Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  Adcott stilled, just for a moment. The man turned toward Jepson, who stood between Holmes, myself, and Adcott, providing a face-on view. To the day of my own death – may it be more lasting and complete than poor Michael’s – I will never shake the image of those eyes from my mind. They flared with inner light so intense that I could imagine worlds within, arms flailing and voices crying out for salvation. Those eyes were windows straight to hell, and in that second, they burned full force into the soul of Aaron Jepson.

  Jepson began to back away. He tried to continue the chant, but the words failed him, and his voice faltered, then fell silent. Adcott was moving with quick purposeful strides that slipped from a walk to a full sprint in seconds, propelling his slight frame with alarming speed toward his tormentor. The madness of moments before had blossomed into an intense concentration of anger.

  "My god," I whispered.

  Adcott hit Jepson at a full run. One of Michael’s hands gripped the other man by the throat and drove him backward into the stone with a sickening crunch. Jepson tried to speak, but no words or air made it past the iron grip at his throat. His legs buckled, and as Adcott continued to drive forward, squeezing ever harder, Aaron Jepson fell to his knees, eyes bulging.

  In a voice so clear and pure that it washed over the scene like the water of a mountain stream on a flame, Adcott spoke. He spoke three short words, and as he spoke them, Jepson struggled a final time, eyes widening further, if that was possible, and then went absolutely limp, the life crushed from his body.

  Adcott staggered back. The effort of concentration had drained him, and the otherworldly rage and strength with which he’d propelled himself vanished. He turned, noticing us for the first time, and raised a hand toward Holmes, as if asking for something. Seconds later, I saw Michael Adcott die for the second time in a single week, and I nearly fainted away on the spot.

  Holmes had me by the arm and headed toward the door before I had my wits fully about me, and we were out and into the waiting carriage without a word, closing and locking the doors of St. Elian’s behind us firmly. Holmes stared out into the night, and I collapsed into the seat and my own thoughts as the carriage hurried into the fog.

  We were seated in Holmes’ study, sipping Brandy and watching the fire that very night. Holmes was staring into the flames, not offering any explanations, and at last I’d had all I could stand of it.

  "Holmes," I said, "back in that laboratory, you said there was something we were missing. I’m familiar with Caresco’s work, and the abominations he is purported to have created. I have heard that he managed to reverse aging in some subjects, though at the cost of the mind – this is beyond me. I never heard that he had cheated death, and in any case, Adcott showed none of the madness reported of the earlier experiments. A great number of very learned men have pored over the bits and pieces that remain of his notes - they found the research to be an abomination, and the process beyond repair. Was Jepson a mad genius?"

  "He was not," Holmes replied, turning to me at last, steepling his fingers and taking a long breath. "Aaron Jepson was a Jew."

  I stared at my friend, wondering if something in the night’s business had addled his brains. He returned my gaze with his usual frank, half-amused expression firmly in place. I waited, and, finally, cracked.

  "What in the world," I asked slowly, "can that possibly have to do with this mess?"

  For the first time since we’d left that accursed asylum, Holmes smiled.

  "How much do you know of Jewish history?" he asked. I shrugged, and he continued. "There are legends," he said. "Legends that trail back to the Holy Land itself, and that are known to only a select few. When you first spoke to me, I was nearly certain that Adcott must have a twin that no one had been aware of, or a cousin who bore a striking resemblance to the dead man that they were trying to pass off as Adcott to win the funds form the Tontine. There were obvious answers, but very quickly, the obvious answers caved in, one by one.”

  "I then began to explore the less obvious, and there was something that bothered me from the start. Jepson’s name. I knew it was familiar to me, but Aaron is hardly an uncommon name, nor is Jepson, so I set out to see if I could find what it was that itched at my mind.

  "My search led me to the local temple, and the Rabbi, an old friend, was very helpful. He remembered the name of Aaron Jepson immediately, but the Jepson he remembered had been dead for many years. Jepson was a Rabbi, or had been. He migrated to London about fifty years ago and made a home here, but even among his fellows he was shunned. Rabbi Jepson had spent years in the Arabian Desert, studying and fasting. He came away from that study – changed. He had scrolls and teachings that were unfamiliar to the others already settled here, scrolls dealing with legendary creatures and the Kabbalah. Scrolls dealing with the golem. It is reported that he had a scrap of cloth that contained verses from Alhazred himself, inscribed in blood. Bits of a larger work."

  "The Necronomicon?" I asked dubiously. "That work has long been passed off as legend. And what in the world is a Golem, Holmes, and what has it to do with Michael Adcott?"

  "The Golem was an instrument of revenge," Holmes continued. "It was a creature formed of clay and brought to life by the will, faith and rage of a Rabbi. It would serve the purpose of that rage, and only the Rabbi himself could control it."

  "And Adcott?" I asked, not certain I wanted the answer. "He was no man of clay."

  "No," Holmes agreed. "He was a man brought to a sort of hellish, painful un-life by the science of Caresco Surhomme and the diabolical research of Aaron Jepson. It was the incantations, and the clay, Watson, clay from another place - another time. Clay inherited from Jepson’s father, Aaron Jepson Senior - Rabbi Jepson. The substance in that sixth vial was the very clay of which I speak. When I found a bit of it on your doorstep, I was intrigued. When I saw the vial, I was certain.

  "Through the power invested in the clay, Jepson was able to exercise enough control of Adcott’s re-animated form to lead it about in public. You’ll recall that Adcott never spoke, not at your first meeting, nor at any time thereafter."

  "But he did," I said at last. "He spoke, right at the end. What do you suppose he said, and what enabled him to do what he did?"

  "He spoke in Hebrew," Holmes answered at once. "The words were very clear, and I suspect, appropriate. I believe that Adcott’s soul managed to make use of the same power that the elder Jepson would have used to animate clay. He used his will, and his faith, and he spoke the only words that could bring him peace.”

  "He said ‘It is done.’"

  I stared at Holmes for a long time, watching for doubt, or belief, anything in those wise eyes that would prove a clue to the mind beyond, but he had turned his gaze to the fire once again, and grown silent.

  "I wonder," I said, rising and retrieving my coat, suddenly very tired and ready for my own home, and my bed, "who got the money."

  Holmes didn’t look up as I departed, but I sensed the smile in his answer.

  "To the living go the spoils, Watson. Always to the living."

  Shaking my head, I opened the door and made my way into the late evening fog.

  Within an Image, Dancing

  By David Niall & John B. Rosenman

  She danced on mist-silvered air, twining beams of translucent light with strands of long, ebony hair. Her features shimmered, ethereal, captivating my senses as she molded sound to form with effortless grace. The music undulated in the background, eerie harmonies chasing one another in ever-strengthening beauty. I couldn't pull my eyes free. My hands gripped my knees to the point of pain. Still, I could not free my eyes.

  The LED display on my monitor crept slowly through the secondary stages. My breathing stopped. My pulse slowed, and for some reason I felt dizzy. Then it was gone, and I mouthed words of silent prayer, shivering in anticipation. A few more seconds, two more banks of data, and it would transfer. I wanted to glance over at Llana, to trace the lines of her face and measure her concentration, but it
was impossible. I could only watch the crystal.

  There should have been no reason to worry, no reason to expect failure, but somehow this image was different. Llana was one of the most talented imagers of the century. Her globes adorned mantles and shelves in only the richest and most prestigious homes, the lobbies of palatial office buildings and magnificent cathedrals. She'd even had two accepted to the Universal Museum of Art before reaching her thirtieth year, an unprecedented honor. The LEDs faltered, holding steady in the upper reaches of the red secondary stage, then dropping like a shot. The dancing image and music wavered, then disappeared, and I found myself crying out in dismay.

  "No!"

  Mist flooded the globe as it returned to its static state. All external input died. Ripping the headphones from my ears, I spun to Llana, myriad questions bidding for the use of my tongue. All of them were choked to silence by the sight of her--my heart wrenched with a sudden pang of guilt.

  "What is it?" I asked, quickly rushing to her side. "What happened? She . . . it was beautiful!"

  "I know, Chelisa," she gasped. Her eyes seemed unfocused, as if she were looking beyond me. "I don't know who she is. I . . ."

  Her entire body began to tremble. Unprepared for such an outburst, I did the first thing that came to my mind, what I had been thinking of doing for years. I sat beside her and pulled her close. I was uncertain how she would react, frightened that she would push me away, but she laid her head against my breast and cried. It was several long moments before she was again capable of speech.

  "I . . . I had it," she said finally, sitting back suddenly, as though only just realizing the intimacy of the moment, the vulnerability. "I had her, and I lost her. I can't explain it. It seemed so clear, so complete--more vivid than any image I've created--but I can't hold it. There is something painful."

  I listened, my mind whirling. I had known Llana for several years and never before seen her this way. Vulnerability had always seemed my own personal weakness. Except for my feelings for her, she knew as much of the workings of my mind, the fears, frustrations, and dreams I lived with, as I did. All I knew of her were the sketchy details of long association and a few slightly drunken conversations. She was a mystery as much as I was an open book. That was part of her allure for me, part of the reason I spent my time helping to record her works for the universe. The rest was that I loved and desired her.

  Century Station was my second assignment since relocation from my homeworld. For Llana it was the only stop. Imagers are rare, especially with her level of talent. She came young and was locked into her position, even as a child. The Confederation of Planets was very clear on such matters. They send people where they want them, and if they find individuals with lucrative talents, then those people become pampered slaves--torn, if need be, from their own families.

  I myself come from an aqueous world, eighty percent water. Storms ravaged Vara constantly, making life a continuous war with the elements. The Confederation, though, deemed the risks worthwhile. There were huge deposits of plutonium to be mined. What were a few colonists' lives in the pursuit of energy?

  Llana was a different story. They'd discovered her ability when she was barely three and swiftly separated her from her parents. She'd come to Century Station soon after and did not even remember her homeworld. She'd grown up knowing only the laboratories, the enclosed gardens, video terminals, and sheltered experiences of the imagers. Imaging was among the few artistic pursuits the Confederation still supported. Image globes were a valuable commodity, one they gladly exploited. Tiny crystals of Dendrite had been the first such globes, having been discovered on Centus in the 22nd century.

  Besides producing hard, clear crystal, Dendrite had the property of photo memory upon contact with light. When the first explorers had reached Centus, they'd been amazed by the crystals, which were alive with centuries of captured images, a fairyland of multi-colored fascination. Once these crystals were taken to colonized worlds, other images could be impressed upon them. They were then encased in clear acrylic and shipped off for sale. One could, in those days, buy a perfect three-dimensional scene from their homeworld--for a steep price, of course. These images soon became a fad, spreading swiftly throughout the colonies.

  Later they found that the crystals could also be affected by electronic impulses. A videotaped image could be digitized, holographed into a small glass sphere, and implanted effectively in a crystal. In time, someone invented the dream tape, which digitized a person's own mental images and even the inner, imaginative music that accompanied them, and projected them into the crystals. It was not easy, though. The images and music had to be clear. This required great concentration and vivid imagination. Only a few could sustain an image or harmony long enough for the computer to access it.

  Thus, the imagers were born, along with the first dream crystal, which consists of a small bouquet of exotic, non-existent flowers. Today, this crystal resides in the Universal Museum of Art, along with Llana's creations.

  Llana had become a part of Century Station, much as the station had become a part of her. She knew every corner, every hidden recess. Her art required it. She had to fill her mind with details, many of which were gleaned from videotapes, or even from antiquated descriptions in printed books. To create an image, she had to know it in the deepest depths of her own mind. That was the root of her mystery. Llana lived very often amid the matrix of her own thoughts. As only a friend, I was not privileged to travel there.

  "The irony of imaging," she once confided, "is that it requires a mixture of mysticism and science to work. Creating an image is a feat of deep concentration. I've learned, through my studies, that the original civilizations from which the Confederation rose knew these arts. I've even found exercises to strengthen my abilities, all taught by people that science long ago dismissed as dreamers and charlatans. Science can make the crystals possible, but the power of the creative mind is what makes them art."

  My mind drifted back to the present.

  "Who do you suppose she can be?" Llana was asking, her face a tapestry of anguish and pain. "I'm sure this is significant, different from my other images. I have never studied music or dance of this type. Where would such an image rise from?"

  "You've never seen anything like her?" I asked, envying the phantom woman she'd conjured, and wishing it were my image. Turning over some possibilities, I discarded them rapidly. "Could she be someone you used to know?"

  "No," she said, eyes not really seeing me. She seemed to be searching within her mind, even now, chasing the lost image. "I don't know where she came from, but I've got to keep trying to catch her. I have to know . . ."

  I felt a momentary twinge of jealousy, closely followed by guilt. I had always harbored dreams of my own regarding Llana, and her feelings toward me, though I'd thought she'd seen only men. When it came to images, I had created some pretty vivid ones myself, though I'd never have transmitted them to a crystal, even if I could. Llana's obsession with this woman was depressing, even though I knew (hoped?) she wasn't any real threat. After all, she was probably purely imaginary. Still, she made the void that I saw as my future loom even larger and more empty.

  I had never felt fulfilled as a technician, but my fantasies of Llana had filled that void nicely. Now this woman was threatening to remove that comfort as well. Taking a chance, I moved closer again, timidly returning my arms to her shoulders.

  She started, looking at me strangely, but did not move away.

  "Do you think I'm going crazy?" she asked. "I mean, they're just images, right?"

  I didn't answer, but I pulled her closer, holding my breath and bracing myself for rejection.

  There was no mistaking the look that now filled her eyes. Rising, she took my hands in her own, drawing me up to stand tightly against her. Then she kissed me till I almost swooned with joy and pleasure.

  "All these years," she murmured, pressing her taller body against me, "I wanted you so much, but I never knew. I thought you saw me only
as an imager, or preferred men. I never for a moment thought that you cared."

  "Never cared?" I shook my head in amazement, thinking of all the time we'd wasted, all the pointless yearning that I--and she too--had endured. "But I never saw anyone else. You must have known that. How could you be so . . ."

  "Obtuse? I guess being an imager is the only thing I'm good at." She bent and stopped my next words with her mouth, then drew back, troubled again. "Perhaps we will get her tomorrow, Chelisa. Will you stay with me until then? I . . . I don't feel much like being alone."

  Melting into her embrace, my vision, I allowed her to steer me around my control panel, which I quickly reached out and secured, and on out the door. My skin flushed, my heart racing, I shut off the lights in the control room in passing and walked, pressed as firmly to Llana's side as possible, to the lift that would take us to her quarters. I thanked whatever creator was responsible for Century Station's long, long nights.

  Later, half-drunk with her kisses and lovemaking, with the wonder of a body so similar to and yet different from my own, I felt her pull me close. Kissing her breast, I lay my head upon its softness. We embraced sleep together. For the first time in years, I had no need to dream.

  With a quick smile, one more full of pent-up nerves than any I'd ever seen cross her features, Llana lifted the sensors to her temples. My heart slowed as she settled back into a relaxed position, then accelerated as I recalled the exhilarating pace she could bring it to. It all seemed so full of meaning now, so much deeper. Before, I had cared for her, secretly, and had been upset by the loss of her image, but it had not seemed so all-encompassing in its importance. Now, knowing that she cared for me as well, and knowing how deeply her failure to capture this image was affecting her, I found myself nearly frantic with worry and impatience.