Luckily the pentacle was all present and correct in its box, and I had an almost fully charged battery in the cupboard alongside it.
If I'd had a bit more time, I might have ventured downstairs to the cellar to fetch the diesel generator, but that that option was not open to me. I made do with what I had, and set about placing my wires along the lines of the pentacle and my valves in the peaks and troughs. I kept an eye on Arkwright at the door. He stood at alert, poker raised, a batsman waiting for a ball to come down at him, but as yet nothing had ventured through from the hallway.
I had taken my gaze off him, and was almost finished setting up the electric pentacle when I heard the first soft thud and turned to see Arkwright finishing a cover drive that had sent one of the beasts flying against the wall to his right. Then it was all hurry and flight as Arkwright beat a retreat across the floor.
The bugs squeezed, one might almost say oozed, through the door, like ghostly phantoms that only became solid once they reached the library itself. But once inside they started to scuttle and scratch, five, ten, twenty or more so that Arkwright was sore pressed to defend against them. Despite his enthusiasm for the task, my friend was close to being cut off from any possible retreat to the defenses.
*
"Arkwright, get back here; I'm ready." I shouted.
I wasn't quite, but his predicament was such that I was as ready as I was going to be. Arkwright stepped backward, three quick steps without looking where he was going. He almost trod on my blue valve, and I had to reach out and stop him, then make sure he stepped over the lines and into the circle. By this time the dashed bug things were scuttling all around us.
I had time to connect up the battery and throw the switch. The valves hummed into life and the green one flared as one of the creatures threw itself forward, only to be dispersed and torn into rainbow hued dust and shadows as it crashed against my pentacle's defenses.
More of the things crawled and scuttled into the room, coming through the door, out of the walls, up through the floor and even out of the bally books on the shelves. They were all much of the same size, being almost two feet long and slightly sinuous, and within a minute there were scores, possibly hundreds of them, all milling around my library, over the chairs, up and down the book cases. They scratched and scuttled, the sound of their feet keeping time with the rhythm of their song that was loud even above the hum of my valves.
I turned from the scene to look at the other four chaps. They appeared to be steady enough. None of them had taken a funk at the turn of events, but they were all looking to me, expecting either an explanation or a plan of attack.
At that precise moment, I had neither.
*
The things continued to scuttle, but for now they were keeping away from the outer circle of the defenses. I was confident in my equipment's ability to keep us safe, for the time being. But these bug things were now definitely more aggressive, and more solid, and some of them were much less transparent, their outer shells darkening, their inner workings being hidden from view. Whatever I was going to do, I had a feeling that it was best to do it quickly.
I took inventory of what we had brought with us on our forced retreat.
Arkwright still had his poker in hand, Dodgson had the scuttle, and Jessop was wielding the pair of long tongs as if he held a dagger. Taylor had no weapon, and looked rather flushed, but he gave me a thumbs-up to tell me he was dealing with this unprecedented situation. Dodgson also had the Scotch, and between us we had our pipes, several pouches of tobacco and plenty of matches so we were not short of small comforts.
I took the time spent in thinking to fill and light a pipe as I tried to gather my thoughts. It was a bit of a tight squeeze inside the pentacle with us all standing in a circle facing each other, and I knew of old the strain on ankles and legs of standing watch in such vigils.
"Sorry about the lack of chairs, chaps, but we could be here for a while. We should get as comfortable as we can manage."
I sat down, cross-legged, and the others followed suit. Arkwright laid the poker across his lap, and looked like a knight of old, sword at hand, ready for his next battle. Jessop and his coal irons did not quite radiate the same military demeanor, and unlike Arkwright, he was happy to place his makeshift weapon on the floor at his side and ignore it.
Dodgson inspected his wound. The bleeding had stopped but I saw him wince and take a slug from the Scotch bottle when he touched a finger to the bandages. I had seen the damage the bug's nip had done. I knew it was going to be tender and painful for days yet to come. I hoped there was no infection present, and that the wound would not start to bleed any more profusely. In the rush I had forgotten to bring the medical kit, and it was still sitting in the parlor where I had left it in our hasty retreat.
*
Between the library door and the pentacle there was now a teeming throng of the millipedes, all writhing and scratching around and over each other. Ever so often one would approach the pentacle and attempt to breach the circles, but one or other of my valves would flare and hiss, and the thing would dissolve away into the oily rainbow vapors. If they had all attacked at once, the defenses might well have been enough to ensure their total annihilation but they showed no sign of any coordinated effort now, apart, that is, from their singing.
Now that I had time to stop and consider it, I heard that it was indeed structured more like a song than any other kind of communication. There was a certain rhythm and cadence to it that was almost familiar, but I could not quite being to mind where I might have heard it before. I also, on closer inspection of the creatures, discovered where the sound came from. The long millipedes rubbed their rearmost pairs of legs together rapidly to and fro, nearly too fast for the eye to catch. That was what was causing the droning whine that now filled the library and echoed around us.
"What now?" Arkwright asked again. He took the bottle of Scotch from Dodgson, had a slug of his on and passed it around the circle. I waited until we had all partaken before replying.
"As I said, we are safe here for the time being. And I need some time to think, if you chaps are comfortable in the meantime?"
Dodgson smiled, although there was definitely pain in his eyes.
"We've all heard your stories, Carnacki," he said. "I'm sure you'll find a way to get us out of this mess. It's a pity we didn't think to bring some more of your liquor and some glasses with us."
"At least nobody brought any of that awful mutton," Arkwright said with a grin, and the chaps all had a good laugh at my expense. I let them have it, for seeing them in such good spirits was worth it.
After a minute, we all fell silent, each lost in our own thoughts as we smoked and passed around the Scotch. I puffed on my pipe and watched the beasts writhing all around us. I saw with dismay that where they scuttled and climbed they left behind more of that oily, glistening trail of theirs, one that was already drawing a crazed roadmap of sorts all over the spines of my treasured books. I was already going to be faced with a lengthy job cleaning up after this, and I needed to come up with something fast to avoid it getting any worse.
I could still discern no pattern in their movements, and although the hum and throbbing of their communication continued, the origin of the blasted song continued to elude me. I was now completely sure that I knew it, and it was at the back of my mind, just out of reach.
*
I was on my third pipe, and we were almost out of Scotch, when it came to me. The realization wasn't anything of my own doing, but a jogging of my memory from an external source. In this case, it was the muffled sound of the tolling of the church bell along the street to mark midnight. As soon as the bell sounded, the memory came back to me of where I had heard the same beats and throbs, the same chorus.
I had been in a warehouse in Shoreditch where I had met an ancient spectral worm that was both freed or entrapped depending on the cadence of the chimes of the local church bells. These beasts in my librar
y were singing the same thing, and even as the memory came, I remembered the old song that the beats followed.
"Oranges and Lemons Say the Bells of St. Clements."
I also realized, almost immediately, that I had a possible solution to our current problem.
Arkwright must have seen it in my face.
"Look, chaps, Carnacki has had a brainstorm."
Of course, now that they had taken note, there was nothing for it but to tell them what was on my mind. I reminded them of the particulars of the Shoreditch case, and my theory, very recently formulated, that something, perhaps even a small part of the worm itself, had not been completely vanquished that day. Some part of it had stayed with me, followed me, and was even now making itself at home.
Dodgson in particular had a strong memory of the details of that case, perhaps due to his having transcribed it in such detail in his writings.
"You defeated the worm with your phonographs, did you not? Are you suggesting something similar might work here with these bugs?"
I nodded.
"Yes, indeed. If these bally things are from the same plane as yon worm, then it stands to reason that they will be affected by the same rhythms and notes as the larger beast. But it is not that I intend to do something similar. It is rather that I intend to so something exactly the same. I still have the same wax cylinders I used in Shoreditch when I made the recordings necessary to banish the worm, and I can use them again."
Of course this raised the morale of the chaps considerably, so I was rather disappointed to have to let them down so quickly.
"There is, however, one small problem. I do indeed have the cylinders and the phonographs from the Shoreditch case. But they are in the bottom cabinet of the dresser. And the dresser is in the parlor."
*
Arkwright, stout fellow that he is, immediately got to his feet and swished the poker in the air.
"Tell me what to fetch, and I'll go and get them," he said.
"If it were only that simple, I might consider allowing you the privilege," I replied. "But it must be me to go. There are over twenty cylinders in the cabinet, and only I know which ones will be required."
Dodgson spoke up.
"You cannot step out there among them, man," he said. "I can attest only too well to the fact that they'll give you a nasty nip, and that was just one of them. There might be hundreds of the boogers between you and the dresser in the parlor."
"And yet, I must go," I replied. "I can see no other course of action. And we cannot sit here forever."
This time it was Arkwright who spoke up.
"Then you'll be needing some kind of diversion, old chap," he said, and swished the poker about again, as if eager to be at it.
I could not allow him to leave the circle, I had already decided that much. But he had given me another idea. A diversion was exactly what was needed.
"You lads all know the 'Oranges and Lemons' song, don't you?"
They all nodded their heads.
"Then sing it. Sing as loudly as you can. I do believe it might have an effect."
Part of me was wondering, even as I said it, if I had not hit on a kernel of truth. I had indeed intended it as a diversion, for them though, not for me, something to keep them occupied while I did what had to be done. But as soon as Arkwright started to bellow, and the others joined in, I knew we were on to something.
The creatures stopped scurrying. Long feelers on either side of their heads rose, as if tasting the air, and they appeared to be somewhat confused. The chaps kept singing loudly, and the beasts all came to a stop. I got the impression they were listening.
It was now or never.
I joined the others in song and stepped out of the pentacle.
"Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clements."
*
The millipede things backed away as I stepped into them, before filling the gap at my back as I passed. They showed no sign of attempting to attack me. I turned and gave the chaps a thumbs-up, still singing as I walked quickly to the library door.
"You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin's."
I don't know quite what I was expecting to find on the other side of the door, but it proved to be more of the same. When I stepped into the hallway I was faced with a carpet of sluggish, almost docile, millipedes, all testing the air with their feelers and all seemingly confused by our singing. I put some extra gusto in it as I headed across the hall for the parlor door.
"When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey."
Whether it was the dampening effect of the walls between us or if it was the distance from the pentacle, I could not say, but the squirming beasts in the parlor were a tad more lively than the ones in the library, and they milled around with greater purpose. I could hear their song louder than I could that of the chaps across the hall in the library.
I kept a close watch on my immediate surroundings as I picked my way through the bugs to the dresser and I sang, bellowing as loudly as Arkwright, louder than I would ever have managed in childhood.
"When I grow rich, Say the bells of Shoreditch."
The swarming things were at least staying well way from my ankles, and fortune favored me as I reached the dresser and looked in the lower cabinet; my phonographs were where I'd remembered them to be, as were the cylinders. I had cause to be grateful for my own efficiency, for they were all labeled with dates, times and identifiers and I was quickly able to lift out the four I was after and stow them in the phonograph boxes.
I debated only taking back one of the boxed machines as they were dashed heavy and awkward to carry, but I had needed both to deal with the Shoreditch worm, so both it had to be.
I kept singing as I turned back toward the parlor door.
"When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney."
Whether they had grown used to our singing, or even bored by the cacophony, the beasts were milling around with more intent now, and one scurried right at my legs before I reached the door. I gave it as hard a kick as my balance would allow and kept moving, kept singing.
"I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow."
I had to stomp and kick my way back through the hallway, and by the time I entered the library again the millipedes were all looking in my direction. I broke into a run. At the same time Arkwright leapt out of the circle, swinging the poker, not with a batsman's finesse, but like a barbarian swordsman intent on hacking his enemies to pieces. His bellow was loud and furious.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed. And here comes a chopper to chop off your head."
Arkwright held the things at bay long enough for both of us to step back into the circle. Four of the millipedes leapt forward, intent on joining us, but as soon as they hit the air above the pentacle's lines they fizzled and popped, and fell apart into rainbow dust.
The first part of my plan was complete. I had retrieved the phonographs. It was now time to see if putting my theory into practice was going to reward me for my perilous actions.
*
The chaps kept singing while I got the phonographs wound and the cylinders in place, but the millipedes had quickly developed immunity to our vocal charms and were now swarming with frightening speed. I had left the doors open on my return from the parlor, having had both hands full, so that gave the things free run of the whole stretch of parlor, hallway and library. They poured through in a tumbling wave and soon the library was over a foot deep in squirming, wriggling, bugs.
The press of their bodies meant that more and more of them now came into contact with the edge of my defenses and they popped and fizzled and hissed with increasing frequency as yet more of the blighters arrived from through in the parlor.
I saw panic in Dodgson's face as the encroaching millipedes pressed ever closer to us. The valves flared in bright flashes, yellow, green and blue, lighting up the rafters of the ceiling above like fireworks. If I was going to do something, it would hav
e to be now, for I heard the valves start to whine and complain under the strain.
I made sure the first phonograph was wound up fully, and started it off. The peals of the old bells of East London filled the room. I sang along, and the others joined in again.
"Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St. Clements."
The millipedes backed away, slowly retreating from the protections.
*
But their retreat wasn't happening fast enough. Yes, they were retreating; I saw one seem to back away through a shelf of books, leaving more of the oily residue behind. They were still retreating when the first cylinder came to its end. But in the scant few seconds it took me to get the second phonograph to start up, they had already encroached again toward the pentacle, even despite the fact that we were all singing and shouting at the top of our voices.
I started up the second phonograph and the beasts retreated again, only to return when the machine wound down and I started up the other one. I could not get them to retreat far enough, and when I tried playing the two machines with an overlap it did not have the desired effect. The bugs stopped retreating, and did not come forward, but sat, in a watching circle, some eight feet away from the pentacle.
It became like the steps of some bizarre ritualistic dance. Backward and forward they went across the library floor as I played first one, then the other cylinder in rotation.
We had reached a stalemate, one I was unsure how to break, until I had another epiphany.
I had wondered earlier whether the beasts might not self-immolate against the defenses. While I had been worried that the valves and defenses would not survive a slow, steady wave of attack after attack by the beasts, I began to wonder what might happen if they all came in one great rush? Might that not lead to a mass suicide?
Carnacki: The Edinburgh Townhouse and Other Stories Page 5
