Terrors

by Richard A. Lupoff

  An altar of polished anthracite was the sole furnishing of this hideous, irrational chamber.

  Mrs. Llewellyn placed her kerosene lamp upon the altar. She turned, then, and indicated with a peculiar gesture of her hand that we were to kneel as if congregants at a more conventional religious ceremony.

  I was reluctant to comply with her silent command, but Holmes nodded to me, indicating that he wished me to do so. I lowered myself, noting that Lady Fairclough and Holmes himself emulated my act.

  Before us, and facing the black altar, Mrs. Llewellyn also knelt. She raised her face as if seeking supernatural guidance from above, causing me to remember that the full name of her peculiar sect was the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens. She commenced a weird chanting in a language such as I had never heard, not in all my travels. There was a suggestion of the argot of the dervishes of Afghanistan, something of the Buddhist monks of Thibet, and a hint of the remnant of the ancient Incan language still spoken by the remotest tribes of the high Choco plain of the Chilean Andes, but in fact the language was none of these and the few words that I was able to make out proved both puzzling and suggestive but never specific in their meaning.

  As Mrs. Llewellyn continued her chanting she slowly raised first one hand then the other above her head. Her fingers were moving in an intricate pattern. I tried to follow their progress but found my consciousness fading into a state of confusion. I could have sworn that her fingers twined and knotted like the tentacles of a jellyfish. Their colors, too, shifted: vermilion, scarlet, obsidian. They seemed, even, to disappear into and return from some concealed realm invisible to my fascinated eyes.

  The object that Holmes had given me throbbed and squirmed against my body, its unpleasantly hot and squamous presence making me wish desperately to rid myself of it. It was only my pledge to Holmes that prevented me from doing so.

  I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, summoning up images from my youth and of my travels, holding my hand clasped over the object as I did so. Suddenly the tension was released. The object was still there, but as if having a consciousness of its own it seemed to grow calm. My own jaw relaxed and I opened my eyes to behold a surprising sight.

  Before me there emerged another figure. As Mrs. Llewellyn was stocky and swarthy, of the model of Gypsy women, this person was tall and graceful. Swathed entirely in jet, with hair a seeming midnight blue and complexion as black as the darkest African, she defied my conventional ideas of beauty with a weird and exotic glamour of her own that defies description. Her features were finely cut as those of the ancient Ethiopians are said to have been, her movements filled with a grace that would shame the pride of Covent Garden or the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo.

  But whence had this apparition made her way? Still kneeling upon the ebon floor of the sealed room, I shook my head. She seemed to have emerged from the very angle between the walls.

  She floated toward the altar, lifted the chimney from the kerosene lamp, and doused its flame with the palm of her bare hand.

  Instantly the room was plunged into stygian darkness, but gradually a new light, if so I may describe it, replaced the flickering illumination of the kerosene lamp. It was a light of darkness if you will, a glow of blackness deeper than the blackness which surrounded us, and yet by its light I could see my companions and my surroundings.

  The tall woman smiled in benediction upon the four of us assembled, and gestured toward the angle between the walls. With infinite grace and seemingly glacial slowness she drifted toward the opening, through which I now perceived forms of such maddeningly chaotic configuration that I can only hint at their nature by suggesting the weird paintings that decorate the crypts of the Pharaohs, the carven stele of the mysterious Mayans, the monoliths of Moana Loa, and the demons of Thibetan sand paintings.

  The black priestess—for so I had come to think of her—led our little procession calmly into his realm of chaos and darkness. She was followed by the Gypsy-like Mrs. Llewellyn, then by Lady Fairclough whose manner appeared as that of a woman entranced.

  My own knees, I confess, have begun to stiffen with age, and I was slow to rise to my feet. Holmes followed the procession of women, while I lagged behind. As he was about to enter the opening Holmes turned suddenly, his eyes blazing. They transmitted to me a message as clear as any words.

  This message was reinforced by a single gesture. I had used my hands, pressing against the black floor as I struggled to my feet. They were now at my sides. Fingers as stiff and powerful as a bobby’s club jabbed at my waist. The object which Holmes had given me to hold for him was jolted against my flesh, where it created a weird mark which remains visible to this day.

  In the moment I knew what I must do.

  I wrapped my arms frantically around the black altar, watching with horrified eyes as Holmes and the others slipped from the sealed room into the realm of madness that lay beyond. I stood transfixed, gazing into the Seventh Circle of Dante’s Hell, into the very heart of Gehenna.

  Flames crackled, tentacles writhed, claws rasped and fangs ripped at suffering flesh. I saw the faces of men and women I had known, monsters and criminals whose deeds surpass my poor talent to record but who are known in the lowest realms of the planet’s underworlds, screaming with glee and with agony.

  There was a man whose features so resembled those of Lady Fair-clough that I knew he must be her brother. Of her missing husband I know not.

  Then looming above them all I saw a being that must be the supreme monarch of all monsters, a creature so alien as to resemble no organic thing that ever bestrode the earth, yet so familiar that I realized it was the very embodiment of the evil that lurks in the hearts of every living man.

  Sherlock Holmes, the noblest human being I have ever encountered, Holmes alone dared to confront this monstrosity. He glowed in a hideous, hellish green flame, as if even great Holmes were possessed of the stains of sin, and they were being seared from within him in the face of this being.

  As the monster reached for Holmes with its hideous mockery of limbs, Holmes turned and signaled to me.

  I reached within my garment, removed the object that lay against my skin pulsating with horrid life, drew back my arm and with a murmured prayer made the strongest and most accurate throw I had made since my days on the cricket pitch of Jammu.

  More quickly than it takes to describe, the object flew through the angle. It struck the monster squarely and clung to its body, extending a hideous network of webbing round and round and round.

  The monster gave a single convulsive heave, striking Holmes and sending him flying through the air. With presence of mind such as only he, of all men I know, could claim, Holmes reached and grasped Lady Fairclough by one arm and her brother by the other. The force of the monstrous impact sent them back through the angle into the sealed room, where they crashed into myself sending us sprawling across the floor.

  With a dreadful sound louder and more unexpected than the most powerful thunderclap, the angle between the walls slammed shut. The sealed room was plunged once again into darkness.

  I drew a packet of lucifers from my pocket and lit one. To my surprise, Holmes reached into an inner pocket of his own and drew from it a stick of gelignite with a long fuse. He signaled me and I handed him another lucifer. He used it to ignite the fuse of the gelignite bomb.

  Striking another lucifer I relit the kerosene lamp that Mrs. Llewellyn had left on the altar. Holmes nodded his approval, and with the great detective in the lead the four of us, Lady Fairclough, Mr. Philip Llewellyn, Holmes himself, and I, made haste to find our way from the Anthracite Palace.

  Even as we stumbled across the great hall toward the chief exit of the Palace there was a terrible rumbling that seemed to come simultaneously from the deepest basement of the building if not from the very center of the earth, and from the dark heavens above. We staggered from the Palace, Holmes, Lady Fairclough, Philip Llewellyn and I, through the howling wind and pelting snow of a renewed storm, through frigid dr
ifts that rose higher than our boot tops, and turned about to see the great black edifice of the Anthracite Palace in flames.

  The Secret of the Sahara

  Although the Great Hall of the Republic could of course have been commandeered for the meeting, His Excellency the Governor General of the Province of Tunisie Francaise had chosen to entertain his distinguished guests in a smaller, private dining room. Such was a proper decision, for these more intimate surroundings were designed to encourage an open discussion of issues and exchange of views than would the more formal, even ceremonial, atmosphere of the flag-draped and sculpted Hall.

  Here in the Governor General’s private dining room, a sparkling table had been set and the Personal Representative of the President of the French Republic had entertained his guests in lavish manner. The meal had consisted of a local endive and olive salad, baked Saharan langouste stuffed with salt-water crab, lamb shish-kebab, chick-peas and tabouli washed down with Algerian wine, followed by baclava, thick Turkish coffee, and a sweet Hungarian Tokay.

  Empty dishes, silver, and other detritus has been cleared away by silent and well-trained servants. Out of respect for their sole female member, the Italian Dottore Speranza Verde, a native of Tuscany, the men of the party had refrained briefly from lighting cheroots. The red-haired and green-eyed Tuscan physician had startled them by requesting a cheroot from her neighbor, the English historian, Mr. Black, and drawing upon it with obvious pleasure.

  Now as the Governor General, M. Sebastiane LeMonde, rose, the buzz of conversation which had followed the meal ceased and a hush descended upon the room.

  “Madame,” the Governor General bowed toward the female physician, “and Messieurs, in the name of the President of the Republic I welcome you to French Africa and to our beautiful city of Serkout.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through the assemblage, following which the Governor General resumed.

  “I am authorized by the President of the Republic to offer special felicitations to Colonel Dwight David White.”

  The Governor General nodded toward a tall, distinguished gentleman clothed in the gray uniform of the Army of the Confederate States of America. This officer’s skin was black; his hair, its tight curls cropped close to his skull, shared the coloration of his military garb. The uniform bore the gold frogging and glittering decorations earned in his distinguished career.

  The Colonel nodded his acknowledgement of the Governor General’s felicitation.

  “Sir, this year marks the one hundredth anniversary of a date in the history of your nation, the Declaration of Emancipation issued by your President, Mr. Jefferson Davis. As a student of North American history since my first days at the Ecole de Paris, I have long felt that President Davis’s action was not only a matter of high morality, but a political move of the wisest. By declaring the enslaved persons of his nation free and equal citizens of that Republic and offering them fair compensation for the suffering and deprivation of their lives, he won for the Confederacy a new and most highly motivated Army, which led to the vanquishment of the Union forces and recognition of a new and shining ornament among the family of Nations.”

  The Confederate rose to his feet and responded, briefly and modestly, to the Governor General’s words before resuming his seat.

  M. LeMonde spoke once more. “You have assembled here, Madame and Messieurs, in regard to a situation unprecedented in human history. As you are aware, the greatest engineering feat of the past century, greater even than the Grand Canals de Lesseps which connect the Red Sea with the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean with the Pacific at the Isthmus of Panama, was the creation of the Sahara Sea by the engineers of the Republic of France under the leadership of the great M. Roudaire, of happy memory.”

  A murmur of agreement was heard, accompanied by the nodding of distinguished heads.

  “The world has known and applauded this great feat of engineering,” LeMonde continued, “but at this moment we face a new puzzle of which only a handful of individuals are aware. The details will be revealed to you shortly. By your own consent, all contact with the general public and the outside world has been interdicted, and will remain so until you return from the mission which you have agreed to assay.”

  A grumble made its way around the table. The bearded, heavy-set archaeologist, Herr Siegfried Schwartz, ground his Cuban maduro cigar into an ash-tray. “From Berlin I receive my instructions, Monsieur LeMonde.”

  The Frenchman expressed his concern. “All was agreed to beforehand, Mein Herr, was it not? I hope we are not to dissolve into disagreement at this point.”

  “Yes, I believe that was the agreement. Otherwise I should have to consult Whitehall at every turn. It just wouldn’t do, sir.” The blonde mustache of the historian, Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue, twitched as if with a life of its own.

  “Very well,” Herr Schwartz growled, “continue, Monsieur.”

  “At this point, if I may be excused,” the Governor General stated, “I will turn the proceedings over to the Chairman of your Committee, Monsieur Jemond Jules Rouge.” The Governor General bowed and took his leave. He was replaced at the podium by his goateed countryman.

  Monsieur Rouge looked around the room, his eyes flashing. “Madame and Monsieurs, you represent not merely the great nations of the civilized world but the flower of your chosen professions. Throughout this day and evening we have socialized and exchanged credentials. In this room are assembled the world’s most famed archaeologist, the author of many volumes which I may say cumulatively comprise nothing less than the history of civilization, the military officer whose brilliant campaigns have extended his nation’s borders from the Mason-Dixon Line to the de Lesseps Inter-Oceanic Canal, and, may I offer my compliments to the lovely Dottore Verde, our most accomplished – pardon my crude pronunciation s’il vous plait—hydrologist.”

  Each participant in the conference—and the meal—nodded acknowledgment as his or her name was spoken.

  The Italian hydrologist, Dottore Verde, had prepared for this moment. She rose to her feet and strode to the rostrum, relieving the Frenchman who resumed his place at the now cleared dinner table.

  “Signori, when our colleagues French opened the northerly dunes of the Sahara desert and let in the waters of the Mediterranean to create the Sahara Sea, they created a new avenue for the ships of commerce and a new home for the fish of nourishment. We agree—yes?—that the people of the Africa North are blessed by this new sea. But also they created, perhaps unthinkingly, the so-they-say Fleuve Triste, the river which flows between Isola di Crainte and Isola di Doute. This fleuve, this so-they-say fiume, is not really a river, but a tidal phenomenon that flows first to the north, then to the south, again to the north, again to the south.”

  A sulfur match flared as Herr Schwartz lighted another maduro. He sucked loudly at the cigar, then exhaled a cloud of heavy, odorous smoke.

  “I should think, perhaps, that Signor Schwartz of all, would take an interest in this phenomenon,” the red-haired Tuscan continued. “For the action of scouring of the rushing water, back and forth, back and forth, has begun to carry away the sand accumulated between these two islands over a many thousands of years span. The French, by creating this new sea, have changed the – what we call the idrodinamica—the hydrodynamics—of the entire Mediterranean region as well.”

  “So?” Herr Schwartz growled. “To what result, Doktor?”

  “Herr Schwartz,” the Tuscan smiled, “you of all persons are familiar with the great and ancient civilizations to the east of our present location.”

  “Ah, of course. The Egyptians, the Mesopotamians, the Hebrews, the Hittites. But here in the Sahara—nothing but sand and palm trees, my dear Doktor. My time I could spend far better in my museum in Berlin. A channel perhaps deeper is made, larger ships it will permit to travel to this city of Serkit. Of interest to me this is not. Only because my government instructed, am I here.”

  “I see.” Dottore Verde gave no indication that she was
hurt by the German archaeologist’s words. “But your knowledge of the archaeology may yet prove useful. You see, good sir, all is not sand beneath the Sahara seabed.”

  “Of course not,” Schwartz frowned. “Bedrock we will find. Sooner or later, it this inevitable is.”

  “Not only bedrock, good sir. When the Sahara was a desert, the dunes they rose and fell with the action of mighty winds. But beneath the dunes, the ancient rocks had their own,” she smiled, displaying white, even teeth, “their own topografia, you understand? The islands between which we cruise, Crainte and Doute, are of the ancient bedrock. But –”

  “This lesson in geography, Dear Madame—any point at all, has it?”

  The Tuscan hydrologist’s monologue had turned into a dialogue with the archaeologist, then a debate, very nearly a quarrel.

  “What we have found,” Dottore Verde went on calmly, “is nothing less than dressed rock of a workmanship most assuredly artificial.”

  The historian let out a gasp. “Surely, Doctor, surely you do not realize the implications of what you say!”

  Dottore Verde shook her head. A strand of her russet hair, until this moment held in place by an elaborate array of clips and long pins, broke loose from its moorings. With an annoyed gesture she swept it away from her face. She leaned forward, pressing the knuckles of a slim hand against white linen.

  “I realize quite well the implications of what I say. We are about to discover the greatest mystery since the discovery of the ancient world. We are about to discover it, yes, but will we solve this mystery? That may be the work of many years and require the efforts of many scholars, but we will be the first to behold these great objects. My friends –”