“‘He knows all there is to know about the Boches’ plans—he has to. And if we can catch him—even turn him to our own advantage—it might sway the whole balance of power in our favor.’
“At that moment I was not thinking of world affairs or balances of power—I was remembering hot breath on my neck and the howl of wild things in a dense forest. It took several glasses of Merlot and a few smokes before I felt like my old self again and ready for round two.”
c
“And now we get to the crux of the matter. You chaps here are my oldest, stoutest friends, but if Churchill knew I was relating this part of the tale to you, he would have us all locked up in a very dark place for a very long time. So I must ask for your complete discretion. I do not need a promise, for I know you are patriots to a man, although whether you will still feel that warm glow of pride in King and country is something for you to decide individually at the end of the story. And with that aside over, let us press onward to the Ilford Marshes and the fate that waited for us there.”
c
“It was almost sundown by the time we arrived in Ilford, and it was getting gloomy indeed before we found the correct country path that would lead us out to the old church on the marsh. We were further slowed by having to leave the carriage some way short of our destination for fear of alerting any prying eyes to our presence. I was loath to leave my equipment behind, but the driver allayed any fears I had by showing me the two pistols he had strapped under his coat.
“‘And if you need me, just whistle, twice,’ he said. ‘The sound will travel easily across the marsh and I can be with you in minutes.’
“Churchill showed me that he too had a pistol, in a holster under his left arm.
“‘You can stay with the driver if you’d prefer?’ he said, but I was not about to stand down at that late stage. When Churchill headed down the track way into the marsh, I trotted forward to join him at his side.
“We walked silently for several hundred yards into a growing gloom, and I was just starting to fear that the coming of night would curtail our search when Churchill put a hand on my shoulder and motioned that I should creep forward with him.
“We made our way to a small copse of trees that proved to be an old archway marking the drive up to an ancient church—thatched roof over crumbling stone that looked almost ready to tumble into the marsh. Light flickered in the window—red light and black shadows, cavorting and dancing. I knew their source only too well.
“‘It seems we have found what we were looking for,’ Churchill whispered. He pressed a pistol into my hand. ‘I’ll have the driver bring up the carriage slowly—we will have need of your expertise before the night is out.’
“I had to agree with him, although I was none too happy at the prospect. Nor was I happy being left alone there in the gathering dark. The pistol felt cold in my hand, and at every second I expected the touch of hot breath at my neck. Such was my funk that I nearly jumped out of my skin when Churchill touched on my shoulder—he had moved so quietly I had not heard a sound on his approach.
“‘The driver is at hand—twenty yards back,’ he said. ‘It’s time to bring this Hun’s perfidy to a close.’
“He took his pistol from me, checked it was loaded, and motioned us forward toward the rear of the church.”
c
“We chanced a look inside as we reached the window looking in on the nave. I saw immediately that the floor of the church had been lifted—dug up to expose an older stone floor beneath. A great circle was inscribed here—the wolf’s head clearly visible. A man—the German I had seen earlier, judging by his blond hair—sat with his back to us as red and black color washed around him in waves. And once again I heard the whistle of wind in trees, smelled pine needles—and felt the hot breath of the beast on my neck.
“‘It is getting stronger,’ Churchill whispered through clenched teeth. ‘We must get this done quickly. Remember—I want him alive.’
“The rear door to the church was locked, but did not look like it would stand up to a hefty blow from a shoulder. Churchill counted down from three, signaling with his fingers, then threw his weight against the wood.
“It gave way immediately, sending us almost tumbling into the body of the small church. I found my footing, but nearly tripped again at the lip of where the old floor had been taken up. I looked up to see that the German had turned to look directly at us. He had a broad smile on his face.
“‘Carnacki and Churchill—England’s finest. I am honored indeed. Well met, gentlemen. You are just in time—London is about to fall to my wolves.’
“Churchill showed him the pistol.
“‘Not tonight—not while I have breath in me,’ he said.
“The German laughed. ‘Killing me now will accomplish nothing—you are too late. The matter is already in hand, and the pack is on the loose.’
“As if to counterpoint his announcement, the dark shadows in the church danced and cavorted. Hot breath panted at my neck again, and the howling went up and up to a high whine that threatened to lift off the top of my skull.
“‘We will overcome,’ the German said. ‘The pure of birth will always defeat the mongrel. We are German—we have always been German. What are you? Roman? Saxon? Norman? You do not even know who you are. How can you hope to defeat us?’
“Churchill raised his pistol—or at least tried to, but the red and black shadows thickened again, and I looked down to see that a great black hound had Churchill’s gun hand in its mouth.
“I merely have to say the word and your mongrel hand will be little more than food for my wolf,’ the German said.
“‘We may be mongrel, sir,’ I replied with rather more fortitude than I felt. ‘But part of us predate the Romans—and some of us remember how we bested your kind in times long past. And with the old ways at our side, we shall do so again.’
“I raised my voice in a chant—a ritual older by far than any Norman, Saxon or Roman, one that had been heard in this land in aeons past, a Celtic exorcism ritual that had proved most potent in previous adventures.
“‘Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.’
“The German’s grin faded as quickly as it had come. The red and black shadow of the wolf at our side thinned and threatened to dissipate. At the same instant Churchill was able to free his gun hand. In one smooth motion he brought the weapon up and fired, twice, both shots hitting the German full in the chest and sending him falling away to one side.
“By the time we strode into the circle to check on the man he was quite dead.
“‘Bugger,’ Churchill said. ‘I wanted him alive.’”
c
“Red and black shadows started to thicken in the corners of the old church, and I heard the high howl of the pack start up again in the distance.
“‘This isn’t over, Churchill. Quick—get that driver of yours in here with my gear. We may still be able to save London.’
“Churchill went to the door and whistled, twice, the sound piercing the night air. Almost immediately I heard the rumble of the approaching carriage, and in a matter of minutes the driver arrived, lugging my kit. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the scene he found, merely left my gear on the ground, hefted the dead German and carted him away, never to be seen again.
“Even then I was nearly too late. I had to take a minute we could ill afford to replace the blown blue valve—luckily, I had a spare in the box. But by the time I had the pentacle set up in the wolf’s head the shadows had become so thick I believed I could discern snouts—and fangs. The breath at my neck came hot and heavy and the wind sent the trees creaking and rustling. Something was coming—something the German had awoken to fulfill his nefarious task—something I now had to put back from where it came, before the damage became too great. I only hoped I was strong enough for the task.
“I offered Churchill the chance to leave the circle before I began.
“‘Do
n’t talk nonsense, man. You have stood by me. What kind of man would I be if I did not return the favor?’
“I saw that the argument was already over. I nodded, shook his hand, and bent to switch on the pentacle as the red and black shadows gathered in close around us.
“There was no preamble— the hounds emerged almost fully formed from the shadows—three of them, tall and sleek and black as hell, red eyes piercing us with their stare; beasts from the worst nightmares of mankind, from when we all lived in the forests. I felt their breath on my neck, heard their rough growls, smelled the odor of forest mulch on their flanks. As one they raised their snouts and howled, the sound turning my bones to little more than sticks of jelly. Churchill tried to put a shot in one of them but his bullet merely struck the wall and ricocheted off into the darkness.
“‘What in blazes are you waiting for?’ Churchill shouted. ‘Come and get us.’
“‘That might not have been the most prudent approach,’ I said quietly as the growling hounds came closer still.
“I took matters into my own hands. I bent and pushed the pentacle power up by two notches. The hounds did not retreat. Indeed it seemed to embolden them and they threw themselves against the washes of blue and yellow, sending golden sparks flying high into the rafters overhead. The valves of the pentacle strained and whined. I raised my voice in the chant that had seemed effective minutes before.
“Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.
“The attack faltered. One of the hounds threw itself full on against the circle and was dashed into glittering fragments of red and black dust that fell apart and vanished before it reached the ground.
“Churchill let out a howl of triumph, but it was short lived as the remaining beasts seemed to swell and grow larger, the red and the black deepening, the hot breath on our necks getting ever warmer. The pair of hounds raised their snouts and howled, sending the old church ringing and bringing sizeable chunks of daub and straw falling from the rafters.
“The pentacle strained, the valves whined with the effort—and all at once the green valve popped and failed completely. The hounds took immediate advantage, launching attack after attack at the weak spot. I turned the pentacle to full power and shouted the chant at the top of my voice.
“‘Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.’
“The valves started to whine, almost in time with the howling from the forest—it was getting louder, as if a pack was gathering for some fresh assault.
“To my surprise Churchill’s voice joined with mine.
“‘Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.’
“And much to my amazement, slowly, but inexorably, the red and black shadows started to diminish and become smaller. Churchill’s voice was almost a bellow, his force of will driving the spell along. The colors of the pentacle pulsed and washed in time, getting ever stronger as the darkness was pushed away. I joined my own shouted voice in for one last chorus.
“‘Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.’
“As one, Churchill and I shouted the final words, the commanding phrase that brought the spell to an end.
“‘Dhumna Ort!’
“There was a concussion of hot air that smelled of pine needles and forest floor and hot rancid breath, and a final whimper, as of beaten dogs. The valves’ whine faded to a whisper, the colors stilled and dimmed, and Churchill and I were left standing in a suddenly quiet church.
“‘Is it done?’ Churchill whispered after a time.
“‘As done as these things ever are,’ I replied. “And although I cannot speak for London, I believe you will find the menace has been lifted.
“There was a strange look I did not quite like on Churchill’s face as he replied.
“‘There is nothing to worry about in London. Not now. I am quite sure of that, Carnacki.’”
c
“I only discovered the meaning of his words as we were driven back to the city—we had to take a long route round. The whole skyline ahead of us was furiously ablaze in a wash of red and black that eerily mimicked the colors the German had called up from his circle.
“‘What has happened here?’ I asked, fearing that I already knew.
“‘I had it burned—the whole bally lot—every location where they manifested. I gave the order before we left Parliament—just in case we failed in our mission.’
“‘And the people? Did they get out?’ I asked, horrified at this seemingly casual destruction.
“‘Not all of them,’ Churchill said coldly, and I knew right then that this man would never be my friend. ‘But it’s a damned sight better than the alternative,’ he continued, then fell quiet.
“The conversation was over and we did not speak again. The carriage finally brought me all the way home, and they left me on the doorstep where the adventure had begun almost a full day before. I took myself to bed and slept—not too soundly, for I dreamed of wolves—until just an hour before you chaps arrived.”
c
His tale done, Carnacki swiftly downed what was left of his drink. Normally on these nights there were questions that could be asked and answered, but it seemed we had all been driven to quiet inner thoughts by Carnacki’s revelation of Churchill’s actions.
I managed to ask him just one question as we were shown to the door.
“Were his actions justified do you think, Carnacki? Did he save the city, or did you?”
“I cannot answer that,” my friend replied. “But I will say this. Churchill will never by my friend. But if it ever comes to a war, he’s the first man I want on our side. Now, out you go.”
The eastern sky still burned, red rising to black, as I walked slowly home along the Embankment.
Bedlam in Yellow
It was a Friday night in the hottest July in London I could remember, and Carnacki had the windows open to let a breath of air in, although what breeze we got proved to be hot, dry, and tasted of an overheated city. The heat had drained our appetite, and we had partaken of only a light meal of trout and green vegetables. As a result we were earlier than usual in retiring to the parlor, and had taken our normal seats, with our drinks charged and fresh smokes lit, well before eight.
Carnacki wasted no time in getting to his tale.
“It is as well that we have some warmth, old friends, despite the slight discomfort it might bring,” he began. “For my tale tonight is a chilling one indeed, and I fear you will be glad of the heat by the end of it.”
“It started last Monday, with a telegram requesting my attendance at Bethlem Asylum in Southwark. The note intimated that it was a matter of some delicacy that required my particular skills, and that I would, of course, be suitably remunerated for my time. I was intrigued enough by the request to make my way by carriage to a meeting with a Doctor Donaldson, the chief medical officer of the facility.
“We are all aware of the moniker given to the Asylum by the general public—Bedlam—a reminder of its earlier days, when the treatment of the mentally ill was not as enlightened as it is today. And like you, I have heard all the tales of mistreatment and torture, chaos and confusion. But despite any qualms I might have had about visiting the place, I was met with a calm, almost serene establishment of quiet, whitewashed corridors and nurses in clean, starched uniforms efficiently going about their business. It is a fine, well-appointed building, and Doctor Donaldson’s oak-lined library and office would not have seemed out of place in any of your town clubs.
“The doctor himself, however, was clearly in some distress, and his reason for contacting me came out of him in a rush.
“‘It is the top floor, Mr. Carnacki,’ he said. ‘I cannot get the staff to go upstairs, especially after dark, and any patients we leave there for more than a day come away wit
h their mental state even worse than anything they might previously have been suffering. Something strange moves through the corridors up there of an evening. There is talk of it being a haunt—and I can’t say as I disagree with them, for I have even seen something myself, although as a man of science I am loath to give voice to it being anything of a supernatural nature. I have heard that you have experience in such matters, and that you are most discreet—can you help us?’
“You chaps all know that I cannot turn down a genuine request for help—or the chance to pit my wits against a denizen of the Outer Darkness, so I gave the man my word that I would look into the matter. We shook hands on it and that same afternoon I began my investigation.”
c
“The top floor of Bethlem is a light and airy place by day, with high ceilings and sunlight streaming through skylights that run the whole length of the building. The walls are white and clean—almost sparklingly so, and my footsteps echoed on a polished hardwood floor as I topped the stairs and entered the main corridor. Doctor Donaldson had come up with me, but he stayed at the top of the stairs, not venturing into the hallway.
“‘I can leave you to it then?’ he asked and it was plain that the man was bally terrified, so I took pity on him.
“‘I will call into your office before I leave,’ I replied, and he was off and away down the stairs almost before I had finished speaking.
“I was left alone in the corridor, and, as the sound of Donaldson’s footsteps descended away from me leaving silence behind, I became aware that there was definitely something strange in the air. I have developed a sense for these things, as you know, and I felt it straight away—a thick cloying miasma despite the sunlight, a tingling at the nape of my neck and a throbbing in my guts that all told me there was a presence here.
Carnacki: The Watcher at the Gate Page 13