The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

by Mark Hodder

  Tuesday. 13th day of September 1859.

  3.00 p.m.

  Such torpor. Sleep evades us but we slip in and out of prolonged periods of dark reverie, almost a trance, wherein we are paralysed by a sense of being examined, like pinned insects.

  5.30 p.m.

  From 3.00 p.m. until 5.00 p.m. every day, clouds form with astonishing rapidity and rain falls in a solid sheet. The thunder is as violent as I’ve ever heard. Our huts leak, and after the downpour we crawl from them soaked to the skin to dry ourselves beneath the returned sun. It’s causing our clothes to rot from our backs. By all that’s Holy, I’ve never beheld such a ragged band of miserable souls.

  Friday. 16th day of September 1859.

  7.00 p.m.

  I dread nightfall and the commencement of the drumming. There’s been so little sleep, I’m in a state of living dream. More difficult than ever to maintain this log.

  Monday. 19th day of September 1859.

  9.00 a.m.

  Last night, I was roused by Seaman Joseph Rodgers, who was near hysterical and swearing blind that, “The devil himself is among us.” It took nigh on an hour to calm him.

  Tuesday. 20th day of September 1859.

  8.00 p.m.

  Another day has passed like an opium dream and now the drums have begun their nightly torment. A terrible sense of menace pervades the village.

  Tuesday. 27th day of September 1859.

  11.00 a.m.

  A week has gone by in a haze, with no attention paid to this record. I remember nothing of what’s passed, if anything has, beyond the repetitive torture of heat, rain, and drums, heat, rain, and drums. We’ve had twenty-seven days now without the merest hint of a breeze; twenty-two days on this loathsome lump of rock. Writing exhausts me.

  3.00 p.m.

  Something brought us here. Something is holding us captive. None of this is natural. God help us.

  Wednesday. 5th day of October 1859.

  11.30 a.m.

  Joseph Rodgers and a passenger, John Judge, have suggested we investigate the source of the drumming. By Christ, we do something or we remain here and die of languor, so I’ve agreed, and will lead the expedition myself. I pray I can raise strength enough for it.

  4.00 p.m.

  It’ll be just the three of us. The rest lie limp and vacant-eyed. A stiff climb faces us, for our hosts insist that the drummers are located in a crater, called the Pico Santa Isabel, at the top of the central mountain, which is obviously an ancient and dormant volcano. We’ll set out at dawn.

  Thursday. 6th day of October 1859.

  7.00 p.m.

  The climb is steep but not impossibly so. There’s a trail with steps cut into the sheerest stretches. John Judge is a giant, Herculean in strength and endurance, but Rodgers and I are all too mortal. The heat sucks out what little energy we’ve been able to muster. Frequent stops necessary. No progress at all when the rains came. Nevertheless, we’ve covered a good distance. We’ll reach the peak tomorrow. For now, Rodgers has made a little fire, which we’ll huddle around while we endure the night and the damnable drums.

  Friday. 7th day of October 1859.

  6.30 a.m.

  Not a wink of sleep. The feeling of looming menace is overpowering. We’re resuming our ascent.

  Saturday. 8th day of October 1859.

  8.00 p.m.

  Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge, until these calamities have passed by.

  We achieved the summit yesterday at 4.00 p.m. and stood at the lip of the crater. On the opposite side, a village, from which the nocturnal drumming no doubt emanates, has been built around about a quarter of the depression’s outer edge. Its inhabitants soon spotted us, but rather than approach, they simply stared.

  We paid them little attention; our eyes were pulled down to the incredible object lying amid the bubbling pools at the base of the bowl. It appeared to be the aurora borealis, somehow condensed into a globe, about two hundred feet in diameter, but with a large section missing, like a bite from an apple. As we descended toward it, details began to stand out. Though formed entirely from light, the apparition started to remind me of a steam sphere, though of gigantic proportions. There were rows of rivet-like protrusions, portholes, and the missing section was seemingly lined with broken spars and torn plating, as if exploded from within.

  We climbed past pools of steaming water and sulphurous mud, stumbling constantly, unable to look away from the seething colours before us. Rodgers began to utter a prayer but was hushed by John Judge, who commanded us to listen, and in doing so confirmed what I had already noticed: that there were whisperings coming from the globe; voices, which as we drew closer gained clarity, becoming fragments of conversations, orders, pleas, and shouts. I clearly heard:

  “. . . advancing west. Their forces stretch from . . .”

  “. . . will do as I bloody well say, Private, or so help me I’ll put him before a firing squad. Now get down there and tell him to . . .”

  “. . . isn’t seaworthy and is beyond repair, sir. The long and short of it is that the Britannia is wrecked. If we make a last stand, it has to be here. You have to tell General Aitken there’s no way out of . . .”

  “. . . German units to the south and west of us. Unless he can do what he says, we’ll not live beyond . . .”

  “. . . I’m hit! Mother of God! I’m . . .”

  “. . . and what is left worth fighting for? Surrender, I say. It’s the . . .”

  “. . . can’t trust him to . . .”

  “. . . Get down! Get down! He’s dead, damn it! Sweet Jesus, they aren’t human! We have to . . .”

  And more. These odd, panicked, desperate echoes became, unmistakably, the yammering of men caught in warfare and making a last stand against superior forces. I’m not certain how, but I was taken by the notion that their one hope had betrayed and abandoned them, and that whoever or whatever that last hope had been, it was here, now, on the island, and was the awful presence we’d all sensed.

  We were but a few steps from the globe when the illumination suddenly increased until it blazed like the sun. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and Rodgers was shaking the wits back into me. I sat up, looked around, and saw only rocks and pools and the sloping sides of the crater. The mirage was gone.

  “Let’s get out of this accursed hellhole,” John Judge said. “I beg of ye, Cap’n Taylor, let us get back to our people.”

  I’d no hesitation in agreeing, and we climbed out of the crater as fast as was possible and immediately started down the path toward Santa Cecilia. Minutes later, the rain fell, and we were sent slithering wildly down the track amid mud and water. Lord knows how we survived that slide.

  Night fell before we’d completed the descent but we hastened on by starlight, convinced that we were being pursued, though by what we couldn’t guess. Never have I felt such stark terror!

  Sunday. 9th day of October 1859

  3.00 p.m.

  We didn’t realise it at the time, but there were no drums last night. We reached the village at dawn and, being fatigued beyond endurance, immediately took to our huts and, at last, slept.

  Midnight

  Again, no drums. Why does this cause me such dread?

  Monday. 10th day of October 1859.

  9.00 a.m.

  A cannon heard from the Royal Charter! It can mean only one thing! Let everything that has breath praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! For He, in His infinite mercy, has given us fire! We can flee this detestable place!

  Noon

  The crew and passengers trekked from Santa Cecilia to Santa Isabel and from there boarded the ship. We had to carry John Judge. He is in such a deep sleep that he won’t wake.

  We’ll be away from here!

  “My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. He untangled his legs, stood, and moved to the bar. “They spent more than a month on that island. Wasn’t the ship reported missing?”

/>   “They were sailing from Melbourne,” Burton said. “With a voyage of that length, a month’s delay isn’t so unusual.”

  Swinburne claimed fresh bottles of ale and brought them back to the table.

  “What on earth was it?” he asked. “The globe of light? The aurora? It’s astonishing!”

  “Born from the wreck of the SS Britannia,” Burton murmured.

  Swinburne regarded him curiously. “What? What? What?”

  “I’ll explain later. Here, I’ll pour the drinks, you continue with the log.”

  The poet’s green eyes fixed on Burton for a few seconds then he gave a grunt, looked down at the book, and resumed.

  Monday. 10th day of October 1859.

  7.00 p.m.

  I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth. Fernando Po is receding behind us! Admittedly, the going is slow. The steam engine was designed to augment the sails, not replace them, but at least it drives us from hell and gives us hope.

  Tuesday. 11th day of October 1859.

  3.00 p.m.

  Crawling along. Currently at 1°34′N, 3°23′E.

  Wednesday. 12th day of October 1859.

  9.00 a.m.

  Passenger Colin McPhiel found dead this morning. No ascertainable cause. Have ordered corpse preserved in lime for Christian burial in God’s good earth. Crew and passengers now convinced the ship is blighted. I argue against superstition, but in the name of the Almighty, I feel it myself.

  3.00 p.m.

  The lassitude that immobilised us on the island is still with us. Many men, women, and children affected, in various degrees, some practically comatose.

  Thursday. 13th day of October 1859.

  9.00 a.m.

  Seaman Henry Evans and Second Steward Thomas Cormick both died in the night. Again, no reason apparent. Placed in lime.

  Noon

  2°38′N, 13°8′E.

  9.00 p.m.

  Passenger Benjamin Eckert has committed suicide by hanging. Used the last of the lime to preserve his corpse. What doom weighs so heavily upon this vessel?

  Friday. 14th day of October 1859.

  7.00 a.m.

  Joseph Rodgers mad with terror. Insists he saw passenger Colin McPhiel walking the deck in the early hours of this morning. I have sent him (Rodgers), Seaman William McArthur, and Quartermaster Thomas Griffith to the hold to check on the corpse.

  7.30 a.m.

  They report the body is present but has been disturbed; lime scattered around the casket.

  8.00 p.m.

  Have put Seamen Edward Wilson, William Buxton, and Mark Mayhew on a rotating watch over the hold.

  At 8°55′N, 20°39′E. Making for Cape Verde to resupply.

  Saturday. 15th day of October 1859.

  3.30 a.m.

  Shaken from my bed at 2.30 a.m. by Cowie and Rodgers. Utter chaos in the hold. Buxton and Mayhew both dead. No marks on them, but by God, the look of horror on their faces! Edward Wilson a gibbering lunatic. Struck out wildly at all who approached him. Had to call upon John Judge to restrain the man. Corpse of Colin McPhiel stretched out on the deck, powdered with lime, a dagger embedded hilt-deep in its heart.

  I’m at a loss. I’ve ordered the bodies of Buxton, Mayhew, McPhiel, Evans, Cormick, and Eckert cast overboard. Wilson bound and locked in cabin.

  Noon

  Finally, the wind has got up, but our evil luck continues, for it’s driving us westward. Currently at 9°24′N, 24°18′W.

  11.00 p.m.

  11°21′N, 28°57′W. We’ll not make Cape Verde this day.

  Sunday. 16th day of October 1859.

  10.00 a.m.

  Passengers Mrs. C. Hodge, George Gunn, Franklin Donoughue, and Seaman Terrance O’Farrell, all dead. No indications of disease other than the severe lethargy from which they’d all suffered. By Christ, am I commanding a plague ship? Bodies thrown overboard. No energy or will for ceremony.

  1.00 p.m.

  Joseph Rodgers bearded me in my cabin and ranted for half an hour. He said: “Satan is sucking the souls right out of us, Captain Taylor. We’ll all be dead afore this ship touches another shore.”

  Monday. 17th day of October 1859.

  7.00 a.m.

  Ten taken. Passengers: Mrs. J. B. Russell, Miss D. Glazer, P. N. Robinson, T. T. Bowden, T. Willmoth, and A. Mullard. Crewmen: Second Officer A. Cowie, Rigger G. A. Turner, Fourth Officer J. Croome, Seaman W. Draper.

  3.00 p.m.

  A strong southerly wind has driven us to 19°28′N, 30°14′W.

  5.00 p.m.

  There was a medium among our passengers, known to all as Mademoiselle Tabitha, though the manifest lists her as Miss Doris Jones. I didn’t see her on the island. Apparently she spent our days there curled up in a corner of a hut and spoke to no one. Since we departed, a similar story: locked in her cabin, opening the door only to receive food from a friend among her fellow passengers. An hour ago, I was told she wanted to see me. Went down and found her seemingly in a trance.

  She said, “He is reaching out, Captain. Speaking through the mouth of a woman like me.”

  I asked, “Who is?”

  She said, “Our additional passenger. He who hides. He who feeds. He who endures to the end.”

  I asked, “We have a stowaway?”

  To this, she giggled like a madwoman and said, in an oddly deep voice, “Let us say au revoir before I embarrass myself any further. I have the royal charter. I’m on my way. We shall meet soon. Say goodbye to the countess.”

  She reached out as if grasping something in the air and made a twisting motion, before then clutching at her chest and collapsing to the floor, stone dead. I have no explanation.

  8.30 p.m.

  I have had the ship searched from bow to stern. No stowaway detected.

  Tuesday. 18th day of October 1859.

  5.00 a.m.

  Twelve more gone. I shan’t list them here but will add the date of their demise against their names on the passenger and crew manifests.

  Rodgers informed me that he witnessed John Judge “creeping” around the ship during the night. I approached Judge half an hour ago. He explained that he’s started to keep a nightly watch. The man is not crew, but his intimidating size is such that I am glad of his vigil.

  Noon

  Developing storm. We are driven NNW.

  Saturday. 22nd day of October 1859.

  Time unknown. Daylight.

  Impossible to maintain this log. Mass panic aboard. Fighting. Suicides. The death toll increases every night. Seaman Gregory Parsons attempted to lead a mutiny. Joseph Rodgers forced to shoot him dead.

  We are in the stranglehold of an increasingly violent maelstrom. Compass spinning. Timepieces have stopped. Sky black with cloud. Unable to establish position.

  Monday. 24th day of October 1859.

  Time unknown.

  Storm so intense I don’t know if it’s night or day.

  Death. Nothing but death. Passengers refusing to leave their cabins.

  Time unknown.

  Rodgers has become convinced that John Judge is responsible for the evils that beset this vessel. He’s going after him with a pistol. I am powerless.

  Time unknown.

  Not enough crew remaining to man the ship. I have to get it to port. I have to—else we’re all dead.

  Note.

  This writ by Joseph Rodgers at Capt. Taylor’s command.

  The Capt. pegs us as in the Irish Sea. He is bound to the wheel so as not to be washed overboard and is set on steering us to any port we can find. I am to wrap this logbook in sealskin and return it to him, so it might be on him if we are wrecked.

  Beware of John Judge. Satan took him on the island and he has preyed on us this voyage through. He walks by night and steals a man’s soul from him and leaves the body dead but not dead. I saw Colin McPhiel rise and hunt for souls to replace what was took from him.

  The Royal Charter is damned. Capt. Taylor is damned. I am damned. We ar
e all damned. But I’ll not go without a fight. I have me pistol loaded and as God is me witness I’ll search this ship from bow to stern till I find Judge and send him back to hell with a bullet.

  Lord have Mercy on my soul.

  “As for a future life, every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague probabilities.”

  —CHARLES DARWIN

  “That’s the end of it,” Swinburne said. “Phew! What terror! I shall have nightmares!”

  Trounce exclaimed, “I’d lay good money on it being Joseph Rodgers who made it ashore and John Judge who followed and killed him.”

  “La Bête est venue,” Eliphas Levi whispered.

  “The Beast has come?” Swinburne repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

  Burton, Trounce, and Levi glanced at each other.

  The poet banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “Out with it!” he commanded. “Explain what this is all about! You—” he jabbed his finger at Burton, “—are the man with a scar on his face. Abdu El Yezdi said my travails would begin when you appeared.” Swinburne lifted the logbook and waved it over his head. “If this Royal Charter tragedy and your interest in the Arabian are connected, then I demand to know how!”

  Burton was silent for a few seconds then nodded. “Very well, but I must ask something of you first.”

  “What?”

  “I believe the Arabian mesmerised you, and I want to do the same. Maybe I can unearth whatever he caused you to forget.”

  “You mean he removed something from my memory?”

  “More likely he inserted something but made it inaccessible to your recollection. I’d like to know what.”

  “And if I allow this, you’ll tell me the full story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it. At once.”

  Burton knew that under normal circumstances it would be impossible to put Swinburne into a trance. The poet had an excess of electric vitality. It caused him to be in constant twitchy motion and was at the root of his overexcitable personality. However, he was exhausted after his taxing swim and Burton had purposely asked him to read from the logbook to further tire him. Swinburne was drained—just as he must have been after ascending Culver Cliff—as was evinced by the relative idleness of his limbs.