by Guy Adams
When I came back to consciousness the light was beginning to show through the window behind me and I managed not to look as the mirror image of my bones somehow managed to pull themselves together and walk out of the room. They made a sound like dominoes rattled in their sack.
My head ached, abominably, so I lay there a little while longer.
After Crowley finished speaking there were a few moments of silence while his tale was absorbed. Then he spoke once more, chilling words that caused the temperature in the room to drop even further:
“So,” he said, “all that remains is to wonder what excitement awaits us tonight!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A LETTER
EXCERPT FROM A LETTER WRITTEN BY DR JOHN WATSON TO SHERLOCK HOLMES
Well, you did warn me that matters were likely to get stranger! I have told you as much of Crowley’s story as I can recall, I would have made notes but it seemed rude in the circumstances and so I had to rely on my memory. The story was certainly unusual and startling enough for me to state with some certainty that it is accurate, though I admit I may have got the odd detail (such as the names of the rituals) wrong. It seems to me to confirm something of what we know, however, namely the ring I found in the forest by Ruthvney Hall. “To S.L.M.M.” it said, might I suggest that to be “Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers”? At least one piece of this puzzle falls securely into place.
You asked that I should be prepared to believe, I have since begun to wonder why. If you had been sat in Crowley’s drawing room during the telling of his tale you would hardly have been able to remain silent. I am sure you would have been deeply sceptical of all he said. It occurs to me that that is why you made yourself absent: some of us can remain politely silent in the face of things we disbelieve, others must make themselves heard!
I will confess that while a great deal of what Crowley said sounded entirely implausible, I am no longer of a mind to dismiss it as readily as before. The experience on the train still hangs over me and try as I might to find a logical explanation I cannot. And if that was exactly what it seemed then did Crowley’s experiences sound any stranger?
I give up trying to form an opinion, I will deal with matters as they come. I pass on the information and you must make of it what you will.
If Crowley’s long speech was full of arcane terminology and references, it was nothing compared to the response from Carnacki.
“You said you bought this house in order to perform a ritual,” he said, “might I ask which one?”
“Certainly, it is the Abramelin Ritual, Boleskine fits all the necessary geographical prerequisites.”
“The Abramelin Ritual?” Carnacki asked, seemingly incensed by the idea. “Are you mad?”
“I take it this ritual is dangerous?” I asked.
“The Abramelin Ritual is a process whereby the darkest powers imaginable are contacted and brought into our world.”
“And forced to do good,” Crowley countered. “That is rather the point is it not?”
“‘Forced?’” shouted Carnacki. “‘Did you not recently accuse Mathers of such blind arrogance? The thought that you could control something so primal, so ludicrously dangerous? You, sir, are a bloody idiot!”
“And you are a guest in my house,” Crowley replied, calmly, yet with a force that made it quite clear he was not a man one would would wish to have as an enemy. “So please have a care.”
Carnacki, unwilling to back down, did at least have the good sense to change his tone. “It is not just I that need have a care,” he said, softly, “should the ritual not go as planned then we will all be in dire peril.”
“The ritual will not fail.”
Carnacki, only too aware that he would be wasting his time arguing further, concluded the conversation.
“All of this is beside the point,” Dr Silence declared, “for if we are not able to assist in your surviving the night, you will hardly be in a position to complete the ritual.”
“True enough,” Crowley agreed, “but it’s not just a case of tonight, we need to take the fight to Mathers and his people before they unleash Hell on us all.” He looked to me. “If only your colleague was still with us, Dr Watson, I fear that while he concentrates on the minutiae of this case, he is blind to the greater concerns: if Mathers and his allies aren’t stopped, it won’t be the death of a couple of nobles that concern us, it’ll be the death of whole nations.”
“And what do you suggest we do, sir?” I asked. “We can hardly go to the police, not with a story like yours.”
“Precisely why Holmes would have been an asset,” Silence said, “with his connections both in the police force and, indeed, the government itself, we might just have been in a position to act.”
“Well,” said Carnacki, “he isn’t here so might I suggest we concentrate on the assets we do have? There are only a few hours until sunset and from thereafter we will likely have a fight on our hands. If Mathers is worth his salt at all he must have spies reporting for him – Hell, a simple scrying ritual would tell him – he must know that you are no longer alone in this fight.”
I didn’t dare ask what a scrying ritual might be, only too aware that I would neither like nor understand the answer.
“Indeed,” Crowley agreed, “it is most fortunate that we have such a skilled army on our side. I dared not share my concerns with any other members of the Order, who could tell where their allegiance might lie? But clearly we have no need of them, your abilities combined with ours should give Mathers pause. We shall soon number one more, then our ranks will be complete. I contacted another associate of mine, an expert in demonology. In fact,” he glanced at his watch, “he should be with us within the hour. Until then may I suggest we prepare our borders!”
It cannot fail to surprise you that there was little for me to do. It was a distinctly odd sensation as an ex-soldier, watching these three men dashing around preparing a major defensive operation but not with guns, barricades or explosives but rather mounds of salt, chalk marks on the wainscoting and a liberal spraying of what I took to be holy water. It was quite ridiculous. And yet terrifying also, because the earnestness with which they went about the task allowed me no room for doubt: they were preparing to fight for their – our – lives.
Crowley’s final guest arrived. He was a small, portly figure with hair that made up for what it lacked on top by flapping about at the sides of his egg-shaped head. The only concession to his... (what? Hobby? Vocation? How is one to describe these people?) was a Mephistophelean beard, black and coming to a point at the chin that lifted towards his nose. It was quite the most bizarre facial hair I have ever seen.
“Ah!” announced Crowley, greeting the man with an overjoyed embrace. “So we are all together! My friends meet the foremost expert in demonology and ancient curses in the country, if not the world: Mr Julian Karswell.”
Karswell gave a little bow. “I must say, Aleister,” he said in a voice that was every bit as feline as his poise, for despite his shape he moved with considerable grace, “this was all terribly inconvenient. I was due to host my annual party for the local children today, they do so love my conjuring tricks. And my mother’s ice cream of course...” He looked at all of us in turn. “Such a gathering,” he said. “Dr Silence I know, of course, and, correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem familiar...” He looked to me. “Is it not the writer? Watley, Whates...”
“Watson,” I said, not wanting to watch him struggle indefinitely, “and I’m a doctor really, writing’s just a hobby.”
“Really? Oh but you must know a few people in the business I dare say, I would so love to discuss it with you. I have a book that I’ve just completed you see, A History of Witchcraft, the definitive word on the subject, rather.”
“Sounds fascinating,” I said, lying through my teeth of course, “but I really only know magazine publishers I’m afraid, and I’m not sure it’s the sort of thing that they...”
“Oh indeed not,” agreed Karswell, “
never mind. I had just thought a review or two... One doesn’t like to send it to too many places, especially not to those who would not be receptive... I’m really not a man who warms to criticism... And you are?” He looked to Carnacki.
“Thomas Carnacki, another expert in demonology, still I dare say you can’t have too many.”
“An expert, eh? One would have said you were too young. Yes, far too young.”
“I might surprise you.”
“Indeed you might. Very well,” Karswell looked to Crowley, “shall we begin then?”
And thus, the preparations continued, with the new arrival chipping in his views on the matter. I decided it was by far the best idea for me to stay out of the way. I had McGillicuddy order up some sandwiches and I’ve polished those off while writing this to you. Soon it will be dark, the night falls quick and early this far north I imagine. Then... Well, then, we shall just have to see won’t we?
More later. One hopes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BATTLE OF BOLESKINE
Having long since missed the opportunity to get a letter into Foyers to meet the post, I finished the section I had written, folded the paper neatly and hid it in my bag.
I sipped the last of a pot of coffee that had come with the sandwiches and then descended to the “temple” to see how matters had progressed.
I felt very much surplus to requirements, a man with none of the skills that were needed for the business ahead. I knew that Carnacki viewed me as a liability, a weak link that should be locked up in one of the rooms where I couldn’t get in the way or provide an easy target for whatever might come. I sympathised with his stance, hearkening back to my military days when the last thing I would have wanted in the middle of a tense mission was a civilian getting under our feet. Still, I was determined that, as someone who was as yet uncertain as to his beliefs in the occult and the threat represented by Samuel Mathers and his confederates, I should witness all and be the conclusive voice of reason.
I found the four men in varying degrees of readiness, a large star shape – the aforementioned pentacle, I presumed – was drawn on the floor and there lingered the distinct smell of burning wood and wax. I could only imagine that the floorboards had been singed once again. Each man was working to his own method:
Dr Silence, his lips chattering away silently within the confines of his beard, appeared to be approaching matters purely internally. He stood facing one of the star’s five points reciting whatever incantation gave him strength, occasionally tapping his finger against the seam of his trousers as if counting stanzas.
Crowley was every inch the theatre satanist, dressed in flowing purple robes. He chanted loudly in Latin, dropping small nuggets of incense into a glowing censer. The incense flared and gave off balls of sweetsmelling white smoke. Looking at his eyes I could tell from his pupils that he had taken some form of drug. I recognised the look well enough from Holmes’ dark days. I would later read an article by Crowley insisting that heavy drug use was an important part of achieving the correct mental state with which to conduct rituals. An article that did his credulity no favours at all in the eyes of the medical fraternity.
Karswell appeared to be scribbling a series of foreign letters onto thick strips of parchment. Each piece would be carefully allowed to dry before being stacked in a small pile near the centre of the pentacle.
Finally, Carnacki, who approached the business of demons like a scientist. He had wired a set of linked glass tubes to a large wooden box. And was currently loading a heavy revolver with cartridges containing rock salt and silver, a powerful calibre against the forces of darkness, he insisted.
“Gentlemen,” I said, not wishing to interrupt those mid-prayer but feeling I should announce myself.
“Stand inside the pentacle,” Carnacki said, “and keep quiet.”
“Very well.” I did as I was told, well, almost. “Might I also have some cartridges?” I asked holding up my service revolver. “I think you’ll find they fit my Enfield.”
“But can you shoot?”
“I am likely a far better shot than you,” I said with a smile.
For once from Carnacki the smile was returned and he handed me a box of the custom-made bullets. “Maybe you’ll earn your place after all.”
We took our positions in silence, each staring out from one of the five points of the pentangle. It could hardly have been planned better, I thought to myself. If Holmes had been here we would have been one too many.
Slowly the natural light began to dim, the candles growing ever more potent as the shadows around them deepened.
I had noticed earlier the large terrace off Crowley’s temple, accessed from a north-facing set of French windows. The terrace had been coated in a thick layer of sand dredged from the banks of the Loch. When I had asked him why, he explained it was so that he could discern the footsteps of the demons that came to visit, even though they might be invisible to the human eye. I wondered now if ancient feet were leaving their indentations, if forces were creeping closer.
Within ten minutes or so the darkness was complete.
Crowley had insisted that the servants retire to their quarters and not leave them. Working for such a man I was sure they were used to this command. Which meant that when we heard sounds from the long corridor outside, we couldn’t mistake them for anything other than a sign of intruders.
“Steady now,” said Silence, holding out his hands and taking long, slow breaths, “the first wave is here.”
The noises were faint to begin with, the jangle of metal against metal, the tap of something hard on the floorboards. Then, after a few moments, the sounds coalesced and the raging drum of horses hooves came clattering along the corridor.
“The Angel of Death?” asked Crowley.
“Or just a horse spirit,” replied Carnacki. “Let’s wait until we clap eyes on it, shall we?”
“If it’s the Angel of Death, that’s the last thing you want to do,” said Karswell.
“Ah,” said Carnacki waving the comment away dismissively, “it won’t be the first time I’ve looked that bony old revenant in the eye sockets.”
The sound of hooves rose to such a terrifying volume that I had to squint against the persistent hammering. Books and ornaments fell from the tables and shelves as the house shook.
Then it appeared! A translucent figure, recognisably a horse but with something on its back: wet, chain-mailed feet pressed into chinking stirrups, a bare torso, more ribs than flesh, a skull of a face, its tombstone teeth chattering like a telegraph key hammering out a message.
“Allow me,” said Silence, who had continued to mutter under his breath throughout the last exchange. He raised his hands further and, though his body blocked a clear view, I swear it seemed as if two blazing figures burst from his chest. Both built seemingly from flames, the first was in the shape of a dog, a mid-sized animal, a Border Collie perhaps. The other was clearly a cat, its tail crooked into a question mark and its mouth opened wide to issue a sulphurous hiss.
“Dear God!” shouted Karswell. “Are they spirit guardians?”
Silence didn’t reply immediately, it was clear that he was concentrating on maintaining the animal creatures he had conjured forth. “Smoke and Flame,” he said eventually, his voice strained, “my animal spirits, the embodiment of two of my most loyal and courageous friends.” He gave a roar, throwing forward his arms, the fingers splayed awkwardly, twisted almost as if broken. “Fight it!” he shouted, and the creatures did so.
The dog chased around behind the creature on horseback, rearing up to tear at its shimmering flanks with its front claws. The cat leapt straight for the rider, pushing its sleek nose into its chest cavity and climbing upwards, a raging orange light shining out from the skull’s eyes, nose and mouth like the glow of a jack-o’-lantern.
The horse rose up onto its back legs, but Flame, the dog spirit, jumped higher, its fiery teeth snapping at the creature’s exposed belly. There was a shower of gelat
inous matter that brought to mind the ectoplasm web in the dining carriage and then Smoke, the cat spirit, burst from the skeletal neck, the rider’s head shattering as the ball of fire exploded it from within.
There was a patter as the cooling embers rained down onto the floorboards, then all was silent but for the flickering sound of Flame and Smoke. Both creatures were sat on the floor now, their heat somehow not scorching the wood.
“Thank you, my friends,” said Silence and, as a pair, they jumped towards him and vanished.
“Round one?” I asked.
“Well and truly won,” Carnacki said then, looking down at my shoes he waved a cautionary hand. “Keep your feet well inside the line,” he said, “a fraction of you crosses that barrier and you’re no longer protected. Worse still, you rub a gap in the chalk and we’re all wide open to attack.”
“Right,” I said, suitably admonished. “Sorry, you must remember I am new to this.”
“Pray you live long enough to get used to it,” Silence said.
His eyes had taken on a dreamy quality and it was obvious from his stance that the effort of defending us against the first attack had taken a lot out of him. “I think I’ll let someone else take charge of the next one,” he said. “It will be all I can manage to stay upright for a while.”
“Let’s hope we have a little time to recover,” said Karswell, “I would rather we were all in a fit state to...”
He stopped speaking as a faint noise began to grow louder. It was a strange, high-pitched screech, the closest analogy I can think of is the noise a gramophone needle makes when slipping in the groove of a record. The room grew even darker as the noise grew louder, eventually we could no longer see the opposite walls and were stranded within an island of light cast by the closest candles.
In the darkness, at a point that seemed much too far away from us to still be in the room, a pinprick of light appeared and I began to wonder if that noise were not the sound made when something tries to force its way into our world.
