13
Lear’s Secret
“I have been expecting both of you,” said Professor Lear.
“You … you have?” Edgar stepped back. Tiger’s fists were balled, legs planted wide.
“Indeed.”
Edgar clenched his fists too. “Why did you draw me here?” he demanded. He looked around and wondered if there were other people hiding in the passageways that ran from this room.
“I wanted you to meet Mr. Shakespeare. I wanted you to hear the insane things that occupy his mind. I have known him a long while. He wasn’t always like this, you know. He was very learned and quite wealthy, as he still is, though now you can’t tell.” Lear took a step toward them. “And I needed a place to speak with you. It couldn’t be at the Moors.”
“Why not?” asked Tiger, moving slightly in front of her friend, sticking out her chin.
“Shakespeare!” exclaimed Lear.
“Yes, professor, sir?” He lifted his big head.
“His real name is Nathaniel Nitwick,” whispered Lear. Then he raised his voice again. “I do not think it advisable to give these people your potion.”
“Potion, sir? I am not sure I follow you. What would that be?”
“Perhaps the one that puts them to sleep so that you may study them and see if the hag appears in the flesh?”
“Oh, I doubt we would ever do such a thing.”
“So do I. Not while I am on the premises anyway. I can assure you that the hag indeed visits this boy. Sit down and tell our guests what it is you do.”
“Tell them, Lear? You must be joking!”
“As you know, I am not given to humor, my good man. I have something in mind. In order to execute it, you must tell them what it is this society does.”
The little man hesitated. “But it is the most secret and sensitive of matters. It is of the utmost importance and cannot be—”
“Tell them or I shall explain everything myself and then resign my position.” He surveyed the empty chairs. “And advise the others to do the same.”
“Very well,” said Shakespeare, not pleased, “if you insist.” He turned and spoke under his breath, “You poisonous hunch-backed toad.” Then he pivoted toward his two visitors. “Might you sit down, youths?” He glanced around the table. “You may take your seats as well, gentlemen.”
Edgar and Tiger sat, careful not to take the invisible men’s chairs.
“We, this most distinguished organization,” said Shakespeare, “believe—” He turned to Lear. “Must I really tell—”
“Continue!” bellowed the professor.
“Beetle-headed flap-ear’d knave,” said Shakespeare into his collar. Then he lifted his head again. “We investigate, that is to say, we analyze, theorize and speculate into the possibility that … the chance that there may be … the—”
“Tell them.”
“In short, there are monsters.” He shut his mouth like a peeved little boy.
“What did you say?” asked Edgar.
Lear turned to him. “These gentlemen gathered here fund research into the possibility that there are aberrations on this earth some might call monsters or demons, some of which have been described in famous stories. There will be a meeting tomorrow at noon to which you are both invited.”
“Oh no,” said Shakespeare, “they are not.” He checked the table. “The others seem to agree, so you are overruled, Lear.”
“And I overrule them.”
“You do?” He seemed wary of the professor and Edgar wondered why. But Shakespeare found his voice again. “You neglected to mention that the center of our work is the presentation of learned papers upon the aforementioned subject. For our discussion upon the morrow, I shall be holding forth on the subject of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein creature and the night both it and the Vampyre were unleashed.”
“Yes,” said Lear, sighing, “you will, won’t you.”
“Or would you prefer that I speak about the monster from the epic Beowulf? What do you think of that, of the accursed Grendel? Should I speak of who truly killed him?”
For a moment, Edgar thought Lear might strike the little man.
“I am sorry,” whispered Shakespeare.
Moments later the professor steered Tiger and Edgar out of the society’s quarters and onto Drury Lane.
“He is beyond mad,” said Tiger.
“But perhaps on to something,” replied Lear.
“Surely you don’t believe what he believes.”
Edgar again remembered those words: Lear knew.
“I do not think, generally speaking,” said the old man, “that demons written into frightening stories are real. That strikes me as nonsense.”
“So why did you bring us here?”
“Because there may be some sort of truth to it.”
He then offered Edgar a room at his hotel, the Langham, off Oxford Street, well known for its wealthy patrons. Lear’s only income, as far as Edgar knew, came from teaching, and he doubted the professors of the College on the Moors were growing rich from their occupations. Edgar tried not to look suspicious.
Lear flagged down a cab for Tiger, but she was reluctant to get in. “He may want to be rid of me,” she said quietly to Edgar as he stepped toward the carriage with her. “Are you sure you want to go with him?” She motioned back at Lear with a slight turn of her head. “He hasn’t even mentioned Lancelot’s death. We don’t know what he’s up to.” She leaned closer. “I could come with you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Edgar stepped back and said good-bye to her until the morning, then walked up Drury Lane with Lear toward their destination. He kept some distance between them.
“Sir, can you afford a stay at the Langham? And a room for me, as well?”
“No, my boy, I cannot, but the society can. Shakespeare puts me up there when I come to London. There was a day when I could have sprung for lodgings at such a place. But I chose the investigation of literature for my profession and gave up the conduct of our family’s business to my brother. You can see where it has gotten me.”
Edgar thought he glanced at his right shoulder where his jacket sleeve hung empty.
They reached wider Oxford Street and turned west. The crowds were much thicker here.
“There will be others there tomorrow,” said Lear, eventually.
“Real ones?”
The professor smiled. “Yes, real people.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday, sir. The society meets on the Sabbath?”
“Shakespeare feels it is a sacred task.”
Edgar chuckled.
“This, Master Brim, is far from a laughing matter.”
The Langham was a magnificent stone building of a beautiful light-yellow color and seven stories high, a sort of castle north of Oxford Street on Regent Street. Edgar was in awe of the regal lobby, the big chandeliers and the polished staircase.
“I have another appointment, my boy,” said Lear as they entered. “Just give them your name at the front desk.” But Edgar stopped him before he could leave.
“Sir, do you really believe there are such things as these aberrations you speak of, even just a few?”
“I cannot say for certain, but I have some reason to believe it. And as you know, something recently happened at the college that disturbs me. I knew when it occurred that you had to come here, and not just to see your dear friend. And I knew I had to follow you and speak with you frankly.”
“Master Newman,” said Edgar. His heart began to pound. They were finally getting to it. “What killed him, sir?”
“I wish I knew. Perhaps it was really just his nerves.”
But the boy could tell from the old man’s tone that he didn’t think that was so. “Can there actually be monsters among us?”
“This matters a great deal to you, doesn’t it, Brim? Why?” The big man with the dark brows stood close.
“Because I was afraid. Because I am afraid.”
“Afraid of what? Tell me.�
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“I see the hag.”
“But there is more, is there not?” Lear put his hand on Edgar’s shoulder and leaned toward him. Edgar couldn’t look at him.
“I have seen monsters in my dreams since I was an infant. They are terribly vivid. I … I used to be so afraid that I thought I would be better off dead. It affects my whole life. My heart used to pound for no reason.” Edgar can feel Lear’s grip on his shoulder intensifying. “I think I gained this fear from my father. He kept a private journal and in it he wondered about the very things that frightened me—about demons in stories … and if they might be real. He wouldn’t let me see it when I was a child, but I read it recently.” He swallowed. “There was one passage where he said how important it was to not be afraid. He wanted me to know that. He said it like it was the key to life.”
“He was a wise man.”
“Your name was in that journal.”
“That isn’t a good thing.”
“Why?”
“I … I will tell you before long.”
“Sir,” said Edgar, summoning all his courage. He didn’t know why he asked this question at this moment, but something compelled him. “How did you lose your arm?”
Lear paused for a moment.
“I lost it, my young friend, to Grendel.”
Edgar stood stock still in the lobby of the Langham Hotel staring at the professor. His father had read the famous epic Beowulf aloud in that room with the heat pipe that ran downward, sending the chilling story to his ears when he was a child. Its huge monster Grendel attacked in the dark, ripping human beings apart, eating them.
“You should sit down, my boy. It is time I told you this part.”
They found two seats in an alcove in the lobby, out of the way. Lear dropped into his with a sigh and began.
“I loved literature as a boy and chose its study. One must do what one loves. Great stories not only entertained me but I felt they dared to tell great truths. That thrilled me. What is of more value than truth? I excelled at university and found a position teaching English literature at an esteemed school in Denmark, which was where I met my lovely wife, Gretchen.” He paused for a moment and gathered himself. “As a student, and later as a teacher, I was particularly interested in how fiction and fact related. I was intrigued by where and how great authors found their characters. Sometimes, I even wondered if the well-drawn ones were, in some way, real.” He drummed his fingers on his leg. “Then it began.” He didn’t say anything for a long while.
“It?” asked Edgar.
“There were reports in the papers from time to time about children disappearing in the vast forests in Sweden to the north. They speculated that this was due to the little ones getting lost or being attacked by wild animals, but there were whispers spread about by peasants in the area that the children were being eaten by a monster. Some even said it was the great Scandinavian demon from literature, the creature Grendel. It was an outrageous idea and I scoffed at it at first. But I investigated the disappearances and was surprised to discover that as far into history as I could find, journals and newspapers had been reporting similar incidences. I had taught the epic Beowulf and had always been struck by the way it, in particular, blended fact and fiction. The hall where King Hrothgar of the Danes was attacked by Grendel was real and in a real place. I had visited the location near Lejre. Some academics believe that Beowulf was based on a real person, a hero of the Geat people in Sweden, who may have indeed come to Denmark to help the king destroy a creature or whatever it was that threatened him and his people. Whether there ever was a Grendel, of course, is unknown and is certainly a strange idea to contemplate as fact. In the great story, Beowulf kills Grendel and then Grendel’s mother and severs both of their heads to make sure they cannot return from the dead.” Lear paused. “Beowulf himself is later killed by a dragon.” He sighed. “Why are there so many dragons in stories, my boy? Did we simply make them up or was there once something like them?”
Edgar thought of the many dragon adventures he had read. He thought of dinosaurs, those great lizards science was uncovering. Sometimes it almost made him laugh to think that these gigantic creatures were once real.
“I traveled north to Sweden,” continued Lear, “taking my wife.” For a moment, he seemed about to dissolve into tears. Edgar felt uncomfortable. But the old man went on. “I went to the forests and began talking to the peasants. I went year after year. A child had been born to us during my first semester at the college in Copenhagen—Abraham was perhaps seven the year it happened. I—” He seemed to not want to go on.
“Sir?”
“Give me a moment.” Lear sighed again and stiffened his shoulders. “I had begun to be intrigued, though certainly not convinced, by this far-fetched idea that Grendel might be alive in the Swedish forests. It was like the Loch Ness monster in Scotland or the Sasquatch in Canada, but it was better: this was from literature! A colleague had told me with a laugh that there was a scholar in London who actually believed this sort of thing. I contacted him. A man named Nathaniel Nitwick.”
“William Shakespeare?”
“The same. I went to see him. In those days, he was simply an eccentric man with strange ideas. He was teaching at the university in London though he was wealthy and didn’t need to work. He had gathered a group around him who liked to speculate about life on other planets, ghosts and monsters, and loved the idea that some of the famous demons in literature might have anchors in reality. They jokingly called their group the Crypto-Anthropology Society of the Queen’s Empire and met in a room—the same room as today—in Drury Lane. When I spoke to him about the Grendel stories, he was fascinated. In fact, it was a bit disturbing, since as we talked he grew very excited, his big face became quite red, and the veins stood out on his forehead. In his eyes, I could see the madness that later consumed him. He offered me a good deal of money to further my research, and I wasn’t wealthy, so I took it. But he also warned me that he had some evidence, however scanty, that there were people who actually had these ideas at various times in history, and that a creature or two had been pursued. But those hunters, as he called them, had not lived long. Something had either killed them or they had died prematurely. ‘What if there was more than one aberration in the world and they knew of each other?’ he would say. ‘What if they killed anyone who got close to their secret?’ I found that amusing. I also felt guilty about taking his money because I knew these were just peasants’ tales, but I thought I might find some way to connect their legends to Beowulf. Perhaps there was some way in which fact met fiction and I could write a groundbreaking paper? I believe it was my twelfth research trip when—” He stopped talking again, gasped, and said, “Gretchen,” under his breath. He dropped his face into his hand. Edgar looked away. But the old man gathered himself in a moment, muttering something about being brave, especially now, and went on.
“We camped that night, far into the forests. Gretchen always woke first, that was her way.” He smiled. “We had left our boy in Copenhagen, safe with friends, so she felt free. She was excited about what we were doing. She was like that—intrigued by my work. I loved her dearly for it. So, that morning, she wandered off into the forest alone. And she never came back.” Lear’s eyes were glistening. “I searched for months. But she had vanished just like the children. I found evidence that she had been killed: dried blood on leaves, bits of her clothing. Something horrific had attacked her. But there had been no bears or wolves spotted in that area for more than a decade and none appeared there in the month or so that followed. I grew obsessed by the idea that something else had killed her, perhaps something supernatural.”
“Grendel.”
“I couldn’t bring myself to believe that, but I was big and strong and angry, and I took to the woods and hunted for the thing that had killed her, whatever it was. I spread my search throughout the forests and interviewed every peasant I could find. Then, I found footprints.”
“But there must have been ma
ny—”
“Huge ones—and I found a cave where something like an enormous bear was living. I shouted into the forests that I would find it and kill it. Before long it seemed that this creature, this beast, whatever it was, was on the run. I tracked it west through Norway and all the way to the North Sea. It seemed to vanish there, leading me to believe that it had taken to the freezing waters, either swimming or stealing away by boat. I stood on the shoreline and imagined what was on the other side of the sea.”
A sinking feeling came over Edgar. “Scotland,” he said.
“Indeed! And where would it go in Scotland if it felt it had to get away from me and stay hidden from the world? To the Highlands, the moors, the most godforsaken parts! I tracked it north and west in Scotland from Cruden Bay way up into the moors. It settled there. And so did I, to be near it, hunt it and destroy it!”
At the College on the Moors, thought Edgar.
“I started teaching in the Highlands in 1858 when Abraham was nine. I left him in London with my brother’s family. And that is where he grew up. I went down to see him often, poor boy.” Lear was sad about this too and Edgar wondered why. He imagined that Lear still saw his son. It was something deeper.
“I would go out onto the land at night and search for this thing. I still don’t know what it was. But I know that I killed it.”
“Y-you did?”
“I am six feet two inches tall and in those days I weighed over 15 stone and most of it was muscle. I was prepared to die to kill the thing that took my wife. Losing the person you love most in the world makes you capable of anything, my boy. It took me more than a year to find it. It was staying away from people but inhabiting the land near the college so it could steal the things it needed to survive—food, clean water, even clothing. I wondered, at times, if it was somehow living somewhere in the college, but clearly it was out on the wasteland, eating the wildcats and hares and moles, raw or cooked over fire. Each time I would locate a blaze, it slipped away. God, I remember the night I came upon it!” He paused again and looked across the lobby of the Langham Hotel. People were passing back and forth, eyes and minds intent on their daily lives. “I had gone out to an area where I thought it might be and simply lay down on the moors, staring up at the black sky. I heard it approach. I could hear it grunting as it moved. I stood up.
The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim Page 9