Chapter 18
Soulless
“Therefore class...” concluded Professor Wynyard, “...be ready on the morning of April ten. We will take the early train from Haven Station to Paturau and spend the whole day on the Pā site dig. You will be expected to attire yourselves accordingly and have at hand materials for observation and notation. I look forward to your company in our next lecture. Good afternoon.” Thus, Professor Wynyard dismissed his Thursday morning class.
Max sat slumped in his chair, fringe before his dark eyes, a heart full of rancorous poison. Any other day he would have been curious to see if Jasmine would make any noticeable reaction to him after their brief encounter in Chinatin. But not today, today he cared for nothing, and she’d left the room immediately at end of class. Gathering up his books he shuffled toward the door behind the rest.
“Master Skilton? A moment?” called Wynyard when it appeared to him that Max would get away. “Your coin. Had you forgotten?”
“Momentarily Sir,” he said, returning to the professor's desk, his mind still on Harriet and Gilbert.
“Are you alright Max?” enquired Wynyard, eyeing his student more closely. “You look a bit out of sorts.”
“It's nothing. Just a late night." He dragged the hair out of his eyes with his free hand. "Did you find out something about the coin?”
“A little, yes.” The professor retrieved Harriet's pencil rubbing from his desk draw and placed it between them. “First. It appears to be a Ming dynasty trade coin. So, from any time between 1368 and 1644. Not uncommon, these were minted in their millions for expansionist trade. Out of interest can I ask where you came across this?”
“Sure," replied Max with a shrug, before spinning out his prepared story. "It was in one of those junk shops on Mars Street that masquerade as antiquities dealers.”
“Of course. I think I know why. Did you get any indication of what price the dealer was asking?” Max shook his head in answer and the professor continued, “It would be hard to say which would give the coin its greater worth; its historic value or the fact that these were made from solid gold!” Max stared at the rubbing again. “But,” said the professor. “You said this one was made from brass?”
“Indeed it was,” reconfirmed Max.
“A theory then,” declared Wynyard, raising a single finger and seating himself at his desk. “It was good of the dealer to let you take a rubbing of his coin. Now if you look closely at the detail it appears rather indistinct and rounded out. Certainly, by comparison with the examples etched in Hynman's excellent volume; 'Bullion of the Orient.' This loss of definition may mean that it is a very old and well-handled coin or that it could be a copy, a facsimile, cast from an original. This would certainly account for its apparent brass-ness when it should be gold. But..” this time the single finger raised in caution, “...this only raises another question. Why would anyone cast a brass of this particular coin?” The professor paused to allow Max an attempt at the offered puzzle. He could hardly be bothered.
“Ah, maybe as a keepsake? A good luck token?”
“Not the worst suggestion young man,” reflected Wynyard. “I like the way you think. But here is the problem. This Ming expansionist period, where Chinese explorers set out to discover new lands, gain new understandings and so on is not currently very popular in China. In fact, having seen the West and what it has to offer, the fractured Chinese authority is trying to do the exact opposite and rid themselves of all non-Chinese influences. So having such a coin, from a period of history so reviled, would certainly not be considered good luck and may even be regarded as unpatriotic.”
“So?”
“I have no idea. It's a minor mystery.”
“Right.”
If truth be told Max didn't really care anymore. The coin was something connected to Harriet. Something connected to folly.
“My guess is that it was cast by either someone who didn't know their stuff or by some kind of charlatan. The brass in the coin is worth more than the coin would be as a token. So, like I say a mystery.”
Wynyard might have expected Max to show some disappointment at the results of his findings. But his student just shrugged, thanked him for his time, took the etching and left. Max was glad the thing was laid to rest.
After descending from the archaeology department rooms on the museum's second floor Max walked along Orion Street to the library. At the top of the broad steps he paused, in front of the returns slot. Arthur Rigg's Treatise on the Steam Engine was in his hand. For a moment he pulled the heavy green cover open and let the pages flick past his thumb. Diagrams of condensers, compound engines, motion blocks, portable machines, interspersed with pages of text ran to a blur before his eyes.
He closed the book and rammed it home, glad now that he had never taken the time to read it.
The message about the upcoming field trip to Paturau Pā was repeated in the Māori Studies lecture. Afterwards, Max, not feeling much like talking, or responding to Wiremu's questions about where he had been, when he would normally have ridden the 5:15pm home and the 7:15am back, excused himself, with a promise to meet in The Canteen for lunch.
He had a free hour before midday so made his way to the gymnasium.
The salle was mercifully empty. Golden sunlight from the high windows slanted in on the wooden floor and dust motes floated in the warm shafts. Max selected a practice foil from the barrel at the front of the classroom and whipped the air a couple of times with it.
Then crossing to the centre of the room, he shut his eyes and dropped into the en-guard position, his left fist balled into the small of his back. He let his bowed legs take the strain, slowed his breathing, relaxed, and felt the warm sun on his face and closed eyelids. With foil held diagonally, he became still.
The last glimpse he had seen of Harriet was as she and Gilbert bustled off the platform at Central Station and entered the city. She hadn’t looked back. But by then he hadn’t expected her to.
Max slashed the air with his foil. A non-regulation stroke, the rapier being a thrusting weapon. The thing felt too light, too fine for his brutish mood. He opened his eyes and threw the foil aside so that it clattered across the floor. Then striding to the corner of the room he ripped the handle off a broom and returned to his place in the sun.
Now with the thick broomstick held high in both hands he closed his eyes again and tried to refocus. He didn't know if he was trying to play the Toa with Taiaha in hand, the Bushido or the Landsknecht and it didn't matter to him. All he needed was the movement, to feel a real weight in his hands.
He had denied the fact that he was being a fool right from the start. Right from the moment when he had first seen Harriet at the robot race and told himself the lie that he could be with her. A lie that he had let himself believe. What hurt most was that he hadn’t been strong enough to face up to the facts and accept them for what they were. He had been a stupid dreamer and he despised himself for living in a fantasy. Of all the types of deception self-deception was the worst.
The classic fencing stance didn't suit anymore, so Max abandoned it, trying instead to mimic something he had seen those French performers do years ago when fighting two handed. He swung the broomstick in a wide arch as he stepped forward, crossing his feet past each other rather than shuffling them together then apart again. Eyes still closed, he concentrated on sending his mind to every extremity of his body and being aware of what each part was doing.
Max reasoned that if the cliché about the sword being an extension of the body was to be of any real value the body must be something worth extending. He wrote his own new saying on the inside of his mind; flabby body means flabby sword. Then said it again in the way he imagined Wang's grandfather, Jo Foo, would; undisciplined body makes for undisciplined sword. The imagining produced a small smile and he step-turned, sweeping the sword around in a fast arch.
Max didn't have to try very hard to recall the feeling of wind on his face and the boiler against his back. He could still feel Harriet's arms around him, her head resting between his shoulder blades and later her lips against his. The sound of the rain on the roof of the Pullman still echoed in his ears. The warmth of her company over breakfast on the return journey still made him smile... until he told the story to the end. And it was the end. Fantasy isn't life. He should have put the thing to death himself, the moment Harriet and Gilbert entered the Gibbstown Railway Hotel, together, for the Haast Engine meeting.
He kept his eyes closed the whole time. Not clamped against his will. But resting, so that he could still discern the change in light as he stepped in and out of sun and shadow. With the weapon that Max now saw the broomstick to be, in his mind's eye, there was only four quick kill strokes. One to each side of the neck and one to each side of the stomach. If the swordsman was economic and precise these would behead and disembowel.
The warmth of her company over breakfast on the return journey still made him smile... But what is love? That he loved being with her? That it made him feel good? That she could love him, want him, approve of and accept him? Or was it that he cared for her above everything else? That he wanted above all other things that she be happy and know she was cherished? And that therefore he would do anything in his power to lift her up, to serve her, to protect her, to understand her, to hear her, worship her? Is it to be the best him, for her? To die for her?
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Stupid! What did any of it matter? He had wasted enough of himself on this fantasy. It, she, would have no more power over him! He refused even to let it get the credit for making him down. It was not even worthy of his sadness. It had consumed enough of his time and energy. He would not let it continue, happy feelings about Harriet would not be replaced by sad feelings about Harriet. For they were still feelings about Harriet. And the last thing she deserved were his feelings!
In their place there would only be emptiness.
Max worked on, spinning to face multiple adversaries as they came at him from the shadows, beheading and disembowelling each one in turn; Gilbert, Sampson, Kingi, The Kestrel, Ihaka, Classical Architects, Alistair Stewart, Fong Wai Sung, Taonga Smugglers, Chinamen, Gilbert Lavisham, Harriet Leith... Harriet Lavisham...
He spun to dismiss this last spectre sending the sword around in a wide sweep. Slap!
Max's eyes shot open in surprise. Julian Roil, black hair hanging in his eyes, had the other end of the broomstick, caught in his hand.
“Would you care for a sparring partner?” he asked, a faint smile touching his lips. Max was dumbstruck for a moment and about to refuse. But thinking better of it, gave his head a single nod.
Roil released the end of the stick. Max turned at once to retrieve his rapier.
“Not yet,” said the newcomer, moving himself to the corner and wrenching the handle from the mop he found there. He returned, the long dowel in his hand, to face Max. Max nodded again and took up what he felt served best as a ready position, his own handle held in both hands.
For a long moment they circled each other with cross-over sidesteps, the goth and the would-be archaeologist. Then Julian came in fast, his weapon held high and drove it down on Max's head. Max blocked and the two broomsticks came together with a crack. Apart again, the circling recommenced. This time Max came in high and down, but instead of blocking Roil sidestepped and Max staggered past uselessly. But he regained his balance at once and scythed around. Julian blocked the cut and a fast battle, without any point conceded by either, filled the next few minutes.
Then Max's stick broke clean in two. Roil kicked the loose half back across the floor to him and proceeded to march to the opposite wall where he leaned his own mop-stick against the bench seat before stamping down on it. He returned a moment later with a short piece in each hand. Max picked up his other half, spun it end over end in the air and caught it again, the jagged end facing away from Roil. This time they ran at each other.
“Now for the rapier,” said Julian, sweat beading on his pale brow. They each tossed their wooden twin-swords aside. Max retrieved his foil and the Goth selected one from the barrel.
“Mask?” he asked, returning.
“I trust your skill not to poke out my eye,” responded Max.
“And I trust your skill not to be able to poke out mine,” responded Roil. “En-guard.”
Max dropped into the formal position. It felt more right now than it ever had. He steadied his breathing.
“Begin!”
The pair lunged forward, and their rapiers clattered together in a flurry of blows and ripostes. After the broomstick Max now relished the light weapon, the speed, and the absence of jarring shock from contacts. The Goth smiled faintly as they worked against one another, high right together, low left, parry, thrust, high left, counter, feint, step, shuffle, thrust, low right. Along the line they danced.
“I can see why von Tempsky has taken to you Max,” called Julian. “You are a natural. It took me a full year to reach your standard.”
“Really?” responded Max, around lightning-fast parries.
“Indeed,” confirmed Julian, and he pushed the button of his foil against Max's solar-plexus. Max raised his hands and smiled. “We should do this again,” ventured the Goth.
“I would like that,” replied Max.
“Tomorrow then,” said Julian, turning to leave so that he missed the look of surprise that ghosted Max's face.
* * *
“Good workout?” inquired Wiremu, as Max joined him and Wang outside The Canteen.
“Not bad,” reflected Max, dragging the hair from his eyes with one hand, he had lost his tie someplace. “Shall we?”
The three friends trooped into The Canteen.
Sampson Rumbold and his friends were in place at what had become their table. The newcomers casually crossed the room, Wang and Wiremu to their lockers, Max having nothing to stow, to the servery. As the lady behind the bar ladled mince and potato onto a plate for him Max fought his black mood. The steaming plate was handed to him, he took it automatically, and discovered he had no appetite.
"Thank you," he mumbled before turning away to rejoin his friends at a lunch table. Wiremu and Wang were already seated, and each was opening a black envelope.
“What are those?” asked Max, dropping into a chair and pushing his food into the centre of the table and away from himself.
“Not sure,” said Wang. “We each found one in our locker.”
“Looks like some kind of invitation,” answered Wiremu, getting his open. Max saw gold lettering on the black page that was produced. “Wiremu Marino is formally invited... yes an invitation... to The Gothic Bal Masqué. At the Grand Ball Room, City Chambers. On the evening of the 9th of May, commencing at ten of the clock.
“Mine is the same,” said Wang. “Apart from the Wiremu Marino part. No RSVP. But it does say that all revellers are to attend in masquerade. Can't think why I would have been invited.”
“But do you think you will go?” asked Wiremu.
“I doubt it.”
“Did you get one Max?”
Max stared at the cooling mince and gravy on his plate.
“Haven't checked.”
“Go on.”
“Later.”
Wiremu noticed Rumbold's lot watching them then.
“Are you boys going to this?” he called out.
“I doubt it,” sneered Sampson. “It's for spooks.”
Max nursed his wounds throughout lunch, yet unsure how much he wanted to share with his two friends about Harriet. Some part of him, after comments made by both of them at earlier times, did not entirely trust in their sympathy. Although their sympathy would have been tolerable, it was their pity that he feared. For as it was he was finding his own hard enough to bear.
"Who are these other fools with Rumbold?" Max asked lazily around half a mouthful of potato, before pushing the plate away again. Wang glanced over at the other table.
"The tall one is called Raxworthy, Tancred Raxworthy and other fellow is Linton Conroy, that is all I have found out. You know they were both part of our little scuffle in the archaeology quad the other week?"
Max nodded and sniffed disinterestedly.
"The Raxworthy fellow is also in my fencing class," he added before letting the conversation stall. Then indicating that Wang and Wiremu could finish his barely touched meal, he rose and went to his locker. To his surprise a black envelope had been laid within. As he studied the blackness of it and thought of Harriet and all that had happened, Ginger called out;
“Don't go to that Skilton. They'll steal your soul.”
As he left the room, Max, without turning to Rumbold, snorted, and replied;
“I have no soul.”
Melodramatic to the last.
* * *
“Do you think Max...” continued Wang, becoming it seemed quickly exasperated, “...that she might have lied to you? I mean if I was given a solid gold coin by a gangster, in some nefarious deal, and then a couple of days later somebody turned up asking about it, clearly onto the scent of something I didn't want found out, I would lie to him. I would say that it was only some old brass thing of no value and that I melted it down. But in reality I would have laundered that coin as quick as I could and got the money safely under the floorboards!”
Max stared out the window of their carriage, his face blank with bitterness. The shag chicks in the Kahikatea trees by the lagoon were almost fully fledged. He just wanted to get home, to his home. Not that he actually knew it, but he wanted to be near his mother. Not to talk to her, just to be near her, to be in the nest, simple and safe. He wished that this could have been one of those days when there weren’t any free seats for the friends to share. In fact, he had lingered back, hoping that they would all be filled without him. But Wang had saved him one.
“Yes Wang, I have considered that she may have lied to me! In fact, I think it was more than likely!” He didn't add “...from what I now know of Harriet...” He did not want to tell that story.
As far as he was concerned it was all going to go away, because he was no longer going to chase it. He wouldn't have even brought up the coin, but Wiremu had asked if anything had come to light?
In all honesty, despite what he had just said to Wang, Max hadn't considered that Harriet might have lied to him about the coin. But now he had no reason not to. It made more sense.
Although anger and hurt boiled inside him, threatening at any moment to spill out, he was trying to leave it all behind, to focus on other things. The surprise spar with Julian Roil had helped a little with that. He looked up at his friends. They were both peering at him with puzzled looks.
“This is the same Harriet we are talking about? Harriet Leith?” asked Wiremu. Max nodded.
“I'm taking Wang's advice and having nothing to do with her.”
Wang looked relieved, relieved, and puzzled. Wiremu just looked puzzled.
Although back in the nest, Max struggled to sleep that night. Images of Harriet seemed burnt onto the back of his mind. Unblinking in the gloom he composed speeches to her of love and reason, and logic, and hope, and pain. Then tossing and turning he composed them again.
The next day he was a ghost at university, keeping to the shadows and away from people. He wondered if he was becoming a Goth.