by Alan K Baker
‘Quite so: but then, it is only a rumour, and Castaigne has never written or spoken of the matter. What is undeniable is that he returned to Great Britain after ten years away, bringing with him an astonishing depth of knowledge regarding the mystical practices of the Orient, knowledge which he set down in this book, the Fantasmata. It was privately printed and circulated only amongst those groups whom Castaigne considered worthy of receiving it.’
‘How did you obtain a copy?’ Sophia asked.
‘It was given to me by a friend in my Masonic Lodge a good while ago. I must admit that I gave it only a cursory inspection, for at the time I was engaged upon a particularly complex case which had nothing to do with the occult, and I never went back to it in depth.’
‘May I examine it?’
‘Of course.’ Blackwood handed the book to Sophia. It was a handsome volume, produced with great finesse and attention to detail. It was bound in Moroccan leather of a deep, rich purple, which was tooled with fantastically intricate intaglios outlined in gold. The paper was of the highest quality: creamy and smooth, and delightful to the touch.
‘And what, precisely, is the nature of the knowledge Dr Castaigne set down here?’
‘Ah! That is what I have been examining since the early hours of this morning. I was in bed, on the very edge of sleep, when my mind performed that curious trick which minds are wont to do in moments of great relaxation: it revealed itself to have been working on the problem of that half-remembered word without my conscious knowledge, and I suddenly remembered where I had read it.’ He indicated the book.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs Butters entered carrying a tray with a large silver coffee pot, two cups and saucers, a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. Before Blackwood could say anything, Sophia smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Butters. Would you please set it down here?’ She indicated the occasional table beside the armchair.
‘Of course, your Ladyship,’ the housekeeper replied. She put the tray down, gave her employer a disapproving glance and quickly left, closing the door behind her.
Sophia poured coffee for them both. ‘You were saying, Thomas…’
‘It seems that Castaigne learned a great many things during his lengthy sojourn in the Orient.’
‘Such as?’ Sophia handed him a cup, which he accepted with a nod of thanks.
‘Such as the means by which the human mind can travel unaided into the depths of the Luminiferous Æther.’
Sophia gave him a shocked look. ‘Are you serious, Thomas?’
‘Quite serious, I assure you.’
Sophia shook her head. ‘That’s incredible.’
‘May I?’ Blackwood took the book from Sophia and opened it to a place he had bookmarked. ‘Listen to this.’ He read aloud.
The Æther – how should we describe it? Word and phrase, thought and experience crumble to useless dust in the face of what lies outside the ordered realms of the times and spaces we know. We look up at the black seas of Space, yearning to depart like hopeful adepts in the wake of some cosmic Poseidon. We are unable to release ourselves from the shackles of our quotidian existence, but were we able to do so, we would be gone in an instant, into the depths of the great night which surrounds us.
‘A little florid for my taste,’ Sophia observed.
Blackwood grinned at her as he turned to the next page. ‘And here.’
Take a handful of sand, the tiny grains glittering and golden. Cast it where you please, like a child at play by an innocent sea; count the grains, hold that vast number in your mind, and know that it is but a fraction of the worlds that exist throughout the Æther. How far may the human mind reach, once freed from the base flesh of the body? I have asked myself many times, as if the very act of repetition might forge an answer from the question. How far could one voyage? How far?
Blackwood flipped through to another page and continued reading.
Of all the worlds I have seen, the strangest is Carcosa in the Hyades: strange, paradoxically, because it is so similar to our own in so many ways. But in other ways, it is horribly, frightfully different! I have watched the cloud waves breaking upon the shores of the Lake of Hali; my mind has hovered above those strange waters and has wondered what lies beneath. I have wandered through the melancholy streets of Carcosa’s last cities, Alar, Hastur and Yhtill…
‘So, Carcosa is a planet!’ Sophia exclaimed.
‘Indeed,’ Blackwood smiled grimly. ‘But listen.’
I have heard the last inhabitants sing the Song of Cassilda: a strange, sad song which struck my heart with fear, so clearly does it express the terror of existence – for the universe is emotion, and that emotion is fear. I have heard the last people of Carcosa sing:
Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink beneath the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa.
Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.
Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Dim Carcosa.
Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
Lost Carcosa.
As she listened to Blackwood recite these verses in his deep, resonant voice, Sophia felt the strange sadness of them seeping into her mind and felt her heart beat faster as a subtle, nameless fear gradually enveloped it. ‘Who… who is the King of which the song tells?’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
‘I have scoured the Fantasmata for further mentions of him, for there is something in Cassilda’s Song which strongly hints at his importance.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Oh yes, I came upon several references. He goes by many names: the Feaster from the Stars, the King in Yellow, the Unspeakable One, and some others. He appears to be a figure of ultimate evil in the eyes of the people of Carcosa, who seem to be on the very edge of extinction. And there is a strange symbol which seems to be associated with him, something known as the “Yellow Sign”.’ Blackwood turned to another page, and held out the book for Sophia to see.
The symbol was indeed strange, and as she gazed at it, Sophie felt her unease grow.
‘And what of Carcosa itself? Do you think it really exists? Do you think that Dr Castaigne’s mind really voyaged there?’
Blackwood shrugged. ‘Well… the Hyades certainly exist. They were first catalogued by the Italian astronomer Giovanni Battista Hodierna in 1654. It’s a large cluster of stars, very distant from the Earth – trillions of miles – in the constellation of Taurus. Astronomers believe it to contain several hundred suns, all moving through the Æther in the same direction. Whether any of them possess habitable worlds… well, that’s another question.’
‘But you believe it to be so, don’t you?’ said Sophia.
Blackwood was silent for a few moments before replying, ‘Alfie Morgan believes it to be so. Whatever he encountered on that train while in the Kennington Loop left him with a shattered mind and the desire to repeat a word which, according to Dr Castaigne, is the name of a planet many trillions of miles from Earth.’
Sophia shook her head. ‘This is utterly bizarre. It makes no sense whatsoever.’
‘I agree,’ Blackwood sighed. ‘It’s completely outrageous; nevertheless, we must get to the bottom of it. We must find out what the connection is between the London Underground and a planet drifting through the fathomless depths of space!’
CHAPTER SIX:
What Was Left on the Train
The psychometrist from the Society for Psychical Research was already waiting on the street outside the train depot at Golders Green when Blackwood and Sophia arrived.
‘Thomas, this is Mr Walter Goodman-Brown of the SPR,’ said Sophia. ‘Walt
er, this is Mr Thomas Blackwood, Special Investigator for Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs. I must apologise for our lateness…’
‘The apology should be mine, sir,’ Blackwood interrupted with a smile as he and Goodman-Brown shook hands. ‘I was following a new lead in this case and rather lost track of the time.’
‘A new lead already?’ said Goodman-Brown. ‘I can see that your reputation is well-deserved, Mr Blackwood.’
The Special Investigator gave a brief nod of thanks and took in the psychometrist. The man was of slightly-below-average height and was dressed conservatively in a suit of dark tweed. He had a pleasantly studious look about him that was emphasised by the apparently ill-fitting spectacles he wore, which he kept readjusting on the bridge of his nose. In fact, he looked more like a librarian than a talented psychic with the ability to divine an object’s origin and history merely by touching it.
‘Shall we?’ said Blackwood, indicating the entrance to the depot.
‘This is where the train is being kept?’ said Goodman-Brown as he and Blackwood followed Sophia inside.
‘It is. The Bureau gave instructions to the Central and South London Railway to bring it here and leave it completely untouched until we’ve had a chance to examine it. No one has been aboard since it arrived from Kennington.’
Goodman-Brown nodded his approval.
As soon as they entered the foyer, a harassed-looking man in an ill-fitting suit that had clearly seen better days approached them. Blackwood showed him his credentials and introduced his companions.
‘Good day to you all,’ said the man. ‘I’m Derek Sullivan, manager of the Golders Green Depot.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Blackwood.
‘You’ve come to examine the train?’
‘If you’d be so kind.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, I don’t mind telling you, Mr Blackwood. I’m at my wits’ end with these fellows…’
‘Which fellows?’ asked Blackwood, as Sullivan led them across the foyer and through a door leading to the main depot.
‘The maintenance gangs. Your orders to leave the train untouched were rather superfluous, I’m afraid: no one wants to touch it, anyway. In fact, they’re refusing to go anywhere near the blessed thing! You can’t have a train running unchecked and unmaintained, so at present it’s all but useless.’
‘I see,’ said Blackwood. ‘Have they really been that unnerved by the Kennington Loop incident?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Word of the incident has spread like wildfire right across the network. Potentially, we’re looking at a very serious problem. Lots of workers have been missing their shifts, claiming to be sick – drivers and maintenance men. But just between us, I believe I know the real reason…’
‘They just don’t want to go down into the tunnels.’
‘Exactly. Here we are…’ Sullivan opened a door and led them out onto a short metal catwalk overlooking the maintenance shop.
It was a huge space, spread out beneath a shallow-arched ceiling of glass and wrought iron girders, filled with light and noise. At least a dozen carriages were undergoing maintenance at that moment, and men were hurrying to and fro between them, carrying tools and components and shouting information and instructions to one another over the general din of hammering and welding.
Blackwood was about to ask where Alfie Morgan’s train was, but he quickly realised that the question was unnecessary. Away in the distance, on the far side of the maintenance shop, a single carriage stood by itself. No one was paying it any attention; no one even looked in its direction. Blackwood pointed to it and glanced at Sullivan, who nodded grimly.
‘All right, Mr Sullivan,’ the Special Investigator said. ‘I think we can take it from here. We’ll be sure to let you know when we’ve finished.’
‘I shall be in my office,’ said Sullivan, and with a nod to Sophia and Goodman-Brown, he took his leave of them.
They walked along the catwalk to the stairs leading down to the shop floor. As they descended, Blackwood said, ‘How long have you been practising the art of psychometry, Mr Goodman-Brown?’
‘I prefer the term “contact analysis”, Mr Blackwood.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘Not at all. I first realised I had the gift when I was a small boy. My father was a carpenter, and he would make me toys – ships, railway locomotives, that type of thing. And while I was playing with them, I would become aware of certain mental impressions: internal visions, if you will, of my father actually constructing the toys – fashioning the components, assembling them and so on.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘Oh, that’s not all. Not only was I aware of the toys’ immediate history, but also of the trees from which the wood was hewn. With my mind’s eye, I saw where they had grown; I could pinpoint the time at which the saplings first sprouted and the time at which the trees were cut down. Their entire history was spread out before me while I was in contact with my toys, somewhat in the manner of a landscape glimpsed in dream.’
‘You have a singular ability, sir,’ said Blackwood as they reached the bottom of the stairway and began to walk across the rough concrete floor towards Alfie Morgan’s train. As they passed, the workers momentarily stopped what they were doing and looked at the visitors. Some spoke to each other in low tones, while others grinned at Sophia and extended invitations for her to join them in the local pub later on. Sophia ignored them, although she found their attentions rather amusing in the manner of an off-colour joke, while Blackwood resisted the urge to walk over and thrash the lot of them.
The maintenance men fell silent, however, when they saw where the three newcomers were headed.
When they reached the carriage, Goodman-Brown took off one of his gloves and touched the front bogie. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Brand new… wooden-bodied composite motor coach… built by the Brush Electrical Engineering Company in Loughborough.’
Blackwood smiled. Goodman-Brown was clearly anxious to display his ‘contact analysis’ skills without delay – although his preliminary observations were hardly world-shaking. Nevertheless, he wished to encourage the psychometrist as much as possible, and so he nodded approvingly and said, ‘Excellent. I can see we’ve got the right man for the job.’
Goodman-Brown glanced at Blackwood and gave him a broad smile. ‘You misunderstand, sir. I wasn’t performing a contact analysis; I’m something of a railway enthusiast and was merely expressing my admiration for this particular model.’
Sophia giggled, and Blackwood grinned ruefully. ‘I see. I beg your pardon.’
‘What a fine beast,’ sighed Goodman-Brown as he walked back towards the carriage’s midsection, which contained a pair of sliding doors. ‘Wonderful!’
‘Shall we climb aboard?’ asked Sophia.
‘Yes, do let’s!’ replied Goodman-Brown, looking around until his gaze alighted upon a set of steps, which he pulled over and placed before the doors; without a platform, they were more than four feet above the ground. He then mounted the steps and pulled the doors open manually. Blackwood and Sophia followed him into the carriage.
The interior was silent and dimly lit: the gas jets had been switched off, so that the only light came in fitfully through the windows from the maintenance shop. Although most of the workmen had recommenced their activity, the sounds were oddly muted, as if coming from a very great distance. Sophia looked up and down the carriage, at the empty bench seats lining each side, and shuddered. ‘Something was here,’ she said quietly. ‘One does not have to be a psychometrist to feel it.’
Blackwood had to agree. There was a very strange atmosphere in the carriage, and although he was tempted to put it down to imagination, he couldn’t quite bring himself to dismiss it so easily. ‘Mr Goodman-Brown,’ he said. ‘First impressions?’
‘Lady Sophia is quite right: there is a residue here… something… I’m not sure what…’ He took off his other glove and sat down on the right-hand seat, placing his hands palm down upon the fabric. He t
ook a deep breath and closed his eyes. As he sat there, perfectly still, his breathing grew deep and steady, in the manner of one asleep.
‘I can see the train,’ he continued presently. ‘It’s moving into the tunnel…’
‘The Kennington Loop?’ asked Blackwood.
‘Yes.’ Without opening his eyes, Goodman-Brown turned his head to the right, in the direction of the driver’s cab. ‘Mr Morgan is there… he is not pleased… he doesn’t like the Loop – none of the drivers do. I can see him now. The train is following the tracks into the tight curve of the Loop… the wheels are squealing on the metals… Morgan is wincing at the sound. I can see the light…’
‘The light?’ said Blackwood.
‘The signal light; it has changed to red. Morgan is bringing the train to a halt. The air is hot, stifling… uncomfortable. No… Alfie doesn’t like it down here. He’s counting the seconds until the light turns to green.’
Suddenly, Goodman-Brown’s head snapped around to the left. ‘What was that?’
Blackwood leaned towards the psychometrist. ‘You can hear something?’
A frown crept across Goodman-Brown’s forehead. ‘Yes… a noise. It sounds like… yes, the connecting doors between the carriages… far back, at the rear of the train. They have opened… and closed. But that can’t be: Alfie is alone on the train.’ Goodman-Brown’s voice had become a whisper. ‘There is no one else. There it is again! Alfie is wondering whether the train’s guard came back aboard, but he doesn’t think that’s very likely.’