by Forrest Leo
‘Yes,’ says Simmons. ‘At times, I suppose they do. But Tompkins, it would be well if you and I—’
Simmons is speaking out of turn, and I cut him off. He seems less than enthusiastic about our adventure, and it bothers me. ‘Can you help us?’ I demand of the bookseller.
Tompkins pulls at his moustache, which is a very fine one (by ‘fine’ I do not mean that it is thin but just the opposite) and is shaped like the business end of a push broom. ‘Perhaps I can,’ says he. ‘I do not know. One never really does. But I am willing to try.’
‘Tompkins,’ says Simmons, ‘you and I really must talk.’
Tompkins opens his mouth to reply to his friend, but I silence him with a look. Simmons is behaving in a most un-Simmons-like manner. He and I must have words. ‘Simmons,’ I say, ‘are you or are you not committed to rescuing Vivien?’
He looks me in the eye. ‘I am utterly committed to rescuing Mrs Savage, sir,’ he says.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Then let’s get started.’ And I put the queer matter of Simmons’s mutiny out of my mind. I turn to Tompkins and say, ‘Lizzie and I are heathens and Lancaster’s a Buddhist, so we’re at quite a loss. Did you know Buddhism hasn’t got a hell?‘
‘Now wait a bit,’ says Lancaster. ‘I never said that.’
‘It does, then?’ I demand. ‘Did you not think that relevant information?’
‘Not particularly,’ he says. ‘There are several hells called naraka, but they’re individual and impermanent hells, really more like purgatories. They appear when you die and when you’ve worked off your debt, as it were, they disappear. In other words, they—’
‘Have no physical location?’ says Lizzie.
‘Well . . . no.’
‘This isn’t helping!’ I say. ‘We need help!’
‘What books shall we begin with?’ asks Lancaster, looking unhappy but stoic. It occurs to me with a shock that he may not like books. I dismiss the thought as soon as it enters my head as too preposterous to be borne. Not like books! I cannot believe it of a fellow man.
‘No, silly,’ says Lizzie. ‘We don’t start with books—we start with Tompkins!’
Which is of course the truth.
The bookseller sits in silence for a time. I can practically hear the encyclopaedia pages of his mind turning. Then he begins. ‘The notion of an underworld has been around since the beginning of recorded history. Somewhere souls go when the bodies they occupy die. Nearly every religion has some version of it. In Indo-European cults—’
‘Tompkins,’ I cry, ‘we don’t need an anthropology lesson! Give us something useful.’
He sighs and I imagine I can hear a few more encyclopaedia pages turn. ‘Between the Crucifixion and Resurrection, it is believed Jesus led a successful military raid upon Hell—which at that time was not actually called Hell, but, rather—
‘Essex Grove?’ I say eagerly. All eyes swivel toward me and I feel myself blush.
‘. . . No,’ says Tompkins. ‘Not Essex Grove. It was called Sheol. It was the Old Testament underworld to which the souls of all dead, both righteous and unrighteous, went. The purpose of this raid, which mediaeval theologians dubbed the Harrowing, was to free the righteous and escort them to Paradise.’
‘That’s interesting,’ says Lizzie, leaning forward.
‘Yes, interesting,’ I say without enthusiasm, ‘but still useless.’
‘It’s not useless,’ says Tompkins. ‘It is an example of the many stories in which a living man physically visits the realm of the dead. The Orpheus myth is another—as is the tale of Sir Orfeo, which was not his real name at all. The point being that it is possible. Which is an excellent place to begin.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Lancaster.
‘But how do we get there?’ I demand.
‘I’m thinking,’ Tompkins barks. The thing about Tompkins, you see, is that he has so much information crammed in his head that it sometimes takes him a while to unearth the precise piece he is searching for. ‘Well,’ he says after a moment, ‘there is of course a reason it is referred to as the “underworld.” It is generally supposed to be within the earth, probably somewhere near its centre.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ I say, exasperated. ‘It’s unscientifical.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Tompkins blandly, ‘I thought you said you’d sold your wife to the Devil.’
A hit, a palpable hit. Lizzie and Lancaster laugh. I apologise to him.
‘How would we get to the centre of the earth?’ I ask.
‘There was a German philologist, sir,’ says Simmons, ‘who some years ago claimed to have journeyed there. A Frenchman wrote a book about it.’
‘Just so, by Christ!’ says Lancaster. ‘I recall that expedition. Bungled, the whole thing, but never mind—it reminds me of something. You are all no doubt familiar with the artistic trope of Hellmouth?’
‘No,’ I say, and brace myself for:
‘NO I AM NOT FAMILIAR WITH IT, ASHLEY LANCASTER. I AM FAMILIAR WITH NO ARTISTIC TROPE.’
‘Tompkins,’ I say, ‘you don’t have any books on art history, do you? It’s rather an emergency.’
‘Certainly,’ he says. He hauls himself from the depths of his armchair and disappears into the stacks.
I stare into the fire and think of Viv. (I do not believe I have ever before referred to my wife as ‘Viv.’ It must have rubbed off from Lancaster. I think I like it. It puts me in mind of two separate persons—the woman I mistreated for six months, who is Vivien and whom I loathed, and the woman I am attempting to save from damnation, who is Viv and whom I love.) I remember her hair—the way it fell in waves when she wore it down, and floated upon the air when it was up. I remember her laugh. How funny that I should recall it at all; I think of her as generally an unhappy woman. Which was, it seems, my fault. Or partially mine. I still rebel against the notion that I hold sole responsibility.
There are several crashes from the stacks, a puff of dust, and Tompkins emerges victorious, holding two large tomes. He gives them to Lizzie, who says, ‘Thank you, Tompkins—at least there is one person here who is a gentleman,’ and kisses his cheek.
‘What were you saying about Hellmouth, boy?’ Tompkins says to Lancaster, who seems to be unsuccessfully composing a witty response to Lizzie’s barb.
‘Oh,’ says Lancaster. ‘Um. Excuse me. I was— Sorry.’ He regains his composure, glances at me and Lizzie, smiles to himself, and says a little patronisingly, ‘Hellmouth was an image popular in the Middle Ages, though in conception probably dating from much earlier, which showed the entrance to Hell as the gaping maw of a dragon belching fire. I never thought much about it before, but it’s so prevalent one can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something to it.’
‘Alright,’ I say, mystified. ‘That’s lovely, but how does it—’
‘Oh!’ exclaims Lizzie. ‘Yes, I see! Of course!’
Simmons and Tompkins are both nodding as though they understand.
‘What?’ I demand. I still have no idea what he means.
Lizzie says, ‘A volcano, silly. It could be a volcano.’
‘In fact,’ muses Lancaster, ‘I believe that’s it, by Christ! I recall now that there’s an African tribe I spent some time with who worshipped a volcano—they said it was a portal to another realm, one of spirits and such. I’d forgotten about it until just now! Perhaps you’re familiar with it, Mr Tompkins. Where exactly are you from, anyway?’
Tompkins becomes abruptly chilly. ‘I am from England, Mr Lancaster,’ says he.
‘Yes, yes, ’course you are,’ says Lancaster ingenuously. ‘But where are you from originally?’
‘I was born in England, sir, as was my father before me.’
‘I say, old boy,’ exclaims Lancaster, suddenly picking up on Tompkins’s tone, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you! Farthest thing from my mind,
by Christ! I couldn’t care less if you’re black, white, green, or bloody purple!’
‘Oh,’ says Lizzie, ‘these men, these men!’
Tompkins suddenly guffaws, whether at Lizzie or at the look of chagrin on Lancaster’s face it’s impossible to say. ‘Never mind, boy,’ says he. ‘I’ve faced worse than that. In the old days Simmons used to fight for my honour.’
This is such a remarkable piece of news that for a moment I forget all about my wife. ‘Simmons fought for you?’
‘Good man, Simmons,’ says Tompkins.
‘Hyperbolic man, Tompkins,’ retorts Simmons.
‘Don’t be prosaic, Simmons!’ I cry. ‘Did you or did you not fight for Tompkins?’
‘There were some fellows, sir, in our youth, who said some things which a friend could not let pass.’
I command him to tell us more, but my enigmatical butler only shakes his head coyly.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Tompkins,’ says Lancaster, whose bluff demeanour is in no way altered by his momentary embarrassment, ‘where is it that your people are from? I only ask in case I’ve been there.’
‘My grandfather, before he was stolen and sold, was born in a place called Makombologo,’ says Tompkins, shooting Simmons a wink which Lancaster does not notice.
The explorer looks much more embarrassed than previously, and at length admits in a low voice, ‘I have not heard of it.’
We all do our best not to laugh at his ignorance of this fictitious place, and he changes the subject awkwardly. ‘What do you know about Snaefellsjökull, Mr Tompkins?’
‘Good God,’ I say. ‘What on earth is that? Another village in Africa?’
‘It’s a volcano in Iceland,’ says Tompkins, coming back to the matter at hand. ‘Our German friend claims to have used it as a portal to the centre of the earth, and the old pagans thought of it as an entry to the land of the dead. I’d quite forgotten that. Yes, boy, I think it just might do the trick.’
Lancaster’s ego is soothed and he is grinning. It’s the same grin I saw when he was standing over me earlier—feral, dangerous, and elated. ‘Savage,’ he says, ‘we’re going to Iceland.’*
‘We can’t go to Iceland,’ I protest. ‘It will take ages to get to Iceland. By the time we make it to Iceland who knows what could have happened to Vivien?’
‘Hmm,’ says Tompkins. ‘Quite.’
‘Dash it all,’ says Lancaster, ‘I suppose you’re right. Hadn’t thought of us being under the gun, as it were, but maybe we are at that. Is there a time limit on these things, Mr Tompkins?’
‘There could be,’ says the bookseller, ‘or there could not be. It’s difficult to say.’
‘What are the factors?’ I ask.
‘Well,’ says Tompkins, ‘occasionally when mortals are kept in the underworld for extended periods they lose touch with mortal feelings. Sometimes they die outright; sometimes they just become sort of shades, living a half-life among the dead. But of course that doesn’t happen always. I have read stories of men and women who have lived for decades in the underworld and emerged as sunny as a June morning. It all depends.’
‘What does it depend on?’ I press.
Tompkins shrugs.
‘Is there any way to find out?’ asks Lizzie.
‘None reliable,’ says Tompkins.
‘So what you’re saying,’ says Lancaster, ‘is that it’s possible that if we don’t get to Vivien in time she could die, but we don’t know how long that could take, or even if we actually have to worry about it?’
‘Just so. Vexing, isn’t it?’
We all agree that it is, rather.
‘It sounds as though we must assume the worst,’ says Lizzie.
‘I always assume the worst,’ I say.
‘What we need,’ says Lancaster, ‘is a way to get to Iceland very quickly.’
Which is when I have a wondrous idea.
Ten
In Which We Visit an Extraordinary Place Which Turns Out to Be Rather More Dangerous Than We Had Supposed.
The Hefestaeum Club is not a well-thought-of establishment, we discover. We ask a bobby where precisely it is located, and he frowns, spits, demands what we are doing out so late at night, and takes down our names. He doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t believe that Ashley Lancaster is Ashley Lancaster, and doesn’t tell us where the club is. I wish I’d thought quicker and told him I was Pendergast.
‘Are inventors so disreputable?’ asks Lizzie a little breathlessly. I fear she is attracted to scandal.
‘Inventors upset the order of things,’ says Simmons.
‘Like explorers,’ I say.
‘And poets,’ adds Lancaster.
We are a strange party: Lancaster so tall, Lizzie so young, Simmons so prim, and myself so whatever it is that I am,* all wandering Pall Mall in the dead of night. I can’t entirely blame the man for having taken our names.
If you have never explored the streets of London at midnight, you should. I have already told you of my walk to Tompkins’s shop this afternoon, and I do not wish to be tedious. But allow me to observe that whatever is mysterious and lovely in the day is doubly so at night. And when it is very late and there are no other people abroad, fairies dance in the shadows. (That is a secret. Do not tell.)
Pall Mall is a street which I like. Not to visit in the day, and not for its position in society—but taken on purely aesthetic grounds, it is a magnificent place. It is broad, and well paved with enormous flagstones. Upon either side, gentlemen’s clubs loom.
These clubs are such a fixture of our lives and routines that I fear we are not fully attuned to their oddness. Here are organizations which exist solely for escaping the humdrum conundrums of daily life. For bachelors, they offer companionship and an escape from loneliness; for married men, the illusion of lost bachelorhood and an escape from femininity. For a reasonable annual sum, a gentleman of means can come anytime he wants to what quickly becomes his second home. At his club he can eat well and cheaply, he can sleep, he can use the library (which is generally excellent), and he can hobnob with like-minded fellows.
I used to belong to the Athenaeum Club, which is the club, if you are a literary man of note, to which you belong. (I could not of course technically afford it, but I am a gentleman, which means that I have a great store of imaginary money which everyone pretends is just as good as hard tender.) Since my marriage, however, I have let my membership lapse. I have craved escape, certainly, but not company. I went there once, just after my wedding—but several members clapped me on the back and congratulated me and asked me all sort of prying questions, and I left without dinner. I retreated to the solitude of my study.
Often in the last six months I have considered joining the Diogenes Club. It is a club for men such as I. In it, speaking is strictly forbidden and acknowledging your fellow members in any way whatever is strongly discouraged. It is a place to go for companionable solitude and social introspection, and is peopled by lonely misanthropes. But by the time the notion came to me, I had already entrenched myself in my study—and I have said before that I am a creature of habit.
Lizzie is thrilled to be wandering Pall Mall. It is a place which is not actually off-limits to females, but where no female would ever have reason to go—and my sister, if you have not already grasped this, enjoys flouting convention. She is flitting from one side of the street to the other and peering through windows on her tiptoes and grinning like a maniac. I see that it is time to hurry us along.
Despite my acquaintance with clubland, I have never heard of the Hefestaeum, and have no notion where it might be. We have walked nearly the length of the street and have not encountered it. We finally ask a beggar boy if he has heard of our destination.
The urchin is terrified of Lancaster’s size, and refuses to speak to him—so it is Lizzie who asks our way. ‘Hello,’ says she. ‘Do yo
u know of a club of inventors which may be near here?’
The boy nods and points past her down an elegant side street. The buildings are a little smaller than those in Pall Mall proper, and not quite so grand—but still each is rife with colonnades and porticoes and flags. A few windows are lit, but not many. The city sleeps. There is an exception, though—one building, just at the turning of the street, is different. Eerie blue light blazes from its windows, and architecturally it is the queerest sight I have ever seen. It is taller than its neighbours, and narrower, and seems to have been cobbled together from parts of many buildings dissimilar to one another. It, too, has columns—but they stand at appalling angles and seem not to support anything but other columns. It looks as though a long time ago there stood upon the spot a small two-storey cottage; and that an ambitious but unskilled architect decided to build a tower on top of the cottage; and that some time later a less ambitious but more skilled architect converted the tower into something approximating a respectable edifice, but that before the conversion was complete he died without telling anyone the remainder of his plans; and that work was then recommenced by a demented longshoreman with a fondness for drink, after which things became rather chaotic.*
As we gaze at it, there is a sudden flash of orange light from the third floor. The entire building shudders, and a heartbeat later we hear an explosion. I wonder if Will Kensington has lost his eyebrows again.
‘By Christ,’ says Lancaster, ‘it looks as though we’d better get there while there’s still a there to get to. Come on!’*
Our strange group hurries along the empty street and up to the strange building. As we draw nearer, it looms above us, taller than I had realised at first. (‘Childe Roland to a dark tower came,’ says the poetical voice in the back of my mind that is never at quiet.) I wonder that I have not heard more of this place. It is a most distinctive landmark to be so unknown. I suppose its obscurity is an indication of the rapidity with which this city grows and changes—every day there are buildings raised (and razed), discoveries made, new oddities at which to gasp. Small wonder that one peculiar architectural relic is forgotten.