by Kim Newman
We were too late to do anything for the poor policemen. One lay dead, green foam at lips and ears. The other would be following him soon. Most of his chest was a bubbling ruin. He tried to speak but green fluid poured from his mouth and even as I bent to his aid he fell back, eyes wide, staring, unseeing.
I realized I could see Holmes’ face, his pale features seemingly behind a green mask. I turned to see the source of this new light. The entire far end of the hold was an aurora, sickly green shot through with an oily sheen, which cast rainbows before it. Under other circumstances it might even be called beautiful.
Below the swirling lights lay a darker patch that seemed to ripple. I saw two ale casks, broken into splinters — the source of this recent outbreak.
Holmes walked forward towards it. I saw he held his fire-bellows in hand. A soft hose led to the tank on his back. He pushed the bellows together and sent a spray of liquid ahead of him. I smelled bleach. The shimmering light flared then faded and the dark green mass retreated.
Holmes kept walking, close enough to reach out towards the green luminescence.
“Careful, Holmes,” I called.
“I must know,” he said, almost a whisper. “Is it an invader, or a missionary?”
Before I could stop him he stepped inside the glow. I was about to step up beside him, but he raised a hand. I heard his voice as if from a great distance.
“Stay back Watson,” he said. “This won’t take but a minute.”
The dancing light played around him and the green carpet at his feet seethed, but still Holmes stood perfectly still. I saw him reach forward with his free hand and play it through the light. A new rainbow followed his movements.
“Fascinating,” I heard him say, then he went completely quiet. The slime at his feet started to creep again, moving towards Holmes. He showed no sign of trying to avoid or avert it. I moved to one side to look at his face. He had a glazed, far off look, lost in reverie.
He had fallen into its snare.
With a yell I leapt forward, just as the slime surged. As he had done for me, I placed a hand on his shoulder. At once the spell was broken … and just in time. The light flared so bright as to be almost blinding. At the same moment the slime surged, again a wave flowing over Holmes’ feet and ankles. He pushed at the bellows, twice, spraying bleach around us. Once again I heard the high fluting screams, deafening in the confines of the hold, as pustules formed and burst all across the creeping carpet.
The slime retreated.
I pulled at Holmes’ shoulder.
“Quick Holmes, let us beat a retreat before it returns.”
“Not yet, Watson, there is something at the heart of this that bends its will against us. I would rather like to have a look at it.”
He projected more bleach in the direction of the slime and it fell back.
It was darker now, the luminescence having shrunk and faded until it ran in a layer less than an inch thick over the surface of the rolling slime. We followed its retreat across the hold until we stood before the burst and broken barrels. The remains of the slime had retreated to the shelter of a curved section that seemed nearly intact.
Holmes motioned me forward and we peered into the gloom.
“Take a close look Watson,” Holmes said. “We may never see its like again.”
A darker patch of green sat there in the midst of the last small puddle of slime, an oval shape like a large dark egg. An oily green sheen ran over it and it pulsed rhythmically, almost as if it were breathing.
“Is this the source of the contagion?” I asked.
Holmes nodded.
“Although I am no longer sure of its intelligence. I detected nothing while under its influence to suggest it is anything other than what it seems.”
I watched the thing pulse.
“And what do you suggest Holmes? We cannot allow this thing to escape into the general population.”
Holmes was deep in thought.
“Indeed Watson. And while the scientists at the University would love to study this, there is a chance that the military would gain hold of it. I have heard of their experiments with Mustard gas. This thing would merely give them another excuse for developing weapons of terrible destruction.”
I could see it in my mind. Whole battalions marching on a field of green, heads raised to the heavens in screams as they melted from the feet up.
My decision was simple.
“End it Holmes. End it here.”
He nodded and squeezed the bellows. The slime surged, one last time, and then fell back, smoking. One final high whistle pierced the air then it was gone.
We stood there for a long time, watching, but all that remained of the terror from beyond was a patch of blackened material among the broken debris of the barrels.
* * * * *
WILLIAM MEIKLE is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace and drinks a lot of beer … some of it from Chiswick.
“From the Tree of Time” by Fred Saberhagen
Illustration by Luke Eidenschink
From the Tree of Time
by Fred Saberhagen (from an idea by Eric Saberhagen)
“Very well then,” said Count Dracula. “If you wish a story of mystification, I can provide one.”
It was a raw, rainy spring night, not long ago, and the two of us were standing on a street corner in a northern city. Folk far madder and perhaps less probable than either the Prince of Wallachia or myself walked those streets as well, but in the presence of my companion I scarcely gave them a thought.
“I will be delighted,” I replied, naturally enough, “to hear whatever tale you may wish to tell.”
Dracula halted at a curb, the wet cold wind stirring his black hair as he stared moodily across the street. He had doubtless paused only to gather his thoughts, but a quartet of youths swaggering along on the other side of the street interpreted our hesitation as timidity. They loitered in their own walk, and one of their number called some obscenity in our direction. My companion did not appear to notice.
“I am sure you are aware,” he began his tale to me, “that with vampires, as with the greater mass of the breathing population, the vast majority are peaceable, law-abiding citizens. We seek no more, essentially, than breathers do: bodily nourishment (any animal blood will do for sustenance); the contemplation of beauty, and affection, as nourishment for the soul; an interesting occupation; a time and place in which to rest (some native soil being, in our case, very important for that purpose).
“It makes me laugh” —he laughed, and across the street four youths simultaneously remembered pressing business elsewhere— “yes, laugh, to contemplate the preposterous attributes that have been bestowed upon my branch of the human race by those breathing legendizers who have never known even one of us at first hand. Of course I am not talking about you, my friend. I mean those who have learned nothing since the last century, when the arch-fool Van Helsing could imagine that the symbols and the substance of religion are to us automatically repellent or even deadly. As you know, that is no more true of us than of — of some of the breathing gangsters who once made this very city legend.”
My friend paused, frowning, doubtless wishing that he had chosen some other comparison. I hastened to assure him that I would do all in my literary power to expunge from human thought the kinds of misinformation that he found so distasteful. He nodded abstractedly.
“Nevertheless,” he went on, “in our society as in yours, the rogue, the criminal, exists. I need not belabor the point that the psychopath who happens also to be a vampire is infinitely more dangerous than his mundane breathing counterpart. Even apart from the fact that ve
ry few of your breathing people truly believe that we exist, effective countermeasures against our criminal element, while not impossible, appear to be uncommonly difficult for you to manage. The Cross, as I have said, is no deterrent at all — except perhaps to vampires of such religious nature that their consciences would be painfully affected by the sight: such probably do not pose you a major problem in any event.
“Garlic? Even less efficacious than it would be against some breathing ruffian — surely useful, if at all, only against the more fastidious and less determined. Mirrors? Useful to detect and identify us by our lack of any reflection; but with no application as weapons, except as they might be used to concentrate our great bane, natural sunlight. The older and tougher among us can bear some sun, you know, at least the cloudy, tempered sun of the high latitudes.
“Fire? By daylight, through which period we are compelled to retain whatever form we had at dawn — and moreover are likely to be resting in lethargic trance — yes by daylight, fire can be effective, whereas by night we easily avoid it.
“Ordinary bullets, blades of metal, clubs of stone, all can cause us momentary pain and superficial injury, but do us virtually no real damage at all. Any trifling harm inflicted soon disappears. Silver bullets are only advocated by those who confuse us with werewolves, or certain other creatures of the night.
“The best practical defence is doubtless to remain in your own house, admitting no one suspicious. No vampire may enter a true dwelling unless invited — but once invited, he or she may return at any time.
“And, if we consider the offensive means that ordinary breathing folk can hope to use successfully against us, almost the whole truth is contained in one short and simple word.”
By now we were strolling again. My companion was of course impervious to the chilling effects of wind and rain, but I was shivering. Taking note of this, Dracula gestured as we were passing the door of a decent appearing tavern, and gratefully I preceded him in. We were seated in a dim, snug corner with mugs of Irish coffee before us — his of course remained untouched throughout our stay — before he spoke again.
“That one word,” he said, “is wood. Ah, wood, that oh-so-nearly-magical stuff, that once was living and now is not. Ah, wood … and that leads me to the story that I wish to tell.”
It was (Dracula continued) almost a century ago, and in another great city, one grimier and in some ways grander than this one, that I made acquaintance — never mind now exactly how — with a certain professional investigator, a consulting detective whose name was then even better known than my own. We were an oddly matched pair, yet on good terms; he understood my nature better than most breathing folk have ever been able to do. Still I was greatly surprised one day when I received a message from him saying that he wished my help in a professional consultation. Naturally my curiosity was much aroused, and I agreed.
My friend the detective and I traveled down by train from London to a certain country estate in Kent. The house was a great gloomy pile, built during Elizabethan times. Its owner, besides being a man of considerable wealth, was something of an antiquarian, and also much interested in what he still called natural philosophy. It was not he, however, who had invited us to the estate, but his only child. She was a grown woman, and married for a year. And it was she-whose real name I cannot tell you even now, for at the time I swore that it would never pass my lips — she who conducted us on our arrival, with urgent speed, into a closed room for a private consultation. The room was large, and mostly lined with books, with new electric lights in its far corners, and on the huge desk an old-fashioned oil lamp, whose rays fell on a collection of curious items evidently brought together from the ends of the earth. I saw a whale’s tooth, a monkey’s skull, along with other items I did not immediately recognize. A small table at some distance from the desk held a microscope and various specimens. Along with their burden of books, the room’s many shelves held stuffed birds and animals.
“And now, your ladyship” began my friend the detective, “we are at your service. You may speak as freely before Dr. Corday here” —he glanced in my direction— “as before myself.”
The lady, whose considerable beauty was obviously being worn away by some overwhelming fear or worry, now appeared on the verge of collapse. “Very well.” She drew a deep, exhausted breath. “I must be brief, for my father and my husband will both soon return, and I must save them, if I can…
“The incident that haunts me, that has driven me to the brink of madness, occurred almost exactly a year ago, and in this very room. I must confess to you that before I was married, or even knew Richard well, I was acquainted with a man, named Hayden. I have outlined to you already, sir, how that came to be—”
“You have indeed, your ladyship.” My companion gave an impatient nod. “Since our time is short, we had better concentrate on what happened between you and Hayden in this very room, as you say it was. That is the aspect of the case in which I most value Dr. Corday’s consultation.”
“You are right.” Our hostess paused again to collect herself, then plunged on. “I had not seen Hayden for many months. I was beginning to manage to forget him, when almost on the very eve of my wedding, he appeared here unexpectedly. I was alone in the house except for a few servants, my father being engaged on some last-minute business in London having to do with the arrangements.
“Hayden, of course, knew that I was alone. And his purpose in coming was an evil one. He had brought with him some letters — they were foolish letters indeed — that I had written him in an earlier day. The letters contained … certain things that could have ruined me, had Hayden given them, as he threatened to do, to my prospective husband. I protested my innocence. He admitted it, but read from the letters certain phrases, words I had almost forgotten, that suggested otherwise. Hayden would destroy me, he swore, unless — unless ‘Here and now in this very room’ was how he put it — I should — should—”
For a moment the lady could not continue. My friend and I exchanged glances, of sympathy and determination, in a silent pledge that we would do everything possible to assist her. It must be hard for folk with experience only of the late twentieth century to grasp what a threat such letters could represent, to understand what impact the mere suggestion of a premarital affair could have had at that time and place, on one in her position. It would have been regarded by all her contemporaries as the literal ruin of the young lady’s life.
“I was innocent,” she repeated, when she was able to resume at last. “I swear to you both that I was. Yet that man had some devilish power, influence … I had broken free of it before, and as he faced me in this room I swore to myself that I would never allow it to gain the faintest hold on me again.
“‘Sooner or later you will have me’, the villain said, sneering at me. ‘I have now been invited into your fine house, you see.’ Those were his words, and I have puzzled over them; alas, a greater and more horrible puzzle was to come.
“I retreated to the desk — I stood here in front of it, like this. Hayden was just there, and he advanced upon me. I cried at him to stay away. My hand, behind me on the desk, closed on a piece of stone — much like this one.” With that her ladyship raised what would now be called a geode from among the curios collected on the huge desk. “I raised it — like this — and warned him again to stop.
“Hayden only smiled at me — no, sneered — as if the idea that I might refuse him, even resist him, were a childish fantasy that only a childish creature like myself — a mere woman — could entertain. He sneered at me, I say! His handsome face was hideously transformed, and it seemed to me that even his teeth were … were … and he came on toward me, his hands reaching out.”
The lovely narrator raised her chin. “I hit him, gentlemen. With the stone. With all my strength. And — God help me — I think it was as much because of the way in which he looked at me, so contemptuously, as it was because of anything I feared that he might do.
“I hit him, and he fe
ll backward, with a broad smear of blood across his forehead. I have the impression that only one of his eyes was still open, and that it was looking at me with the most intense surprise. He fell backward, and rolled halfway over on the carpet, and was still.
“I was perfectly sure, looking down at his smashed face, that he was dead. Dead. And I swear to you that at that moment I felt nothing but relief … but for a moment only. Then the horror began. Not an intrinsic horror at what I had done — that came to me too, but later — but horror at the fact that what I had just done was certain to be discovered, and at other discoveries that must flow from that. Even though I might — I almost certainly would — be able to plead self defence and avoid any legal penalty, yet inevitably enough information must be made public to bring ruin down upon me — and disgrace upon Richard, whom I loved…
“I suppose that in that moment I was half mad with shock and grief. Not, you understand, grief for the one who, as I thought, lay dead—”
My friend interrupted. “As you thought?”
“As — let me finish, and in a moment you will understand.”
“Then pray continue.”
“My eye fell on the door of the lumber room — there.” It was a plain, small, inconspicuous door, set in the wall between bookcases, some eight or ten feet from the desk. “I seized Hayden by the ankles — to take him by the hands would have meant touching his skin, and the thought of that was utterly abhorrent to me — and I dragged him into there.”
“May I?”
“Of course.”
Taking up the lamp from the desk, my friend moved to open the small door, which was unlocked. The lamplight shining in revealed a dusty storage closet. Its walls and floor were of stone, its ceiling of solid wood; there was no window, or any other door. The chamber was half-filled with a miscellany of boxes, crates, and bundles, none larger than a bushel, and all covered with a fine film of dust that might well have lain undisturbed for the past year.
