by John Moralee
“You won’t hurt anyone if I do?”
“No. Dragnok run.” He drew a circle. “Go home.”
Later, I talked to Manjit about freeing Dragnok. I was worried he was acting friendly because he was in a cage needing my help to escape, but I trusted him more than Gideon Hunter. Manjit thought it was the right thing to do, but we had to be careful not to be caught.
Gideon Hunter kept the key in his hut. It was guarded even when he wasn’t there because he stored the spare guns and munitions inside. I worked out the best time to steal the key was when he was out of the camp, leaving the Irishman in charge. The Irishman liked to sleep in the afternoons after having a few too many whiskies. When he was sleeping, the guards outside liked to take advantage of the freedom by going to playing cards with their friends. All I had to do was sneak into the hut when they were distracted during one of the Irishman’s naps.
I was working up the courage to do it when fate chose the time for me. Gideon Hunter announced we were leaving tomorrow if he couldn’t find any more Red Devils on his next hunt. Once we were on the trail, the key to the collar would always be on him. I had to act before then. So, that afternoon, I waited for the Irishman to go to sleep. I crept around the guards playing cards and slipped into the hut, where I could hear the Irishman’s heavy snores. The keys were on the map table about five feet from his hammock. I lifted them up and crept out. The cage was unguarded – the guard was losing money at poker - so I slipped the key through the bars. With incredible deftness, Dragnok picked it up with the forks of his tail. In a heartbeat he had unlocked the collar, but he didn’t remove it then, though, because he had a better chance of escaping after dark. He thanked me and I wished him good luck. He returned the key to me and I put it back in the hut.
That night as I lay down by the camp fire, I prayed for Dragnok.
My prayers were answered. At first light the guard noticed the cage was empty. He fired a shot in the air to wake everyone. Gideon Hunter went wild when learnt his prized possession had escaped under the guard’s nose. He knocked the man out with the butt of his rifle, then turned to the men gathered around him.
“Find it! Find it now!”
His men searched the jungle until they discovered new tracks leading in the direction of the stone circle. Fresh tracks went all of the way to the centre, where they mysteriously stopped. No more tracks could be found. Either the Red Devil had covered them up carefully – or it had vanished into thin air. Gideon Hunter made his men search and search for it, but not even the hunt dogs could follow its scent any further.
Back at the camp, Gideon Hunter examined the cage and iron collar himself. “The lock ain’t broke. And there ain’t no marks on the metal. Some fool released it using the key in my hut. Listen up, people. We ain’t leaving this jungle until I find out who let it out. Where’s the guard?” he asked the Irishman.
“He’s with Doc, sir.”
The guard was brought to Gideon Hunter. His head was bandaged, his eyes glassy. Doc said he had a concussion. Gideon Hunter grabbed the man and slapped him until his eyes focussed.
“Was it you?”
The guard shook his head.
“How did it get out when you were supposed to be watching?”
The guard admitted he might have fallen asleep on duty. “It wasn’t me who freed it, sir. It must’ve been the boy.”
“Which boy?”
He pointed at me. “He’s the only person not afraid of it. I’ve seen him talking to it, I swear. He must be possessed.”
Gideon Hunter looked at me. “Come here.”
I walked up to him. I was afraid, but I tried not to show it.
“Did you do it?”
I shook my head. “No, sir.”
He pulled out a knife. I thought he was going to use it on me, but then he had his men bring the guard to him. “Boy, tell the Indians what I say. Tell them this man has been found responsible for releasing the Red Devil. Tell them I’m going to cut his throat as punishment.”
Part of me wanted to let him do it – I didn’t like the guard – but I couldn’t let him kill an innocent man.
“I did it,” I said, quietly.
“What?” Gideon Hunter said.
“I did it. It was me.”
“YOU!” He slapped my face knocking me to the ground so hard the turban off my head. When he discovered my hair was quite short – not long like a genuine Sikh – his eyes widened.
“I should’ve known. The green eyes. You’re not a Native. Who are you?”
I made up a name, but he didn’t believe me. He threatened to throw Manjit in a snake pit if I didn’t tell him the truth. I confessed. When he learnt my real identity, he smiled wickedly.
“You are Lord Ravencroft’s son, eh? Well, well, I can’t punish Lord Ravencroft’s son, can I? You’re probably worth more than the Red Devil. I have a proposition for you, Lucas. You will go home to your father and introduce me as the man who saved your life. You will tell him how heroic I am. You will tell him whatever I want you to tell him, in exchange for your life. I will keep your friend as insurance against a sudden bout of honesty afflicting you. I will release him unharmed when I am convinced you have held your side of the bargain. I will have my men kill him if you betray me. They’ll send you his head.”
“How will I know you’ll keep your word?”
“A gentleman always keeps his word,” he said.
He was no gentleman. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to accept his terms. I returned home with Gideon Hunter. There I introduced to my father as a good man, telling him exactly what Gideon Hunter wanted him to believe. With my father’s help, Gideon Hunter became accepted by the rich and powerful. He became a wealthy, well-respected businessman. Gideon Hunter promised me he would release Manjit when the time was right ... but he never agreed to a specific time. He showed me letters to prove my friend was still alive, but there was nothing I could do. Exposing Gideon Hunter as a criminal would have resulted in my friend’s death. My father would not have cared about Manjit’s life, anyway, so I had to stay silent. When I was sixteen, I was sent back to England to complete my education.
And I never saw Manjit again.
Chapter Fifteen:
Lucas Ravencroft’s Tale
Part Two
Years later, I returned to India looking for my friend. I was prepared to do whatever necessary to make Gideon Hunter tell me what I wanted to know – even if that meant torturing him into revealing the truth - but word of my arrival reached him before my ship landed. Just a three days before I arrived, he sold all of his Indian business interests for a fortune and left the country. His destination was America. I could have chased after him, but I knew I’d never catch him. A man like Gideon Hunter would change his name and disappear, reappearing with another identity. He got away scot-free.
I stayed in India for over a year, looking for the other men who could lead me to Manjit, but they too had gone. They had probably killed him and buried his body somewhere it would never be found, but I didn’t want to give up hope. I kept searching. After many months of investigating, I located the guard whose life I’d saved.
He was living in a squalid part of Calcutta as a gambler. He was a pathetic drunkard with huge gambling debts. For the promise of some money, he willingly told me what had happened to Manjit.
The mercenaries had kept him at the jungle camp locked in a cage for several months while Gideon Hunter needed him alive. After I had been sent to England, they had released Manjit into the jungle with no food and water. It was a virtual death sentence, but Gideon Hunter had technically kept his word about releasing him unharmed. The guard, fearing I would hurt him once I had the information, said he was sorry about my friend, hoping for mercy. I paid him as promised, knowing he would squander the money in a day.
I organised my own expedition into the jungle with a few trusted companions, members of Manjit’s family, his brothers and uncles. I hired a boat to take us to the old trading post, which had closed down. The jo
urney into the jungle was almost as tough as the first time, though I had made sure everyone had a horse and supplies. As expected Gideon Hunter’s camp had long been abandoned, the clearing reclaimed by the jungle.
We went as far as the stone circle in case Manjit had gone in that direction. I didn’t find my friend, but I did find something scratched onto one of the giant stone slabs. To anyone else, it would have meant nothing. But I recognised it immediately as a message written in Dragnok’s language. The first line was just my name in runes. There was more writing underneath, which I translated as well as I could:
You saved my life.
You are always welcome in my home.
Here lies a key for the door.
Use it wisely.
Your friend,
Dragnok.
Dragnok had drawn an arrow pointing down at the ground beneath my feet. There the ground looked disturbed. I bent down and dug around for the key. Unfortunately, even after several minutes of searching, I found nothing, but there were signs the ground had contained something, but whatever it had been had been removed, leaving just a hole.
Our search found nothing more and had to be abandoned when our supplies started running out. We returned to civilisation without discovering what had happened to Manjit. His family thanked me for helping them look for him, promising they would contact me if they found out anything new.
I left India on a ship to England, brooding on the fate of my friend.
Where had he gone? Where had Dragnok gone? What purpose did the stone circle have? I didn’t know the answers, which infuriated me. I liked to believe I was a rational man, with a good scientific mind, so you can probably imagine the effect it had upon me to not know the answers. It had not escaped my attention that the stone circle in India was remarkably like Stonehenge. So, I decided to learn everything I could about it when I arrived in England.
In the early 19th century, Stonehenge was not the famous sight you know today. Many of the original stones were missing because local people had stolen them to construct their own houses. The surviving stones formed a terrible ruin that was actually reconstructed to quite an extent by archaeologists and engineers. In those days, Stonehenge was commonly believed to be a religious site built by the druids, but that was not true. The druids started using Stonehenge long after it was built. The latest dating methods have actually determined the first Stonehenge was built over 5000 years ago, making it older than the pyramids.
When I first visited Salisbury Plain, where Stonehenge now stands as a tourist site, I met a young Scottish archaeologist who had been digging near the ruins. His name was Cameron McCabe. He had recently uncovered six stone tablets marked with mysterious runes. He couldn’t understand what was written ... but I recognised the runes as Dragnok’s language.
I realised then there was a definite connection between Stonehenge and the Indian stone circle, but what was it? I felt certain the rune tablets held the answer. Unfortunately, the tablets appeared to be encrypted in a complex code, which I could not break.
I spent many years trying to understand the meaning of the runes. I collected any information on the occult that seemed relevant. My quest became a lifelong obsession ...
When I was an old man, I published some of my research in a book called Reading Runes and Mystic Symbols. (Of course, I didn’t include any information on Dragnok because I didn’t want to be thought mad.) I wrote about the rune language for the interest of other academics.
My book was published in December of the year 1888. That was the year Jack the Ripper was killing woman on the streets of London. His macabre murders had a strange effect on the public, who were terrified but also fascinated by his horrific crimes. Books on the occult, such as mine, became very popular. My book sold out of its first edition within days of publication, requiring several reprints. Suddenly in my twilight years, I found myself invited to speak at a number of gentlemen’s clubs, where I met some of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world. They were absolutely fascinated by my book.
After one Friday night at my favourite club, I returned to my house on The Strand. I remember waking in my bed on what I thought was the next morning. I was therefore puzzled when my housekeeper brought me my breakfast and asked me if I had enjoyed my weekend. I thought she was joking until she showed me the Monday morning newspaper. I couldn’t believe it. I had completely forgotten Saturday and Sunday.
I would probably have put my memory loss down to my age and the drinking I’d done on Friday night, but then someone started knocking on my door. My housekeeper answered it. The caller was a swarthy-looking gentleman I had last seen about six months earlier. He was a private detective I’d hired to track down a rare manuscript someone stole from me. He had found the manuscript and retrieved it for me in a matter of days, so I trusted him.
“Sir, I have the investigation report you asked for.”
“What report?” I demanded to know.
He looked confused. “The one you asked me to do on Friday, sir.”
“I’m afraid my memory is not what it used to be. Remind me.”
“You hired me to follow you on Friday night, sir.”
I still didn’t remember a thing. “Go on.”
“You had an appointment with someone you called The Great Collector.”
As soon as he mentioned that name, I began to feel ill because I was remembering things, startling things. The Great Collector! The name sent a pain through my head, like the beginning of a migraine. The Great Collector! Suddenly, the last three days came rushing back into my mind.
I remembered The Great Collector.
I had been at my club on Friday evening when a messenger delivered an envelope from the driver of a hansom cab waiting outside. The envelope was sealed with crimson wax and had my name on the front written in the rune language – which meant only a handful of scholars could have sent it. Inside, there was a single sheet of paper. There was a message written on it in English:
Dear Sir,
We must discuss your research in private.
I have the answers you seek.
The Great Collector.
I had never heard of The Great Collector, but the note intrigued me. However, I wasn’t about to go anywhere without taking some precautions. I paid a runner to inform my private detective of the situation, with instructions to follow the cab without being seen. Then I waited for the runner to return before leaving the club.
The street was dark, foggy and bitterly cold. A black hansom cab stood by the entrance with four powerful horses. Perched on the cab, the driver was dressed in a black cloak and hat, his features hidden by a kerchief, like a highway robber. He gruffly said my name and asked me to get in. I did so. There was another man inside the cab who would not speak to me. He also wore a kerchief and a hat hiding his features. He made sure the black curtains were firmly closed so I could not see out. Then he banged the side of the cab. I heard the driver whip the horses until the cab was moving at quite a pace.
“I need to search you, sir.”
“What for?”
“Weapons,” he said.
“Weapons?” I said. “I don’t have any weapons.”
“Then Sir won’t mind if I check?”
“What if I say no?”
“Then Sir will be returned to the club. Nobody sees my master armed. One of the rules, sir.”
“Fine, do it.”
He frisked me thoroughly. He found the note in my pocket and kept it, putting it into his own pocket. He examined my cane and smiled when he saw it was also a sword. He didn’t take it off me, though. An old man like me wasn’t much of a threat to anyone unless I was carrying a pistol.
“Who is this Great Collector?” I asked him. “What does he collect?”
My companion wouldn’t answer any of my questions. He wouldn’t even tell me how long I would be travelling. He offered me a drink of my favourite whisky, which I accepted because I was feeling the cold air. The liquid warmed my throat as
it went down. In a matter of a minute, I felt drowsy. The whisky had been drugged. I blacked out.
I woke up on Saturday morning in a luxurious bedroom. Golden sunlight streamed through the curtains. The walls were decorated with the finest paintings I’d ever seen. They were so beautiful it was as though they had been chosen specially for me. The ceiling was painted as beautifully as the Sistine Chapel. When I climbed out of the bed, I saw someone had left a delicious-looking breakfast of exotic fruits on a silver tray, the enticing smell of which had probably woken me. I could also see someone had drawn a bath for me in the en suite bathroom and provided a change of clothes. I wanted to know where I was – so I went to the closed curtains and pulled them open. There was no window on the other side of the curtains, only an alcove filled with powerful electric lights which had looked like natural sunlight. Very clever, I thought. I closed the curtains and looked around. There were no windows in my room - no way of knowing where I was. Was I a prisoner? The door was not locked, but a large man was standing on the other side. He was powerfully built and aged about twenty. He saw me - a skinny old man of 83, dressed in my underwear - and I felt embarrassed.
“Sir, when you’re ready, I’ll take you down to meet my master.”
I closed the door and I wondered what to do. I had been drugged ... but I had not been harmed. I decided to accept The Great Collector’s current hospitality in good faith. I ate breakfast, bathed and dressed, then the young man led me down a staircase and along a hall as long as a cricket pitch. Pictures lined the walls by artists including Rembrandt and Leonardo Da Vinci.
Judging by the luxury of my surroundings, I felt certain I was in a royal palace. Was The Great Collector a member of the royal family? We stopped at a room with two white marble doors at least twenty feet high. Two men were standing guard. They opened the doors and stepped back to let me pass. None of the men followed me in. They closed the doors after me.
I was standing in a vast chamber lit from above by a skylight. I appeared to be alone. The chamber looked like a museum gallery of rare and unique animals. Each exhibit was stored in a glass display case with a gold plaque beside it describing what it was and when and where it had been collected. The creatures had been stuffed in poses that made them look alive. The exhibits ranged from small insects to Indian and African elephants.
