All of this being said by my inner self to great confidence and satisfaction, I can now only imagine the irony with which my readers must greet this next scene. For when we returned to Holmes’s flat at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson informed him that a young woman awaited within. She presented Holmes with the lady’s card. Holmes glanced at it and handed it to me. The print on the pasteboard rectangle was small and cursive, and I was still trying to squint it into focus as I followed him through the door.
I recognized her immediately, of course. It was as if the twenty intervening years had passed in the space of a heartbeat. She was wearing a twill jacket and walking skirt now instead of the lambskin khalat in which I had last seen her. There were touches of gray in what had been lustrous black hair, and wrinkles—a legacy of the unforgiving tropical sun as much as years—at the corners of her eyes and mouth. But these did not speak of age so much as of life—the harsh and spartan life of the Afghan hill people.
“Miriam,” I said. I was dimly aware of Holmes standing somewhat to one side and watching us both, but that knowledge didn’t matter. All that mattered was the shock and the almost painful pleasure of seeing her there. I took a step toward her, as she did toward me, and then we simultaneously remembered that we had an audience, and a very curious one. I glanced at Holmes and coughed into my fist.
“My apologies, Holmes,” I said. “It’s just that—that is, she and I—”
“I believe not even Lestrade could fail to notice evidence of a past association between you two,” Holmes said dryly. He gave Miriam a slight bow. “Sherlock Holmes, at your service, Miss Miriam Shah.”
“I am most gratified to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. Her voice was as strong and melodic as I remembered it. She turned somewhat, and I noticed that she was wearing a single piece of jewelry—an amulet, carved from lapus lazuli into the shape of an open hand, with an eye in the middle of the palm. Even the shock of seeing her again was not strong enough to keep me from silently remarking its uniqueness.
I could not resist speaking, propriety be damned. “Miriam,” I said, “how do you come to be here? It is so wonderful to see you again—”
“And you, John,” she replied. “I wish I could say that naught but the desire to visit you after all these years has propelled me on this long journey. Unfortunately, that is not the truth.”
“Most interesting,” Holmes said. “Pray be seated, Miss Shah. I am quite curious to know why a chieftain’s daughter has journeyed all the way from the hill regions of northern Afghanistan—specifically, I believe, the vicinity of Mundabad—to see me, especially at the possibility of mortal danger to her soul.”
Miriam’s expression of surprise was, of course, little different from those I had seen on the scores of other clients who had found their way to Baker Street over the past decade. “You do not fall short of your reputation, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “How did you intuit these facts?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “My dear lady, I do not ‘intuit.’ I deduce. I extrapolate. In your case, the process was simple. Your accent alone is sufficient to determine your nationality. In addition, you have until recently been wearing the traditional veil of the Moslem woman, which covers the lower half of the face. The upper half is slightly, but noticeably, more tanned. On the whole, Afghan hill women toil at a greater and harder variety of tasks than those who dwell in the country’s more metropolitan areas. This keeps them exposed to the desert sun longer. There are lines of paler skin on your arms and fingers as well, indicating that you are accustomed to wearing jewelry—a practice which few save the daughters and wives of tribal leaders can afford to do. The obvious fact that you know my friend and colleague places you in the Mundabad region. Finally, the single piece of jewelry you have retained”—he gestured at the amulet nestled in the hollow of her throat—“is, I believe, a talisman known as a hamsa, intended to ward off evil.”
Miriam nodded and sat, and no more was said until after the tea Mrs. Hudson brought had been poured.
I was, of course, aflame with curiosity as to what had brought her to London, this woman who was quite probably the last person on earth I would ever have expected to see here. I restrained myself—after all, a gentleman cannot press a lady to speak until she is ready—but it took quite an effort on my part. For Miriam Shah had once quite literally saved my life.
Miriam took a long sip of tea and shuddered slightly. “That’s better,” she said. “I believe I understand now why Englishmen are so driven to expand their empire—it keeps them away from this chill climate.”
Then she said to Holmes, “Have you ever heard of the Kitab al-Azif?”
Holmes started slightly—a reaction that would have, I think, been unnoticeable to all save myself, who had known him for years. It was one of the few times I have ever seen him register surprise.
“I have read of it. My knowledge is, I must admit, somewhat sketchy. Kitab is, of course, Arabic for ‘book.’ Al-Azif, as I understand it, is a term used by Mussulmen; it refers to the buzzing of nocturnal insects, which their superstitious minds take to be the howling of afrit, or demons. The consensus is that the book was written by a Yemenite named Abdul al-Hazred, around A.D. 700. The work was subsequently translated several times; first into Greek by Philetas, who renamed it the Necronomicon, or ‘Book Concerning the Dead,’ and later into Latin by Olaus Wormius. There was also an English translation in the late sixteenth century by the occult scholar Dr. John Dee, who called it the Liber Logaeth. There have, I believe, been more recent translations as well. The book’s contents are supposed to be a compendium of ancient lore and forbidden knowledge concerning various pre-Adamite beings and creatures, some of extraterrestrial origin, who once ruled the earth and who anticipate doing so again.”
“Your information is correct,” Miriam replied. Then she was silent for a moment, as if gathering herself. As much to fill the silence as anything else, I interjected, “Surely such a work must be considered the product of a demented mind.”
“If al-Hazred was not mad before he wrote this infernal opus, he surely was after he completed it,” Miriam said. “Those who have looked through the pages of the Necronomicon say it is the most dangerous book in the world because it gives far more than just the knowledge that these Old Ones and Elder Gods exist—it also instructs the reader in various ways to summon them from their places of exile, that they may rule the earth as they did eons ago.”
I looked to Holmes, assuming he would immediately dismiss such a bizarre statement as utter claptrap. He was slowly filling the bowl of his pipe with shag, and he did not pause in doing so. Instead he said simply, “Please go on.”
Miriam continued, and as I listened, my astonishment at her story became great enough to almost supersede my astonishment at her presence.
“According to legend, al-Hazred had delved deep into forbidden knowledge and ancient, hidden cults. He had visited Irem, the dreaded City of Pillars, and other lost conurbations even more dangerous. He had communicated with the djinn, and afrits, and nameless beings still more primal and powerful. And all of this he put down on parchment—a lifetime of mind-shattering, soul-blasting experiences.
“It is an uncontested fact that, as each successive translator copied the Arab’s work into his own language, he edited out various teachings and sections—perhaps because he considered them to contain knowledge that man was not meant to know, perhaps in the interests of brevity and clarity, perhaps both. For whatever reasons, the few copies of the Necronomicon extant today are known to be heavily abridged. Far more text is missing than has been left in. The original Latin edition was over nine hundred pages; the Liber Logaeth not even six hundred. These pages were assumed lost; the complete al-Azif has not been seen for centuries.”
“Until now, I take it,” Holmes said. His voice was flat, almost contemplative. He had finished filling his pipe, but he did not light it. He sat quite still, his attentive gaze fixed upon Miriam. “Pray continue.”
As Miriam co
ntinued to speak, I felt an involuntary shiver caress me, and wondered at it—after all, I was used to the damp chill of a London fall, and normally would have scarcely noticed it. But now I shivered. It felt as if the fire’s heat were somehow not penetrating the room, even though I could see it blazing away beyond the hearth.
“Two years ago a large ceramic container was found in a cave far back in one of the many narrow canyons near where my people live. There was some concern among the more superstitious villagers that to open it would be to unleash a plague of demons and ill luck. So it was taken to Kandahar, where it was sold to a ferengi.”
Holmes put down his pipe and steepled his fingers in front of his face, looking, for a surprising moment, almost as if he were praying. “You said the container was sealed. How did you know what the contents were?”
“There was writing inscribed in the clay. And there was this as well, impressed into the wax seal.” From within her jacket she withdrew a folded piece of paper and handed it to my friend, who opened it. On it was drawn some sort of symbol—of its exact configuration I cannot say, but as Holmes held it up to look at it, the paper was poised for a moment in front of the fire, which illumination allowed me a brief, translucent impression of the sketch. It was abstract, and even in that imperfect glimpse seemed somehow wrong, as if it represented some sort of spatial anomaly. I can think of no better way to describe it. Before I could ask to see it, Holmes had crumpled it up and thrown it into the fire.
“That is known as the Elder Sign, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.
“It is. The writing on the container was al-Azif, in Akkadian.”
“Ah. Which was the lingua franca of the Arabian world until approximately A.D. 700.”
“Just so,” Miriam said. “It would appear that al-Hazred felt the book’s contents important enough to write down the entire manuscript a second time, for safekeeping.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Then Holmes said, “You have followed the ferengi—the foreigner—who brought the manuscript to England. Why? I understand the volatile nature of the text, but why have you elected to pursue it?”
She glanced at me, then replied, “I volunteered. I am one of the few from my village who speaks French and English, and I have heard whispers, ever since I can remember, of the ancient and shunned sects, the worshipers of Those Who Came Before.” Her hand went to her throat, touching the charm that hung there. “Mashallah,” she murmured, then continued: “The existing copies of the Necronomicon are kept under lock and key, lest the knowledge it still retains be used to shatter civilization. How much more dangerous, then, must the unexpurgated version be? It must be found, as quickly as possible. That is why I have come to you, Mr. Holmes.” She glanced at me again, and smiled. “And I could not resist the opportunity to see you again, however briefly, John.”
As might be imagined, my state of mind after hearing all this was complex, to put it mildly. It all sounded like the febrile fantasies that I have seen hashish and opium spin in many an Oriental mind—and not a few Occidental ones as well. But one look at Holmes’s grim expression told me that he considered this no fantasy.
“What can you tell me about the one who acquired the manuscript?”
“He was strong in appearance, tall, with black hair and beard and intense blue eyes. My impression was that he was in his midthirties.”
“Were there any distinguishing marks—any characteristics or traits that might help one single him out in a crowd?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes. He had a scar on the palm of his left hand—as if a knife had been drawn across it.”
“Ah. Most illuminating,” Holmes commented. He stood. “Very well, Miss Shah; I shall certainly accompany you on your quest, and I hope I speak for my colleague as well”—this last with a glance in my direction. “If you’ll excuse me—I must see to some affairs. I foresee that our inquiry should take no more than a day, perhaps two at most, so we shall need to pack but lightly.” So saying, Holmes left the room.
For a moment Miriam and I stood silently together. My mind was a welter of conflicting thoughts and emotions—not the least of which was that my wife was waiting for me at our home. She was, of course, used to—perhaps “resigned to” would be a more accurate phrasing—my sudden departures from London at Holmes’s requests. This could not help but be different, however, and I could not predict what her reaction to it might be.
Or if even I would tell her.
Such disloyal thoughts did nothing to quell my inner turmoil. I turned to Miriam, feeling the need to say something to break the silence. “I—I don’t believe I ever properly thanked you,” I said to her, “for saving my life those many years ago.” For in fact she had done no less than that, by ministering to me during the long months of my convalescence in Peshawar, after I was wounded on the front lines. During my prolonged battle with enteric fever, on the many occasions when my life balanced on the edge of death, I would often open my eyes to see a young Afghan woman, daughter of one of the tribal chieftains with whom our forces had established a friendly liaison, bending over me, sponging my forehead or otherwise tending to my needs. Initially there were frequent periods of delirium, and it was Miriam who listened to my ravings, who talked to me and gently guided me back to myself. I truly believe that had it not been for her presence grounding me in reality, I would have been lost in madness. And a life without the mind is no life at all.
During the latter months of my convalescence, we had many long conversations. She was well educated, having attended school in Bombay, and she was intelligent and self-possessed to a degree rarely seen in Afghan women—or any woman in my experience, for that matter. Quite a strong friendship developed between us—more than a friendship, if truth be told. The memory I had retained from it, over all these years, was that sense of deep connection—an intimacy that, in many ways, I had not shared with anyone since then, not even my beloved Mary. We had spoken of so many things, Miriam and I, including matters of the heart. Near the end of my recuperation, I asked her to return to London with me. She declined, saying that as the daughter of a chief, she had responsibilities she could not ignore, even for the sake of love.
We both had our obligations, and so parted, but I had, more than a few times over the intervening years, wondered what might have been had we been less faithful to duty.
And now she stood before me—older, as was I, but still in so many ways the woman I remembered. It stirred things in me which had been quiet for no small time.
“No gratitude is needed,” she said, in response to my statement. “For surely your presence in my life did enrich it at least as much as I hope mine did yours. I wish that there were time to speak of such things now. But there is not, and we must act swiftly and decisively, John, if we are to ensure any kind of future at all. If we do not, the world may once again feel the tread of the Great Old Ones.”
Her apparent dismissal of our past seemed abrupt, and I felt a vague disappointment. I wanted to ask her more, to investigate more deeply this mysterious and seemingly dangerous imbroglio that evidently revolved around the possession of the Arab’s manuscript, but she laid a finger lightly across my lips, enjoining silence. “We will speak of the past later,” she told me. “But now you must prepare for the trip, as your friend is doing.”
Something in her manner and tone seemed to reassure me, on a subtle level, that despite the obvious gravity of our mission, the favorable outcome of it was not in doubt. But there was, too, a sense of foreboding, a coldness that continued to waft through the room, as if the warm and cheery fire had suddenly gone out. Miriam was on the one hand the woman who had called to the passion of my younger self, years ago and worlds away; now she was older and different, not quite as I recalled her. I could not help but feel a nostalgic sadness for the path not taken. I nodded and moved down the hall to what had once been my bedroom to assemble an overnight bag.
Packing did not take long; I had, over the years, become quite good at throwing th
e necessary accoutrements for a short trip into a valise. In less than a quarter hour I was ready, save for three items, which I then included. The first was a small bit of stone, the size of my closed fist, the surface of which was dark and pitted. If one looked closely at it, deep colors appeared to shift beneath its surface, somewhat like the black opals of Queensland, Australia. I had happened across it in Afghanistan and kept it as a souvenir all this time. I had come to think of it as a lucky piece, despite the knowledge that Holmes did not believe in such things and would have ridiculed me for it. But a man who has stood upon the field of battle amidst flying bullets and survived, while those all around him died, knows that Dame Fortune smiles or frowns upon those whom she chooses. It seemed appropriate with Miriam here that I bring the lucky stone.
The second item I decided to keep upon my person was a small, teardrop-shaped leather sack, perhaps five inches long and filled with fine lead shot. There was a loop of leather at the narrow end. It was what the underworld element called a cosh, or blackjack. I gripped it for a moment, slipped the loop over my thumb and slapped it experimentally against my open palm, then dropped it into my coat pocket.
Though there was no need to carry it at the moment, in my bag I included, too, my Webley Bulldog revolver, for, while most of my adventures with Holmes had been without any real danger to ourselves, the sense of foreboding I felt now urged me to err on the side of caution. Should a need arise, I would prefer to have a weapon at hand. After all, it was not just Holmes and myself I needed to protect this time.
Shadows over Baker Street Page 28
