The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  “Indeed.” Alex’s grandfather smiled sadly, then grew serious, watching the pair carefully. “To old junk, then. Tell me: by any chance, does your painting have some connection with nine others that have been stolen over the past few months?”

  As the old man began listing the stolen paintings by name, Kingdom and Metz exchanged a panicking look. The woman started to speak, but Metz grabbed at her wrist. “You mustn’t,” he hissed.

  Alex’s grandfather considered them, then pulled from his pockets the ammunition he’d removed from their guns, placing it softly on the sofa arm beside Kingdom. “Token of good faith,” he said. “We’d like to help. And we would like your help.”

  “You mustn’t,” Metz repeated, staring at Kingdom.

  “Oh, Phil,” she said. “Calme-toi. What other choice do we have? Almost all the pictures have been gathered. I’m beginning to have the feeling these two are the only help we have coming.” She turned back to Alex and his grandfather, still cautious. “How much do you know?”

  “Ha.” The old man scratched a finger around his shirt collar. “Well, let’s pretend, just for conversation’s sake, we don’t know much at all. But we do know the paintings have been stolen—and we know who’s doing it. Harry and Alex and I have been on their trail. The night you saw Harry outside, he’d followed them here. We’re trying to stop them. We, ah, we’ve tangled with them before, in other matters. They are a strange little group but extremely dangerous.”

  He paused and sipped his drink, as though weighing how much to say. “And we also know they aren’t stealing these paintings for, shall we say . . . the usual reasons?”

  Metz turned to Kingdom with new alarm. She did a good job of pretending not to notice.

  “Not money, for instance,” Alex’s grandfather pressed. “I mean, no offense, but, pleasant as it is, that”—he gestured to the painting hanging above them in its heavy wooden frame—“can’t be worth very much. We know they’re stealing them for something . . . else.”

  “Something bad,” Alex added.

  Kingdom threaded her fingers and leaned forward, staring at the floor. Her eyes moved slightly from side to side, as though scanning through a list of possible ways to proceed. After a moment, she smiled at Metz with the air of someone who had made up her mind.

  “This decision is mine to make,” she said. “The responsibility lies on me. But if you really disagree, I’ll say no more. So: shall we?”

  After a moment, Metz spread his hands in resignation. “Why not?” he muttered bleakly. “It seems this is the end of it now, in any case.”

  He spoke with such a final heaviness they all fell quiet.

  “The end of what?” Alex finally asked, just to fill the silence.

  Kingdom paused while refilling her glass and gave him a flat flicker of a smile.

  “Of everything,” she said.

  XXVI.

  THE FISHING CLUB OF LONDON

  “What I’m about to tell you is a very old story and a very strange story,” Kingdom continued. “And I fully expect you will not believe a word of it.”

  “Might be surprised,” Alex’s grandfather said.

  “Yeah.” Alex rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “We kind of specialize in those.”

  Kingdom blew out a small laugh. “Well, in that case, gentlemen.” She raised her glass high. “As president, I welcome you to what looks like being the last meeting of the London Fishing Club Limited. Established 1893, and dissolved, well—anytime now.”

  Alex and his grandfather looked dumbly at each other, then back at her.

  “You’ve never heard of us? Well, no reason why you should.” Kingdom took a sip of cognac. “There was a time when the club was the toast of European society. But the club is not what it once was. It formally ceased to function in 1913, you see, during the buildup to the First World War. The leadership back then decided to take advantage of all the chaos and slip back under the radar. Before that, though, they had advertised widely: ‘Trout Fishing in the Black Forest!’” She waved her glass, giving the line a theatrical flourish. “That was the big selling point, that and the baths: ‘renowned natural healing waters, proven since times ancient for the treatment of rheumatism, gout, and skin disease!’

  “To all appearances, it was a health resort, you see,” she continued. “Hidden in a remote valley, not far over the border in Germany. A spot called Bad Boll, outside the small town of Bonndorf.”

  “The Black Forest.” The old man nodded grimly.

  “Is it near the Kandel?” Alex asked.

  “Well, near is a relative concept, Alex,” his grandfather said. “Relatively speaking, the moon is near the earth. But I wouldn’t want to walk it. The place Evelyn is talking about must be a good twenty miles from the mountain, at least. Please go on,” he added to Kingdom, who was watching them with a look of puzzlement.

  “The original Fishing Club was a group of eleven international investors operating out of London,” she continued. “They bought Bad Boll in 1893, taking over from the previous owners—who were actually themselves, under different names. The club has had many names over the years, sometimes no name, and many members, although only ever eleven in the core circle, stretching right back to the 1600s. Membership has been passed down since then, usually from parent to child.

  “In the late 1800s, they built an elegant hotel out there in the Black Forest, advertised as a health spa, a retreat for those seeking to soothe their nerves in nature. They opened paths through the woods for the first time: hiking trails under great chestnut trees among ancient rocks and rare orchids. Sounds rather idyllic, doesn’t it?” She directed the question to Alex.

  “I guess. But you said: ‘To all appearances.’”

  “Very good. Now. Isn’t it curious that a group from London would make such fuss around some anonymous little spot buried in the woods in Germany? They even had a telegraph station built out there, so they could stay connected with the outside world. They brought in electricity, using a waterfall to power a generator so they could light the place by night. They built a chapel. I mean: how good could the trout be? And isn’t it curious they managed to attract some of the world’s most influential people to this obscure place? Guests included royalty from around the globe, politicians, thinkers, artists, writers. Winston Churchill stayed there. You know that name?”

  “Sure.” Alex nodded. “British prime minister, he was in charge during the Second World War.”

  “Right. So isn’t it most curious of all,” Kingdom went on, “that after being such a fashionable, internationally renowned resort, the place simply vanished? The First World War brought an end to the Fishing Club’s official ownership of Bad Boll, but the club kept secret watch over the place afterward, and they made sure it disappeared. The spa was gradually allowed to fall into wrack and ruin—or, perhaps, steered into it.

  “Mysterious fires destroyed buildings and so on, until by the 1990s it was decided what was left should just be demolished, let wild nature reclaim the area. Today, apart from the chapel, which still stands in the forest—abandoned, overgrown, and rotting away—there’s no sign Bad Boll ever existed. As if it had been completely wiped out of history.”

  “Okay.” Alex’s grandfather sat forward. “Very interesting for students of the history of European tourism, I’m sure. But I feel you haven’t told us the part we’re not going to believe. So. What’s the real story?”

  “The real story”—Kingdom leaned toward him until their faces were twelve inches apart—“is that the resort was just a cover, of course. Simply an excuse for the club to go about its true activities out in the woods. What I haven’t mentioned, you see, is that, perched on a hill above their hotel, deep in the forest, were the remains of an ancient, long-ruined castle.”

  “Oh, this sounds more like it,” the old man said, rubbing his hands and grinning at Alex, who failed to share
his enthusiasm.

  “The ruins are there still,” Kingdom continued. “Just a single wall with a few empty windows, part of a crumbling tower. Some people call the old castle Burg Boll, others Burg Neu-Tannegg. It was built around the year 1160 and stood until around 1460—and then it was destroyed by . . . well. Some tremendous calamity. Yet for long periods of that time, it’s a place almost entirely without a history—again, as though it had been deliberately wiped from the records. For many years now, entry to the castle ruins has been forbidden: the risk of further collapse is high, there are loose rocks, steep plunges into old vaults. A wrong step could be fatal.”

  “But that’s not the only reason entry is forbidden, I take it?” Alex’s grandfather said.

  “And what was the tremendous calamity that destroyed the castle?” Alex asked. He had leaned forward too now in anticipation.

  “That,” Metz said with a sigh, still slumped back on his sofa, “is the secret the Fishing Club has sworn to protect.” He held his glass to the light, watching the chandelier’s glow shimmer and shift through the brandy.

  “Our society was formed to guard that ruin, keep watch. You see, something terrible was done inside that castle in the fifteenth century. Something unearthly.”

  He suddenly turned to them, speaking faster, a wild glint in his eyes. “Something that caused the earth to revolt and a pit to open under the place and swallow it. And if it was ever done again, it would cause a destruction that this time could not be stopped. The end of this world.”

  Metz paused, catching himself, embarrassed. He regarded them and seemed surprised to find they were taking him seriously.

  “Sounds ridiculous,” he went on quietly. “But this is the legend. My father, who was not a man given to flights of fancy, believed this story sincerely, and that made me believe it, with all my heart.”

  “Same deal here,” Kingdom said. “My father was convinced of the danger. He was genuinely scared some great horror was waiting to be unleashed, and then—” She drained her glass, tossing back her head. “Ka-blooey.”

  “The earth revolted,” Alex’s grandfather repeated to Metz. “A pit opened. Are those the words your father used?”

  “Une abîme,” the man replied, nodding. “A phrase from childhood that is hard to forget.”

  Alex grandfather sat tapping a thumbnail against his teeth. “Please go on. I don’t see the connection with the paintings.”

  Metz exchanged another look with Kingdom. She nodded.

  “In the years following its destruction,” Metz continued, “many legends sprang up about the ruin of the destroyed castle in the forest at Boll: that some great prize lay buried in there. And so the place became a target for treasure hunters across the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. For many years, the first incarnation of our society worked to keep curious eyes away—while simultaneously working among the ruins to conceal all traces of what had happened.

  “In the early 1600s, they finally removed something from the site and hid it safely elsewhere. And to prevent this knowledge from falling into the wrong hands—what it was, where it was taken—the society scattered the information. They hid the key to it all in the paintings, which were then spread across Europe: those you already know about; this painting here above us; and—”

  “And one other,” Kingdom quickly cut in.

  “Another?” Alex and his grandfather spoke in unison.

  “Yes.” She regarded them carefully, not quite masking her relief at their surprise. “One more. Put all the paintings together, and, the ancient secret can be known again.” She said the last words in a singsong, like a poem she had learned by heart.

  “Something was removed.” Alex’s grandfather said, catching Alex’s eye. “So, ah, what was that? You’ve trusted us with this much, you may as well tell us the rest.”

  “That’s the problem.” Kingdom sighed. She hung her head, then smiled ruefully up through a curtain of hair. “It’s not a matter of trusting you. We can’t tell you much more because we don’t know much more. You see, around the time the society became known as the Fishing Club, its leadership came to a great decision: that the best way to protect our secret was to let it be forgotten.

  “The society always guarded its knowledge religiously—very few outsiders were ever told this story. But in the 1880s it was suspected that one member of the club had betrayed us. Nothing was proved, but it was thought he had been persuaded to reveal the secret to someone: some outsider. And so the Fishing Club built their hotel out there at Bad Boll at that point, as a way of increasing protection of the ruins: they could run regular patrols, even light the forest by night, without anyone wondering why.

  “As the years passed, however, nothing happened. No one came, no one tried to break into the old castle. The club’s leadership decided then to simply let the secret wither and die, and the club with it. Each new generation of members would be told only part of the story and instructed to tell the next generation even less. In the meantime, the dwindling club would keep silent watch over the ruins and the paintings, just in case the rumor about an outsider knowing the secret was true. But, by now, of course, any such outsider would be long dead.”

  As Kingdom said this, Alex and his grandfather shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  “It was decreed that if we kept ourselves hidden, if we let the story fade, and if nothing happened for a hundred years,” Kingdom continued, “then we could safely assume all was well, and simply disappear. Let the club die out. And so, Philippe and I are the very last members. Until recently, there were three of us left. Our comrade Ralf was from the family assigned to watch over the Rubens, The Great Last Judgment—the largest of the paintings. Ralf was president before me. He actually worked as a guard at the Alte Pinakothek museum in Munich. He was killed there the night it was taken, attempting to stop the theft.”

  She paused before going on. “So. While we have sworn our lives to our cause, we only have fragments of the story left: First, that something once happened at the castle in the Black Forest, which must never happen again; second, that to prevent it happening, the paintings must never be brought together—and now, when we have no strength or influence left, it seems that they are being. This group you mentioned have already taken nine. And now they are coming for this one. We drove them off last night, but I have no doubt they will return.”

  They all followed her gaze to the picture on the wall.

  “Where’s the eleventh?” Alex asked. “The last painting?”

  Metz started to reply, but Kingdom cut him off.

  “No.” She shook her head. “The eleventh painting is our last secret. Trust can only stretch so far. To earn more, you have to give us something in return.”

  “Why don’t you just take this painting and hide it?” Alex said. “Or destroy it. That’ll put an end to it, won’t it?”

  “Perhaps,” Kingdom replied. “Perhaps not. There are two problems there. For one, as the last of the club, Philippe and I are sworn to stopping anyone who tries to gather the paintings together—not to run from them, not to hide from them, but to stop them. Stop the secret from being known. And so here we are, waiting for them to come.” She nodded sadly at the shotgun leaning against the table. “Who are they? Who’s doing this?”

  “Oh, we just call their leader the tall man, don’t we, Alex?” Alex’s grandfather said distractedly. “Two problems you said. The other?”

  “Yes. Well.” Kingdom winced. “It gets more complicated yet, I’m afraid. It seems our forerunners in the club were an extremely devious bunch. There have always been eleven paintings, yes, eleven paintings that hold the secret. But they’ve not always been the same eleven.”

  “What?” The old man stared at her.

  “The original list was drawn up in the 1600s. But a few pictures were replaced over the years. This, for example.” She nodded to the painting on the wa
ll. “It dates from 1760, so it can’t have been one of the original eleven. But the titles of the originals that were removed from the list were not passed on to us. We don’t know why now. We can only assume the . . . code changed, too. But perhaps not—so we must also assume that there’s a danger those unknown original paintings could still somehow be used to make up the eleven. If this . . . tall man of yours knows enough about the secret to have already gathered nine, he may know about the originals. He may know more than we do.”

  “Wouldn’t be hard,” Alex’s grandfather mused. He stood to scrutinize the painting, then suddenly spun and pointed to Kingdom.

  “Shadow Gate.”

  She stiffened. Metz looked from her to the old man and back. “What?” he said. “What is this now?”

  “Where did you hear that?” Kingdom asked, visibly shaken.

  “You said we had to earn your trust,” Alex’s grandfather said. “So I’m giving you what we know. The great secret you’re sworn to keep hidden. It’s the Shadow Gate, isn’t it? This castle ruin at Bad Boll, it’s where the legend took place.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kingdom said. She sat grinding her jaw over some internal argument. “But . . . yes. I know the phrase. At least, the German equivalent: Schattentor.”

  “What is this?” Metz demanded.

  “Each time the Fishing Club took a new president, the successor was also selected,” Kingdom said. “As a precaution. When Ralf became president, he selected me—and he passed on that phrase. Schattentor. A password, secretly handed down from one president to the next, over decades. You see, we don’t know what the eleventh painting is. It was decided a century ago to keep its identity hidden even from the club. Another insurance measure: if members don’t know what the painting is, they can’t reveal it. A letter containing that information, the title of the painting and its location, has been locked away in the vault of an old law firm in Stuttgart for decades. But if needs be, the president can be told it, by contacting the lawyers and speaking that phrase. But how did you know it? I’d thought it was just a made-up word.”