She Returns From War

by Lee Collins

  "A Mr. Townsend, an acquaintance of my father and scholar of some renown."

  Behind his spectacles, the man's eyes widened. He looked back down at the scrap of paper and swallowed. "Mr. James Townsend?"

  "Yes." Victoria stood up straighter. "He requested that I come visit him, and he instructed me to meet him in this hall."

  "Of course," the man said, returning the paper. "If you'll follow me."

  Surprised but pleased by her host's sudden acquiescence, Victoria fell into step behind him. He led her down a long corridor lined with closed doors. Some had names and titles carved into their ancient wood, but the doorman's pace was too brisk for her to get a good look. Their footsteps echoed through the empty building. Despite herself, Victoria pictured a procession of ghastly scholars with black robes and pale faces following them. Her skin prickled, and she pushed the thought away. She was here to speak with this James Townsend and learn from him how she might avenge her parents. Whoever he was, she was sure he wouldn't be impressed by a young woman who was frightened of echoes. He expected the bold, determined woman from her letters, and that was who she must be.

  Her silent guide led her up a flight of stairs and down another corridor. Dust danced about his shoes in tiny swirls. The back of Victoria's throat began tickling something fierce. She tried to swallow it away, but it persisted. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she coughed as quietly as she could. The sound seemed to fill the building like a locomotive in a tunnel, but the porter did not turn or even seem to hear.

  Some distance down the hall, he turned and approached a door indistinguishable from the others. She half-hid behind him as he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  "Yes? Who is it?" The thick wood muffled the voice behind it.

  "You have a caller, Mr. Townsend," the man in the spectacles replied. "A young woman."

  There was a muted exclamation of surprise, and the door opened. The man on the other side was small and stout. Light from behind him glinted in his glasses as he smiled and extended his hand. "Mr. James Townsend, erstwhile professor of religious studies, University of Oxford."

  Victoria didn't smile as he kissed her hand. "Victoria Dawes of Oxford, daughter of the late Henry and Abigail Dawes."

  "Yes, of course," James replied, placing his other hand on top of hers. "My sincerest condolences for your great loss. Your father was a remarkable man, and your mother a most worthy wife to him. Please, come in." He stood to one side and waved a hand toward the room beyond.

  Victoria smiled her thanks as she stepped through the door.

  "Thank you, Benedict," James said to the other man. Benedict nodded without replying and began retreating down the hall, his footsteps fading into the darkness. Closing the door, James turned back to Victoria, who stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Her face must have reflected her distaste for the strange porter, because James let out a chuckle. "Oh, don't mind him. A queer fellow, to be sure, but harmless. You'd be hard-pressed to find a man in this building who wasn't a curious sort."

  Victoria's smile felt shaky. An uneasiness had been growing in her since she came into Blackfriars Hall, and neither Benedict nor this James Townsend made her feel any more comfortable.

  "Please, have a seat." James motioned toward a pair of high-backed chairs facing the fireplace. Victoria obliged him, settling gingerly onto one of the thick cushions. Electric lanterns filled the small room with a dingy yellow light, mixing with the sunlight glowing through the single window. The remains of a fire blinked at her with a dozen red eyes. Shelves on either side of the hearth sagged under the weight of the innumerable books piled on them. Victoria started searching for familiar titles, but quickly chided herself for expecting a scholar to own any of the Gothic romance novels she fancied.

  James went to the desk and rummaged through the drawers. After two failed searches, he produced a dark green bottle and a pair of snifters from a third drawer. Glass clinked against glass as he filled the snifters. Crossing over to the other chair, he offered her one of the glasses before sitting.

  "In memory of your parents," James said, lifting his glass. She touched hers against it and brought the liquid to her lips. Checking to make sure James was occupied with his own drink, she gave the contents a quick sniff. It smelled of apples and cinnamon. Satisfied, she drained her glass. The cider was sweetened with honey and not too strong. She thought it an odd thing for a man to drink in the privacy of his study, but perhaps he kept the bottle on hand for visiting women. The founding of St. Hugh's College at Oxford meant that he must entertain them regularly now, she supposed.

  James set his glass on the carpet beside his chair. "I must apologize for the surroundings," he said. "I'm sure they aren't what you expected when I invited you to visit the office of an Oxford professor." She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued over her. "To be honest, they aren't what I expected when my associates offered me the position. One typically doesn't associate the world of Oxford University with closet-sized offices in rundown buildings, but here we are." He laughed at that. "I do sometimes wonder if I've moved up in station at all since leaving Lord Harcourt's employ. He did always say I was lacking in wit.

  "But I digress," he said, straightening up and looking at her. "Perhaps I should apologize for my indiscretions instead of my surroundings. Here I am blathering on about myself when you have such a weight of your own to bear."

  "It's quite all right," Victoria said. In truth, she didn't mind his prattling; it saved her from having to bring up an awkward topic. "You are aware of my reasons for coming to see you?"

  "I gathered some of it from your letters. You wish to discuss the circumstances surrounding the death of your parents and feel that my particular expertise may be of some use." When Victoria nodded, the scholar sighed. "I'm not sure how much assistance I can provide, you understand, but I will do what I can."

  "I appreciate your time." Taking a deep breath, Victoria made herself look him in the eye. "I believe my parents were killed by supernatural forces."

  To his credit, James Townsend did not laugh or raise a skeptical brow. Instead, he merely cocked his head to one side and studied her through his spectacles. "What gave rise to this belief?"

  "My own eyes," she replied. She recounted the events of that night, everything she could remember. The story sounded absurd even as she told it, but James listened with rapt attention. When she finished, he leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin.

  After a few minutes of silence, Victoria said, "I've not gone mad."

  "No indeed," James replied. "I'd not even considered it, in fact."

  "So you believe my story?"

  He nodded. "It is a fantastic one, I must admit. In that, at least, it is fortunate you found my name among your father's letters. Had you approached any of my colleagues regarding this matter, I daresay you would have found them far more skeptical. Worthy men, all of them, but perhaps a bit too cloistered in their thinking. Such matters are more academic than pragmatic for them, you see."

  "But not for you?"

  "Oh, no. You see, I alone of them - to my knowledge, at least - have practical experience with these sorts of things."

  Victoria leaned forward. "You have experience with the creatures that attacked my family?"

  "No, not them per se," James admitted, "although I am familiar with the stories regarding such creatures." Standing up, he moved to one of the cluttered shelves and began scanning the titles. "One hears reports of them all over England, though their exact nature and behavior, even their names, vary from place to place. Generally, however, they are referred to as Black Dogs, and they are regarded as signs of ill omen when they appear."

  "If only it ended there," Victoria said.

  James nodded. "Yes, omens are much more easily dismissed, and from what I remember, these creatures will not usually venture beyond the harassment of travelers."

  "In the strictest sense, I suppose they didn't go beyond that in my case, either," Victoria said. Part of her c
ouldn't believe she was discussing her parents' death in such a detached, factual manner. Had her heart died somewhere in the weeks since? Perhaps so, but if that was the price she had to pay, she would pay it.

  James grunted his agreement and pulled a book from a pile. The movement caused several others to begin sliding off the shelf. He put out a hand to halt the impending disaster. Pushing them back onto the shelf, he tentatively removed his hand. They remained where they were, and he returned to his chair. He began leafing through the book even before he sat down, the pages crackling softly.

  "Yes, here we are," he said after a few moments. "This phenomenon has been reported throughout the Isle of Britain for hundreds of years. As I said, they typically don't attack directly, seeming to prefer inducing fear and panic rather than harm. Still, as you so recently discovered, sometimes even that behavior can lead to tragic ends." Turning the page, he continued. "There are accounts of such creatures behaving benevolently, specifically in Somerset, where it is known as Gurt Dog. Not a terribly imaginative name, but only some of these are interesting. Black Shuck and Padfoot seem to be rather prevalent, though not in this area. Still, I suppose they're as good as any listed here and better than most. Shall we refer to these creatures as such?"

  "I suppose so, yes," Victoria said, dreading the continuation of what had become a lengthy lecture.

  "Far more intriguing a name than, say, Hairy Jack. Now then, you said the creatures that attacked you had yellow eyes?"

  "Yes," Victoria said with a nod. Goosebumps rose on her arms and legs at the thought of them. "They looked like storm lanterns or windows in distant houses."

  "That does seem to be an oddity, then," James said, adjusting his glasses. "Most accounts report bright red eyes, although they share the luminous quality with your sighting. Always seen at night, too. Some seem to think they are related to storms or other atmospheric phenomena, although sightings are also associated with crossroads, ancient 'spirit' paths, and places of execution. I don't suppose you were near any of those things that night?"

  "Not a crossroads, certainly," Victoria replied. "I don't know about spirit paths or places of execution."

  "No, of course not. Why would you?" James offered her a rueful smile. "After all, only old oafs like me go in for these sorts of tales. Pretty young ladies such as yourself have more pressing issues to attend."

  "My parents no doubt wish I'd paid such matters more heed. They would have liked to see me married off before their deaths, but I would have no part of it."

  "No need to torture yourself over it," James said, patting her hand. "What's past is past."

  "Had I just listened to them, we may never have gone on that drive." The words tumbled unbidden out of her mouth. "All they talked about was the offer of marriage I had received earlier that week. I intended to refuse it, more out of spite than anything else, I suppose, but they kept trying to persuade me otherwise. I don't suppose it would have been all that bad, really. He wasn't a bad sort, I'd certainly been propositioned by worse men, but I still felt hesitant. I've never liked the thought of marriage, but I should have tried harder."

  Realizing what she was saying, Victoria clapped her hand over her mouth. She felt herself turning crimson and looked away. Tears crept into the corners of her eyes, and she brushed them away. She'd gone and made a fool of herself, showing that she still was just a feeble-minded woman after all. James would never help her now.

  "I'm sorry," she managed, her voice quiet. She started to stand when she felt a hand on her arm.

  "No need to apologize," James said. "Please, sit."

  She settled back into the chair with all the dignity she could gather. "I didn't mean to say all that."

  "I don't imagine you did," he said, "but sometimes our emotions do get the better of us." He pulled his hand back into his lap, where it began worrying a corner of the open page. "I do think you're being dreadfully hard on yourself. It wasn't your fault, you know."

  Victoria nodded, managing a small smile. She knew it was, but it would be best not to argue with the only man who could help her.

  "Right. Now, then." His voice slid back into a lecture tone. "As I was saying...ah yes, these creatures appear along roads most frequently, so that in itself would explain your encounter well enough. From your account, I assume they made no noise? No howling or snarling or such?" Victoria shook her head. "Right, so then we know it wasn't a skriker. They're supposed to make a dreadful din, hence the name."

  "Would that have made any difference?"

  "Not in the long run, I suppose, but it's always a good idea to place these sorts of encounters in as accurate a context as possible. Generalizations can be dangerous, you see. It wouldn't do to mix up a black shuck with, say, a werewolf. Quite different creatures with quite different methods for handling them, and mistaking one for the other could very well be deadly."

  "So these black shucks can be killed, then?" Victoria asked, hoping to redirect his focus back to the purpose of her visit.

  "This text is unclear in that regard, I'm afraid," James said. "Quite informative on the nature of their appearance and behavior, even bits on how to ward against them, but not a word on their mortality. Being spirit creatures, I suppose it's rather a moot point. It isn't as though they have physical bodies."

  Victoria's shoulders slumped. "So they're invincible?"

  "I wouldn't go that far." James looked at her over his glasses. "Why? Are you hoping to hunt them for sport?"

  "Not sport," she said. "Vengeance. I said as much in my letter."

  "Did you?" James asked absently, returning to his book. "Perhaps you did. In any case, one thing I've found in this line of study is that very few creatures on this earth are truly indestructible."

  "But you just said the black shuck is immortal because it hasn't a body."

  "Mortality works differently on the spiritual plane, my dear. I almost hesitate to even use the word. It's sort of like asking how the color green would taste, if you follow me. It isn't really applicable in such cases, but we must use what limited mortal language can provide to discuss these higher matters."

  Victoria bit back her reply. She wished he would simply get to answering her question, but she couldn't just say it. After a moment's consideration, she settled on a more acceptable response. "What word might be more appropriate in this case?"

  The scholar's eyes explored the ceiling as he considered his answer. "Banishment, perhaps?" he said at length. "Sealing? It really depends on what your aim is. Spirit creatures may be influenced by humans, as we are part spirit ourselves. Indeed, the more unlucky ones - humans, I mean - end up as spirit creatures in many cases. Surely you've heard of ghosts and hauntings?"

  "Of course," Victoria said, "but how does one deal with such encounters?"

  "Via spiritual medium, most frequently," James replied. "A medium establishes contact with the spirit of the deceased and discovers why it chose to linger on the earth instead of departing for the afterlife. Should the spirit prove hostile or dangerous, a medium can work with a member of the clergy to consecrate the building against further intrusion."

  "But the spirit doesn't actually die?" Victoria felt hope slipping through her fingers.

  "Not in the strictest sense, perhaps, but really, what is death? Simply a change in state. If you'll pardon the example, consider your parents. When they perished in that horrible accident, their spirits were not snuffed out. They merely transitioned beyond the physical plane into a spirit realm, which most refer to as Heaven or paradise. The precise nature of that plane is not clear, though many hypothesize that it embodies an entire range of dwellings - for lack of a better term - rather than a binary system of paradise or punishment.

  "When interacting with the spirit plane, therefore, it is entirely possible to prevent entities from crossing over back into this world. Just as a physical death typically signifies the cessation of exchange with the physical plane, so too does this banishment act as a sort of 'death' in that it prevents an e
ntity from interacting with one tier of existence."

  "So it would be possible to kill these creatures, then?" Victoria asked, leaning forward again.

  "As much as one is able to, yes," James replied, "although you would need someone highly skilled in such things, especially in your case. This padfoot creature isn't your run-of-the-mill ghost."

  Victoria's brow creased in confusion. "Can't you help me?"

  "Oh, my word, no," James replied, flustered. He gestured at the mountains of books surrounding them. "As you can see, my interest is primarily scholarly."

  "But I thought you said-"

  "That I had practical experience in these matters, and so I do." The scholar's face distorted, unable to settle on a look of pride or sheepishness. "First-hand experience, as a matter of fact. While I was in the employ of Lord Alberick Harcourt, I had the opportunity to assist in the vanquishing of a rogue nosferatu, what you might call a king vampire. It was that very encounter that earned me my place at Oxford, if you want to know the truth. The other Occult scholars here felt that having one in their number who had first-hand knowledge of the nosferatu would be invaluable to their studies."

  "Could one of them help me, then?"

  James took a breath and looked down at the book in his lap. "I'm afraid that is highly unlikely."

  "Why?"

  The scholar didn't answer for a moment. His fingers toyed with the book's pages. "Frankly, my dear," he finally said, looking up at her, "because you are a woman."

  Victoria's cheeks colored. "I don't see what that has to do with it."

  James shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, well, these are traditional sorts of men. Their scholarship is excellent, but their views are very conservative. They were among the opposition when the founding of St. Hugh's College was first proposed, and I daresay they refuse even now to acknowledge it as an institution."

  "And because of my sex, they would refuse to assist me?"

  "In essence," James said, looking unhappy.

  For the second time since she entered the office, Victoria felt tears burning in her eyes. This time, however, they made her want to scream at the man sitting across from her, to take his precious books and throw them into the fireplace, to shatter his ridiculous bottle of cider across his desk. Her revenge was so close, and James Townsend's colleagues could help her realize it, but they wouldn't. Not because she was too young, too stupid, or too poor, but simply because she hadn't been born a man. Her fingers clutched helplessly at the folds of her dress. Was she really to just give up and return to her home, awaiting the day when she would marry some witless buffoon more interested in her estate than in her person? Could she live with herself after that, having failed her parents in the promise made over their bodies?