Authors: Beth Bernobich
This time, he initiated the exchange. “Seven.”
“Thirteen.”
“Seventeen.”
They repeated the sequence, Síomón writing down each number in the margins and empty spaces.
“… Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.”
The third time through the sequence, Gwen stirred restlessly, her gaze flickering from Síomón’s paper to his face, as though she expected something more. He tried repeating the numbers, but she struck the pencil from his hands. Before he could soothe her, the attendants arrived and led an unusually pliant Gwen away.
Loisg escorted Síomón to the lobby in uncharacteristic silence. “You were right to come, sir,” he said, when they arrived at the front doors. “Quite right. We have made true progress today, you and I and your sister. Kindness—that is the key to your sister’s illness.”
Only part of the solution, Síomón thought as he walked along the sanitarium’s winding paths, between the stately trees and their rain of falling leaves. The true key was written on the sheet of newsprint in his pocket.
* * *
That night Síomón pored over Gwen’s numbers. He started by working through a series of basic formulae, each designed to expose any underlying patterns. When these proved fruitless, he applied the newer analysis methods discussed in academic journals. No success. Finally, on a decision based midway between frustration and whimsy, he turned to more fantastical methods—Lîvod’s color theories, Frankonia’s exploration into the electrical properties of numbers, the latest research from Egypt, Iran, and the Gujarat Empire.
Seven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.
He found himself doodling numbers on his scrap paper—huge numbers interspersed with smaller ones. Their pattern echoed Gwen’s patterns and recalled his dream of numbers burning like stars across the night. Numbers whose voices sang to him, the notes changing as he transformed them through calculations.
He had Garret brew a pot of strong tea, then requested privacy for the evening. Garret, ever deferential, withdrew to his own room.
Síomón pulled out a well-thumbed primer on mathematical history. He skimmed the sections on Pythagoras, with his belief in mystical properties; on Fermat and his seemingly logical theory on primes, which had proved false; on Fermat’s correspondent, the monk-conjurer Mersenne, and Euclid, who had posited that the list of primes was infinite, and therefore led to immortality.
I wanted my name written in the same list,
Síomón thought as he turned the page. An arrogant wish, but arrogance seemed a prerequisite for mathematicians, especially those who put forth unpopular theories, such as his own. Ó Deághaidh had mocked him. Ó Dónaill had tried to discourage him, but Síomón knew the proper sequence of numbers could transform lives. He distinctly remembered …
Cold washed over him. Slowly, he laid down his lead stick and stared at the open book on his desk. The scrap paper was gone—possibly now another crumpled ball upon the floor. Instead, the once-empty margins of his book were decorated with a tapestry of miniscule numbers. When had he written them?
He reached out to shut the book. Paper crackled inside his breast pocket. Síomón stopped, hand hovering over his desk. He’d emptied all his pockets before the assembly—he was certain of that.
Just another bit of foolscap,
he told himself. He was always storing bits of paper about his person. He’d simply forgotten about this one.
He was still making excuses as he felt inside the pocket. His fingers met a rigid square—completely unlike the usual crumpled note. Hands trembling, he plucked out the object and let it fall onto his desk.
It was a thin packet of stiff brown paper, its edges sealed and one flap folded over to make an envelope. Síomón examined it, searching for any kind of mark or label to indicate what hid inside. When he flipped it over, the contents hissed. Like sand or sugar, he thought. He tore off one corner and poured out the contents onto his desk.
White powder streamed out to make a perfect pyramid. He stared at it warily. Not sugar. Definitely not sand. The grains were too fine. Where had he seen its like before?
You remember. You and Evan …
He wet his forefinger and touched the substance, making a slight dent in the pyramid’s smooth surface. After a moment’s hesitation, he transferred a miniscule amount to his tongue.
A strange taste filled his mouth, bitter and sweet at the same time. Within a moment, his tongue went numb. Cocaine. He and Evan had experimented with the drug one night, after reading texts from the addict philosophers of the previous century—another of those laughably regrettable incidents from their first year at the university. Síomón had forgotten the episode until now.
He closed his eyes. He had no memory of acquiring this substance, and yet he must have. But when?
Certain symbols have a mystical significance, Pythagoras believed. Our reality is mathematical. Our souls can rise to union with the divine.
Discounted theories from a long-dead mathematician, sometimes remembered as a genius, persecuted in his own time, whose secret society ended in bloody and violent suppression.
Seven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.
Now I remember.
* * *
The summer they turned seven, an unusual heat wave muffled County Laingford. Every breeze had died off. Even the messenger balloons appeared stranded, and the buzz from their engines set the air vibrating, as though from gargantuan mosquitoes. Síomón and Gwen spent their hours in their playroom, or in subdued conversation with their aunt and uncle, who had come to supervise them while their parents traveled on holiday on the Continent.
The news came on a Monday. That day, the skies were empty of balloons; the sun was a dull smudge against the sheets of clouds. Síomón and Gwen had retreated to the mansion’s cool cellars with boxes of colored chalk. Síomón drew a series of squares, then rectangles, then circles. Whatever came to mind.
Gwen worked more deliberately. She brushed the wall clear of grit, then laid out her pieces of chalk with care. Síomón paused from his drawing to watch as she sketched the gardens surrounding their house. It was more than just a picture—woven in between the lush foliage and graceful trees, he could pick out a three curling between the branches like a snake, a six that also looked like a ripple in the pond, a seven disguised as the gardener’s scythe.
“Síomón. Gwen.”
Gwen paused, her chalk poised above the next number. Síomón, always obedient, called back, “Down here, Bríghid.”
Bríghid clattered down the stairs, her face pale and her eyes wet with tears. “Come quick, master and miss,” was all she said. With gentle hands, she laid aside Gwen’s chalk, brushed down their clothes, and smoothed their tousled hair. No time for washing their faces. It didn’t matter, she said as she led them upstairs and into the grand front parlor, before retreating with a final whispered encouragement.
Their aunt and uncle sat on the magnificent sofa where their parents so often entertained guests. With a twinge of dread, Síomón took in his uncle’s black suit, his aunt’s black veil and dress, unrelieved by any jewels.
Uncle Liam stood and held out his arms. “Síomón. Gwen. Come here.”
Síomón felt a sudden heaviness in his chest. He glanced to Gwen at his side. She too had turned immobile, and there was a frightened, frozen look on her face. Síomón fumbled for his sister’s hand. She clasped him tightly, her fingers unnaturally cold in the summer heat.
Their uncle glanced at his wife, as though puzzled how to proceed. Aunt Eilín swept her veil to one side and knelt. “Síomón. Gwen, love. I have terrible news.”
Their parents had died, she told them. The cause had been a freak accident—two balloons colliding in midair had scattered their wreckage over the train rails in the remote Italian countryside. Moments later, a train had rounded a curve, and despite the engineer’s efforts, the engine had derailed and plunged into a ravine, taking all the passenger cars with it. There had been no survivors.
“You’ll stay here, in your own home,” Aunt Eilín said. “We’ll take care of you, I promise. Your mama and papa made every provision for your upbringing.”
Síomón tried to speak, but his throat and chest hurt too much. Gwen let go of his hand and took one step forward, her pale blue eyes bright with fury. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not true. Not true. Not true. Not—”
With a smothered sob, she turned and fled. That night, Síomón heard her whispering the same words as they both pretended to sleep.
* * *
Síomón flung the cocaine out the window and went to bed. He had no dreams, for which he was grateful, but when he awoke, a strange lethargy enveloped him. He washed his face, shaved, and ordered a hearty breakfast. Coffee and eggs revived him, and he set to work at once.
The greatest purification of all is disinterested science, Pythagoras said. The man who devotes himself to that cause is the true philosopher.
He worked from midmorning to midnight and later, drinking pot after pot of strong tea brewed by the faithful Garret, while searching for the key to Gwen’s numbers. Seven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen. So many of the clues seemed obvious, but when he applied his formulae, they led into a wilderness of confusion. Over and over, he scribbled down calculations, scratched them out, and started over fresh.
Late on the third morning, a loud knocking broke into his concentration. Síomón paused, his pencil poised to finish off an equation, expecting Garret to attend to the visitor.
But Garret did not appear, and another series of knocks rattled the door. “Síomón! Síomón! Open up, man.”
Evan. He sounded panicked. Síomón rose, unsteady from sitting so long. He had the strange impression of doubled voices, and though the hour bells were just ringing, he was convinced they’d rung not five minutes ago. He smoothed back his hair, arranged his pencils, and hastily covered up his worksheets.
And stopped, his heart racing.
A snowy white pyramid, the size of his thumbnail, occupied the center of his desk.
“Síomón! Open the door, or I’ll get the key from Mrs. Drogha.”
Síomón covered his eyes with his palms, willing himself to see nothing but blackness. No cocaine. No numbers. No dizziness after which the day had mysteriously dissolved into night. Evan showered more knocks against his door, yanking him back to the present. “I hear you, Evan. Give me just a moment.”
He swept the cocaine into an old envelope and shoved it into his desk drawer. With a damp rag, he wiped his desktop clean, then tossed the rag into the waste bin and stirred up the contents. A glance into the mirror showed that his face was pale but otherwise ordinary. He brushed his hands over his trousers, then opened the door.
Evan stood in the corridor, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Except for a stark white shirt collar, his clothes were entirely black. Síomón gestured for Evan to come inside, but Evan did not move. “They held David’s wake yesterday,” he said in a clipped voice. “Why didn’t you come?”
“I—I didn’t know.”
“They sent a notice around.”
A red haze washed over his vision, and his stomach roiled. He wished he’d not drunk quite so much tea the night before. “I haven’t been well, Evan.”
“So Garret told me,” Evan said, in that same hard voice. “And Mrs. Drogha. So that is the excuse I gave Commander Ó Deághaidh, when we spoke at Maeve’s funeral.”
Pennants fluttering atop the long black motorcar. Lord Ó Cadhla, come to fetch his daughter’s body home. Ó Deághaidh saying, We’ve had another death.
“Síomón!”
Síomón flinched. His gaze swung immediately to his desk. He half expected to see the cocaine again, but the desk remained innocently clear.
Evan stared past him into the room. His expression softened to concern, looking more like his usual self. “What’s wrong, Síomón? Can you tell me? Is it because of the murders?”
“Nothing.” Síomón swallowed against the dryness clogging his throat and tried again. “Nothing that sleep and the right food won’t cure.”
An awkward pause. Evan shifted on his feet and glanced away. “I see. Well. The other reason I came was that we’re holding a wake ourselves, a private one, for Maeve and David together. It’s tonight, at Bantry’s Pub. You should come.”
“Bantry’s,” Síomón repeated. Then a shadow crossed his vision, and he distinctly heard Evan say, “I’m sorry you’re too ill to come. Shall I stop by tomorrow?” and his own answer, “Yes. Please do.”
When Evan had gone, Síomón closed the door and leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “I’m unsettled. My nerves strained. Nothing more.”
He stumbled into his bedroom and lay down. Hours later, he woke with a start, sweating, his heart beating against his ribs. His rooms were dark, the air stale and cold. A rapping sounded at his door—a steady rhythm as though someone had been at it a while.
Evan.
Síomón rolled from the bed, calling out, “Just a moment.”
He scrubbed his face with cold water and ran a comb through his hair. The cocaine had not mysteriously reappeared. Calmer now, he opened the door, ready to face Evan.
But it was Susanna who stood outside. Susanna with her plain black sari, her face serious. “Síomón,” she said. “You must not do it.”
He blinked, confused. “Do what?”
She gestured sharply, taking in his appearance and the cluttered room behind him. “Make yourself a recluse. I haven’t seen you in three days. Evan tried calling on you yesterday, but you wouldn’t answer the door. He said you were ill. Bollocks.”
“Susanna…”
“Don’t.” Her voice scaled up, and she made an obvious effort to regain her control. “Don’t lie to me, Síomón. I know you’re grieving for Maeve and David. We all are. I just came to ask—to say that you should not hide from your friends.”
With that, she turned and fled down the stairs.
Síomón closed the door and turned back to his rooms. Only a day had passed since Evan’s morning visit, but a veneer of dust coated the floors, and his rooms had an odd neglected look. Where had Garret disappeared to?