Free The Anatomist's Dream by Clio Gray Page A

so gently, he placed his outspread hand upon Philbert’s head, the sleeve of his robe falling back to his elbows, goosepimples rising on hairless skin, Philbert feeling his fingers, cool and almost weightless, as they probed the line of his taupe, setting off a shower of sparks somewhere deep inside his head. More disturbingly, each spark so engendered revealed a scene or a sound; he saw and heard a man singing and swaying his way down a salt-dusted street, weeping, calling out the name of Jehovah; saw and heard the good Frau Kranz telling him tales of how things used to be; had the scent of vanilla and chocolate right there and so strong, and had the strangest conviction that someone else’s tears were running down his cheek and had a glimpse of the tear-giver, long hair pulled back, thin lips that had forgotten how to smile. Then he felt a beard against his skin, damp and unkempt, salt and dust in the air, the awful, all-pervading stench of sickness going through him like the slicing of a knife, sudden and sharp, ceasing just as quickly, leaving him sweating and dizzy, realising the stranger had released him and pulled back, that his eyes no longer glittered, his face unfathomable, the only sounds being the spitting of the fire, the settling of a swan onto the lake, the lifting of the wind from the water as the night came down ­properly upon them and the stars opened up in a welter in the sky.
    â€˜Well now, young man,’ the man whose name was Kwert said at last, lifting Philbert’s chin with one long, cold finger, looking him bang in the eye, a nail in its hole. ‘What have we here? Who are you, boy?’
    Philbert would have moved if he could, but felt like a snake caught on a pitchfork.
    â€˜Ph . . . Ph . . . Ph . . . Philbert,’ he managed to stutter, though no one laughed.
    â€˜Philbert.’ The man’s whisper was long and low, dividing the night in two, him and Philbert on one side, everyone else on the other. He lifted his hand again, holding it a hair’s breadth above Philbert’s head and closed his eyes, and for that moment there was no one but Philbert and Kwert in the field by the Mohne, silence all around them, and for a split second Philbert saw another few sparks: a woman throwing a small piglet against a wall – Kroonk, he knew it, recognising the pain of her un­comprehending squeal; saw the same woman chop chop chopping cabbage with a knife as if her life depended on it.
    â€˜I feel great things for you, Philbert,’ Kwert whispered, moving his hand away, taking Philbert’s in his own, Kwert’s skin cool and smooth as wind-blown apples collected at dawn before the sun filters down into the orchard. He bent his head towards Philbert, touching his forehead with his own.
    â€˜There are many things to come, my little Philbert. I see the shadows of yesterday and tomorrow rising up around you, and it will be hard for you to find your way. But if you’ll grant it, I’ll guide you through the start of your journey and your achievements will be of great wonder.’
    There was movement all around them then as people wrapped themselves close within their cloaks, others turning their heads away, some sniggering with self-imposed bravado at such words, more of them alarmed and worried by them, remembering the time this head-heavy boy was almost hung, remembering the old tale of Death never truly leaving the ones who’ve already been within his grasp, standing unseen and unbidden at their sides; those survivors more alive than the rest of them precisely because of it.
    Philbert was finally loosed as Kwert announced, to no one in particular, that the show was over for tonight, and what he needed now was bread and cheese. There was a slight rustling crescendo as people rose like autumn leaves and the laughter began again, slow and uncertain at first but soon taken over by the general bustle of chatter and talk as everyone