The Severed Man

by George Mann

  ‘What do you make of all this?’ Honoré looked a little shell-shocked, as if he had just walked out of one nightmare and straight into another.

  ‘It’s as if we don’t exist. It’s not like they’re purposely ignoring us. There’s no little glance out the corner of the eye or surreptitious whisper that some newcomers have arrived. They simply don’t know we exist.’

  ‘Do you think the jump through time went wrong? Could we be stuck here, where no one can see or hear us?’

  ‘I don’t know, Honoré, I really don’t. I hope not.’

  ‘Let’s try the pub. At least we may be able to get something to drink in there.’

  They made their way toward the large inn that sat on one side of the village square, just next to a cricket pitch and opposite a small church. Lechasseur walked around the front to take a look. The sign showed an old, faded picture of a black and white sow, and the legend below it read: The Old Dun Cow. A couple of people were sitting outside, having a drink. They ignored Lechasseur as he walked by their table.

  He found Emily around the back of the building, looking up at the blue sky.

  ‘It’s nice to be away from all that Devil stuff, Honoré, even if we are lost in a nameless village where no-one will even acknowledge our existence.’

  Honoré smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ He turned his head toward the building. ‘The pub looks to be okay. Same story, though. The two men around the front wouldn’t acknowledge I was there.’

  ‘Let’s try inside.’

  They ducked their heads under the low beam that hung above the doorway and slipped into the darkness inside.

  The building was obviously hundreds of years old; the upper storey leaned outwards as if it were made from melted wax. Inside, the old wooden beams ran across the ceiling space in a criss-cross that reminded Emily of a game of noughts and crosses. The bar was propped in one corner like an afterthought, a rude addition to the magnificence of the eccentric old building.

  A few people were sitting at tables, enjoying a drink with their friends. Two men were sitting at the bar, chatting with the barman, a dark, stocky man with a long beard and a large, rotund belly.

  Honoré made his way over to the bar and tried to get the barman’s attention.

  ‘Yes, what can I get you?’ the man replied, smiling pleasantly.

  Honoré jumped in surprise, but quickly composed himself. ‘Er, just two glasses of water, please.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  The man turned away and began preparing their drinks. As Emily joined him at the bar, Honoré tried to catch the attention of the two men sitting on bar stools beside him, but they were either lost in their own conversation or, like the people outside, simply unable to see him. A moment later, the barman returned with two pints of bitter, which he placed on the bar in front of Honoré.

  ‘No, I asked for two glasses of water, please.’

  ‘Yes, what can I get you?’ The man smiled at him in a cheery fashion, and Honoré let out a long groan. The man turned back to his two friends at the bar and stroked his beard absently.

  ‘I think we’re fighting a losing battle here.’ He turned to Emily. ‘Shall we see if we can find ourselves a base somewhere? Somewhere to have a wash and find some clothes? You’ve still got splashes of blood on the front of your dress.’

  ‘Good idea. It doesn’t look like we’re going to get any answers here.’

  They left their pints of ale on the bar and made their way back out into the bright daylight.

  For another hour they walked around the village, trying to provoke responses from the villagers. Lechasseur even attempted to take hold of one of them physically, but the man just seemed to glaze over and lose consciousness until Lechasseur let him go, at which point he carried on his way as if nothing had happened. Emily was finding it more than a little spooky, and Honoré seemed even more on edge than he had the previous night. It was as if they had suddenly been isolated from normality, shut out from the safety of the real world, and, to Honoré, that was even more terrifying than any cultist, or even any Devil, he might have to face.

  After a while, they decided to take a look inside a small bed-and-breakfast they had noticed when they had first entered the village. They made their way back there, passing across the village square where the woman was still drawing water from the well and the children were still banging their hoop up against the wall with gleeful cheers. There was an eerie sort of consistency to it all, like everything was just carrying on as normal and had been that way for years.

  Soon enough, they managed to track down the lodging house. It was a small, detached cottage, out of the way of the main road that ran idly through the village. The roof was a dark grey thatch that reminded Honoré of nothing so much as an old woman’s hair, all dry and crisp. It made him think momentarily of Mrs Bag-of-Bones, his landlady back in 1950. She was probably happily engaged in making herself a cup of tea, or sitting alone in her kitchen, the world slowly passing her by in a predictable, linear fashion.

  Honoré led the way up the cobbled path, ducking his head under a rose arch that had overgrown slightly to create a kind of thorny obstacle along the way.

  There was a sign on the door that said Rooms Available, so Emily tried the handle, and when it opened, stepped inside. In the hallway, an old lady was polishing a mirror, a lurid blue pinafore tied around her waist and a pair of small spectacles perched neatly on the end of her nose. Emily approached her cautiously, fully expecting her not to respond. When she didn’t, it was almost a relief.

  Emily was just about to turn around and suggest to Honoré that they go and find a room, when a voice from behind her said, ‘Don’t mind old Mrs Wickham, she never did have very good hearing, even when she was at her best.’

  Both Honoré and Emily span around in surprise.

  A man was standing behind them, dressed in a smart black suit and leaning casually against the doorframe. He was drinking tea from a small china cup.

  He raised an eyebrow, obviously enjoying their surprise. ‘Tea?’

  The man stepped back into the living room to allow them space to enter. They both shuffled inside, cautious of what this stranger might do and how he might react to their presence. Honoré took a seat in an old armchair by the fireplace, and Emily perched on a stool in the corner, her back to the wall, as if she were scared someone else may try to catch her out from behind. She looked expectantly at Honoré, as if she was waiting for him to say something.

  The man disappeared into another room for a moment and returned with two cups. A teapot was sitting on a small table in the centre of the room. He set the cups down on it and regarded the two friends keenly.

  ‘I have the pleasure, do I not, of addressing Miss Emily Blandish...’ he offered a bow in her direction, ‘... and Mr Honoré Lechasseur.’

  He held out his hand to Honoré, who pointedly ignored it.

  ‘You have us at a disadvantage, sir.’

  The man smiled. ‘Oh, excuse my manners. I am the man you’ve been looking for. I am Barnaby Tewkes.’

  Honoré tried to get a measure of the man. It was clear, now that he looked closely, that this was the same person they had seen in both 1950 and 1892 – his severed time-snake still whipped around him like a wild, thrashing thing. But he was more together here, more sane than they had seen him before. He was clean-shaven, for a start, and dressed in clothes appropriate to the era. But it was more than that. He seemed to have a flash of intelligence about him, a depth that had been lacking in his previous incarnations. Yet there was still an air of danger about him, a frisson that put Honoré on edge. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  Barnaby poured them each a cup of tea, then passed the cups out, playing the role of the genial host. He settled himself in a chair opposite Lechasseur. In the hallway, Mrs Wickham continued to clean the telephone stand with her duster,
working away at the cracks to ensure everything would be clean for her perpetually non-existent guests.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ Honoré indicated the old lady with a nod of his head, as he took a sip of his tea.

  ‘All in good time, all in good time. I believe we should start at the beginning, as we have much to discuss. First, let’s drink our tea.’ Barnaby took a sip from his cup, revelling in the theatre of his own performance. He glanced at Emily. ‘Miss Blandish, I believe we’ve met before?’

  Emily nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘We have?’ She glanced at Lechasseur, but he was staring intently at Barnaby, waiting to hear more. ‘Where? When?’

  ‘You don’t remember? Interesting. I too have been having some difficulty with my memory of late. Comes from being dead, and all that.’ He shrugged, as if his comments were of little importance.

  ‘Dead?’ Lechasseur sat forward.

  ‘Ah, I believe we’re getting ahead of ourselves again, Mr Lechasseur.’ He drawled Honoré’s name elaborately. ‘As for Miss Blandish...’ He turned his head. ‘I apologise, I can help you no further.’ He brandished his teacup as if it signified his intentions towards her. ‘I recall only that we have met, at some point in a future time period, but my memory of late has been shot to pieces – unravelled, you might say – and I can provide no further details. In truth, I was hoping you might be able to fill in some of the blanks.’

  ‘I’m suffering from amnesia.’ Emily spat the word angrily. ‘I have memories reaching back only a few months, and no real notion of where I came from or how I got to where I am.’

  ‘How truly dreadful. You have my sympathies, Miss Blandish, as well as my empathy.’ Barnaby placed his cup down gently on the mantelpiece. ‘Mustn’t let Mrs Wickham see that, tsk, tsk.’ He shook his head at himself and smiled.

  Emily glanced at Honoré, who raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘To answer your question, my dear Honoré, the people of this village are all enthralled by an alien entity from outside linear time. This entity has found a way to interfere with the minds of the townsfolk and is bending their will towards some unknown end. Effectively, they are walking around in a trance, and they are all entirely devoted to this entity as if it were some divine being from another realm; an angel or some such.’

  Honoré coughed loudly as his tea went down the wrong way. He spluttered for a response, but wasn’t quick enough before the other man continued.

  ‘I believe you have encountered this entity already, locked in an underground cell in the bowels of the old house that serves as the meeting place of the Cabal of the Horned Beast.’

  Honoré nodded slowly. ‘That blinding light...’

  Barnaby reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small card, which he flicked onto the table with a flourish. Honoré picked it up. It was a copy of the same Tarot card that they had found at the various murder scenes during their time in Victorian London. He looked back at Barnaby, who was smiling at him, confident he had their attention.

  ‘You see, I myself was a traveller, not unlike the two of you. With a companion, I was able to traverse the time streams, moving from period to period, sometimes involving myself in various goings-on and sometimes hiding away to seek respite from my daily existence. Now, however, I find myself trapped in numerous disparate time zones, with no ability to remove myself, and the prospect of a gradually encroaching termination at the ravages of insanity and memory loss. I believe I have encountered you in 1950, and in 1892, and now, here in 1921. I’m not sure of the order of these encounters, though.’ His voice dropped to a mutter. ‘Though this can’t be the first, as I already know your names...’

  Honoré looked a little incredulous.

  ‘Why do you think this has happened to you?’ Emily leaned forward towards Barnaby, attempting to draw him out.

  ‘I believe I was murdered at some point in the future, and all that’s left of me now is a shadow, a flash-image of my former self, trapped in the time zones I visited before I died. How long these states will last, I don’t know, but I do feel my memories fading away, like tiny bubbles bursting, and I believe it will not be too long before I entirely lose my mind.’

  Emily nodded, obviously concerned.

  Honoré couldn’t help conjuring up the image of the gibbering man sitting in his own coffin, after having had himself buried alive for three weeks, only to be disinterred again later, according to a premonition. He considered the insanity to be nearer than Barnaby could ever begin to imagine.

  ‘How do you know all this? And how did you know our names and where to find us, or when we would show up at the graveyard in 1892?’ Honoré tried to catch Barnaby’s eye.

  ‘I’ve been travelling for a long time, and you learn to be able to sense people out, to know instinctively when someone shares that pulsating, binding connection to time. That’s a part of it, certainly; but I also feel our stories are more intertwined than that, more vital. How and why, or even when, I truly cannot say.’ Barnaby banged the heel of his hand against the side of his head, as if indicating his frustration at his failing mind.

  Honoré tried to take in what he had said.

  It was Emily’s turn to chip in. ‘Can you tell us more about the cult... the... The Cabal of the Horned Beast?’

  Barnaby cast her a suspicious look – just a momentary glance out of the corner of his eye, but enough to make Lechasseur feel uneasy again - before he continued.

  ‘Originally, the Cabal was just another, run-of-the-mill Victorian devil cult. A bunch of immature occultists with a penchant for drug abuse and fornication. They had no real philosophy or sense of spirituality behind their silly games; it was more an excuse to indulge in debauchery and depravity at the expense of others. Somewhere along the line, though, they were infiltrated by travellers from the future, who introduced their own agenda and began making use of the Cabal as a front for their own, more sinister activities in that time period.’

  ‘So, what is that agenda?’ Honoré was starting to see connections in what Barnaby was saying. Travellers from the future...

  ‘The cult is obsessed with the “purity” of the time streams. They see time travel as a kind of pollution; a muddying of the waters. This faction believe that they are protecting time by eliminating all of the time sensitive people from history. Essentially, they are working their way through the past, murdering anyone who shows even a glimmer of sensitivity to the wider timeframes around them. The Cabal are their right arm in the nineteenth century, and as such, have been provided with information and technologies well beyond their era’s own means.’

  Honoré was shaking his head. ‘Like the soldier from the First World War who had been turned into that horrible... beast.’

  ‘Indeed. And, more significantly, the time entity they are hosting in their underground lair.’ Barnaby gave a small cough and retrieved his teacup from the mantelpiece, taking another swig.

  Emily leaned forward again, intent now on drawing as much out of Tewkes as she could. ‘So you’re saying that the entity that has control of all the people in this village is the same thing we encountered underground in 1892 – all that intense light – and that it was actually helping the cultists to locate and murder all those time sensitive people?’

  Barnaby nodded. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  Once again, Honoré and Emily exchanged glances. Things were starting to make a little more sense.

  ‘What about in 1950?’ Honoré was fired up now, feeling as if they were drawing near to understanding what was actually going on. ‘Is the entity around in 1950?’

  ‘I... don’t know. Either I have yet to locate it, or else my mind in that time period has atrophied to the extent that I have no memories of what has transpired.’ He sat back, obviously tired.

  ‘So tell us more about yourself,’ said Emily. ‘Who do you think was responsible for your death?
And how far into the future are we talking – years, decades, centuries?’ Emily was prodding for information again, and Lechasseur could see that it was making Barnaby very uncomfortable.

  ‘I really have no answers for you, Miss Blandish. All that I recall is that I was working to try to discover the intentions of the entity, its motives for invading human time periods. My suspicions led me to believe that my death must have something to do with the time-cult from the future, the people responsible for bringing the entity here and murdering all those time sensitives you saw. They must have active groups in other time periods, as well as in the nineteenth century.’ He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief he produced from his jacket pocket. ‘Somewhere along the way, I seem to have lost my companion; whether she is also lost in a different time period, or even dead, I cannot say.’

  ‘Do you think that Emily could be in the same position as you? Killed in the future, and existing only as a kind of living memory in the time periods she’s visited?’ Honoré had asked the question that Emily herself had been too scared to voice.

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  Emily looked at Honoré with wide, worried eyes.

  For some time, the three of them sat around in the old cottage talking, discussing the future and the past, Emily and Lechasseur slowly building up a more complete picture of what they had become involved in. Barnaby, Honoré grew increasingly convinced, was already on the verge of insanity, and appeared to have lost a great deal of his memory. His, though, had been a gradual decline, a slow dying of the mind, whereas Emily’s memory loss had seemingly occurred in one fell swoop, like a blackboard being wiped clean, a flower renewed. The same contrast was apparent in their respective time-snakes. Barnaby’s was a severed, wretched stump of colliding time. Emily’s, on the other hand, was entirely non-existent. Honoré wondered if that might have had something to do with the man who had introduced him to his new life all those many months ago.[3] Had he also played a part in Emily’s situation?