A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1)

by Ichabod Temperance

  Himmel looks up and into his own downward-plunging thoughts.

  “I have a goal to achieve, but it strikes me there may be an alternate route to achieve this aim. Death is not necessarily the goal of the mission. A disruption of abilities could be achieved by damaging the purity of the vessel.”

  I can almost see the crude imaginations passing through his eyes.

  “Ja, what I have in mind should prove a most delightful way to clip the wings of this British Bluebird.”

  ~!!!~

  “What was that, Herr Himmel? I don’t think I like your insinuations, sir.”

  He had forgotten me for the past couple of moments.

  “Oh, yes. Fraulein Plumtartt’s little American friend.”

  He steps back and looks me up and down.

  “Do not send a boy to do a man’s job. You are obviously inadequate to satisfy Fraulein Plumtartt’s requirements. Do not take offense; you just lack the proper breeding to rise above your station.”

  ~!!!~ I promised her I would behave...

  “A few minutes with zee pride of Dusseldorf and this maiden will no longer be eligible for her destined role.”

  ~!!!~ I promised. I promised.

  “Ja! Of course! I merely have to de-flower this English virgin hen...”

  ~Bam!~

  Chapter 22 – No Human Hand.

  Persephone

  Stanislas and I hurry from the parlour containing Herr Doktor Himmel and Mr. Temperance. I deplore forcing that awful man upon my friend, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  With a surprising grace given his mere fourteen years of age, Stanislas leads me to his private parlour, on the floor above my father’s chamber.

  I am pleased to note that young Stanislas has been accepted into the clubbe despite his extreme youth, but, to their credit, occultists of our Post-Comet generation are somewhat more inclined to accept members based upon their abilities and not their gender or age, and in any event, young de Guaita is a prodigy by any standard. However, I find myself discomfited at his obvious nervousness - clearly, he has not yet learned to cloak his emotions as rigorously as is required by males of our time. For all of his prodigious abilities, he is still little more than a child.

  I am thankful for the transparency of his emotions, but am distressed at the anxiety he reveals – it confirms my own assessment of our position.

  Still, I am somewhat distracted during the early moments of our meeting: I confess to having formed an instant dislike for Herr Doktor Himmel, whose dismissive and denigrating treatment of Mr. Temperance roused my ire to a surprising extent. Arrogantly, he was obviously making a clumsy attempt to insinuate himself into my affections, as if I should be flattered that he was condescending to offer the dubious delights of his - ahem - “charms” to my person.

  At that moment, Stanislas breaks into my distasteful musings with a chilling train of thought that restores my focus to the urgency of our situation.

  “Persephone, I believe that you are in the gravest danger. Beware of the “great” Herr Doktor, for he is not all that he seems.”

  “Indeed, Stanislas, I concur, for I could almost see two faces superimposed upon each other: a rather handsome, if florid, outdoorsman, and something...something dark and amorphous, not...not human...”

  “I am sorry to admit that I have thought the same thing, Persephone, my dear. Worse still, it is my belief that Herr Himmel is at the center of the dark events surrounding you and your Mr. Temperance.”

  “‘My’ Mr. Temperance?”

  “Persephone, you are as a sister to me. I must speak as I feel; if you wish to upbraid me for my forward speaking, you may do so.”

  “I could never upbraid you, my dear friend, for your honest opinion...even if I find it...uncomfortable. For now let us turn our attention to these dangers you have mentioned...and that I have somehow known existed, though I could not tell you how.”

  “That is because, Persephone, you are like Herr Himmel in one way - and one way only: you too are far more than you appear, or than you realize, but your hidden depths are to the good, and not of the darkness.”

  He pours me a snifter of the finest Cognac - knowing that I eschew those vapid alcoholic beverages typically allowed to respectable females - and turns to the large bay window overlooking the small mews at the side of the Clubbe.

  “I believe that we must consult the cards for more information,” he says, and without further ado, he reaches for his Tarot cloth and deck.

  Quietly, Stanislas lays out the cards for me:

  1. The General Situation: Le Monde (Reversed)

  2. What crosses this for good or for ill: La Maison Dieu

  3. The root of the problem: Le Bateleur (Reversed)

  4. What crosses this for good or for ill: L’Diable

  5. The next steps for us:

  L’Amoreux

  Le Chariot

  L’Eremite

  6. What surrounds me, and what I must do:

  La Papesse

  crossed by La Lune

  7. What surrounds Mr. Temperance, and what he must do

  Le Fou

  crossed by Le Pendu

  8. The outcome predicted at this time:

  La Roue d’Fortune

  9. What are the most likely scenarios, given that the last card was ambiguous:

  Either La Morte

  or

  Les Etoiles

  Stanislas quickly explains:

  “I drew the cards as I felt compelled and into a new configuration I have not yet used. In sum, the World itself faces an unprecedented catastrophe; the cause of this is an evil Magus who is in league with something diabolical; you and Mr. Temperance (and here I blush, for the card so clearly representing us was “The Lovers”) must take a long journey and meet with a wise counsel. You must trust this advice and follow it to the letter, for there is much you do not know.”

  “In regard to you, Persephone, for your whole life, you have had certain hidden abilities, abilities which make you a woman of a certain power. As a Plumtartt, you inherited a secret, millenia-old trust, as well as this power. The accident in your father’s laboratory has amplified those abilities, much as the Revelatory Comet has affected my own abilities. Yet much darkness surrounds the truth of these abilities. I know not what they are. I know only that they relate to the foul scroll that your companion carries. You have done well not to touch it, for its proximity to you is pernicious to your very health. The presence of the Moon here also indicates that there are hidden dangers that will try to obscure the truth from you, and even to harm you in a grievous manner.”

  “For Mr. Temperance, however, the situation is somewhat different. Though he is brave, honorable to a fault, and undoubtedly loyal to you, he is still a boy - an innocent - and that boy must become a man. He must do this through making a sacrifice...a sacrifice that may involve the loss of his life.”

  “When I drew the Wheel of Fortune as the outcome card, I realized that the future is still mutable...there is an element of chance. The end result of your efforts will lead either to the death of much, if not all, that we have known as a species, or to a renewed hope for a future free of this darkness. You and Mr. Temperance are indeed spinning the roulette wheel, but you must make the effort. It is all up to you.”

  “As to the scroll itself, I cannot myself translate it. Just as the Plumtartt family has been entrusted with the document itself, so others – a very select few – have taken upon themselves the task of uncovering the scroll’s history, and understanding its contents. You must consult...”

  Before Stanislas can say more, we hear a loud altercation taking place in the parlour we had so recently vacated. I can hear the gruff, guttural voice of the obstreperous German, and a familiar, yet angry voice in riposte to the Prussian’s. Then the sounds of a scuffle become unmistakable. We rush downstairs to see Mr. Temperance being dragged out of the clubbe by main force, and the odious Herr Doktor Himmel lying in a fetal ball upon the floor
, clutching his own person in a most unseemly manner.

  Stanislas and I rush past the excruciated Doktor and catch up to where the many staff members have tossed Mr. Temperance out of doors.

  I make hurried apologies to the officers of the Clubbe, but they seem more concerned over the reputation of their establishment rather than of Herr Himmel’s present condition. Likely enough, he has not been the most pleasant, nor the most popular, of members. Once I make a few discreet murmurings about Herr Himmel’s unwarranted attentions, my friend, Monsieur Trevor Aeon, assures me that I am welcome to return at any time.

  “But if you bring your American friend,” he adds, “Mr. Temperance must learn to restrain his...boisterousness.” Trevor attempts to remain stoically stern; however, his exquisite ebony expression reveals a trace of bemusement as a tiny smirk is allowed to find its way onto his debonair countenance. I think Trevor has wanted to do exactly what Mr. Temperance has done for a long time and is secretly delighted at the isolated violent disturbance.

  As we leave the Clubbe, I cannot help but notice that the line of dark clouds above has grown heavy and ponderous. The atmosphere is leaden and unnaturally oppressive. Clearly, the weather mirrors my inner turmoil and growing sense of a storm about to strike. A storm consisting of Something else... Something heavy...waiting...hidden. But where? And what?

  Stanislas brings Mr. Temperance his pistol and knife belt.

  “You may very well need these and much more, Monsieur Temperance, before your tasks are complete.”

  My American friend is obviously embarrassed and deeply chagrined at his actions.

  “I sure am sorry about whoopin’ up on the ‘Dok’ in your nice clubbe, Mr. De Guaita.”

  “Do not trouble yourself over tonight’s unpleasantness, Monsieur Temperance.” The young prodigy attempts to console the regretful combatant. “No doubt the odious Doktor had that and much more due to him. I confess to being envious of your forthright actions. May they see you through your coming trials.”

  “Yessir, thank you.” Mr. Temperance answers, shaking the youth’s hand. “We’ll try an’ do that.”

  We are then directed by young de Guaita to this translator, a man of great reputation. I caution Mr. Temperance that we must keep this man’s identity secret. Mr. Temperance hires us a Parisian-style Hansom cab to carry us on our lengthy journey. Leaving the Rive Droite and crossing the Seine at Pont d’ Austerlitz, we arrive at our destination: the Arabian Quarter, located in the Gobelin Arrondissment. By the time we reach the building, rumbles of thunder are maintaining a steady roll, and the skies are alight with great flashes of lightning, giving the streets a surreal aspect.

  We knock upon the scholar’s door. After what seems an interminable wait, we hear a slow, shuffling tread, and a series of furtive, careful slidings and scrapings of various lock mechanisms disengaging. At last, the door opens but only by a few inches, obviously secured by a thick chain inside. “Who is this, please?”

  “Mr. Bin-Jamin, I am Miss Persephone Plumtartt. My friend, young Stanislas de Guaita, recommended you as an expert translator in obscure languages.”

  “Miss Plumtartt?” The door opens a bit wider. I can see glimpses of a wizened face through the aperture.

  “I am but an humble scholar. Perhaps you are at the wrong destination.”

  The wrong destination? What can he mean? Why all of the trepidation? And then I recall my father once telling me that certain scholars were quite reticent to discuss certain topics without a type of verbal “pass-key”.

  “Monsieur Bin-Jamin, my father, Professor Plumtartt, asked me to convey a message to you. It is of a personal nature, but it relates to one who seeks Utnapishtim?”

  A few moments of silence follows, then, we hear the sound of a chain disengaging, and the door opens. Yet, as we step into the tiny foyer, we still see little more of our host than shadow. “One test remains, Miss Plumtartt. Even were it Gilgamesh himself who stood before me, he should be required to submit.”

  He waits for my reply.

  Sensing no malice from the man (nor, thank Heavens, any green miasma), I accede, whereupon he passes a small crystal in front of Mr. Temperance. I cannot tell its color in the near-darkness, but it begins to glow a sunny gold as the scholar tests my companion. Apparently satisfied, he passes the crystal in front of me.

  Iridescent crimson light fills the air! In the eerie light, I see his hands shake violently, causing him to lose his grip on the crystal. What can it mean? Have I failed?

  “You...have come. It was inevitable, I suppose. You have brought...the scroll?”

  He lights a small lamp, and then a second one. The room, comprising a typical scholar’s farrago of scrolls, codices, inkstands, and various odd specimens in glass jars, reminds me strangely of my mother’s old studio. Mountains of books grow in precarious pillars about the room as the shelves are far past overflowing.

  I nod to Mr. Temperance.

  “Lemme loosen one end of the tube, sir.” Mr. Temperance says producing a matched brace of adjustable ’Simian' spanners from his constant tool supply. Breaking the tightly cinched seal, and he then hands the lead pipe containing the scroll to Mr. Bin-Jamin. Something moves me to speak:

  “Sir, I should be careful in touching it. I confess I cannot abide to do so.”

  “Indeed, you could not. It is inimical to your very nature. No child of the Light could hold this particular text without taking certain precautions.” Mr. Bin-Jamin slips two oddly-embroidered gloves onto his hands, and clamps a thickly-lensed pince-nez onto his nose. He handles the dread document with two thin rods of wood. Holding the sticks in one hand and using them in conjunction with one another, the old scholar manages the pair of sticks with amazing dexterity in the Auriental manner of food utensils.

  He points to two chairs by the window. “Please be seated. I fear I know what I shall find...but I must have total quiet for concentration. With such things, one must be absolutely sure.”

  Mr. Temperance and I wait for several minutes while the elderly scholar reads through the nauseous scroll. He appears to be making his way through the incomprehensible scratchings with surprising speed, given his obvious caution. Impelled by a morbid curiosity, I look at the document from time to time with growing unease; somehow, the convoluted symbols strike a chord of memory deep with me. A memory that I do not wish to remember. As we wait, the storm continues to increase with intensity as it makes its approach on the City of Light. The ancient apartment vibrates with the reverberation of the thunderclaps, which grow closer, and more frequent.

  At last, the old scholar speaks.

  “It is as I feared, my child.”

  “The text your family has guarded for so long...we had always assumed it to be a translation into Arabic, or perhaps, at worst, Sumerian. If it were, things would be less dire. With every subsequent translation, more and more of the original text was lost, you see, but this is no translation.”

  “The document I now hold is the original Eye of the Forbidden Gate!”

  The Eye of the Forbidden Gate!

  That name! A frisson of atavistic fear runs through my body.

  I have heard rumors of a text stored in a small, North American university, supposed to be the remnants of a medieval-era Arabic translation of a Sumerian grimoire, but its provenance has always been dubious. Yet when Mr. Bin-Jamin mentions the name, I feel a strong shock of recognition that this lies at the root of the evil currently besetting Northern Europe.

  “Sir, the...original Eye of the Forbidden Gate ?” I ask, but secretly fear I know the answer.

  He sighs. “The document stored in the American university is a pale copy, containing many errors which weaken its power: though, make no mistake, it is still quite dangerous. Indeed, the Enemy has created quite enough horror with another such copy. This document is the original.”

  “Is not the Eye of the Forbidden Gate designed to summon some terrible demon to feed on mankind?”

  “Not precisely. This d
ocument is designed to summon Something utterly Other, Something that does not belong to this universe.”

  I feel my gorge rise. Surely...?

  “And this particular document was written by no human hand.”

  “They saw the end coming, you see. These abominations were from some place incomprehensible to us. They could not interact with our world fully. Metals and certain gases were useless to them, but they needed access to these materials for their dark industries. They could “possess” life forms, but the brains and nervous systems of our existing animals were too simple to serve as vehicles for their aims. Thus, they attempted to...meld...with and adapt tissues native to Earth. They used their black magics and their twisted sciences to create living creatures from the matter of this universe, but these mongrel creatures failed to serve as adequate vehicles for the monsters’ ambitions. The result led only to life forms that were little more than clockwork factory workers, quite capable of seemingly complex tasks, but with no more power to decide than a slime worm...yet they could remain, when their masters were banished by another alien race, one from our own universe.”

  “A guardian race?”

  The elderly scholar shakes his head in negation. “They were guardians only in the sense that a man might avoid stepping upon an ant. Although they were beneficent enough to our world, it was only to serve their own goals and to defeat their own enemy.”

  His tone bids me interrupt no more.

  “Working in secret during the last months before their defeat, the abominable masters used their misshapen servants to write down a means by which they could be summoned from their entrapment. They knew a time would come when the incongruity between our universes would lessen to the degree that they could come through the portal in their original might.”

  “For millions of years, these twisted servants preserved this knowledge. When our species emerged, the monstrous shepherds watched quietly, as their masters had created them to do. As humanity rose from the savannas to the ziggurats, the dark scribes prepared the alien knowledge in a form our minds could understand. By the time of our first civilizations, many men had become all too ready to worship at the altar of any evil if it would slake their thirst for power. It was a simple matter for the servants to pass this information to credulous and evil humans, though few human minds could fathom this utterly alien language; thus, the translations began. The Sumerian name became attached to it, but only because its true name cannot be spoken. Acolytes began work and dark rituals were enacted. And now, the time approaches out of the unfathomable past such that the congruency of our universes grows close enough for their return.”