When I rejoined them, I jokingly wondered aloud what kind of curse the fairies would put on me. And I was surprised to see that both went white as their own sheep and didn’t respond in any manner.
With this realization that my hosts were not immune to the power of the local myths, I decided to change tactics. I wandered casually over to the standing stone, or the fairies’ road sign, as it were, and began to examine its design and substance. I used the glass to examine minutely the areas of it surface that I could easily reach. I am no geologist, but it looked to me to be ordinary black basalt that had been exposed to the elements for centuries and much weathered. As I did so my shoe must have knocked or kicked into its base, so that when I stepped back I found that a fragment of stone as big as my fist lay at the foot of the standing stone. At first I thought that the larger rock must have been cracked somehow at some point in time, and I clearly jarred this small piece loose with my shoe. Even from where I stood, I could see that the sharp edges of the small fragment exactly matched the new cavity in the bigger stone. I picked up the piece and examined it with the glass I still had in my hand.
The first thing I noticed was that it was shiny, more like volcanic glass than basalt, black and oddly slippery. Furthermore it was marked on the inward facing side with what looked like organized scratches. I found this most interesting and slipped the piece into my jacket pocket. All this happened on the side of the standing stone the faced away from my two guides, thus they did not know, and do not now know of any of this circumstance. I’m not sure what exactly I was thinking just then, but it has proven convenient to examine the piece without being subjected to superstitious outcries.
We returned without incident and I quickly retired to my room where I have been looking at the stone through the glass most minutely and can say with certainty that the scratches are definitely hieroglyphics or runes of some sort, about five dozen in number. The resultant conclusion is that at some point in antiquity the piece had been somehow broken from the larger rock, inscribed, and then replaced to fit perfectly into its spot of origin so that it was impossible to know that such a subtle graffiti had ever been perpetrated—unless one knew the secret. What it all means is another matter. It is an interesting curio, and I think I will use it as a paperweight. Knowing your interest in philology and ancient languages, I’ve just made a rubbing of the marks with the side of a pencil on some of my note paper. I include that rubbing here for you inspection. I will send any sequel when and if there is one. I am
Honoured to by your friend and colleague,
And conclude this note with warm regards.
John Watson
[Since I was holding all the letters in my hand as I read, Mr Holmes asked to see again the page with the markings that Dr Watson had described. He looked it over most carefully, checking the reverse side, and then he shivered, ripped the paper in half and in half again, over and over until the paper had been torn into minute pieces. Then he placed all the torn paper onto a saucer, lit the pile with a match, and when it had all burned, he crushed the ashes, stirred them, and crushed them again several times. Then he said, “Mrs Hudson, I must now decide what to do with these ashes as I don’t want them proximal to this house.” Of course, I knew better than to inquire what the fuss was about and I suggested that he mix the ashes with a bowl of birdseed for the birds to consume and disperse to the four winds as fate decreed. “Capital idea, Mrs Hudson! I will not waste a moment!” He then put action to word, and returned to his seat. Then he said, “By the same token, Mrs Hudson, we must take possession of the good doctor’s paperweight as soon as possible and dispose of it in an equivalent manner.” Then he bid me continue with the next letter.]
John H. Watson, M.D.
June 17th 1924
My Dear Holmes:
I apologize that my last note must have arrived long ago, and that there has been no further sequel until now, and it’s not of much consequence. The last days I have been recuperating from my long hike to the standing stone and blackthorn hedge. Because I have a strong intuition that the cause, and perhaps the solution, to O’Neary’s strange malady lay beyond those two landmarks in a little-visited valley or gulch at the further end of McCabe’s land, I’ve arranged with him to explore the area this coming Saturday, 21 June. The region it seems has points of interest, but I was astonished to hear that neither McCabe nor the O’Nearys has ever travelled much beyond the location of the standing stone despite their living so close to it. (It is truism, I suppose, that residents of an area are the last people to visit the attractions of that area, as I for one, have never been inside the Tower of London.) In the meantime, I am caring for the elder O’Neary and applying the ointment derived from boiled castor oil as Abernathy directed. It certainly can’t do any harm. The nearest medical facility is far off in Cork, and as I don’t want to risk the rough travel, I am caring for him here, and he appears to be no worse off for the attention he is receiving.
Your loyal friend, as always,
Watson
[Here Mr Holmes burst out: “Watson, Watson, Watson, beware! You should not be meddling with things you don’t understand! I’m really far too old to have to bolt up and rescue you, old friend. I simply don’t do all that well travelling any more.” He heaved a great sigh, then asked me to retrieve three of his commonplace books, which he then spent some time meticulously amending. Quite a while later, he asked me to replace them, and he simply said, “Mrs Watson, pray continue.”]
John H. Watson, M.D.
June 23rd 1924
I don’t know where to begin. Two days ago I experienced Hell! How does one describe literal Hell after one has actually been there?
The day before yesterday, early in the morning I loaded and pocketed my pistol just to be on the safe side, and we packed some things, including Hubert electric torches and shotguns into McCabe’s farm lorry and slowly bumped our way over the pasture and stopped to get our bearings at the standing stone—the so-called fairy’s road marker. I scoffed then, but not now! If only we three babes-in-the-wood could have known then what we’d endure in just a matter of hours! We followed the fairy path down into creek beds and up and down gullies, around hedges and still more hedges, all of which were mature plants and already in place when he bought the land. For now they served to separate various unused parcels near to Bottle Hill.
In due course, I could see in the distance the wide mouth of the gorge that was our destination. Upon arriving, McCabe drove a short distance into the opening, but it fast became obvious that the narrowing of the passage prevented further progress by vehicle.
We grabbed our guns, torches, and water bottles, and marched forward into what proved to be an unexpectedly convoluted defile with sharp bends and rough rocky walls. It was noticeably cooler due to the abundance of shade. I suppose we hiked thus for half a mile or so. Then we rounded one sharp bend, and stopped dead at the sight we saw!
Now Holmes, everything I have described in my letters from Bottle Hill up to this point was commonplace enough, but at this moment, as we made that turn in that deeply shadowed gorge, it seemed we were all dropped into a hashish dream or into Alice’s Wonderland. From that moment, all the laws of reality ceased to exist, and, frankly, looking back on it, I don’t honestly know what was real or not.
We rounded that turn—and beheld a small elderly deformed man about four feet tall pacing in front of a small cave entrance with his short arms clasped behind his back. Under his cocked green hat (with a feather in its band) that seemed too big for his big head, he had long unkempt white hair, a grey terribly wrinkled face with large lips, red, piercing eyes that never seemed to stop moving, and a sharp, pointed nose. Despite his extraordinary appearance, my impression was that he was worried, and thus his pacing. His heavy green fur great coat sported a wide bright red collar and was draped over his entire body like a tent so that it was impossible to see his torso, legs, ankles, or feet. In addition, he had a pronounced hump that instantly reminded me of Lon Cha
ney’s hunchback in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” This hump caused the fellow to bend in a distorted and apparently uncomfortable manner during our entire interview. And before we could in any way wonder aloud at his sudden appearance, the little man spoke in a loud raspy, angry voice:
“There you finally are. I’ve been hearing you for a devilish long time. You’ve made enough noise to wake the dead.” We were still so shocked that none of us knew how to respond. Then the little man demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“We are doing an inspection within the boundaries of my own property,” McCabe answered gathering his wits about him, “and just who are you?”
The little man broke into howls of laughter. “Your property!” he gasped through his laughter. “Why, man, this and everything that you can see in any direction from the top of that hill” (he pointed in the direction of Bottle Hill which, when all was said and done, was our real destination) “is my land and you are the ones who are trespassing!” McCabe could hardly contain himself he was so outraged by both the creature and his utterances.
“Your land! I suppose you will tell me next that you are a fairy and this is all fairyland.”
“As a matter of fact, I am one of the fair people—I am Brian of Knock Magh, honorary possessor and guardian of this enchanted land.” He pulled at his red collar proudly and added, “I am an important leprechaun.”
I tell you, Holmes, I didn’t know what to think.
“Don’t be absurd,” said McCabe. “You are a dwarf who is either greatly enjoying wasting our time, or you should be institutionalized! Where are you from?”
The fellow who called himself Brian of Knock Magh pointed to the cave behind him and shrugged. “Didn’t I just tell you? Here is my home, and all the surrounding land.”
“And just why do you claim that?”
“Because the custom is age-old, of course! Who is it that asks such a stupid question?!”
“I already stated clearly, I am the owner of this property—Lynwood Reginald McCabe, by name!”
“Regardless, Lynwood Reginald McCabe, I cannot allow you to proceed!”
Well you can imagine that McCabe didn’t take that announcement very well. “Get out of my way, stranger!” he bellowed and took a step. But the little man leaped in front of him gesticulating—flailing his arms with the loose material of his fur coat flapping like a great stork protecting its young.
When McCabe saw that, unless he physically injured the little man, they were at a stalemate, Brian of Knock Magh continued. “I wish no malice, and I am not nearly as mischievous as some would believe. Admittedly, some of my kin can rationalize any sort of behaviour, but I am of royal blood. I merely wish to warn you to turn back, for there is nothing for you ahead, nothing at all. But I can see that it will be difficult to persuade you. So can’t you three gentlemen at least tarry for a moment to keep a lonely leprechaun company for a few moments.”
The little man turned toward the cave mouth, and reached for a kind of pot that steamed over a small wood fire there. “Have some refreshment, please. When I heard you coming I heated a traditional drink made from milk, fermented honey, and herbs.”
Naturally there was some argument from McCabe, and he looked at me with a look that merged anger and hopelessness. But Brian was very persuasive and Tieg and McCabe and I each accepted from a small platter a tiny cup hardly bigger than a thimble containing some fluid. Under the circumstances, however, none of us went so far as to actually sip the drink that had been offered us by one who was likely a lunatic. The aroma, I will say, was not unpleasant—you will appreciate that honey was the predominant smell.
But this moment of respite didn’t last long. McCabe in his impatience, pushed his cup back into the man’s grubby hand and motioned us to follow him.
“You cannot go on!” rasped the little man. “I cannot answer for the consequences that will result from your continuing! I warn you! Bottle Hill is not for the likes of you mere mortals. Your lives and many others hang in the balance!”
“Get out of my way, stranger. Not even for your proverbial pot of gold could you dissuade me from my purpose.” Brian tried once more to block McCabe. “Get out of my way, I said!” McCabe cried, and the little man in flamboyant green and red finally acquiesced and allowed us passage.
“Do not progress for there is only danger ahead. I beg you! Danger, death and destruction. Fairyland is not for you. Never for humans at all. I cannot answer for what will happen from here on out.”
Naturally, we ignored him. Little did any one of us know how right he was!
“Don’t say that I didn’t warn you!” cried Brian as we rounded another bend.
In consequence of this peculiar episode, I suppose, Tieg picked up a stout stick he found on the trail, which I supposed could be used for as a weapon. His staff ground noisily into the earth. It was the only sound except for our own breathing and of our footsteps, as Brian’s cries faded into the distance. The air was preternaturally quiet with no breeze at all. And there was no trace of movement anywhere.”
McCabe was especially quiet and seemed lost in thought, and, as the quiet was beginning to trouble me and as I was lagging behind, I quickened my step. It was only about 30 minutes later that the gorge seemed to end abruptly and suddenly we were facing a lofty vertical rock crag at the foot of which was a moraine of boulders, the residue of some ancient landslide.
We moved to examine the cliff which was deep in shadow. It didn’t make a lot of sense that a trail—whether made by fairies or anyone else—would just stop at a wall.
Before too long, of course, we found a cave entrance that was thoroughly camouflaged by shadows, jutting rocks, and various seams of coloured minerals blending in peculiar manners. If you weren’t looking for it, it would have been totally invisible from any angle. In that sense the entrance was expertly veiled. Tieg reached into his pack and pulled out the three electric torches and passed two of them to us. I made sure my revolver was safe in my pocket, and we loosened the straps by which we carried the shot guns. We stepped into the cave. I for one was full of curiosity!
We were still within sight of the light from the tunnel entrance when we came to a crossroads. To both the left and right, glimmering in our lights were veins of red marble, violet limestone, and pink quartz. We could see just within range of the light beam that the left hand tunnel seemed to end in cavern—large or small I could not know—resplendent with pointed and sharp stalagmites meeting stalactites. We could see all this from where we stood, but right then and there we needed to decide which road to take. There was bit of a breeze issuing from the right tunnel, so it was decided that we would turn right.
Just then McCabe reached into his pack and pulled out a ball of twine and smiled. “I was supposing we would find a cave for our trouble, and thought that marking our trail would save us from getting lost. Rather like Hansel and Gretel.” He grinned at his joke as he anchored the end of the string under some stones, and we went on.
I must admit that we slipped and fell on loose rock several times until we got the hang of it. McCabe stopped every now and again to wrap the string around some protrusion or another. Then, as another challenge, we learned to watch our step, and slippery slimy substance, some sort of moss I suppose. We had not yet entered the world of fungus!
Finally, we reached the end of the tunnel and we were fortunate that we weren’t rushing, because the tunnel unexpectedly opened onto a vast grotto with great thick boles of calcium reaching from floor to ceiling; titanic green, yellow, and black pillars that looked for all the world like they were supporting the vast domed vault that itself sparkled nearly miraculously with the reflected lights of thousands of crystals of every imaginable colour! Across the floor, far below, we could see a stream meandering through a forest of stalagmites.
In a few minutes, we found a natural and easy enough road that led all the way down to the stream. From the perspective of the cavern floor, we became aware that at several place
s in the walls were fissures and holes that were doubtlessly entrances into other caverns. Tieg had been ahead of McCabe and me, and now we saw him bending down by the stream. His whole body was aglow with orange light from his electric torch reflecting from the naturally polished surfaces all around us.
McCabe knelt too and stared in the direction Tieg was pointing. In a second I too was looking and saw that they were inspecting a small object near the flowing water. Tieg held his torch down and, falling to his knees, he picked the object from the ground and held it up, a small grey mushroom hardly bigger than his thumbnail. Then we saw that there were dozens of them lining the edge of the stream.
McCabe scratched his head and said. “Who would ever think that anything could grow in this cold and pitch-darkness. Maybe, before now, no light has entered this region for millions of years.” He wrapped the string around a nearby column as he talked and we then again began following the breeze that fate had made our guide.
The vast cavern we were in could be envisioned as a great bubble in Bottle Hill, but it didn’t take long to pick our way over the floor to find a tunnel at the far wall. By now we were pretty inured to all the varied material over and through which we marched. Except for the lights that we brought, we were in a world without light, which was a truly frightening thought. We followed the draft for some time and then realized that it was growing stronger. At the same time we became aware that there was light entering the tunnel from some point ahead.
Finally we saw the tunnel’s end, but unexpectedly I felt a strange pulsation in my ears. We approached the end of the tunnel cautiously, wondering what could possibly be the source of light and air. As we quietly approached, all at once we became aware of furtive movements in the darkness behind us beyond the bends we had just traversed where our light could not penetrate.
These sounds were unexpected and terrifying, but we had few choices. We moved ahead until we came to the end of the road. The tunnel simply stopped dead at the edge of a ledge that overlooked a great canyon deep in the bowels of the earth, far deeper and larger than the vaulted cavern we had left behind.
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 32
