by Brian Lumley
Enough! The other had been outraged. I should have ignored Möbius! I should have—
“But you couldn’t ignore him!” (Harry’s turn to cut in.) “You dared not …”
What do you mean?
“That I know your real secret. That you were a fraud. That you not only made fools of your precious ‘Brotherhood’ in life but continue to deceive them in death! There is no mysticism in numbers, Pythagoras, and you must know it. If only because you’re a learned man. Why, you yourself have told me that numbers are immutable, unchanging and unchangeable. Which means that they are solid truth, not flights of fancy! Iron truth, not ethereal magic.”
Liar! Liar! Pythagoras had raged. You twist words, change meanings!
“Why do you hide yourself, even from the dead?”
Because they have no understanding. Because their ignorance is contagious.
“No, because they know more than you! Your followers would desert you. You told them they would migrate, return again to men, and meet with you in worlds of pure number—and now you know that this was false.”
I thought it was truth.
“But that was two and a half thousand years ago. And are you returned? How long does it take to admit you were wrong?”
I have dreamed numbers that would blast you!
“Blast me, then.”
By this time Pythagoras had been sobbing. He hurled a catalogue of numbers at Harry, which shattered against the wall of the Necroscope’s metaphysical mind. But at least they shocked him into recognition of his predicament: that again the thing inside was striving to replace him, this time by use of convoluted Wamphyri “logic.”
On this occasion it was his salvation, for it had never been Harry’s desire to hurt or even alarm the dead. And:
“I … I’m sorry,” he said.
Sorry? You are a fiend! Pythagoras had sobbed. But … you are right.
“No, I merely argued. Perhaps I am right, perhaps not. But I was wrong to argue for the sake of it. And let’s face it, I stand in contradiction of my own argument.”
How so?
“I know that numbers are not immutable.”
Ahhh! (A long-drawn-out-sigh.) Would you … could you demonstrate?
At which Harry had shown him the screen of his mind, with all of Möbius’s configurations crawling on its surface, mutating and sprawling into infinity. And for a long time the old Greek had been silent. Then:
I was a clever child who thought he knew everything, he said, his voice broken. Time has passed me by.
“But it will never forget you,” Harry had been quick to point out. “We remember your theorem; books have been written about you; there are Pythagoreans even today.”
My theorem? My numbers? If I hadn’t done it others would have.
“But it’s your name we remember. And anyway, that could be said of anyone and anything.”
Except the Necroscope.
But: “I’m not even sure about that,” Harry had answered. “I think that perhaps there were others before me. And certainly there was one after me. They dwell in other worlds now.”
And will you dwell there, too?
“Possibly. Probably. And perhaps soon.”
What’s it like now? Pythagoras had asked after a while, and Harry had suspected it was the first thing he’d inquired of anyone in a long time.
“Upon this island,” the Necroscope had answered, “lie many of the more recently dead. But you’ve shunned them. You could have asked them about Samos, the world, the living. But you were afraid to know the truth. And do you know, the last thing of any importance to the living on this island is number? Well, perhaps not entirely true. I’m sure they’re interested in the quantities of drachmae to the pound, to the deutsche mark and the dollar.” He explained his meaning.
The world is so small now!
Harry had put on his hat, his glasses, and gone out from the shade into sunlight. With his hands in his pockets the latter didn’t bother him too much, but he must go slowly or lose his balance on the rough tracks and roads into Tigani. Pythagoras had gone with him, his deadspeak, anyway; distance wasn’t too important once contact had been established.
I’ll open up the Brotherhood, dissolve it entirely, put it aside. There’s so much to learn.
“Men have landed on the moon,” said Harry.
Pythagoras’s mind had flown in circles.
“They have calculated the speed of light.”
The old mystic’s thoughts were one huge, astonished question mark.
“But you know, among the dead are those mathematicians who could benefit greatly from your knowledge.”
What, mine? I am an infant!
“Not a bit of it. You stuck to pure number. Why, in two thousand and more years, by now you’re a lightning calculator! May I test you?”
By all means—but please, a simple thing. Not the dizzy designs inscribed upon your secret mind.
“Then give me the sum of all the numbers between one and one hundred, inclusive.”
Five thousand and fifty. Pythagoras’s answer had been instantaneous.
Harry had been right. “A lightning calculator. Among the less practical mathematicians—the theoretical mathematicians—why, you’d be like a talking slide rule! I think that for a dead man you’ve a great future, Pythagoras.”
The Greek had been flattered. But it was such a simple thing, and known by heart. Multiplication, division, addition, and subtraction—aye, and trigonometry, too—I’ve done it all so often. There isn’t an angle I can’t calculate.
Harry had smiled. “There you are.” And, however drily: “Believe me, there aren’t many today who know all the angles.”
And you, Harry? Are you a lightning calculator?
Harry hadn’t wished to shatter him. “Ah, but with me it’s different, intuitive.”
Between one and a million, then!
“500,000,500,000,” the Necroscope had answered almost in the same breath. “Take ten and multiply it by itself as many times as you like, and it works every time. Half of ten is five; put the two halves together again: fifty-five. Half of a hundred is fifty, put the halves together: five thousand and fifty. And so on. ‘Magic’ to some, intuition to me.”
Pythagoras had been downcast. Why would they need me when they already have you?
“Because, as I’ve stated, I may not be here too long. It’s like you said; the world is a small place. And it’s hard to find a hiding place.”
On the outskirts of Tigani he’d found a small taverna and seated himself in its shade, and ordered ouzo with a dash of lemonade. English girls splashed in the warm, blue waters of a small, rocky bay. Their breasts were shiny and Harry could smell the oil of coconut from here. Pythagoras had picked the picture from Harry’s mind and scowled at it. Perhaps it’s as well I’m unbodied to stay, he’d commented darkly. Like vampires, they deplete a man.
For a moment the Necroscope had been caught off guard, but then: “Ah!” he’d answered. “But there are vampires and there are vampires …”
4
SOMEONE DYING
The Necroscope’s vampire—as yet a mere tadpole of alien, parasitic contamination—was immature. As such it had no desire for conflict either internal or external but wished only to evolve and get on with the long process of its host’s conversion; which was why its influence was mainly enervating. Keep Harry mentally and emotionally drained, and he’d be less likely to jeopardize himself. Which by definition meant that he’d be less likely to jeopardize his horrific tenant. Hence his flashes of Wamphyri-awareness (half-glimpsed knowledge of burgeoning, ungovernable Power) and the burning need to argue and cross-examine, even to engage his own mind in long spells of intense self-inquisition, despite the bouts of inwardly directed anger and mental exhaustion which invariably resulted.
But quite apart from the Necroscope’s mind, his blood was also aware that the invader was here; it seemed filled with a weird psychic fever which kept him jumpy and constantly
on guard. He was a man with a volcano inside him, which for now merely simmered and let off a little steam. Not knowing when the volcano was set to go off, he couldn’t relax but must hold the cap firmly in place, and listen with a rapt, horrified, and yet curious intentness to the rumbling within.
On the one hand Harry would like to test out his Wamphyri talents to the full (for they were part of him even now, while yet the physical side of the thing was still embryonic), but on the other he knew that to do so would be to accelerate the process. For one thing was certain: however immature his symbiont might be, it was also fast-growing and -learning. No slow starter this vampire.
But while the parasite like all its kind would be dogged, the Necroscope was no less tenacious in his own right. His son had managed to keep his vampire in order, hadn’t he? Like son, like father: Harry would do his damnedest to follow suit.
Except that would be hard enough in itself without the current recalcitrance of the Great Majority … and the knowledge or at least strong suspicion that E-Branch was gearing itself for war … and the fact that despite all of this Harry had determined to bring a certain fiend to justice but first must find him.
Previously, he would have been able to work out a logical system of approach, like writing down an itinerary of priorities. But his mental confusion and the weariness it produced obfuscated, so that while he was aware of the passage of time and of forces mobilizing against him, still he felt incapable of rising above and proceeding beyond his personal miasma. Which in turn brought frustration, more anger, and the first gale warnings that his whirling, gusting emotions craved physical release.
Like an alien autism incapable of self-expression, Harry could feel his violence lying just beneath the surface. His violence, yes, for the vampire in him was neither violent nor emotional: it merely amplified these properties in its host.
Perhaps most frustrating of all, he knew that none of the things he was doing—or would do if he felt capable—was of the slightest importance to his own personal survival. Another in his position might seek to change his identity, find a safe place, extricate himself permanently from all dangerous sources and focuses.
Or would he? Would he even be able to? For as Harry had pointed out to Pythagoras, the world is a small place. And by definition any other in Harry’s position would likewise be Wamphyri and territorial. This was his world; this house not far from Edinburgh was his house; especially his thoughts and actions were his territory—most of them, most of the time—at least when others weren’t snooping on them.
Yesterday he had gone to the ruins of the Castle Ferenczy and spoken to Bodrogk the Thracian. Bodrogk was too recent a friend to have known Harry before the start of his transition; he accepted him for what he was now. Also, Bodrogk was fearless and in any case could not possibly fear the Necroscope, nor for that matter any other living man. His dust, and the dust of his wife, Sofia, were scattered to the winds and only their spirits remained in the Carpathians now. They were quite beyond earthly harm.
The subject of Harry’s inquiry had been the composition and proportions of the chemical ingredients of Janos Ferenczy’s necromantic potions. He would only retrieve Trevor Jordan and Penny Sanderson from their “essential salts” if he could bring them back perfect or as close as possible. Bodrogk, because he had been subjected to just such experiments, was an authority. Even so, he’d inquired at length into the Necroscope’s purpose before passing on the necessary information.
And so today Harry had been ready to become a true necromancer in his own right, and would have proceeded … but at the last moment he’d felt that twinge, that covert tweaking at the corner of his mind, which had warned him that Geoffrey Paxton was close by and watching him. Knowing that Paxton was seeking to prove just such unnatural activity in him, Harry had been obliged to postpone the experiment. And then, barely able to control his rage, he’d spoken to Darcy Clarke at E-Branch HQ.
It had come as a relief to know that Paxton wasn’t Darcy’s man; but if not his, whose? Maybe Darcy would find out and let him know, and maybe not. And in any case, what odds? For Harry knew that sooner or later Darcy and the others must all join forces against him. The hell of it was that the boss of E-Branch had been a good friend once. The Necroscope couldn’t see any way that he would ever be able to hurt Darcy. But how to explain that to the thing inside him?
At 2:00 in the afternoon Harry had sat quite still in his study and “listened.” But his vampire awareness was still a fledgling thing and he’d detected nothing. Or maybe he had: the very briefest wriggle of something on the outermost rim of his perceptions. Whatever, it was suspicious enough that he’d put back his experiment more yet, then rammed his wide-brimmed hat onto his head and gone outdoors to talk to his mother.
Now, sitting on the crumbling riverbank, Harry dangled his legs and looked down into the gently swirling water which had been Mary Keogh’s grave for most of his life, and let his deadspeak thoughts reach out to her. Since there was no one here to see him, he simply spoke to her, which was also deadspeak and felt far more natural:
“Ma, I’m in a mess.”
If she’d answered, “So what’s new?” he would understand; it seemed he was always in a mess. But Mary Keogh loved her son as all mothers do, and death had not diminished that.
Harry? Her voice seemed very faint now, very distant, as if she’d been washed away downriver along with her physical shell. Oh, Harry, I know you are, son.
Well, and that was only to be expected. He’d never been able to hide anything from his ma, who had warned him often enough that there are some things you daren’t get too close to. This time he’d let himself get too close. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
There’s only one thing you can be talking about, son (she sounded so sad, so sorry for him). And even if you hadn’t come to speak to me, still I would know. All of us know, Harry.
He nodded. “They’re not so keen to talk to me anymore,” he said, maybe a little bitterly. “And yet I never harmed a single one of them.”
But you should try to understand, Harry, she was at pains to explain. The Great Majority were once living and now are dead. They remember what life was, and they know what death is, but they don’t understand and wish nothing to do with anything that lies between. They can’t understand something which preys on the living to make them undead, which takes away true life and replaces it with soulless greed and lust and … and evil. The children and grandchildren of the teeming dead are still in the world of the living, and so are you. And that’s what worries them. It makes no difference how long people are dead, Harry, they still worry about their children. But you know that, son, don’t you?
Harry sighed. Her deadspeak, however faint (and possibly even chiding?), was as warm as ever. It covered the Necroscope like a blanket, kept him safe, made it easier to think and plan and even dream. It was so alien to the nightmare thing inside him that that part of Harry could neither understand nor interfere with it. Namely, it was the love of his mother, soothing as nothing else could ever be.
“But the point is,” he said in a little while, “that I’ve one more thing to do before I … before I’m finished here. And it’s important, Ma. Important to me, and to you and the teeming dead alike. There’s a monster running loose, and I have to nail him.”
A monster, son? Her voice was very soft, but he knew what she meant. Who was he to talk about monsters?
“Ma, I’ve done nothing wrong,” he answered. “And so long as I’m me, I’m not going to.”
Harry, she said, son, I’m all used up. And she wasn’t only faint but very tired, too. We’re not inexhaustible. Left alone we’d just go on thinking our thoughts, gradually fading as all things do. We do fade in the end, be it ever so long. But torn by outside influences we go that much faster. I think that’s how it works, anyway. You were a light in our long night, son, and it was like we could see again. But now we have to let you go and suffer the darkness. Alive we used to wonder: Is there any
thing on the other side? Well, there was, and then you came and joined us up, and there was a kind of life again. So now I wonder: What’s next? What I’m telling you is I haven’t long here. But I’d hate to leave you not knowing you were all right. What are your plans, Harry?
And for the first time he realized that he really did need a plan. As simply as that, his mother had cut through all of his confusion.
“Well, there’s a place I can go,” he finally answered. “Not much of a place, but better than dying … I think. And there’s someone there who can teach me things, if he’s willing. He had problems, too, but the last time I saw him he was coping. Maybe he still is. Maybe I can learn something from him.”
She knew where, who, and what he meant, of course. But isn’t that a sinister sort of place, Harry?
He shrugged. “It was. Maybe it still is. But at least I won’t be hunted there. I would be hunted here eventually, if I stayed. Which means I’d be forced to hunt, too. And that’s what I’m afraid of and what I’m trying to avoid. I’m a plague in a bottle, Ma, safe only so long as no one shakes or tries to break me. But in that other place the plague has already run its course. What’s unthinkable here is understood there. Not acceptable, never that, but a reality all the same.”
She sighed. I’m glad you’re not just giving in, son. And with something of her old fondness: You’re a fighter, Harry. You always were
“I suppose I was,” he agreed, “but I can’t fight here. That would only bring it on. And in the end I’m afraid it might be stronger than me. There are still things I have to do here, that’s all, business that needs clearing up. Which is how I’ll occupy myself until it’s time. You asked about my plans:
“They’re simple, really. When my head’s on straight I can read them like words in a book. There’s a girl who died horribly and didn’t deserve it, because no one deserves to die like that; and there’s the creature who killed her and other innocents like her, who does deserve it. There’s a long talk—an explanation—which I owe to Darcy Clarke; and oh, there are talents I’d like to gather, which might be useful to me in the other place.
