| Apr. 25th, 2005 @ 09:42 am Visions, Blood, and Ghosts |
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Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. Yeats wrote that, The Second Coming he called it, and perhaps it is truly at hand. It would be comforting to think that the great mass of London's unwashed humanity were about to meet the same disruption that has infected my life over the past few short months. But I fear that is just myself and those doomed to be involved with me that are falling into this dark hole.
After the last hellish night I do not know if I can go on. I am stealing a few moments this dreary morning to write down the dreadful experience, in the perhaps forlorn hope that so doing will expunge the events form me , like a senna pod purgative.
The night started as many others before it, meeting the coterie in the Golden Bough. It was a somewhat diminished group, with the effervescent Charlie sent by his father to the America's, and we spent some time in idle speculation on the likelihood of him meeting some golden heiress in that land of opportunity beyond the Atlantic.
At some point I fell to what I believe was Sara's carefully laid trap. In some way, I managed to give offence over my attitude toward women. It is hard, when one has been brought up by a parents like mine, to throw off societal attitudes toward women. It is easy with bright young things like Sara and Victoria to be able to imagine them making their way in the world. And there are many other strong women I know. Isabella, Miss Tarrant, even Mme. Camille, in her mercenary and manipulative way. When faced with these special cases it is easy to treat them with equal respect. But these women are exceptional, and one still, unfortunately thinks of "normal" women as subservient to male desires.
So however I managed to cause offence, I found myself, in apology, promising to joining the ladies in chaining themselves to the police station railings to protest the treatment of other women's suffrage protesters. It speaks to my sense of the absurd that I, an heir to gentry would be found in such crircumnstances, and it make me feel I am tweaking the nose of my dead father. But these small pleasures are all that are left to me.
When the fire at the Bough had burned down, and the staff pointedly not placed further fuel 'pon it, I saw the girls into their cab, and proceeded to stagger home. Whilst I could probably take a cab myself, or go with them, I find a brisk walks helps me sleep better when I reach my bed. Before my adventures I also used to think I was being daring, braving the streets in the small hours. Now that I know the London streets are more dangerous than most can imagine, I still do it. In one small way, it represents to me an attempt to face the fear.
This night I walked past the alley, where in a different life I had paid charity to a young lady, and I heard a woman's scream. Fearfully, I looked down the alley. Other than the usual street detritus it was empty, the only movement a flicker of light at the end, perhaps a lantern disappearing 'round the corner.
Inside me fear warred with concern and morbid curiosity.
But now the alley was just dark and empty. Nothing to show that what I heard had been real and not just imagination. And deep inside me I really did not want to meet another creature of the night just then, for what could I do? And I would likely be too late. Therefore I resolved it must have been my gin-fuelled imagination and continued home.
Upon reaching that building which was, following the horrid death of my landlady, de facto mine, I stumbled inside and sat down on the couch. I was only when I saw the form of Mm. Camille slumped opposite me that I realized I was not in my apartments but my landlady's now inhabited by the French medium.
My conversation with Mr. Gray had awakened her, though she was clearly as inebriated as I, if not more so. We passed the time in more drinking and inane chatter, until suddenly the lady threw herself back on the couch, her entire body at first stiffening, and then beginning to thrash around in a frenzy.
Mr Gray and I attempted to hold her, to prevent her from hurting herself or damaging the room any further, and we tried to communicate with her, but she babbled incoherently and thrashed around as if in some sort of fit. I knew from rumour of a relative that this sort of medical condition existed and that sufferers could harm themselves, but could not remember any treatment save perhaps laudnum, and in this state she would more likely choke upon't.
So we restrained her for some minutes, maybe as much as half an hour, time flows oddly in such circumstances, and I could not swear to how long we held her. Finally her body stiffened and arched almost throwing the both of us off, and she screamed loudly. But then she was still, and her eyes opened, scared and normal again.
As soon as I was sure she had returned to us, I released her, hoping she would understand that we had to restrain her.
Mr,. Gray brought her another gin, and she began to relax, though there was most obviously a fear and a terror lurking around the corners of her eyes and mouth, understandably so.
We asked her what had happened, but she said she did not know. It was obvious to both Mr. Gray and I that she was lying, but in her state I did not wish to apply any pressure, so after ascertaining that she was as well as could be expected, I determined to retire to my room. While I felt that someone should be with her, I doubted that myself as her erstwhile gaoler, would be able to provide her much comfort. Perhaps if this 'Francois' Mr. Gray told me of was here or could be contacted? But that idea was met with stony silence. In the end, Mr. Gray promised to keep an eye on her, and that he would ensure I awoke in time for my chaining appointment on the morrow.
So I slipped into drunken unconsciousness believing that the night had finished. And yet it had barely begun. In comparison, what had occurred was merely the overture to what was to come.
Some time later I was roused from my stupour by Mr. Gray shaking me vigourously. Breathlessly he explained to me that something had entered the house and was with Mme. Camille. Before he could tell me of this, there was a knock at the door, and Inspector Sotheby was there.
Guessing that if he did not the Inspector might well just break down the door, Mr. Gray opened the door for him and he rushed into Mme. Camille's apartment, where Mme. Camille was now talking lucidly, but as if to someone invisible.
I pulled on my shirt and strides, and stumbled down to the lower apartment again. Quickly, and in hushed whispers we exchanged knowledge. Inspector Sotheby told of how he had spoken with the creature of fire called Gabriel in the street and that after that exchange she had rushed off in the direction of my abode. He pursued, and was in time to see her (it?) pass straight through my door.
I explained to him what had happened earlier in the night. I also briefly described the visit of the madman Tommy and this mysterious Francois. He was annoyed that I had not seen fit to call him about either of those events, but what Mme. Camille was saying drew our attention and any repercussions were left as we listened breathlessly to her words.
Mr. Gray cleverly suggested that the Inspector, well-versed in the skill of taking evidence, should use his notebook to record her monologue, which he proceeded to do. I will not recount all she said, for the details of what she delivered were driven from my mind by later soul-shattering events, but the gist of the matter was that she recounted in some detail a series of horrific visions all of which involved Inspector Sotheby in some way.
In the first, the Inspector and Mr. Willberforce descended a set of stairs below Mm. Camille's old burned out apartment, through spirits and elements, to a gateway guarded by a hooded gatekeeper that led to a place of fire and screams, where a ritual had to be performed.
In the second, she, Miss Tarrant and the Inspector were bearding a foreign demon in his lair. Sotheby was incapacitated in a most horrible way, Mme. Camille herself was fed upon by the demon's lascivious servants, and was turned into one of the demons, and then all three fell upon the incapacitated Sotheby whilst Miss Tarrant stolidly faced the demon alone with nothing but her determination to protect her.
In the third and final, some sorcerers called 'the Martins' were cornered by Sotheby, the madman Tommy and another lady who was most obviously in charge. I personally understood this vision the least, though it seems that the madman Tommy who attacked Mme. Camille must somehow be involved with the Inspector.
Throughout her monologue, Mme. Camille's eyes were open and focussed as if she was speaking to one sitting closely next to her, but she could not see us. Even waving my hand in front of her face could not cause a reaction, and we were all loathe to try and more forceful means of attracting her attention because we did not want to break the spell, if that was what it was. As even I could not see any spirit, we could not act.
Finally she blinked and realized that she had us as an audience, at which point she became very defensive. But it was also obvious that the experiences of the night had taken a harsh toll, so whilst the Inspector would have preferred to question her further, he determined to let her sleep and then talk to her more on the morrow.
Mme. Camille had just been settled down to sleep and I was seeing the Inspector to the door, when there was yet another knock on my door. Mr. Gray announced that Miss Tarrant and Lord Rukevic had come a'calling. They had somehow been informed Mme. Camille had been having visions, and had arrived also to question her.
However after a brief discussion in my apartment during which we informed the Lord and his lady of the draining nature of Mme, Camille's experiences and her current torpor, Miss Tarrant determined to also return on the morrow when one could hope that the poor lady had recovered some composure. The couple left, and I saw the Inspector to the door
It had seemed to me that nothing more could happen in an already full night, but I was to be proven terribly wrong.
As I saw Inspector Sotheby to the door, he casually mentioned that he had to rush off and deal with a body. At the exact same moment, the gas-lamp in the hallway illuminated his trews They were sodden in blood.
I felt my blood drain from my face and my jaw drop, terror crawled up my spine and my eyes widened involuntarily. I wanted to run, but I was frozen in terror. I had been brutally reminded that this supposed man I had been talking so calmly to, was in reality a demon of the darkness, a predator on humanity.
Seeing my shock, the Inspector, tried to reassure me that it was not one of "his", but his nonchalance only cemented my fear in place. He reminded me that he was still an officer of the law and that he had been investigating another horrific murder when he had been distracted by the Gabriel creature.
"Come to think of it" he said "you could help me with this investigation. You could do your 'talk to the dead' routine, couldn't you?"
At that time my fear of the dark policeman had me quickly agreeing to assist him, even though he offered to leave it to the morrow. From what beloved Isabella had told me, normally the shades of the departed would hasten away to the River, so if I was to be of service to the law and it's terrible enforcer one had best strike while the blood was still warm.
I shivered at the way my morbid mind could call up these apt metaphors even in these straits.
My fear of my companion had temporarily driven from my mind what I would be likely to experience and I desired to get this task quickly out of the way.
Inspector Sotheby led me through the cold dark and misty streets of an eerily quiet London, 'til we reached a horribly familiar alley. Sotheby stopped then, and said, in a kindly voice
"Just around the corner, you need to be prepared, it's not very pretty"
My forebodings caused gooseflesh to crawl over my skin, as I suddenly knew what I would find. In the hope that I would be proven wrong I steeled myself and strode purposefully around the corner.
Into an abbatoir.
There was blood smeared on the brick of the walls, covering a wooden warehouse door in splatters, and pooled between the cobblestones. There were limbs lying, unattached to any torso, spread around the alley. Small piles of soft bubbly substances laid on the ground, a rat scampered away from one trailing something long and wet after it. Gobbets of flesh dripped off the walls, scraps of clothing caught on ironwork. And staring accusingly up at me was what I feared, the face of the seamstress I had sent home those many nights ago when I had first met the shade of my sister Kathy.
My mind dissolved and I fell to my knees amidst the gore and stroked the poor waif's miraculously dry and clean hair, gleaming beautifully in what light was reaching this dark corner of hell.
I don't know how long I knelt there stroking the hair of this dead girl, babbling apologies and useless promises to her and her kind, but finally I felt the firm hand of the Inspector on my shoulder.
"You knew her?" he asked.
His words gave me something to focus on and I clung to the idea of trying to explain to him my relationship with the poor girl to try and draw myself up out of the threatening madness. I do not remember what I told him, but the story brought my mind back to focus and I determined that she would be avenged, I would do what I could to discover her killer, even though what I could do meant that I would have to face her shade.
My trembling hands drew the pipes Isabella had given me from the pouch around my neck and I placed them tentatively to my lips. When I first tried to blow them, no air passed over the reeds and no sound was made. I tried again and an uncertain warbly note sounded, and then thrice and a clear tone emerged.
Nothing seemed to happen, but then a voice came from down the alley.
"Buy a match, guvnor?"
I turned, and there, leaning against the alley wall, her knee out, flouncy skirt pulled back, revealing far more than just an an ankle, was the match girl as I remembered her, in death occupying her customary territory as in life. Brash and bold, yet vulnerable and beautiful, even more so when released from the frailties and foibles of mortal form.
I climbed to my feet with the Inspector's assistance, and made my way down the alley to talk to her. He could not see her, but he knew from experience that I was talking to her shade.
She asked me if would walk round the corner with her. I hesitated imagining walking her around the corner to that scene from hell. She spoke again
"Or would you like me to lift my skirt here, luvvy?"
I found my voice finally.
"No, dear girl, I only want information"
"That will cost you more, guvnor"
"Of course, of course" I said "We want to know who you last took down the alley."
She looked away down toward where the light of the stars shone down into the alley through a break in the mist.
She seemed to be distracted, so I prompted her again.
"His eyes were blue and sparkly like the stars in the sky" she said, pointing .
I questioned her some more, with some prompting from Sotheby, but other than that he arrived in a carriage and was obviously a rich man from the other side of the river, we found out no more useful information about her killer.
Finally she spoke of the river drawing her down, and I too felt the tug of that dark cold water. The coldness began to eat into my legs, and I began to shiver, as I prepared to release her from my call. But my breath was weak and my note was not pure.
Suddenly she threw herself at me.
"Come with me luv" she cackled, the bestial part of her shade finally breaking free, and she tried to drag me with her down that icy river. I felt the inspector grab my body, and realized he felt the iciness on me that I had first seen on Isabella.
I was in grave danger, no Isabella here now to save me from that River or this hungry ghost. I knew that this could kill me more utterly than a normal death and I tried to concentrate on blowing the clear note that would send her shade beyond the gate.
Desperately she clung to me, using all her wiles to try and seduce me from my task, wanting my mortal frame to be hers, trying to merge with that body of mine that I was beginning to lose touch with. I managed to blow a short clear tone that forced her to let go of me and start to walk into death, but my shortness of breath and unbearable cold meant that I could not sustain the note long enough to drive her beyond the first gate.
And then as I prepared to finish the job I was hit by another desperate soul, someone else desiring release, as the spirits realized there was someone here who could release them from their purgatory. I managed to draw enough breath to walked that one away, and then I saw her there silhouetted against the light now emanating from the First Gate.
More beautiful than she had ever been in life, fighting the current, legs akimbo, skirt hiked above her knees, making one last play for continued existence with all her soul
"Can I lift my skirt for you, guvnor? "
That image will be burnt into my heart throughout whatever life I have left. My tears froze on my cheek as I thought of the unfairness of this act I was about to perform, of her brief hard life, of the things she did to survive and how my privileged life was so easy in comparison, and that one such as I would force her into that place she did not deserve to be, and I blew the final tone to drive her through the First Gate.
With her gone, my link to the River was severed and I fell back on the solid, real, cobblestones, chest heaving, taking great ragged gasps of air, as if I had been unable to breathe in that place.
As I staggered back to my garret supported by the inhumanly strong arms of Inspector Sotheby, who seemed almost compassionate to me now, I began to cry as I realized I had never, ever, known or even asked for, her name. That she would go, unamed and unremembered into that place seemed to be an ultimate insult to the person she had been, and I revolved to learn her name and ensur that her mortal remains were disposed of in a Christian way.
I briefly spoke with Mr. Gray when I arrived home, and recounted the incident in dull flat tones, as he assisted me onto my bed, and I collapsed into unconsciousness
....
Now I must go and meet with Sara and Victoria, where we shall protest the way the bobbies dealt with the last lot of women's suffrage protesters. Last night I tried, in my less than effectual way, to point out to the girls that they would at best be arrested, and they were of the opinion that their families, and my name would protect them.
But they do not know what is in the police force, they don't know that force has those like Inspector Sotheby within it's ranks, they don't know that the finest of clubs are infiltrated by these demons from hell, or that there are creatures out there that will tear a poor young waif apart and spread her viscera around London's cobbled streets as if it was an art form of blood.
I am dreading being chained to that railing. Although they insist that we will be gone before nightfall, that we will have the keys, and can leave at any time, the thought of being trussed up in the street, like a piece of meat laid out for the feral creatures to feast upon, like bait, or a sacrificial offering.
I fear even more that the indomitable Sara and Victoria will be exposed to that which I know, that their beautiful minds and porcelain doll faces will be blasted by that which has destroyed my poor life. But if I cannot dissuade them from putting themselves at risk, the best I can do is share their danger and perhaps provide some small measure of protection.
But in another way, I am more inspired to attend this protest. For what good can a world be where girls such as that young match seller should be forced to expose themselves to the dangers of the night and die so young? Maybe I can use these strange unnatural abilities that dearest Isabella taught me to help change this world, and maybe people like Sara and Victoria can also change the world in their way.
But why is it, do you suppose, that I feel like Jesus setting out for Gethsemane? |
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