by Peter Oxley
“What, you mean spirits?” asked Kate. “Ghosts?”
“Maybe,” said N’yotsu. “Or creatures capable of passing themselves off as such. But the fact that they are able to do so at the very least suggests some form of connection with the spirit world. It is an interesting concept and certainly requires further investigation.”
My blood ran cold. “I seriously hope you are not planning to build another one of those machines.”
“No,” said Maxwell. “There will be no more Aetheric Sound Conduits. At least, not until we have learnt more about these creatures and the implications of the devices.”
“And what about weird portal-making things?” said Kate.
“We have learnt our lesson,” said N’yotsu. “The thing was clearly unstable. We will not take such risks again. But we do have a duty to investigate further, albeit in a much safer and more controlled manner.”
“Promise?” she said.
“I promise,” said N’yotsu, and Maxwell nodded as well.
“Good,” she said, hefting the broom. “You’ve seen what I can do with this thing. I won’t hesitate to use it again.”
I suddenly felt incredibly weary. “I am going home for a very long sleep,” I announced, pulling myself to my feet and staggering out of the room.
N’yotsu called my name as I stepped out of the front door. He followed me outside and shut the door gently behind us. “We never really spoke about my... use of the Sound Conduit earlier.”
I nodded. To be honest, the fact had completely slipped my mind in the midst of all the other insanities. “If it was nearly as traumatic as what I went through, I assume you would not wish to relive it. You certainly seemed pretty upset at the time.” I regarded him as he grunted and glanced around us. “If I may, though,” I asked, “who was it that spoke to you through the Conduit?”
For a moment I thought he would snap at me, but then his shoulders slumped and he replied. “They said... they said they were my wife and child. At least, that is what I interpreted what they said to mean. They were not speaking English, and yet I was able to understand them. But the fact remains that I am not married, nor have I ever been. And I have no children.”
“Interesting,” I said. “A message from the future, maybe?”
“Perhaps.” His brow furrowed. “Then again, they could have been mischievous spirits, seeking to confuse or upset me.”
“So, what was the content of their message?” I asked. “It clearly did upset you.”
“Very little,” he said. “Just that they missed me and wanted me to come home. But there was something about the exchange which did not feel right, as if they were taunting me, or trying to encourage me into some action which would go against my morals.”
I remembered the look on his face when he was staring into the portal. “Did you see them in the Aether just now, do you think?” I asked.
“I... don’t know,” he said. “I just have words from someone who may or may not really know me, but there was something...” He stared into space and for a moment a look of sheer rage passed across his face. It was only there for an instant, but that instant seared itself in my mind. “It brought to the fore some very strong emotions,” he said. “I do not know why. I am not sure I want to know why.” He looked at me and smiled: comfortable, reliable N’yotsu once more. “I must not keep you any longer. I wish you a good rest.” From inside the house we could hear the sound of items being moved and swept up; Kate was clearly putting the broom back to its proper use.
“I suggest you make yourself scarce,” said N’yotsu. “I suspect we have a long night’s cleaning and repairing ahead of us, and if you linger much longer there is a risk that Kate will press you into service.” We shook hands and bade each other farewell.
After N’yotsu had stepped back inside and shut the door I stood there for a moment longer, leaning against the doorframe, unsure exactly what to make of what had just transpired. There was far too much for my overworked and overwrought brain to comprehend. I finally summoned up the energy and walked away, trying to shake the feeling of dread and fear which I now could not help but associate with my friend N’yotsu.
Part Four - Men Of Clay
Chapter 15
The mist wrapped round my arms and body, clinging to me, pulling me in. All around was grey, punctuated by the odd hint of forms, creatures which flitted near me but never strayed close enough for me to do anything more than sense them.
Sounds reached out to me in my isolation: scratches, shuffles and moans. I whirled round at a sudden sound from behind, only to see yet more curling mist. Again and again this happened, making me feel like a demented dancer.
Something loomed out of the mist, a form which coalesced into a figure. “Rachel?” I asked.
She stopped a few feet away, recognisably her and yet also very, very different. Her skin was stretched tightly over prominent bones, her eyes two small black orbs which regarded me blankly. I wanted to call out to her, but my mouth and throat were rigid with fear.
She raised a thin, spindly arm and pointed past my shoulder. I turned to see a portal, a window into a room where Maxwell and N’yotsu stood staring back at me. As I watched, they brandished some device which shrank the portal down and down until it disappeared altogether, leaving me stranded in that place.
I turned back and was face to face with Rachel, but her skin had stretched even further, exposing yellowing bone around the eye sockets and a glimpse of teeth behind rotting lips. The shuffling sounds around us grew to a crescendo, heralding other ghastly creatures which drew into view around us.
I tried to scream.
I awoke at a table in The One Tun, a jerk of my arm sending my ale crashing to the floor. The landlord cursed me from behind the bar but otherwise no one paid me the slightest heed. In that particular tavern in that particular part of town, it paid to mind one’s own business.
The landlord grudgingly gave me another ale and I settled back down into my corner, trying to hide my shaking hands. My head was numb and foggy and it took all my effort to keep my eyes open. I felt like I had not slept in days, which was indeed the case; since my aborted suicide attempt, rest had been a distant stranger to me. What sleep I had managed had been plagued by an endless stream of nightmares, a nightly torture which was slowly driving me insane. I was very much alone in this; Maxwell and N’yotsu had thrown themselves into investigating the fresh theories which had been revealed by our brush with the Aetheric Sound Conduit. As a result I had resorted to laudanum to help me forget or at the very least send me into a dream-free oblivion. So far I had managed neither.
I shuddered as my latest nightmare flashed across my mind’s eye once more. A long swig of ale simply served to deepen my mood. I glared at the mug, wondering if I was wasting my time, and pondering where I could get hold of something stronger and more effective.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone approaching my table. I gripped the mug tighter and hunched my head down; I was in no mood for conversation.
“Gus,” said Kate. Then, louder: “Mr. Potts. We need to talk to you.” She sat down without waiting for a response.
I sighed and slowly looked up. She was looking at me expectantly, accompanied by a rather nervous-looking old man.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” I asked.
She shrugged. “This is Mr. Jones,” she said. “He’s an old friend of my family, and he needs our help.”
I stared at them both for a moment and then took a long swig of ale. “You may not have noticed,” I said. “But I am the last person you should be asking for help. In fact, if there is anyone offering assistance around here, I would put myself at the front of the queue for their services.”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “This is all about that fight you had with Maxwell, isn’t it?”
“It was not a fight,” I muttered, still smarting from the exchange earlier that afternoon.
I had gone round to Bedford Square in search of company and had mi
stakenly thought that my brother would provide it. He had greeted me with the words: “I suppose you should come in,” and the visit had gone downhill from there.
“Are you actually going to talk to me?” I asked after ten minutes of feeling like one of his discarded pieces of machinery. In point of fact, the simile was not quite accurate; in that place his odds-and-sods were much more likely to receive attention than me.
“Why would I do that?” he asked.
“I have come to visit you. The usual convention is to at least attempt to be civil and polite toward your visitors.”
“But I did not invite you. And I am rather busy here. Idle chit-chat merely serves to divert my focus away from more important matters.”
I shook my head. “Do you not wonder why I have come to see you?”
He made a big show of putting down the device he was holding and then glared at me. “Given all I know, I surmise that you have run out of money.”
“No. Well, yes I have, but I have not come to beg money from you.”
“Wonders never cease,” he muttered, his attention once again engaged in his equipment.
I threw my hands in the air. “I have nowhere else to go. I needed to talk to someone and you were the only person I could think of. Even you must realise how desperate a state of affairs that is for me.”
“What about your friends? Those wonderful drinking companions of yours?”
I felt my cheeks burn and looked down. “They are otherwise disposed.”
“What, all of them? At the same time? Seems unlikely.”
“In point of fact, I have tried approaching them, but with little success. We do not quite mix in the same social circles these days.”
He frowned at me, and I knew from the expression on his face that he was treating our exchange as another of his confounded logic problems. “Ah, so it is about money after all. As soon as you ran out of money, and therefore could no longer buy them drinks, they were no longer interested in maintaining their acquaintance with you.”
“Please, spare me the whole ‘I told you so’ routine. I really need someone to talk to.”
“If I gave you money would that mean that your so-called friends would once again welcome you in to their fold?”
“Maybe, but that is not the point. I should not wish to speak to them in any case.”
He smiled. “Ah, so you have at least learnt something. Congratulations, brother! You are maturing.”
“I give up,” I snapped. “You are no better than those machines you tinker with!” I turned to leave.
“Thank you,” he said, already immersed in his work. “Remember to shut the door on your way out, will you?”
And so it was that I found myself in that tavern, nursing a solitary ale, my desire for company sucked out of me by the emotional void that was my brother when engaged in his experimentations.
“You’ve been moping around like a spoilt little child for too long,” said Kate. “Now shut your trap and listen to what we have to say.”
I opened and then closed my mouth, my cheeks and ears flushing. For want of something better to do I took another swig of ale and glared at the two of them.
Kate nodded at Mr. Jones, who cleared his throat and then spoke in a quiet voice. “Mr. Potts, I work a stall in the market down on Commercial Road. Nothin’ much, just some fruit and veg when I can get them. But the thing is, there’s been some trouble lately. This feller, Silas, been hasslin’ us, makin’ us pay ’im to leave us alone. It’s got so bad, I’m payin’ ’im everythin’ I earn. My family are starvin’ so that bastard can live the high life.”
I waited for something more, but they both just stared at me. “Have you tried the police?” I asked.
Kate nudged Mr. Jones, who in turn stared at the floor. “Not that simple,” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” I asked. Then, when I got no response, I said to Kate: “I don’t have the time for this. I have some intense moping around to do. So if you don’t mind.” I gestured for them to leave.
“Don’t be an arse,” she said. I had known Kate for a few weeks, yet was still not accustomed to her rather unladylike manners. I stared at her, cheeks burning afresh.
“Come with us,” she said. “That’s all I ask. Have a look at what he’s talking about. Bit of a walk might do you good. There’ll still be plenty of beer here when we’re done.”
* * *
Against my better judgment, but in the interests of being left alone as soon as possible, I found myself walking the streets of the East End with Kate and the old man. It was late afternoon and the combination of exercise, daylight and my slightly drunken state flipped my mood so I felt as light as air, as though I were one of the dirigibles floating above us. I squinted into the sunlight, fancying the idea of journeying somewhere far away.
For a moment I thought I recognised The Old Lady amongst the traffic of airships above us, the familiar patchwork of its balloon matching the scarred arrow of its gondola beneath it. I blinked and then shook my head; it was just the wrong shade of blue, too new to be the flying prison which I had grown to love all those years ago. I allowed myself a smile at the thought of all the places I had seen and the people I had met during my time as a traveller of the skies. The memory was so fresh that I almost fancied I could hear Freddie’s cruel but infectious laughter around me.
We arrived at Commercial Road and were immediately thrust into the bustle and cacophony of the afternoon market. Costermongers shouted their wares from a seemingly endless stream of carts, wagons and makeshift stalls, all of which were arranged haphazardly throughout the neighbourhood without care for the needs or desires of either pedestrian or horse. As a result, we fought our way through crowds of customers, eager sellers and other perambulists, as well as keeping a watchful eye out for any horses, carriages or omnibuses which might at any moment brush us aside or even trample us underfoot. This was a dance to which all three of us were accustomed, although friends from out of town had often commented with terror at the unmitigated chaos of the arrangement.
The sheer volume of the market drowned out any attempts at conversation, even when shouting directly into each other’s ears. I signalled to my companions that I wanted to talk and we made our way to an alley which offered some small respite from the noise, although the clamour reaching our refuge was still enough to force us to shout to make ourselves heard.
“Should I be looking out for anything in particular?” I shouted.
“’e’ll be ’ere soon,” replied Mr. Jones. “Market’s just winding down; that’s when Silas likes to do ’is rounds.”
At first glance, the mass of humanity and industry in front of and around us seemed to belie the idea that anything was “winding down.” However, when one took a closer look it was true that the crowd was thinning; in some areas there was clear air between people, achieved without the use of elbows. Many of the stalls were emptying, with those still piled high the subject of much shouting and haggling on the part of the increasingly desperate stallholders.
I sighed and leant against the wall, instinctively pulling out my hip flask and unscrewing it. I was about to raise it to my lips when a bizarre sight arrested my movement.
“What are those things?” shouted Kate.
A man, who I presumed to be this Silas character causing Mr. Jones so much trouble, was making his way through the market, his approach scattering stallholders and customers. He seemed relatively unassuming, dressed in a smart but not overly ostentatious manner, although his face and bearing betrayed the arrogance of a natural bully. It was his four companions though which caused most of the kerfuffle.
They were shaped like men, but that was where the resemblance ended. They were huge: eight or maybe nine feet tall. Their tread was such as to make the ground vibrate beneath our feet. Their eyes were slits which glowed a deep red, while the rest of their faces were largely featureless, with bumps and curves to suggest where nose, mouth and ears should be. Their bodies were lumpen and m
assive, such that we did not need to see them in action to ascertain their considerable strength. And they appeared to be made entirely of clay.
Mr. Jones had shrunk back even further into the alleyway. “I told you,” he said.
“Golems,” I said in answer to Kate’s earlier question, hardly believing the word I was saying, let alone the evidence of my eyes. In spite of Maxwell’s teasing, I was relatively cultured in some areas, and as a young man had taken an interest in the folklore of various religions and cultures. One of the Judaic myths which had particularly fascinated me had been the story of the golem: a creature made from mud or clay and animated by the insertion of a holy word, or shem. Many Jews believed the story to be fact, something which I had treated with understandable scepticism until now.
“Is that some sort of costume?” asked Kate.
“I hope so,” I said.
Silas had stopped at one of the larger stalls and engaged in conversation with the stallholder. It was clear from their mannerisms that the exchange was anything but cordial, and after a few moments Silas stepped back and gestured to his companions, who set about destroying the stall. One of them picked up the entire cart one-handed and threw it over the nearest building, while another dealt with the horses in a particularly grisly and yet effective manner.
Having witnessed this display of preternatural strength, I said: “I think it is safe to say that those are not costumes. These creatures are not human.”
“Can you help us?” asked Mr. Jones.
I looked back at the golems, which had ceased their work and were now standing stock-still, looking for all the world like four human-shaped mountains.
“Not I,” I said. “But I know a man who can.”
Chapter 16
We entered 17 Bedford Square to find Maxwell glaring at us from behind a device which was smoking vigorously. Our companion Mr. Jones gasped as he took in the sight before us: a busy chaos of books, papers, tubes, flasks, engines and other miscellany.
