Batavia 1740
During a trip to South America a few years ago, Magnus visited his friend Kat-Ata-Killa, or Kat as everybody called her, a warlock who worked at one of the new telescope mundanes had built in the Atacama Desert. Between sips of pisco sour –a deliciously tart and refreshing local drink which sweetness disguised its inebriating effects –Kat and Magnus mused about the time they spent in Peru in the late 1800s, and laughed at the stories of Magnus' adventures with Ragnor and Catarina, and when night fell, Kat gave him a tour of the telescope.
Mundane inventions always held a fascination for Magnus, and the telescope was not the exception. Its massive eye always pointing towards the heavens captured the most wondrous images from places that were so far away that their existence was almost unimaginable. Looking through the apparatus' eyepiece, Magnus remembered what Aldous Nix, the former Warlock of Manhattan, had said to him just before he died, that one day mundane innovations would surpass even magic. Perhaps, thought Magnus, the old warlock had been right, and one day magic would be obsolete, left behind in the vertiginous race mundanes were running against time and themselves.
The visit was memorable for another reason. At the end of the night, Kat gave Magnus a framed print of his favourite photo from the telescope's archives. It was a breathtaking full-color image of two stars caught in each other's gravity; two stars trapped in an endless dance; waiting for the moment when they would either free themselves, or collide in the most spectacular and destructive of explosions.
Looking at those astral bodies circling one another, slaved to one another's gravity, Magnus thought of Annaliese Fen. For meeting her was like encountering a star, which gravity pulled him, trapped him and forever altered his life and his destiny. Like those stars, which course, composition and fate was irremediably changed by their encounter, Magnus was never the same after that fortuitous night he first laid eyes on the beautiful Annaliese Fen.
Had he known that he would not be the only one whose life and fate would be impacted by that meeting; that meeting Annaliese Fen would put him on a path that led to more destruction that he could ever atone for; that the consequences of that meeting would eventually leave indelible scars on the land and the people that he had once called his own, perhaps he would have avoided that encounter. Or, perhaps, he would have still run towards that meeting, drawn by the incredible magnetic pull of the woman who for the first time offered Magnus a sense of belonging.
He met Annaliese in Jakarta, which was then called Batavia, at a lavish New Year's party hosted by the head of the Dutch East Indian Company to celebrate the start of 1740. Magnus was not yet a hundred years old and had stopped aging just a few decades ago. Considering how long he would get to live, he was still new, fresh and inexperienced. The memories of his years as a mortal were still fresh in his mind: memories from before his demonic blood asserted itself and froze him in time, when he could still feel his body changing and aging, his arms and legs becoming longer and stronger, his ribcage expanding, his features morphing. He still remembered what it was like to look at his reflection in a mirror and not see the eerie image of a man in his twenties, who despite changes in fashion and attire, always remained the same, like a living fossil or a statute. He still remembered looking at his reflection and seeing that he was still being carried along by the current of time, when he was not jet a witness to its flowing, not jet a witness to mortal lives passing him by, like telephone poles that momentarily appear in a car window as it drives along a dark road.
The memories of the loss and violence that had marked his childhood were also still fresh and raw, and in many ways, Magnus was still angry and rebellious, perhaps going through the warlock equivalent of adolescence. He didn't yet completely grasp the significance of living forever; the meaning, not only, of being untouched by time, but also of having to live with one's own mistakes for all eternity.
It was those childhood memories –those of violence and loss as well as those of happiness and love –that had taken Magnus back to his birth place. After years with the Silent Brothers in Madrid, and decades wandering the world, Magnus had felt nostalgic for the place where had been born and had gone back searching for remnants of his past; for any remaining hints of his own history; for, perhaps, an opportunity to exist for a time in a place where no one would try to guess his lineage, a place he might recognize and claim as home.
As a warlock, Magnus already knew that he lived between worlds, not fully human; not fully demon either. His immortality and his magic powers set him apart, and caused fear, rejection and suspicion among Shadowhunters and Downworlders. So many times, he had heard the word "warlock" uttered in the tone one uses to refer to a disgusting insect one plans to crush with one's foot. Yet, he still couldn't get used to people seeing him as an abomination and he still felt like the looks of hatred and repulsion burned his skin.
Furthermore, in his travels in the mundane world, Magnus had endured the suspicious and apprehensive gaze of those who couldn't quite pinpoint his race, his place of origin, or his location in the large scheme of social and racial differences that characterized the 17th and 18th centuries. People constantly asked him whether he was Indian or Chinese; whether he was free or an indentured servant; whether he belonged to the race of free men, or whether his destiny, his life and ultimately his death belonged to another. So, he had decided to go back home in search of belonging, of his past, and of his history.
He arrived in Batavia a hot steamy morning and was welcomed by the scent of cinnamon, clove and cocoa emanating from the cargo being loaded onto ships destined for faraway lands. The port was buzzing with people of multiple ethnicities going about their business, and when he looked towards the hills on the distance, he could see the green of the palm and banana trees of his childhood. The warmth and humidity in the air, the green of the hills, the smell of the sea, and the scent of spices, food and people brought on a torrent of memories of time gone by; of his mother's spicy tea; of playing with his friends among the trees in his stepfather's plantation; of water entering his nostrils and pouring down his throat, making it impossible to breath while his stepfather's eyes stared at him through a curtain of greenish water.
For a couple of years, Magnus meandered through the land of his birth. He went back to his village in search of familiar places; the aromas of home cooking, and of the spices that grew on those lands under the watchful eye of hardworking people. He went looking for the ruins of his home; for his mother's grave; for the place where his stepfather had tried to drown him and where Magnus, in a moment of uncontained fury and in an spectacular and terrorizing show of this own power, had killed him. Magnus searched for recognition on the faces of people of his old home, but all he saw were familiar features inherited from ancestors, parents or grandparents, dead long ago and whom Magnus had perhaps known as children.
Magnus quickly realized that he had been naïve. For in Batavia too, he was of mixed-blood, a creature of two worlds and still of none. The country was still under Dutch colonial rule, a rule dependent on rigid and heavily policed structures of racial and social segregation, and in which his half-Indonesian, half-Dutch mother was the very embodiment of the perversion and violation of those rules. Magnus, the product of that perversion, as much as the product of demonic intervention in human life, remained an outsider.
Perceiving the looks of disgust, rejection and distrust he got from whites and Indonesians alike, Magnus understood that the conflicts of those lands were written on his own skin. That on his skin he carried the carefully imposed, and at times impossible to maintain, racial separation on which the Dutch precariously sustained their rule, and on which, also precariously, Indonesians tried to ascertain their identity and their claims to freedom. The realization was painful because it forced him to finally see that, for him, there was no home, no belonging, no anchor.
To avoid curious gazes and tiresome questions, Magnus begun to glamour himself, to use magic to disguise some of his features, while making other more prominent. Depending on where he was and whom he was with, he made himself appear more Indonesian or white. The glamour, in combination with his keen consideration for fashion, distracted attention away from his face and his skin and gave him the illusion of being seen and unseen at the same time, of hiding in plain sight. Although this strategy saved him from praying and judgemental eyes, and from the threat of violence, it made him feel even more like an impostor, and by the end of his two years in Batavia, he was ready to leave, to go home, even if he didn't know where that was.
Magnus was in his breakfast parlour that last morning of 1739, when one of the servants walked in from the market with news of the spectacular party the Dutch East Indian Company was throwing that evening to celebrate yet another profitable year. Magnus had been examining the list of ships scheduled to leave the port of Batavia in the next couple of days, considering whether he should head south towards Australia, or north towards Hong Kong or even India. However, news of the party caught his attention; for he loved parties, and had a few invitations to celebrate the new year that night. Now the prospect of attending one in the lavish palace of the Company's head and of being in the same room with Adriaan Valckenier, the Governor General, whom Magnus was sure would attend, was just too tempting, too great an opportunity to pass.
He had seen the Governor on the streets a few times, his cold green eyes looking with disdain at anyone who wasn't European; his plainly displayed superior demeanour a clear reflection of his sense of racial and caste superiority. Magnus had witnessed the Governor either ignoring or mistreating anyone he thought belonged to a caste lower than his own, which in the man's book, was practically everybody. He had also had a run of sorts with the man a few days back, one of those unfortunate incidents in which Magnus had lost his temper, and had used his magic in ways that perhaps he should be ashamed of, but wasn't.
Governor Valckenier had been walking a few steps ahead of Magnus one morning; the big and intricate fan in his hand, with its gold inlaid tortoiseshell sticks and painted silk leave, flapping incessantly, trying to ward off the heat, the insects, and perhaps the smell of the city. His white breeches that matched his wig, his knee-length red silk coat with its elaborate gold stitching, and his white lace cuffs and scarf shone almost blindingly in the oppressive heat of the day and against the background of the grey poverty and decay of the city. As usual, the Governor was surrounded by an entourage of minions, servants and assistants, and was saying something Magnus couldn't hear to a tall also elegantly dressed man walking beside him.
The young barefooted boy balancing a heavy basket of vegetables on his head had not seen the Governor or his entourage when he rushed out of an alley and crushed head first with the Governor, the basket falling and spilling its content all over the ground and on Valckenier's elegant jacket. The Governor had perhaps seen the boy but had felt no compulsion to avoid him because, in his universe, he was god and the rest of the world was expected to stand aside and make way for him.
"Filthy piece of trash," the Governor had sputtered in surprise, and with astounding strength and velocity had struck the young boy, who Magnus thought was no older than six or seven, across the face with his fan, the sharp point of one of its tortoiseshell sticks cutting the boy's cheek and the force of the blow drawing blood from his mouth and nose.
One of the Governor's assistants had stepped in then, and grabbing the boy by the collar of his flimsy and dirty shirt, had lifted him and pushed him against the wall, the boy's head hitting the stone with a whack that reminded Magnus of a cracking egg.
The scene unleashed a fury in Magnus that, until that point, had been lurking just under the surface of his carefully composed image. A surge of magic poured from the center of his chest and threatened to come out through his fingers like lighting in a storm. At that point, all the frustration, and the feelings of rejection he had experienced during his time in search of home threatened to erupt like a volcano and burn everything in his path. Magnus realized later that he had been impulsive; that he had placed himself in danger of being discovered by either mundanes or by any Shadowhunter currently in the city. But he couldn't help it. The look, first of surprise and confusion, and then of sheer terror, in the young child's eyes; his face which would forever bear the mark of his brush with the governor's racist superiority had reminded Magnus of his own childhood, and an intense need to do something had overtaken him.
Magnus had lifted both his hands and, with simultaneous flicks of his fingers, had pushed the man that had crushed the boy against the wall through a doorway, and then through a portal Magnus conjured just at the other side of the threshold. The portal deposited the man thousands of kilometers away in the middle of the African savanna. With his other hand, he directed the horse-drawn carriage that was passing by to hit a pothole, which he magically filled with water, mud and other unspeakable things, sending a deluge of mud, water and filth all over the Governor and the reminder of his entourage. Magnus had not stayed to witness the aftermath of the incident; instead he had turned and walked away, making his mind up at that moment that he had had enough of Batavia; he was leaving.
But now, the news of the party made him reconsider his decision to leave right away. Perhaps a night of debauchery and of elbow rubbing with the Batavian colonial elites would be the perfect end to his trip, a sort of poetic justice. For none of those people, who would otherwise look at him with disgust, would know that they had shared food, drink, perhaps a dance, or even a bed, with someone they would never welcomed into their midst, if they knew who he was.
"I think I am going to make an appearance at this party," he announced that morning. Yes, he thought a mischievous smile drawing on his face, perhaps just a short appearance to see how Governor Valckenier was doing; see if perhaps he needed Magnus' help in finding his missing assistant. Besides he had a new magnificent blue silk jacket he was eager to wear and the occasion was perfect for it. "Could you please get my bath ready, Marie?" he asked his servant. "I have just a few hours to get ready."
"Ya pak," said the young woman as she walked out of the room.
He was going to miss the servant girl, Magnus thought as he watched her leave, she was feisty and high spirited despite her social station. He would also miss this house with its airy rooms, its Persian rugs and its heavy and intricately carved mahogany furniture, but it was time to go. He had no home and all the time in the world, after all, and those without home and plenty time can be free to roam the world.
"Yes," he said to the empty room, his spirit lifting, "just a short appearance at the Company's party, the perfect way to welcome a new year of adventures."
That night by the time the church bells announced midnight, Magnus was already hopelessly in love, the feeling displacing his previous thoughts of leaving Batavia. And, that was before he even exchanged a word with the beautiful young woman with indigo eyes, long dark curls, and the face of a marble angel, that came to the party with Governor Valckenier.
The party was held in the palatial home of the head of the Dutch East Indian Company, a short rotund man with an ill-fitted wig, an unfashionable mustache and a sickly yellowish complexion. The home, however, more than made up for the shortcomings of his owner. it was magnificent, with its white exterior, surrounding arched corridors, tall pillars, and a garden full of exotic and evergreen trees and flowers and in which equally exotic birds continuously sang. The enormous salon into which Magnus was ushered by a servant in white uniform, was equally spectacular, with white walls decorated with priceless local and international paintings, and gilded mirrors that reflected the light from the countless candles held in silver candelabra. Arched windows decorated with white gauzy curtains surrounded the room and were opened to allow the pleasant evening breeze to carry the scent of flowers into the room. Servants in white uniforms walked among the guests with trays containing glasses of wine imported from Europe, plates of cheese and exotic fruits.
Magnus went to the party glamored as a rich Dutch merchant. The deep blue with which he disguised his cat eyes was a perfect match for the intricately embroidered silk jacket he wore. The jacket's silver stitching was exquisitely fine and its color and design complemented perfectly his black breeches, black stockings, black shoes with their silver buckle, and his crisp white shirt with its lacy cuffs and neckline. Nothing in his attire betrayed his true identity, and the finery of the fabric and the accessories filled him with such satisfaction that a mischievous smile seemed to have taken permanent residence on his lips.
Magnus was looking at his reflection in a gilded mirror, making sure his jacket was perfectly smooth and that the lace of his shirt was sufficiently ruffled at the cuffs without hiding the fine silver stitching on the sleeves. Suddenly, from somewhere behind him, another pair of eyes met his in the mirror's reflection. Surprised, Magnus quickly turned and there was Annaliese Fen, looking at Magnus from across the room just for the briefest of moments, before she looked away, and smiled at something Governor Valckenier was saying.
That is all it took, a glance from across the room, a glance that lasted less than a minute, for Magnus to fall in love. For the eyes of the young woman reminded Magnus of a lighthouse illuminating a dark night, guiding him to shore. A few moments later, the woman graced him again with her eyes, and Magnus felt that everything and everyone else fell away and those eyes became his whole universe. That night, Annaliese's eyes were the color of deep indigo, an indigo that reminded Magnus of that time when night begins to slowly surrender its darkness to the approaching light, when the sky is no longer black, but not yet blue, and the night is the coldest, but also the most beautiful.
Those eyes were so captivating that Magnus had to make an incredible effort to shift his gaze to the rest of the young woman's face and body. The effort was worthwhile, however, for those eyes were perfectly framed by an angelic porcelain face with a mouth that resembled a perfectly formed rose bud; a cascade of long dark curls that reflected the light in a multitude of tones from red to blue; and a long slim neck leading to a pair of bared shoulders, and them to a perfectly rounded bosom that seemed to be issuing an invitation for Magnus to liberate it from the confines of the tight bodice of her blood red dress. A smooth white pearl the size of a pigeon's egg hanged from a silver chain atop her chest and its colour was a perfect match for the milky tone of her skin.
The face of the young woman reminded Magnus of the poem that Christopher Marlow once wrote about Helen of Troy: "Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?" Months later from the deck of the ship on which he escaped from Batavia, Magnus watched the fires still burning in the bay and in the outskirts of the city, and wondered if Marlow hadn't, in fact, had Annaliese in mind when he wrote the poem, for just a look from Annaliese's eyes could, and eventually did, have the power of sending men to their death, a smile on their faces, a blind conviction in their hearts.
That night, however, Magnus didn't yet know the name of the young woman and couldn't have guessed the impact she would have in his life. All he knew was that she seemed to be barely out of childhood, not much older than fifteen, thought Magnus, and that her face and body, with its tiny waist and rounded hips hidden under the full skirt of her dress, retained the innocence of those who had not yet experienced the hardship of adulthood. Anyone who looked at Annaliese would think of her as small, fragile and delicate, someone who seemed to be only partially in this world, and always about to disappear into another dimension, perhaps into a celestial one.
Obeying the magnetic pull of those eyes, Magnus approached the young woman and after a deep bow introduced himself in perfect Dutch.
"Mag ik me voorstellen, mevrouw. Mijn naam is Magnus Bane."
"I am Annaliese Fen; it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bane," Annaliese replied in perfect unaccented English, her soft and low voice reminding Magnus of the finest of velvets. She then curtseyed, extended her delicate hand for Magnus to kiss it.
The feeling of that delicate child-sized hand in his, and the softness and sweet scent of its skin against his lips woke up a swarm of butterflies in the pit of Magnus' stomach, and finally decided his fate. A broad playful smile lifted the corners of his lips, and illuminated his pupils as he lifted his face back to the enchanting eyes of Annaliese Fen.
The breath caught in Magnus' throat then, because as he looked into those indigo eyes once more, Annaliese momentarily let the glamor that disguised her warlock mark fall, as one lets a piece of garment fall to reveal a beautiful birth mark. It was a gesture just for him to see, like an invitation to intimacy, nudeness, disrobing; or perhaps a hint of things to come. As the glamour fell Magnus saw for the first time the true color of Annaliese's eyes, its pupils the most intense ruby red Magnus had ever seen, their luminescence reflecting the lights from the candles like the finest and most perfect of jewels.
Magnus couldn't help but to correspond to her gesture and momentarily let his own glamour fall, revealing his green-yellow cat eyes, and the true tone and features of his face. Annaliese rewarded him with the broadest and warmest of smiles, and Magnus felt like a ship that had finally found port after a long voyage through stormy seas.
"Why don't you introduced me to your friend, Miss Fen?" came the superior voice of Governor Valckenier from Annaliese's side, its loud tone irrupting into the intimacy of the moment. The Governor then placed a proprietary hand in Annaliese's elbow and Magnus felt an even more intense dislike for the man.
"Mr. Bane, this is my good friend Adriaan Valckenier, Governor General of Batavia," said Annaliese, a soft smile playing in her lips. "Governor, this is Mr. Bane. I have just made his acquaintance so I cannot say much about him."
"It is an honour," said Magnus and bowed in the direction of the man. "I am just a merchant, currently travelling on business through this beautiful land."
"Charmed, I am sure," replied the Governor, his tone contradicting the statement. He then turned his attention back to the guests with whom he had been conversing, his attitude one of dismissal and disdain that Magnus thought was the way the man greeted everyone. His hand, however, remained firmly set on Annaliese's elbow as if to make sure that everyone, especially Magnus, understood that the young woman belonged to him.
After a few more pleasantries, Magnus reluctantly left Annaliese's side, his heart sinking a little as he put distance between him and the woman who with just one look had stolen his heart. They continued gazing at each other periodically throughout the remaining of the night, however, as if they were learning to recognize each other's features from a distance. A few times Annaliese smiled, and a twinkle illuminated her eyes, and each time, Magnus felt like a chain was wrapping itself around his heart tying him to her.
Governor Valckenier remained closed to Annaliese, his arm constantly guiding her by the elbow, in a sign of ownership more than care. Magnus thought that a couple of times the governor noticed the way he looked at Annaliese, and Magnus could feel the hateful stare of the man's eyes burning a spot on his chest.
At midnight, the guests congregated along the veranda that surrounded the second floor of the mansion for the display of fireworks the Company's head had ordered from China. For a minute, Magnus lost sight of Annaliese in the confusion of bodies trying to secure a privileged spot from which to watch the spectacle. He searched among the guests and when he didn't see the Governor either, decided to go look for her.
Magnus found them along a dark corridor off the salon. Valckenier had Annaliese pinned against the wall, a hand firmly wrapped around her slim neck, and the other fumbling for the hem of her dress, fury and lust mixed with drunkenness in the man's eyes.
"I told you this dress was too revealing," he was saying, his voice full of fury. "Everybody has been looking at you, specially that petty new merchant."
"But darling," replied Annaliese, her voice coming out as no more than a whisper. "You said you loved the dress."
"You are mine, you hear," sputtered Valckenier in a similar tone than the one he had used to call the small boy on the street a filthy piece of trash.
This time, Magnus' fury was murderous and his fingers itched to unleash a blinding surge of red magic capable of obliterating the man and everything around him, the room, the house and perhaps even the gardens. He had to exercise all his self-control not to kill the man right there and then, mostly in consideration for Annaliese's safety, who seemed unable to use her own magic to defend herself.
"I don't think this is very gentlemanly behaviour, Governor," Magnus said in a forced tone of politeness as he approached the man, his hands in the pockets of his jacket just in case sparkles tried to escape.
"This is none of your business Bane," said the man, his hand still squeezing Annaliese's neck while the other continued lifting her dress.
"But I think it is: you see, I consider it my business to defend the honour of a young lady who apparently cannot defend herself," Magnus stated, giving Annaliese a knowing look.
Making a superhuman effort to keep his magic under control, Magnus reached for the man's shoulder and pull him off Annaliese with all his human strength. The man staggered backwards and hit the opposite wall with more strength than Magnus had expected. He then slid down along the wall half unconscious, half drunk, until he was sitting on the ground, his face bent towards his chest.
"Are you okay?" asked Magnus looking at Annaliese with a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.
"Yes, I am fine," she replied in a soft voice, her hand rubbing her neck where the mark of the Governor's fingers were still visible.
"Let me take care of that," Magnus offered and with a flick of his fingers sent a gentle flow of healing magic towards the spot, erasing the mark and soothing the pain.
"We should leave, Mr. Bane," said Annaliese reaching for Magnus' hand. "Before he wakes up. I have a carriage outside. We can continue the celebration in my house."
"That is a good idea. But all things considered, I think you should call me Magnus." Magnus replied and offered her his arm.
A minute later, they were exiting the mansion amid the multicolor explosions of the fireworks that illuminated the sky and reflected on the beautiful angelic face of Annaliese Fen. A fine carriage was, in fact, waiting for Annaliese, a tall handsome man in a footman's uniform standing by the door.
"Let's go home Khuno," instructed Annaliese as she stepped into the carriage, and gestured for Magnus to follow.
The footman gave Magnus an appreciating smile as he held the door for Magnus to step in, a smile drawing on his face, and a mischievous sparkle shinning in his eyes. If Magnus had been more observant and less caught by Annaliese's allure, he might have recognized, perhaps not the man's face, but at least his posture and statute. For Khuno was the elegantly dressed man that had been talking to Governor Valckenier the day he collided with the young boy balancing the basket of vegetables on his head.