by Jay Lake
A DASH OF INSPIRATION
In which a plan takes shape.
“So, for the matter at hand. I have a theory,” I began a short time later, taking hold of Tom’s arm and placing it in a set of containment symbols. “Whatever power animated the boar was potent, but uncontrolled.”
“So this is an accident?” Tom looked down at his arm suspiciously.
“In a way, yes.” I smiled as reassuringly as possible. “But it’s a fortunate one, unlikely as that may sound. The fact that some of the boar’s miraculous nature has been transferred to you allows me to determine not only a means to arrest your condition’s progress, but also determine the origin of the creature’s spontaneous Animation.”
“Incredible,” Tom breathed, watching as the symbols slowly began to glow, faint golden light filling out the curves and swirls like slow-moving water. “What’s happening?”
“I am drawing out some of the Æther that was transferred from the boar into your wound during the attack,” I said, carefully noting which symbols were lighting up and which remained darkest. The simplest glyphs were reacting most strongly, though a curious flickering of some of the more elaborate sigils was still evident. Powerful energies were at work, but in very unusual ways.
“Ether?” Tom asked quizzically, eyes still fixed on the display.
“Æther,” I said, reflexively correcting the pronunciation. “A term for the essential element of the Art. A magnificent and mysterious material, most often vapor, sometimes liquid and rarely—very rarely—solid. For all the scrutiny it has received throughout the history of the Art, little is known for certain about its essential nature, though its uses and implementation habits are extensively documented.”
“So if you are detecting the presence of this Æther, then doesn’t that mean there must be another practitioner of your particular talents nearby?”
“Unlikely,” I said, though truth be told, it was a possibility that had certainly entered my thoughts. Each time a letter arrived back home, I wondered if it might be another Ætheric chemist might be trying to contact me; if they were out there, however, so far they had remained mute. “Though rare, there are tales in certain histories of the Art that tell of objects, places or even individuals who demonstrate a curious magnetism for Æther, which in turn can supposedly cause all manner of strange phenomena. Such an attraction could account for the boar’s remarkable behavior.
“In any event, one reliable property of this wondrous substance is known as Karlov’s Sympathetic Principle,” I continued. “This holds that a source of Æther is naturally attracted to similar sources.”
“How is that useful?”
“Do you have a lamp or a lantern we can use?” Tom nodded in the direction of the mantle. There was an old brass lantern, its glass scratched and nicked but otherwise intact, sitting amid the other trophies on display. “Perfect!” I took a very fine blade and etched four of the symbols that had reacted most strongly, one for each pane of glass. They began to glow almost immediately, faintly at first but soon strong enough to produce a deep orange radiance, like a sunset viewed through amber. I set the lantern down on the table with just a bit of a flourish. “By following which one of these symbols glows most brightly at any given moment, we should find ourselves on a direct path to the boar.”
Tom blinked, then let out a hearty laugh, as much relief as merriment it seemed. “Astounding! Damn the hour—I say we depart at once, and kill the damned thing before it causes any more infernal mischief.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid we can’t leave just yet.” I drew out a measure of Turkish cane powder, tipped it into the silver bowl next to his afflicted hand and began mixing it with a solution of ink, honey and a dash of philosophical salt water. “While I commend you on your willingness to ignore your own condition in favor of bringing down the beast, I cannot ignore the fact that the amalgamation is continuing apace, and if left unchecked could well compromise the rest of your body by dawn.
“I can arrest the progress,” I said, before he could dwell too long on that unfortunate image, “there’s no question about that, though I must admit there is an elusive property to your condition that prevents me from reversing it entirely. There is also the matter of preparing suitable counter-agents, should the boar be encountered, which will draw out its animatory Æther. That will take some time, though in respect to the urgency of the matter, I shall endeavor to work swiftly.
“Regardless, these glyphs should ensure that your auric infection spreads no further, and allow you retain the use of your limb.” I tested the mixture in the bowl with my finger, found it had heated satisfactorily, and traced out a quick series of Transfigurative glyphs on his arms. I was careful to let the ink in the bowl swirl back to formlessness between sigils so as not to confuse the process.
“Remarkable,” said Tom, flexing his fingers like a man just come in from the cold. At my nod, he lifted his arm and swung it hesitantly to and fro, gingerly at first, then with increasing vigor. Quite unexpectedly, he gave me a broad smile. “You know,” he quipped, “now that I know the condition isn’t terminal, I’m rather unsure of whether or not I want you to reverse it! Looks rather dashing, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt, though if you’ll pardon my asking, isn’t it growing rather heavy?” While Tom certainly seemed to be in peak condition, the weight of the gold surely would try even a stout man’s physique before long. “I’ve halted the process, but still, surely that additional weight must be wearisome.”
Though other factors certainly played a part in our friendship over the years, it was Tom’s answer to that question that certainly helped set the tone for the years to follow. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he took his feet, called for his coat and rifle, and gave me a smile of absolute confidence. “It certainly is—all the more reason to get going, wouldn’t you agree?”
THE PATH IN THE WILD
In which a difficult trail is followed, and an unfortunate confession is made.
“I must confess, this is the most unusual hunt I’ve ever undertaken,” Tom said, picking his way carefully around a patch of brambles. “Our quarry notwithstanding, normally I’d have at least a man along for the ammunition, and some dogs to flush the beast.” Having split up what few stout men remained in his employ to help safeguard the village and his household against the creature’s return, however, his words became little more than a reminder that we were on our own. “Nasty business, this.”
“I’ll give no argument to that,” I agreed, nearly stumbling over a stone as we made our way across the uneven ground. We’d walked at least two miles, perhaps more, but even with a clear night and the lantern light it was slow going, as the carefully tended lawns of the estate had long ago given way to tangled undergrowth and the occasional mire for which Yorkshire is justly famous. Making matters worse, a cool, light rain visited us periodically, not quite enough to soak through our coats but enough to leave a measure of misery each time. “Do you have any idea where this is leading us? Toward the village, perhaps?”
“No, that’s a bit more to the southwest,” Tom said, indicating the correction with the barrel of his rifle. “I’d say we’re heading towards one of the outlying cottages. Vicar Stephens’, perhaps, or the home of Doctor Sykes.” He spared a glance for the lantern, as he had a dozen times previously. “I take it the glow is a good sign?”
“Positive indeed,” I answered, with more cheer than I felt. “Judging by the gradually increasing brightness, I’d wager that we’re coming close to our quarry.” I pointed in the direction of a wooded hillside in our path. “Likely no further than that stand of trees, I’d say.”
“Definitely Doctor Sykes’ cottage, then.” Tom swore as his foot sunk into a patch of mud and struggled for a few moments before pulling it free with a consumptive gurgling sound. “If I’d known we were going to pay him a visit,” he said sourly, watching the ground more closely as he walked, “I’d have simply taken a pair of horses or the
carriage down the main road.”
“I suppose it would be too much to ask of a boar to take a more civilized path,” I agreed. “I wish I had come more prepared, myself.” My boots had long since soaked through, and I found myself longing to be back at the fireplace.
“Oh, I don’t know about all that. You seem to possess quite an arsenal of tricks,” Tom said affably. “Seeking lanterns, counter-agents—I take it these are holdovers from the previous investigations I’ve read so much about?”
“Not exactly, I’m afraid.” At last the topic I dreaded had come to light. I cleared my throat, not quite sure what to say next but feeling Tom deserved my honesty. “I’m afraid my investigative record has been somewhat, ah, exaggerated in the popular press.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “I’m rather fond of the remoteness of my estate, and even so I’ve still read of, oh, I’d say a half-dozen of your adventures!”
“Adventures is perhaps too strong a term,” I replied carefully. “That is to say, while each investigation was certainly revealing in its own way, yours is the first case that has ever proven to be…genuine, shall we say?”
“Incredible!” Tom exclaimed. “Not a single other case proved preternatural?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the Devonshire Devil Hound?”
“Clever application of makeup.”
“The Phantom Strangler of Paris?”
“A savage pet, unwittingly loosed against innocent neighbors.”
“No! The Dunwich Haunting?”
“Several gentlemen and a bedsheet, assisted by strong liquor,” I said, growing more embarrassed by the moment. Such is the problem with fame, particularly the sensationalized sort that all too often had followed me since my Transfiguration. In addition to the vague disappointment that always accompanies discovering mundane origins for purportedly paranormal phenomena, my efforts to disclose the truth were overshadowed by those more interested in legend and fancy. “Despite my best efforts and occasional threats of legal action, I have been unable to stop the spread of these wild tales.” I spared a sideways glance for my companion, feeling a shameful flush as I recounted my unspectacular exploits. “I apologize if that is not exactly the record you had hoped to employ in this matter.”
“Nonsense,” Tom said confidently. “For one, one need only look at you to realize that you’re quite obviously no scheming charlatan, if you’ll pardon my saying so. For another, if a man goes hunting based on the word of others, and it is discovered that they lied to him about the abundance of game, do you judge him a failure?” He snorted derisively. “Not if you’ve any sense. Besides,” he added wryly, “you’ve certainly found something legitimate this time!”
“Quite so,” I replied, grateful for the camaraderie. Through the trees, I could see the outline of a small cottage beyond. No lights burned in the windows, but the lantern’s glow steadier increased as we approached. I could feel my heart racing faster and faster; unless my understanding of Ætheric properties was fundamentally flawed, we were about to encounter perhaps most potent example of the Art outside of my own laboratory. Despite the dangers, I could not help but feel a smile cross my features.
There is, after all, a singular joy to be found in mysteries.
When we had just about reached the drive, Tom signaled a halt. Without taking his eyes off of the cottage, Tom asked me quietly, “Any notion of what we should expect?”
“Honestly? Apart from the boar, which you’ve already encountered, I have no idea.” I surveyed the dark shape ahead. “It’s possible that your condition indicates it is losing Æther, which would make it slower and less dangerous, but I would not wager on it.”
“Very well,” Tom said grimly. Without anything else to say, we continued, the light of the lantern cast long shadows down the drive, the night sounds that are so often a source of familiar comfort turned strange and sinister with tension.
Whatever waited ahead did so quietly, in the dark.
THE PILFERED PAGES
In which a curious crime is uncovered, and dark truths intimated.
In a pinch, a glance at the state of a man’s library can be better than hours of conversation for painting a picture of his mind. Not only do the titles betray particular interests and fancies, but unlike most other possessions, the state of the books themselves is often in direct contrast to the value attributed to them by their owner. I place far more trust in a gentleman whose books betray cracked spines, weathered covers and creased pages than in one whose library shelves are immaculate. Supposedly beloved volumes layered in dust, with no sign of having ever been opened, likely have an owner with a mind to match.
In this respect, I would likely have found Doctor Sykes excellent company, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances of the moment. Drawn by the phantom trail of the Æther lantern, we found the front door standing open, the darkness receding grudgingly at the lantern’s approach. Inside, the cottage was a classic academic retreat: sitting room shelves laden with books; curious souvenirs placed upon the mantle; walls papered with maps of the world, tables of the elements and paintings of exotic landscapes.
As Tom picked his way through the front room, calling out for the doctor and looking increasingly grim, I stopped to examine the library more closely. “Is the good doctor a well-traveled gentleman, Tom?” I asked. A few prominent maps and paintings featured scenes of the Far East, and a glance at the spines displayed some with unmistakably Oriental themes. Intrigued, I knelt and examined the nearest one more closely, only to discover a curious sight—it appeared to have a significant number of pages excised, the ragged shreds left behind pointing at a hasty removal.
“Yes, but why does that matter?” Tom asked, looking around warily. “I daresay we should finish searching the house before we stop to examine the man’s shelves.”
“Fair enough,” I granted. While Tom made his way about the rest of the cottage, calling for Henry, I performed a quick inventory of the library. Despite being neatly shelved, it turned out that more than one book was missing pages, and as I set them aside a strange pattern began to emerge.
“No sign of him,” Tom said when he returned a moment later. “His wardrobe was open and nearly bare, as though he’d packed for traveling, but his steamer trunk is still at the foot of his bed. Food on the table in the kitchen as well. It’s as though in the middle of dinner he suddenly decided to go on holiday, then left his luggage behind and his door ajar in his haste to depart.” He shook his head, confounded, then gestured to the stack of damaged books I had assembled. “What have you found?”
“Something equally curious. I am no detective, but I do know my way around a library,” I said, pointing, “and look here. Most scholars tend to group their books in categories, keeping like next to like for ease of reference. Call it a university habit. In this collection, shelves of Western literature and texts are untouched,” I pointed again, “while those pertaining to Oriental matters have been subtly but extensively rifled. In particular, these works I’ve set aside have had whole sections removed.”
“Are you saying Henry was robbed?” Tom asked, looking puzzled.
“A possibility,” I allowed, “though seems unlikely that a thief would steal just pages from a book—why not take the whole volume? What’s more, I doubt that a common thief would even reach for these books in the first place, especially given the availability of objects of more immediately appreciable value.” I pointed at the fine clock on the mantle and some of the more accomplished paintings. “If a thief pilfered my laboratory, I’d expect them to snatch up the containers marked ‘gold’ and ‘silver’, since they are widely prized commodities, even though in truth they are not half as precious or expensive as my concentrated eleric extract or Sicilian iocaine dust. Still, value aside, there’s the matter of what was actually taken.”
“Information regarding the Orient, yes.” Tom said.
“It appears their interest was even more specific than that,” I
replied. The names on the spines told a story of their own: A History of the Chemical Sciences of China, Volume 1; The Folklore and Mysteries of the Chinese People; Bartleby’s Primer on the Natural Wonders of the Orient; A Traveller’s Grammar of the Oriental Languages; and, perhaps most mysteriously (and ominously) of them all, The Legendary Treasures of Asia: Famous Tombs and Lost Monasteries. “Our thief may have taken care to tear out particular information, but they neglected to remove the indices from the books as well, which meant while I don’t know precisely what was stolen, I was able to identify the contents of the missing sections, at least in a general sense. Viewed from this perspective, it seems that our thief had an interest in certain rare species of flowers common to a mountainous region of China, as well as their role in ancient and forbidden folk practices.”
“Henry spoke of visiting a sacred mountain on his last trip, two years ago,” Tom said, rubbing his jaw. “He told me they had some of the most delightful flowers you could imagine, even brought some back pressed in the pages of his journal.”
“An interesting coincidence,” I said, hoisting another volume, “as our mysterious burglar was also interested in the burial location of the Ghost Emperor, a rather infamous chemist and grave robber from the same region. And it appears that the thief also wanted the proper spelling—or rather, pictographic representation—of all of these elements in their original language.”
Tom blinked, then let out a surprised whistle. “You deduced all that in just a few moments?”
“Impoverished students learn to read quickly,” I replied. “Conserves candle wax. The question remains, however, why would anyone go to such lengths to excise these specific portions of the texts? Why not take the books, or simply cast them into the fire?”
“And what has happened to Henry?” Tom asked, frowning darkly. “I don’t like this at—what? What is it?”
“Apparently I’ve heard something,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. It was not as flippant or contrary a reply as it might seem—to my surprise and quite of its own accord, one of my ears had perked up and swiveled in the direction of the door. At first, I thought it might be detecting the distant rumble of one of Yorkshire’s famous storms, but then I realized the sound was too rhythmic, too regular.