The simulacrum, which hovered a few inches off the ground, was not entirely solid, as I could detect faint traces of the wall beyond its faint vermilion glimmer. And yet it seemed alive, more so than a ghost (or at least than the ghosts the Mistress and I had faced in “The Strange Case of the Ghosts of the Dog-Men,” published in The Weird Adventures of the International Mistress of Mystery).
I murmured to myself: “What is this eerie apparition?”
In Sweet Honey’s voice, the simulacrum answered: “I am the sum of all the stories and memories and dreams that make up Sweet Honey’s identity. I am the oracle of Sweet Honey. Ask me anything about her, and I will answer.”
Startled into silent awe, I circled the floating oracle, as if observing it from different angles could somehow explain how any of this was possible. Was this a projection of some sort? Was Sweet Honey somehow casting her voice from afar, perhaps using some variation of Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone invention? Or, more likely, was I under the spell of the vermilion concoction Scheherazade had us all imbibe, suffering a series of bizarre hallucinations? Perhaps all this was an initiation ritual into the Vermilion Eye and, while I was under the suggestible mental state induced by the glittering potion, Scheherazade or Brother Nocturne or even the Mistress or perhaps the entire gathering was using the techniques of mesmerism to make me experience these unreal encounters. Yet, in the wake of my initial disorientation after drinking the vermilion wine, none of this, no matter how bizarre, felt unreal. Despite the strangeness of my circumstances, my mind was entirely awake and alert, my body fully tangible, all my senses active and taking in whatever evidence they could gather.
I essayed a query to test the simulacrum: “Is Sweet Honey herself aware of your existence and of our conversation?”
“Sweet Honey will encounter me as you are encountering me now. She will only be aware of our encounter and its particulars if she enquires about it.”
“Have you spoken to others, besides myself?”
“Yes.” Without further prompting, she enumerated: “Brigadier Fox, the Snow Fairy, and Brother Nocturne.”
The Snow Fairy had to be the name of one of the two women I had not yet identified. Was she the old crone or the shimmering semi-presence? I pushed aside that question for now. “How did Sweet Honey come to know Eule-Königin and Le Nomade des Étoiles?”
The simulacrum answered as if she were Sweet Honey herself. “We were all of three of us already agents of the Vermilion Eye. We met here, at the Eye’s Mind. I was returning to report on the death of my parents, who were also agents. According to their last report to me, they had traced a cell of the Invisible Fingers to a secret underground compound in southwest Texas. Fearing my parents might be in danger, I left the New Orleans whorehouse out of which I had been operating and set out to join them. The day before I reached El Paso, the local sheriff had stumbled on their bodies in the desert. Their corpses showed no sign of violence, but they were nonetheless dead. For seven weeks I tried to retrace their steps and locate the Invisible Fingers compound, but I failed. I made my way back to Venera rather than report by autopigeon, as I felt I needed time to recover in Venera’s embrace. Upon my return to the city-goddess I met The Nomad of the Stars and the Owl-Queen. The two of them were already lovers, but they welcomed me to their bed. Afterward, I changed my assignation, no longer an undercover prostitute in the brothels of the North American continent, but a companion-in-adventure to the Nomad of the Stars and the Owl-Queen.”
I realized this was my chance to learn much about Venera, the Mistress, the Vermilion Eye, and its myriad agents. And to do so more easily than I had ever thought possible.
Before I could formulate my next question, a shiver ran down my spine, as though the ambient temperature had fallen precipitously. I twisted to look all around me, a reflex that saved my life. Something sharp sliced my right cheek. It was only a superficial cut, but the wound stung and bled.
Something large, fast, and vicious had swooped past me. Had I not moved, my neck might have been fatally slashed open.
I turned to face my attacker. The vermilion glow of the tunnel and of the simulacrum was bright enough for me to make her out: it was the old crone from the meeting table. Despite her decrepit appearance, she radiated menace. Her eyes shone blood-red; her fingers ended in long gnarly claws; her posture was like that of a predator about to pounce; her mouth was open, revealing a pair of three-inch-long fangs in lieu of canines.
The mistress and I had faced such creatures before, in “The Gory Affair of the Successful Vampires” (collected in the aforementioned The Weird Adventures of the International Mistress of Mystery). Despite the title I gave to the case, we had defeated the monsters. Having established the nature of the danger in which I found myself, I wasted no time and took the initiative before my foe pressed her advantage. I tackled her with my left shoulder, crushing her against the stone wall. Most of her torso and parts of her arms shattered into dust, but already she was regenerating. I kicked her head with my boots — again and again. When I was certain her skull had been fully pulverized, I stopped. With her head destroyed, she could no longer regenerate.
The trick to defeating vampires was to conquer whatever instinctual fear they provoked. Yes, they were fast, bloodthirsty, violent, physically strong, naturally armed with sharp claws and fangs, and able to regenerate almost any wound, but they were also incredibly fragile, their brittle flesh and bones easy to shatter into dust. They depended on fear and surprise to overcome their prey. But with proper knowledge and courage, anyone could defeat a vampire, even if it meant suffering a few cuts and maybe even gashes. This time, I’d been lucky. I would need to wash the cut on my cheek, though, lest it get infected. When we last faced — and defeated! — such brutes, the Mistress and I had, upon her frantic urging, quickly retreated to our accommodations in Portsmouth, where we treated each other’s wounds with a mixture of water, soap, witch-hazel, and Irish whiskey.
Recovering from the rush of action, I noticed that the tunnel was darker now. The simulacrum had vanished. I called out to it, but there was no answer. I did not wait for it to reappear, doubting it ever would. I needed to tend to my wound. If my only way out of this maze was to go through the entire circuit of pathways, then I should make haste and not tarry in any one location.
I wondered as I walked deeper into the tunnel: was the old crone, too, a simulacrum, or had I faced her true self? Was the attack merely an illusion, or was I truly wounded? Perhaps even already infected? Before my mind entirely lost itself in such futile entanglements about the levels of reality I was experiencing, I again found myself at a crossroads of ten paths. To solve the riddle of what was happening, there was only one way: onward. I entered the tunnel to my left.
BRIGADIER FOX
[It took me a few seconds to realize that the faint flickering illumination did not come from vermilion glitter and that the walls surrounding me were not those of the tunnel.] It is nighttime. In a small log cabin, a single candle burns. I am kneeling on the floor, my hands joined together as if in prayer. Although my father, Ignatius Fox, is a preacher, I no longer believe in his God, or perhaps in any god. I am beseeching the universe.
My name is Linus Fox. I am a deserter. Until yesterday afternoon, I was a soldier against the Union, fighting for the secession of the South from the American federation. I no longer believe that is a cause worth killing for. I question whether any cause is worth killing for, save perhaps self-preservation.
I fought because my father ordered me to. I fought because I believed I was protecting my family, my neighbours, my countrymen. But I have come to understand that the cause I was fighting for was more tarnished and complex than I was told by those with authority over me. I want no part of the corruption and duplicity of either the South or the North.
Running through my mind is a chaos of images and sensations: the stench of human waste, gore, and decay; broken men bleeding out into the soil; a cacophony of screams, cursing, weeping …
I was lucky. I was never wounded, nor did I suffer from the ailments that struck many of my compatriots — typhoid, tuberculosis, measles, malaria, pneumonia. But I have killed dozens of men since the outbreak of this war.
I no longer want to kill. Although I understand that the fundamental savagery and selfishness of men makes killing a sometimes unavoidable outcome, I nevertheless vow to henceforth try to avoid being a killer myself.
For some reason, I recall one of my father’s sermons, from six years ago, following the passage through our town of a strange Negro freewoman, claiming to be from a European land called Venera. At the time, I was only ten years old but she stood shorter than I did, shorter than many children, yet her bearing exuded the confidence of adulthood. She was radiantly beautiful, and her skin was darker than that of the darkest of slaves.
My father railed against that Negro woman, called her the bride of Satan, warned against listening to her deceitful, sinful words, warned against her lies and about her devil-worshipping nation.
Once, I had met her on the street, coming back from getting yarn for my mother at Dumont’s Supply Store. Despite my father’s interdictions, I was drawn to this foreigner, who seemed both harmless and kind. She said her name was Scheherazade and she described the wonders of her homeland. Her words were too strange for me to comprehend her descriptions, but I was nevertheless left with the impression that Venera was a place more beautiful and more just than anywhere else on this Earth. She gave me a piece of candy, a confection from Venera. She told me to hide it until bedtime. Then, I should plop it into my mouth and suck on it gently, letting it melt. I did so that very night. My only expectation was that it would be the most delicious candy ever. Its taste, however, was more spicy than sweet. I nevertheless savoured it, relishing, in the manner of little boys, the secret that it represented. As more of the candy’s juice flowed down my throat, the exotic spicy flavour grew strangely soothing. Soon, I had segued into sleep and dream, but my dreams were neither pleasant nor welcome. I was visited by visions of savage eroticism, disturbing to a prepubescent boy raised by a preacher for whom the lure of women was the lure of sin.
Now, the savagery of eroticism seems like a welcome lure indeed, even a salve against the brutality of war.
I take an additional vow: to find Venera. If it is a land filled with women such as Scheherazade, I believe is a land I might want to call home. A better home than what I know. Perhaps, should I still yearn for action, as maybe all red-blooded men do, to their probable downfall, it is even a land I would fight for.
[A gust of wind blew out the candle, and I was once again myself, once again in the third tunnel. The gash on my cheek burned. I was afraid to touch it, lest it worry me even more. Quickly — onward! On to the next nexus of tunnels and through the next opening to my left.]
THE SNOW FAIRY
There was snow in every direction, as far as I could see. The unrelenting wind bit into my bones. I melted some of the snow by rubbing it between my hands and gently daubed the wound on my cheek with freezing water. At first it hurt more than ever, but then it felt numb. Whether that was a good omen or a bad one, I had no clue.
I walked on, trying to keep warm, but I could not help but shiver. There was no shelter in sight, no end to the unchanging snowy landscape.
After a while, I could no longer move. The only option left to me was to let the snow take me. Of all the ways I imagined I might die, this one had never occurred to me. I stood motionless, like an ice sculpture, waiting to die. After a while, I came to notice that a buzzing sound had been nagging at the edge of my consciousness.
At that moment, a small winged woman, no taller than the length of a hand, fluttered like a hummingbird right in front of my face. Her wings beat so rapidly that I could not tell if they were like those of a bird or an insect — or of some other nature entirely.
She grew to full human size and stood in the snow. I recognized her as the flickering agent of the Vermilion Eye; although she seemed a little more substantial now, making it possible to discern some aspects of her features; her narrow and long face was pointy and angular, with not even a hint of the curves that make up a human face.
She said: “Welcome to the land of my dreams. It is desolate, because, as far as I know, I am the last of my people, the last snow fairy. And even then, I barely exist, my tether to the world growing ever fainter. I yearn for the snow and ice of northern Scandinavia, the land of my ancestors, but I know I would die there, as did all of my people. I do not know what caused their extinction or their disappearance. As a youth, I was plagued with wanderlust and, unlike other snow fairies, who were sedentary and always huddled in groups, I craved for solitary adventure. I flew across the globe — seeing, tasting, experiencing the flavours of the world. One day, feeling homesick, I returned to Scandinavia, but my people were nowhere to be found. I scoured the entire north, and there was not a trace of them. Then, I noticed that I was growing less and less solid, as if I were fading from existence. I had all but vanished entirely, but I could still perceive a song, a faint melody that pulled me back into the world. I followed the song, and it led me to Venera and to the singer: Scheherazade. Her song keeps me in the world, but for how much longer I do not know.”
The Snow Fairy shrank back to the size of small bird and flew away. And the world went from white to black. For a moment, all that remained was the faint echo of Scheherazade’s song in the back of my mind.
My eyes readjusted to the darkness. I walked farther ahead and found myself once again at a crossroads. I shivered one last time, and the chill seeped out of me. My wounded cheek felt tender to the touch; there was nothing I could do about my predicament but see this strange odyssey to its end. I ventured into the next tunnel to my left.
LE NOMADE DES ÉTOILES (THE NOMAD OF THE STARS)
An image appeared on the tunnel wall; it took me a few seconds to realize that it was a moving image. Against a slowly changing backdrop of planets, suns, stars, comets, and other celestial bodies, there was a name in bold golden letters: Le Nomade des Étoiles.
I was by then so accustomed to the constant hum of Scheherazade’s song that it took me a few more seconds to realize that the images were accompanied by loud music from a string orchestra; the tune was garish — overly dramatic and dripping with sentimentality.
I had met the Nomad on a few occasions — most notably when he, Eule-Königin, Sweet Honey, the Mistress, and I joined forces to unravel “The Adventure of the Extraordinary Rogues” (from The Daring Exploits of the International Mistress of Mystery) — yet, despite his celebrity (some would say notoriety), I knew very little about him. A tall man with flowing blond hair whose features somehow managed to convey both Aryan strength and effete grace, the Nomad provoked in me an odd mixture of fascination and revulsion.
The Nomad’s name faded, and both the parade of celestial bodies and the tempo of the music increased. Then the music came to a crashing halt as the image focused on a planet of blue oceans and green continents, partially draped in white clouds. A voice said: “La planète Terre.” The music resumed, more softly than before, as we moved closer and closer to the surface of our planet, until settling on the wide panorama of a city I instantly recognized. On top of the scene, its name and a date faded into view: Paris, 1866 — information that was repeated by the French narration. Where and when the Nomad made his first known appearance — defeating and apprehending a terrorist calling himself Le Sabre Algérien who was planning to set Paris ablaze in a series of wellplanned arsons.
The presentation of words and moving images then went on to recount what was publicly known about Le Nomade des Étoiles: that the newspapers circulated many conflicting rumours about his origins, all billed as “exposés”; I knew from personal experience, having questioned the Nomad myself regarding some of these rumours, that the Nomad revelled in all this attention, never fully confirming nor denying anything that was said of him.
Framed from the torso up, a series
of people appeared to explain or espouse these many stories regarding the origins of Le Nomade des Étoiles. Their names were spelled below their heads. Some were unknown to me, but a few were famous indeed. A man in priestly vestments explained that a small though fervent religious cult worshipped Le Nomade des Étoiles as Adam, the first man of Biblical mythology, returned from Heaven. The French novelist Jules Verne mistrusted the Nomad vehemently, accusing him of being a spy from another planet, from an otherworldly civilization, gathering intelligence in preparation for a conquest of the Earth from the stars. Another speaker agreed that he was of extraterrestrial origin but instead believed that he was stranded here due to some kind of interplanetary shipwreck. Yet another believed him to be the last survivor of another world, one that had suffered cataclysmic destruction. An elderly woman described him as a guardian angel, sent to Earth to protect us from evil. An obese man with thick spectacles claimed that the Nomad was not a living being at all but a sophisticated automaton. A disapproving Orthodox priest explained that in Greece a cult proclaimed the Nomad to be the sun god Apollo. An aged Charles Darwin (seeing the living image of man deceased more than a decade ago reminded me viscerally of the wondrous improbability of this spectacle of moving images) advanced the theory that the Nomad heralded the next stage in human evolution, further hypothesizing that any woman mating with the enigmatic personage would birth more of this new breed of human beings. H.G. Wells, a young British author, championed a similar though even more fanciful theory: that Le Nomade des Étoiles was, yes, an evolved form of human being but that he hailed from the future and had travelled through time to reach our era. (Verne was shown once more, to accuse Wells of fabricating that theory merely to help the sales of his book The Time Machine.) Another British author, the renowned Arthur Conan Doyle, was adamant that Le Nomade des Étoiles was in reality a fairy creature. A Parisian police inspector detailed the futile official efforts to discover the true identity of Le Nomade des Étoiles. One of the most popular theories, claimed the anonymous French narrator, was that the Nomad was a French explorer who had stumbled on the legendary Fountain of Youth.
Venera Dreams Page 14
