The Map of Chaos

by Félix J Palma

  Doyle ended his speech persuaded that tears of gratitude would soon start to flow from Murray’s bloodshot eyes, and he even got ready for a possible embrace from that malodorous ruin of a man. But Murray simply contemplated him in silence for a few moments; then he stood up, grabbed the bottle of whisky he carried around with him everywhere, and, stumbling but dignified, left the room before the astonished eyes of his friends and went back to the bed they had dragged him from at dawn.

  Both Doyle and Wells realized that it was not going to be as easy as they had thought to persuade Murray to attend a séance given by the Great Ankoma. Over the next few days, they discovered that Murray’s views on spiritualism hadn’t changed, despite his brokenhearted, semi-alcoholic state. Each time they tried to persuade him, he would refuse, doing so in various imaginative ways: he would laugh in their faces, or hurl drunken insults at them before vomiting on their shoes, or he would order them to leave the house with a dismissive gesture, even though most of the time they were at Wells’s residence. There were even occasions when he would hurl whatever object was at hand at them, in general an empty whisky bottle . . . Nothing could breach Murray’s stubborn refusal: not Wells’s entreaties, nor Doyle’s threats, nor even the gentle cajoling of Jane, who went as far as to remind Murray that he had once saved her life and that she could not bear to be unable to save his in return. Until the eve of the Great Ankoma’s arrival in England.

  Doyle, Wells, and Jane turned up at Murray’s town house to announce the news, only to find Baskerville in a state of extreme agitation. It seemed his master had spent all day locked in his room, drinking, sobbing, and hurling a stream of blasphemous abuse at his servants. Even more alarmingly, for the past hour or so he had gone quiet. Wells and Doyle exchanged nervous glances and ran upstairs to Murray’s room. His door was locked, but that didn’t stop Doyle. After several attempts, he managed to break it down, splintering the frame and almost tearing the door off its hinges. Much to their relief, Murray had not hanged himself from the rafters, nor had he taken his life by any other means. He had simply passed out. A couple of jugs and a bowlful of water later, he was sitting in an armchair, listening to what they had to say.

  “Tomorrow the Great Ankoma arrives, Gilmore,” Doyle announced curtly. “And I don’t need to remind you that in order for that to happen I have had to pledge my word and use all my influence, so that I hope all my efforts won’t have been in vain.”

  Murray merely shrugged. “I didn’t ask him to come.”

  “Well, he’s coming!” Doyle lost his temper. “What the devil do expect me to do, send him back with a thank-you note hanging round his neck?”

  “All I ask is that you pay for the damage to my bedroom door.”

  Doyle gave a bull-like snort, walked over to one of the windows, and looked out, trying to calm down.

  “You are pigheaded and selfish, Monty,” Wells said crossly. “You couldn’t care less about the misery you’re putting us through, could you? What skin is it off your nose if you attend a séance? What in heaven’s name do you have to lose?”

  “Please, Monty,” Jane implored for the umpteenth time. “All we’re asking is that you give it a try.”

  Murray looked at her with a pained expression.

  “I can’t do it, Jane,” he murmured. “I won’t allow Emma’s spirit to be defiled now that she is dead. Every day when I lied to her while she was alive was an act of disrespect, and I refuse to let that happen again by agreeing to some stupid sideshow.

  “But no one is going to defile her!” Wells cried, exasperated. “I assure you again, the Great Ankoma is a genuine medium.”

  “What are you scared of, Gilmore?” Doyle asked, wheeling round, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Scared?” Murray looked puzzled. “I’m not scared of anything.”

  “Oh, yes you are,” Doyle assured him harshly. “You’re scared of talking to Emma and discovering that she won’t forgive you, aren’t you? Because what would be left then? You wouldn’t even have the luxury of killing yourself . . . Why die and risk being confronted with an angry woman for all eternity? You prefer to carry on as you are, tormenting us with your asinine threats of suicide, threats you will never carry out because you’re too much of a coward. And that is why you haven’t already taken your life, and why you don’t want to talk to Emma, and why you were incapable of telling her the truth when she was still alive.”

  “What! I was going to tell her!” Murray roared, almost keeling over as he leapt from his chair. “I was going to tell her before the damned automobile veered off the road. And of course I’m going to kill myself! I don’t want to go on living! I don’t care what’s on the Other Side, I don’t care if there’s only a horrible void, or if Emma is there and she is angry with me for all eternity . . . Nothing could be worse than this, nothing . . .”

  “You’re going to kill yourself? Then do it!” Doyle flung open the windows behind him, and a soft, cool breeze like a lover’s breath invaded the room. “Go on, jump! We’re at least four floors up; you’ll almost certainly die . . . Jump right now and end it all!”

  Wells and Jane looked at Doyle, aghast.

  “Arthur, please, I don’t think this is the way to . . .” Wells hesitated.

  But before he could finish his sentence, Murray strode over to the window, thrusting Wells aside.

  “Don’t do it, Monty!” Jane exclaimed in anguish, standing in his path.

  Gently but firmly, Murray also pushed her to one side.

  “For heaven’s sake, Arthur, stop him!” Jane cried.

  But Doyle took no notice. Instead, he stepped away from the window with a grin, politely extending his arm as if to let him through. Murray gave Doyle a black look as he walked past him and leapt up onto the windowsill, holding on to the frame with both hands.

  “Monty, come down from there, I implore you,” Wells said, approaching him with timid steps.

  “Stay where you are, George!” Murray commanded.

  Doyle, who was standing right next to Murray, signaled to Wells to do as he said. Stifling the urge to run and grab Murray, Wells stood stock-still, anxiously contemplating his bulky figure, silhouetted against the moonlight, almost filling the entire window.

  His hands clasping the window frame and his feet balancing on the narrow sill, Murray took a deep breath. As they had been talking, the afternoon had faded amid glowing purples, giving way to a perfect summer’s evening crowned by a full moon. A beautiful evening to die, he told himself, as the warm night breeze caressed his hair and brought with it the scent of jasmine. Why not end his suffering once and for all? Was he a coward, as Doyle maintained? He edged his right foot forward, eliciting a stifled shriek from Jane. He felt for her, and for George, and even for Doyle. He was sorry his friends would have to witness his demise, but Wells was right. He was putting them through a lot of misery. It was best to put an end once and for all to the sorry spectacle of his grief. And that was what he was going to do. He looked down. The gardens where he had so often strolled with Emma stretched out beneath him. In each of its nooks and crannies, the memory of a kiss, a caress, a joke that had made her laugh, lingered on like bits of fabric snagged on a bush. The silvery light of the moon delicately traced the outlines of the trees, made the dewdrops on the roses glisten like sequins, and shimmered on the pond where the lilies rocked gently, performing a slow waltz for themselves. At the end of the garden, rising like a new moon above the treetops of a small leafy forest, was the dome of the tiny, exquisite conservatory—in the shape of the Taj Mahal—that Murray had built with his own hands as a surprise gift for his bride-to-be. Then the yawning gap between him and the ground made him feel a sudden irrational fear, which reminded him of the day he had landed in a balloon to win Emma’s heart. He had been forced to struggle against his fear of heights then, too, only it had been worth it because his beloved was waiting for him on Horsell Common. Murray closed his eyes and saw her once more as he had seen her that day, standing below h
im in a white dress, half-obscured by her parasol, which she twirled nervously as she waited . . . and, mustering the last of his courage, he told himself he must join her, and soon, because she liked him to be punctual, and he was already several months late . . . He opened his eyes, ready to leap into the void.

  And then he saw her. On the path beside the rosebushes, where she used to pause during their strolls and delicately breathe in the scent of one of the roses. A woman was there now, her white dress gleaming in the moonlight, her face obscured by a parasol that twirled restlessly. An image as clear and terrifying as an unexpected laugh in the dead of night. Murray stood up straight and blinked several times as he felt her name tumble out of his mouth.

  “Emma . . . ,” he spluttered.

  “No, Monty, please,” implored Jane, horrified. “Don’t jump. Emma wouldn’t have wanted it—”

  “Emma!” cried Murray.

  He wheeled round, and leapt back into the room.

  “I knew it!” Doyle exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew he wouldn’t jump.”

  Taking no notice of him, Murray ran toward Wells and, grabbing his arm, dragged him over to the window.

  “Look, George, look!” he said, his eyes flashing. “It’s Emma, she’s there . . .”

  “What?”

  They all rushed over to the window and poked their heads out expectantly.

  “I don’t see anything,” Wells murmured.

  “Nor do I,” said Jane, screwing up her eyes. “What exactly did you see, Monty?”

  Murray didn’t answer. He spun round and darted out of the room. Alarmed, the others pursued him, almost stumbling over one another on the stairs. When Murray reached the spot where he had seen Emma, he halted and looked around, anxious and confused. The others arrived, gasping for breath, but before they could ask him to explain, Murray took off again across the lawn. His friends watched with pitiful faces as he ran up and down the pathways and around the lily ponds calling Emma’s name, pausing occasionally, as if to listen, before resuming his mad, pointless race. At last he fell to his knees, exhausted, crooning his beloved’s name amid loud sobs. Wells went over to Murray, knelt down beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Murray looked at him, his eyes ravaged by the most devastating grief imaginable.

  “I saw her, George, I tell you I saw her,” he whispered between sobs. “It was her. She was there . . . Why did she vanish?”

  Doyle also knelt beside Murray and smiled benevolently at him.

  “She’s trying to get in touch with you, my friend,” he explained almost affectionately, like a father consoling his child, “but she can’t find a way. Perhaps she simply wants to remind you of your assignation at Brook Manor. She herself prearranged it the day she died. As I once told you, spirits need a conduit in order to communicate with us. They need mediums . . .”

  20

  THREE DAYS AFTER THE GREAT Ankoma arrived in England, Murray was at the door of Brook Manor just as evening was beginning to blur the contours of the landscape. He was accompanied by Jane, who had been watching over him that day. Waiting for them inside the house were Wells and Doyle, who had arrived in a hired carriage that morning with the medium. The Great Ankoma wanted to spend a few hours in the spot where the séance was to be held, allowing the spiritual forces there to scent him, like someone letting a strange dog sniff him before stroking it.

  “I still don’t know how I let myself be talked into coming all the way here,” Murray snapped at Wells when he came to open the door to them.

  Murray kept muttering to himself as he strode into the hallway, and Wells and Jane exchanged knowing looks. After a perfunctory embrace, Wells shepherded Murray into the dining room, where the séance was to take place. At a glance, he saw that his friend had at least spruced himself up a bit and wasn’t wearing his clothes inside out, something for which he doubtless had Jane to thank.

  “I promise you won’t regret it, Monty. Just try to relax so that the mysterious forces of the Hereafter don’t feel rejected by you, and—”

  “That’s enough, George, please,” interrupted Murray, waving his hand impatiently. “I came here to see Emma, not to listen to your spiritualist nonsense.”

  Wells nodded with a sigh as the two of them, followed by Jane, entered the main reception room adjacent to the hallway. The room felt warmer, thanks to the last of the afternoon light, which was shining on the hearth. The mounted deer heads continued to challenge one another, caught in a duel that would never take place. At the far end of the room, Doyle was waiting for them, firmly planted in front of the door leading to the dining room, like a sentry guarding the entrance to the Hereafter.

  “Good evening, Gilmore,” Doyle greeted Murray. “I’m glad you came. I am sure that not only will you not regret this, but that you will also—”

  “If you don’t mind, Doyle,” Murray cut in sharply, “let’s get started, shall we?”

  “Of course, of course, we can begin at once,” said Doyle, who was not prepared to skip any part of the ceremony simply because of Murray’s impetuosity. “However, before I introduce you to the Great Ankoma, who is busy concentrating in the dining room, let me remind you that he has traveled all the way from South Africa just to help you, that he has never taken part in this kind of séance before, and that he isn’t motivated by greed. All of that is to his credit, as I’m sure you will appreciate, and I hope you demonstrate that by behaving with the due respect.” He looked straight at Murray, doing his best not to appear threatening and, ironically, achieving the opposite effect. “The Great Ankoma only speaks the Bakongo dialect, but I shall interpret for him. I managed to pick up quite a few words during my stay in his village.” With this, Doyle turned around and, opening the door ceremoniously, pronounced: “I hope you are prepared, Gilmore. Your idea of the world will change as of tonight.”

  The spacious, windowless room was dimly lit by rows of candles, their flames glinting off the rusty metal swords and making the faces of the Cabell ancestors look even more spectral, as if the artist had painted their portraits after their deaths from drowning. At one end of the table, a figure sat half in the shadow, head tilted, arms outstretched, palms facedown on the linen tablecloth in front of him. The meager light from the lamp placed in the middle of the table scarcely penetrated the gloom enveloping him. Doyle led the group a few paces to the opposite end of the table. Leaving them there, he approached the medium with reverential steps and whispered something to him, presumably to awaken him from his trance. The medium moved his head very slowly, as though emerging from a long snooze or a heavy bout of drinking, and looked at the others without seeing them. Ankoma was a skinny fellow whose age was difficult to judge, owing to his flowing beard and no less bushy hair, which all but swallowed up his features. Only his beady eyes twinkled intriguingly amid the cascade of grey locks that fell over his brow. He was wearing a sort of loose-fitting dark tunic, and around his neck hung colorful necklaces and strings of beads, among which Wells thought he glimpsed the tooth of some unknown animal. Speaking to no one in particular, the medium began to utter a series of guttural noises, which sounded as if he were choking on a chicken bone.

  “He says there are many spirits here,” Doyle translated dutifully.

  “Hmm,” grunted Murray, who refused to be easily impressed.

  Doyle looked at him sternly in admonishment, then proceeded to the introductions. Once these were over, he invited Murray to take the seat facing the Great Ankoma, while he sat on the medium’s right and Wells and Jane on his left. Once they had all settled in their chairs, Doyle resumed his role as master of ceremonies.

  “Excellent. Now, Ankoma is a specialist in automatic writing,” he explained to Murray, “and so is going to communicate with Emma’s spirit, and if she agrees, he will try to make her talk to you by writing on this slate.”

  “But I don’t want Emma to write on some stupid slate!” Murray protested. “I want to see her. I want her to appear to me as she did in the garden!”

&
nbsp; Doyle wagged his head, genuinely dismayed by Murray’s stubborn attitude.

  “Look, Gilmore . . . ,” he explained patiently. “Every medium has a method or a special talent for communicating with spirits; you can’t just oblige them to do it another way. Besides, the main thing is for you to talk to her, isn’t it? The way you do it is secondary.”

  Murray looked suspiciously at the slate on the table, next to the gas lamp.

  “Did he communicate with his Bantu ancestors using slates?” he inquired coldly.

  “Obviously not,” replied Doyle, who was becoming irritated by Murray’s insolence. “He used palm leaves. But we are a bit more civilized over here . . .”

  “Palm leaves . . . ,” sighed Murray. “Very well. Carry on, Amoka.”

  “Ankoma,” Doyle corrected.

  “Ankoma, Ankoma . . . ,” Murray repeated, spreading his hands to encourage the medium to proceed.

  Ankoma nodded almost indifferently, as if his orders came from a higher power unknown to men, and certainly to Murray. His body seemed to slacken, losing its previous rigidity, his eyes closed, and a sort of beatific calm relaxed what was visible of his face almost to the point of imbecility. Then he began a gentle rocking movement, which grew more and more intense, until soon he was writhing around on his seat as if someone had stuffed it with stinging nettles. Moments later, he began to jerk and make ridiculous gurgling noises, like a boiling kettle, which made Doyle sit up in his chair. Everyone sensed that something important was happening or was about to happen. And they were right, for just then a lengthy, spine-tingling sound, like grinding teeth, rent the air. They all peered into the surrounding shadows, trying to see where the screeching was coming from, until they realized it could only have been made by the rusty hinges on one of the doors. They examined them through the thick gloom, but both were closed. Then the floorboards began to emit faint, intermittent creaks, warning them that someone was walking toward them across the room. Murray arched his eyebrows as the steps came closer and closer before seemingly moving away again, as though whatever it might be had begun circling the table with sinister slowness and was scrutinizing them. Murray looked first at Doyle, then at Wells, but the two men ignored him, busy as they were exchanging uneasy glances. For his part, the Great Ankoma remained silent, staring apprehensively into the darkness enveloping the dining room. After several moments during which they looked at one another in bewilderment, Doyle drew the medium’s attention with a subtle gesture and then pointed to the slate, as if to remind him that this was his usual way of communicating with spirits. The Great Ankoma picked it up with his scrawny hands, where the crisscrossed veins beneath his pale flesh stood out like snow-covered roots, and held it for a few moments as though unsure what to do next. At that moment, Wells squeezed Murray’s shoulder abruptly, a gesture that was meant to encourage him, but in spite of the distraction, Murray noticed Ankoma make a suspicious movement under the table. When Murray caught his eye, the medium placed the slate facedown on a piece of chalk as his body seemed to go into brief convulsions, and a nonsensical refrain spewed from his mouth. A few seconds later, he turned the slate over with the nonchalance of someone removing a cake from the oven and pushed it toward Murray. On the side that had been clean, he recognized his beloved Emma’s scrawl: “Hello, I’m Miss Mournful,” he read in disbelief.