Free The Gods Look Down by Trevor Hoyle Page B

moths. ‘Why do you disobey me, Angel?’ he inquired tonelessly. ‘You were told not to leave the house. This is the second time in a month you’ve run off. Do you seek punishment? Do you crave it? Do you want to be chained up and left in the dark for a week?’
    The idiot man-child remained mute and passive. He didn’t possess the faculty of speech but he could make sounds which were intelligible to those familiar with them; now he stared dumbly, the uneven set of his features – slanting brow, ill-matched eyes and gross lips – oddly pathetic in their twisted ugliness.
    Dagon ben Shem Tov clicked his tongue and turned away abruptly. He said, ‘I hope for your sake the townspeople don’t come pestering me about your exploits. I don’t want them anywhere near the house, much less to enter it. Do you understand me, Angel? Do my words penetrate that solid bone skull of yours?’
    â€˜Save your breath,’ Meria said boredly. ‘You can’t talk to an addled egg and expect a reply. He’s lost what few wits he once had.’
    The creature was dismissed and he lumbered away, seemingly oblivious to everything but the stinging taste of the whip. He inhabited the house like a phantom. Later in the evening, as Dagon ben Shem Tov and his daughter were dining together in the great hall, the tallow candles throwing long dancing shadows against the stone walls and high timbered ceiling, a visitor was announced. His arrival was unexpected, though Dagon ben Shem Tov showed no sign of surprise, his large eyes calm and watchful as the stranger entered and made a brief formal bow. He was a tall young man, fair-haired, with a casual manner and amiable disposition, and he apologized for intruding on their privacy. Dagon ben Shem Tov and Meria remained seated as he explained his presence.
    â€˜I’ve travelled many miles to be here – as no doubt you can see from the state of my dress. I had intended to arrive at a more suitable hour but there was an incident at the border which delayed me.’
    â€˜Then I hope your journey hasn’t been wasted,’ Dagon ben Shem Tov said, wiping his lips fastidiously and throwing down the napkin. ‘We’re not prepared for guests, nor do we welcome them. Your name is Daneri?’
    â€˜As I told your manservant.’ For a moment the young man seemed at a loss. ‘You haven’t heard of me?’
    Dagon ben Shem Tov pursed his lips together but didn’t otherwise respond.
    â€˜Jorge Luis Daneri,’ the young man said hopefully, as though expecting his name to mean something to them. When it apparently didn’t he went on, ‘I was led to believe … I was told quite definitely that you would be expecting me. You haven’t received a letter?’
    â€˜No letter mentioning you,’ Dagon ben Shem Tov said, glancing at his daughter. ‘Who is supposed to have written this mythical letter?’
    â€˜My patron, Carlos Zungri. You know of him?’
    Dagon ben Shem Tov rose to his feet. ‘You have studied with Zungri?’
    â€˜For three years. He said that I showed promise in certain arts and practices and that if I wished to progress there was only one man in all of Europe who could instruct me. He promised to write – in fact he did write, I saw the letter – and ask ifyou would accept me as an initiate. I’ve travelled for many weeks to be here and at last, in the great moment, I’ve only succeeded in showing myself to be a fool and simpleton. You must think me unworthy of even your smallest consideration.’
    â€˜What is a lost letter between practitioners of the ancient arts?’ said Dagon ben Shem Tov, stepping forward to take the young man’s arm. ‘As a favoured novice of Carlos Zungri you are more than welcome.’ He led him to a chair by the fire, musing softly, ‘Daneri … Daneri … I should have heard the