Queen of the Dark Things
CONTENTS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 Shadows of the Batavia
Chapter 2 The Missing Man March
Chapter 3 The Stacks
Chapter 4 The Billboard Psychic
Chapter 5 Keepsakes and Memories
Chapter 6 On Disbelief
Chapter 7 Beatriz
Chapter 8 The Pretty Little Girl in the Purple Pajamas
Chapter 9 On Kutji
Chapter 10 Austin
Chapter 11 On Genius Loci
Chapter 12 Back to the Cursed and the Damned
Chapter 13 Business
Chapter 14 Orobas and Amy
Chapter 15 The Seventy-two
Chapter 16 A Field of Bad Choices
Chapter 17 City of the Damned
Chapter 18 Hair of the Dog
Chapter 19 Dreamtime and the Land of Dreams
Chapter 20 The Cleverest Man in Arnhem Land
Chapter 21 The Clever Men
Chapter 22 Rocks and Throwing Stars
Chapter 23 On Djang
Chapter 24 Fishing
Chapter 25 The Rum Thief
Chapter 26 Night of the Bunyip
Chapter 27 A Break in the Siege
Chapter 28 The Orphan Story
Chapter 29 Beside Herself
Chapter 30 Cut the Cord
Chapter 31 The Other Side of the Tree
Chapter 32 The Night the Demons Came
Chapter 33 Four Men Singing in a Truck
Chapter 34 Songlines
Chapter 35 The Swamps Just South of Arnhem
Chapter 36 Queen of the Dark Things
Chapter 37 The She-devils of Nanmamnrootmee
Chapter 38 The Hell Outside
Chapter 39 The Gwyllion Over the Hill
Chapter 40 The Duke at the Foot of a Rock
Chapter 41 The Five Dukes of the Batavia
Chapter 42 Solomon the Wanderer
Chapter 43 The Favor of Orobas
Chapter 44 The Angel on Horseback
Chapter 45 The Leopard
Chapter 46 Meatpuppet
Chapter 47 The Second Pressed into Service
Chapter 48 The Stale Room and the Grave at the Edge of the World
Chapter 49 The Fool’s Gambit
Chapter 50 Dreamspeaker
Chapter 51 As Shadows Fade
Chapter 52 Winter of Discontent
Chapter 53 The Pageantry of Queens
Chapter 54 The Bearded Hunter
Chapter 55 The Master of the Parade
Chapter 56 The Weight of Things
Chapter 57 The Snakehandler
Chapter 58 High Moon
Chapter 59 With This Ring
Chapter 60 The Burden of Solomon
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by C. Robert Cargill
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
DEDICATION
FOR JESSICA,
BUT THEN, THEY’RE ALL FOR JESSICA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My editor, Diana Gill, once told me that the second book is the hardest of them all to write. She wasn’t lying. The book you hold in your hands now comes after the longest, hardest literary slog of my life. It isn’t the book I set out to write, but it is the book I wanted to write all along. And it couldn’t have fought its way to you without the efforts and support of a number of amazing people. Everyone should be so lucky as to be surrounded by the likes of these, each of whom I would like to thank now.
First and foremost, I have to thank Diana, whose near psychic ability to steer me in the right direction without directly telling me where to go continues to mystify me. She is my Mandu. And I never would have found this book without her. She also knows how to find the very best food in the world, regardless of what city she finds herself in. So trust her on that if you ever get the opportunity. And, of course, I have to thank Simon Spanton, my Diana across the pond. His passion for the written word and his faith in me always give me something to aspire to when I find myself on the darkest, toughest nights. I’ve said that before, but it bears repeating.
Thanks to my tireless publicist, Jessie Edwards, who I learned, only hours before this writing, fought for the chance to work on my books. That requires a level of thanks that I do not yet quite have the words to express. Her patience and devotion to answering e-mails within minutes helped guide this first-time author through the terrifying trial of a first release and book tour. And to the Weirwolf Jon Wier, who did the same for me with gleeful abandon overseas. Thanks to the outstanding team at Voyager: Kelly O’Connor, Shawn Nicholls, Dana Trombley, et al. And with equal measure thanks to the team at Gollancz: Sinem Erkas, Charlie Panayiotou, Jenn McMenemy, and all the rest. All of you folks make this more fun than it has any right to be.
Thanks and much love to my agent, Peter McGuigan, who continues to be a rock star, doing things that you think only half-crazed, angry agents can do, but with swagger and a genuine smile that earns the trust he so richly deserves. He’s the real deal. As are Kirsten Neuhaus and the amazing team at Foundry. Thanks to my manager, David McIlvain, whose voice guides me through the hardest decisions, but who always seems to call with good news. He was the first person in my career who believed in me before he really knew me, and I’ll never, ever forget that. And, of course, his confidant, Mac Dewey, another early believer.
Thanks to my readers: Jason Murphy, Rod Paddock, Will Goss, Paul Gandersman, Peter S. Hall, Luke Mullen, and Brian Salisbury. The value of your brutal honesty is matched only by the warmth of your friendship. I love you guys. So drinks. Friday. Salisbury and Mullen’s house. I’ll bring the scotch.
Thanks to Lee Zachariah, my man from Oz, who helped with the lingo and the research on the little bits that were vital to get just right. Thanks to all my friends in the industry, too numerous to name, who have ever sat me down, gifted me with advice, shown me the ropes, and tweeted or talked about my work. You know who you are. Thanks to Tim and Karrie League and the staff of the Alamo Drafthouse who not only supported my book and movie but have also provided the venue for many of the greatest nights of my life. And thanks to my partner in crime, Scott Derrickson. He makes me a better writer every day. The world has yet to see the full extent of his talent. But it will. It will.
Thanks to my wife, my life, my breath—Jessica. She believes even when I no longer have the strength to. Every love story I write is really all about her. And for good reason. She is everything.
Thanks to everyone who came out for my first tour, who bought the book sight unseen, or who followed me from my previous endeavors. Thanks to those amazing people who have approached me at signings with copies of the book they bought after having borrowed it first from a library or on loan from a friend. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, tweeted, or blogged about it, and especially to the booksellers who put it in the hands of their customers with an eager gleam in their eyes. All of you make my heart swell with joy with every kind word you share.
And you. Yes, you. This is a second book. If you’re reading this, then odds are good that you read the first one. Taking a chance on a first-time author is a grand thing, particularly to the author. But giving them a second chance is something else altogether. You are the people this book was written for. So thank you. I hope I don’t (or didn’t) let you down.
And lastly, thanks to Deputy So-and-So of the local police department, whose research made this book possible.
CHAPTER 1
SHADOWS OF THE BATAVIA
OCTOBER 2, 1629
Jeronimus Cornelisz didn’t believe in the Devil, but the Devil sure as hell believed in him.
How he,
an apothecary by trade, found himself working as an undermerchant aboard the Batavia in the first place was something he cared not to discuss. It was a tale of woe involving a dead child, bankruptcy, and the jailing of a close confidant whose radical ideas had taken root in a few too many prominent hearts. But Jeronimus did talk. A lot. He was of fair complexion, with dark hair and darker eyes that, coupled with his charisma, made it hard to break loose of his gaze. So when he talked, you listened, whether you cared for what he had to say or not.
“God does not mock us,” he said, staring off into the crystal blue sheen of the sea. The sun was high, the sand warm across the top of his feet as he and six of his fellow sailors shuffled across the beach. The seabirds cawed in the air around him, the waves lapping the shore. It was as beautiful a day as ever there was. He nodded, squinting in the sun. “He smiles upon us. Loves us. Wants us to be happy. He demands not servitude, but experience. Gifts us with urges. Rewards us with pleasure. Satisfaction. Wholeness. Why is it that a man feels no ecstasy when he prays? There, on his knees, in congress with his maker, he feels nothing but what he pretends to. But a man on his knees, in congress with a woman, feels more alive than ever. Every inch of his body sizzles with joy, and when he explodes, he becomes one with the whole. In that moment, and only that moment, a man knows absolute peace, free of want, free of fear.
“All the things that bring us ecstasy are banned, held captive by the new Pharisees. They put their pope on a throne of gold and silver and let him rework both history and the word that was passed down to us through their lips. And the lips of those before them. And of those before them. And the longer the word of God stays on earth, the longer it is corrupted to justify the illusion. Make no mistake. They hold hostage everything we hold dear to maintain their own control of it. Even the pope has his whores.” He turned to look at his burly shipmate, shuffling close behind him in the sand. “Have you ever fucked a whore proper, son?” he asked him.
“What?” asked the man, looking up from the ground.
“A whore, son. A whore. Have you ever dropped a few guilders in the cup of one after dropping a few in her box?”
The man grunted, nodding, as if it was a stupid question. He was a sailor. Of course he’d been with his fair share of whores.
“When she shined your knob, who did it hurt? No one. That’s the Lord’s work. Pleasure for one, rent and food for another. Why would He condemn us to Hell for that? The Pharisees tell us that a roll with a lady is all it takes to burn forever in a lake of fire. But if the Lord has a plan for us, really has a plan for us all, why would He plan for us to go to Hell? To burn. To suffer. What God would do that? Not one who loves us. One who loves us has created an afterlife, a place where we are free from pain, free from suffering, and only know the orgiastic joy of blissful wholeness.”
“So you’re saying there ain’t no Hell?” asked another sailor, following a little farther back.
“I’m saying that not only is there no Hell, but no Devil. He’s a ghost story meant to keep the finer things in life under lock and key in our captain’s, our captor’s, bedchamber. God wants only for us to do what makes us happy. He sorts out the rest.”
The second sailor spoke up again, this time leaning closer. “You’re saying it’s okay to kill?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? Killing someone only sends them to the great reward, right? And taking from someone only encourages them to take for themselves. Have you ever looked closely at the Ten Commandments?”
A third sailor spoke up. “There are no Ten Commandments south of the equator. Every sailor knows that.” He laughed, though no one laughed with him.
“But do you know them?” asked Jeronimus of the third sailor, unfazed.
“I know them,” said the sailor, soberly. “By heart.”
“We all do. But have you ever thought about them? The man in charge goes up a mountain and comes back down with ten rules that keep him and his rich friends rich and in charge. Do not steal, do not murder, obey your elders, do not covet their wives—of which they had many—do not speak ill of the Lord who passed down these laws nor dare to question or speak for Him, worship no other god who might make other laws. These aren’t rules to keep us free, they are rules telling you to know your place and take only what the rich deign to give to you. These are not the laws of God, they are the laws of man designed only to rule over other men. God wants us to be happy. God wants us to take what we want. God wants us to rule for ourselves. The only way to truly be free is to free yourself of your own conscience.”
“That’s easy to say now,” said the soldier farthest in back. “But let’s see what you say in a few moments’ time.”
Jeronimus smiled wide, his teeth speckled with bird guts, several chipped or missing from a few too many beatings. “Aye,” he said. “More to the point, in a few moments’ time, we’ll see just how right I am after all.”
The seven looked out together over the island—a flat, mile-wide coral sand wasteland, no more than three feet above sea level, devoid of bush or tree, surrounded by the Indian Ocean, its only markers three shoddy wooden gallows, constructed from the skeleton of the Batavia, which itself was wrecked and battered to pieces by the tide a scant half mile away. Beside the closest gallows was a barrel, and beside that a box on which sat Wiebbe Hayes, captain of the guard, his chin held high, a sly, proud smile on his lips, hammer and chisel in his hands. Behind him stood Fleet Commander Francisco Palsaert—a boorish, sweaty gnome of a Dutch East India Trading Company man who rubbed his fat little fingers together, grinning like a child molester.
“Cornelisz,” he said. “You’re up.”
Jeronimus knelt before the barrel, placing his left hand atop it, eyes cold and expressionless. “I’ll be back for these later,” he said to Hayes.
Hayes nodded, placing the chisel squarely on Jeronimus’s wrist. “Jeronimus Cornelisz, you have been tried and convicted of mutiny, complicit in the deaths of one hundred and twenty souls. Your guilt is not in doubt. Have you anything to say before your sentence is carried out?”
“Yes. Had fortune favored me just a little more, it would be your hand up on this barrel, Hayes. Not mine.”
Hayes nodded knowingly. “Though I doubt you would have granted me the courtesy of the barrel.”
Jeronimus flashed the hint of a smile, concealing it as quickly as it came. “You’re probably right.”
Hayes brought the hammer down.
Jeronimus neither winced nor cried out as the chisel severed his hand from his arm; he didn’t even blink. He simply stared into the soldier’s eyes as he removed his gushing stump from the barrel, placing his right hand directly atop the dismembered left.
“Remove the hand,” ordered Palsaert.
“No,” said Jeronimus flatly. “They’re a set. They stay together.”
The hammer came down again, separating the second hand, Jeronimus once again making nary a sound.
A soldier grabbed him by his armpits, hoisting him back to his feet, and then led him to the gallows where a crudely assembled ladder awaited him. Jeronimus climbed up, step by step, the ladder creaking beneath him, bowing his head for the executioner to slip the noose around his neck. Palsaert stepped forward, boisterously offering a morsel of civility. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
Jeronimus looked up, smiling, blood spurting from two dismembered stumps. “He already has.”
The executioner kicked the ladder out from under him. The mutineer dropped less than a yard; not quite far enough to kill him, just far enough to tighten the rope. There he spun, slowly choking, head swelling up like a cherry tomato, his toes stretching, scraping barely, cruelly, at the sand inches beneath his heel.
Then, one by one, Hayes took the right hand of each of the remaining sailors before he was led to his own noose, to spin and choke slowly in the sun. Each spat a curse at Jeronimus before his own ladder was kicked out from under him, and while no one would ever speak or write of it in their accounts, many thought to themselv
es that day that they saw Jeronimus smile each time they did, even as the life was slowly choking out of him.
And once the last man had been hung and the life finally drained from his body, Palsaert, Hayes, and the remaining soldiers each made their way to the boats one by one, leaving the conspirators behind to rot where they died.
On the shore, sitting in a boat of their own, Wouter Looes and Jan Pelgrom de Bye waited in chains, their hands cuffed to their feet. Looes was a grizzled sea dog covered in scars, a willing mutineer and right-hand man to Jeronimus; Pelgrom was a thin, blond, eighteen-year-old cabin boy who had only committed one murder—and that under duress. While each of the other mutineers had lied about their involvement or intent in the mutiny, these two fell upon their knees before the seaside court and begged its mercy. Palsaert granted it, though the extent of his mercy was questionable.
“You see the fate you escaped?” asked Palsaert of his captives.
Both men nodded silently.
“Let those images fester, gentlemen. For while your fate is in your hands, know that no manner of death could be as awful as that.” He turned to Hayes. “Unshackle them.” As Hayes did, Palsaert raised a stiff arm to the horizon and continued to speak. “Eighty-odd kilometers from here is a land filled with monsters and savages. No civilized man has settled it. Maybe you’ll make it; maybe you won’t. Your lives are your own now. The only thing I promise you is that if I ever see your faces again, I will have you hanged before the sun sets on that day. Good-bye, gentlemen. May God have mercy on your souls.”
He motioned to Hayes who gave the boat a good, swift kick into the water. Looes and Pelgrom immediately set to rowing, knowing that what little food and water Palsaert’s meager mercy had granted them would be gone before they saw anything resembling land. It would take only minutes for their small craft to vanish into the horizon and their names into legend.
And once they were gone, Palsaert gave the order and the last remnants of the crew of the Batavia set back out for Java, never to set eyes on these islands again.
THE HANDLESS SHADOWS hung long in the noonday sun, lifeless as their bodies, slightly twitching, swaying in the breeze. Slowly, as the boats sailed away, the shadows’ twitches became more pronounced. And then they became movements. And the movements became dancing. And finally the shadows wrestled away from their bodies, loosed from the moorings of their mortal shells, free to roam and stand up on their own, no longer bound to the flat of the ground. They stood up, square faced, boxy, and malformed, racing for the nearest pools of shadow before the sun could strike them down.