I think that we shall. Many years from now.” There is sadness in the man’s voice. “But when we do, if my suspicions are correct, I fear that I may be greatly changed. Our encounter may not be as happy or as providential as this.”
“You will be changed by... age, then, sir? By time?”
“By age, yes. But by something else also. And then, my boy...”
“Yes, sir?”
“You must not trust me. Do you understand? I shall not be benign.”
The boy nods gravely. “But can you not thwart it, sir? Whatever it may be. Surely you must try. You must try not to let yourself be so transformed.”
The man smiles sadly. “Goodbye, Charles. Thank you for your company and for the conversation.”
The boy holds the purse tightly in his pocket. “Thank you, sir.”
Cannonbridge turns and walks away.
For a time, Charles watches him go, curious, a little afraid and in no particular hurry to go inside to face the tears of his mother, the drawn and sullen faces of his siblings. For an instant before the author vanishes into the gloom, Charles is almost certain that he spies something in the visitor’s wake, something made of ebony, blacker even than the shadows, something more animal than
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