This gateway was a wonder of design, architecture and functionality. No religious acolytes from the antiquities could have dreamed up that technology, nor were there any scientists today who were capable of unravelling its inner workings.
There were a few who believed the Terminus’ inner workings were due to magic, although that notion was vehemently rejected by clergy and academics alike. While there were no clear answers, Clara occasionally heard the name Georgian whispered into the air.
The instructors were as varied as the subjects they taught. There were priests, nuns, and professors who all approached the world differently. Occasionally, they brought in specialists to teach and Clara especially enjoyed those occasions. It was a real treat to see someone be free from the taint of the order’s indoctrination.
Academics and theology were not the only course matter. There were courses on music, high arts, physical fitness and combat. Instructors were nebulous when questioned as to why the latter was considered a core subject. Clara could guess why, but very few of the students had been exposed to the truth like she had. She often envied their ignorance, especially their ability to imagine a world without things that went bump in the night.
Classes were almost exclusively segregated by gender or, at least, for her age group. Courses which included both genders were heavily chaperoned. There were fire extinguishers found at every corner, those who kept a watchful eye on the students to ensure there was no fun to be had.
Clara was a bit younger than her classmates but even she could pick out the awkward attempts to get noticed by the other sex. While young, Clara was not immune. Jack would occasionally glance her way and her cheeks would turn a bright red. During those moments, Clara prayed for an answer; alas, that prayer would remain unanswered.
Over the course of the year, students occasionally disappeared from the group. When Clara had joined, there were eight girls, and by the end of the year, there were four left. Like every other mystery in this school, no reasons were provided for their disappearance, simply endless theories generated by those who remained.
* * * *
On the final day of lectures for this semester, Professor Stephens provided them with some context as to the existence of the Tower.
Professor Stephens opened up with, “Throughout history there have been stories of things that lurk in the deepest corners of the forest, in haunted castles, or crawled out from our worst nightmares.”
“There are fairy tales which describe witches who prey on children. Creatures who grant wishes but exact a heavy toll for their service,” the professor added.
Clara could remember several stories that fit these themes. Hansel and Gretel came immediately to mind, whereas Rumpelstiltskin was an obvious choice for the latter.
These were children’s stories, told to keep a child’s behaviour in check or pass on valuable life lessons. It seemed hard to believe that such a revered academic would lend credence to these stories.
“In the past, we discussed how legends are rooted in fact, how these were nothing more than fishing stories that reached legendary proportions. What initially started out as a story of a man catching a six inch trout turned into an epic struggle between man and beast,” Professor Stephens said.
Clara nearly giggled but kept her composure. She knew they were being observed and had her suspicions as to why.
“Fairy Tales are also rooted in fact. Some have theorised that the Little Red Riding Hood was a tale on how the feminine form and sensuality can soothe the savage beast,” the professor said.
One of the girls giggled and Clara did not dare to look. Had this man really brought up a version of a fairy tale where the big bad wolf was seduced by the girl? She would have loved to hear that particular version. Clara bit the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. She wanted to know more and that meant keeping the fire extinguishers at bay.
“The fifty or so variations of that particular tale that I came across all feature one element,” the professor said while he made eye contact with every student. “They all featured a wolf-like creature and in many cases, one capable of taking on human form to blend in with the villagers.”
Clara mulled over the matter and connected the dots. Nowhere was such a creature explicitly defined or described as such, but certain elements could be inferred from the story. One might be able to come to this conclusion using nothing but these stories as source material and yet this seemed more like a case of hindsight…
“In fact, we are talking about a creature that stands approximately eight to eighteen feet tall, bipedal, most powerful during the full moon and deadly beyond reckoning,” Professor Stephens said.
Clara leaned forward and opened her eyes as wide as she could. She was not about to miss what this man had to say.
As though on cue, the lights blacked out and a large wolf-like creature appeared out of thin air. The apparition towered over the professor and made everyone in the room feel small and insignificant.
So this was the creature behind the Little Red Riding Hood? What about the Boy Who Cried Wolf? In the background Clara heard one of her classmates sobbing uncontrollably. What would the fire extinguishers do with her?
“Lupinotuum pectinem, a lycantrop, or colloquially known as a werewolf,” the professor said nonchalantly. “A pack of these is rumoured to have decimated a battle hardened Roman Legion.”
The werewolf slowly morphed into its human form. It seemed that this particular specimen was female, but it was difficult to say considering her emaciated breasts and narrow hips. It was also a challenge to guess her age because of the hard life this specimen had lived.
Clara was not surprised, the transformations and associated behaviours were bound to make them social pariahs. Fear and isolation would be sure to follow them and that would make getting regular meals or even a bath daunting.
“The males are both larger and more powerful than their female counterparts,” the professor added. “However these are not the only creatures which feed our primal fears and haunt our nightmares.”
The woman’s image was instantly replaced by something humanoid. It was tall, lanky, had ashen skin and a long distinctive nose. Clara was unable to make out any other features, but that was more than enough to send a shiver down her spine. Why did this thing seem so familiar?
“There is something wrong with the eyes,” Clara said and immediately regretted having spoken out of turn.
Professor Stephens stopped to observe her a moment before he asked, “What about the eyes?”
“They should be glowing,” Clara replied, although she did not understand how she knew.
“That is only true in low light conditions,” Professor Stephens said. “Although that is an excellent point to bring up.”
“Homo pallidi or colloquially known as a ghoul,” the professor said. “Most tales surrounding these creatures originate from Arabic mythology. They describe creatures that seek out cemeteries, battlefields or hospices to feed on the decaying flesh of the dead.”
The image changed again showing a different kind of creature. This was a thing of pure beauty, even with elongated fangs. Clara had no need to look at it further, she knew exactly what it was.
The professor began to name the creature, “Homo striga or more commonly known—”
“Vampire or nosferatu and popularised by Bram Stoker in the last century. Creatures who are perversions of humanity, feast on the blood of their prey, and move so fast that they appear like a blur,” Clara said.
“Correct,” the professor said, and looked a bit surprised. “How did you know?”
“That one killed Father Michael a little over a year ago, Professor,” Clara said. “She did so on consecrated ground.”
For a moment, it appeared as though the tables had turned. It seemed that the Professor had been unaware of this revelation. Clara wondered how it was possible for the staff to be unaware of this news.
Clara felt betrayed, not only had they never spoken to her
about this matter, but they never cautioned Professor Stephens against the use of that creature’s image. Clara figured there was an ulterior motive to this lecture, so she decided to take a roll of the dice.
“Of course, you knew that already,” Clara said to defuse the situation and in that moment, noticed she was the only student left.
Edith walked out from the shadows and joined the professor. Until that point, she had rarely seen her outside of school gatherings.
“That’s why I’m here?” Clara asked.
“You are correct,” the professor said. “We needed to see how you’d react.”
“Your next phase of training could not begin until we assessed you. That phase begins now,” Edith said with a grin.
So Clara had been correct. How many were surprised to hear that there were monsters in the world? Not just innocuous oddities, but things dangerous enough to require significant resources to counter?
She was reminded of the old charts she discovered in the Tower’s archives.
“Here be monsters,” Clara said and thought the words fit this situation perfectly.
A SAUCERFUL OF SECRETS
1908
Clara knew there were a great deal of secrets left to discover, but for now these secrets would have to wait. Sure, it was disappointing to keep her curiosity in check, but she needed to prioritise her studies, or at least initially.
Courses were taught all over the Tower, from the deepest bowels of the dungeon for combat training, to its highest reaches for poetry. Clara’s course load made getting to her classes on time a challenge.
On Thursdays, she would sneak through a library past the watchful eye of Father Allen, the Tower’s chief archivist, to shave twenty minutes off her trip. That gave her enough time to arrive early at her improvised weapons course to get some one-on-one time. There were risks in shaving time off her transits. Detention came to mind as a lesser repercussion, but the rewards are often well worth the risk.
Every Wednesday, Clara would leave five minutes early from bible studies to grab an early lunch. She would greedily consume everything on her plate to attend improvised weaponry classes.
Clara observed other initiates who were at the same point in their training. Some were cool and collected as though the chaos had been woven into the fabric of their souls, while others were on the cusp of a complete breakdown.
While never formally acknowledged, every aspect of their training had been designed to test the students. The ability for a student to realise this was a key factor for their survival. Those who sought perfection and needed to control their situation saw their grip on reality loosen little by little every day. It was obvious they wanted people to adapt to these conditions or fail spectacularly.
There was one factor which remained constant throughout. The Tower held a proverbial cornucopia of secrets. There were skeletons in every closet and people almost never gave a straight answer. That truth was not exclusive to the inhabitants of the Tower. Clara also learned that there were omissions in their archives.
For a young girl who liked to cause a bit of mischief, finding these omissions became a passion of hers. She would fly through rows upon rows of books looking for something that appeared peculiar or out of place.
Clara vividly recalled the conversation she had with Father Allen about a particular omission.
“What do you mean, child?” Father Allen asked.
“Pages are missing from this book,” Clara said. She then added a belated, “Father,” as a form of respect.
“That can’t be right, child,” Father Allen said.
Father Allen tore the book from her hands to get a better look. There was something about his dramatic behaviour that made her suspicious.
“Which page, child?” Father Allen asked.
Clara took back the book then placed it neatly on a table surface. That way, both of them could get a clear view of the pages. Clara then thumbed through it quickly until she found the offending pages.
“I would say five pages or so are missing, Father,” Clara said.
Father Allen looked at the top of the book, nearer to the spine; there were no voids to indicate that the pages had been cut away. Fortunately, Clara knew that books were often rebound.
“There are no visible voids, child,” Father Allen said.
“No, but the animation is off, Father,” Clara said.
“Animation?” Father Allen asked.
Clara had come across many mediaeval texts before, hand written works of art that are normally created using the precise hand of a scribe. However, some must have found the task monotonous, since she occasionally found doodles or illustrations hidden throughout.
Some of these doodles were depictions of killer rabbits locked in mortal combat against a noble knight. Some included elaborate battles which invariably involved a man taking an arrow to the rear end. Others included scenes where men fought their way through trees shaped like penises.
In this particular book, the scribes work had been more elaborate. At first, it looked harmless enough since every page featured the same design. That is until someone read far enough into the book to realise how much the image changed over time.
This particular doodle featured an owl who ruffled its feathers before taking flight. While soaring through the air, the owl spotted a mouse, grabbed it, and found a perch from which it could enjoy its meal. Clara flicked through the pages quickly enough to show the animation. All the while she pointed out the owl who was busy ruffling its feathers.
“See that owl, Father?” Clara asked. “Watch as it takes flight,” she added while flipping through the pages.
Sure enough, the bird spread its wings and soared through the pages. But there was a visible jitter, one which did not exist before or after the animation.
“A jitter?” Father Allen asked.
Clara smiled warmly before she said, “Yes, Father.”
“Surely you have more evidence to bring forward than a faulty drawing, child,” Father Allen said.
Clara expected that her evidence as presented would have been taken seriously. It took an eye for detail to catch such a tiny flaw surrounded in a sea of information.
“The book is a collection of songs and prayers Father,” Clara said. “The page before the jitter introduces a protective prayer that is said to ward off evil spirits. The page that follows details a morning chant instead.”
“You can read Latin?” Father Allen asked.
“Of course,” Clara said. “Such knowledge is expected for all students, is it not Father?”
By that time, Father Allen had been called away by one of the staff. She did not see him again for a month and during that time, the book had gone missing.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Clara said under her breath.
Clara assumed that the spell had been deemed sacrilegious. But if that was true, why leave a reference in the text? Unless something more grievous had been omitted in between?
From that point on, Clara used every opportunity to dig deeper into the archives. Father Allen was a popular target for such matters since she enjoyed his attempts at avoiding her. Silently, she wondered if the feeling had been mutual; not all of the staff were social butterflies.
* * * *
On occasion, she would bring up her concerns in the hopes of finding answers. Most of the professors and clergy toed the line; they dared not betray some unwritten rule.
Professor Stephens, the keeper of secrets on monsters and creatures of myth was her most sympathetic source. Every so often, he would fill in the blanks or send her in the right direction. How could she contend with threats by remaining ignorant?
The most memorable conversation she had with Professor Stephens revolved around a book on pre-Christian gods. Clara noticed how the pages had been amended to include a series of symbols, specifically, how every symbol was found adjacent to the introduction of a god or goddess.
The symbols began with a circle and varied based on the fill
or pattern. The circles were filled in by quarters and sometimes they were divided by a coloured border be it red, blue or green. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the symbology, so Clara could not determine their purpose.
When she brought the thick and heavy tome to class, Professor Stephens noticed it immediately. For one, it was rare for students to bring reference material and secondly Clara was pretty sure he was familiar with this book.
“A surprise for me?” Professor Stephens asked.
“Not exactly,” Clara said. She opened the book to a random page, “I can’t decipher these annotations.”
“Annotations?” Professor Stephens inquired.
By this point in time Clara had grown accustomed to having her words returned to her in the form of a question. It seemed to be an efficient way to throw students off.
The Van Helsing Paradox Page 5
