Carnacki: The Watcher at the Gate Read online

  “It was not long before I had forgotten about the policemen as I became transported back to a history of London I had never before been privy to; one that had purposefully been kept from the people to protect them from one simple fact. London only exists because a way was found to mollify its original inhabitant; a creature so old and so foul that the very sight of it could drive a man mad. It seemed to be a creature of paradoxes, a controller of flame that lived in the water, a vast monster that could encompass the city, yet disappear through the smallest of holes.

  “The story was a long one, and its beginnings have been lost in antiquity. I will not bore you chaps with the Roman tales, nor the even older Druidic songs that came before. Suffice to say that over the centuries a means was discovered to keep the old thing in the river in check—but not before the city had burned, time and time again. It was only the stubborn refusal of the Romans to be beaten by a god that was not their own that led to the initial subduing of the river deity. It was they who started the tradition of lighting bonfires at strategic points along the river on Samhain and the days immediately following, a tradition that continues to this very day, and indeed, one that has grown far beyond its original intent—but I am getting ahead of myself.

  “Over the centuries since its inception in Roman times the ritual has been improved and modified, yet essentially it has remained true to its primitive origins; a simple pentacle and a series of chants. In almost every case they have proved enough, if performed in the proper order on the proper dates, to keep the old thing in the river quiet.

  “But not tonight. I had seen for myself the result of Mr. Rogers’ attempt on the ritual. It was now my duty to ensure that such immolation did not happen again—and, more than that, to ensure that the river stayed quiet for another year.

  “Now, before I go any further, I can see that Arkwright is full to bursting with questions, and I believe I know what these will concern. You are all no doubt anxious to know what part, if any, the Guy Fawkes story plays in my tale. It will not surprise you to learn that the passageway in which Fawkes was captured was the very one in which I had stood not an hour earlier. But the books before me on the Home Secretary’s desk told a far different tale to the one all children think that they know. And at this point I must plead secrecy, for the conspiracy that covered up the true story encompasses all the high ranks of society of its day, from ministers to archbishops, from mayors to monarchy. Briefly, Fawkes had no plan to blow up Parliament with gunpowder. No—his plan was to disrupt the ritual and to allow the ancient evil to do the job for him.

  “As it turned out, Fawkes’ capture allowed the government to reinstate the old system of protective bonfires on the prescribed date every year. Fawkes’ act, instead of destroying Parliament as he desired, had the exact opposite effect, and has ensured the integrity of the House down to this very day.

  “Until now. For if I could not discover what had gone wrong with the ritual, then the Old One would rise up from the river. The older books were quite clear on what could be expected. One particular woodcarving stays in my memory. It was done sometime in the Norman era and shows a bridge over the river near Westminster. Something is crawling up out of the water, something amorphous and almost slug-like. Flames belch from several mouth-like orifices, and everything the beast has touched is charred and black.

  “By the time I had finished with the books, thin sunlight washed in through the window behind me. A young policeman arrived bearing a breakfast tray and a sealed envelope addressed to myself. I allowed myself a helping of tea and toast, and a most welcome pipe of tobacco, before opening the envelope. As I had been promised, enclosed were the photographs of the scene of the botched ritual. The photographer had done a dashed fine job of it, and all the symbols on the pentacle had been fully documented.

  “Unfortunately for me, they also appeared to be exactly as I would have expected. There was no sign of what might have caused the ritual to go so badly wrong.”

  c

  Carnacki stopped and rose from his chair. We all knew from long acquaintance that this was a signal for a natural breaking point in the tale and a chance for us to refill our glasses and arrange fresh smokes.

  Carnacki had also been right about Arkwright. Our old friend was close to bursting with questions.

  “I’m jolly confused, old man,” he said, corralling Carnacki at the drinks cabinet. “Are you saying that Fawkes wasn’t a cad after all? Or is he still a cad, just a different sort?”

  Carnacki laughed.

  “Let us just say that he tried to dabble in the Outer Realms and, like other dabblers before him, got his just desserts. But we should not even be discussing such matters,” he said. “I was informed most forcibly by the Home Secretary that should I disclose any part of Fawkes’ tale, then I, and any one that I told, could be tried for treason. I believe they still hang you for that, and I am rather fond of my neck, thank you very much.”

  All the blood fled from Arkwright’s face, and he looked so stricken that only a friendly pat on the shoulder from Carnacki placated him.

  “Come, old friend,” Carnacki said. “The rest of the tale is not a matter of national security as far as I know. You can listen to it without fear of the noose.”

  If any of us noticed that Arkwright poured himself a larger snifter than was usual, none of us spoke of it. Several minutes later, we were once again settled in our chairs waiting for Carnacki to continue.

  c

  “As you chaps can see, I was now on somewhat of a sticky wicket, for I had nothing to report when the Home Secretary looked in on me later that morning. I had spent hours poring over the photographs but still could see no sign of anything that might have caused the ritual to go wrong. I could only think that the poor chap who died had made an error in part of the accompanying chant. Judging by the transcript of the ritual I had found in the books, it was a fairly straightforward affair, if a tad dull, and difficult to get wrong if you had your wits about you.

  “Indeed, my study of the ins and outs of the ritual had decided me on a course of action, and when the Secretary started to berate me for my perceived uselessness, I put my plan to him.

  “I intended to carry out the ritual myself, to stand and face the thing in the river and determine what manner of entity it might be.

  The Secretary accepted my offer without hesitation, but would not allow me to leave the House to fetch my defenses. Instead he sent two policeman on the errand and, while we were waiting on their return, treated me to a rather splendid lunch in the Members’ restaurant. In the course of the meal he regaled me with tales of his adventures during the Boer War. I in turn told him of some of my own escapades. I was rather taken aback to find that he already knew about almost every case I have undertaken these past three years.

  “He tapped at the side of his nose as he puffed on another huge cigar.

  “‘It’s not who you know; it’s what you know,’ he said, and laughed so infectiously that I could do nothing else but join him. And so it was that I was in rather a splendid mood by the time my kit arrived and I was led once more down into the tunnels.

  “The pleasant feeling lasted only as long as it took to reach the river. Once we were back on that cold shelf above the steps I felt a chill seep into me, one that threatened to sink deep into my bones. I warmed myself by setting up the pentacle for the coming night.

  “I will not bore you with the details of the ritual; you have heard enough of my tales to know the basics of the protections involved in such matters. The main difference from my own system was that the pentacle I was about to employ had not come from the Sigsand MS. That in itself gave me pause, for I did not have the luxury of familiarity that I normally have on these occasions. The policemen had brought my electric pentacle with them from my lodgings but I decided against its use at this time, preferring to stick with the ritual exactly as described in the book. I took extra time and care over the preparations, all the time aware that the damp chill was becoming ever
more intense. By the time I felt ready and stepped into the pentacle it was late evening. Any daylight that seeped through from beyond the steps into the river had dimmed and faded, and only a small oil lamp kept the growing darkness at bay.

  “The last remaining policeman decided not to wait with me, and I was left alone in that damp chamber. As I waited I ran the chant through in my mind, over and over, until I was sure that I would be able to reproduce it exactly as it was written in the old book. What with that, and the smoking of a pipe, I achieved a certain degree of relaxation as the evening turned to night.

  “As you chaps know, I have stood in some dashed tight spots in my time, but something about this one had me in a blue funk. My knees almost gave out on me, and I felt that fine luncheon roil and bubble in my belly. Something splashed out of sight at the foot of the steps, just where they met the river, and that was almost it for me, but I’m glad to say I stood my ground, although my teeth clenched on the old briar pipe so much that I found grooves there later.

  “I started the chant as transposed in the old book.

  “‘Servo mihi per totus vestri vires. Ter inter orbis, reus subsido totus, malum nessum.’

  “Now your Latin, like mine, is probably a mite rusty, but it all sounded right and proper to me as I shouted it out. However, it was having little effect on the thing that pulled itself up out of river. I saw the shadows it cast before I saw the thing itself. The walls of the tunnel took on a flickering orange glow, as if afire.

  “‘Servo mihi per totus vestri vires. Ter inter orbis, reus subsido totus, malum nessum,’ I called out again, with more urgency this time, as a pale, fetid thing slumped up over the step to lie directly in front of me. It looked remarkably like a bloated earthworm, but one cast entirely of flame. I had seen its image before: in the woodcut back in the quiet office I was now regretting ever having left. It reared up above me until what I took to be its head scraped against the ceiling of the tunnel, leaving a black charred scar to mark its passing. I could do naught but trust the ritual and repeat the chant.

  “‘Servo mihi per totus vestri vires. Ter inter orbis, reus subsido totus, malum nessum.’

  Something felt off with the chant; it did not carry any resonance, any sense of the command that I might have expected.

  The thing obviously felt the same way. It kept coming. The skin at my cheeks started to tighten as the heat grew almost unbearable. About then, I regretted not having employed the electric pentacle, for the worm was already encroaching on the chalk defenses on the floor, crawling over the outermost circle and making for me with some speed. I stepped back just in time to avoid being burned to a crisp and did the first thing that came to mind. I called out a banishing spell, one that had proved efficacious in other tight spots.

  “‘Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.

  “‘Damnú ort!’

  The thing backed away, slithering down to the water and departing with a hiss of steam. I slumped, exhausted, against the too-hot wall of the tunnel and surveyed the smudged marks that were all that remained of my protective circle. Like Mr. Rogers before me, I had not succeeded in my intent. The Old One was not placated, and I had a feeling that it would return even stronger; I had failed completely.”

  c

  Carnacki paused again, but only long enough to knock out his pipe on the grate before continuing.

  “The Home Secretary, of course, was not amused. He did allow me a couple of hours rest, which I spent sleeping fitfully in an armchair in the Members’ bar, before once more putting me to work on the books. I took to it with some degree of urgency, for I now knew that the beast was certain to return that very night—and stronger than before.

  “Remembering just how hollow the chant had felt I focused my attentions on that. At first the transcribed ritual looked as expected, but on closer inspection with a magnifying glass it soon became apparent that the chant itself had been tampered with. The last word, nessum, had originally been written pessum. Someone with a steady hand had carefully obliterated part of the first letter, thereby rendering the chant completely ineffective. It could not be a coincidence that this had happened just as a new chap had taken on the job.

  “The Home Secretary was apoplectic when I told him, his face redder than ever.

  “‘Bloody sabotage!’ he shouted. ‘But by whom? Those books are kept under lock and key in this very room. Only Rogers and I had access.’

  “Of course I immediately saw something that would have been beneath his notice.

  “‘And your cleaner? Would she have been in the room alone? Did you ever, as you did with me, take Rogers to lunch, leaving the books on your desk?’

  “He went pale and abruptly left the room, barking orders at the policemen outside. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to the ritual itself. I now had to ensure that I expunged the older version from my mind and that, when I chanted, the modified word did not pop unbidden into the sequence. If you wish to know how this felt, you should try reciting your multiplication tables over and over again, then change one of the results, and keep it changed in all subsequent recitations. It is not as easy as it seems. Nor did it prove so for me.

  “By the time evening came round again I was no means certain that I would be able to perform the task adequately. As a precaution I had the Home Secretary ensure that bonfires were lit along the length of the Thames Embankment, for I knew from my reading of the books that this method had proved efficacious in the past in keeping the beast at bay. The Secretary was somewhat preoccupied with his hunt for the saboteur, but promised me that my request would be carried out forthwith.

  “When I reached the steps in the tunnel under the House at dusk that night I was hoping that he had been as good as his word. A deeper chill had set into the chamber, and the air was full with a sense of foreboding as I quickly redrew the protective circles. This time, I also added my electric pentacle, the rainbow glow from the valves lending me a degree of calm that I had been having difficulty in reaching without it.

  “And it seemed I finished my preparations just in time. Once again I saw red shadows flicker on the walls, and once again the bloated worm slumped its way up the steps toward me. I chanted.

  “‘Servo mihi per totus vestri vires. Ter inter orbis, reus subsido totus, malum pessum.’

  “The blue valve of the electric pentacle started to pulse and flare in time with my voice, and the chant took on weight and resonance.

  “‘Servo mihi per totus vestri vires. Ter inter orbis, reus subsido totus, malum pessum.’

  “The worm quailed and faltered as I raised my voice to a shout. The green valve of the pentacle began to pulse in time. Red flame ran across the body of the worm—but it came no closer and I felt none of the heat that I had the night before.

  “‘Servo mihi per totus vestri vires. Ter inter orbis, reus subsido totus, malum pessum.’

  “The worm retreated back down the steps.

  “Almost as soon as it had began, it seemed to be over.”

  c

  “There was a certain sense of anticlimax as I related the events to the Home Secretary back in the comfort of his office. He passed me a large shot of Scotch and a cigar.

  “‘Good show all round,’ he said, smiling. ‘Crisis averted, and we caught the bally charwoman too, trying to flee the country.’

  “I did not quite know how to broach the matter I had now been considering, so I came straight out with it.

  “‘I believe that tonight I shall be able to banish the beast completely,’ I said as I lit the cigar.

  “The Secretary went pale again.

  “‘Banish it? Whatever for? Sorry, old chap, but that can’t be allowed. We have the tradition to consider.’

  “‘Surely the risk outweighs the needs of tradition?’ I said.

  “He smiled, and I saw the predator in him for the first time.

  “‘But consider this, Carnacki … what if an enemy ever
reaches our doorstep? Do you not see what a weapon we will have as a final solution?’

  “And with that, I was dismissed.”

  c

  Carnacki sat back in his chair and we realized with some confusion that his tale was over. Arkwright, forthright as ever, was not slow in voicing his displeasure.

  “I say, old man, you can’t stop there. That’s no kind of story at all. There’s no end to it.”

  Carnacki gave a wistful smile.

  “But there is indeed an ending … of sorts.” He said. “You all saw it on your way here tonight. The Home Secretary has used his charwoman’s treachery to create an anti-Irish flap. That in turn has allowed him to light bonfires all along the Thames, supposedly in celebration of the foiling of a new plot on the anniversary of Fawkes’ original. The fact that none of this is true does not seem to bother the Secretary one little bit.

  “The only gratifying thing to my mind is that his actions should ensure that the fires will continue to be lit on these nights for many years to come, and that the Old One that lurks in the water will be kept quiet as long as the ritual is maintained.

  “Now, out you go,” he said, and herded us through to the hallway and then out onto the Embankment. As I strolled home I watched the fires burning with a renewed interest in their history and tradition.

  And I kept well away from the river.

  Captain Gault’s Nemesis

  I was late in reaching Chelsea that Friday night in September, a combination of an over-zealous manager in the bank and delays caused by the intensive flooding of the day before. All day I had been hearing tales of woe from residents of dwellings that were either too close to the river or too low-lying to escape. The Thames was still perilously near its highest point as I hurried along the Embankment, but the tide was ebbing now, and the city had survived the worst of it.