Arthmael,’ the white rider says.
A tall, gaunt man steps from behind one of the archways into the glow of the furnace. The skirts of his white robes turn as red as the burning wood. Tiny reflected flames glitter in his eyes as if a fire is burning inside his skull, but his fingers, when he caresses the boy’s face, are cold. He touches the boy’s red curls.
‘Rubedo, the red death,’ he murmurs, ‘the slayer and the slain.’ He glances up sharply at the white rider. ‘His youth, his colouring are right. But can we be sure?’
‘His father brought him to us on St Stephen’s Day and see on his right index finger – the snake.’
Father Arthmael seizes the boy’s wrist and pulls it closer to the furnace. The boy struggles, afraid of the heat. He has had a terror of fire ever since, as an infant, he was bouncing on his father’s outstretched leg playing horses and slipped off, his fingers plunging into the glowing embers of the hearth fire. His father had snatched him up straightaway, but he had sobbed for hours from the shock and pain of the burn. He still bears a raised scar encircling one finger like a jagged ring, and it is this scar that Father Arthmael examines.
‘Ouroboros.’ He exhales the word as a deep sigh. ‘Yes, that is what you saw. Yet if we look at the space contained within the line and not the line itself, it is
sol
, the sun, the egg of life itself. A blink of the eye, and the empty space becomes the solid object. Behind the shadow is the light, but that light in turn hides another shadow. You must learn to see deeper.’
‘This
is
Regulus,’ the white rider snaps. ‘I know it.’ The irritation in his voice makes the boy glance up. When his mother’s voice crackles like that, it is time to hide.
‘Regulus,’ Father Arthmael repeats slowly, as if chewing the letters. ‘Our little wren. Do you know, Regulus, that a man who seeks wisdom and the divine must first seek the wren? If he can find a bird so small and invisible in a great forest, he will find the
elixir vitae
. And that I will find, little wren.’
The boy has seen hundreds of wrens. He knows they are not invisible. They come to feed near the cottage. His parents, his sisters and brothers are asleep in that cottage tonight. In spite of the heat of the room, he shivers with misery. When can he go home? When will his father come for him and take him home?
Father Arthmael lifts an empty glass flask from the shelf and places it on the flags. It is not as big as those bubbling on the tables, but it is as big as the boy’s head. The lights from the flames catch this, too, and wriggle across its shiny throat. They are inquisitive children, determined to touch everything.
Father Arthmael comes closer and the boy backs away until he is pressing into the leg of the white rider behind him. He is afraid of them both, but more afraid of the tall one.
‘Urinate into this,’ Father Arthmael says.
The white rider lowers his head to the boy’s ear and whispers, ‘Piss into the flask, child.’
Regulus shakes his head. ‘Don’t want to.’
The man regards him with a frown. ‘Do you mean that you have no urge to urinate at this time, or are you refusing to obey?’
‘The boy is exhausted,’ the white rider says. ‘In the morning—’
‘I intended to begin tonight,’ Father Arthmael says, his voice sharp with anger and exasperation. He sighs. ‘Patience, diligence and perseverance,’ he breathes, as if he is reciting a prayer. ‘They are the servants and the masters of the royal art.’ He nods towards the boy. ‘Very well, but see that he’s kept separate from the others for now and fed only on herbs and the flesh of birds until he passes water. I must have it. It is the seed, the primal matter.’
The white rider turns the child and leads him back through the door, but they only retrace their steps halfway up the stairs. There he pauses before another door, which Regulus had not noticed on the way down. The man
A tall, gaunt man steps from behind one of the archways into the glow of the furnace. The skirts of his white robes turn as red as the burning wood. Tiny reflected flames glitter in his eyes as if a fire is burning inside his skull, but his fingers, when he caresses the boy’s face, are cold. He touches the boy’s red curls.
‘Rubedo, the red death,’ he murmurs, ‘the slayer and the slain.’ He glances up sharply at the white rider. ‘His youth, his colouring are right. But can we be sure?’
‘His father brought him to us on St Stephen’s Day and see on his right index finger – the snake.’
Father Arthmael seizes the boy’s wrist and pulls it closer to the furnace. The boy struggles, afraid of the heat. He has had a terror of fire ever since, as an infant, he was bouncing on his father’s outstretched leg playing horses and slipped off, his fingers plunging into the glowing embers of the hearth fire. His father had snatched him up straightaway, but he had sobbed for hours from the shock and pain of the burn. He still bears a raised scar encircling one finger like a jagged ring, and it is this scar that Father Arthmael examines.
‘Ouroboros.’ He exhales the word as a deep sigh. ‘Yes, that is what you saw. Yet if we look at the space contained within the line and not the line itself, it is
sol
, the sun, the egg of life itself. A blink of the eye, and the empty space becomes the solid object. Behind the shadow is the light, but that light in turn hides another shadow. You must learn to see deeper.’
‘This
is
Regulus,’ the white rider snaps. ‘I know it.’ The irritation in his voice makes the boy glance up. When his mother’s voice crackles like that, it is time to hide.
‘Regulus,’ Father Arthmael repeats slowly, as if chewing the letters. ‘Our little wren. Do you know, Regulus, that a man who seeks wisdom and the divine must first seek the wren? If he can find a bird so small and invisible in a great forest, he will find the
elixir vitae
. And that I will find, little wren.’
The boy has seen hundreds of wrens. He knows they are not invisible. They come to feed near the cottage. His parents, his sisters and brothers are asleep in that cottage tonight. In spite of the heat of the room, he shivers with misery. When can he go home? When will his father come for him and take him home?
Father Arthmael lifts an empty glass flask from the shelf and places it on the flags. It is not as big as those bubbling on the tables, but it is as big as the boy’s head. The lights from the flames catch this, too, and wriggle across its shiny throat. They are inquisitive children, determined to touch everything.
Father Arthmael comes closer and the boy backs away until he is pressing into the leg of the white rider behind him. He is afraid of them both, but more afraid of the tall one.
‘Urinate into this,’ Father Arthmael says.
The white rider lowers his head to the boy’s ear and whispers, ‘Piss into the flask, child.’
Regulus shakes his head. ‘Don’t want to.’
The man regards him with a frown. ‘Do you mean that you have no urge to urinate at this time, or are you refusing to obey?’
‘The boy is exhausted,’ the white rider says. ‘In the morning—’
‘I intended to begin tonight,’ Father Arthmael says, his voice sharp with anger and exasperation. He sighs. ‘Patience, diligence and perseverance,’ he breathes, as if he is reciting a prayer. ‘They are the servants and the masters of the royal art.’ He nods towards the boy. ‘Very well, but see that he’s kept separate from the others for now and fed only on herbs and the flesh of birds until he passes water. I must have it. It is the seed, the primal matter.’
The white rider turns the child and leads him back through the door, but they only retrace their steps halfway up the stairs. There he pauses before another door, which Regulus had not noticed on the way down. The man
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