by Frazer Lee
Daniel opened up the book and saw that it was handwritten in spidery script, like a journal. The pages smelled old and musty and creaked as he turned them. The content, where it was decipherable, seemed like a lot of mumbo-jumbo to him, ravings about the occult along with crudely scrawled arcane symbols and obscure diagrams. As he turned the creaking pages, however, a passage caught his eye. It bore the heading, “Lilyth’s Mirror”.
Long considered lost, the mirror was rumoured to be cast in bone from the favoured concubines of a Turkish warlord. As part of a secret Nazi operation codenamed “Golden Dawn”, prior to the Second World War, Lilyth’s Mirror was added to a hit list of occult artifacts that were to be gathered together for Herr Fuhrer. Other items on the list included The Holy Grail and The Ark of the Covenant. Ludwig Freudstein, an S.S. General obsessed with the occult, was ordered to track down the mirror at any cost. His mission took him to Constantinople, across several seas and eventually to a ruined temple in Sicily where it is said that he found the mirror buried beneath an altar stone. General Freudstein became a man possessed by the mirror’s dark secrets, and he devoted his days and nights to studying the artifact. It is said he added to the carved frame with the bones of his own favourite “concubines”—hand picked from the unfortunate ranks of the Nazi “Joy Divisions”. It is believed that he intended to use the mirror to summon the female deity Lilyth, hoping to bind her dark power to the Nazi war effort. While still at the ruined temple, a rogue Allied bomb buried Herr General and his men alive—but the mirror is rumoured to have survived…
Daniel stopped reading, shuddering at the description of the concubines’ bones. He remembered reading about the Joy Division elsewhere, and knew that it referred to the concentration camp women who were prostituted to the camp commandants.
“Can I get you anything, sir? A nightcap perhaps?”
A waitress had appeared by Daniel’s side without him noticing. He tried to look unfazed, but in truth she had made him jump out of his skin. The waitress made a show of clearing away his plate and cutlery while she awaited his decision. She had catlike emerald-green eyes and wore more pins in her coiled red hair than would adorn an African fetish doll.
“Just some tea please. Green—leaf if you have it.”
“Very good, sir. Would you like to take it in here, or in your sleeper?”
Daniel yawned. The prospect of a mattress and some crisp, white sheets was most appealing to him.
“In my room, please.”
“I’ll have it sent over for you.”
Gates glanced idly at her feline curves as she walked away in the direction of the galley. He closed the grimoire and tucked it back inside its manila envelope before secreting it inside his jacket pocket.
In his sleeper compartment, he switched off the bright overhead light and clicked on the reading lamp. He puffed up his pillows, kicked off his shoes and lay back on the cot bed. It was surprisingly comfortable. Listening to the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train’s wheels on the track, he closed his eyes.
He was so fast asleep by the time his tea arrived that he failed to hear the knock at his door.
The grinding of gears and the sudden lurch of rolling stock startled Daniel awake. His mouth was dry and his eyelids heavy with sleep. He peered over the edge of the cot bed and saw a pot of tea on the nightstand. He reached out and touched the pot. It was stone cold.
The bright, intrusive lights of a railway station cut through the lace curtains of the carriage. The camp, nasal tones of the head conductor told him to take his personal belongings with him, to enjoy his stay in Glasgow and asked him to enjoy travelling with them again soon. He rubbed his eyes and ruffled his hair, waking himself further, then peered out through the sleeper’s curtains. The hubbub of a busy terminus whizzed by on the other side of the glass. How he’d managed to sleep almost the entire journey away he didn’t know, but there he was.
The same smiling brunette who had welcomed him aboard handed him his coat as he disembarked. He uttered his thanks through his yawns and, shivering suddenly, climbed into his coat and onto the platform. Daniel cleared the ticket barrier and walked on towards the side exit.
As promised, a driver was waiting for him, leaning against a gunmetal-grey Lexus parked a little way along the street.
“I’m to take you to the hotel,” the solemn man informed him. “Then on in the morning.”
The driver was not one for small talk, and his passenger still half-asleep, so they sat in a mutually defined silence as the sleek vehicle crept through the sodium-lit streets heading for higher ground. They parked a little way from the hotel entrance and the subdued driver led Daniel to the entrance of the rather impressive gothic grey building, all weathered stonework and leaded windows. A blast of welcoming warmth surged from within as Daniel stepped inside.
It wasn’t until he’d checked in and gone up to his opulent rooms that he realised the grimoire was gone from his pocket.
Gates reclined on the huge four-poster bed, leafing through a guest book that boasted the names of film stars and dignitaries who had slumbered and drooled on the very same pillows that now propped him up. A relaxing bubble bath had soothed away the last of the aches from his awkward sleeping position on the train, though his chest still hurt like hell. He stretched and yawned, his thoughts turning once again to the little book in its manila envelope.
He got up and checked his pockets again, the futile act of one who knows all too well the limits of his options. The little envelope was gone, and the grimoire with it.
Could he have dropped it? No, he would have heard it fall, even in his sleepy state after the journey. Had the thing loosened itself from his pocket in the backseat of the car? He could rule that one out also; he or the driver would have seen it on the black leather upholstery when he climbed out onto the cobbles earlier.
That left only the train. He’d been asleep for the best part of five hours, the kind of deep sleep that makes you feel groggier than if you’d stayed awake. Someone must have taken the tome from his pocket while he slept, they’d have plenty of time. But who? And why? He remembered the vivid green eyes of the catlike waitress, imagined her drugging his food like some femme fatale from a noir movie. He pictured her tucking the grimoire into her stocking before removing her disguise in a tiny bathroom then disappearing into the night.
No, he must’ve dropped the thing after all.
Daniel had barely closed his eyes when he heard an urgent tattoo of raps at the door. The sound was so unexpected he simply chose to ignore it, until it rang out again, louder and more urgent this time. Pulling on the dressing gown that had come with the room and was as heavy as a curtain, he crossed to the door and opened it a few inches, peering outside.
The surly face of his driver looked back at him.
“I’m to take you up now, sir.”
“What time is it?”
“Four.”
“Four?”
“Yes, I’m to take you now, sir. Up to the island.”
Daniel sighed, rubbed his temples. “Yes, yes, you’ve made yourself quite clear.”
“I’ll wait for you, sir. In the car outside. Don’t be long. We have to go.”
Shutting the door on the irritating man’s face, Daniel walked over to the window and flung open the curtains. The only light from the great sash windows was the diffused orange glow of streetlamps.
“Still the middle of the bloody night,” he muttered to himself, and went to the bathroom in search of some cold water to splash on his face.
At least The Royal We had made good on their promise to provide a change of clothes for Daniel. The shirt and slacks that had been left in the wardrobe for him were a little on the large side, but were very well tailored. He might just have to keep hold of them—another perk of the job.
The Lexus took them out of the city and into wild countryside, the terrain becoming rougher and dwelling places fewer the farther they drove. The only conversation during the journey came when Danie
l asked the driver if he’d found a book in the car after dropping him off earlier. A flat no was the only reply.
As the sun began to rise over the distant headland, Daniel chanced another question, asking the driver exactly how far away the island was—Rothschild hadn’t specified “for reasons of confidentiality concerning its location”. The answer came when the driver braked sharply and parked the car in a lay-by beneath a steep bank of pines.
“Here,” the driver flat-lined.
Daniel looked out at the landscape, wisps of morning mist glowing in the first rays of daylight between the tree branches.
Not a house in sight.
“But there’s nothing here.”
The driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, a look that could be interpreted as mild scorn.
“Path through the trees. Have to follow that down to the jetty. Boat will be waiting.”
Daniel sighed, and waited for the driver to come around and open the door for him. But he stayed where he was, hands on the wheel, furtive eyes on the rear-view mirror.
“Fine, fine.”
Daniel got out of the car and breathed in the fresh air. It was like a restorative, filling him with renewed vigour. He’d only just managed to shut the door of the Lexus before his driver sped off, kicking up gravel.
“Hey!” Daniel shouted, watching the tail lights of the car disappear around a bend in the road.
He was on his own.
Finding the path the driver had indicated, Gates set off on what he hoped would be a short walk.
Chapter Four
The Emerald Pool
The man waiting for Daniel at the jetty was so wiry he looked like he might be blown over by the wind. He stood leaning on an oar and smoking a filter-less cigarette. Gates approached the man and asked if he was to take him to the island.
The ferryman fixed Daniel with his sharp blue eyes, behind which Gates could discern a fierce intelligence. Exhaling a grey plume of smoke, the man bade Daniel onto the boat. It was a simple rowing boat that looked like it had seen several years’ service. Daniel clambered aboard and crouched, grabbing the sides as the vessel rocked sideways with his entrance. Without a word, the stick-thin ferryman pushed off, placed his oars into their mounts and began to row.
As they drifted across the still waters of the loch, Daniel began to relax and enjoy the ride. He dipped his fingers in the water, enjoying the sensation of its coolness on his fingertips. After a short while, his fingers began to go numb with cold and he retrieved his hand, tucking it inside his jacket for warmth. A chill mist hugged the surface of the water like a shroud over a corpse, and through its vapour Daniel spied their destination. A steep-banked island jutted out of the water, so overgrown with foliage that it cast an emerald glow on the water ahead.
They neared the island and Daniel looked up at the bank of verdant green. The trees were so densely packed the spaces between them became black shadows, making the island seem impassable. But as the ferryman rowed on, Daniel saw a tiny inlet amidst the rocks and trees. Slowing the boat in order to steer it accurately, the skinny man brought the boat into the inlet and onto a low shale bank. Setting his oars down in his lap, the man pointed at an opening in the trees only twenty feet or so ahead.
Daniel disembarked and strolled toward the edge of the vertical forest. There was the footpath—a narrow track worn between the trees. Turning back to wave at the disinterested boatman, he began his ascent. The path wound its way through the trees erratically, based on the footfalls of whoever had first navigated the climb. The mist grew thicker the higher he climbed, and the gradient steeper. When he fancied himself halfway up the slope, Daniel turned and looked back to ascertain how far he had really travelled. But all he could see was thick foliage and clouds of ground mist. Daniel mopped his brow with his cuff. He was absolutely parched. He could kill for a drink. Swallowing dryly, he marched on up the pine needle-strewn slope.
Another twenty minutes of painful climbing and Daniel, now breathless, reached the top. He stopped and took deep gasps of morning air, looking back from his vantage point. Now he could see the distance he’d travelled. The loch below was smooth and black like an obsidian mirror. The valley and hills beyond looked majestic in the autumnal light. He saw the boat crossing the loch and leaving the island. Had his ride abandoned him to his fate? Daniel was on his own now in this wild place. He turned to face the path once more and made his way over one last steep ridge, through the tree line and onto flat earth.
He found himself in the backyard of a small wooden house. The yard was more like a forest clearing, the trunks of felled trees dotted here and there, crowded with ivy and spleenwort. The air smelled moist and thin and was strangely still—no birds sang out up here. He approached the house and tried to make sense of its angles. It was an old place, patched with newer timbers in places. They made it look like the hull of some old fishing boat, repaired over and over in an attempt to keep the water at bay.
He moved around to the front of the house and saw the condition there was no better. A couple of windows were broken or missing, again patched up with timber no doubt sourced from the felled trees round back. The only sturdy part of the building was the door. He walked up to it and confirmed his suspicion—it was made from solid oak.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
His voice sounded peculiar up here, naked somehow. No answer, so he balled his hand into a fist and knocked loudly on the door.
It swung open a crack.
“Hello?”
Still no answer.
Daniel looked over his shoulder, suddenly chilled by the feeling that glaring eyes were watching him from the dark woods. He stepped over the threshold and into the house.
The floorboards creaked their welcome, or warning, as Daniel made his way across a bare room towards another door. The air in here was musty, like the forest had been distilled and preserved under a layer of dust that he was now disturbing with his footfalls. He spoke up again, asking if anyone was home, but heard only the echo of his own voice. Opening the door, he stepped into a larger room.
His imagination had conjured a quaint kitchen, perhaps with a large oak table and chairs, a pot of something comforting atop a great iron stove, but the room was nothing short of derelict. Fallen planks and beams littered the floor, sharing the square footage with a rotting mulch of dead leaves and debris. The air was damp, lead heavy and smelled like autumn marshland. A circular structure, fashioned from weathered old rocks, lurked at the centre of the room and seemed to be where the heady smell was coming from.
Daniel followed his nose and as he approached the rocks, realised they formed the lip of a well. His hands touched damp moss and lichen and he leaned over the edge to peer inside. He saw his own reflection, dim on the surface of the water. In the dark depths, he fancied he saw a movement.
“Can I help you?”
The sudden voice made Daniel start. He turned to see an elderly, bearded man standing just a few feet away from him. How he had snuck up on him like that without being heard, Daniel could not fathom. He composed himself, steeped forward and held out his hand in greeting.
“Daniel Gates. I’m here on behalf of my client, Master/Roth Incorporated.”
The man pursed his thin lips and shook Daniel’s hand. His fingers were as cold as icicles and as he withdrew his limp handshake, Gates felt the man’s long fingernails scrape across his palm. The sensation made Daniel shudder.
The man licked those thin lips, his sharp tongue poking out from his thicket of beard like a snake’s. He had ruddy cheeks and a slightly bulbous nose. If this was the distiller, then he looked as though he liked to sample his own wares.
“You have something for me?”
He meant the book, of course. Daniel sighed and held up his empty hands.
“I’m afraid there was an incident… The book is no longer in my possession.”
“No book, no deal.”
The old man’s thick islander accent made a tangle of his word
s that was almost indecipherable. But his expression made their meaning quite clear.
“Is there perhaps room for negotiation here?” Daniel asked, “I have travelled a long way and my client is the type who always gets what he wants, whatever the price—if you catch my drift.”
“Drift?” The man said the word like it was a foreign expression, completely new to him. “No book, no deal. Please leave the way you entered—empty-handed.”
Daniel took his mobile phone from his pocket and frowned at its dead screen.
“Do you perhaps have a telephone? I could double-check with my client, see if something can be done. My mobile doesn’t seem to work so well out here and the boat that brought me here…”
Daniel’s voice trailed off as he heard a sloshing sound coming from the well.
“Hey, is there…”
The old man stood firm.
“It’s nothing. No phone here. No deal. Nothing. Out please.”
The bearded man ushered Daniel to the doorstep with a force that belied his age.
Chapter Five
A Well of Despair
Daniel had to climb a tree to get his mobile phone to work. Even a full ten feet off the ground he only had one bar on the little signal indicator. It would have to do. He dialled the direct line number Rothschild had supplied him with and waited as the call connected.
Gates could hear Rothschild breathing as soon as he answered the phone. The sound was so vivid he could almost see the man’s piggy face.
“There’s been a slight hitch,” Daniel said, going on to detail the distiller’s rejection of any offer beyond the grimoire.
“You are not to return empty-handed,” Rothschild said. “You will find another way…”
The line turned to static for a moment and Daniel lost Rothschild amidst the crackle.