The Call of Distant Shores

by David Niall Wilson

  Antonius lacked neither. His mind unraveled the cobwebs that had bound it in an instant and he inhaled deeply, letting the opium in the candle ease his tension. He felt a strange lethargy, and then realized he was both drugged and slightly drunk. He smiled. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted the salt of sweat, and the bittersweet aftertaste of red wine lingering.

  There had to be three. It was another moment before he understood what the words meant to him. Three. One was this new body. Two was his own, standing in the caverns near the Styx, lifeless and drying out like a cornhusk. Who was the third, and where? He turned his head slowly to the side and gazed into the glazed eyes of the man kneeling at his side. Not this one. He was the catalyst – the key – but he was not part of the puzzle.

  The doors had been opened; the triptych was painted, but not yet dried on its canvas. He had to apply the seal. Then there would be time to celebrate, and to find out who and where he found himself. He rose shakily. The man kneeling beside the bed continued speaking, but he did not rise. Not even his eyes.

  On the floor by his side, Antonius saw the notebook, and he smiled. He reached down, retrieved it, and began to search.

  Patrick fell into fitful sleep. He was terrified of the images that assaulted him when he opened his eyes, and the voices that had passed earlier had been incomprehensible. He had examined himself and found that the body was not his own. It was thin and wasted, emaciated and weak. His hands trembled if he made the effort to hold them up before his face, and he did not trust his legs to support him if he rose.

  So he slept. The odd hum and glow of streetlights faded to black, and he dreamed.

  He saw the shoreline of a river. White sand stretched out to either side, and a man stood alone on the shore, staring down into the water. The words in his mind had faded to a droning hum, rising and falling but never forming complete words. He heard the whisper of other voices from the direction of the water. He walked out onto the sand in the direction of the lone figure on the bank of the river. As he drew nearer, the voices grew louder, though no less confused.

  Sid turned from the water with an effort and watched himself drawing nearer, striding across the beach with more poise and grace than he'd possessed in years. He wondered how he could be walking toward himself, but he gave the matter only a moment's thought. With a shrug, he turned back to the river. A woman, tall and slender, swirled beneath the waves with her arms outstretched to him. She rolled across the nearest wave, and he took half a step forward. The water lapped at the soles of his boots, but he did not reach out, and she washed away, replaced by a hag with rotted teeth.

  Another voice joined that in his head, and he felt something snap into place. The sound was the turning tumbler of a lock.

  Thanatos felt the feather touch of Morpheus' chord, riding the ripple of Hypnos' finger-snap revelation. He rose and turned to welcome his brother and his nephew as harmonies formed and sound deepened. Each spoke at once, voices blending in a singular understanding. They stood, side by side, as Patrick walked up beside Sid and stared into the rolling currents of the Styx. The chant continued, and they felt the third, though he was not bound by death, or sleep, or dream. He spoke, and the sound shifted realities like stacked dominos, readying them to topple in symmetrical patterns. The fabric of worlds had twisted, but it would snap back. He spoke again, and it was pinned in place. He spoke again, and the twist became a fold.

  Thanatos flicked his hand toward the Styx, and a wave rolled across the surface, gaining strength and rising above the dark surface as it undulated toward the two figures standing on the shore. The three waited in patient silence on Death's shore.

  The words continued to pour from Lucas' lips, but Antonius no longer heard them. He had managed to slide off of the bed and stand, though he was weak. The opium clung tenaciously, and he could not snuff the candle.

  "Once begun," he breathed, leaning heavily on the bedpost, "the chant cannot be stopped."

  He clutched the leather journal in his hand. He had found the final incantation. The man leaning on the bed had translated it to some tongue Antonius did not understand, but it did not matter. Both the translation and the original were intact, and he had only needed to see it to remember. Years peeled away from his mind and his thoughts cleared slowly. He woke from a pitch-black dream into a hazy fog and fought for clarity. At the proper moment, when the chant reached its apex, he would insert the words, one by one, rhythmically counter pointing the other man's voice and creating the rift that would place the seals. The chant could not be stopped, but it could be broken.

  Then he heard it. He shook his head, trying to clear the sound, but the motion shifted the opium more quickly through his veins, and he was not yet comfortable with motion. The sound rippled up from recesses deep inside him, growing in strength as it approached the forefront of his thoughts. He tried again to shake it off, but it was no use, and he slumped against the mattress, closing his eyes.

  He heard the rush of water and whispered a negation that no one could hear. He knew there were things that he had to remember, but they were slipping away. He heard the words and moaned, as crucial cadences were lost to him. He fought an inward battle, scrambling to redesign the pattern before it slipped away, to patch up the crumbling walls erected by the words he'd penned so long before, in another world and a distant time.

  He dropped to his knees beside the other man, but he did not feel the floor beneath his knees. He felt sand, gritty sand that cut like tiny diamond shards of glass and worked itself through his skin, seeking blood. He glanced up, and he saw himself. He saw another, standing at his side, and he rose, stumbling forward without thought to where the bed might have gone.

  He saw himself leaning close, listening to the whispered siren words of the Styx. He saw the ripple as the river's surface raised and rolled forward, and he knew in that instant that he would not reach the shore in time to stop himself. He cried out but the words stuck in his throat and held, and he fell silently, hand outstretched to himself – and his hand outstretched to the rushing water.

  Sid saw a face reflected in the water, but it was not his own. Other faces continued to ripple across that surface, and he watched them in fascination. They spoke to him, implored him, screamed mindlessly into the silence of his mind, but he did not reply. He leaned closer and held out his arm, and watched in fascination as that of another man was reflected. A thin man with only bones and skin to keep him erect. The sunken eyes and mummified lips were morbid and appealing at once, and Sid wanted only to touch them, to feel the cool water brush over his suddenly desiccated skin.

  He was aware of another leaning at his side, but he did not glance over at him. If he had, he would have seen that the other reflected his own familiar features, his own thin, but living hands. He would have seen himself leaning to a reflection that beckoned, even as Thanatos' wave bore down on them both.

  Neither heard the snick of Antonius' knees as they sank into the brittle sand.

  The wave rose and touched their fingers in one moment and the sound burst free of Antonius' borrowed lips in a mournful, dirge-toned wail. Hands with fingers hooked like talons broke the surface of the water and took Sid and Patrick's wrists. The two tumbled forward in unison, drawn on and down by the wave and disappearing beneath the surface quickly, blending their forms with those beneath the water without a sound, lost in eddies and swells. Gone. There was a swell in the sound as the swell in the Styx subsided, and then silence.

  Morpheus strode down the sand to the body on the shore. Leaning close, he pressed his lips to the man's ear and breathed dark harmony into the sleeping mind.

  Hypnos snapped his finger a last time and Thanatos contemplated the waves. It would amuse him to see when the two rippled across the surface, their fresh anguish giving the dark waters new sheen.

  Patrick's eyes fluttered, and then opened with a snap. He rose in confusion, nearly tangling himself in the sheets and covers of his bed. There was an odd scent in the air, but he di
smissed it quickly. His head pounded, and beside him, kneeling against his bed, was Lucas. The man's cheek lay damp in a pool of bile and his lips moved in some silent speech.

  "Mad," Patrick whispered.

  His head throbbed, and he tried to remember what he'd had to drink, how much. His mind was blank. The last thing he remembered was standing in the outer chamber.

  In that instant, Lady Claudia stepped timidly to the door and stared.

  Patrick staggered to her, placing an arm on her shoulder, as much for his own support as her comfort.

  "Call someone," he choked out. "Lucas has gone mad…"

  As Claudia's hurried footsteps echoed in the hall and through three worlds, and Patrick fell heavily back onto the fainting couch in his sitting room, a hand reached from the death cold waters of the Styx. Thanatos gripped Lucas by the hair and dragged him down the sandy beach to meet that grasping claw, whistling a dirge.

  Death Did Not Become Him

  With Patricia Lee Macomber

  It has been many years since the events I now record took place, and even now, running through them in my mind, I'm uncertain if I should continue. There is a question of privacy involved, to be certain. There is more. I fancy that when all is said and done, these words will one day find their way into the hands of others. Still, my purpose over the years has never been to further my own reputation, and certainly I've been brutally honest when it comes to others.

  Let me begin by mentioning the most glaring oddity of all. In this case, when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes admitted his newest client to 221 Baker Street, it was none other than myself, half-crazed and shaking like a scared dog.

  Upon my arrival, the clock in the church tower chimed eleven. It was later than I had thought, and far too cold for a sane man to be about. All but one light was out in Holmes' flat and I assumed him to be asleep. It did not matter. The burden of that night was too much to bear alone, and at the very least I needed the comfort of my old friend's solid intellect.

  I paced, until my shoes threatened to wear ruts in the sidewalk. I wanted desperately to turn around and return to my own home, have a brisk shot of brandy and slide between the cool sheets of my bed. What I most emphatically did not want was to see my relationship with Holmes tainted by the appearance of insanity. Still, there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead, and I finally dashed for the door in desperation, wanting to reach it before my traitorous feet turned away yet again. Before I could raise my hand to the door knocker, the door swung inward, and I found myself stumbling to a clumsy halt, staring into the grinning countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  "Do come in, Watson," Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye that set my cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Another few paces and you'll wear the leather from your soles." As he took in my own expression, Holmes grew more serious, and he closed the door quickly behind us, taking my coat.

  "I'm terribly sorry about the hour, Holmes," I blurted, "But the matter simply can't wait."

  "I gathered from the odd slant of your hat and the mismatching of buttons that this was a matter of some importance," he replied. He turned and disappeared into his study, and I hurried to catch up with him. When I reached the dimly lit room, he was already in his chair, legs stretched out before him and his fingers pressed together under his chin. "So tell me what brings you out so late on a cold night."

  "I've come to offer you a new client, Holmes."

  "But you've come alone. Who, then, would your client be?"

  I watched him for a moment, steepling his fingers and staring at me, eyes twinkling. I knew he had already deduced my reply, but I made it anyway. "It is I, Holmes. This time, it is I who seeks your aid."

  The skin around his eyes drew taut and his lips pursed. "Very well, Watson. Why don't you sit down, take a brandy, and tell me your story."

  I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the events of the evening flow back into my consciousness, telling the tale as best I could. I knew any detail I left out, or forgot, might prove the one thing Holmes needed to see through it all as nonsense, so I was careful. The brandy helped. This is the tale I told.

  It was but a few hours ago when a knock came at my door. It was later than I was accustomed to accepting callers. I immediately assumed it to be you, Holmes. Who else would call on me at such an hour? My heart quickened at the thought of adventure, and I hastened to open the door.

  The man who met my gaze was gaunt, tall and weathered as if he'd spent long years on the deck of a ship, or working a farm. His complexion was dark, and his coat clung to him like a shroud. I could make out two others standing directly behind him in the gloom.

  "Dr. Watson," he asked, his voice sharp and edgy.

  "You have me at a disadvantage," I countered. "I'm Watson, and you are? My God, man, do you know the time?"

  "I am well aware of the time," the man answered. "My business with you cannot wait."

  The man held forth a sheet of paper, pressing it toward my nose as if I could read it in the dark. "Did you sign this?" he asked sharply.

  "I can't see what it is from here," I said. "Step inside Mr..."

  "Jepson," he said, stepping hurriedly through the doorway. "Aaron Jepson. My companions are Mr. Sebastian Jeffries and ... well, read the paper, and you may see who else accompanies me."

  I knew I should have told the man to return by daylight, but I'd invited them in, and the deed was done. I glanced at the other two, who remained silent. The first was a white-haired old chap with ruddy features and wide, bulging eyes. His cheeks were overly full, making his lip drape oddly downward. I didn't know him. The third wore a dark coat, as did Jepson, and a hat pulled down to hide the features of his face.

  I glanced back to the paper and began to read. It was a death certificate. I had signed it only a week before, pronouncing one Michael Adcott dead of a knife to the back. Mr. Adcott had been out too late in the wrong part of town, and apparently someone had fancied his wallet a bit more than he himself.

  "What has this to do with any of you?" I asked bluntly.

  "Mr. Jeffries," the first man explained, "is my solicitor. I should say, he is my cousin's solicitor. I'm not certain if you would have been told, but there was a sizeable investment – a tontine – involved in the death. Michael was one of only two surviving members of the tontine, and upon the declaration of his death, the courts moved to deliver the tontine's assets to a Mr. Emil Laroche."

  "I knew of no tontine," I said, "but I see no way I can help you in such a matter. Mr. Adcott died, and as I understand such arrangements, that would indicate that the courts were in the right."

  "So you say," Jepson said, "and yet, you would be – for the second time this week – mistaken."

  I blinked at him. "Mistaken? How ..."

  Jepson held up a hand, then turned to his third companion.

  "Michael?"

  My heart nearly stopped. The man removed his hat slowly, staring at me through eyes I'd seen glazed and closed so few days in the past. He didn't seem to see me, not really, and yet he reacted to Jepson's words with perfect understanding. The dazed, haunted expression of those eyes burned into my mind, and I had to shake my head to clear the sensation of – something – something dark and deep. Something wrong.

  "This is quite impossible," I stated. "There is no way this can be the same Michael Adcott that I examined earlier in the week. That man had sustained a direct stab wound to the back, penetrating a lung, and he lay dead in the street at least an hour before I arrived on the scene. There was a constable on the spot, Johnston was his name."

  "And yet," Jepson said, holding up one hand to silence me, "Michael Adcott stands and breathes before you, a very alive, and suddenly destitute man. Only your intervention, Dr. Watson, can prevent a horrid miscarriage of justice."

  This was a strange situation, to be certain, but I fancy that I've acquitted myself well in any number of odd happenings over the years. Without hesitation, I stepped closer and stared at the man before me. He wavered back and
forth, as if his legs barely held him upright, and I squinted, trying to find some fault between my memory of the dead man, and he who'd disturbed my evening.

  "Impossible," I muttered, stepping back. "Preposterous."

  Jepson eyed me coldly. "And yet, a fact that is difficult to deny, I suspect," he said shortly.

  At this, the plump man, who'd remained silent until that moment, stepped forward, fumbling a monocle from his breast pocket and perching it on the bridge of his nose with a palsied hand. The lens teetered, and I was nearly certain it would drop from its perch before he could steady it, but miraculously the man got it under control. He lifted a small sheaf of papers, bringing them closer so he could glance at them through the lens.

  "It would seem," he spoke, the words slow and forced, "that we have a situation before us requiring the utmost in haste and discretion."

  "You would be Mr. Jeffries," I stated, not waiting for an answer. "I would expect, sir, that of all gathered here you would be first to note the absurdity of the claim lain before me. Dead men do not pry themselves from the grave, no matter the fiscal windfall it might provide themselves or others. This man cannot be Michael Adcott."

  Jeffries glanced up from his papers quickly, nearly sending the monocle flying. "I assure you, Dr. Watson, that he is. I have served the Adcotts for the past twenty years as solicitor, and I know my client when he stands before me."

  "Which would lead me to believe, sir, that you have mistakenly pronounced Mr. Adcott dead." Jepson folded his hands in front of him and peered down his nose at me.

  I must say that I would rather admit to an error in judgment than to the possibility of the walking dead. All evidence and proof aside, I needed them gone just then.