“No greater scheme? No plan we cannot comprehend?”
“A greater scheme, which required an innocent young man to die, before nearly resulting in the destruction of the world?” I shook my head. “No. Forgive me, but I can’t.”
He smiled, a bit wistfully. “Do you truly believe in nothing?”
I held up our entwined hands. “I believe in this. With all my heart.”
His smile lost its sadness, and he drew my hand to his lips. “As do I, my dear. As do I.”
Chapter 15
Griffin’s scouting trip that night confirmed the asylum’s routine, so the next day, we rode a pair of rented horses up the coast road toward Stormhaven.
“Couldn’t we have hired a carriage?” I asked, jouncing along on the horrible beast. Knowing it had an inexperienced rider on its back, it insisted on stopping every three feet to munch on the dry grass alongside the road, ignoring my every attempt to get it to move again. “Or walked?”
“A carriage is more difficult to conceal than a pair of horses,” he pointed out. “And if things should go awry and we have to flee, it will be quicker and easier on horseback than on foot. I thought about renting bicycles, but it didn’t seem practical.”
I tried to imagine cycling up the steep coast road. I’d die from exhaustion before we were a mile out of town.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I granted as my hellish mount stopped yet again, this time to release a copious stream of urine into the road. “Let us hope no one smells horse on us.”
Griffin planned for us to pass ourselves off as attendants once we entered the asylum. Accordingly, we both dressed in simple suits similar to those worn by the asylum staff. As the female nurses wore uniforms, which Griffin couldn’t easily acquire with only a day’s warning, we’d elected not to inform Christine of our plans.
“No one will notice,” Griffin said. “They will be far more occupied by other considerations.”
“What of my height?” At over six feet, I towered a good five inches above the average man, including Griffin, which made me unfortunately noticeable no matter how much I stooped.
“It is a concern,” he admitted. “But in the darkness and confusion, chances are no one will remark on it.”
His plan seemed to be leaving a great deal to chance and hope. But I had no better scheme, so I remained silent and concentrated on convincing my mount to obey. Was there a spell in the Arcanorum to encourage recalcitrant beasts, or perhaps mesmerize them? If so, perhaps I should learn it against some terrible future which would require another excursion on horseback.
We kept our ride leisurely, not wishing to attract any attention from passers-by. Not that there were many such; the coast road was little used now these days, when the casual traveler could board a train to any but the smallest villages. The evening was fine, with a soft breeze across the bay making the electrical wires hum on their poles.
We paused for dinner just south of the headland where Stormhaven lurked. Griffin tied up our horses alongside the road and took sandwiches from the saddlebags. At his suggestion, we climbed down the rocky slope to the narrow strand of beach below and found a secluded spot to sit and eat. The setting sun cast the shadow of the cliffs over us. Gulls screamed by the thousands, swirling around their roosts, and the last plovers and sandpipers raced back and forth along the stony beach. Griffin rested his hand on my thigh as we ate and stole kisses between bites. What would it be like to be this free with one another in the ordinary course of life?
We returned to the horses just as night fell. Griffin took one of the lanterns from the saddlebags and lit it with a match. He had scouted the area the evening and night before, locating a place to conceal our horses and verifying the asylum operated on the expected schedule. It did, leaving us with another hour to hide the horses and make our way to the electrical lines.
After a quarter-hour ride, Griffin led the way to a copse of trees on the landward side of the road. These were less stunted than those closer to the edge of the cliffs, and thus offered more cover. Hopefully, no other travelers would pass by, tempting the horses to make some sound of either greeting or alarm.
Once the horses were hobbled, Griffin pulled a replacement carpetbag from the saddlebags and began to fill it with the equipment he’d brought: extra kerosene, rope, grappling hook, and chalk. After passing a second lantern to me, he shouldered the bag, and we headed out.
“We should choose poles close to Stormhaven,” he said. Flitting bats had replaced the gulls overhead. Tendrils of mist crept in from the ocean, promising of fog to come. “That way we can act quickly, before the staff has the chance to restore order. And have the wind blow from the sea, so as to bring the fog in more quickly.”
The rough wood of the electrical poles loomed into the beams of light cast by our lanterns. Griffin inspected the closest one. “You’re certain you can send them over?”
“Of course.” I measured the space between it and its fellows. “Er, you might wish to stand well clear. And out of the way of any flying debris.”
He rummaged in the carpetbag and handed me the chalk. “Just remember not to touch the lines once they’re down.”
“I won’t.”
Looking rather unhappy about the situation, he removed himself to a safe distance. I went to the nearest pole and began to sketch a sigil on its splintery surface.
As I worked, I chanted, my focus sharpening. Although I did not truly understand the principles on which the Arcanorum’s spells worked, I did know the ability of the caster to focus his or her will was paramount in implementing them. Practice had sharpened my focus, until I could block out almost any distraction.
Wind stirred the hair on the back of my neck, bringing with it the scent of the sea. The humming of the electrical lines overhead grew louder. Finished with the first pole, I moved on to its neighbor, again sketching the sigil and speaking the words. The wind intensified, the crashing of the waves against the cliff growing louder. Fog streamed around me, and grains of sand scoured my exposed skin. The stunted trees thrashed in the darkness, and the wooden pole groaned.
One more should do it.
I repeated the action on the third pole, and the wind roared up into a gale, the leaves stripped from the trees, sand and debris pelting me. The wires howled like tormented things, the poles bending in the wind, until suddenly there came a loud crack from the second one I had marked.
My heart sang along with the wires, exaltation filling me. I tasted the salt on the wind, and a giddy feeling slid along my nerves, whispering I had done this. Me. Like the moments when I lay with Griffin and realized anew I was the one who made him hard and aching and desperate for release, this filled me with a sense of power, sweet and heady.
Lifting my hands above my head, I concentrated on all three sigils at once, shouting the words into the world as I demanded the very universe bend its laws to my will.
The cracked pole gave way before the gale, overstressed wood shattering. The first pole went next, dragged down by the weight of its fellow. Broken lines snaked through the air, sparks dancing and popping.
I lowered my arms, even as the wind died away. A moment later, I heard Griffin’s footsteps, and his lantern cut through the gloom. “Well done, my dear.”
“I’m glad you approve,” I said smugly.
He gave me a rueful grin. “Well…whatever else I may think of your researches, as you call them, you did cut a rather commanding figure a moment ago. I find myself regretting we must act in haste.”
I flushed, but secretly his words pleased me. Taking out my handkerchief, I quickly wiped away the three sigils, so only smudges of chalk remained. No sense leaving behind any evidence to be puzzled over by whoever came to inspect the lines in the morning. As soon as I finished, Griffin led the way up the last slope of hill, until the outer wall of Stormhaven loomed up before us.
~ * ~
Griffin took out the rope and grappling hook. Eying the distance to the top of the wall, he swung the g
rapple a few times before tossing it. The sound of iron striking brick seemed hideously loud, but with any luck the fog helped to muffle it. Griffin tugged on the rope; apparently satisfied the grapple was secure, he climbed the wall.
I handed up the lanterns. He lowered the rope again, and I clung to it, doing my best to help as he hauled me up as well. The stones scraped against my clothing and I left some skin from my knuckles against them, but eventually I crouched on top of the wall.
The night beyond was utterly black; between the fog and the darkness, I would never have known the asylum existed save for the faint echoes of cries from within. “We must move quickly,” Griffin said. “Come!”
We dropped from the wall. Griffin led the way, using the tiny sliver of light from his lantern to guide us to the side ward whose door he had decided to attempt. Given the conditions, I would have been lucky to find even the huge front door, but Griffin navigated quickly across the wide lawn, until the stone walls loomed in front of us through the streamers of fog.
The sounds were louder now: screams and cries, accompanied by wild laughter. Lanterns flashed past windows, the staff struggling to get the patients back under control. Would anyone be hurt in the chaos? I hadn’t thought so far ahead, but now I worried our plan might end up with innocents getting injured, or worse.
As Griffin said, we needed to hurry.
We reached the door. This part of our plan depended on no one noticing us breaking in. From the sounds inside, I doubted anyone had attention to spare for the doors, but there was always the chance of ill luck.
Griffin took his lock picks from inside his coat, while I aimed the lantern beam at the door. Within a matter of seconds, the lock clicked and he hastily put away his tools. Opening the door, he stepped inside with all the confidence of someone who belonged there, and I tried to mimic him.
It was chaos, just as Griffin had promised. Even with the “less troublesome” patients here on the ground floor, several screamed in terror, and I heard the sounds of a struggle. An attendant with a lantern shoved a patient into a room, ignoring the man’s protests this wasn’t his bed, and slammed the door. “Back to your rooms, you damned bastards!” he yelled. “Or you’ll be fucking sorry for it, I promise you!”
How he expected them were to find their rooms in the blackness, with no lanterns or candles of their own, I had no idea. Griffin kept his light directed at the floor; hands grabbed at him, and he swung it out of their reach.
“That you, MacCauly?” the attendant yelled.
Griffin stepped up to the man. For an instant, I had no idea what he meant to do, until the attendant let out a muffled grunt and crumpled to the ground. Bending over his prone form, Griffin snatched up the man’s keys.
“Come on,” he said. “He won’t be out long.”
The door out of the ward opened onto the one in which we’d visited Allan. We found more of the same: patients crowding the wide halls, shuffling about in confusion, yelling and weeping.
“Give me the light!” one of the inmates shouted, grabbing at Griffin’s arm. Griffin shoved him back, and for a minute I thought the madman might start a fight. Instead, he spat a curse at us, railing and shrieking at our backs as we fled.
Griffin unlocked the door into the central section of the building, his hand shaking in the lantern light. As we started through, however, Zeiler’s voice boomed out. “Send all the attendants and nurses to the first three floors! We must regain control of the patients!”
If Zeiler glimpsed us, it would all be over. Griffin froze in the doorway, and several patients, perhaps sensing the chance to flee, began to jostle me from behind. I grabbed Griffin and yanked him back, leaving the inmates to do as they wished.
“Is there another way to the fourth floor?” I asked him urgently.
He nodded. “Y-yes. The Kirkbride asylums are all built on the same plan. It should be this way.”
We hurried back to the end of the ward, took a turn, and found ourselves at another locked door. Griffin’s hands shook too badly to get the key in the lock, so I took it from him and opened the door. We darted through, and I secured it again behind us.
This stairwell was far narrower than the grand mahogany stair near the main doors, the risers and rail made from cast iron. Running feet and the shouts of nurses rang down from above, but none made for the first floor, for which I was grateful.
I shone the beam of my lantern at Griffin’s face. His color was awful, his jaw clenched, and his lips tight against his teeth. Still, he winced at the light and shoved my arm down. “Are you trying to blind me?”
“I only wished to take a closer look,” I said. “Come—from what Zeiler said, the fourth floor will be clear of attendants. We just have to get there.”
A scream echoed from somewhere above, and Griffin flinched. “Yes.”
“Can you make it?”
He straightened his shoulders with obvious effort. “Yes. I can.” His hand found mine briefly and squeezed, and I marveled silently at his courage. I didn’t know if I could have even come here, let alone kept any shred of equilibrium, if I had suffered such things. “Let’s go.”
An iron grate barred the stairs at each floor, no doubt to keep back the patients in case they were somehow able to escape from their wards. We let ourselves through each one with the keys. Other attendants and nurses rushed past, but none of them paid any attention to us, too focused on restoring order to do anything other than assume we were doing the same. At last we reached the top of the stairs, and I unlocked the door.
Griffin stepped out first and I followed, locking the door again behind me. When I turned back, it became immediately apparent why Zeiler hadn’t been concerned with leaving anyone to handle the patients of this floor. Unlike the other wards, there were no shuffling lunatics, no hurrying attendants or hastily closed doors. The place reeked of filth of every kind, and the only sound was a faint moan, which might emanate from one of the floors below. The doors to the little rooms were shut fast, and I had the feeling these patients weren’t allowed to roam free under any circumstances.
A sense of dreadful curiosity drew me to the nearest door. Unlike those of the other wards, which had a Judas grate to allow the night watchman to observe the patients when he chose, these were made entirely of bars, like a cell in a prison. The only furniture consisted of a single, filthy bed. A man lay on it, his face thickly bearded, his slack gaze fixed on the ceiling. Heavy iron cuffs chained him to the bed, and I knew he’d not be able to move more than a few inches.
A sense of revulsion swept over me. What had he done, to be restrained like this? Would poor Allan end up like this if we weren’t able to secure his freedom? Was he here somewhere now?
If we found Allan, could we set him free? Take him with us? Surely, Griffin must have contacts able to conceal him for a time, at least until we got to the bottom of the matter.
“God,” Griffin whispered. I turned and saw him staring through an open door. Not a cell; it looked like some sort of utilitarian room at first glance, lined with cabinets of various kinds. Only at second glance did I see the chairs meant to act as shackles to immobilize patients, the cage-like “cribs” so narrow anyone inside could not so much as turn over. A so-called treatment room.
An open cabinet stood along the wall, filled with jars and wire. This must be one of the electro-therapeutic devices Zeiler had mentioned before. The jars were chemical cells, and the wire meant to connect with…
An array of probes lay on the table in front of it, some of whose use was made obvious by their shape. Bile stung my throat, and I glanced at Griffin, whose empty-eyed gaze had locked on the probes.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let a
lone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 62