by Gafford, Sam
They dismount.
Mrs. Allenby. I must try to get word to my husband. I’m putting my life in your hands, Mr. Carnacki.
Carnacki. To Dodgson. With that she abandoned me to the ministrations of the butler, Tilbury, who fairly frogmarched me to the library and presented me, finally, to Miss Florence Allenby. Did you ever meet the young lady?
Dodgson. No, but the major spoke of her constantly. He said she takes after her mother.
Carnacki. Yes, that was my assessment too, at first. Youth, and beauty, and good prospects, and a mother like Judith Allenby. Hardly surprising that she reacted as she did to the whole business.
Florence. Did Mother send for you? Are you a doctor?
Carnacki. No.
Florence. A psychiatrist, then.
Carnacki. No.
Florence. What, then? A priest?
Carnacki. I’d style myself an investigator of sorts.
Florence. An investigator of sorts? I’m losing my mind, and the best Mother can come up with is an investigator of sorts? No, this won’t do. Tilbury? Where on earth have you gone?
Carnacki. I am, I should say, an investigator of what I might term inexplicable things. Like this cry you heard last night—
Florence. Oh, a charlatan. I’d have preferred a priest. Where did Mother even find you?
Carnacki. A mutual friend. And I’ve been called worse than a charlatan in my time. Still, I’d rather you called me Carnacki.
Florence. What’s a Carnacki?
Carnacki. I am. Thomas Carnacki, at your service.
Florence. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’m sure, Mr. Carnacki, but my mother’s wasted your time.
Carnacki. I don’t think so. In fact, yours seems a rather interesting case.
Florence. I’m glad I intrigue you, but I need a doctor, not an investigator of inexplicable things.
Carnacki. Surely it would do you no harm to see both.
Florence. But it wouldn’t help me any more than seeing a doctor alone.
Carnacki. And if he were to find himself stumped? Then might you concede that you’re in the realm of the inexplicable?
Florence. I think then I might lose hope.
Carnacki. As long as there’s one avenue left unexplored, there’s hope.
Florence. Vain hope.
Carnacki. But hope nonetheless. Come now. Shake off this funk. Let me try a little experiment or two, nothing drastic, just to see how the land lies; and whatever I find, I give you my word I’ll march straight to your mother and tell her to send for a medical man without delay.
Florence. I’d be the one to decide whose advice to take on board, yours or the doctor’s?
Carnacki. I’d rather expect our conclusions to complement each other, than to conflict.
Florence. You can’t believe in devils and in medicine, Mr. Carnacki.
Carnacki. I’ll thank you not to dictate what I may and may not believe, Miss Allenby.
Florence. You’re quite unfathomable.
Carnacki. Then it’s just as well you are the one we must try to fathom, not I. If I may?
Florence. As long as you keep your word.
Carnacki. Good. We’ll start with questions and answers. This all started last night. You heard a sound. Correct?
Florence. Yes. A cry like a crow’s. It woke me up. I couldn’t move. I felt like a field-mouse, frozen looking up at something horrible swooping down on me.
Carnacki. Where did the cry come from? Examines Florence’s ears.
Florence. I don’t know. From everywhere. Or maybe from inside my head. I thought straight away, this is it: I’m going mad, just like Uncle Robert. And I was right. Not long afterwards I started seeing things.
Carnacki. What manner of things?
Florence. Nothing very distinct. Little sort of specks of bright-coloured light, drifting about in the distance. They were quite pale to begin with, as if I’d just been looking into a flame. Now they’re brighter than the daylight.
Carnacki. Drifting in the distance, you say? Beyond these walls? Examines Florence’s eyes.
Florence. Yes. Everything’s . . . Well, you seem solid enough, but any farther away than that . . . It’s as if the world’s disappearing around me and this other place is filling the gap. Do let’s be brisk about this, Mr. Carnacki.
Carnacki. I can’t see anything wrong with your physical eyes.
Florence. I’ll trust my physical eyes to a physician, if you don’t mind.
Carnacki. By all means. In the meantime, let’s concentrate on your mental eye. Retrieves the jar of water.
Florence. My what?
Carnacki. Could I ask you to close your eyes? Your physical ones. Dips one finger in the water.
Florence. I . . . I don’t want to.
Carnacki. It’s only water.
Florence. It’s not that.
Carnacki. I know. The things you can see beyond the walls. You can still see them when you close your eyes. Brighter and clearer.
Florence. How did you know?
Carnacki. It’s only when the physical eyes are closed that the mental eye can fully open. Closing your eyes won’t hasten their advance. It’ll just let you get a better look at them. Besides which it’s broad daylight.
Florence. What does that signify?
Carnacki. There’s no power in the Unseen World that can manifest itself with any potency while the sun shines. And if anything’s fool enough to try, this should ward it off without much trouble.
Florence. You said it was only water.
Carnacki. It is. Chemically speaking.
Florence. And speaking otherwise?
Carnacki. What should that signify to a sceptic such as yourself?
Florence. You intend to daub me with it.
Carnacki. That I do. The short answer is, this is water from Bath Spa, which I’m sure you know is credited with certain healing properties. Now, I’ve found no evidence of that, but I have studied the particular mixture of minerals and things suspended in it, and found that the whole mixture reacts rather curiously when exposed to certain frequencies of electromagnetic vibration.
Florence. That cannot be the short answer.
Carnacki. The upshot is that you needn’t be afraid of anything your mental eye can see. None of it can harm you.
Florence. I never said I was afraid.
Carnacki. Oh, fear and I are old acquaintances. I recognise him in every one of his thousand and one guises. He’ll be your ally, if you let him.
Florence. I’d rather have certainty on my side. But if you insist. Closes her eyes.
Carnacki. Thank you. This will feel a little cool. Anoints her eyelids with water.
Florence. That tingles.
Carnacki. Does it? How very illuminating. But take a good look around you. Remember there’s nothing to be afraid of. Do you see anything?
Florence. Not the house.
Carnacki. That’s to be expected.
Florence. But I can see . . .
Carnacki. As much detail as you can muster, now.
The sound of slow, titanic wingbeats, distant and barely perceptible, but drawing gradually closer.
Florence. A void. No. A . . . a chasm. It’s dark. I mean, no, there is light. Just a little. Or perhaps it’s bright after all, only . . . I can’t tell. It’s an odd colour. I can’t describe it. It’s not a colour that really exists. It goes on and on.
Carnacki. And do you see anything else in this chasm? How far down can you see?
Florence. Down? No. I’m at the bottom. But there’s nothing under me. I’m deep down. Floating. I can see the stars but it’s so far up. No, I can’t look. I could never climb that high, not even in a hundred years. But stuck down here wrapped in that colour . . . I feel so small. And the things . . . those bright specks, they’re more than that now. They’re the centres of . . . shapes? Creatures? Why couldn’t I see them before?
Carnacki. Your physical sight was interfering. It’s to be expected. Describe the
se creatures.
Florence. I can’t.
Carnacki. Nonsense. You’ve been quite eloquent so far. What do they remind you of?
Florence. Remind me? Nothing I’ve ever seen. Though . . . there’s one that looks like a feeling I had. Another with the shape of a sound I remember. I don’t know from when. Some of them remind me of . . . What was it? But not the same. It’s all spoiled. All the corners are inside out. I don’t want to remember now. They’re moving. Are you sure they can’t see me?
Carnacki. It’s just possible they are aware of you. But you’re quite safe.
Florence. I don’t feel it.
Carnacki. I know it’s unsettling.
Florence. Do you?
Carnacki. I've had my own experiences with esoteric sight.
Florence. I know they’re not real. But my stupid heart . . . My mouth is dry. I’m . . . They don’t even seem evil. Just all wrong. Fear of figments. It’s not seemly.
Carnacki. You said the things were moving. With purpose, or at random?
Florence. They move like motes on the wind. But they know where it’s taking them. It’s where they wanted to go all along. They’re deceitful. How close they are, how small or vast, I can’t tell. I feel that at any moment one might swallow me that I thought was leagues away.
Carnacki. Then the stars you mentioned up above—they might not be as far away as you thought, isn’t that so?
Florence. I suppose that’s right.
Carnacki. Would you look for me?
Florence. I don’t think I want to.
Carnacki. Miss Allenby, if we can tempt your psychic body out of that abyss we’ll be well on the way to ridding you of this affliction. It’s quite natural to be afraid, but I assure you nothing you see can harm you.
Florence. That’s right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
Carnacki. That’s not quite what I said.
Florence. They are closer. The stars. A great glittering crack in the ceiling. They’re sinking into the dark, or . . .
Carnacki. Miss Allenby?
The sound of wingbeats is suddenly close at hand.
Florence. Hide me. Crouches, arms above her head, defending herself from the unseen thing above. Hide me! Before it sees!
Carnacki. Dips a hand in the jar and flicks water in Florence’s face.
Silence.
Florence. Opens her eyes.
Carnacki. What is it? What did you see?
Florence. What did you do to me? You made it worse.
Carnacki. How do you feel? Any queer sensations?
Florence. It was just specks. Now it’s shapes and stars and shadows. They’re not going away. Carnacki, they’re not going away. What did you do?
Carnacki. Catching Florence’s left wrist. On it is a curious talisman made of feathers. Hello. What’s this?
Florence. Are you listening? Let go of me.
Carnacki. The instant you felt threatened, you put this between yourself and the threat.
Florence. It’s just some lucky charm Mother insists I wear.
Carnacki. No. You trust it. Instinctively.
Florence. It was Uncle Robert’s. Everyone gets given it. Everyone who’s meant to be cursed. It’s supposed to protect me from whatever’s coming to get me.
Carnacki. And what is coming to get you?
Florence. Nothing’s coming to get me. I’m not cursed. I’m either hallucinating or mad.
Carnacki. I mean what is it you saw?
Florence. I don’t know. It was too big. I suppose it looked like a bird. It wasn’t real. What does it matter?
Carnacki. Nothing conclusive. But perhaps with a little—
Florence. No buts. You’ve made me worse. Doctor. Now.
Carnacki. If I could just take a look at that—
Florence. You gave me your word.
Carnacki. And I intend to keep it. But would you mind if I had a closer look at that charm in the meantime?
Florence. No!
Beat.
Florence. Mother would never allow it.
Carnacki. I understand.
Florence. Wait. There’s a note that goes with it. Sort of explaining how it’s meant to work. It’s superstitious nonsense, of course. Hands it over.
Carnacki. Thank you all the same. Turns to leave.
Florence. Carnacki?
Carnacki. Miss Allenby?
Florence. Are you leaving?
Carnacki. Shall I ring for someone?
Florence. Leaving the house, I meant.
Carnacki. Well, I don’t feel my business is quite done, but it all rather depends on your mother.
Florence. I think perhaps you ought to stay at least a little longer. To confer with the doctor and things.
Carnacki. I’ll be sure to pass on your recommendations.
Florence. Yes. Yes, I would like for you to ring for someone, please. I shouldn’t like to be alone in this condition. I might fall over something or walk into a wall. It’s still up there, Carnacki. I can’t look but I know. It’s just waiting for me to float up to the top and then it’s going to swoop and make me like Uncle Robert.
Carnacki. Nonsense. You’ve got far more on your side than he did. You’ve nothing to fret about.
Florence. You are the most awful liar.
Carnacki. Am I?
Night.
Dodgson. Yes, as a matter of fact you are. God blessed you with an honest face, Carnacki.
Carnacki. A blessing, is it?
Dodgson. If not I’d find it hard to credit anything you said.
Carnacki. I should hope you don’t judge truth based purely upon physiognomy.
Dodgson. Well, no. I do have a mind of my own.
Carnacki. Good.
Dodgson. Well, what about this note? Did that shed any light on things?
Carnacki. Only enough to reveal the full depths of the obscurity, I fear. But see what you make of it: “Whosoever of my kin doth find himself in need of more than earthly protection: herewith I enclose that talisman I gained of the eastern sorceror, who, being wise, did imbue its rude and humble aspect with magicks of exceptional magnitude. Imbued afresh with the faith of the bearer, it is proof against that most evil of things. This I have myself proven. The cry harries my sleep no more. Hold fast to faith, kin of mine, and endure as I endured.” And it is signed only with a letter G. Refolds and stows the note.
Dodgson. I confess it sounds like so much hokum to me.
Carnacki. I thought so too.
Dodgson. And yet something changed your mind.
Carnacki. What gives you that impression?
Dodgson. You’re wearing the thing now.
Carnacki. So I am. Queer old thing, isn’t it? Quite . . .
Dodgson. Don’t touch it.
Carnacki. Dodgson?
Dodgson. Sorry. I thought you might be trying to take it off, you know.
Carnacki. Ah, yes. Good man. That’s right. I studied the note for some time while Doctor Witton was examining Miss Allenby. I had little else to go on, you understand, besides some rather vague and unsettling notions planted by the images the young lady described, the chasm and so forth. At any rate, I began to make out some sense among all the flimflam and hocus-pocus, which led me in turn to further questions, such as—but they’ll have occurred to you by now.
Dodgson. Well, I suppose the question is, if this charm or talisman is such a potent protection against the curse, then why didn’t it protect Robert Allenby?
Carnacki. And let’s not forget all the victims before him. As far back as anyone can remember, Mrs Allenby said. And that question raises another.
Dodgson. I’m afraid I’m not quite—I mean, I can see that things don’t quite fit, but—
Carnacki. If no one alive remembers the charm actually saving anybody, then—
Dodgson. Oh. Of course. Why do they keep passing it down? Why does Mrs Allenby set such store by it?
Carnacki. I asked her the same question. She was in the sitting-room, seali
ng a letter to her husband the major, who I gather is abroad on manoeuvres. I asked her: “Do you expect that feather bracelet to protect your daughter, Mrs. Allenby?”
Late afternoon.
Mrs. Allenby. Expect? No. I can but hope.
Carnacki. You can, and I see that you do. But it did nothing for your brother-in-law. I take it he did wear it?
Mrs. Allenby. He did. But the Lord can’t help those that won’t help themselves.
Carnacki. Its protection is conditional, then? “Imbued afresh with the faith of the bearer . . .”
Mrs. Allenby. No devil could touch Robert while he wore that charm. But they whispered in his ear, and they showed him wonders, and they bargained, and they made promises, and before the sun had been down an hour he’d slipped it off and thrown it nearly into the fireplace. His father saved the charm, but no one could save Robert then, not once he had it off.
Carnacki. And so—what? No Allenby in living memory has successfully resisted the temptation to remove the charm?
Mrs. Allenby. It’s no reflection on Robert or any of his line, you understand? The curse showed them things no mortal man was ever meant to see.
Carnacki. I didn’t mean that. I only meant, why trust your family, your children, to a power no one’s ever seen to work?
Mrs. Allenby. We had to put our faith in something before you came along, Mr. Carnacki.
Carnacki. I prefer a solution that doesn’t depend on faith at all.
Mrs. Allenby. And have you found one?
Carnacki. Well, Miss Allenby herself clearly trusts the charm, albeit unconsciously.
Mrs. Allenby. The charm won’t save her. She’s too much of your stripe. A latter-day Pandora. Why do you think you’re here?
Carnacki. I see.
Mrs. Allenby. So?
Carnacki. I’ve nothing definite just yet. I’m working on a few theories.
Mrs. Allenby. And just how long will these theories take to prove?
Carnacki. I shall be able to narrow down the possibilities considerably once Doctor Witton finishes his examination.
Mrs. Allenby. I can tell you now he’ll find nothing of note.
Carnacki. If that’s the case, the most likely explanation seems to be that this cry, which is presumably some sort of psychic vibration, of whatever origin, perhaps conducted by some property inherent in Allenby family physiology—I’ll need to investigate further to confirm a lot of this, but in any case, the cry seems to have shaken your daughter’s psychic body free of her physical one, and with enough force to propel it across the line of retraction into some far-flung backwater of the Outer Circle.
