by Chanel Smith
“Thank you,” each of us repeated as he went back to his bar.
Chapter Eight
We sat in silence for a few moments, none of us certain how to open up the discussion. I was looking toward Ellen to lead off, but she seemed to be deep in thought once more. After a few moments, I realized that I would have to open things up.
“So, Henry, tell us a little bit about the battle.”
“It was most certainly Romans and Celts. Judging by what I could take in by the swords and shields they were carrying and the fact that our Celt said they were a part of Cassivellaunus’ army, this definitely places them during the time of Caesar’s crossing of the Thames. It was initially thought that Caesar crossed the Thames at Brentford, which lies between here and Heathrow, but archives continued to point to a ford further up river near Hampton. What had initially confused a number of archeologists and historians was the preponderance of both Celtic and Roman weaponry dating around BC 54. Some accounts, however, spoke of a place where Caesar’s army loaded boats to carry armaments and supplies up the river to Caesar and his army.
“In a lot of ways, our Celt friend has helped solidify that. He did say that they were a part of a detachment that was sent to raid the supply lines of the Romans. The Romans would have pursued them into the marsh and gotten lost in the fog. Wandering an eternity in the fog, searching for and battling with their enemies. That also explains why the occurrences seem to be quite random where the line between Vauxhall and Stockwell are concerned.”
“But why this particular place?” Ellen jumped in. “Why here, why now and what is keeping them from moving on toward the light?”
“That’s the part of the mystery that we don’t yet know,” Henry murmured. “What I’m sure of though, is that whatever is holding them there has turned the entire tunnel into a kind of time-warped ghost crypt.” He was the next to drift off into deep thought.
“We’ve got Celts fighting Romans in the fog,” I began. For some reason, I needed to summarize everything aloud once more. “They are somehow trapped in the fog, which is why they haven’t moved on toward the light. Is it because the fog blocks out the light?”
“But when the fog lifts,” Ellen said, “which it evidently does every so often, they battle rather than moving toward the light. So let’s back up a second. The legionnaire’s words were ‘we will conquer all’ and the Celt’s words were ‘we can never die.’ So, the fog keeps them from moving on toward the light, but when it lifts, they are so focused on the battle that they can’t or won’t go to the light? That just doesn’t make sense with any of my previous experiences. And there’s that alien presence.”
“What if it’s not an earthly fog?” Henry whispered. We nearly didn’t hear him at all.
“Not an earthly fog?” I asked. “What do you mean? What other kind of fog is there?”
“Are you saying that the fog might be the alien presence?”
“Why not? It would certainly be powerful enough to keep them from going to the light or at least an explanation for why they don’t go when they have what would seem to be a perfect opportunity to? Maybe that’s what is holding them in.”
“You might be onto something, Henry,” Ellen replied.
“Okay,” I said, still having my doubts about the alien angle to it all. “While you two chase aliens, there is still one question we haven’t answered. Why here and why now? What is significant about the location and time? Did the excavation disturb something? We’ve only got half of the picture here and excuse me, but I don’t think that the other half is an alien fog or alien presence of any sort. We’ve got to go back. We’ve got to find out what has been disturbed and why.”
“We do have to go back,” Henry agreed. “We need more answers.”
“Agreed,” Ellen said. “But I just realized that there is a problem.”
Henry and I stared at her and waited.
“We have no idea when our Celt will wander back into the same place once the fog sets in again. Is it hours, days, weeks, months? Remember, our sense of time might not be the same as theirs and we may sit and wait a long time before he wanders into the place again. Riding the train would be essentially useless and I don’t know how pleased the contractors would be with us camping out in the tunnel.”
“She’s right,” I admitted, looking at Henry. “And without you being able to translate, we’re pretty much useless.”
“I suppose that I could take some time off.”
“But can you afford to do that?” Ellen asked. “What if it takes weeks or months?”
Something was bothering me about the whole thing. We had been investigating only three days and we had contact with a ghost on every occasion. Maybe it wasn’t as random as we thought. “Maybe something drew them to us?”
“What do you mean?” Ellen asked.
“The events have been random, right? No chance of making any sort of prediction as to when they would take place. I went through those reports and sorted them. There really was no pattern; yet, each time we have tried to contact them, they’ve been right there, almost like they expected us to be there, right?”
“He does have a point,” Henry agreed. “The chances of you making contact all three times does not seem to fit a random occurrence. The fact that you’ve been in a position to contact them at various times of the day, also adds a set of variables to the randomness that simply doesn’t add up.”
“So any time we go to them, we can contact them?” Ellen asked.
“It has happened every time so far. And twice, I might add, we met the same Celtic spirit.” I said.
“What about the legionnaire?” Ellen asked. “Did he reach out as well?”
“Maybe that was the only random contact.” I suggested. “I remember you telling me that he was searching for someone or something. He was wandering through the fog.”
“You might be onto something,” Henry put in. “When a military detachment becomes separated, they often use a code word or series of words to distinguish between friend or foe when they cannot see them, like in a jungle. It ought to be the same in the fog. ‘We will conquer all’ and ‘we can never die’ are probably codes. They certainly fit the attitudes of our combatants. Of course, if one speaks Latin and the other Celtic, it would seem obvious enough who was friend and who was foe.”
“That makes sense,” Ellen agreed.
“There is something else that doesn’t quite add up to me, though,” I said. “I hadn’t really paid attention to it before, but it suddenly struck me that our Celtic spirit was not taking part in the battle. Why?”
“Why, indeed?” Henry breathed.
It was silent as each of them ran back through the events. I tried to remember the words that Henry had translated. Were there any clues in them? I grabbed onto something that I thought might be a thread.
“Henry, when you translated, you said ‘they are a part of a detachment of Cassi…” whatever. Were you translating his literal wording or reporting your translation?”
“I believe that I was translating literally. In fact, now that you’ve brought it up, I don’t remember him using the first person plural form at all.”
“So, maybe he’s set apart from them? Not one of them?” I was grasping at straws, but we needed an explanation of some kind.
I noticed that Ellen had closed her eyes and was concentrating very hard. I couldn’t be certain, but I assumed that she was probably running through the differences between the two spirits. I held up my hand to stop Henry from speaking and gave her some time. If I knew my wife, she would be able to clear things up for us.
“I don’t think the Celt was a soldier. I didn’t get that sense from him. He was powerful, perhaps more powerful and there was that alien presence around him, both times. It was stronger the first time than it was during the battle, but I can’t be sure. With all of the chaos, I was struggling to focus on him alone. But, when we met him the first time, he was in the fog, which, if it is the alien force, would make i
t more powerful the first time than the second.”
“But how do we know there was a fog the first time? Neither of us were actually within the spiritual realm. He came to us. Right?”
“If I’m right about the code words,” Henry suggested, “that would certainly be an indicator.”
“I’m really not sure,” Ellen said.
“I think we’ve encountered the next little twist in our mystery,” Henry suggested.
“I’ve got another question.” I felt like I was adding to the problem rather than helping to solve it, but it just seemed like it all had to be laid on the table before it could be examined. “Why, ‘we can never die?’ Why that particular phrase as a code? Is there some significance behind that?”
“There is indeed.” Henry beamed. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. There are two words for death ‘ankou’ and ‘marv.’ The latter is a regular, human death, where the other is considered to be a spiritual death.”
“So, we have a spiritual spirit?” Just saying it made me cock one eyebrow.
“A priest?” Ellen asked.
“A priest wouldn’t engage in the battle,” I replied.
Henry had remained quiet for several seconds while Ellen and I looked at each other, waiting for whatever deep thoughts were spinning about in his head. To be quite honest, there were so many different things whirling in my head that I felt like I was wandering in a fog. I was beginning to get a headache.
“Let me propose a theory,” he said, looking up. We were lucky to have a man who was so knowledgeable of history. Without him, equipment or no equipment, Ellen and I would still be searching in the darkness for clues. We were more than ready to entertain any theory that Henry came up with.
“We have Romans and Celts fighting in the foggy marsh. They are trapped there and can never move on toward the light. In this realm, we are totally unaware of what is taking place for 2,000 years, until someone begins excavating and disturbs something; at which time, they are released into this realm.”
Ellen and I nodded agreement.
“Our Celt is somehow drawn to us. Actually, I should say, one of you two. He is also trapped by the fog, but does not engage in the battles, because he is a Druid priest. The fog keeps them wandering, but there is another fog – blindness or darkness, whatever you will – that is blocking them from being able to move toward the light; thus, though he is not a part of the struggle, our Celt is nevertheless trapped along with the others. The excavation has opened some sort of portal that allows them to interact in this world.
“Here comes the tough part. What if whatever is blocking them from being able to move toward the light is, how shall I say it… extraterrestrial in nature? Thus, Ellen’s ‘alien’ feeling.”
“I think we’ve all gone off our rockers,” I said. It was just too much. “We might as well head straight toward Saturn, take a right to Mars and make a left at Jupiter to get to Palm Springs.” Suddenly everything became much clearer. “Jack Benny!”
“What?” both Ellen and Henry said in unison. They looked at me like I was already on the Palm Springs trip.
“Rochester! He’s Jack Benny’s butler!”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Ellen asked.
“I’ve been racking my brain for the last four days trying to come up with where Rochester and that voice I was doing came from.”
Ellen’s disapproving look was back and Henry was completely lost.
“You see, every time I hear the name ‘Rochester’ I hear Jack Benny’s voice…”
“Monty, stop!”
“Well,” I murmured, fully chastised. “It makes about as much sense as aliens keeping the spirits trapped by blocking the light.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” Henry mused. “But it’s the only theory I’ve got.”
“I think it’s a pretty good one,” Ellen suggested. “So, we have to test our theory. How do we go about doing that?”
I had pretty much checked out of the conversation. I heard them and what they were saying registered, but I simply couldn’t get my head around aliens mixed with ghosts. I’d do what I needed to do in order to help out, but I was really hoping that they found a solution to our traveling luggage issue and I would soon be back to being the gadget man.
“I believe we need to answer three questions before we can proceed further. Which of you is drawing contact, if at all? Are you able to make contact in spite of the fog? Is the fog earthly or extraterrestrial? That of course should lead us to the origin of the fog?”
“Sounds good to me,” Ellen replied.
“So, when do we go back?” I asked. I was pretty sure that Ellen was spent for the day, where connecting with spirits was concerned.
“I don’t think I could make another connection today.”
“Would you be interested in paying a visit to a man that I often consult with concerning the ancient Brits? He’s a member of the New Order of Druids. He lives quite close to here. In fact, we could meet him at Battersea Park, if you like.”
Ellen and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“Sure,” she replied. “Doesn’t hurt to have a few more answers and another head to think through our theory.”
“Can we get some lunch first?” I asked.
“I know an excellent place,” he said. “My treat.”
Those were two of my favorite words.
Chapter Nine
I didn’t like Ewen Egham the moment I laid eyes on him.
In fact, just the sight of him made the delicious, spatchcocked poussin that I’d eaten for lunch begin to rumble in my stomach. Lunch had been one of our best culinary experiences since we had arrived in London and we were both delighted with Henry’s choice, but Ewen Egham just didn’t set well with me.
Ewen was tall and thin with a thick, gray beard that reached midway down his chest. It was untrimmed and seemed to have at least a week’s supply of different meals tangled in it. His hair was nearly as bad, though he had it in a ponytail. Those things might have been tolerated, if he hadn’t seemed to have a distant, demonic leer fixed in his steel gray eyes.
I had seen some pretty horrific things since Ellen and I had started investigating paranormal activity, but Ewen was, by far, worse than anything I had experienced in that realm. I might seem a little bit shallow, but the man was straight up creepy.
When he extended his hand to me during the greeting, it felt like someone had draped a dead snake across my palm and I immediately wanted to find a place to wash up. His voice and the way he looked at me was beginning to make me think that Henry’s “alien theory” might not be as far off-base as I thought. If the Druids were all like him, then as far as I was concerned, it was time for them to phone home.
Luckily, Ellen and I followed along behind Henry and Ewen as we strolled toward the fountains and we weren’t forced to interact too much with him. Henry had taken the lead to explain all that had taken place and, of course, his theory and means of proving it. By the time we had made one round around the fountains, the story had been told and, to be truthful, I was ready to go ahead and call it a day.
I don’t think Ellen was quite as creeped out as I was, but she did seem to be a bit uncomfortable when we sat upon a bench in the shade and began to discuss things further.
“You are a medium, then?” Ewen asked her.
“Psychic, medium, whatever you like to call it. I contact and communicate with paranormals.”
“So you have what the old ones call, ‘the gift?’” His brows raised slightly as he finished the question.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
“And you, Monty, are you a medium as well?”
I had hoped to be left out of the conversation completely, but it seemed that providence was not going to allow me to escape just yet. “Mostly I handle the equipment: cameras, testing gear, that sort of thing.”
“He often connects with the spirits and allows me to channel through him as well,” Ellen added. “
In truth, though he isn’t quite as confident about it, he actually has ‘the gift’ as well.”
I appreciated the fact that she didn’t say that I was her assistant and errand boy, but at the same time, I didn’t want much attention focused on me at the moment. What I heard next was actually worse.
“There is no doubt that you are the one that is drawing this spirit,” Ewen began, nodding toward Ellen as he spoke. “As lovely as you are, I’m sure that they are quite eager to be hooking up with you.”
Did the dude just hit on my wife? Right in front of me? It took me by surprise and my reaction was delayed for a moment or the dude would have had a taste of my fist, if I could have found his mouth through the beard. Ellen felt me tense and placed her hand on my chest as well.
“Mr. Egham,” she said sharply. “I want to assure you that both my husband and I are the strictest professionals and are not toying around when it comes to what we do. If you have something constructive to add to our investigation, I would like to hear it; otherwise, we will be taking our leave.”
That’s my girl. Ellen had very smartly put him in his place. If she had not believed that the man might be able to shed some light on our investigation, I wasn’t altogether sure she wouldn’t have kneed him between the legs.
I guess he thought she was an empty-headed bimbo, by the shocked expression on his face. He immediately began backtracking. “I meant no harm by it, ma’am. However, it would seem logical that you would be what has drawn these spirits into a connection, given the information that I have at my disposal. Are you of Celtic origin?”
“I do not know,” she replied.
“What was your maiden name, if I might ask?” He was being a great deal more polite, but I still didn’t like the way he leered at her.
“Agness,” she replied.
“Oanez. That would be the Celtic equivalent. With the number of different language influences upon English, it has been bastardized, of course, but you would likely have at least some Celtic blood in you.”
“Why would that matter so much?” Ellen asked.
