Sophia parted the curtains of maroon velour and ducked into the room. This was Devereux’s new venue. She was greeted on the other side by Françoise, whose stout hand proffered a glass of hot tea. Sophia was familiar with this tea. It was brewed from a blend of black leaves and mushrooms, picked under the light of the full moon by Françoise’s gnarled fingers, somewhere outside Paris, or so it was said. It had an hallucinogenic quality, which enhanced the procedures. She held the glass in both hands to warm them. Françoise sat on a stool by the entrance, a samovar beside her, dosing the guests as they arrived. Sophia thanked her and would have talked more but Françoise was extremely taciturn. She must have been in her eighties, an old peasant woman with crab-apple cheeks and intelligent eyes. Her relationship with Devereux was unclear. They were rumoured to be lovers. 
 
Jean Claude Devereux had the confidence and good looks of a film star, but instead of a career on the screen, he chose to perform occult rituals. He was very charismatic. She really did not know him. No one did, but everyone knew of him. He was notoriously reclusive and mysterious. It was impossible to know whether he actually believed in the magical rituals he conducted, or if he was just making a performance out of them for some enigmatic reason of his own. But it didn’t matter to her. She liked ambiguity. It gave a greater freedom to the imagination. Equally curious was how he had managed to get hold of this disused wine warehouse in Bercy. There would be no answers. She would not even bother to ask. It was definitely an improvement on his old cramped quarters. 
 
Sophia moved into the room, which was filling with people who chatted quietly in small groups. Some were sitting in the folding chairs. Others stood. There were loners too, hovering at the edges. She took a few sips of tea, still holding the glass with both hands. It was as earthy and bitter as she remembered, maybe even more so. The only sources of light were candles in sconces on the walls. They flickered in the otherwise imperceptible draughts, throwing shadows which expanded and contracted. 
 
She looked around and noticed someone on the periphery. He seemed to be taking an interest in her. What struck her about him was that he resembled the Turkish man whose portrait she had yet to paint. He did not have the uniform, or the pockmarked face, but he did have a thin scar on his cheek and bore an uncanny likeness to the man she had imagined. There was something deeply unpleasant about him. He had a glass of tea in his hand but he was not drinking it. She turned away to avoid him. 
 
“Sophia.” 
 
Kurt approached her, looking earnest in his wire-rimmed glasses. It was a relief to see someone she knew. 
 
“I’ve finished your coat of arms. If you come to my studio I’ll show you. I think you’ll be pleased.” 
 
“Thank you. What is it like?” 
 
“Azure, three leopards passant in pale or, fesse engrailed gules with wyvern sinople thereon.” 
 
She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. It might have been Kurt’s intensity, or the mushroom tea, or a combination of both. She was hot and felt as if there were insects crawling beneath her skin. Her eyes were drawn to the floor, which she could see in great detail despite the low light. It was narrow-boarded in a dry, splintery wood. 
 
“To blazon, Sophia, is to give breath to an idea. It is the pneuma....” 
 
Voices around them fell. Devereux was in the room. She was still looking at the floor and saw his feet first—Turkish slippers with pointed, curled toes like the fingernails of a madman. He wore a linen kaftan, belted at the waist, and an embroidered pillbox hat. He did not speak to his audience, or make any attempt to acknowledge them. He must have come through a curtain at the back of the room and picked his way through the scattered chairs to the area that had been prepared for the ritual. There was a circle painted on the floor and he stepped into it. 
 
He walked the circumference slowly, pausing momentarily at each cardinal point. After completing the circle he stood in front of the table at the centre, avoiding the sigils painted on the floor. The table was narrow and draped with a damask of deep red. His thaumaturgical instruments rested upon it. 
 
He raised his right arm and let his left hang at an angle from his body, and held that position for a long time. Sophia’s neck was itching. 
 
Eventually he let his arms drop and began to recite his incantation. He started very softly, as if muttering to himself, then without warning he suddenly exhaled violently through his nose, twice in rapid succession. It was a shocking sound. After that the incantation continued but this time projected into the room for all to hear. He had a deep and resonant voice that was beautifully rich. Sophia had no idea what language he was speaking so fluently. She had never heard anything like it. He delivered the words in a lilting tone and she could feel their cadence and rhythm in her body, as the rising and falling swell of an ocean. 
 
He had taken the sword from the table and was making symbolic gestures with it, slashing the air as he walked backwards around the circle while he raised his incantation to a greater intensity. Sophia could feel the words pulsing in her temples. She was becoming nauseous and felt as if she might faint. 
 
Devereux returned to the centre of the circle and held the sword blade down, both hands on the hilt. He had stopped talking. The room was eerily silent. 
 
Then he took both hands from the sword and it remained floating in the air. Sophia was transfixed. The blood was pound- ing in her head. She saw nothing but the sword. Light seemed to be traveling up the blade through the hilt and out—a fountain of light. As she watched it, the sword became the leg of a woman, toes extended, hanging in the air. She thought she was about to lose consciousness. The heat was stifling. She had to leave. 
 
She got up in a panic and crashed through the chairs, oblivious to everything except her need to escape. She rushed past the crone, who was saying something she did not understand. 
 
Sophia calmed down a little when she was on the other side of the curtain. Her legs felt weak. Her surroundings were unfamiliar. This was not the way she had come in but she could not bring herself to go back into the main room. She saw an unlit passageway ahead of her, so she took it. At the end was another candlelit room, smaller than the first. There were no windows, just a solitary door of heavy mahogany, studded with bolts. At eye height, in the centre, was a short, loosely nailed plank. Squatting on the floor nearby was a man in a hooded leather jerkin. He looked like a blacksmith from an earlier time. His bare forearms rested casually on his thighs. She could feel the torsion in his muscles. He studied her calmly. She felt threatened. 
 
“What are you doing here?” 
 
He spoke slowly. She didn’t know what to say but felt she had to justify herself. 
 
“The old lady sent me. Why? What is this?”
 
“It’s the way out.”
 
She was feeling nervous but not panicked as before and the nausea had diminished.
 
“I could go back the way I came.”
 
“You could, but if the old lady sent you, then it seems that it’s already been decided.”
 
“Do you work here?”
 
“In a manner of speaking.”
 
“What do you do?”
 
“I send people across. Are you going?”
 
“Across where?”
 
“Look.”
 
He jumped up with an unexpected nimbleness and swung back the plank on the door, holding it up for her. “Go on.” 
 
She put her eye to the hole. She saw a large field of grass and a palatial building on the other side. It looked like an aristocratic estate of the Ancien Régime. She stepped back and he glanced through before letting the plank fall. 
 
“You have to cross over the field and enter the building. There’s a door opposite this one. It looks like they’re between chukkers at the moment.” 
 
“What do you mean?” 
 
“There are horsemen out there playing the King’s game. They take three minute breaks between chukkers. It’s as good a time to go as any.” 
 
He was unlocking the door as he spoke. It swung open towards the field. Cold air blew in. 
 
“They might even be on half-time, if you’re lucky.” 
 
He gave her a quick shove and she was outside on her own. The door swung shut. 
 
She could see horses now. Four at each end of the field. She launched herself into a desperate sprint. She had no way of knowing when the game would resume and adrenalin took over. When she reached the middle she heard the pounding of hooves and the ball flew by her. Almost instantly she was surrounded by horses, and mallets wildly raining down. Instinctively she threw herself to the ground and curled up with her arms around her head. There were heaving bellies above, sinews, falling hooves, the sounds of grunting, shouting, snorting, 
 
the smell of broken turf and sweat. Then they were gone. She had just rolled over and got back on to her feet, when she felt a sudden pain in the side of her knee—she had been hit by the ball. It came to a rest next to her. But it wasn’t a ball. It was a severed head. Nudreski’s—bruised and beaten, missing an eye. Then the horsemen were upon her again. She saw the down- ward arc of a mallet, swung by a quilted man standing up in his stirrups. Before she was hit, another stick blocked the swing, and then another sent the head coursing through the sky. They were gone again. 
 
There was a distant whooping. It seemed that a goal had been scored, and as the horsemen galloped to reverse their positions on the field, Sophia made it to the other side. When she knew she was safe, she sat down on the low retaining wall below the mansion, to rest and regather her composure. 
 
She was muddied and there was blood on her knee. It did not take her long to find out that the blood was Nudreski’s and not her own. She cleaned herself up as best she could with leaves and saliva. When she had finished, she rested a while longer. The entrance to the building was directly up from where she sat, just as the hooded man had said. She would have to cross a croquet court, which was fortunately inactive. She turned back to the field. The game had started again. 
 
Sophia stood in front of the door and clanged the bell next to it. She waited. She heard nothing, except for the sounds com- ing up from the field. She rang again and put her ear to the door to listen for motion. There was a faint scraping noise, which was getting closer. Then the door opened partially and a breath- less man in livery peered out at her. He opened it a little more, just wide enough to let her through. 
 
“Welcome, Madame. All visitors must be announced. If you would please follow me.” 
 
She was in an anteroom. As the usher began to lead her to three marble steps, only a short distance away, she understood that he was barely able to walk. The effort obviously caused him a great deal of pain, his face was sweating. He needed assistance to climb the steps and put a clammy hand on her wrist. 
 
“I am most dreadfully sorry, Madame.” 
 
When they finally reached the top, the announcer came out of a coat room. He was wearing the same livery, and inclined his head in a slight bow to Sophia. He was shorter and swarthier than the usher. 
 
“If if Mm-Madame would b-be pleased to p-p-pro-provide her n-n-name.” 
 
“Sophia Villeneuve, Monsieur.” 
 
His dark eyes seemed to light up for a moment with a flicker of interest. 
 
“M-m-m-might I ask if y-y-you are re-re-re-related to the admiral?” 
 
“No. I don’t think there’s any connection.” 
 
The announcer turned, disappointed perhaps, and opened the tall double doors before them. Sophia followed them inside. They were standing at the top of a grand staircase. Below them was a room the size of a cathedral, its space divided by heavy Romanesque arches and pillars. 
 
The announcer braced himself and took in a deep breath. 
 
“Madame S-Ss-Ss-Ss-So-ph-phia Ville-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne- neuve.” 
 
With a grimace, the usher leaned over and spoke softly in her ear. 
 
“Would I be impertinent to ask if Madame could possibly go down on her own?” 
 
Sophia smiled in affirmation and descended the staircase. A giant cross hung from the vaulted ceiling. Inside it was a naked woman draped with a large cut of raw meat, from collarbone to pudendum. She seemed to hang above a bucolic landscape, a river meandering in the distance, a shaggy bison in the fore- ground below her. In the arms of the cross was an assortment of sausages, steaks and chunks of stewing beef. She paused on the step, it was a striking painting, impressively displayed. 
 
There were people wandering in the great space below her. All of them were dressed in the clothing of the Renaissance, mostly in primary colours. At the bottom of the staircase was a group of women with covered heads, and a dwarf, who stood by a life-size statue of a cow, completely fashioned from vegetables and fruits. Pumpkins, radishes, bananas, squash, apples, grapes, potatoes, melons and tomatoes were tightly wired together. It reminded her of an anatomical diagram, the kind which showed the ligatures and internal organs of a body. 
 
She had the impression that this was a museum or art gallery. She was just another visitor, alone and anonymous. The stuttered announcement of her name had seemed incongruous. Maybe it was a relic of a tradition with a forgotten purpose. Meaningless tradition was an interesting idea. 
 
On the floor beyond the vegetable sculpture were three scorbutic beggars playing dice. Their ribs protruded and their legs were no thicker than their bones. They were naked except for the tattered cloths around their waists. Their skins were covered in open sores. 
 
For some reason she did not understand, these beggars inspired her with the desire to be naked, and she discarded her clothes, throwing them down in a heap. 
 
She walked deeper into the big room, past a large urn containing a sun dial. Then she saw two cowled monks, tucked into an alcove between columns. They seemed to be plotting something malignant and she moved over to the other side of the room to put distance between them. Her panic had subsided but now she felt depressed and very cold. She wondered what had made her throw away her clothes and thought perhaps that she should go back and retrieve them but she did not want to pass those monks again. They frightened her. She kept walking and soon came across another two men, who were clasping each other and whispering passionately. Their expressions of love made her feel better. 
 
In the transept a man with a dog was looking at the plinth of a column. She stood beside him and followed his gaze to a classical scene of Orpheus coming up from the underworld. 
 
“Excuse me Monsieur, can you tell me what this place is?” 
 
“It is a charnel house, Madame.”
 
“A charnel house?”
 
“That’s the way I see it.” 
 
“I don’t understand.” 
 
“You could perhaps say that it’s a provincial railway station.” 
 
“It doesn’t look like a station.” 
 
“I don’t mean that literally. It’s one of many similar places along a vast network that emanates from a hub—a kind of Central Station if you like.” 
 
“I really don’t follow you.” 
 
“It’s a metaphor. The network I’m talking about bears the units of culture—the stories, the myths, the religions, the images, the fashions—haven’t you ever wondered where these things come from? 
 
“I suppose I have.”
 
“I’m curious how you can be ignorant of these things.”
 
“So am I. But please tell me more. Does this place have a name?”
 
“Absolutely not. No names. And that’s by design. The work we do here is secret, and what I just described as a Central Station is even more secret still.” 
 
“Why the secrecy?”
 
As they talked she had the growing desire for casual sex. 
 
“If all this wasn’t secret you’d have every jackass and his cousin trying to interfere. It would be mayhem. It’s mad enough as it is. There’s a lot of regulation involved. More than you might think.” 
 
“So what exactly is this Central Station?” 
 
“It’s rather like a library and factory rolled into one. A vast machine really, operated by a skeleton crew. This is where the goods are made, then they are shipped out along the network. But there’s back and forth—some come back for readjustment before being sent out again. It’s a perpetual process.” 
 
“But who runs it? Can you go there?” 
 
“It is shrouded in such a deep level of secrecy that no one really knows, but there are rumours. They say the whole system is overseen by a Doge. Whether that’s a name or a title I don’t know. And then there are a handful of guards or operators. But as it is a kind of machine, I suspect that it basically runs itself. No one ever goes there. No one knows where it is.” 
 
“Why are you telling me this, if it is such a big secret?” 
 
“Because I’m disillusioned and I need to unburden myself. We deal with some beautiful things here but we also peddle in brutality and ignorance. Sometimes I think that all we really accomplish is to perpetuate suffering. It doesn’t sit well on my conscience. There needs to be some radical change. But that will never happen.” 
 
Sophia knew what she was going to do. 
 
She looked up at the man standing next to her. He had a skirted coat of golden ochre, tight black trousers tucked into knee high boots, a sword on his belt and a black hat with the brim turned up at the front. She liked the clothes people wore in this place. 
 
“Would you be interested in having sex?”
 
“Where?”
 
“Right here.”
 
It took several minutes for him to remove his codpiece. It was an intricate affair. Sophia leant back against a sarcophagus. The black dog licked her ankle. 
 
 
© Tom Newton 2021
 
This story is chapter three of Revolution in Dreamtime, one of two novellas in the book Voyages to Nowhere by Tom Newton, Recital Publishing 2021.