The Trimedian

by Dangerous Walker

  A little off topic, but I remember a case I was asked to advise on where a Christian had been killed in a supposed satanic ritual. I pointed out that the last thing Satan would want is a Christian to be killed and go to Heaven before Satan had a chance to break their faith.

  "It's a sign," I said at last. I didn't want to say it. I didn't want it to be anything more than the Mash.

  "A sign?" she asked with eyebrows raised. "For who?"

  "That doesn't matter to you, it really doesn't."

  "If you know something you'll be obstructing justice by not telling me," she said.

  I laughed. I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to, but I did. When it came to justice I often didn't, couldn't, work by the Law's definition.

  "All I need is to see the body and then I've done what I've been paid for. I won't get in your way after that."

  She looked at me and I looked at her, our eyes pierced each other until she looked away.

  "OK. I can't see the harm, but if you're holding out?" she left the threat hanging.

  I plucked it up.

  "I'm not."

  ?

  There wasn't much of the body left, but there was more than would have been if it had been a Voodoo sacrifice. You see, in Voodoo the sacrifice means something, every action and the way it is performed, means something. This body was roughly hacked up and anything to point it to Voodoo was at the crime scene rather than on the body.

  This wasn't a Voodoo sacrifice, this was all about the show, there was one reason and only one reason for this sick murder and that was for it to be found, to be seen.

  I sighed when we got back outside.

  "So?" she asked in the cold air.

  "So it's not Voodoo, there's no precision, no meaning to it. In Voodoo every cut means something, is special, part of the ritual. This was a hack job.

  "And like I said, they don't do this kind of thing. At least not officially, so they don't flaunt it like this."

  "So someone is trying to frame them."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "Look, it doesn't matter. This is what is going to happen; you and your fellow officers are going to follow the Voodoo route and you're going to find a suspect. Everything is going to fit despite the person strenuously denying it all and then you are going to suddenly find a piece of evidence that ties them in. It'll be a lucky break that closes the case and it'll be forgotten."

  "Except that the church?"

  "Temple, it's called a Hounfour," I taught.

  "The Hounfour will deny it is Voodoo thanks to you."

  "And everyone wins. Except whoever you send to prison for it."

  "But you have more information."

  "No," I said looking at her directly for the first time. "That's it. That's everything."

  I turned and walked away. She had done as I had asked and I really didn't have anything more to tell her. We were done, or so I thought. She wouldn't, couldn't believe anything else that I had in my mind; and it had nothing to do with her investigation. It was my investigation now.

  I shouldn't have baited her though, shouldn't have told her how I thought it would have gone down; that was foolish because I was tired and annoyed at getting pulled in again. I was frustrated that I couldn't tell her more, frustrated that I couldn't tell anyone outside those that already knew.

  Southern Hunter

  PROLOGUE

  It has been said that only ten percent of the Bush remains in Australia since Westerners arrived, but it still covers vast tracts of land. Enough that each year, even in this day and age, people get lost and some die. There is still Bushland that isn't crisscrossed with roads or tracks; areas that no one goes in where undiscovered flora and fauna are living and dying in the circle of life. And it is on such a part of thick Bushland in the South West of that great country that two men find themselves.

  "Was this worth the boats?" the man asked sitting in a small area where the undergrowth was sparse enough to set up a little camp.

  "It's just for now," his companion answered. "We're illegal, we can't expect a job in a nice office in Perth, can we?"

  "No, but this? This, what do they call it?" he raised his arms to the trees.

  "Bush."

  "I mean we're in the middle of nowhere, no roads, no people. And you hear stuff about Australia, all the dangerous creatures."

  "Snakes and spiders are more scared of us than we are of them," the other man said.

  "Not when we're asleep. The Sun will set soon and then what? Kangaroos, crocodiles."

  His companion laughed.

  "One, kangaroos are not dangerous and two there are no crocodiles this far South."

  "I still don't like having to sleep out here."

  "Well it's just a few more nights. We've marked the trees and surveyed the land, tomorrow we'll start hiking to that track and get picked up. We'll be paid more money for this than we've ever been back home."

  They both sat there around the small fire as the Sun sank to the tops of the trees.

  "Do you miss it?"

  "What?"

  "Home."

  "We haven't been here long enough to."

  "I do," the man shrugged. "This country doesn't smell right, and it's all so, I don't know, neat and tidy?"

  The other laughed again.

  "It's the food, Australians eat pies and chips and drink beer. They don't cook like us, they don't live like us; you'll get used to it."

  "I guess," he said and looked out into the darkening Bush.

  He didn't really know what would happen. They had paid a lot of money to get here on a boat and he was glad they were one of the lucky ones, lucky not to die, lucky to land without being caught. He'd rather die than go to a detention centre.

  Then they'd been moved around, from here to there, all the while disorientated by their new surroundings and finally he and his friend had been taken to a mining company.

  They'd done odd jobs for awhile, they were told they would work on a mine, but couldn't fly there, so they had to wait for a chance to be driven. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of a mine you had to fly to, it would have to be in the middle of nowhere, out in what the Australians called the Outback. It would not be comfortable living, but he had to think of the money, and his family back home who would receive most of it.

  But instead they'd been taken south to a small town in the hills. It was surrounded by trees, Bush as they called it, and the company wanted them to look at a certain area, mark trees for cutting down so that a road could be cleared. Survey the area where they could to work out the best place for crews to come in and clear land. They were digging a new mine here or something.

  He hated it; every minute of it out in this strange Bush with its strange animals and snakes and spiders. Australia was famous for all the ways it could kill you: the animals, the reptiles, the plants, the sharks, or you could just get lost in Bush like this, it went on for ever, the same in every direction.

  Was it worth it? Life was hard back home, hard to have enough, but there was television. Television that told you of all the things you could have, should have. The West taught the rest of the World one thing, that you should own more things. More things meant more happiness and where once people had been content with their traditions, now they were unhappy and poor.

  Yes, he was the same; that was why he was here. He wanted a good life for his family, he wanted good schooling for his children, but that was never going to happen tending bar to tourists back home. He had to do this for them, he had to remember that. There was a reason for this and maybe, maybe he could get legal, somehow bring his family here; have a good job.

  But for now he was stuck in this Bush.

  "It's not so bad," his friend said.

  "What isn't?"

  "This. No distractions, no noise, no complaining wife or begging children, just peace and quiet. And we get paid for it," he relaxed out on his swag.

  "I miss them," the man said morosely.

  "What is it they
say here about glasses being half empty?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about; do you really not miss them?"

  His friend sat up angrily.

  "Why do you think I'm here? For my family, to give them a better life. Of course I miss them, but I know that because I do this they will have a better life."

  "I'm sorry," the man said.

  The Bush stirred behind him and he looked back sharply.

  "Relax."

  "What was that?"

  "Who knows? We're in a forest."

  "What's out there?"

  "Nothing that can hurt you."

  "That's not true."

  "Not this again. Snakes and spiders aren't going to come here and once you're in your, what are they called?"

  "Swag."

  "Right. It covers you completely, nothing can get to you."

  Noise came from the darkening Bush again.

  "And that?"

  "Wind? A kangaroo? Who knows, but it won't bother us, it's not like they have tigers here."

  "No, you're right, I'm sorry. I guess I'm just worried."

  "There's nothing out here."

  "Not that. I mean this job is nearly over, what if they drop us?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean we're illegal. We don't have any rights here."

  "I don't know, I try not to think of it."

  The Sun sank below the tree tops and the spaces between the trees went from bright and beautiful to dark and ominous. Those creatures that lived by the light began to scurry home as those night hunters awoke and readied themselves. Kookaburras flew and called to each other in their distinctive monkey-like laugh. One began to wind up as others joined it until the trees around the men were full of the laughter of the birds, as if mocking the men their fate.

  "I'll never get used to that sound," the man said.

  "I can't believe they are birds and not monkeys," the other agreed as the birds fell silent as one.

  There was a crash in the Bush and the man looked that way.

  "Just a tree falling."

  "You've an answer for everything."

  "Did you never camp back home? Forests make noises."

  "I preferred the comforts of the city," the man complained.

  The Bush was silent as if waiting to see what might happen next. The man turned back and began to get into his swag, a sleeping bag with a semicircular tent pole at the head so that the person could be completely enclosed. And that was what he wanted now, to be enclosed, shut off from the world and whatever might be out there in the dark.

  The Bush rustled and twigs snapped. Something else cracked, a branch maybe and he was sitting up again peering around in the last of the light.

  "It's big," he said and saw that his friend was also sitting up.

  "Yeah. There are some big kangaroos, maybe we should make a noise to scare it off?"

  "Yeah, OK," he replied, though the last thing he wanted to do was make noise out here. It was irrational, he knew, but that wasn't going to take the fear away.

  His friend whooped and he cringed before shouting out himself.

  They listened. There was not a noise, not the sound of something coming nor something running away.

  And then the whole Bush around their little clearing shook and thrashed and he couldn't believe his eyes as a giant head, mouth open, hundreds of razor sharp teeth, burst out of the dark trees and grabbed his friend. His head disappeared into the gaping mouth and it bit into his chest. Two clawed hands appeared and grabbed his friend, tearing him in two. Blood sprayed and poured as the beast flicked its head up to swallow his friend's torso.

  He shrieked, struggling up out of his swag, hands up and forward to protect him, as if that would help.

  No one knows we're here, no one will ever know or care. We're illegal, was his last thought as he staggered backwards and the giant beast leapt forward and sunk its giant claws into his chest.

  The Haunting of Berkeley Square

  PROLOGUE - 1840

  It is a cold night in London, the fog hugs the streets and wise people stay inside enjoying warm fires and families.

  Others find themselves enjoying ale and friendship in any one of the city's many pubs. It is in one of these, in the Holborn area, that Sir Robert Warboys and his two friends sit drinking.

  "And do you believe it?" Jeffery Anderson asks him.

  "Of course, I don't," Sir Robert replies taking a large swallow of beer. "Merely native myth."

  "I know of a story closer to home," Michael Roberts tells them leaning in. "That of Berkeley Square."

  "The Thing?" Anderson asks and Roberts nods.

  "They say that a man, a Mr. Dupres, lived there and his younger brother had gone mad, perhaps from war, violently mad," Roberts takes a sip.

  "Get on with it, man," Warboys tells him.

  "Well, he took over charge of his brother and had to lock him in the utmost room. They could not but let him out so they fed him through a hole in the door. Poor chap died in there, some say from lack of eating, others say he tore himself apart over many years. Fingers off, then toes," Roberts shudders at the thought.

  "It is entirely plausible," Warboys offers, "but what is the point of this yarn?"

  "They say," Anderson joins, "that it has been haunted ever since, perhaps even before. Neighbours tell of strange noises as if things are being dragged along corridors or down stairs, of doors banging and the signal bells ringing though no one lives there."

  "Oh, what unadulterated poppycock," snorts Warboys. "You two are young and foolish, hiding behind your mother's skirts rather than adventuring."

  "Fine, you go and stay in that upper room, the haunted room, see how brave you are," Anderson challenges angrily.

  "My dear boy, I am merely twenty years of age and I need not tell you the things I have seen and done. You think I believe in ghosts? I don't, but I believe in money."

  "One hundred guineas," Roberts says for his pride is equally hurt.

  "Then I wholeheartedly accept your preposterous harebrained challenge!" Warboys raises his flagon of ale into the air with a grin full of gusto.

  They pay for their beers and stumble out into the street. The cold air hits them and Anderson realises quite how drunk he has become and wonders briefly whether this was a good idea after all.

  They reach Berkeley Square as the lamps are being lit and find the house. It is tall and adjoined to those each side. The square is quite lovely and upmarket except for this house, this house has seen a much better day and is in good need of a clean and paint. Anderson shudders, not for the cold, but for the truth. Why else would no one want to buy and live in such a luxuriant square in the heart of London?

  After knocking a man opens the door. He is a tall, thin man with greyish skin, but black, black hair.

  "Are you the owner of this property?" Sir Robert asks. He has sobered up somewhat, but is still drunk enough to be belligerent. Even sober he is quite belligerent, but it has got him so far so young that he sees nothing to change.

  "No, sir, I am but the landlord of the residence."

  "And no one lives here?"

  "No, sir."

  "Very well then, I would like to sleep in your upper room for the night."

  "That is not a good idea, sir."

  "Why? Because it is haunted?" Warboys laughs.

  "Because it is not a good idea," the man merely replies.

  "Come, let us go, this was a foolish idea," Anderson tries.

  "Hush," replies Sir Robert. "Look, my good man, there is no such thing as ghosts and this is your chance to prove it. Maybe sell it on.

  "Plus I will give you a nights rent and some pounds to do the place up, it is in a dreadful state."

  "Very well, sir, it is you not I that will be sleeping there," the landlord says and steps aside.

  They walk into the front room which is cosy enough and the landlord wanders off.

  "Very well," Roberts says. "If we are doing this then we will do it right.
You will ring the service bell once if you see anything and we will come and see it as well. You will ring it twice if you need help."

  "This is nonsense; do not come on the first bell as you might scare the spirit off. But I will ring it if I see something, which I will not because I will be fast asleep."

  "Take this with you," the Landlord says re-entering.

  "What is this? A pistol? I need not a pistol for sleep, my good man."

  "There will be no staying up there tonight nor any night if you take it not."

  "Very well," sighs Sir Robert and takes the pistol. "Good night, gentlemen."

  With that he and the landlord take to the stairs while Jeffery Anderson and Michael Roberts take chairs.

  The landlord joins them and they talk about the area, about how London is growing and the price of properties. Until forty-five minutes past the stroke of twelve when they hear the tinkling of a service bell in the kitchen.

  "He sees something," Anderson jumps from his chair.

  "Or he is jesting with us," Roberts replies sleepily.

  "Come let us look," Anderson says and so the three walk out to the bottom of the stairs.

  As they get there the service bell rings twice and then starts ringing continuously. The three men run up the stairs, (the bell falls silent) to the landing and up to the next floor. As they reach the third and top floor a gunshot rings out from the front room and they speed up, slamming the door wide open.

  Sitting wedged into the corner of the room sits Sir Robert Warboys, gun in one hand, the bell pull, ripped from the ceiling, in the other. His lips are pulled back in a rictus of terror and eyes popped out so that they dangle upon his cheeks.

  His friends run to him and the landlord looks across the room to see what he had fired at. There is merely a bullet lodged in the wall.

  Sir Robert Warboys is quite dead.

  Dead from terror.

  WELCOME TO THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSES

  WHAT IS THE LIBRARY?

  The Library was built at the centre of the Multiverse and contains histories, biographies, treaties and stories from all the Universes. Particularly those involving the likes of the Righteous, the King Imminent and those that play their parts in this wider story such as the Ten Kingdoms and the Five Worlds.

  Read the book sand you will find clues and truths of this greater story within them. But beware that you don't' gain too much knowledge as knowledge is power and power gets you noticed by dark and terrible beings.