The Shadow Beyond

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The Shadow Beyond Page 6

by Daniel Reiner


  “And this,” he said, handing me the frame, “recently surfaced in Baghdad. It is nearly four hundred years old, written in Portuguese. I have the translation here.”

  He handed me a paper from a corner of his desk, written in his own, scrawling hand.

  I have trafficked with the devils of the deep, and they have revealed unto me the formulae of old. He shall rise once again. Even the eldest among them cannot say whence this knowledge came.

  But there is more within these formulae than even they know. All of the Ancient Ones are attuned. It is but necessary to know for each the correct star. To that end I work.

  Below the verse on the page was a set of equations written in a notation with which I was not familiar. At the very bottom of the sheet were two more lines:

  For each that I am certain, here are listed the stars:

  Hastur ~ Aldebaran

  “Unfortunately, this sheet was found alone,” said the professor. “The author may have compiled an extensive list, but we shall never know. The equations that you see there are composed of both astrological and magical symbols. Doctor Gardiner provided me with just enough information to translate them.”

  He handed me another sheet that was much more legible. The equations on it seemed to describe an arc through the heavens, but there was something odd about them. As I looked them over I became more confused.

  “As you can see,” he said, “this system of equations is utter nonsense.”

  I nodded in agreement, my brow furrowed.

  “As is typical of documents of this type, the information is incomplete. The author deemed the knowledge important enough to be recorded, but was clever enough to excise the information necessary for total comprehension. Anyone else reading his notes would be perplexed unless the missing pieces were applied. That’s where the pattern from the Necronomicon fits in.”

  He handed me yet another page with a list of star names along with their spatial coordinates, and presumably, their equivalent magical symbols. The first star on the list had a name that I did not know. The coordinates for it were crossed out, and different numbers were recorded to the right of the originals.

  “These stars are the missing factors. The first one was the cause of my miscalculation. I had to consult several sources before I could determine which coordinates were correct. But the number of stars matches the number of equations. I’m sure you can see where the data should be inserted.”

  Surprisingly, I did see. With a one-to-one correspondence between the list and the equations on the two sheets, I was able to solve the first equation easily, and apply the answer to the second. It became more complicated after that, and I stopped; but I acknowledged that the pattern definitely existed.

  “Finally,” said the professor with some degree of satisfaction evident in his voice, “we arrive at this.”

  I received another page, this one with just a few greatly simplified equations.

  “After merging the data from those two pages, and performing a non-Euclidian transformation to clean up the calculations, these equations are the result. They describe a path from some point in the heavens to here. To Earth.”

  His voice sank nearly to a whisper.

  “Given an origin star, such as might be found on the bottom of that page by our unknown Portuguese author, the date and time of the next spatially compatible alignment for the corresponding entity can be calculated.”

  I remained silent, for I did not know what to say.

  “Yes. It’s amazing, isn’t it? As chaotic as those infernal beings are, they too are subjected to definable, predictable physical laws.”

  “But if you don’t know what happened the other night…”

  “We don’t know what happened because we don’t know the origin star,” he said. “We don’t know for which entity the stars were aligned.”

  “But how…”

  “I was dissatisfied that there was only one name recorded on that Portuguese document. I decided to try solving the equations backwards.”

  And here his eyes took on the haunted look they had while relating his encounter with the thing from the sarcophagus.

  “It was the morning of the day Elizabeth died. I tried using the current date to solve for the spatial coordinates of a star. It was the most shocking thing I have ever experienced as a mathematician.”

  He picked up three more sheets of paper and handed them to me.

  “I discovered a nearly perfect alignment. Thinking that I’d done something wrong, I tried several other days randomly chosen in the past and future. Each time, nothing. I recalculated for Thursday’s date and received the same result. But at the time, the exact coordinates for that one star—the last link in the chain—were uncertain, and I realized that I needed to adjust them. It was then that I left here and ran into you.”

  I looked over the latest set of papers.

  “I see what the issue is,” I said.

  “Do you understand what has baffled me?”

  I did. Solving backwards from a known time, the spatial coordinates were unknown. The path through the stars, as represented by known, fixed quantities in the equations, was straight. At the two endpoints of the path, though, the equations had several non-linear variables. We both stared at the papers for a while. I understood what the professor was trying to do, but could offer no hints. He was obviously stumped. If I could study the situation further, I thought that I might find something that he missed.

  “Professor, may I take your notes with me? I could return them tomorrow.”

  He seemed to remember himself.

  “Just take them. I have no interest in this mystery any longer.” He collected all of the relevant papers and handed them to me, but when I reached out for them, he did not let go. “But you must promise me you will be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  As I turned to go, he spoke up once more.

  “I realize that you are probably depending on me to be a source of knowledge, someone to whom you can turn for help. Don’t.”

  “But—”

  “What I know is very shallow indeed. I would be of no help to you, and I must say, I do not wish to be complicit in you possibly harming yourself. I tried to warn you before; I shall try one last time. You will not like what you discover. At best, you will find yourself being tormented by the knowledge; at worst, you will find yourself dead.”

  “I must get to the bottom of this. I must know.”

  He glowered briefly at my stubbornness.

  “Elizabeth,” I reminded him. Just the one word was enough.

  “Then you will have to rely on Doctor Gardiner. He can grant you access to the volumes locked away in the Library. Failing that, there is a bookstore—Hunt’s Fine Books. Well, not the store itself so much as the owner. Up until a few years ago, Mr. Bertram Hunt owned it, but I believe his son is in charge now. Perhaps you could inquire into his whereabouts?”

  Just hearing the name gave me a start; I wondered if his son would be as hostile.

  “I know of the store,” I said, keeping my voice even.

  He gave a brief smile, but it was half-hearted, and his voice became somber as he ushered me out the door.

  “And once more, I must say that I am very sorry about Elizabeth. She was a fine young woman.”

  Once the door had closed behind me, I leaned against the wall and thought. I looked over the professor’s notes one more time. Still uncertain as to where the information would lead me, I was glad that I at least had a starting point for my investigation. I felt certain that I was on the right path.

  Six

  No sooner had I emerged into the sun from the dark offices of Beaumont Hall, than did the professor’s encounter seem to be little more than fiction—a ghost story from a frightened, old man. No, that was disrespectful, and I reprimanded myself for even allowing the thought. But fact or fiction, what I held in my hands was real enough. Could the information somehow prove the reality of what he had said? I didn’t care. I was
only fixated on the promise of an insight into Elizabeth’s death.

  Back at the boarding house, I recalled the professor mentioning Mr. Hunt. For years I had walked by his door on every ascent and descent of the steps, and had never even thought of him once. Perhaps Mrs. Bettings was right, and the man was just lonely. If I made a genuine attempt to befriend him, perhaps he would warm up to me. On the secondfloor landing I paused and looked at his door, considered knocking.

  No, too soon, I thought.

  And it was too soon, but to be truthful, I was also lacking the courage. It was easier to convince myself to leave him alone for a few days and then approach him, so I continued on up to my room on the third floor.

  That afternoon disappeared as I immersed myself in the equations on those sheets of paper, and struggled to unravel them. It did occur to me that I was attempting the impossible—trying to find an answer to a problem so difficult that it had defeated one of the greatest mathematical minds alive. But I imagined myself as having an advantage over the professor: grief. But this was a different kind, having none of the typical despondency. My grief didn’t slow me. On the contrary, it drove me. I was determined to attack the problem from all angles, even using techniques that made no sense. I pored through my old textbooks, searching for new and different ideas to try. But despite my determination, my eyes eventually grew weary, and I succumbed to a nap.

  It was early evening when I was awakened by a gentle knocking at my bedroom door. Mrs. Bettings entered, bearing a hearty dinner and two telegrams: the first from my parents, getting into town that evening; the second from Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle, who were due to arrive the following day. The Wentworths generously offered to pay for a small ceremony to be held for her friends at the university, with the formal burial a few days later in Boston.

  When Mother and Father arrived, I escorted them to a local hotel where I knew they would be comfortable. I hadn’t seen them in almost a year. I tried to speak of Elizabeth’s death in the broadest possible terms, but Father insisted on hearing all of the details. Mother could only cry.

  Elizabeth’s Aunt Marie and Uncle Thomas were, by all indications, exceedingly wealthy. Thomas was tall, and vigorous for a man nearing sixty. His wife exuded an aura of elegance. Both were dressed in finery, he in a well-tailored dark suit, she in a stunning blue dress, which matched the color of her eyes. So far removed were they from the picture of my dearest Elizabeth: humble, demure. It was clear she had taken great pains to hide her family’s status from me.

  The Wentworths had a room reserved at the magnificent Hotel Dunbar. After delivering the luggage and ensuring that Aunt Marie would be comfortable, Uncle Thomas and I first visited a minister with whom I had spoken in the past. The sympathetic man eagerly volunteered to help. That was the easy part. The meeting at the funeral parlor was more difficult. I tried to explain the situation to the director, but questions regarding the body—or lack thereof—caused me to stumble. Thomas Wentworth took over at that point, billfold open.

  “No further questions,” he said flatly. “There will be neither body nor coffin. We require a small room tomorrow morning. You need do nothing else. This should cover it.”

  The man’s eyes widened as he accepted the offering.

  Outside the shop, Thomas Wentworth apologized to me.

  “I’m sorry for having interrupted you, Robert. I’m just tired of dealing with vultures. I’ve had plenty enough of it. Lately…there’s been enough.”

  There was no mistaking the anger in his final declaration.

  He then returned to the hotel, and I ran over to the university, where I did my best to find and inform key people of the service. I successfully located three friends of Elizabeth and myself, and asked them to spread the word around the campus. It was short notice, and I hoped that it would be enough time.

  When I returned home, Mrs. Bettings met me at the front door with a note that had been delivered just minutes before my arrival. It was an invitation to dinner from the Wentworths for my parents and me. I was grateful for their continued generosity, and hoped that my parents would enjoy their company. They did. The conversation was a bit forced at first, but a need to talk and perhaps feel ‘normal’ kept the words flowing. The evening was as enjoyable as it could be, and with thankfully few tears given the inevitable topic to which the conversation turned again and again.

  The following morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find the rented room packed full of people ready to pay their last respects to my beloved. The minister conducted a simple, yet appropriate, ceremony. Several in the audience were called upon to share their thoughts. The love that poured forth from her friends touched me. I believe that it also affected the Wentworths, who although respectfully silent, obviously did not relish the company of such a youthful, bourgeois crowd.

  Professor Josephson must have arrived late, for I only saw him after the ceremony ended. I told him that I had been invited to Boston for the formal burial, and asked him for a few days off. He told me to take a week, and to meet with him when I returned in order to review plans for my final year. I thanked him for his understanding. After the crowd dispersed, I saw my parents off to the train back home. They had also been invited to Boston, but declined; my father could not be away from business for that length of time on such short notice.

  The train ride to Boston the next day was quiet. At dinner the previous evening, we had covered a number of topics, and there seemed to be nothing left to say. Of course, the service the day before, combined with the promise of another yet to come, had left us in a somber mood anyway. The Wentworths played a dispirited game of gin rummy for a while, but abandoned it midway through. Aunt Marie occupied herself with solitaire at that point while Uncle Thomas sat, eyes closed, not asleep, but lost in thought. A few times, I noticed a scowl form on his face, then slowly dissipate.

  As the New England countryside moved by outside the window, my mind was abuzz. The mathematical puzzle had been left behind in my room; I knew full well that I would be lacking the concentration necessary to tackle it. Instead, I pondered Professor Josephson’s rooftop encounter. On the one hand, it was pure insanity. Anything that is dead simply cannot be reanimated—save for when the Lord intervenes, and His presence could clearly have not been there that night. On the other hand, I had entrusted my future to the professor, looked to him for guidance. It did not seem possible that he had concocted that story. If he had, from whence could such an intricate tale have come? His imagination was powerful, but confined to number theory. There was no fiction in him. Somehow, I had to reconcile the two opposing views.

  I began with confidence that he had been on the rooftop with Doctor Gardiner, and had seen something that night. Unfortunately, when science and logic were invoked, it ended there as well, as the bulk of the details were too fantastic. I wracked my brain for an explanation and came up with only one, and a shaky one at that: an elaborate hoax, but one that required the participation of Doctor Gardiner. The minds and motivations of men are impossible to know, and a combination of intersecting circumstances can cause any man to act against his natural character—but I could imagine no scenario where Doctor Gardiner would deliberately deceive the professor in such a manner. Their friendship was genuine. No, it could not have been a hoax.

  But perhaps the scene could have been…misremembered. Professor Josephson was growing older each day. He had said as much to Doctor Gardiner. Recently, I had observed him forgetting where he had placed his hat or chalk. Still assuming that a normal, dusty mummy had been unveiled that night, was it possible that the events had been twisted in his memory? It was possible, I had to admit. However, his mind was still so sharp. I was routinely a witness to it, and at irregular intervals a victim, as he would point out errors in my thesis. Calculations I had thrice checked, he had to scan but once. But it was certainly a staggering leap from forgetting a hat to having a mind so faulty that a memory of a mummified priest is distorted so dramatically.

  But what so
rt of physical process, or science, would allow a dead man to return to life after being exposed to the light of a star? Plain and simply: None. But just thinking of stars brought me back around to the equations. I could not deny the reality of a thing that had perplexed the professor. Was the story true? Was the missing science actually magic? Could any of it be linked to Elizabeth’s death? I wanted answers.

  Have faith, I told myself repeatedly. Have faith.

  At the Wentworth’s expansive mansion west of Boston, I stayed in a guest room—one of many. The grounds extended for acres and acres, gently rolling hills sometimes covered with trees, but more often open, grassy fields. It was much larger than I had time to explore, though I intended to try. There was enough time before dinner to stretch my legs, and so I set off on a ramble, even though a misty drizzle had begun.

  As I returned, Aunt Marie met me. She seemed to have been waiting for me. We walked over to the stables, and led me straight to a particular horse. The mare was on the smaller side, chestnut brown with a circular white patch on either side of the neck.

  “This is Emily,” she said, feeding the horse a carrot. “Elizabeth always favored this one when she visited here.”

  She seemed to want to say more, but stopped there. I recalled Elizabeth’s joy around horses, and imagined her riding through the surrounding fields. With both of us perhaps taking comfort with memories, we stroked the horse for a few minutes, then returned to the main house.

  Dinner that evening was very good, but silent—in fact, uncomfortably so. The tension eased up when dessert was served: Thomas Wentworth did not eat any sweets, and so excused himself. With his absence, the two of us enjoyed the treat, and made some small talk about puddings and pies. Aunt Marie retired soon after.

  I thought it good form to bid my host a good night, and searched for him with a stroll through the rooms downstairs. He was easy to locate. I found him in the library with cigar and brandy. He had heard me approach, and looked up as I entered.

 

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