The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  Tsun Pen pulled back the sheets from a pair of three-foot canvases, revealing surreal, brooding scenes of tumultuous storms in the sky over the city. There was something vaguely familiar about the style of the paintings, though I could not remember where I had seen it before.

  ‘Come, Captain, take a closer look,’ the Artist cooed, and I got to my feet slowly and stepped towards the paintings.

  There was more to the work than first met the eye, and I was astonished by the depth of detail that seemed to reveal itself in the very layers of the paint the more one looked. The first painting was mostly of a storm, with the East End silhouetted against a backdrop of red and purple clouds. A streak of lightning illuminated a distressing scene in the bottom left corner: an enormous spider, as big as a house, spun its webs outwards across the city. Its eight green eyes were fixed on a man, standing in its shadow and seemingly holding it at bay with fire; a flaming torch perhaps? At the man’s feet were three other figures, crudely rendered but certainly representing dead men. In the shadows towards the lower right-hand corner was a group of black-clad people, poised as if hiding. Behind them, standing tall, was a similar figure, but with a monstrous, reptilian head like a crocodile or maybe… a dragon. Yes, a dragon. That realisation made my heart beat harder.

  The Artist motioned to the second painting. The scene was similar, but the spider was gone. Now the people in black stood in the centre of the piece, on a riverbank. I realised that it was the Thames, for a surreal skewed perspective forced the eye to the vague outline of London Bridge through a haze of rain and fog. The far bank of the river was obscured by night, and the five famous arches of the bridge were indistinct, as though there were more of them, spanning some infinite gulf into a realm of shadow. I noticed then that the figures in the painting were all looking down at the river, and the dragon-man was pointing into the river itself. It was the man from the previous painting, the one who had been fighting the spider—he was pale and bleeding, and drowned in the Thames. I am not sure that any form of comprehension dawned on me then, but an inexplicable cold creep began to trickle up my spine.

  ‘I am sorry, truly, for the part I am to play, Captain. But you see, I am as much a pawn in the great game as anyone. What I paint in these scenes always comes to pass. Always. Even if I myself am depicted, I understand that it is no use to defy destiny. Instead, I use the art as my guide. I do what I must.’

  I looked at his blindfolded face, confused. And then I realised that the jangling of chains and scraping from over in the far corner had been growing progressively louder for some time—the Artist’s pets were causing some commotion. I could not think straight. I put a hand to my temple.

  ‘Are you saying, sir, that these paintings somehow answer my questions? Am I supposed to understand them? Is it some kind of code?’

  ‘Of sorts… it is the future, as certain as the sun will rise tomorrow. These paintings are my life; my insurance. I have sold such works to the greatest men of government, of the arts and the clergy. Even the military have need of my talents; why, I once sold a painting to a certain Brigadier Sir Marcus Hardwick… a relative perhaps?’

  That stung me, and the blind man knew he had struck a chord. More than that, I remembered now where I had seen the Artist’s distinctive hand before—in a small painting hanging in the office of Sir Toby Fitzwilliam. In that moment, I felt a keen sense of betrayal; was Sir Toby in the Artist’s pocket? But why go to such lengths to involve me—or, of course, to get rid of me?

  ‘This is… balderdash,’ I said at last, echoing Ambrose Hanlocke’s sentiments about the whole affair. ‘Sir, if you cannot or will not give me a straight answer, then I will have to take my leave and report your unwillingness to cooperate to my superiors.’ I spoke as firmly as I could, but the words felt laboured. There was something very wrong with me, and it went beyond mere opium-smoke.

  ‘Ah, you are indignant and strong-willed,’ he said. ‘So very much like the Brigadier. Like father, like son, they say. Suffice it to say, Captain, that I dwelt long on your coming here, and this is what I painted, and I am so very sorry for what is about to pass.’

  ‘Really, Mr. Tsun, I’m trying very hard to understand,’ I said. The room was starting to swim, the noises were getting louder, and the Artist was talking in riddles.

  ‘It is simple, Captain. The paintings show what is to pass. I paint the future.’

  I was about to shout a protestation, for he was clearly insane, when I lost control of my legs. My knees buckled and I staggered a couple of paces backwards. I backed into the hook-handed guard, who took me roughly by the arms and sat me back on the chaise.

  ‘W…What’s going on?’ I asked, weakly.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully, Captain Hardwick. Agents from another universe are among us. That is a fact. They seek to live among us and perhaps completely usurp our world, for their own is being torn apart by something quite unspeakable. I do not doubt that they will succeed, for they have knowledge and weapons that we do not, and the absolute determination that stems from desperation. You must at least suspect the truth of it by now, Captain. And with that truth comes the utter hopelessness of your cause.’

  ‘Wh… what? I demand you let me out of here this instant.’

  ‘Indeed, you have what you came for, I suppose. Why don’t you go? There is the door.’

  I did not believe that he would seriously let me leave. I believed right then that my men were dead, or soon would be. Those corpses in the painting—they were Boggis, Clegg and Ecclestone. So the corpse in the Thames…

  There is no escape from the house of the dead.

  It was all the effort I could muster to stagger to my feet. The sherry had been drugged, that much was certain. My vision blurred, and everything in the room distorted before my eyes, as though viewed through old glass. The leering faces of the guards loomed at me like nightmare visions, and I followed the pointing finger of the Artist, his laughter echoing in my ears. My hand clasped the doorknob, and I steadied myself for but a moment before twisting it and opening the door. But beyond the door was not freedom, but a small room, which I had taken earlier for a closet. The slavering pets of the Artist bundled forwards, knocking me from my feet. Through skewed vision I saw them, and Good Christ! I wish I could unsee them. They were not animals, but people—of a kind—with such severe deformities that they were barely human in appearance. But human they were. Two women—flabby, fleshy masses, their skin moist and foul-smelling, like rotting meat. In places their flesh seemed to give way, as if their organs were protruding outside their bodies. Their faces were covered in great weals and fleshy protrusions, which obscured their eyes, causing them to scrabble around in search of me as if using scent rather than sight. I realised, finally, that their chains prevented them from reaching me, and so they whimpered, frustrated, like dogs.

  I moved away from them as fast as I could, scrambling across the wooden floor, sending several small easels crashing to the ground. I heard then the laughter of the Artist and his men. I tried to clamber to my feet again, but it was no good. My legs were like jelly, and all I could do was crawl, pathetically, towards them, until I was hauled up and thrown into the chaise once again. Looking up, I was confronted by the true terror of my predicament.

  Tsun Pen stood before me, his robe unfurled to reveal a long, serpentine torso, lean and misshapen. Beneath his normal arms was another pair, scrawny and vestigial, tipped with long, bony fingers. These secondary appendages stretched outwards like chelicerae, their confinement beneath his robe having cramped them. Silhouetted by the light of flickering lanterns, he resembled nothing less than a gigantic spider, tugging at the strands of the metaphorical web in which I was now trapped.

  My mind was fractured, both by the drugs and by the horror of what I had seen. My brain was on fire, and I could feel blood trickling from my nostrils, as though the sheer stress placed upon my mind was rupturing my skull.

  ‘Captain, you will understand now why I play both sides. Y
ou will understand that I care not for this world and its fate, for I am born of both worlds. I am the perfect fusion of two counterparts in two universes. I see the future. I am the future!’ The Artist sneered and snarled—he was quite mad, though I was little better off.

  ‘I… I can’t understand. What? How?’ I murmured these things and more. Tsun Pen only laughed as he revelled in my obvious distress.

  ‘All in good time, Captain; for there is a little more time for you… just a little. I will do you the honour of showing you the truth. It is the least I can do before you die.’

  EIGHT

  I must have passed out. When I awoke I was no longer in the Artist’s studio, but in a dark room, lit only by a single candle. I was upright, suspended from a beam by my wrists, which ached as the thick ropes tied around them chafed. It took some time to take stock of my predicament, groggy as I was, and longer still for my senses to adjust. And I realised I was not alone.

  Two hunched, animalistic figures lay in one corner. They were but black shapes in the gloom, but I knew what they were, and I turned my head away instinctively so as not to look upon those noisome creatures. That is when I saw Tsun Pen, standing close, silent and unmoving as a statue. He was robed once again, and he hid his deformity masterfully; I could almost have believed that I had imagined the whole thing. He offered me water from a tin cup, which I gulped all too readily, only afterwards gaping at him stupidly as I realised that it could have been poisoned.

  ‘Do not worry, Captain,’ said the Artist, seeing my dismay. ‘The water is quite harmless. Drink.’

  I accepted another cup, and my parched throat was partially soothed. I blocked the sound of the grunting and rustling in the corner from my mind as best I could, and tried to focus on my predicament. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the gloom, and I could make out a door behind the Artist, light shining dimly through the gaps. Near to the door stood the hook-handed guard, who seemed never far from his master’s side.

  ‘What do you intend to do with me?’ I asked the Artist.

  ‘Me? Oh, nothing at all, Captain. Unfortunately for you, however, my present client has plans for you, and we do not have much time. I promised you the truth, and I meant it—your agency has provided me moneys to give you any information I have pertaining to the Othersiders. I am a man of my word, so ask of me what you will.’

  This was beyond the pale. Tsun Pen was playing the part of a devilish genie, granting a wish at a terrible price. But still, I had to cling to hope that I could yet secure my freedom, and perhaps anything I could learn would still be of use to the Apollonian.

  ‘What… are you?’

  My words seemed to sting him, and that surprised me; this monster, this Thing that had been so conniving and cruel up to now had seemed beyond mere injurious remarks.

  ‘You wish to know how I became so monstrous that even a soldier like yourself recoils at my sight? It is a long story, Captain, and as I said we have little time. I will tell you the short version of the tale, so that you will understand what you are dealing with; what we are all dealing with.

  ‘I was not born this way. I was made, by the sheer will and power of those beyond the veil. My ability, however, has always been manifest. I was blessed—or perhaps cursed—with the ability to paint the future, to visualise events that had not yet come to pass. Imagine the difficulty of being different as a boy, when one is already half-Chinese in a city of intolerance. Even in the pits of a Burmese prison cell, I do not think you could have been as alone as I was as a child.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I retorted.

  ‘Perhaps; perhaps not. In any case, I escaped my predicament as soon as I was physically able, and travelled the world, learning much of the ways of intrigue.’

  ‘You said you would keep it short,’ I croaked. I found his company loathsome and wanted him to cut to the chase. I also realised that if he could be rattled, then perhaps I could force some circumstance that would lead to my liberation. I had no plan beyond that, but it was something.

  My interruption did the trick, for the Artist stopped and the smile faded from his lips.

  ‘I did indeed, and I always keep my promises. I shall move my tale on a few years, to Burma, where I met some powerful men who would change the course of my life. I was working for the British at the time; but the men I met were not representatives of any government on our earth. No, eventually I discovered they were Othersiders, as you call them, and that they had need of my talents.

  ‘My mind railed, because my abilities allowed me to see the truth of their claims. I had foreseen their coming for so long, but had been unable to interpret my own visions, so unbelievable had they seemed, even to me. Finally, all became clear; a truth I recognised at once, a fundamental truth about the nature of the universe and my place within it. They told me of my other self, who seemed very much like me, including his uncanny abilities. These abilities were unique, I was told, for my counterpart was called by them a “Majestic”, one of the few psychics in their universe able to use his abilities while fending off the attentions of malefic energies, which themselves threatened to engulf the entire globe. With his precognitive powers, they had managed to keep hope alive for all of their kind. And yet, in order to enact their master plan to subsume this universe, they had need of me—those self-same abilities on both sides of the veil would pave the way for the forthcoming invasion, and I was able to name my price.’

  ‘And so for profit you sold out your own people? Are you mad?’

  ‘My people?’ he snarled, with sudden venom. ‘I plotted and bargained for everything I ever had; and why? Because I had to, Captain. Nobody ever gave me anything. I was lowborn, a freak of nature—hated and derided first for my creed, and then for my powers. And these Othersiders—look at what they could offer! Their infernal weapons and devices of destruction are beyond compare, and their success is inevitable. I merely greased the wheels of progress in exchange for a loftier position. I bettered myself, to spite all those who had said that I could not do it. You would do the same, for the right price.’ He stopped, and visibly composed himself.

  ‘But they have psychics already, James said they were wired to machines in order to harness their power,’ I said, buying into the fantasy more fully with each passing second.

  ‘Not like me. Yes, their psychics are unlike anything we have on this side of the veil, and indeed they are often incarcerated and experimented on like laboratory monkeys, unless they display the aptitude to become Majestics. But none of them have a direct counterpart on our side with equal power. None but Tsun Pen.’

  ‘So you helped the Othersiders. You somehow predicted events in the future that would be of use to them. You saw their successes and failures perhaps. And their… gateways, their portals? You created them?’

  ‘Not quite; not alone. There is far more to it than simple mediumship, or magic, if you like. But you’re learning quickly, Captain Hardwick.’

  ‘So why did they do this to you, their prized asset? I assume it was them?

  ‘Even now, Captain, you are very astute,’ said Tsun Pen, with a degree of bitterness in his voice. ‘It was hubris that brought me low. I succumbed to greed, like so many others in my line of business. You see, the more the Othersiders came to rely upon me, the higher my price became, and they could not refuse me. Then it occurred to me that my counterpart might be in a similar situation, and that perhaps meeting him would be beneficial to the both of us. In fact, it was not so much an idea as a vision, of the two of us embracing as brothers. How terrible a thing it is, Captain, to have a gift such as mine—a gift that is unfailing, but which requires always a careful interpretation. On that occasion, my vision was not, as I had believed, a revelation that would lead to greater riches, but a dire warning!

  ‘I began by sending coded messages to the other side. It was difficult, but even the Othersiders are not incorruptible, and eventually I managed to persuade one of their agents to carry them for me, and to bring back replies from
my counterpart.

  ‘The code that we used was a masterstroke. It was an old language that was no longer used on their side, because the course of history had not run smoothly for its land of origin. You know it, of course.’

  ‘Myanmar,’ I said. As I did, I saw that the guard was not looking directly at me, and I looked up at my bonds as surreptitiously as I could, to see if there was a way of loosening them. It appeared not, at least not yet.

  ‘Once my counterpart had the cipher,’ Tsun Pen continued, ‘it was an easy matter to exchange ideas. We raised our prices, and gave each other ammunition to use in our dealings with the agents. Some of our ideas were positively seditious, however, and we ran a great risk. Eventually I asked my employers if it would be possible to visit the other side, to meet perhaps with my counterpart, but I was refused. Little did I know that they had suspected something was amiss for some time, and my request prompted them to investigate. They are clever, these people, more so than I had realised, and they soon discovered what the two Tsuns had been plotting.

  ‘They came to me, full of reproaches, full of bravado and demands. But I am not a man to be refused, and certainly not one to be bullied. Words turned to threats. Threats turned to violence, and my men leapt to my defence. The agents attempted to escape, using some unseen signal to instruct their comrades in the city to detonate their bombs and open a portal. But of course, I knew where they were going. My visions had revealed to me all of their escape routes, and so it was a simple matter to intercept them. There was a firefight, and they came off badly. Yet they opened their portal and passed through it.

  ‘I knew that I was in a precarious position. If they escaped me and I had nothing to barter with, then they could return at any time, and I would be their enemy. And so I ordered them followed and recaptured before the portal could close. My best man, Hu, was fastest to react. He reached into the portal as the last of them passed through, and grabbed the agent—one of two women in their group—and dragged her bodily into our realm. As he did so, something astonishing happened. The woman was sundered by the journey, almost turning inside out as the very fabric of the universe rejected her presence. Poor Hu! His hand suffered the same fate. But the woman lived; it was a miracle, and one that I give thanks for every day.’ He turned to face the corner behind me. ‘Isn’t that right, my precious muses? You are so very dear to me.’ His words were answered by a guttural moan and the scratching of nails on a hard floor. I shuddered.