A young woman clutching a bulging carpetbag ran in, panting, slamming the door behind her. She saw Georges eyeing her and whispered, in English, “Please, sir, I beg of you: a few moments of sanctuary… ?”
Georges was briefly thankful that he hadn’t undressed for bed yet; he was still fit for his sixty-one years, but he preferred not to alarm the lady any further, if possible. He stood, put his finger to his lips, and moved to the compartment door. Cracking it open slightly, he risked a glance out.
What he saw caused his heart to nearly shudder to a stop: three men, each so tall that they had to stoop in the train’s hallway, were coming toward him. Georges had never seen their like. In addition to their unusual size, their skin was excessively pale, nearly the color of Georges’s snowy mustache and beard; their long hair was silver; and each bore a strange, swirling mark in the center of his forehead. For a moment he thought them actors, perhaps ogres in a cinematic fantasy like those he had made decades ago. Then he saw their forehead marks were neither makeup nor tattoos, but were burned into the flesh, a nightmarish brand. Each kept one hand beneath his ragged jacket, and when Georges saw a flash of metal he realized they were attempting to conceal knives.
As he watched, they tore open one door after another, looking within the individual sleeping compartments with no regard for the hour or the privacy of the passengers. Shrieks and protests followed behind them. One angry man stepped into the corridor, but ran when one of them snarled and partly withdrew a blade.
Georges promptly eased his door shut again and rushed back to the luxurious bunk. Without comment, he threw his coat over the young lady’s bag, sat, reached out, and pulled her to him. “Sir—!” she cried out, as Georges hugged her.
The door banged open and one of the scarred giants looked in. Georges turned only his head, not moving otherwise, hoping he hid the woman from view. Summoning his best sense of outrage, he shouted out, “Excusez-moi—!”
The savages peered at Georges, and he hoped they didn’t see the way his hand trembled beneath the woman’s sleeve, but after another breathless second they moved on. Georges waited to be sure they were gone, then stood, looked outside to watch them retreat, and closed the door again, doing what he could to secure it.
His visitor remained seated, looking up at him in gratitude. “Thank you, sir,” she said with an elegant British accent. “I believe you’ve saved my life.”
Georges examined her—and her half-open carpetbag—then asked in French-accented English, “May I ask … did you know those …”
“Brutes,” she supplied. “No. They were horrible, weren’t they?”
“They were not pursuing you?”
“Oh, they were indeed, but I’ve no idea why.”
Georges considered. He didn’t believe her; as a professional in the arts of magic and cinema, he was skilled in recognizing fellow deceivers. Her hand fluttered alluringly, even seductively, at her collar, and Georges knew misdirection when he saw it. Still, she was easily the most interesting thing he’d encountered so far on the famed Orient Express. “Well, Mademoiselle, you are welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”
The woman nodded. “You are very kind. Your name, sir?”
With a flourish, Georges reached toward her head and appeared to pluck something from behind her ear. He took in her appreciative smile as he handed the finely printed calling card to her. The name Georges Méliès appeared in bold letters in the center, above two addresses, one in Paris and one in Montreuil.
“Monsieur Méliès …” She peered at the card for several seconds before looking up at Georges. “I feel as if I should know you.”
“I concur, Mademoiselle.”
She looked away, and Georges was charmed by her youthful shyness and beauty; she reminded him, in fact, of his one-time mistress Jehanne, whom he’d been missing a great deal of late. Lovely Jehanne, with her wry smile and hourglass figure, had been his muse a quarter-century ago, when movies were still silent toddlers; together they’d given birth to great cinematic wonders, all forgotten now
“Your name is familiar—”
She broke off as her bag, neglected during the entrance of the sinister pursuers, fell from beneath Georges’s coat to the train’s floor with a heavy thump. It spilled out a passport and a large object, wrapped in oilcloth. The woman started to reach forward, but Georges retrieved the passport first and flipped it open. She was indeed a British citizen, named, “… Helen Smythe-Whittington?”
She batted her lashes and Georges was even more charmed. “Helen, please,” she said in a soft purr.
Georges returned the passport to the bag, then hefted the heavy object. It was about the size of a cannonball, but as Georges turned it in his hands the oilcloth fell away and what he saw caused him to forget his lovely guest. The thing was some sort of squatting figure, instantly repellent, with a malformed face that included tusks curving up nearly to a trio of deepset eyes; the arms ended in hooked pincers, the legs in hooves, and membranous wings sprouted from the bent back. The sculpture was the hue of a stagnant pond, and was vaguely slimy beneath his fingers. Georges couldn’t imagine the nature of the material. “Mon dieu—”
He broke off as he peered closer at the head and saw the swirling symbol there—the same one that had been branded into the brows of Helen’s three pursuers. The symbol seemed to be moving, drawing him in; the sides of his vision fell away, and something dark and huge loomed before him—
Helen draped the oilcloth over the carving and took it from Georges, and he realized he had no idea how long he’d been staring at it. His fingers felt numb, his gaze heavy as he looked up at Helen. “This is quite clearly what your peculiar friends sought. What is it?”
Méliès felt some dreadful weight lift from him as she returned the wrapped figure to the carpetbag. “I don’t know very much about it, I’m afraid. Georges, if I may … my experiences since I came into possession of it have been simply terrible. My beloved Aunt Hilda died last month. On her deathbed she made me promise to personally return this piece to a one-time suitor who had given it to her in her youth. I’m on my way to see him in Istanbul, but those … things started chasing me on the Channel Ferry. I can’t imagine how they got onto the train.”
“Why on earth, I wonder, would anyone have given your aunt such a thing as that?” He nodded toward the bag.
Helen’s smile twitched only briefly. “Oh, my aunt was a very eccentric woman. There were those in her village who thought her a witch.”
“What village was that?”
“Are you well-traveled in England, Georges? Because I’m quite sure you wouldn’t have heard of it otherwise. It was very small.”
In his youth, Georges had spent time in London, investigating cameras and projectors, but he couldn’t rightly claim to know much of the English countryside. “You are right, Mademoiselle Helen. My time in your homeland was spent almost entirely on business in London.”
“And what is your business?”
“I am a filmmaker.” Georges was lying now. He hadn’t made a film since 1912—had it really been eleven years ago?—but he’d never been able to refer to himself as a former filmmaker. It was too precious a vocation.
“How exciting! I love the pictures. Do you know any of the great stars? Charlie Chaplin? Or Clara Bow? I’ve had a few friends tell me I look like her.”
“Alas, I have made films only in my native France. My last was called The Conquest of the Pole.”
“It sounds quite dashing. Did you go to the Pole to film it?”
“No, I recreated the Pole in my studio, along with a snow giant that ate several intrepid explorers.”
Helen laughed, and for a moment Georges forgot the strange circumstances of her arrival. “Mademoiselle, might I suggest that you stay here, in my compartment, until this trouble is over? If that’s not improper.”
“Not at all, Georges. That’s very kind of you, and I accept.” She moved the bag near her feet on the floor, and Georges remembered the unease that had wa
shed over him while holding the idol. He’d spent his life trying to frighten willing audiences—his films had presented both real-life cataclysms and fantastic, startling tableaux—but he knew he’d never succeeded in provoking the kind of dread the carved monster had produced in him.
Georges ceded his sleeping bunk to his guest that night, leaving him to curl up beneath a blanket on the padded bench. He barely slept, and yet he dreamt. He saw hordes of the huge, branded savages genuflecting and wailing as something unseen approached, a mountain of shadows that plucked one man from the tribe and consumed him. Blood from his crushed chest sprayed down on the pale skin and hair of his brethren. Georges wanted to look away, but instead he tilted his head back and back, trying to take in the immensity of what he saw. The thing—he heard the name “Shaurash-Ho” whispered—loomed over the cowering tribesmen, and their demise seemed certain; then one of them, a priest-mage, waged a war with the god and finally captured its essence in the small carving, which was placed within a sacred altar saturated with magicks. The priest-mage took his place at the altar and was soon joined by others, a ring of devotees whose only duty was to keep Shaurash-Ho imprisoned.
Georges’s eyes snapped open to gray morning light filtering in beneath the compartment’s shade. He remembered everything about the dream, and as he stared at the bag on the floor, he realized: In his dream, the savages had protected humanity, especially when the fury of the Great War had roused Shaurash-Ho. Was it possible Helen’s pursuers sought the idol to restore order, to save mankind from the terrible thing imprisoned within the green stone?
He shook his head. No, it was ridiculous. He of all people should know better than to trust a dream. His dreams had all failed him.
His daughter, Georgette, had given him this ticket in the hopes of rescuing him from those failures. A wealthy friend had purchased the ticket and then fallen ill, and Georgette had given it to Georges. “Escape yourself, Papa,” she’d urged him, along with a kiss. “Travel to new places. Eat, drink, enjoy the world. Let the trip restore your spirits.”
His daughter would have been pleased to know he’d met a lovely woman, although the circumstances would undoubtedly have troubled her.
He thought of the night’s terrible dreams and was abruptly anxious to be among company again, away from his guest’s dreadful possession. Helen continued to sleep, so he slipped from the compartment and made his way to the dining car.
The hour was still early, but other passengers already populated the car, and Méliès was calmed by their presence. A waiter, Gaston, led him to a table. “Tell me,” Méliès asked as he took his seat, “was there any sort of disturbance on the train last night?”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur. Three men attempted some sort of robbery.”
“Were they apprehended?”
The waiter looked around anxiously. “I—I am not sure.”
“Could you have a senior conductor brought to me?”
Gaston nodded. “Of course.” He turned and left.
A few moments later, a uniformed man carrying a notebook bound in metal approached Georges, asking how he might be of service.
“Last night, three strange men—”
The conductor smiled. “Ahhh, yes. I do apologize for the commotion, sir. The men were captured this morning, attempting to steal this—” he waved the notebook with a flourish “—the master passenger list. They apparently sought to rob one of our guests, but rest assured the situation is under control. We at the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits take our obligations to our passengers most seriously. We will be making a small unscheduled stop shortly to hand them over to local authorities.”
“That’s good. May I ask if you show a passenger named Helen Smythe-Whittington on that list?”
The conductor frowned, flipped through pages, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but we have no one by that name on board.”
Georges was about to thank the man when an unearthly howl sounded from the rear of the car. Startled, he turned and saw the three savages being led through the doorway by half-a-dozen men. The silver-haired ruffians were tied with heavy ropes. All bore cuts or bruises on their heads, but so did several of their captors. As the struggling trio was led through the center of the dining car, other passengers gasped and involuntarily slid chairs back. The official blanched and begin to argue with the guards surrounding the savages. “Non, non, pas de cette façon!”
The group approached Georges and the brutes abruptly dug in their heels and fought against their bounds. Their noses twitched, heads tilted back, like dogs catching a scent. They turned toward Georges and one broke away and started toward him; the filmmaker shrank back as the savage shoved the table aside and looked beneath. The conductor cried out and intervened, grappling with the brute for a few seconds. The savage broke free and finished scanning the area around Georges, until, finding nothing, he sagged and was easily shoved back into line. Georges straightened himself, and to his surprise, the savage turned a look on him, but it bore no malice or threat; instead, it was an expression of dismal failure. The three barbarians were then quite easily led from the train.
The conductor turned to Georges. “Are you quite all right, Monsieur? My most sincere apologies. My assistants should have thought to clear this car first.”
Georges rose, his thoughts jumbled, rationality nearly forced out by images of white-haired priests guarding a divine monster. “I must return to business elsewhere.”
He pushed past the perplexed conductor, left the dining car, and made his way to his compartment. After a polite knock on the door, Georges entered to find Helen awake and seated by the window, peering out.
“Do you know why we’re stopping?” Helen gestured outside, and Georges realized he hadn’t even been aware of the train slowing down. “A sign identified this place as Friedensdorf, but I thought Munich was the next stop.”
Georges lowered himself to the bench. “They captured the three who chased you last night. I believe they’re removing them from the train here.”
“Oh.” Helen abruptly leaned back, and Georges realized that she feared being seen.
“Mademoiselle,” Georges began, “you have not been truthful with me.”
She looked at him innocently, and for a heartbeat Georges hoped he was wrong, but that hope soon fled. “There is no Helen Smythe-Whittington on the passenger list, to begin with,” he said.
“I thought it prudent to travel under an assumed name.”
Georges fixed her with the most serious look he could muster. “Mademoiselle, I’d like to tell you about myself, and hope you will indulge an old man.”
“I somehow can’t think of you as ‘old,’ Georges,” she said, and the smile she gave him made him want to believe her; but the memory of the night’s dreams caused him to continue.
“There was a time when I was a famous filmmaker. I invented my own camera and made hundreds of films that were shown all over the world. Thomas Edison stole my film A Trip to the Moon and made a fortune showing it in America, but I remained undaunted. I kept making movies full of wonder and tricks. Mon dieu, but I loved my little lies!
“Then the War came. My films were melted down to make soldiers’ boots. My Paris theatre was demolished to make room for a street. And my studio—my beautiful studio in Montreuil—was taken because I could no longer pay my debts. My wife and mistress both left me, and now I have nothing but—” Georges gestured at the luggage rack overhead, where a pair of leathered-covered boxes attached to wooden legs were nestled next to a single suitcase “—that old camera, a few feet of raw film, and this trip.
“Now I have told you all the failures of my life. Please, Mademoiselle, do me the courtesy of not causing my trust in you to become another of them.”
Helen returned Georges’s steady gaze, but added a half-smile. When she spoke, he was startled by her flat American accent. “Show me your camera and I’ll tell you the truth.”
She was stalling. Georges almost shouted, “We don’t hav
e time,” then realized he wasn’t even sure why he’d almost said that; time was the most honest thing they had together. “You will tell me everything, including what that carving is?”
“Everything that I know.”
Georges pulled the crates down, staggering slightly as the train started up again, chugging forward as they left Friedensdorf. He found his balance and arranged the wooden legs to open into a tripod. The camera itself was about half-a-meter tall, with a lens on the front and a crank and covered eye-hole on the back. The second box, the film magazine, sat atop the camera.
Helen’s eyes went wide, and she tentatively touched it. “This is a movie camera… ? I’ve never seen one.”
“Yes.” Georges was surprised to realize it still gave him pleasure to demonstrate his art.
“Is there film in it?”
“There is.” Georges pointed to the magazine. “The film is held up here. It passes through the camera down here.” He moved up the cover over the eye-hole. “Look in here.”
Helen did, and saw the world beyond the train in blurred shades of gray. “It looks so strange….”
Georges adjusted a small knob next to the eye-hole. “You’re looking right through the film. We can adjust the focus here.”
The image took on sharp definition, and Helen uttered a delighted laugh. “So this is how the camera sees life.”
“Yes.”
“You could actually make a movie with this right now?”
By way of answer, Georges swung the camera on its tripod head until the lens was pointed at Helen. He examined her portrait in the eye-hole, then began to turn the crank.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m recording you for posterity.”
Her blush was natural, her laugh delicate. “Oh, don’t waste your film. I’m no star.”
“You are definitely an extremely accomplished actress.”
He kept cranking as she dropped to the bunk, glancing out the window at the passing scenery: thick forests edged right up to the tracks, the curtain of greenery punctuated only by the occasional river or road. There was no longer any sign of human habitation, not even fields or grazing cattle.
Madness on the Orient Express: 16 Lovecraftian Tales of an Unforgettable Journey Page 4
