by Nick Marsh
A shocked silence descended in the restaurant car as the implications of this settled upon us. The eye had clearly been removed very recently – but it was not Uncle Neville’s! As I thought of that, I remembered the man staring at me, crying out ‘Give me your head’ in that strange language. I thought of his wide, insane eyes. Brown eyes.
‘It’s his,’ I said. Everyone turned to look at me, whilst I stared at the gooey mess in Milos’s hand. ‘The attacker. It’s his eye.’
This bizarre twist to the horrible events of the morning seemed too much to bear, and we all fell silent, allowing the doctor to finish his stitching whilst Milos quietly disposed of the eye at Uncle Neville’s request. Uncle then retired to his cabin, to rest, aided by the doctor’s sedatives and analgesics, whilst the waiters, unflappable as ever, set about making the restaurant car ready for dinner. Uncle Neville had insisted that he didn’t wish to talk to the police, and Auntie Betty had pointedly told the chef de train that she hoped she could rely upon his and his staff’s discretion in this matter. He assured her that the other passengers would be told that the delay had been caused by snow upon the tracks, and that the incident would not be mentioned again if that is what we wished. Within a few moments the train was moving again, and I soon found myself sitting with Grace and Milos at the dinner table, somewhat dazed whilst life around us returned to normal.
The morning had one last surprise for us, however. A small, portly gentleman sat down at the table opposite, with his newspaper in hand. As he began to read, a photograph on the front cover drew my attention. It showed an elderly peasant farmer, his face a map of weathered wrinkles, holding something in his hands, on display for the camera, cradling it like a mother would her child. Though I had never seen it before, there was no mistaking the style – the smooth curves, the vaguely sinister aspect. It was the head of the Sedefkar Simulacrum!
The man graciously agreed to give us the paper, and Milos translated the story for us. According to the report, a peasant farmer living on the outskirts of Sofia had discovered the head in his back field the previous afternoon, breaking a plough blade in the process. He had found a small bag of Bulgarian coins bundled with it, which may have explained the broad smile upon his face in the photograph. The coins dated to the time of the Bulgarian War of 1875. The writer of the report speculated that the coins and the head had been buried to keep them safe from invading armies, and concluded by saying that the head had been taken to the University of Sofia for further study.
Almost without trying, we have located the final piece of that infernal thing in the trunk. The more pieces of the statue we find, the worse our luck seems to become. Whatever is going to happen to us when we have the whole thing?
The porters are calling. We have arrived in Sofia.
From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Sunday, 15th November 1925
Dear Diary,
Seems silly writing ‘Dear Diary’ all the time, when what I really mean, with all my heart, is ‘Dear Walter’. I wish you were here with such yearning that I feel I’ll burst.
Sorry, dear diary, to fill these pages with such sentimental twaddle. I am trying to lighten my mood. Grace and I have spent a melancholy day walking the streets of Sofia, whilst Uncle rests in the hotel (another in the ‘Moulin’ chain – this one, appropriately enough, is the ‘Moulin Violet’). Milos and Auntie Betty are staying with him – in fact, Milos refuses to leave him. I think he feels he failed Uncle in some way by not finding his attacker, but he won’t talk about it. He was concerned about us leaving to explore, but neither of us felt we could spend another moment in that hotel watching poor Uncle. We wanted fresh air.
And fresh air is certainly what we got! The winter is deepening, and Sofia (so a porter told me at the station) is quite high up, in a valley surrounded by mountains, so the air is even colder than the rest of Bulgaria. You wouldn’t know about the mountains, of course – the city is blanketed by clouds that dampen our clothes and our spirits. Grace was even more morose than usual, but better company than Auntie or Uncle at the moment.
We were surprised at the size of Sofia, considering that neither of us had really heard much about it before – but it would be something of a stretch of the truth to suggest it is a beautiful city. Everywhere buildings are going up, or being knocked down. A lot of the homes look temporary or at least new. I think that a lot of refugees came here after the war (but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you whose side they were on! Grace didn’t know either and we’re both too ashamed to ask Milos or Uncle)[45]. The whole city has a ragged, broken appearance. The people are not so friendly, and almost none of them speak English.
I hope we find this rotten head soon so that we can move on.
Grace and I talked about Paris as we wandered through the streets. It seems like so long ago – can it only have been two weeks? Things feel very different now.
Oh, I can’t seem to get out of this rotten frame of mind. Even catching Auntie Betty in the act of cheating during whist didn’t bring me out of my funk. Anyway, we are making progress. Uncle Neville has been visited again by the taciturn Dr Hagge (who is in Sofia on business for a few days), who says that the wound is healing well. Apparently Uncle has a strip of gauze in there which Auntie Betty needs to slowly pull out, a little every day, to reduce infection – it turns my stomach just thinking about it! – but the upshot of it all is that he feels well enough to visit the university with us tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll have the thing and be on our way by nightfall!
Auntie says she wants a ‘chat’ with us all over dinner tomorrow, when Uncle feels better. I’m sure it’s about the thing we saw in the caves. We’ve all been reluctant to talk about it.
I shall try and get some sleep. I miss you, Walter.
Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Sunday, November 15th, 1925
The pain isn’t really so bad – at least, not when that ruddy Danish quack isn’t poking his fingers inside my head. I’ve had worse in the war. At least it takes my mind off things. No, it’s not the pain.
I’ve heard of it, of course. Chaps start seeing things when they’re under stress. At the start of the war, a whole company swore that a host of angels came down from heaven to protect them from the bullets. I once had a sergeant convinced he had been visited in the night by the Devil, who offered him his life in exchange for the souls of his men. Shellshock.
Never heard of anything like this, though. Can’t mention it to the others. They’re already worried after my behaviour in Trieste. Still having trouble getting that amulet out of mind, but this is... well, it’s totally different. Don’t think it’s visions, anyway. Starting to wonder if there is some truth to all that black magic mumbo-jumbo they used to talk about in Africa.
It started about an hour after the attack. Thought my sight was coming back at first, until I remembered that there was no chance of that, but still – started to see things. Out of the empty eye. It’s hard to describe, really – just flashes, flickers. I can’t seem to stop them.
At first it was glimpses of trees, like someone running through dark woods, with snow on the ground. Then, in the distance, I saw a black car. Seemed to climb into the thing. Then it was visions of a rutted mountain road, driving along it at high speeds, enough to make me feel dizzy when I was just sitting still.
A few weeks ago I would have put it down to nerves, or some other rubbish like Freud talks about. But after seeing that thing in the cave in Postumia, I’m starting to wonder.
The question is, why? Why would he take my eye?
And how am I still able to see through it?
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Monday 16th November, 1925
I don’t know where we can go from here. Perhaps it is for the best. I am considering discussing the situation with our new ally – well, perhaps I should say ‘my’ new ally, as I haven’t talked about him with the others yet. I shall, tonight. I really shall. I have nothing to hide. I have done the right thing. I just need a little Dutch courage
first.
If I write about what happened at the university, it will help me think. I forget the name of the place. They’re all so hard to pronounce and, unlike France and Italy, no-one even tries to talk English. Thank heavens we have Milos with us or we would have come to a dead stop before we started. Anyway, it seems it is named after a prominent Bulgarian academic and saint, whose name – well, all I can say is that his name sounded like someone waving around a bag full of broken crockery. If the university staff follow his apparently divine example, then he must have been surly, lazy and suspicious, because that’s how they treated us all morning. Eventually, through Milos, I managed to convince someone at the desk (I’m still not entirely sure who) that I was there out of genuine academic interest (Violet and Grace seemed surprised; I think that they often forget I’m almost as well qualified as Alphonse was, but a woman must make sacrifices for her family; a lesson Violet would do well to learn). A porter was sent upstairs, and, some time afterwards, a wizened, gnome-like man tottered slowly down them again and introduced himself as Professor-Academician Alexander Chedenko. He had a long, white beard and narrow gold-rimmed spectacles, looking every inch the life-long academic. His manner was reserved, but friendly enough, and although he couldn’t speak English either we found common ground with Greek and Latin, with Milos filling in any areas that such ancient languages couldn’t cover. It turned out that Professor Chedenko had read some of my work from Cairo, and even about some of my less well-known investigations in Northumberland. I neglected to mention Alphonse’s name, as I have found over the years it can hinder as often as it helps.
Professor Chedenko agreed that yes, a statue head had been brought to him; a head that was unlike anything he had encountered in his studies before. No one at the university had even been able to date the artefact as yet, let alone identify which culture might have created it. When I hinted that I might know something more about it, he was intrigued, and agreed to show me the piece for closer examination. He led us down a winding stone staircase and along a wide corridor lined with menacing suits of armour. Halfway down, Neville staggered, clutched at his face and let out a muffled groan. He must still have been in a lot of pain but he refused our offers of help, instead hurrying down the corridor with a sense of urgency much as he had displayed in the caverns in Postumia. Professor Chedenko struggled to keep up with him, and when I asked him to slow down he merely shook his head and moved even faster. He half-ran up to a heavy wooden door and tried to open it, but the door was firmly locked.
Finally catching up with him, Chedenko frowned, explaining that the room should have been left open. He fumbled in his pocket and finally produced a key on a long chain.
‘Hurry, man!’ Neville kept saying under his breath.
‘What has got into you, Neville?’ I asked him, sharply, but then Chedenko swung the door open and the scene of pure chaos beyond took all our breaths away.
The room was large, lined with books, banners, weapons and suits of armour from Bulgaria’s turbulent past. Three bodies lay in the centre of the room, covered in glittering fragments of broken glass. One had been decapitated. A small ornate pedestal rolled on the floor beside the carnage. It must have held the head of the statue upon it only moments before.
Chedenko stood in shock, gaping in horror, but Neville didn’t hesitate. He ran quickly across the room to the broken window, peering out at the city beyond. Milos, Grace and Violet rushed to the other fallen men, whilst I joined Neville at the window in time to watch a black automobile speed away and disappear.
We were too late. The head of the Simulacrum was gone.
It was quite clear that the police, when they arrived, assumed that the horrific attack was the work of communists. It suited us for them to think so too so we didn’t contradict them during our brief interrogation. Professor-Academician Chedenko was quite beside himself, and had to be helped from the scene of the crime by a medical team from the nearby hospital. One of the men was still alive, but he had been clubbed with such force that a piece of his skull was depressed and pressing upon his brain – there is little chance of him regaining consciousness any time soon.
However, I do not think we need his testimony to tell us what has happened. Aside from us, two other parties are seeking the statue – the Turkish cult that attacked Julius, and the creature we saw in the caverns in Postumia. I think it unlikely that the creature drives a car, which can only mean that the cult has beaten us to it. We cannot now complete the statue, and we have no clue where they may have taken the head.
So what can we do now? Dare I mention the duke to the rest of the party?
I shall sleep on it. I need more time to think. We will see what the morning brings.
Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Monday November 16th, 1925
The dreams are back again. Except that they can’t be dreams. I haven’t slept since the business with the amulet. Visions, I suppose. Been having them all night. Don’t think I could sleep even if I wanted to.
I knew what was happening in the university. I watched it happen – God help me, it felt like I did it! As we were walking down the corridor towards that room, I saw the attack happen. The cultists (I suppose that’s what they are) attacked in a frenzy, butchering the men like cattle. They showed no mercy. I’ve seen worse in the war, it’s true, but to see it through my own eye, to feel as if somehow it’s me...
They escaped with the head of the statue, amongst other things, through the window and into that black car. I was with them when they drove away – had a job not falling over, trying to walk in a straight line whilst watching the road speed by. I can’t hear a word they’re saying, though. I think we went back to the hotel afterwards, though it’s all something of a blur. Betty and Violet were fussing over me, thinking I was in pain, and Grace was talking about sending me to the hospital. All the time I was watching their progress, as I have been watching all night.
I have seen the cavern, and their mad dances within it. I know where they have gone. I know where the head is.
Dawn is coming. I think it’s time.
From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Tuesday, 17th November 1925
Dear Diary,
Uncle Neville seems to be making a peculiar habit of waking us up and dragging us off to strange places at ungodly hours. At least we had a lie-in this morning, because his frantic knocking began at quarter past seven, which makes a nice change from the middle of the night.
Grace and I made ourselves presentable and opened the door to find Uncle in one of his impatient moods. He wasn’t quite lit up with the same fire that burned in him in Trieste, but something was certainly agitating him.
‘What is it, Colonel?’ Grace asked, as Milos and Auntie Betty emerged from their rooms.
Uncle took a deep breath.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know I’ve been acting strangely, recently. I’m very aware of that. But I want you to understand that I’m in my right mind, and that I’m still me. Do you see? I want to--’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake get to the point man!’ Auntie Betty snapped. She’s never at her best before breakfast.
Uncle frowned, but thought better of arguing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I know where the head is. I know where these... cultists, if that’s what they are, have gone. I can’t explain it. But we have a chance of recovering the blasted thing, if anyone’s game.’
‘But how--’ I began, but Grace pushed her elbow into my stomach.
‘Well?’ Uncle Neville said. ‘Anyone?’
Milos smiled. ‘I am, as you say, game. Perhaps it is time to take the fight to them, eh?’
Auntie Betty nodded, but gave Uncle a stern look. ‘I expect you to explain all this later,’ she said.
Grace and I looked at each other but before we had time to argue, Uncle, Milos and Auntie Betty had disappeared into their rooms to get ready.
‘They’re going to get us killed, you know,’ Grace said, quite seriously.
And so, an hour later
we found ourselves standing by the Iskur River in the freezing cold November morning, huddling away from the damp and drizzle, whilst Uncle Neville, Milos and Auntie Betty negotiated a charter boat to take us to take us upriver, where Uncle insisted we would find our dubious prize. I looked out at the broad expanse of misty, muddy water, and tried to remember when I had ever thought of this trip as an adventure.
Only one ‘captain’ was willing to take us at such short notice – a straggly, haphazard middle-aged man with teeth that looked like he’d just eaten his way through a bag of rocks. The boat (if that’s the correct term for such a dilapidated vessel – the best I can say about it is that it floated) was tiny and smelly, but considering he was the only person available Auntie haggled over the price beyond all reason – and patience. Eventually I handed the man a five pound note mid-bargaining (which disappeared into the man’s grubby tunic quickly enough) and did my best to ignore Auntie’s glowering.
The trip up the Iskur was in keeping with the morning so far, in that it was thoroughly miserable. Grace and I shivered at the back, trying to avoid the wandering gaze of the captain, whilst Uncle Neville stood at the prow, peering through the mist at the skeletal trees that lined the river, and at the dark shapes of the hills behind them. Every so often he’d ask the captain to slow the engine, and we’d drift for a moment whilst Uncle Neville squinted at the water’s edge, then he’d shake his head, and we’d continue the journey.
Eventually, after several hours and several miles, we reached a dark bend in the river, where the trees parted and the bank jutted out to form a small, natural wharf. Uncle Neville stood up in the boat and pointed.
‘There,’ he said, hoarsely. I followed the line of his finger and could just about make out a narrow, muddy path leading up towards the side of the hill. The captain slowed the engine and brought the boat to a halt, then lowered his tiny rowboat into the water and helped us into it. I made sure the man knew that there would be more money to come when we returned – I had no intention of being stranded in this desolate place – as the five of us paddled across to the slimy bank. On the other side, Auntie Betty and Milos checked that their electric torches were still in working order – Uncle Neville had told them they might come in useful.