by Adrian Cole
COPYRIGHT INFO
Copyright © 2011 by Adrian Cole.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
PART ONE
STORM
The night was his mistress, her shadows his protection. He fought alone, elusive and impalpable. A lone warrior, a demi-god, wedded to the cause of justice, his single purpose to protect vulnerable humanity from the evils that beset it.
— from the cover of Darkwing 1
CHAPTER ONE
Athenaeum
Overhead the night skies were piling together in an ominous melee. It was the kind of brew that brought to mind the anger of primitive gods, the fury of living elements, fused into the tools of deities bent on the destruction of human empires. Lightning flashed in lurid swathes, imbuing the boiling cloudbanks with powers that mocked the city below, with its scattered rash of pinprick lights. And when the thunder rolled over the world, it made a sound that would have drowned the artillery of any war.
Mears ducked instinctively as the next blast reverberated around the city blocks, reaching down into the streets with apparent dark intent. He muttered a curse. Wasn’t there something about thunderclaps moving in waves? Each one getting nearer, then moving away. He’d been taught that as a kid, as well as seeing it in a dozen movies. Whatever, but this storm wasn’t playing the game. The detonations overhead seemed fixed, one coming after another and all of them right there, above him. He gripped the collar of his coat tighter. The rain was coming and in keeping with the scale of the storm, it would be torrential.
What made matters worse was that he was in a part of the city that he didn’t know well. The job had brought him here, necessitating an evening visit. It had been a half-mile hike from the tube: there were no taxis around, but Grant, his boss, had told him the place he was looking for was easy enough to find. Maybe without the gathering gloom and pending onslaught of the storm, it would have been straightforward. Now, bent over and tucked in close to the buildings, he wasn’t sure of his bearings. There was no one about, which was probably as well: the surroundings were bleak, redolent with disuse and decay. The street lamps worked intermittently, flickering nervously with each crackle of lightning.
Another boom rocked the pavement and he lurched into a doorway. The thunderbolt had ripped open the belly of the clouds and released the anticipated downpour. Rain inundated the city, monsoon-like; in moments the gutters were streams in spate, roofs spouting cataracts in a dozen places as weak pipes failed to keep up with the deluge.
Mears swore into his collar, already drenched. He peered through the teeming sheets of rain. But at least it looked as if he had found the building he was after. Set in its own patch of rock-strewn ground, it was a three storey Victorian pile, its red-brick turned to grey by the ravings of the night. His vision blurred and for a moment the building looked as if it were about to dissolve into a shapeless mass, an amorphous monument from the pre-dawn of time. He told himself not to be so fanciful. It was a library, for God’s sake. The last bastion of a beleaguered realm, its former companions long since buried under the machinations of what was termed ‘new build.’
And I’m here to start pulling the plug. He reached the pavement across from the gates, wiped streaming rain from his face and studied the building. Amongst the surrounding blocks of dull, featureless edifices its character looked incongruous, an anachronism that would probably draw no sympathy from the local populace. Mears grinned. He couldn’t help but feel the defiance locked in those red bricks, product of a prouder age, a time of empire, a time of bulldogs.
Up on the roof there was a parapet, linking absurdly large chimneys and equally gross vases, like the machicolations of a castle. He imagined a depleted army of defenders, waiting for him to cross the road so that they could hurl down on him their abuse as well as their hot oil. But there were significant gaps in the roof, where the tiles had cracked and fallen inwards and some of the chimneys leaned dangerously. A few more years, a few more storms like this one and the place would collapse in on itself. It was riddled with dry rot, the surveys had reported, and wet rot and woodworm: the list of structural disease filled several fat dossiers. Not just the planners but common sense dictated that it needed rebuilding. And re-locating.
Mears crossed the flooded street and paused only briefly in the gateway. Both gates had long since been wrenched from their sockets, one leaning its buckled deformity into a bank of shrubbery, the other flat on the courtyard, partially buried under a down of grass. It was only now, looking up at the looming façade, that Mears realised there was at least one light on in the old building. He sighed. No excuse now not to go on with this.
Grant had told him that the archivist only worked in the evenings. No one had had the heart to enforce more civilized hours on the sole employee remaining. The other staff, apparently once fifty strong, had all moved on to other branches, or retired. There had been a token fuss only: they knew that this athenaeum was doomed by its own ill health. It would have taken a fortune to restore and so much work would have had to have been done that the original superstructure would have had to have been ripped out and renewed. Only the archivist had held out. Him and the cockroaches, Mears mused.
He went up the granite steps and into the shadow of the portico, hemmed in at once by Doric columns that were wound around with the graffiti of years, a grotesque parody of hieroglyphics, both a record of the sins of the neighborhood and an invitation to perform more. Above him there was another blast, almost of approval as he squeezed into a nook of shelter. The door to the place looked as though it, at least, would repel the worm and the bulldozer, as if removed from a medieval keep and set here in obstinate defiance. In vain, Mears looked for a bell. There was, however, an elaborate knocker, bearing the yawning face of a gargoyle, its wide eyes staring unblinkingly at the storm.
Symbol of the mad archivist, Mears wondered, though no one had said the man was actually mad. Mears gripped the elongated metal lip of the knocker, loosened it and thumped it several times on the solid wood of the door. A message had been sent to say that he was coming tonight, but he frowned at the thought. By what means? A runner with a cleft stick, perhaps.
Lightning crackled, again very close. He was certain he heard a following crash, as if somewhere a chimney had been speared, its bricks skating off a roof into the street. Looking out from his hiding place, he discerned even less street lamps. Not a single vehicle, not even a parked one. Everyone had taken cover and dragged their possessions with them. Although in this part of the city, that was not so unusual. But tonight, it seemed that no one considered the lure of pickings worth the wrath of the storm.
Mears’ mind was still wandering, when he became aware that the huge door had creaked partially open. Insipid yellow light inched out. Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, he pushed the door inward. Beyond was a musty, dimly-lit hall and at first he thought he was alone, as though the door had somehow been operated by a mechanical means, totally out of keeping though that would have been. But as he stepped over the threshold, automatically closing the door behind him, he found that he was mistaken.
The archivist announced his modest presence with a cough, emerging from a patch of shadow like a watchdog slinking from its kennel.
“Ah, there you are. Mr. Mears, I take it?” he said. His voice was deep and rich, which was odd, given that he, himself, was little more than five feet tall, a thin-framed man seemingly balled up into a jacket resembling a sleeping bag. Mears could have sworn that he’d seen him somewhere, though he knew they had never met. But the archivist appeared to belong to another age, as though a part of the manuscripts and documents he so lovingly tended. He offered his skeleta
l hand, which Mears instantly took and shook. The grip was unexpectedly strong, and in the man’s eyes there was a sparkle both of high intelligence and mischief.
“Yes, I’m Mears.”
“Guy Abbot. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Sorry if I’m late.”
“Late? Good Lord, Mr. Mears, I don’t know the meaning of the word. I don’t pay a lot of attention to time. None of the clocks work any more. Mrs. Cranston, the Librarian that was, would have a fit if she knew. She had them all wound to the absolute second. When they went off, it had to be together, or someone, usually Pettiford the caretaker, would feel the rough end of her tongue. Quite a tartar, she was, but, I have to say, she ran a very tight ship. Indeed, yes.”
Mears followed the stooped figure as it led him along the hall. A dozen statuettes and busts adorned its walls in faded niches, looking down now in resignation at their fate, as if anticipating an entombment in the vaults of the new build, far from admirers.
“One heck of a night out there,” said Mears, at last unbuttoning his coat and shaking off the rain, puddling the elaborate geometry of the tiles. “Like the end of the world.” He regretted it as soon as the words were out, but the archivist turned to look at him with an amused grin.
“It certainly is, Mr. Mears. A touch of Ragnarok about it, I would venture. Are you a fan of the Ring Cycle, by the way?”
“Not if I’m honest. I don’t get a lot of time for music —”
“Ah, that’s a shame. Brandy of the gods. Life’s the poorer without it. Even so, you’ll want to be on with the business, I suppose.” He opened a pair of tall doors, which led into the heart of the building, its vast reference library. Mears had been told that it was a significant collection, but it still came as a surprise to see such a profusion of volumes, pamphlets, magazines, parchments and paraphernalia shelved, racked and piled in glorious abandon along the numerous tall aisles. Had no one started to pack any of this up yet? There wasn’t a crate in site.
“Quite a collection,” he said.
“It is, Mr. Mears. Unique.”
“You realise that there are only two months now before —” But he did not finish the sentence. The archivist knew the score, even if he didn’t want to face it. The demolition of this building would be to him like the switching off of a life support system of a close relative.
“Yes, yes,” the old man sighed. “Tempus fugit. Well, where would you like to begin? This is the main library, but there are a number of other rooms. Do you know why the building is called the Athenaeum?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It used to be a very special club. There’s a room upstairs where, at the turn of the nineteenth century, the Anthropological and Archaeological Society used to meet. Leakey, Carter and so on. They were all regulars. Professor Challenger himself would not have been out of place.”
Mears frowned at his host, wondering if he were making fun of him. “Challenger?”
The archivist walked over to a tall press and pulled out a dusty volume, holding it up like an exhibit. “The Lost World. You must have read it.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. And the other four Challenger adventures.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “I thought as much. You’ll probably have read a lot of our titles,” he added, indicating the long rows of books with a sweep of his arm. “Not much lost world material missing.”
Mears joined him at the press, eyes scanning the first shelf. He drew in his breath sharply. The archivist had not been exaggerating. Most of the titles here had been long out of print. “These are amazing —”
“Are they to your taste, Mr. Mears?”
“Oh, yes. I was weaned on Haggard and Ballantine and Stevenson. Are any of these firsts?”
The archivist nodded, still smiling. Mears felt a sudden pang of guilt, as if by organising the demise of the library he had betrayed his own faith, a love of books that he rarely shared with colleagues, or anyone else for that matter.
“They will be carefully treated, of course,” he said, eyes greedily running down the numerous spines. Anthony Hope, Guy Boothby, Andrew Lang — there had to be complete sets of them all.
“We’ve an interesting selection of old magazines as well. Come through, let me show you.” The archivist was in his element now, knowing that he had snared a willing victim. Enthusiasts, collectors, they could not hide their zeal once exposed to the objects of their desire. Mears was evidently far more of an addict than he would likely ever admit.
They passed through several more aisles and stopped at a lower press, which had elaborate glass doors. The archivist gently pulled one open to reveal row upon row of magazines, all carefully protected in plastic bags. “Here is a feast for the most avid of collectors. Pull one out, have a look. You’ll not be disappointed.”
Mears did so and grunted when he saw the cover. Unknown. Further along there were old favourites: Weird Tales, Magic Carpet and then, to his utter amazement a cover that made him start. It was the Argosy that contained the first release of Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes. He stared at the cover, its colours still as sharp as the day it was pressed, in wonder, like a knight who had stumbled across the Grail.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” breathed the archivist.
“But, this is fantastic. You seem to have complete runs of everything.”
“We do.”
“But, the value! I mean, this magazine alone, and it’s near mint —”
“Priceless. Unique. You can no more put a price on the collection than you could on, say, your soul.”
Mears smiled in spite of himself. “Very appropriate.” Like something from out of one of these very magazines, he wanted to add, but decided that the old boy might be offended.
“We have more. There are the comics, the graphic novels, some of which are more recent, though, for my tastes, a little too gaudy. I prefer the original styles.”
“Comics?”
The archivist led him through to another part of the huge hall where, as promised, a huge collection of comics was carefully racked and displayed.
Mears simply gaped. He dared not look at them too closely, certain that he would find treasures beyond any collector’s wildest dreams. “I had no idea that anything like this existed. And I don’t suppose many others do either. People would kill for collections like these. Do you get any thefts?”
The archivist smiled patiently. “No. Not a single item. It’s all protected. Nothing leaves here, you see. Not allowed.”
Again Mears smiled. “How can you be sure?”
But the old man simply chuckled. “Call it magic, Mr. Mears. But I have my system.”
“Well, one thing I can promise you, every possible care will be taken when they are moved. I will personally supervise the matter. Which, I suppose, we ought to discuss,” he added, slightly embarrassed.
“Yes, of course. But let’s make ourselves comfortable. I know just the room. If you’d like to follow me. I realise it’s a little late in the day, but could I interest you in some tea? I have some rather delicious green.”
“Thank you.”
As they threaded through the towering stacks, Mears could not help but look at the titles in their precisely organised ranks. Although they seemed inordinately free of dust, they did not look as though they had been touched in a long time. Presumably the archivist’s eccentricity stretched to a fanatical cleaning of the books. Certainly the caretaking and cleaning staff had left some weeks before.
A thought struck Mears as they came to another ornate door and the archivist pulled a set of heavy keys from the folds of his jacket. So far, the only books, pulps and magazines that Mears had seen were all of the same oeuvre. Could it be that they were the only types that were here? As the old man unlocked the door, he asked him.
“Oh yes, Mr. Mears. No room for anything else! Some of our titles are arguably crime rather than fantasy, for instance our run of The Shadow, and there are numerous what you might call cross-overs. But, generally speaking, you won’t
find Agatha Christie here. She did write the odd bizarre tale, though. And, naturally, we do have the appropriate works of Dickens. Our reference section, together with its many biographies, is specific to the chosen genres.”
“I’m staggered. Genuinely.”
“I’m decidedly heartened to hear it.” The door opened and the old man motioned Mears through. He half-expected another Aladdin’s cave and wasn’t disappointed. The room was fairly large, beautifully paneled in wood, in a perfect state of preservation. There was a superb fireplace, with a massive lintel, on which rested more miniature statuettes and behind which was a huge mirror, its frame elaborately carved and etched in gold leaf. But it was the portraits on the walls that really took Mears’ breath away. He recognised Rider Haggard at once and what he thought was Robert Louis Stevenson. And beside him, Kipling. There were a dozen others, some in miniature, though he was less sure of their identities.
“What do you think?” said the archivist, gently closing the door. “Aren’t they splendid?”
“Again I am amazed.”
“This was where many of them met. This was the clubroom. You said you were partial to Rider Haggard’s works. He was generally regarded as the master, although others still defer to Kipling. But they inspired one another.”
“They met here? Haggard was here? In this room?” Mears ran his hands over the immaculate leather top of the huge table that was the centrepiece of the room.
“Indeed. And he, as well as his friends, Lang among them, would have jotted down notes and plots on that very table, I am sure of it.”
Mears dropped into one of the high-backed chairs, resting his elbows on the table. Then, as if realising what he had done, he sat upright, lifting his arms. “I beg your pardon,” he said, as if he had committed some dreadful faux pas.
The old man patted his shoulder warmly. “Not at all. This place has been preserved for people like yourself, Mr. Mears. People who appreciate the old masters. Touch the table, by all means. Feel its history. I told you there is magic here. Difficult to believe otherwise, eh?”
