Carnacki: The Watcher at the Gate Page 2
“I sensed a tugging in my mind, an insistent drag, and felt myself—my consciousness, my very soul—being dragged up toward the advancing fog. A cold fear gripped me tight—I knew that if I went with the voices, I was not coming back, at least not as anything human. But there was so much grief and ache in those terrible screams that despite myself I had tears in my eyes again as I made my move, calling out the old Gaelic exorcism chant that had served me well in previous cases with Celtic backgrounds.
“Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.
“Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.
“Dhumna Ort!
“On that last shouted syllable a thunderclap went off in my brain and everything went black.”
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The second letter ended there, and I smiled as I folded the papers up and put them aside. Once again my old friend had known exactly where to stop to maintain maximum interest in his tale. As he had no doubt known that I would, I could not wait a moment longer—I opened the third letter immediately. It was stamped almost exactly one day to the minute later than the second one, and as before, Carnacki wasted no time in getting straight back to his story.
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“I woke to the far-from-unpleasant taste of Tait’s whiskey at my lips. My old friend stood over me, and the look on his face told me that he had not yet succumbed to a full-blown funk, for he seemed genuinely more concerned for my own well-being than for his own.
“I sat up—rather too abruptly, I’m afraid—and the room spun alarmingly, but the ringing in my ears was just the fading echo of the phenomenon. Whatever had been with us in the library had once again departed.
“‘I’m dashed sorry I got you into this, old man,’ Tait said, as I had another stiffener and a much-needed smoke.
“I waved him away. ‘You asked for my expertise. What kind of friend would I be if I turned you down?’
“‘A live one?’ Tait answered with a wry grin that reminded me of the boy I had once known.
“‘Chin up, old chap,’ I replied. ‘We are far from beaten. Indeed, I have a bally good idea as to what can be done to keep you alive and well.’
“I did not speak further of it, beyond asking him if he had, or could procure, a phonograph for the next day. He set Old John to the task and we spent the rest of the evening as old chums should—sitting by the fire, smoking fine cigars, drinking Scotch mere miles from where it was made, and reminiscing over old times, better days. Tait talked as if it were his last night on this earth. No matter how much I tried to persuade him that I had a plan, he seemed to think that I had already failed, that his doom was inevitable and that he was indeed destined to die on the morrow. As I made my way to bed, somewhat tipsy on his fine Scotch, I resolved to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.”
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My tea had gone quite cold, and I was in danger of missing an appointment at lunchtime, but I could not draw myself away from Carnacki’s tale at this juncture. He had me held to the story just as tightly as if I was sitting in his parlor after dinner listening to him tell it in person. I turned the next page eagerly.
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“You have no doubt guessed the nature of my plan, having heard my tales of the Larkhall Barrow, the Lusitania and others. The phonograph was key to the whole affair. Old John had indeed managed to find one—an older model that Arkwright would no doubt have derided as being out of vogue and past its usefulness, but it looked like it would be capable of serving my purposes admirably.
“I spent the bulk of the next day ensuring that I was knowledgeable about its every function, and practiced recording in a variety of places around the library before I was certain I had found the spot with the best acoustics. I also did the trick I remembered from my previous adventures, and practiced setting the playback to run both backward and forward.
“Tait found this all highly amusing.
“‘It is a nice parlor trick, Carnacki, I’ll give you that. But I fail to see how it will help me tonight.’
“Yet again I was unable to give him the assurances he sought, and he spent the afternoon at his desk, only to present me with his Last Will and Testament just before our meal.
“‘I have named you as executor, Carnacki. Just make sure Old John wants for nothing, will you? The rest of it can go to blazes.’
“And with that my friend took to the bottle again with a vengeance. I rather envied him his mild inebriation as we sat through an awkward meal, each of us clearly waiting for the main performance of the evening to begin.
“Tait’s nerves began to get the better of him despite, or perhaps because of, the number of stiffeners he had taken.
“‘So tell me, Carnacki—you obviously have a plan. What is it that you think you know about this thing that I, who have lived with the knowledge of it all of my life, do not?’
“Once again I was loath to over-explain my process, but Tait needed to talk, so I told him what I had discovered, about the history of the Banshee—which he knew already, and about the rhythm I had discerned inside the scream, which he did not.
“‘I believe it came here originally from the Outer Darkness, attracted by grief and pain, and eased in its passage by the presence of water. The fact that you live on this wet moorland, surrounded by the stuff, may well be why it has once again been attracted to your family.’
“‘She, you mean, surely. Not it?’
“Oh, this is most assuredly an it. It is an old thing,’ I told him. ‘Perhaps even older than song itself, at least any song sung by a human voice. And I have encountered—and bested—its like before.’
“Tait perked up considerably at that, but any hope I had given him proved short-lived indeed, for mere seconds later the soft singing began in the rafters.
“I moved immediately to set the phonograph recording as the song ramped up very quickly to a roaring wail. There was little preamble this time around—the chorus of howling descended almost immediately from the rafters, wrapping us in a cocoon of noise that vibrated through me, playing on my innards like a drummer beating on a kettledrum.
“The phonograph kept recording and the screaming got ever louder. I could indeed now discern the tune inside the wailing, and all I could hope now was that my theory was going to work in practice.
“Tait’s screams joined those of the interloper as fog thickened inside the library and the room grew dim and gloomy.
“The noise was almost unbearable, a howling screech as of an enormous hunting owl echoing and thrumming through every fiber of my being. I felt sad; bereft, even, as if my friend was already dead and I was grieving. But mostly there was anger—anger and pain driving the screaming into a fury that pushed at the bounds of existence and finally started to rip and tear at the very fabric of reality itself.
“Tait’s screams grew apace, and his body twisted and strained as if his limbs were being wrenched from his frame.
“I managed to bend to the phonograph, glad now that I had practiced the procedure, and reversed the wax cylinder, setting the machine to play the tune backward. A new sound rose from the mechanism to join the screeching—and it had an immediate effect.
“The screaming faltered, and I sensed confusion. But it was momentary as the wails rose to blot out this new noise, screeching and howling its agony such that the whole library vibrated and hummed in tune.
“Tait screamed and as I turned toward him, blood ran from his nose and ears.
“I had no time left.
“I turned the phonograph to the maximum extent of its volume and added my exorcism chant to the cacophony, having to shout until my throat tore to make myself heard.
“Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.
“Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.
“Dhumna Ort!
“There was one last long wail, pain and anger now mixed with frustration and regret. It faded, slowly, rising up and away from us until it was little more tha
n a whisper in the rafters, then was gone.”
c
Carnacki’s letter ended there, and I did not get the end of the tale until the following Friday, when I was once again invited to Chelsea for supper and a story. This time I had heard his tale before, but did not in the least bit mind hearing it from his own lips.
He told it as he had written it, adding only that Tait had indeed survived the attack, and that he and his manservant had left the house on the moor and were now cozily ensconced in Edinburgh, as far from any bodies of water as could be managed.
The evening ended with an offer from Carnacki for us to listen to the banshee’s song on the wax disk he had brought back with him. The others all declined for fear that it might haunt their dreams, but Carnacki’s letter had piqued my interest, and I sat with him as he played the song through in its entirety on his phonograph.
He was right in that it did resemble most the screeching of a great owl, and it was the most awful cacophony, but I am pleased to report there were no serious aftereffects, and when I arrived home I slept long and soundly.
Nobody sang.
Treason and Plot
I was late in reaching Chelsea that night in early November. The whole length of the Embankment was closed all the way from Putney to Waterloo Bridge and the Underground system had been brought to a halt. “An Irish Plot,” the Thunderer said, and the evidence of many policemen along the by-ways seemed to indicate that something was indeed afoot. But it was not enough to keep me from my appointment. Carnacki’s card had intimated that he had a new tale to tell, and I was eager to hear my friend’s latest adventure.
On arrival I discovered that the others were there before me; they too showing a similar appetite for a tale. As ever, Carnacki kept us waiting until after dinner, but none of us complained—the meal was, as usual, magnificent, consisting of pheasant and mashed potatoes washed down with some particularly fine London porter from a Chiswick brewery that Carnacki favored.
We retired to the parlor at eight-thirty and got our drinks charged and fresh smokes lit. Carnacki gave us several seconds to settle, then launched straight into his narrative.
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“My tale begins in the early hours of Sunday morning,” he began. “I had spent Saturday in further examination of the deeper caves in Chislehurst and, being somewhat fatigued, had fallen into a deep sleep that I was loath to leave. But the insistent knocking on my front door would brook no argument, and I was forced rudely from my bed to answer it.
“Three policemen stood on the step, which I am sure you’ll agree is never a good sign, never mind at two-thirty on a Sunday morning.
“As it turned out, the policemen were nearly as clueless as I regarding the situation at hand; they had merely been sent as emissaries from the Home Secretary. I soon discovered there was a bit of a flap on at Parliament; one that required my particular field of expertise. I was given scarcely ten minutes to do my ablutions and get dressed before I was hurried out into a carriage and off along the riverside. The driver was obviously under orders, for we fair rattled across the cobbles and I felt quite shaken by the time we came to a stop outside Parliament.
“There were more policemen there—a cordon of them around a portly figure I quickly recognized as the Home Secretary. After a cursory handshake, no time was wasted in leading me down to the bowels of the old building, deep into the sewers and tunnels to a spot that showed signs of having been there since the medieval—and maybe even Roman—era.
At any other time I would have stopped to investigate the masonry, for it looked to be particularly finely tooled, but the Secretary was insistent that we keep moving, and his urgency seeped into me, so we proceeded at a fast walk through the warren of tunnels. I started to smell water, and if my mental map was accurate, we were nearing the Thames. My feeling was proved right when we came to a series of steps that descended down into the river. But that was not what I had been brought to see.
“A body lay on the ground inside a pentacle drawn in chalk, itself inside three concentric rings circled with a great many scrawled symbols. Burned-down candles sat at each point, cold now to the touch. The body had been burned beyond recognition; it was an amorphous mass of charred bone and ash.
“‘I don’t know what I can do here,’ I said, kneeling beside the body. ‘I am not a doctor.’
The Secretary was staring at where the river lapped against the old stone steps, and he looked pale, almost sickly.
“‘It is not the body we need you to examine,’ he said. He motioned at the chalk pentacle, and the inscription drawn around its outer ring. ‘I understand this is your area of expertise?’
“I did indeed recognize some of the symbols, but by no means all, and I could already see that it was the basis of a ritual I was unfamiliar with.
“‘You wish me to find out what he was doing?’ I asked.
“There was a splash out in the river and the Secretary started to edge away into the tunnels, dragging me with him.
“‘No, Mr. Carnacki,’ he said, starting to walk faster. ‘I need you to find out what he was doing wrong.’”
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“Ten minutes later the Secretary had some color back in his cheeks. It might have had something to do with the warmth of the fire, in his office two floors above the terrace in the main House. It also might have had something to do with the anger with which he berated the poor charwoman for being there cleaning his room when he needed some quiet in which to work. I tried to placate the woman with a smile, but her scowl told me that she was not in the mood, and a curt Irish accent, instructing me to Move aside, sir, showed me who was in charge. However, I have a feeling that the redness in the Secretary’s cheeks had more to do with the large snifter of Scotch he had downed as soon as we got up from the tunnels. And by Jove, I accepted a drink of my own readily enough when he started to tell me the reason I had been summoned. As is usual with politicians, he took rather a long way round the subject.
“‘What do you know about the history of the city?’ he asked, chewing on the largest cigar I had ever seen. I might have replied with a display of my knowledge, but he did not give me an opportunity, merely continued straight on. ‘You do, of course, know what date it is?’ he asked, confusing me further.
“‘What you may not know,’ he said, before I could reply, ‘is that every year at this time, for five days during and after Samhain, it has been necessary for us to appease the old god of the river lest it consume us utterly.’
“He said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that at first I did not believe I had heard him properly, but when I pressed him, he repeated the assertion.
“‘It has been going on for as long as we have been keeping records,’ the Secretary said, and motioned toward a small stack of leather-bound tomes on his desk. ‘The last time there was any disruption was back in 1605 when Guy Fawkes decided to try to stop the ceremony and let matters take their course. Since then all has been quiet … until tonight.’
“He had another chew on the cigar.
“‘David Crowther had the duty for nearly twenty years with no problems. Despite David’s retirement and this being the first outing for a new man, we foresaw none last night. Young Peter Rogers went down into the tunnels at eleven-thirty. And the result is what you have so recently seen. We need you, Mr. Carnacki; for if you cannot fathom what has happened, then I fear that tomorrow the Ancient One will rise up completely from the river. And who knows what might happen then?’”
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Carnacki paused to knock out his pipe and, never one to let an opportunity pass, Arkwright piped up.
“I say, Carnacki, this politician chappie sounds just like you. If I’d known they believed in spooks and ghoulies, I might be a tad more keen to vote for them. I remember at the last Hustings, I …”
Carnacki stopped him with a single upraised hand, and the rest of us breathed a silent sigh of relief, for we knew how quickly Arkwright could derail an evening if given his head. We were saved that ord
eal, as Carnacki went straight on with his tale.
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“As Arkwright has pointed out, the Secretary did indeed sound like someone who was intimately familiar with my own area of enthusiasm. But I quickly found out that he only knew as much as he had already imparted, and that details were not his strong point. I requested leave to return to the tunnel, all the better to examine the pentacle drawn there, but I was refused, somewhat curtly.
“‘The site has already been cleaned,’ the Secretary said, almost as if he was proud of the fact. ‘We cannot have anyone else discovering this particular secret. Can you imagine if it got out?’
“I believe that what I could imagine and what he could imagine would differ rather wildly, but I kept my mouth shut and merely asked just what I was supposed to do without the evidence from the tunnels.
“He waved toward the books on his desk. ‘The answer to all your questions is in there. And photographs were taken of the scene before you arrived. They are being developed as we speak and you shall have them anon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must brief the P.M.’
“And with that, I was left alone, with only the old books for company. I opened the office door to find two policemen standing guard, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not be allowed to leave Parliament until the matter at hand had been resolved. Indeed, I am probably breaking several laws in merely relating this story to you chaps here tonight, such was the secrecy surrounding the facts of the case. I gave in to the inevitable and, pausing only to ask for a pot of tea to be brought, returned to the office and began my perusal of the books on the desk.