Through the Doors of Oblivion Read online

  Through the Doors of Oblivion

  Servant/Sovereign Book I

  Michael G. Williams

  For my husband Michael

  And for Joshua Norton, whoever he really was.

  “From that strange stage through the doors of oblivion, thus passes forever Norton I, Emperor of the United States, and Protector of Mexico. L'Empereur est mort.”

  -Ernest Cowan, Norton I : Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico (Joshua A. Norton, 1819-1880)

  Contents

  1. 8:15 PM, January 8, 1880

  2. Modern Day

  3. 5:12 AM, April 18, 1906

  4. Modern Day

  5. 1906

  6. Modern Day

  7. 1906

  8. Modern Day

  9. November 30, 1908

  10. 1915

  Acknowledgments

  Falstaff Books

  About the Author

  Also by Michael G. Williams

  Friend of Falstaff

  8:15 PM, January 8, 1880

  San Francisco, CA, USA

  Spattering rain filtered down out of a typically fog-smothered night, muddied by air smelling of coal soot and manure and cheap cigars. The rain landed with thick pocks and sputs like water flicked into hot oil, but His Imperial Majesty, Joshua Norton I, (self-declared) Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico, held his majestic head high as he climbed California Street to its intersection with DuPont. A policeman saluted him as they passed each other, a policy the city’s administration had wisely adopted some years before, and the two exchanged polite wishes for a pleasant evening as each went about his official business. Across the street, on the tower of St. Mary’s, the bells chimed the quarter hour. Under the great face of the cathedral’s clock, the sign admonished loiterers and malcontents with the words of Ecclesiastes 4:23: Son, observe the time and fly from evil.

  The Hastings Society was having its monthly debate at the Academy of Sciences, and His Majesty made a habit of attending. Such public appearances as these served manifold purpose, of course, not least among them the Emperor’s sincere desire to see the best minds of his empire turned toward bettering its future and increasing the prosperity of his peoples. That the debate might be personally enriching to the mind and thoughts of Emperor Norton himself could have served as justification for any other attendee, but Norton I had, at all times, to think not just of himself but of his administration, his legacy, and his subjects. Such was the plight of those positioned by God and called by duty to live a life of rulership: Norton I would never again have the leisure of thinking only of his own interests. His Majesty was in the twenty-first year of his largely unrecognized reign and, though the federal administration of the United States persisted in ruling from that east coast swamp that dared to call itself Washington, despite Norton’s repeated proclamations to the contrary, the capital of Norton’s Empire knew its true sovereign when it saw him. He loved this city all the more for it.

  Where but in San Francisco, after all, could a man declare himself emperor, issue bonds on the promise of the Imperial treasury, be saluted by every policeman, dine in the finest of restaurants, have reserved for him the best seat at every theatre opening, influence the workings of the courts, and be hailed by the public at large, all while keeping quarters and some humble possessions in a 9’x6’ room in a boarding house?

  Norton paused at the corner, waiting while a Cal Cable car approached on that company’s California Street line. As it passed, the men and women of His Majesty’s realm cried out as one in joyous recognition of their benevolent Emperor. Norton, always generous with his time and attentions where his subjects were concerned, reached up, raised his signature beaver hat decorated with its usual regalia of a peacock feather and the rosette of his office, returned the adoration of his subjects, and died.

  The San Francisco city policeman whom Emperor Norton had just passed heard him fall, hurried back, and knelt by His Majesty to ask if he were alright. Norton’s only response was to lie in already-dignified repose. Norton I thus exited the mortal realm on a sidewalk soaked in that cold, gray-painted, watercolor rain. Though a carriage was called, taking a mere ten minutes to arrive, Emperor Norton I was beyond assistance of the bodily kind. He was struck dead by a stroke before even he knew what was upon him. Witnesses noted he did not even cry out. His Imperial Majesty Joshua Norton simply ceased to be alive.

  San Francisco’s newspapers spared no effort and spent much ink mourning the death of the city’s most public eccentric, its self-declared sovereign. In a city filled with outlandish personalities, Norton I was chief among them, widely loved as a man who was generous and progressive and humble - in all ways save one. LE ROI EST MORT declared one obituary: THE KING IS DEAD.

  The gentlemen of the Pacific Club, more than one of whom did business with and against Joshua Norton some decades before during his time as an entrepreneur and society figure, funded an elaborate burial out of sincere compassion. Ten thousand people turned out for his memorial service on January 10. The funeral procession wound up and down the hills of San Francisco for more than two miles. Society matrons surrounded the coffin with what one account called “a wilderness of flowers.” One of the best-known ladies of San Francisco reached into the coffin to pin a boutonniere of fern and hyacinth to the lapel of the Emperor’s tailored coat, informing her peers that when she was just a child, and Norton was at the height of his early material success, he had always shown her kindness and a generous spirit.

  Norton’s funeral was conducted by an Episcopal reverend, though the Emperor himself was of Hebrew descent. Norton observed and actively attended the rituals and holy days of many faiths: Catholic, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Taoist, Buddhist, Jewish, and any other that would have him. Given His Majesty’s edicts and decrees on the subjects of religious tolerance and wishing to put an end to religious strife, there was no doubt he would have been honored by any tradition’s observance as long as its service was sincerely delivered.

  Emperor Norton was mourned in the highest of San Francisco’s spires, and in the filthiest of its gutters, and everywhere between. Once a high-profile commodities trader, then bankrupted, Norton had reclaimed the city’s spotlight in 1859 when he walked into a newspaper office, purchased an advertisement, and declared himself Emperor of the United States. For the next two decades, he favored the city of San Francisco with kindness, amusement, grace, and relentless attention to the plight of the poor, immigrants, women, people of color, and anyone else subject to prejudice or indignity. Though his time on earth had ended, Norton’s effect on it had just begun. Imperial proclamations would inspire official action, personal philosophies, and the attitudes of San Francisco’s residents for many decades to come: the construction of the Bay Bridge, the policies recognizing the right of persons of color to ride public transport, the protection of Chinese immigrants from attacks both popular and official, and many more.

  Portraits and mosaics and less artistic gewgaws in the likeness of Norton were commonplace by the time he went to his reward, whatever that reward might be. As entropy claimed them over time, as it does all things, surviving examples have become shrines, the destinations of pilgrimages, and the haunts of some portion of San Francisco’s many generations of the abandoned and the damned. Though time or neglect will undoubtedly grind to dust even the most treasured of these images and icons of the city’s beloved and only monarch, the memory of Emperor Norton will surely live on.

  Modern Day

  “Fuck.” Madge slapped closed the library book in her hands and barked at her assistant. “That was the fifth one I’ve read and not a one of them will come out and say what he actually believed.”
r />   Madge considered whether Emperor Norton actively hid from her. It was a silly idea, of course, but then, silly ideas were her stock in trade. She had covered their shoebox studio apartment – ten feet by twelve in a single-room occupancy – floor to ceiling and wall to wall, in posters and postcards and photographs and drawings and magazine-page collages, of different figures from history, 20th-century pop culture, and Madge’s favorite works of fiction. She had photos of James Dean, a poster of one of Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits, an autographed photo of Rue McClanahan, a pin-up of Betty Grable, the old hosiery advertisement with Joe Namath in stockings, the poster for Pink Flamingos with Divine in a red dress holding a gun, and on and on and on: Mark Twain, Dorothy Dandridge, Billie Holliday, Anna Mae Wong, Sessue Hayakawa, James Young Deer, Waldo, multiple iterations of Sherlock Holmes, the dust jacket from a rare hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Marlene Dietrich, Mitsy Upham…

  There were more likenesses and images on the walls of that studio apartment than even Madge herself could know anymore. But the one she wanted to know, the one she wanted to bring back, was Emperor Joshua Norton I.

  “Well…” Iria cleared their throat and tried to say it lightly. “It doesn’t sound like he really cares what gods you call on. All he cares about is that you mean it when you do.”

  Madge gave Iria what had come to be called - strictly behind Madge’s back - “the look.” It was that combination deep sigh and condescending tone of voice she somehow transmuted into a settling of the corners of her eyes. “Of course it matters what he believed. What someone believed is the key to drawing them back. It’s like… would you walk into Canton Bazaar and expect to order a burrito while speaking French? No. Of course not. That’s stupid.”

  Iria gave Madge a pained look. “Well thanks a lot for calling me stupid.”

  Madge rolled her eyes in frustration. “And yet you were the one who wanted to be my apprentice!”

  Iria narrowed their eyes at her and growled, “I’m just trying to be creative. You were the one who told me to be more spontaneous with my magic. Now who’s ‘beholden to the thoughtforms of the past,’ eh? Anyway, it doesn’t seem like there is a verified and valid historical representation of Emperor Norton. No two biographies entirely agree. Half of what was attributed to him in any given account is listed as hoaxes or fakes in the next. He didn’t leave a diary. He never wrote things down himself. People impersonated him. Editors published fake proclamations from him because they sold newspapers. To paraphrase a real asshole, you summon back the spirit of the dead person you have, not the dead person you wish you had.”

  Madge narrowed her eyes in return. “Fine. If you know so much, summon Emperor Norton back your way. Let’s just see what happens.”

  “It’s a deal.” Iria spat in the palm of their hand and held it out. “Shake.”

  Madge spat in her own palm and grabbed their hand, pumping it up and down once. “Deal.”

  That went even better than I hoped, Madge thought. She tried hard to hide the smile she felt welling up inside.

  The giant clock on Old St. Mary’s tolled three o’clock in the morning, deafening in the quiet night. Thin fog had moved into Chinatown the afternoon before and settled in to wait the morning sun. Now Madge and Iria found themselves more or less alone on a street blanketed in cottony fluff. Somewhere up there a full moon and a sky full of stars existed, but down here they had only fuzzy neon and the yellow glow of the street lamp on each of the corners.

  Chinatown was never entirely silent or still, but in the very dead of night it could get reasonably close. Cable cars and buses weren’t running. Occasionally someone would stagger down Grant Avenue as it ran narrowly between shuttered shops full of tourist tchotchkes and imported goods, but they paid the pair no mind. The badged cars of ride-share services sometimes glided by on California. Lights flickered on and off as floors were vacuumed and baskets emptied in the spires of the Financial District a couple of blocks downhill.

  “The witching hour.” Iria stage-whispered at Madge under the fading final peal from the tower. “The time when supernatural forces are at their strongest.”

  “Women found out of their houses at this hour in the Dark Ages were often executed on the spot,” Madge said. “Did you know that?”

  Iria busied themself setting out the candles and drawing a star on the ground. It wasn’t the typical five-pointed pentacle of most modern neopagan traditions. This one had thirteen points, the lines connecting them drawn in careful bands of red, white, and blue chalk. A matching tricolor candle sat at each point. Iria took their time inscribing symbols around the base of each candle.

  Madge initially downplayed her sense of feeling exposed by doing magic in public like this. If two witches drawing a magic circle was the oddest thing anyone saw in San Francisco on any given night, it must be a pretty slow evening. But then… Madge swallowed hard. What if it worked?

  Iria finished laying out their supplies and sat back on their heels. Their voice dropped an octave as they called the watchtowers, and Madge felt a breeze pick up, a little gust of air, like standing by a door when someone opens it and the air conditioning escapes. Iria’s voice turned from greeting familiar powers in English to calling on deities from a variety of traditions. Madge didn’t recognize all of them, but she knew the sound of chanting when she heard it.

  Iria finished each step of the ritual with careful, deliberate movements, and as each completed, Madge could feel the wind get stronger. Notably, Madge realized, the candle flames never so much as wavered.

  Oh shit, Madge thought. It’s really going to work.

  Iria’s chanting got louder, more insistent, and Madge heard the world grow quiet. Madge noticed sounds she wasn’t even conscious of before: the cough of someone sleeping behind the bushes in the shadows of Old St. Mary’s Church, the conversation of two runaways spending the night behind the locked gates of St. Mary’s Square across the street, the quiet Cantonese murmur of a woman phoning the old country on a balcony above them. Those sounds all fell away, too, as Iria’s chanting grew louder, and Madge could feel those people’s eyes on her apprentice and herself.

  Staring intently at the loosely stacked pages Iria had torn from a half dozen of their books about Emperor Norton, then piled in the center of the circle, they struck a final match, tossed it onto the paper, and threw back their head. Their voice sounded like a cannon in the stretching silence. “Joshua Norton I, your Imperial subjects beseech you. Attend our requests now as you sought to do then!”

  “Requests?” Madge whispered, eyes wide. She repeated it, mouth hanging open after. “Requests?”

  Thunder rattled the glass in the street lamps on the corner: red bases and red frames at the top, with gold-painted dragons carved around the length of the green post. The street lamps were one of Madge’s favorite things about Chinatown. Her great-great-grandparents had been Chinese immigrants to the United States, brought here in conditions of near-slavery. Generally, those immigrants’ hopes and health were fed slowly into the gnashing machinery of railroad construction, mining, farming, and all the other forms of commerce fueled as much by human bodies as anything else. Then they and their descendants were isolated and denigrated as a blight on the moral fabric of the white people who brought them here. Chinatown was one of the few places in the country where a captured culture had managed to block out its captors, turning those who were not natives into aliens within their own borders. To this day, many people in Chinatown never bothered to learn English. They didn’t need it. Madge’s family hadn’t lived in exclusively Chinese environs or culture or language in enough generations that Madge herself felt no connection to those stalwart natives of a land some had never even seen, but she admired them all the same. They carved out a place for themselves in a world openly hostile to them. That was always worthy of respect.

  The crown of the nearest streetlamp shattered as another massive peal of thunder rang out across the sky. The third boomed so close, the ground sh
ook beneath her. For one breathless half-second, Madge thought an earthquake was starting.

  The embers of the burning pages rose on the wind, twisting in a spiral, and Madge’s teeth buzzed with the low moan that emanated out of them. She could feel the magic in the air, could feel Iria twisting the threads of fate and of time and space as they imposed their organizing will on the junk drawer of consensual reality. Whatever Iria was summoning up was fighting back, straining against the forces Iria cast like a net to entangle it - and gods damn all the hours they’d spent in ritual, Iria had used the word “request” when Madge had said time and again to use words of power, words of authority: words like require. The forces of the universe can be commanded, but they rarely cooperate with a request.

  “Don’t ask it.” Madge had to shout over the growing roar. “Command it!”

  Iria focused their will and leaned toward the column of glowing sparks and smoke and burning pages. “By the powers on whom I call, Emperor Norton, I command you to return to the world!”

  There was one more long groan, but the column of smoke and fire grew wider, and shorter, and light burst out of it. With one final blast of frigid air - air that smelled of earth and wood and the half-mint aroma of eucalyptus - the column exploded, spraying Iria and Madge with ashes and soot and cold and wretched rain. Wind snuffed out the candles. The street lamps died. Storefront windows audibly rattled up and down Grant. The person behind the bushes of the parish church scrambled to their feet and beat an invisible retreat through the shadows, shoes slapping the pavement as they ran. The gates of St. Mary’s Square crashed against one another as the runaways behind them tried to dive for cover.