CARNACKI: The New Adventures

by Gafford, Sam

  “Teddy’s eyes glistened like marbles behind his thick spectacles, and he called immediately for his carriage. It was only a matter of moments before he, Fire Dog, and I were rattling through a cold, crisp London morning for the lonely bye-streets that sheltered St. Giles. Fire Dog by now had changed into more normative urban dress and a soft cloth cap, and except for his pigtails looked as much like a Londoner as any of those past whom we careened.

  “As our carriage turned at last into the little courtyard where the church nestled, it seemed as if a cloud had suddenly covered the sun—no, I tell a lie: it seemed as if the light had been sucked out of the part of the world where we were.

  “I was no expert on church architecture at that time, but from the exterior I took St. Giles to be a structure of the late mediaeval period—perhaps erected not long after de Rais himself went to the gallows in 1440.

  “The prevailing Gothic impression was complemented by what seemed at first impression to be gargoyles perched here and there around the entrance above our heads . . . but they weren’t gargoyles of the usual sort.

  “Fire Dog noticed them first—no doubt his eyes were keener—and he pointed aloft. My eyes and Roosevelt’s followed his, and Teddy, who was usually the epitome of a gentleman, could not restrain a curse.

  “‘Do you see, Carnacki?’ he cried. ‘They’re not gargoyles! They’re statues of women and . . . children, writhing as if they’re suffering . . .’ And he wrenched his head from the sight, tore his glasses from his eyes, and wiped them vigorously with his handkerchief.

  “‘I’ve seen enough,’ he rasped. ‘This is a hellish place. I don’t want to go inside.’

  “We were about to leave when Mr. Roosevelt had his worst shock of the day.

  “The incredibly ancient, thick door of the building creaked open, its hinges making a sound like a living creature, and out of the yawning darkness stepped Miss Edith Carrow.

  “‘Teddy!’ she cried. ‘How good of you to come to fetch me!’

  “She smiled up at him innocently and happily, and then fainted as of one dead into his muscular arms.

  “Before I could stop him from moving her, he’d lifted her into the carriage, but at that point I asserted myself and took charge, refusing to allow further action until I’d made some basic inspection of her state, both medical and psychic.

  “Her pulse was very weak, and her colour was extremely pale. As I went to loosen her high collar, I noticed that her skin was as white as her linen, save for a tiny reddish inflamed wound on the left side of her throat.

  “After a few more quick glances and the recital of a few words from the Sigsand Manuscript over her, under my breath, I summoned her fiancé.

  “‘Mr. Roosevelt,’ I said, ‘I know not how, yet, but it appears that your young lady has lost a dangerous amount of blood.’

  “The American’s strong jaw clenched.

  “‘How can you help her, Carnacki?’ he asked me.

  “I was silent and deeply troubled. I knew of Blundell’s work with blood transfusions, but his results had been erratic. (This was, of course, fourteen years before Landsteiner’s discovery of the blood groups.)

  “‘I fear, sir, that prayer is your own best resort,’ I replied, remembering that he was a Sunday-school teacher, ‘but you should certainly take her away from this place to do it.’

  “‘Then you can offer me no medical or scientific recourse?’ he asked me. He scrutinised me closely behind those thick glasses, because he’d noticed my hesitation.

  “‘There’s a method of transfusing blood,’ I admitted, ‘but I haven’t seen it tried, and it is never 100% effective.’

  “‘But you know how to do it?’ the American pressed.

  “‘I attended Dr. Blundell’s last lectures,’ I confessed.’

  “‘Then you must try, Carnacki!’ he snapped decisively. I grasped him by the forearm.

  “‘I shall save her,’ I promised him. ‘But then I must make her salvation sure by coming back here to finish the creature that has done this.’

  “The carriage was soon taking us back to the hotel, moving as swiftly as it might without unnecessarily jarring Miss Carrow in her undead sleep.

  “When we arrived there, the hotel servants were enlisted in turning Miss Carrow’s bedroom (which was in a suite next to Roosevelt’s) into the semblance of a surgical amphitheatre. I swiftly sent for a commissionaire to fetch equipment in my name from Barts, which happened to be the closest hospital. I also gave the commissionaire a second note to deliver.

  “I took Miss Carrow’s pulse again and was alarmed to see how much it had fallen.

  “Roosevelt asked me about her pulse and also about the second note I’d given the commissionaire.

  “‘Her pulse is falling. And I’ve sent for Mrs. Noyes, the niece of Dr. Blundell, who is the only person in England whom I trust to assist me in this blood transfusion process, which I fear we must hazard.’

  “Roosevelt looked grim but said nothing.

  “‘Fire Dog mentioned that Miss Carrow’s sister was in town, I believe,’ I added. ‘Do you suppose she would consent to be the donor?’

  “‘You m-mean,’ he stammered, ‘be the one whose blood is drawn out to be put into Edith?’

  “‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We don’t know why, but it seems that close family members seem to be more . . . successful donors.’

  “‘I’ll send a card to her at once,’ he said.

  “After Mrs. Noyes had arrived, all petticoats and business with her bottles, tubes, and needles, and the other Miss Carrow had also appeared, frightened but determined, we were blessed with a successful transfusion, and the patient began to stir back into life.

  “By that time, Roosevelt’s own Harley Street specialists were in attendance, and I felt free to slip away and catch a hansom back to St. Giles, where I knew the real battle to save Edith was yet to be fought. Fire Dog and the members of his band begged to join me, and I was glad to have them.

  “Despite the fact that the huge door of the ‘church’ had apparently yielded from the inside so easily to the touch of a weak girl, we found that it took all the strength of four men to pry it open from the outside.

  “Once within, we all stood motionless while our eyes grew accustomed to the intense darkness. We were especially disinclined to grope our way forward (I admit I was: remember I was very young) because of a very strong smell of newly turned earth, which suggested that a pit—perhaps a new grave—might lie uncomfortably close before us, unseen. There was a scent of mould in it, and perhaps of other things that didn’t bear contemplation.

  “Scurryings in the dark could just be heard as well. I suddenly realised that I could hear so acutely because we were all holding our breaths.

  “As we inched along and our eyes became accustomed to the dark, we suddenly realised with a shock—without a doubt, all of us at the same moment—that our feet were on the edge of a great pit that had been cut into the very floor of what seemed a most ancient building.

  “To one side of us, we could dimly make out a pile of the paving stones and memorial blocks that had been pried up to enable the diggers to do their work.

  “The pit seemed to take up most of the entryway of the church in width, leaving the merest margin of a few inches on the left side opposite where the stones had been piled, so that I wondered how Miss Carrow had made her way safely around it.

  “The depth was assuredly greater than the height of a tall man, but we could make out what was at the bottom of the pit because of a sort of phosphorescent glow it gave off.

  “It appeared to be a huge rock of some sort, which had recently been splashed with some sort of liquid.

  “‘Do you smell that, Mr. Carnacki?’ asked Fire Dog.

  “‘I do,’ I responded. ‘I fear that we all four have scented it more often than we’ve preferred—and now we know how Miss Carrow came to be so short of it,’ I added.

  “Before I could stop him, the medicine chief had leapt down in
to the pit for a closer examination, and then as quickly again made a herculean jump back up to rejoin us.

  “‘My people have a story about Creation,’ he said, ‘when the blood of all the First People turns to a sacred red stone . . . but I think this one looks more like the work of . . . well, I guess the best word in your language would be witches.’

  “‘Here!’ I cried. ‘What a fool I am! I don’t even have my pipe. Have any of you brought anything to light these candles?’

  “I’d found the place in the church where the ‘believers’ could light candles to whatever heinous thing they worshipped, you see, and in a short while Fire Dog had lived up to his name and produced enough light for us to examine the main chamber where we stood much more exactly.

  “The carvings upon the walls, which were plentiful and looked to be about of the period of King Henry VI (and Giles himself), tended more towards the demonic than the angelic: where there were angels, they were falling into the flaming pits, and where there were dragons, they seemed to be on the verge of overwhelming their knightly opponents.

  “There was a recognisable relief of Joan of Arc on a steed, and at her side someone in armour who could only be de Rais. ‘Notice his marshal’s baton,’ I pointed out.

  “Fire Dog squinted his eyes at the carving and picked up one of the candles to carry it over to the carving for a closer inspection.

  “‘Are these fangs?’ he asked.

  “Then there was a carving of Joan and Giles waving their batons at a walled town and making the walls fall.

  “Next a carving of Joan being burnt as a witch.

  “Finally there was another carving of Giles, making his ‘conversion’ before the gallows, and Joan was there in a cloud of glory, waving another kind of wand over him.

  “But there was one carving, among the plethora of them, that especially caught my eye.

  “‘See here!’ I called out to my companions, who were making their own horrified inspections. ‘This falling star crashing onto the earth and being worshipped!—and here! A verse from the Vulgate: Oh dear, my Latin is so rusty, let me see . . .’

  “‘Let me translate it for you, Mr. Carnacki,’ offered Fire Dog. ‘Let’s see . . . Of course! Isaiah 14:12: How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!’

  “‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I believe that what we have in that pit is no ordinary rock, but a meteor!’

  “There were still more carvings in a series which seemed to show crowds coming to see the meteor, then some of the people in the crowds falling over as if ill and then dying. In fact, it looked as if they were stricken by plague. But others of the meteor worshippers seemed to stay hearty and well, and were depicted mocking and laughing at the sick ones.

  “Suddenly, Fire Dog slapped at his neck as if he had been stung by an insect. When I inspected the spot with the light of a candle, I have to admit that my own skin crawled when I saw an inflamed area that was the twin of the one on Miss Carrow’s neck.

  “With no more adieu we all exited the hellish place. I had a curious flash of insight and flagged down a passing hansom when we were back on the street, and paid the driver to head for the School of Science in South Kensington to fetch a friend of mine who I felt could help us.

  “‘Who might that be?’ asked Fire Dog, still holding his hand to his neck.

  “‘Professor Huxley,’ I responded.

  “‘The illustrious Darwinist?’ asked the medicine chief.

  “‘The very same,’ I replied. “I believe he should be at the school today, but not lecturing.’

  “‘But how can he help in this case?’ asked the Indian. ‘This seems to be more a matter for Professor Van Helsing!’

  “I don’t mind telling you, gentlemen, that I was at a loss for words for a moment. But soon enough my hansom returned, and out of it emerged, not the stupendous, bombastic Huxley in all his glory, but—a small, hesitant-looking boy with a drooping mustache, looking for all the world like a mole emerging from a hole.

  “‘What’s this?’ I cried. ‘Could Professor Huxley not come?’

  “‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Carnacki,’ replied the lad meekly in a Kentish accent, ‘though he sends his apologies. But he sent me: I’m one of his students, sir. My name is Herbert George Wells.’

  “The combination of the name, the appearance, and the accent suddenly brought recognition to my mind.

  “‘Why, I know you, Bertie!’ I smiled, clasping his hand warmly. ‘Your father is Joe Wells, who played cricket for Kent County! How is he?’

  “‘Not playing much since he fractured his thigh,’ said young Wells. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Mr. Carnacki.’

  “Fire Dog and the other Red Men were staring at us peculiarly.

  “‘But, er, what is your knowledge of biology, lad?’ I asked the boy. ‘Any work in evolution?’

  “‘I fancy I might know a bit if you’ll try me, sir,’ said Wells, with a bit of pride and, perhaps, a hint of truculence.

  “‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ I suggested.

  “Once inside the candlelit ‘church,’ I pointed out the stone in the pit to Wells and showed him the carvings of the shooting star on the wall, together with those of the apparent plague that followed its arrival.

  “‘I see what you mean, Mr. Carnacki,’ the boy said, grasping my idea at once. ‘Worship of a meteor. Illness, plague in its wake. The feeding of blood to it is curious unless— Ah! Now I see why you wanted a Darwinist!’

  ‘The boy stared at me, and I wondered which one of us would be the first to speak.

  “‘Am I right,’ I asked him, ‘in believing that a micro-organism can live for centuries?’

  “‘Well, that’s one theory,’ answered the boy warily. ‘We can’t see why not. Humidity would help . . . and nutrients.’

  “‘Blood, for example?’ I asked him.

  “‘By my Fathers!’ gasped Fire Dog. ‘Do you mean to suggest that there’s some ancient germ from space on this meteor that infected Miss Carrow as well as me?’

  “‘It’s certainly not impossible,’ murmured Wells, ‘but it might not necessarily be an infection per se, at least it might not be harmful to everyone with whom it comes into contact. It might ultimately be some kind of neutral micro-organism that’s just seeking a host . . . even benign for carriers who hadn’t a bad reaction to it. It’s obvious from the carvings on the wall that the initial exposure in the fifteenth century carried off some but spared others, who became its initial worshippers. In fact—’

  “I made haste to cut him off.

  “‘I suppose it also might be what sent de Rais mad, if he came into contact with it—which he might have done if he was secretly involved in the betrayal of Joan to the English. In fact, he might have taken a piece of the meteor back to France, to which he was feeding blood. But that’s neither here nor there to us at the moment,’ I said. ‘We’ve just got to summon the police to round up the current so-called worshippers of this thing. We don’t care about the poor demented devils who’ve been feeding it blood for the past four centuries, but only about catching and stopping the current crop who tried to feed it Miss Carrow just a few hours since!’

  “‘But Mr. Carnacki!’ cried Wells. ‘We’ve got to make sure we preserve the micro-organism as well, so we can study it! You must realise what this means, too. I know you do! If a meteor containing life could fall in the fifteenth century, then why not other such meteors in other centuries? Why not one in the very beginning, to be the commencement of all life on earth? Remember what Darwin wrote: ‘. . . from the simple beginning, endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.’

  “We all stared at him, struck with the wonder of it—and (I at least) with the terror.

  “‘A pretty theory, lad,’ I pronounced at last, ‘but of course we have no data. We shall never know, since we can hardly travel back in time to see.’

  “Wells laughed.

  “‘Oh, but Mr. Carnacki!�
� he said. ‘We can! I’ve worked it all out! I’ve put it all in the form of a novel, so my fellow students won’t guy me about it, but I’m going to run it in the Science School Journal.’

  “And there you have it, gentlemen,” Carnacki said, looking around the room at us. “H. G. Wells, of course, did print his little fantasy of time travel in his college magazine, and later had great success with it as a book. But did he really master the art of moving through time backwards? Just forward, I imagine, like the rest of us. Although he once showed me a curious flower—I have it over here in a glass case, if you’d like to see it.

  “I recommended to Roosevelt and Miss Carrow that they change the site of their nuptials to the church of St. George’s, in Hanover Square, where they did indeed have a very quiet ceremony. (Mr. Roosevelt, upon reflection, dressed his Indian friends as English gentlemen, and they passed very well, being rather better read than most of the peers at the ceremony. But as our friend Teddy’s subsequent career showed, he was never shy about causing a commotion.)

  “Curiously enough, my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes—not a bad investigator, gentlemen, but narrow-minded!—was involved in an investigation that revolved around the church of St. George’s, Hanover Square. And it’s right down the Square from the old home of Dr. Blundell, whose theories proved so helpful to me in this case.

  “The depraved worshippers of the Fallen Lucifer and his St. Giles were rounded up by the police and given stiff sentences, I’m glad to say. The evil church of St. Giles itself was razed to the ground and sewn with salt by order of the archbishop—old-fashioned chap—but not before Professor Huxley and Mr. Wells had obtained a good sample of the alien microscopic life form that dwelt on the meteor below the church.

  “What they did with it, I prefer not to know, although I’ve heard outlandish rumours—including those of an attempt to ‘seed’ the moon by using something akin to Wells’s imaginary Cavorite (which he wrote about in another of his romances) as a carrier vessel. Fortunately, I’m assured by the best scientific experts that the moon is a dry world, so that the micro-monsters could never survive there.