Four Months Before the Golden Rooster
Part one: Clow Reed
Chapter 2, Reed Manor
The dirt covered roads that led down to the main village still lay damp and lined with puddles, the lush grass fields still so sodden that one would sink within them, and the trees around the swollen river still rained down left-over drops of water when the wind blew through them. Besides these things, however, there were no signs of the storm from the night before, in the little river valley town of Lightwater, as all of the village's inhabitants wandered about the streets to the local market—or else bustled off to their daily jobs. All about the weak morning sunlight, all manner of people walled to and fro, with not a single mind to the puddles and such in the roads. They all appeared as gay as could be. A horse's hooves made a muted clip-clop in the earth as it trotted along the main street, its carriage behind it driven by a jolly plump fellow looking ready to start the day's transport. A small gaggle of women laughed merrily with each other as they cascaded down the lane, a cache of little ones in their wake. Their long skirts and aprons danced upon the light wind, shining a happy rainbow of colors across the landscape, and the children behind them giggled and joked with each other as they walked along behind their mothers, their bright smiles like the first rays of sunlight in the crisp morning. Tom the barman was already getting some early business as several of the gentlemen on the streets stopped by for a morning beer before work. A good thing too, Tom imagined, as he couldn't remember getting any customers last night. On every corner and intersection, shops began all at once to open, throwing wide their locked-up shudders, girls in clean white dresses bounding out with the day's merchandise ready to be set up outside their storefront.
It was onto this scene that Clow Reed stood at the edge of the river, where it wound away from the forest of trees. He was feeling much the spirit of the morning, and as he stood, his eyes far above him, it was with a great, confident smile painted whimsically upon his face. At the base of the tree trunks, a small family of squirrels made their way out into the newly-born sunlight, but Clow could scarcely notice them. His eyes were fixed much higher, deep into the depths of the forest where the trees shot upward with the incline of a large hill. To an outsider, it looked like any other tree-decked hill here in the valley, but to Clow, it was a glorious sight indeed. There it was, he thought to himself, hidden within the foliage so that it could not be seen from here at the hill's edge, but it was there: Reed manor. The vast, ancestral home his father had left abandoned for his only son. The great stronghold of the Reed family of southern England, which had been established long ago when the family's first magicians had made themselves into fame and prominence. It would be that manor, he thought with a swelling sort of pride, that he would soon call his home, like his father and grandfather before him. And, he mused: it was there that he would finally be free of his overbearing mother's family to practice, as any good sorcerer would, his magic: his revolutionary new magic with which he would change the world.
"Are you hoping to see something through those trees?"
The voice snapped Clow out of his musings and back to the awakening town around him. He turned slowly to find standing behind him a rather well dressed gentleman gazing at him with merry curiosity. His clothes were crisp and bright, and he stood with an air about him that suggested him to be much higher in rank than many of the laypeople in the town. All the same, however, he still had a good healthy layer of dirt about him which somehow made him more realistic and loveable. As if he had and was working hard for his bit of prominence in the city, not at all the upper-class snobbery Clow, coming fresh from the Li family aristocrats of China, was used to. It was inviting, the sorcerer supposed. He was a fairly tall fellow, though perhaps still a few inches shorter than the towering Clow Reed, and appeared to be a fairly young man. Clow would have hazarded to guess that he was at least a decade the man's senior. He had a merry face, smiling in the sunshine, and framed by likewise bright locks of golden curls (which fell almost to his shoulders) and a short beard to match. He had taken off his jacket in the humid sort of post-rain heat of the day, leaving the length of dirty and faded brown fabric to drape over his arm, and exposing his crisp, white, long-sleeved shirt underneath. Over his other arm he carried a large cloth bag filled, presumably, with supplies gathered from the market place in the center of the town.
So distracted was Clow, that for a moment he had forgotten the man's question, now it came flooding back to him, 'The trees, he had been asking what I was looking at.' Clow chuckled good-naturedly, turning his gaze back to the forest of green behind him as the blond gentleman with the bag of supplies came up the road to meet him.
"Nothing much up there to look at, I'm afraid." The man commented as he stood beside Clow, letting his eyes drift along the green of the woods. His voice was kind, and his speech more pronounced and classy than Tom Whithers and his drunk, the only other Englishmen Clow had met. "Only thing up that hill is old Reed manor, and it's been deserted now for many a year since the last heir died."
"Did you by any chance happen to know this heir?" Clow asked curiously, still looking onward to the scene before him as if hoping not to betray how deep his interest in the matter lay. As he had told those men in the bar, he knew very little of his father, and yet he owed him so deeply for all of the fortune that was soon to befall him. For his freedom at least, and a second option of where to call 'home'.
"Reed?" the gentleman asked with a laugh, bringing Clow back to the present. "I don't think anyone ever really knew the man; he stayed up there in that grubby mansion of his all day and night. Took three days, if I remember correctly before anyone realized the poor bloke was dead!"
Clow laughed along with him. "Well, that's better than his own son did. I only just now found out he was dead when word got out he'd left me that 'grubby' manor."
It took the gentleman a moment to process exactly what it was he had just been told, and for a moment, he remained just as jolly, surveying the tall trees which stood before them. Then, as if in slow motion, his face fell, and his eyes began flying over his strange companion as if trying to decide if he could truly be the offspring of the illusive dead man of their discussion. "I—ah—I didn't know that Reed had a son…" he hammered off. "I—I'm pretty sure the bloke never married…"
Clow merely smiled at the look of confusion apparent on the face of the gentleman with the long blond curls, his new acquaintance. "Well," he responded kindly to the much bewildered man beside him, "I don't suppose anyone thought to look as far as China. I was born and raised there by my mother."
"China…!" it was muttered almost inaudibly, as if it could have merely been drifting along on the breath of the wind, not spoken at all. For a half a second more the tall, golden-haired fellow continued to look on with utter disbelief at the stranger beside him, having every appearance of wild game caught in a hunter's line of sight. As he gaped, Clow wondered ruefully if this was going to be everyone's reaction to him here in England. After granting himself a few more peeks at Clow's dark, straight hair, and thin, slanted blue eyes, however, the fellow at his left seemed to recall his place as a gentleman, ans at once regained himself. "Well," He said clearly, doing his best to reestablish his composure, "May I be the first to welcome you to the good King George's England, and naturally or humble little town of Lightwater." He offered his hand, which Clow gratefully shook. "My name is Benjamin Hawkins, and I would be her good servant of Hippocrates, or more plainly, the local physician." Hawkins's smile seemed to widen now that he had turned the topic of conversation back to the area of his understanding. His speech was almost theatrical, more befitting of a Shakespearian performance rather than everyday talk, but all the same, Clow found it wonderfully merry. And as he spoke, all the while, he beamed the brightest and most genuine of smiles, despite, Clow admitted, the apparent oddity of his foreign company. Perhaps there was hope for this country after all.
"I'm Clow Reed," he replied, "and apparently the newcomer of these parts." He added as an after thought, as a pair of passing women turned toward each other at the sight of him, pointing and muttering together as they walked by.
"They'll get used to you." Hawkins laughed. "The whole of Lightwater's like a big family, everyone knows everyone, kind of makes outsiders a bit obvious. Give them a couple of days; they'll adopt you fast enough."
Clow continued to watch the women with a remorseful sort of expression as they turned the corner round an enormous arching bend, and disappeared. Dr. Hawkins surveyed him all the time, his kind blue eyes glowing dimly with hint of sorrow at the poor out of place man. It was curious, the doctor had to admit, the man coming out of nowhere and all—miraculously showing up on their doorstep, claiming to be the heirless Reed's son. Perhaps if it had been a few years or so it might not be such an unusual thing, after all, every good traveling man was owed his share of a good time with the locals, and Reed was surely no exception, but as it was, Xavier Reed had been dead some two-and-a-half decades now. Of all the times for a long-lost child to come out of the woodworks, the timing did seem a bit odd. What was it, the young blond man wondered to himself, absentmindedly playing with his short beard as his companion's back remained turned toward the end of the path. If he really is Reed's son, if it really was a matter of the distance or international relations that had deprived him of the news of his father's demise, then what the devil was it still that had brought this Clow Reed here to the nowhere town of Lightwater after an entire life abroad?
Biting his lip with deliberation, Hawkins at last spoke just as the gentleman beside him began to turn back toward his previous contemplation of the foliage. "Hey, have you found yourself any place to stay tonight?" he asked, his voice lilting in its song-like fashion as he spoke. For a second or two, Clow stood there blinking in surprise, both at the suddenness of the question and the relative respectfulness of it—as if for the first time there was someone here in England who half-cared whether he succeeded here in southern England, or was sent packing.
"I-I suppose not yet." Clow answered uncertainly, still slightly stunned by the question. The doctor nodded, looked contemplative, scratching his beard like an old philosopher lost in deep thought. "Well, I just happen to have a spare bed back at my practice if you don't mind sleeping where I usually put the patients." He smiled, good naturedly, and Clow chuckled at the thought.
"So long," he replied, laughing, "So long as everything's still in the right place when I get up the next morning, Doctor."
* * *
The remainder of Clow's things, which he had had shipped over, arrived the next morning. It was with obvious curiosity that a small crowd of women gathered around as their town's fresh blood stood puzzling how exactly he was going to get the large cart full of his personal possessions up the hill to Reed Manor. Perhaps he had underestimated those two chatting ladies who had passed him up yesterday, it was quite clear by the size of his new-found audience that word of him had spread like wildfire across the town. (He was quite sure that Benjamin Hawkins would not have said anything.)
The rolling, forested hills that led up to Reed manor were very steep considering their size, and the dirt path that ran its way up through the trees was not exactly easily navigable either. The old pathway was dry and worn from years if disuse, and the somewhat rocky terrain if the hill presented itself through the weathered dirt along with the roots from the surrounding trees. It was starting to seem apparent to the foreign sorcerer just how long it must have been since the entire area had been in any sort of consistent use. He had learned from his new friend the doctor that it had been at least 20 years since his father had passed away, but it seemed to Clow (judging by the over-grown foliage and eroded pathway) that it had been much longer than that since the Manor had been any kind of popular destination. Perhaps his recent ancestors hadn't been the social type. It also didn't help Clow any that the little pony that had dragged his heavy cart of belongings all this way seemed to have little enthusiasm left to drag its load up the treacherous slope.
At first Clow's audience seemed to merely be enjoying with amusement the pure comedy of his dilemma as they stood around sniggering and pointing. Clow simply ignored the women, after all, what did it matter? He was the new man in a small town, and as such, had long ago prepared to be the victim of a few cruel jokes like this until the locals got used to his presence in their village. Turning his back to the crowd and his attention to the little horse in front of him, Clow attempted to force the animal to move, pushing its hind-quarters as forcefully as he could; a crude method, perhaps, Clow thought, but it seemed at the moment his only option. "If only," Clow muttered as he heaved at the pony, "I could do just a little magic!" So silent was this last spoken that scarcely a watching villager could have heard it. And even if one lazy housewife had managed to catch Clow's words, surely she would have written them off as nonsense: a mishearing. After all, it had sounded as if the gentleman had said the word 'magic'! What an absurd thing to hear of in good 'King George's England'! But, Clow thought to himself as he worked, however pointlessly on moving his stubborn horse, it's for my magic that I came here. It was true, wonderfully true indeed. It mattered not, in the end whether these Britons accepted him or not, whether they welcomed him to their village, or spurned him as a nasty foreign outsider. All that mattered was that he was at last free of his mother's family. Those Li's may be great magicians, Clow reflected nastily, but they have no respect for difference, for creativity. Surely these English could be no more narrow-minded and prejudiced as his own family had been. The Li's may have wanted him to be their heir, but they wanted nothing to do with his ideas. With what his new bi-racial power could potentially do for the world of sorcery!
And now at last, Clow chuckled to himself, at last he was free of their clutches. He was seas and countries and continents away from those fools now, and there was not a soul here in this village who would even know to stand in his way. It was time to bend the rules of the universe, to test what had never been tested, and to stretch magic to its limits. Indeed, he didn't need these villagers or their respect, all he needed was for them to stay mundane and disenchanted, to keep their noses out—as he knew they would, sheltered by their churches and their perceived safety—and to let him test his magic at last. What did it matter if he were spurned on the way?
As she watched the poor man before her struggle, a taller woman from amongst the crowd at last got to her feet. Wordlessly she walked over to the nose of the pony that Clow was so intently pushing and grabbed at the long strips of leather that wound their way across the creature's face. As she pulled upon its reigns, the pony began to slowly move forward up the dusty and overgrown path before it. Feeling the movement of the animal against him, Clow looked up; he saw the tall woman tugging on the reigns, and several of her fellows, moments ago merely pointing and sniggering at him, gathered around the back of the wagon, wordlessly, and helping to force both load and pony up the hill.
Hawkins words echoed in Clow's mind: 'They'll adopt you fast enough'. Clow, the newcomer, smiled as the wagon containing his belongings began to make their way up toward Reed manor. 'Already,' he thought, 'these westerners are more accepting than the Li's and their rules.' Clow chuckled to himself. 'I think I'm going to like England.'
* * *
It was months after the storm which had shaken the countryside and left the bar of old Tom nearly deserted. The seasons had flown past, and the spring flowers were beginning to fill up the bases of the rolling hills along the riverbed. (With a prang, Clow had realized that back in China, the new year of the golden rooster would have been declared ages ago.) The skies had, almost apologetically remained clear since the wet autumn. It was to the glowing sunset upon these clear skies that a young doctor, tired from a long days work, sat in a little pavilion in the heart of Lightwater's market place, his golden hair gleaming with the fading sun. Beside him was an older companion whose appearance, though now thankfully clear of any furry coats, would still draw the occasional odd looks form the passerby. "—whole line of physicians." The younger of the two men was saying. "Wasn't really any other option, you know? Father was a physician, grandfather—hell, if you go back far enough, I've probably got a great-great-grand-pappy or something that was sharing tips with William Harvey!"
"Ah yes, Harvey: You're great discoverer of primary circulation." The middle-aged man sitting across from the doctor replied conversationally. In the time that had passed since local surgeon, Benjamin Hawkins, had first met this gentleman, he had learned not to be surprised at the foreigner's considerable knowledge in the subjects of science and mathematics. Clow Reed indeed seemed to be quite an interesting fellow, having been able to, upon arrival to this new western land, identify every major scientist or thinker that Hawkins could throw at him. Was it normal for the Chinese to be so well versed on western geniuses? Though Clow's intellectual capacity seemed to move far beyond William Harvey, or any of his fellows. On a good day the man could also quote Arabic and far Eastern scholars with equal ease. Utterly awed by his new found friend's knowledge, Hawkins often found himself on evenings like these, stirring up conversations of theory and philosophy for the pure joy of being able to listen to such a mastermind as Clow. For this reason, it was of no surprise to the young blond doctor when his companion, after a brief silence, began an abrupt change of subject:
"Hawkins, can I ask you something…theoretically?"
"Of course, dear boy," Hawkins urged, leaning in farther so that his elbows rested on the table between the two men, the look on his face reminiscent of a young child receiving a treat.
Clow's eyes wandered off in the direction of the sunset sky, with its painted flames flying across the horizon. The setting sun had bathed the entire pavilion by now in a warm orange light as it sank lower and lower beneath the trees, casting long shadows across the apricot pavers below, and giving Clow's dark blue eyes an almost blackened appearance in contrast. He kept his eyes on the glowing sky as he spoke, as if he were entranced by it, "Tell me something, my friend, what would you think if the sun had a soul?"
"What?" Hawking laughed, utterly enjoying the strange track of conversation. It was not unlike Clow to frequently refer to myth and legend in their discussions, for truth be told, he seemed well learned in the subjects. And it was always so fascinating, the doctor reflected, to hear him on one of his rants about the frequent recurrence of beliefs and stories across many cultures. Indeed, the man had a wonderfully dizzying intellect.
Clow sighed and took half a glance at the gentleman across from him as he continued. "Think, Hawkins: So many cultures across the world, so many stories and myths and legends…" His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued on, "Don't you think it's strange, Hawkins, that all of those stories and legends seem to have one thing in common?"
"I'm afraid I don't follow." Hawkins chuckled merrily; he had been hoping this was where their discussion was going, and he certainly wasn't going to stop Clow's steam now with his own silly interjections.
"Think." Clow repeated, "The sun and the moon, Hawkins. How many peoples have gazed upon their heavenly depths and imagined life there. Spirits, deities, demons—each a little different, but essentially the same: Souls, Hawkins, souls." The middle-aged man's voice trailed off as he once more turned to face the setting sun. "Regardless of what name they assign them, ghost or god, they all describe souls—living souls like yours and mine. Don't you think that's odd, that it might mean something? Don't you think, perhaps these cultures might just be proving to us, Hawkins, that there is something there, that if a man could only have the means to harness that soul and bring it into his own flesh and blood, that perhaps it could live like he does?"
Hawkins sat in a long moment of deep contemplation, letting the words of Clow Reed swim about in his mind. Such a strange concept, and even the discussion of it seemed to be, for some reason, unnerving. It was as if the topic itself were some forbidden crime, and that even the speech of them made the lips burn and the tongue singe and the heart race with the fear of discovery. But that was absurd! After all, what were they discussing but theory, philosophy?
"I suppose I can understand that." Hawkins said at last. "Yes, that makes sense, theoretically of course." Hawkins grinned; his amusement with such an intelligent and intellectual discussion returning as he playfully urged the conversation on. "But let us suppose you were right about these souls of the sun and moon, what then? Suppose a man did have the power to bring them into bodily form and make them breathe, then what? Just how would he go about it, Clow?"
Clow smiled too, and turned away from the brilliant sky to face Hawkins fully, a strange glint shining in his eyes and absolute joy carved upon his face. "You already know the answer!" Clow egged on with unusual eagerness, "Tell me, my friend, what would you say is the most solar day on the calendar?"
And then it came to Hawkins, like a bolt of lightning, as if he had always known the answer but had forgotten until this particular moment. "The summer solstice!" he whispered excitedly. What a wonderfully riveting conversation this was!
"Yes." Clow hissed with equal excitement. "And we can take it even further; tell me, when is the summer solstice each year?"
"Usually around the twenty-first of June, isn't it, more or less?"
Clow nodded encouragingly, "Yes, yes, that's correct, and tell me, my friend, what of your astrology—here in England I mean. Think to the stars, what sign rules over the month of June?"
Hawkins looked slightly taken aback. Astrology? What did astrology have to do with anything? But they were, after all having a highly theoretical discussion; why not throw in the zodiac? "If my memory serves me, Clow, I do believe that the twins rule over June, the Gemini…Oh! And Cancer, I suppose, the sign of the moon. It begins its reign at the month's end…" Hawkins's voice trailed off. Now he understood why Clow was bringing up the topic of astrology. Of course (what fun this discussion was): Cancer, the sign under the moon began on the twenty-first of June—on the longest day of the year, the summer solstice.
Clow must have read his companion's realization on his face, for his lips curved up in a satisfied smile. "Ironic, isn't it?" he cooed. "Ironic that the day which should solely belong to the sun is so often obscured by the moon? But do you know what else, Hawkins? Do you know that something rare sometimes happens on the calendar?" Hawkins, looking intrigued, leaned in even closer to hear. "Sometimes" Clow whispered, his face now only a few inches from Hawkins's, "sometimes the summer solstice, the day of the sun, doesn't fall upon the twenty-first of the month, but the twentieth, a day still belonging to the constellation Gemini.
"So there you have it, my boy: If we agree that these souls of the sun and moon exist, and that a man had the ability to create them into his own mortality, then we must also agree that his best chance would be to bring the sun down first, under the conditions that we've both just described? The eve of the summer solstice on the 20th of June some lucky, lucky year?"
Suddenly this conversation seemed much less fun, not so intellectual. With a furtive glance to his side, Hawkins could see that the sun had now set, and the skies were now dark, fading violet; the wind that blew seemed somehow cooler, and the sight of the deserted pavilion on which the doctor sat, ominous. He suddenly wished he hadn't come here, wished that they weren't having this talk that now seemed…more than theory.
"I—I suppose you're right." Hawking stuttered.
"Yes, and can you imagine from there, Hawkins? Can you imagine what else a man could bring solid if he could humanize the spirit of the sun? Perhaps he could harness with it the raw elements of nature: fire and earth, so often associated with the sun's power… And to say nothing of the moon which must surely come on the winter solstice, the day of night! Perhaps a full moon to do it justice too…"
"C—Clow—"But Clow seemed no longer able to hear Hawkins frightened stammering. In his eyes showed a terrifying glint, almost hungry at the prospect of holding such power in his hands, at being able to do something so crazy and theoretical that the subject itself f almost felt forbidden: as if it were against the very laws of nature. Hawkins was afraid to speak, afraid of what to say next and yet at the same time scolding himself for being so. What was there here to fear? What about theory and philosophy such as this could be 'forbidden'? All the same, the young physician found himself somewhat relieved when his companion stood up and with a glance at the darkening sky said:
"Well, I suppose we should be getting off the streets. Soon enough, I expect the vandals and grave robbers will be preparing for their nightly shift, and do forgive me, Hawkins, if I'd not like to meet them on their way."
"Sure." Hawkins replied, smiling again now that the atmosphere was lightening again, even if the sky above the two men was doing the opposite. But there was one more question burning deep in the heart of Benjamin Hawkins, and it just had to be voiced before he and Clow parted ways. "Clow," the man turned back at the sound of his name. "How often would that happen, the solstice being on the twentieth, I mean?"
Clow smiled, his glasses shining in the pale, dying light so that his eyes became invisible beneath the glare. "It happened once, five years ago in sixteen-seventy-six, and just this year last in sixteen-eighty, but, interestingly enough," He added mischievously, "It occurs again this coming summer. Just think, in a few months time, our 'theoretical' plan could be real, if only a man had the ability…the magic.
"Good night, Hawkins." The man whispered, and at once stood from the table, his massive form seeming even more imposing in the darkness of the night, his long black traveling cloak almost blending with the shadowy surroundings. With a nod in his companion's direction, the older man walked away. The doctor watched him retreat, unable to move from his spot by the table.
"Good night, Clow." He whispered to the enveloping darkness.
I am sooo glad this chapter is finished, that means the good stuff starts next chapter, and I finally get to write it! Yay!!! (Forgive me if I'm a bit of a writing geek.)This is the last chapter in Section 1, next will be Section 2: Cerberus, and next chapter will be the summer solstice. :P (I'm so happy.)Kero-chan will finally be entering the story next chapter! In the meantime, please review!