The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

Just as I thought that I took a step backwards, ready to run across the building to fetch a bludgeon, but then I tripped on something – the ugly Peruvian idol, still on the floor after Reed’s stumble.

  ‘May the Inca gods forgive me,’ I muttered, grabbing the heavy carving and charging against the wall.

  The plaster came down immediately, revealing the old frame of timber filled up with rubble. I growled and snorted, letting out all my frustration against that blasted chunk of shabby wall. I threw blow after blow, more and more furiously, until a small hole opened through. I leaned closer, bringing the gaslight.

  The gap was barely the size of my head, and the darkness beyond was impenetrable, but I instantly felt a cold draught on my face, stinking of damp and decades of stagnation.

  ‘God,’ I groaned, the foul odour making me jump backwards.

  I resumed the thrashing, hammering the edges until the gap was just wide enough to let me through. By then the basement was full of suspended dust that made my eyes tear.

  I raised the desk lamp, fanning the dust away, but its pathetic light was barely enough to show me more than a couple of yards ahead. I ran upstairs, grabbed the first bull’s-eye lantern I could find and ignited it as I darted back.

  The beam travelled much farther, but all I could see was a distant wall of crumbling brick. That space was enormous. I could spend days wandering there and still find nothing.

  Another wave of despair was coming. I attempted a deep breath, but with the floating dust I only managed to give myself a fit of coughing.

  Should I dive in there blindly? Hoping for good luck, or a miracle or—

  The stethoscope, still around my neck, finally slid off and hit the floor, and I pictured, as clearly as if I’d seen it yesterday, the antique map on McGray’s desk.

  He had a map of the old Close!

  Only …

  I looked at the mess around me : piles upon piles of documents and notes we had collected, inspected, and either catalogued or tossed aside for the past … I’d last seen that map nearly five weeks ago!

  I rested my back on the crumbling wall.

  ‘Think like Nine-Nails,’ I mumbled, acting out his movements. ‘I pick something … I leave it here … I get a greasy giblets sandwich … I pick something else … Never clean …’

  I went to the messy desk and began flinging things. Like geological sediments, I could almost tell the dates in reverse as I cleared the layers of paper, files and old napkins.

  I threw aside the last yellowy page and found the desk itself, dotted with stains and crumbs whose age and nature I did not dare guess.

  ‘Damn!’ Another deep breath. ‘Think like Nine—’ But at once I pictured him putting his muddy boots up, regardless of what lay on his desk. Behind it there were a few mounds of debris and books. I rummaged through them desperately, past caring what I broke or tore.

  And there it was! A map from more than seventy years ago, all creased and stained with fat.

  It looked just like a modern map of Old Town, the streets following the same line of the current road, but the labyrinthine closes around it were completely alien to me.

  And it had numbers! The numbers of the land plots. Mercat Cross, right across the road from us, had stood since medieval times, so it was my point of reference. As soon as I spotted it I picked up the lantern and moved on. I fastened the lantern’s leather straps around my shoulders and pushed myself through the hole. The beams’ splinters caught my sleeves, and for a moment I thought I’d be stuck there like a hopeless moth on a cobweb. I groaned and pulled, tearing my jacket and falling forwards on my hands and knees, the lantern sticking painfully against my stomach.

  My hands rested on soggy soil, and I retched at the thought of all the festering matter that would have settled there through the years.

  I stood up clumsily and straightened my back to shed light around. I held my breath as I took in what lay before me.

  An entire road.

  It was an underground street, half the width of the Royal Mile itself and descending northwards in a steep slope. I saw door frames and windows, boarded-up many years ago, stone walls stained in saltpetre, trickles of water percolating from the surface, and the once pebbled road now entirely covered in rubble, stones and rotting joists.

  I moved the beam from side to side and then onto the cavernous ceiling. Then I turned back to the hole I’d just opened and looked at the comparatively newer wall. According to the map, our basement had once been the narrow gap between two buildings, giving way to one of the many side streets all along the close. The place was like an entire little town on its own!

  ‘Thirty-one B …’ I mumbled, looking for the receipt’s address on the map. I found it somewhere to the north-west, towards what was not Princes Street Gardens and the Bank of Scotland. The tiny plot was almost at the end of one of the wider closes.

  I strode there immediately, but found no side street. I retraced my step and lighted the old archways, foolishly hoping to find a number. Of course there was nothing. Any paint, sign or embellishment had faded long ago. Some of those dwellings had been abandoned for more than a century, and like most of the Royal Mile they were much older than that. After a distressing moment, I convinced myself I was at the right spot, only the side street I needed had been bricked up. Perhaps as those roads were being closed.

  I tried to calm myself, which is no mean feat when one cannot breathe.

  ‘You still have a few moments to spare,’ I whispered, and on I walked, thinking I would do a quick search. If I’d found nothing after a few minutes I’d rush back and take my chances with whatever evidence I already had. ‘I hope I’ve not just sealed Katerina’s fate,’ I told myself as I weaved through rocks and bricks and piles of debris.

  Right then I saw a fleeting figure lurking between the wreckage. A white, ghostly glimmer before the light, which vanished before I could even blink.

  And I went after it.

  48

  I moved quickly, shedding light on every threshold and window around me. I reached a half-buried door, its upper half opening into sheer blackness, and I thought I glimpsed that ghostly shape again. I was not sure, but I had no time to think. I climbed on the rubble, dragged myself through the opening and then rolled down an unexpected drop.

  As I stood up, my knees sore, I tried to find my location on the map. But then I heard a distinct clatter. Stone hitting stone. And then a soft, high-pitched child’s giggle. It made me shudder.

  ‘Hello?’ I shouted, my voice echoing.

  I was in a narrow gallery, barely six feet wide, lined with regular stone shelves. I thought of ancient crypts, and feared I’d see decayed bones resting all around me.

  The air was fouler there, and as the stench hit me I also saw flickers of light right before my eyes. I recognised the vision at once ; the torches that had been haunting me ever since Uncle Maurice had died.

  I felt a wave of anxiety, reliving that irrational fear that took hold of me at night.

  ‘Not now,’ I said, covering my mouth and nose. I tried to breathe, but that pungent air only made me feel worse.

  Katerina’s words resonated in my head. Your uncle had a message for you … You told him to go away …

  ‘Not now!’ I howled, crouching. I nearly fell on my knees, pressing a hand against the cold, grimy stone for balance. It was that damp, disgusting touch that brought me back to where I was.

  I reached the other end of the gallery, cut off by tonnes of rubble, turned back, and there I saw it again : a white rag disappearing quickly through one of those crypts.

  ‘What are you?’ I shouted.

  I had no time to think. I clambered onto the small vault and pushed myself through. The gap led to another chamber, slightly larger, which opened up into a winding corridor. I trotted ahead, realising I was going deeper and deeper into the ground. I thought I must be stepping into what had been someone’s cellar, but then I tripped on a large stone, and again I rolled until my shoulder crashe
d against a solid wall.

  The stench there was unbearable. Fresh urine and human faeces.

  And the lantern had cracked and gone out.

  I could not see a thing. I only knew I lay on my back, against a curved nook, many feet underneath the streets of Edinburgh.

  Then the entire earth shook.

  It was gentle, and I thought I’d imagined it, but then I felt it again. I pressed a hand against the rock and felt the vibration. It came and went rhythmically, every few seconds, like clockwork. And with every tremor also came a distant, muffled echo. I realised I was hearing the bells of St Giles’ Cathedral, summoning people for the seven o’clock mass. Katerina would hang in exactly an hour, and here I was, lost in an underground labyrinth with nothing but a broken lantern.

  Right then, with a pang in the chest, I realised that my hands were empty. I had dropped the map! Perhaps as I’d fallen on my knees.

  I searched my pockets frantically. I still had the box of matches I’d used to ignite the lantern. I sighed in relief as I lighted one, but as soon as the tiny flame lit up the void, my heart stopped.

  Scant inches from my own face, something sparkled.

  A pair of glimmering eyes.

  I yelped and instantly dropped the match, which went out as soon as it hit the damp soil.

  The bells stopped, and then I heard it clearly … Rasping breathing …

  Something stood next to me, so close I could feel the waves of moist, fetid breath. I could hear it move, slithering around like a watchful snake.

  Fear invaded my body, freezing my chest. I did not want to look. I did not even want to move, lest I touched that creature panting in the darkness.

  I shut my eyes and groaned. I was sick of seeing lights and faces ; of hearing noises in the night and telling myself, over and over, that they were not real.

  I clenched the matches, pressed my lips together and forced myself to pull one out. I opened my eyes as wide as I could, took in a lungful of that foul air, and struck the match, ready for whatever that cavern had in store.

  The tip caught fire, and when the light filled the cavern, my fear materialised as a wave of icy pins and needles.

  There they were, the glinting eyes, staring straight into mine with reckless bravery, and underneath them a set of bent, stained teeth, bared and ready to strike. Matted hair and layer upon layer of caked dirt obscured the actual features of that being.

  It was a child – a feral child – bent on all fours like a crawling beast, and wrapped in murky rags tied together. I could not even tell whether the sad wretch was a boy or a girl.

  The child hissed at me but would not come closer. It was like standing before a small predator, measuring each other’s strength.

  I held my ground, but I still raised my hands and spoke slowly.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  The child hissed again, leapt in my direction and pretended to swipe at me, only to retreat immediately, retaking its previous spot.

  I had a good look at the ground. Bones, rags, rotten vegetables and excrement. I felt so sorry for the poor creature I nearly wept. That child must have been left in a gutter at a very early age, perhaps by a shamed mother or a father who could no longer feed any more offspring.

  ‘I need to leave,’ I said after a gulp.

  The child hissed again.

  ‘I need to leave,’ I repeated, signalling upwards.

  The child stared at me suspiciously. Surely I was not the first grown-up to meander down here, and this child had clearly learned to fear us. When I thought of the vulgar crowd now gathered at Calton Hill, eager to watch a woman die, themselves only a shade removed from the beasts of the field, I could not help but despise the world above us.

  Cautiously, I leaned towards the lantern.

  The child hissed.

  ‘I just need this to leave,’ I said, moving ever so slowly. Fortunately, the child did not attempt to strike me. I picked up the lamp and inspected it. The front glass was shattered, but I could still use it. As soon as I lit it, the child growled and recoiled in a corner of the small cavern.

  I kept my eyes on the poor creature as I withdrew. I’d come back with help, but right now I must find my way out.

  However, as soon as I set foot on the ascending rubble, I had another stupid idea. Stupid indeed, but it would not hurt to try. I turned back gingerly, being careful not to shed the light straight into the child’s eyes. They were still fixed on me.

  The words sounded silly in my mind, even sillier when I said them.

  ‘Have you ever … met a witch?’

  The creature looked up and hissed again. For a moment nothing happened, and I was about to leave when something came out of the child’s mouth.

  ‘Witch …’

  The syllable was perfectly clear.

  ‘Yes, a witch!’ I said. ‘Did one ever live here?’

  ‘Witch …’

  I waited, beginning to fear the child was just repeating my word, but then the little, soiled hands began to crawl in my direction, and then past me. The child’s eyes remained on me, watchful, still not trusting me.

  And then the child sprinted away, so fast I startled, and then I pursued.

  I heard the throaty groans, echoing along the passages and tunnels as I ran. I could not see the child anymore ; I had only my ears to guide me in that maze. I lost track of the turns, my full attention set on not losing the poor creature. Soon I was well and truly lost, the child’s voice fading in the distance.

  ‘Damn!’ I cried, cursing myself. I tripped and nearly fell on my face. I would never get out of there in time ; I would not even get a chance to show the evidence. Scarce as it was, it might have made a difference!

  ‘Witch …’

  I lifted my chin. The voice had come from above. I raised the lantern and saw, level with my forehead, what must have been a window frame before the floor underneath had sunken. I rested the lantern up on that sill, and just as I pulled myself upwards, a pair of tiny, grubby hands snatched the light away.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’

  Clumsily, I managed to climb up the window and roll through it. I fell four feet down, my battered shoulder again hitting first, and panting and snorting I brought myself to my feet.

  There was the child, clutching the lantern, and leaning over something obscured behind a pile of rubbish.

  I gasped at the contents of that small chamber. It looked like an abandoned storeroom, with broken shelves, piles of smashed crates, and jars and demijohns of all shapes and sizes, many still intact. I had seen similar storerooms before.

  ‘Witch …’ the child murmured with a playful, yet terribly eerie smile.

  I approached, already fearing what I’d find behind that debris.

  ‘Oh, God!’ I let out, covering my mouth.

  The child had knelt down by a skeleton, caressing the brown skull as if it were a beloved pet. The bones lay amongst a bed of rags, as if that person had died in a bed made of straw which had rotted away a long time ago. Ghastly rags, torn and riddled with holes, still stuck to the bones. I could not help imagining what that bed must have looked like as it decomposed along with its owner.

  This was the place ; the shop from which Grannie Alice had obtained her supplies.

  Those murky bones most likely had belonged to a witch.

  A million questions came to my head : Had the child met that woman when she was alive? How had she died? Had someone missed her at all? Had people forgotten her when they boarded up this section of the close? Would people even know this was her dwelling? Perhaps she’d kept it secret, the better to run her dubious witchcraft business.

  ‘Bible …’

  The child startled me.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The child kept petting the skull, but then put the lantern down and pointed at a corner of the chamber.

  ‘Bible …’

  And on top of a soiled crate I saw a small bundle of old books. I picked one up with utmost care. It was falli
ng apart, the bindings crumbling in my fingers and the pages curled after years in the damp. I brought it close to the lantern and saw that the small tome was packed with handwriting and diagrams of plants I had never seen. It was a witchcraft book.

  The one underneath had star maps. The next one was written in crude symbols that reminded me of ancient runes. I did recognise numbers, however, and what looked like lists of ingredients in a recipe book.

  ‘These are no Bibles …’ I mumbled.

  ‘Bibles …’ the child repeated.

  The last book was the widest and thickest. Also the one that appeared to be the newest.

  ‘Accounts!’ I cried, and in my excitement I nearly ripped the first pages off. ‘This is a ledger!’

  I looked for the dates that would match Alice’s receipt, and for a moment I lost track of the precious time I had left.

  ‘Here it is,’ I said, the child smiling at my contagious excitement. ‘Mrs Alice Shaw … fifteen pounds …’ and I panted before I could read the entry out loud. ‘Pharaoh’s serpent!’

  I leant against the wall, everything finally making sense.

  ‘This also explains the photographs! The hand of Satan! Leonora did not fake it! It did happen!’ I closed the ledger carefully. ‘Candles! Are there any candles here?’

  The child stared blankly at me.

  I pointed at the lantern.

  ‘Light. Fire. Things to make fire.’

  The child did not move, and I began rummaging through the crates and shelves, desperately looking for the last piece of evidence.

  I did find them, at the bottom of a crate that fell apart as soon as I touched it – a bunch of candles I instantly recognised. I snapped one in half and found exactly what I expected. I would have yelled in triumph, but then St Giles’s bells chimed again, sounding louder and clearer than before. The walls vibrated once more, dust falling from the shelves I’d disturbed.

  And my heart jumped.

  It was seven thirty.

  I had half an hour left.

  49

  Katerina heard the bells too, just as the priest placed a small Orthodox cross around her neck. It was a humble pendant made of brass, but she thanked him as if it were the most precious gift.