The Ouroboros Lock

by Mark William Chase

  “Are you still convinced Mortimer is behind this?” Lord Voger asked. He balked a short and cynical laugh without waiting for my answer. “The only evidence you have is that Hand of Glory? Well, if you had it with you all this time, then how did he use it tonight?”

  I went rigid. How indeed. The thief had dropped the Main-de-Gloire when he fled after the first attempt to steal the lock, and I had kept it with me ever since. But based on my lord’s account of the second break in, it was clear that a second Main-de-Gloire was in play. Just as before, my lord, the butler, and everyone else inside the manor had fallen into a bewitching sleep, and all the doors and locks had come undone. But Voger’s dismissal of Mortimer as a suspect was premature. Mortimer could have fashioned a new Hand of Glory, and if he had been secretly watching me while I was watching his shop, then he would have known when I was away from the manor, affording him the opportunity to make a second attempt. Even so, I could not shake the feeling that I was missing some vital clue. Nothing really added up, for I could not reconcile the amateurish blunderings of the two prior attempts with Mortimer’s usual resourcefulness and professionalism.

  I gave a reluctant sigh. “He must have made another one,” I answered. It was a weak argument, but I had little else to go on.

  “Pfah!” Lord Voger scoffed. “Did you even bother to ask Mortimer about any of this?”

  “I have not questioned him, my lord,” I grudgingly admitted. “He has not been in his shop for these past two days.”

  “There, you see?” Lord Voger said, spreading his arms. “He must be out of town on some business or other. But he had better return soon. The Grand Revel is just a week from tonight.” Voger let out a despairing sigh, then glanced over the many other curiosities and oddities in his collection left untouched by the thief. “When he does return, find out if he sold that grisly hand to someone, or if he knows who else in this city might be using such sorcery to commit these burglaries. And while you’re there, remind him that he must attend the Grand Revel. All our associates will be present, and I would be remiss not to introduce him. Oh, and make sure he knows it’s a masquerade this time.”

  My back and shoulders stiffened, but I gave a quick, affirmatory nod. “Yes, my lord. I will make it a point to remind him of the masquerade.”

  I returned to Mortimer’s shop the following day, bringing the Main-de-Gloire with me in a small bag, intent on confronting the warlock with my evidence—however scant. The city was abuzz with activity despite the dull morning sky, paperboys yelling headlines, shop owners calling out their wares, horse hooves clopping, coach wheels clattering, and gentlemen and ladies hurrying about their day-to-day affairs. But, as my cab slowed to round the bend onto Maywell Street, I heard children laughing and playing, and spotted three orphan girls engaged in a game of hopscotch in an alley between a row of shops and bakeries.

  As they played, I could just make out the curious rhyme they sang jumping from one square to another.

  “Five, six, seven, eight, from the past is no escape. Thought he won but he was late. By his hand he seals his fate!”

  I grinned, amused by the sinister ditty the girls sang as they carried out their innocent antics. The song soon faded behind me, and the cab continued for two more blocks, crossing the market square and to the small sitting park that served as a prime location to watch Mortimer’s shop. One of the goons I had hired to help was still there, and he hurried over as I stepped out of the Hansom.

  “Last night,” the goon croaked, his voice low and raspy. “Someone returned to the shop last night.”

  My jaw tightened, my fingernails digging into my palm as my fists clenched. “You are certain?”

  The goon nodded.

  “Damnation!” I hissed. Not only had I missed the second break-in at my lord’s manor, but I had also missed my chance to ensnare Mortimer upon his return. Had I been here, I would have caught the warlock red-handed, the Ouroboros Lock still stashed in his burglar’s bag!

  I paid the goon a few extra shillings, then crossed the street to Mortimer’s shop. The store was open again, its garish interior brightly lit by its gas chandelier. The bell on the door jingled as I took a few steps inside, glancing from the heavy rugs that draped from the rafters to the walls shelved in worthless trinkets, imitation China, and statuary that came not from the shores of Istanbul but the gutters of this bleak and sunless city. Indeed, Mortimer’s shop reeked of lies as foul and deceitful as the proprietor himself.

  “The time is out of joint,” I whispered under my breath, quoting a vengeful Hamlet. I unbuttoned my overcoat so the fiend could see the pistol by my side. “O' cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.”

  Footsteps ascended the wooden staircase to my left. I turned just as Mortimer appeared from the cellar. He smiled upon seeing me and climbed the rest of the way up.

  “Ah, Mister Macey,” he said, curtly brushing past me. “What meager errand has Lord Voger set you upon today?”

  I frowned. I could never gauge Mortimer’s age—he seemed both old and young, with hair that by day lustered as gold and by night held the likeness of burnt sulfur. His fingers were altogether too long, and each was adorned with a heavy silver ring. His wolfish gaze was as terrible as it was mesmerizing, deep and black as a starless night, and he stank of old incense and opium. If rumors were true, and he did possess the sorcerous power to transfigure his own appearance, why not choose a more comely visage?

  “Well?” the warlock prompted, crossing his arms and showing his teeth in a spiteful sneer. “What have you for me?”

  In reply I produced the Hand of Glory and dropped it on the counter.

  The spark of some hellish fire lit behind the coals that were his eyes. “A fine specimen you’ve found once again, Mister Macey! Better even than one you brought last year.” His voice was smooth and articulate, every syllable slithering from his black lips like some spell uttered to enthrall me. “It would seem Main-de-Gloires have been coming into vogue as of late.”

  I tightened my jaw and met his spiteful gaze with my own hateful glare. “I’d have thought you keener, or are you just playing the fool today, rather than the magician?”

  Mortimer frowned. It was the first time I could recall him doing so. “Just what are you implying?”

  “I imply, foul warlock, that you have betrayed Lord Voger. A thief broke into the manor, twice I might add, and stole an item of great value to my lord on the second break-in.” I purposefully left out the small detail that the hand had been dropped on the first break-in rather than the second. If Mortimer was the culprit, then he already knew that fact, yet he could not refute my accusation without incriminating himself by revealing what he knew. And so I smiled, taking a step closer and lowering my voice to a whisper. “This article was left behind. Look at its posture, its size, the positions of its fingers. There is no mistake. This is the very hand I gave you in October!”

  The sorcerer chuckled through his teeth. “Your mind is addled. Can you not see this Main-de-Gloire is fresh? The wicks have been lit but once and it still reeks of decay. The one you brought me last year was missing both the pinkie and the ring finger. Yet, this one is only missing the pinkie. Fingers, as you know, cannot grow back—least of all those on a dead hand. Besides, if I was the thief, do you think I would be stupid enough to leave behind such evidence?”

  I steeled my expression, trying not to reveal my consternation. He was right, of course—on all accounts. But I knew Mortimer was behind it. I looked about the shop, again searching for any sign of Mortimer’s only employee. He was still nowhere to be seen, and now that I considered it, I hadn’t seen since... Since October. That was it! He was the man I shot at Corbin Guissant’s house!

  I leaned closer, narrowing my eyes. “Tell me, warlock—where is that little wretch that used to work here? I haven’t seen him months. Come to think of it, he went missing around the time that I brought you the Hand of Glory last October. Coincidence?”

  Mortimer smirked. �
��You mean Limus? Hah! He ran off well over a year ago, taking some rather valuable artifacts with him.” Then he waved his hand dismissively. “I know you hate me, Mister Macey, but I am a close associate and occasional business partner of Lord Voger. Let us not bicker with pointless accusations and instead turn to more lucrative matters. As it just so happens, I find myself in need of a fresh Main-de-Gloire for some of my studies. Does sixty pounds sit well with you?”

  “It does not!” I snapped, snatching the hand back. “What need have you for such a charm if not to steal?”

  Mortimer rolled his eyes. “Main-de-Gloires have many other uses, at least for a sorcerer as proficient as myself. Given the proper evocation, it may induce sleep, render invisibility, or even aid in various transmutations. But of greatest interest to me is its ability to open things—things such as doors. I seek nothing less than to open the hidden paths of Creation! For you see, the Hand of Glory has the power to undo any lock, even a lock that is, by its very construction, unopenable.”

  I was startled by Mortimer’s remark, for the Ouroboros Lock was impossible to open by any known means. Was Mortimer taunting me? He knew I was on to him, but he also knew I couldn’t prove anything with what little circumstantial evidence I had. My best course of action was to taunt him back and hope his own anger made him careless.

  “Very well,” I agreed, holding out the Hand of Glory. “One thousand pounds for it, then. If your powers are so great, then command the spirits to fetch a treasure or simply transmute a few bars of lead into gold.”

  Mortimer clenched his hand into a fist and shook his finger at me. “Simpleton! If you knew anything of magic, you would not look to petty folktales and superstitions, but to the earth at your feet, to the stars in the sky, and to all the myriad dimensions of possibilities and probabilities! Anything that has been made can be unmade, and all things are connected, both in space as well as time.” He narrowed his eyes, bearing his teeth in a snarl. “That is the ultimate truth I have discovered, and I now possess the door that opens to those ineffable paths between time, space, and dimension. All that I require is the key!”

  No greater evidence did I need. “So you say,” I answered, steadying my tone. “As for myself, I know nothing of such matters. Perhaps I will just keep this charm for a little while longer. In the meantime, my lord wished me to remind you of the Grand Revel masquerade.”

  Mortimer formed a wicked smile. “I will see you there. Look for the Green Man.”

  I bore my teeth, my eyes narrowing. “Look for Death,” I hissed.

  With that, I spun around and headed back out the door. Although the tone of Mortimer’s parting remark had been a subtle challenge, the Grand Revel actually provided me the perfect opportunity to move against him. On the night of the masquerade, I would slip off while Mortimer was lost in a stupor of drunken debauchery. Then I would use the Hand of Glory to break into his shop and reclaim the Ouroboros Lock for my lord. Mortimer would doubtlessly deduce that I had stolen the device back, but what recourse could he take? Having procured the artifact directly from his shop, Lord Voger would be forced to accept Mortimer’s guilt. I smiled wantonly at the thought of what bloody fate awaited that fiend for his betrayal. The screams gurgling from his mouth as he was slowly eviscerated would surely make even a Grand Inquisitor faint of heart!

  The week crept by as I waited for that mystical holiday known as the Grand Revel, elsewhere called Walpurgis Night, when my lord and his associates paid due homage to Our Lady of Shadows. I spent countless hours in the manor library, both day and night, familiarizing myself with the tales and lore of the Hand of Glory. But among the countless stories, folktales, and anecdotes I found, only three rang true. Of those, all three described the hand’s power to open locks and induce slumber, but only The Ingoldsby Legends gave the spells needed to invoke its power. The incantations were simple, and like most rhymes, were easily committed to memory. When the time came for me to swipe the Lock, I would be well prepared to turn Mortimer’s own sorceries against him.

  When at last the day of the festival came, I received each of the guests as they arrived—men and women of high station and renown, yet each sworn to the Dark Powers that had bestowed their fortunes in accordance to their pacts. Like many of those who came, I had dressed in a heavy black robe and had chosen an equally unoriginal skull mask. Passé though this was, my unremarkable attire would allow me to slip away from the masquerade unnoticed in the deeper witching hour of the night.

  As dusk settled into the dark of night, the celebration began in earnest. I had never cared for the hedonistic masquerades my lord hosted on the Grand Revel, for despite its decadent appeal, the ball was tame in comparison to those carnal excesses that I would entertain on occasion. Worse still, in the course of their crass debauchery, our estimable guests rarely offered their adorations to the Glorious One whom we ostensibly celebrated. Indeed, Lord Voger’s many patrons, guests, and associates engaged in these libidinous revelries not in sacred exaltation, but simply to indulge their own vulgar appetites. The true irony was, Mortimer alone seemed to share my sentiments in this matter, himself being a true and faithful devotee to Our Lady of Shadows.

  Unsurprisingly, I found the warlock sulking about the ballroom’s perimeter balcony, feigning courtesies and exchanging false pleasantries with the vainly-dressed men and half-clothed women mingling there and about. After exchanging a few spurious pleasantries with Mortimer—he mocking me and I taunting him back—I returned to the ballroom floor and circulated among those costumed similar to myself, hoping he would lose track of me. While there was always the chance that he might pick me out by my height, the way I carried myself, or some other tell, I was happy to see the warlock growing more and more engrossed with the mounting festivities. The deeper he was lost in the celebration’s inebriating depravity, the less likely he was to notice my departure.

  At the thirteen chimes that marked one hour past midnight, Voger’s many guests filed into his great banquet hall and took their seats at the gluttonously laid tables. Lord Voger opened with a short speech and entreaty to Our Lady of Shadows, and I took the opportunity to slip away unseen, banking on the hope that the dozen-odd other men in black robes and skull masks would cover my absence. After finding a secluded closet, I quickly changed out of my costume and into a black burglar’s suit, then retrieved the Hand of Glory and the Evil Eye from behind the bookshelf where I had stashed them. I gave the talisman a kiss for luck, then I crept outside and moved with haste on the hour-long trek into the city proper.

  The midnight city seemed barely alive by the time I arrived, but I took care to avoid the few devoted constables still making their nightly rounds, skirting the ebbing shadows between sooty alleys and flickering streetlamps. In the narrow alleyway behind Mortimer’s shop, I found the nondescript back door that would serve as my way in. The heavy door was secured by throw bolts and would be impossible for anyone to unlock without completely unhinging the door. But I had other means of defeating such locks.

  I drew the Main-de-Gloire from my pouch, and with bated breath struck a match and lit the wicks on its remaining three fingers and thumb. As I lit each wick I recited the first of the hand’s empowering spells as given by The Ingoldsby Legends.

  “Now open lock to the dead man’s knock—fly bolt, and bar, and band. Nor move nor swerve, joint, muscle, or nerve, at the spell of the dead man’s hand. O’ Hand of Glory shine most bright, unlock all doors I find tonight!”

  With a series of clicks, the four throw bolts snapped back and the door creaked open, seemingly of its own accord. I smiled and crept inside, using the grim and sallow light of the hand’s four candles as my only source of illumination. I knew Mortimer would not keep the Ouroboros Lock in his shop, so my search began in the cellar before moving upstairs to his apartment above the shop.

  I was amazed by the extent of Mortimer’s collection of arcane books and relics—indeed, it rivaled even Lord Voger’s vast treasure-trove. There were dusty tomes and nam
eless, leather-bound manuscripts in Greek and Latin, as well as mysterious scrolls penned in the script of Honorius of Thebes. I saw countless seals and sigils, sketches of spirits and demons, and everywhere were herbs and roots of exceptional magical quality. As much as my lord might have envied such a hoard, I resisted all temptation to plunder the house. After all, once I proved Mortimer’s treason plot, his wealth of occult oddities and fabled arcana would be ours for the taking.

  Having finished my search of the cellar and shop, I crept upstairs to Mortimer’s private apartment. That was when I saw it, on a desk in the back of Mortimer’s study: a singular embodiment of supreme craftsmanship and meticulous clockwork artistry. My pulse quickened and a surge of both fear and fascination rushed through me. I inched forward, transfixed by the ornate mechanism of countless glyph-engraved gears, encircled by a silver-cast serpent eating its own tail.

  On the desk beside the Lock were scattered an assortment of sketches, notes, and schematics Mortimer must have made while studying the device. I took a few of the papers and skimmed them over, tolerating Mortimer’s unbearably precise handwriting enough to glean some tantalizing hints of the awesome power contained within the Lock.

  “Yes,” I whispered as I read. “Such impossible geometries! Such unfathomable mechanics!” I shuffled through more papers, skimming the pages and diagrams with ever-heightening excitement. “It bends the very fabric of reality, distorting time and space itself!”

  But if the Ouroboros Lock was truly a lock, and not some kind of unsolvable clockwork puzzle, then what sort of door did the artifact secure? I read on, anxious to learn more.

  “The Ouroboros Lock is immobile in time,” I read, “and the apparent turning of its gears is but the passage of time around the gears.” Of course! Much as a tree might appear to be moving backwards to one traveling forward in a train, so does this clockwork Lock appear to wind itself backwards in time. I shuffled to the last of the papers, looking for Mortimer’s conclusion. “The instrument is a gateway through time—a lock fixed such that it can only be activated when opened at both ends of a timeline. It cannot be opened in the present unless unlocked in the past, nor can it be unlocked in the past until opened in a corresponding future...”