Orpheus on the Underground and Other Stories, page 5
I stared at him. He was not part of the group of lunatics who had captured Dapper, and I relaxed a little. He had a very bushy beard and eyes of unhealthy ochre, and most of his teeth were stained. His clothes were decent quality but too rumpled to convey any sense of elegance. Then he spoke, and I was almost overwhelmed with nausea: his breath stank of some rancid meal lately consumed. I surmised that slugs boiled in milk might reek thus.
‘You are not a mason,’ he said.
‘No, no, no, I am a successful dealer in vintage wines.’
‘I mean: you are not part of the Craft?’
‘I came here on foot, not in any craft or vehicle.’
He rolled his yellowish eyes. ‘You’re an interloper, an intruder just like me, not a member of this perverted lodge.’
‘They do seem a gang of sexual deviants.’
‘On the contrary, they are always profoundly neurotic but never erotic. The perversion I refer to is one of the soul.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
I risked a peek around a column at the scene taking place at the far end and it was as awful as expected. Dapper was deceased or in a coma; draped like a lumpy old mattress on the altar, his gluteus maximus taking a fierce pounding from mallets, as if his tormentors were tenderising it for a devilish barbecue. He made no sound. They may have stuffed a rag in his mouth, or he was dead and this was corpse violation.
I huddled back in the shadows and trembled uncontrollably.
‘What is your name, fellow?’
I introduced myself and in return he told me that he was Yorick Porridge, the greatest and brightest, but least appreciated of all sleuths of the paranormal. When I replied that I was unaware such a profession existed, he sniggered quietly for a full minute and then said sharply, ‘It doesn’t.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘I am an amateur. All of us are amateurs. Have you heard of Carnacki? The famous ghost-finder. The Case of the Whistling Room? The Case of the Hog? He was an amateur too. We all are.’
‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘He was rubbish—I am much better than he! I do it for the love of the thing, for the hate of the thing, for the beauty of the thing, for the terror of the thing, for the wonder of the thing, for the vileness of the thing, for the ecstasy of the thing, for the mystery of the thing, for the magic of the thing, for the adventure of the thing.’
‘You do it for many things,’ I remarked lamely.
‘I do it for more things than that, but to list them all would be a dire mistake, for we are currently short of time and in a very tricky situation. It will take all my resourcefulness to defeatthis lot. They are attempting an operation that will alter the course of human history.’
‘An operation? Some sort of medical procedure?’
‘No, an arcane occult ritual.’
‘Sorcery, you mean? Black magic?’
He nodded grimly and held up something that shone with almost unbearable brilliance in the overwhelming light of the chamber. It took me several moments to recognise it as the blade of a broadsword.
‘I am Yorick Porridge,’ he announced simply.
Now I was doubly uncomfortable, for it seemed that my newfound friend was at least as insane as the archaically garbed personages who were mauling poor Dapper Tapper with rulers and set squares.
‘Have you heard of Thunstone, the great John Thunstone?’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
‘He was a miserable idiot—I am vastly superior.’
‘Another paranormal sleuth?’
‘Not so. A sleuth of the paranormal. There was little or nothing supernatural about the man himself. The same holds true for me. We are mortals. Have you ever heard of Jules de Grandin?’
‘To the best of my knowledge, no.’
‘He was an incompetent buffoon—unlike me!’
‘I will take your word for it.’
‘Yorick Porridge is who I am. Yorick Porridge!’
‘I’m convinced that you are.’
‘So you should be. But this is no time for idle chatter. Why do you waste my precious time? My sword will prevail.’
As I regarded his blade he noted my anxiety.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he snapped. ‘Are you such a mouse that this noble weaponry disturbs you? There are few better instruments of justice, truth and vengeance than a trusty old broadsword. I could have brought a pistol or revolver, but what use are they, really? They often jam, they are loud, they smell, they cannot be used to sever a rope or divide a pie. The sword is the optimal tool.’
I was still worried. ‘Are you an expert?’
‘Never handled one before in my life! So what? I am Yorick Porridge and if that isn’t enough, I don’t know what is.’
Sweat dripped down my face and I wiped it away with the back of a hand. It was too hot and too demented in this room.
‘Why don’t we just leave as stealthily as we can?’
With the extended index finger of his free hand, he jabbed me in the chest. A frown corrugated his forehead into an organic washboard. ‘Betray my calling, you mean? Abandon the human race?’
Before I could reply, he placed his mouth close to my ear and snarled, ‘I will never sell out my ideals. I am here to oppose the schemes of the vile and weird fellows who lurk around that altar. I will remove their heads if necessary. This irregular lodge must be annihilated. If their ritual succeeds, then life as we know it will be doomed. A mystical dictatorship will be established and we shall be the slaves of it.’
‘But how can you be certain of what they are planning?’
‘I have watched and studied them for many months. They are a mutant and debased pack of heretics, for most Freemasons are harmless or even benevolent individuals and their lodges are no threat to society; but these horrid apostates have adapted the imagery, myths and rituals to a darker purpose. Take the pillars around us. There are pillars in standard lodges but they do not spiral or bulge like these. Everything here is grotesque.’
‘My knowledge of secret societies is rather thin . . .’
‘Then let me brief you.’
‘Do you have to? I would prefer to depart now with my life intact.’
But Yorick ignored me.
‘Freemasons trace back the origin of the Craft to the life of Hiram Abiff, the architect of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem,’ he began, ‘and the founding myth of everything they stand for is that Hiram was murdered by three rascals who craved his secrets. Those rascals were Jubela, Jubelo and Jubelum. They butchered Hiram with their building tools; and so we see here today a re-enactment in reverse of that dreadful crime, a sort of magical negative.’
‘Three sacrifices, you mean?’
‘Exactly. Your friend was not needed, for the three victims had already been dispatched. I watched it occur. They have used him as a spare, just to be on the safe side. That is wise and careful, I suppose. By reversing the original murder in this symbolic fashion, the members of this dreadful lodge hope to summon Hiram Abiff himself from the remote depths of time and bring him into our world.’
‘That is a bad thing?’ I questioned.
‘If you love secular democracy, as I do, then yes! Hiram will help the masons establish a mystical theocracy that will dominate world affairs. Beyond the altar is an occult portal through which Hiram will arrive. We must sabotage it while he is still in transit. The ceremony is almost over. He is about to be drawn from his own time into ours. We must act now! I will slither on my belly to the altar and use the element of surprise.’
‘Surprise is fundamental if one is outnumbered.’
‘Indeed so. Without it, I will almost certainly fail. You must follow me and pick up the tools of all the fellows I kill, and employ them to finish off the ones remaining. Together we can end their nefarious plot. We will be authentic heroes, defenders of humanity and the best ideals. I will accept medals and cash rewards from kings and presidents.’
While delivering the lecture, Yorick Porridge had forgotten where he was. So absorbed was he in his speech that he jumped up and began pacing back and forth in full view of the celebrants at the far end of the room; his voice became as loud as that of a real lecturer in a university hall. He even swung his sword and clattered the flat of the blade against pillars in order to emphasise the various points he made. I was distraught, but helpless.
Heads turned. Men were watching us. Hammers were being hefted and I clutched at Yorick and swivelled him around.
‘Let us flee now!’ I urged.
‘Never. I am Yorick Porridge. Charge!’
He rushed forward, sword upraised. To my extreme discomfiture, he had grabbed my hand with his callused fingers and dragged me along behind him. I stumbled and hopped from foot to foot, overbalanced but was unable to brake his wild progress. He barked over his shoulder:
‘For the love of god, Monty Shoar!’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I suppose so; for the love of god.’
And we had engaged the enemy.
Yorick proved extremely inept with the sword. He swung it about in a slow figure of eight and the bad masons simply ducked and rapped him on his legs with rulers, eliciting from him a series of squeaks. His grip relaxed and I got away, but my retreat was barred by hefty men with hammers, so I stumbled over four bodies, one of them belonging to Dapper Tapper, my erstwhile neighbour. I ended up falling through yet another tapestry.
I was in a very small room. A large brass vessel lay on its side, like a font that had been tipped over. It was empty, but the bottom glimmered weirdly and this soon turned into a display of coloured lights. Then I understood that this was the magical portal, the route that Hiram Abiff would take from his own century to ours. A sudden impulse to jump through seized me, but for some reason I also felt a sense of responsibility to the bungling Yorick Porridge.
I turned to fetch him, but he had stumbled through the tapestry of his own accord, and though he still held the sword it was clear he had been defeated. His attire was in tatters and blue bruises showed through the tears. Then the curtain was yanked off the rails and a dozen hammermen confronted us, jaws working convulsively and eyes as coldly furious as frozen clichés.
‘Jump into the bowl!’ I bellowed.
‘Why? Why? Why?’ Yorick screamed.
The gateway to the past was fully open. The bottom of the brass vessel was a swirl of light and shapes like a distant galaxy speeded up. I bundled Yorick into the hole and he stumbled and fell and vanished. Then I leaped after him. I seemed to be in a tunnel that curved and twisted, a passageway of energy and skeletal geometry. Ahead of me Yorick struggled feebly at first, his limbs writhing; then I heard him giggle happily. We were on our way to the past!
I had few illusions we could flourish there and I doubted if a dealer in rare wines would be of use to the people we encountered. The vintages I was familiar with would be unimaginably futuristic to them, but anything was better than staying in that grotesque lodge among those violent people and dying in the random flicker of two thousand candle flames. I was enormously grateful to be alive and I was looking forward to arriving at my destination.
Then there was a violent concussion . . .
We had struck something coming the other way.
We were thrown sideways and the wall of energy softened to absorb us. Then we were spat out onto a beach.
We lay there, groaning and cursing, and I was dimly aware that there were three of us now. At last the paralysis wore off and I opened my eyes and sat up. Warm sand ran through my fingers.
Between the sprawled bodies of myself and Yorick, a third man lay with his hands over his face. He groaned and shuddered, then sat up and stared at me. He had a beard that was full and dark, and his eyes glittered.
He said something in a language I could not understand.
‘Hiram Abiff?’ I spluttered.
He was the first to stand and he studied his surroundings with a sombre but dreamy expression. Then he looked down at me, nodded, and strode off. Yorick had also recovered his senses and he grumbled, ‘Where are we? What happened?’
‘We collided in the time tunnel with the architect of Solomon’s Temple. He is striding off that way.’
Yorick suddenly became alert. He stood and helped me to my feet, then he scrutinised our situation and gestured at the receding figure. ‘He’s going back to Jerusalem. He doesn’t realise how far it is.’
‘Far in time or in space?’
‘The mystic portal opened by the rogue masons connected the modern lodge with the ancient temple both in distance and years. I suppose that we collided at the midway point, which means we are precisely halfway between his home and our home, geographically and chronologically. I have a feeling for such things.’
‘So where are we? And when?’
‘Hiram Abiff was murdered in the year 950 BC, seven years after work began on the Temple. We entered the portal in the year AD 2016, so if this really is the midpoint, then the present year is AD 533.’
‘Just in time to meet King Arthur!’ I blurted.
‘Yes, yes, but draw a straight line between Jerusalem and New Miletus and consider where the halfway point lies.’
‘Where?’
‘On the coast of what to us is the sovereign country of Montenegro. Back in the early sixth century it was an especially wild region where Goths, Avars, Slavs and the few remaining indigenous Illyrians were competing for control. King Arthur is unknown here. Eventually the kingdom of Duklja was established on this spot, but that won’t happen for a long time yet.’
‘Will the locals be friendly?’ I wondered.
‘Unlikely, unless . . .’ He cradled his chin on a fist in the archetypal ‘thinker’ pose and fluttered his eyelids rapidly. ‘There’s a chance, you know, that anyone we meet will be one of our own ancestors.’
‘Surely that’s highly unlikely?’
‘We are all related to one another somewhere along the line. As for Hiram: it is a long way to Jerusalem and he might become involved in some detours and adventures on the way. Perhaps the true origins of Freemasonry will be laid by him in this era. Why not? He may even end up as the author of the Corpus Hermeticum, a work that is attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, a fellow whose existence I’ve always doubted. That would be a neat way to close the loop, to tie up loose ends.’
‘But not much help to us in our predicament?’
‘None at all. But look! Our arrival has been noted. A gentleman is standing on the crest of that dune. I will approach him.’
‘He has the appearance of a barbarian.’
‘That doesn’t mean he won’t be helpful.’
‘Be careful! Remember what happened to Dapper Tapper.’
‘Your friend approached strangers but I will be approaching someone who may be my distant forefather.’ He took a step forward and stumbled. ‘Ah, I twisted my ankle in the crash.’
‘Can you walk?’ I asked.
‘Not unaided, but I am prepared.’ He waved his sword. ‘It is a sticksword. That’s like a swordstick but the other way around. I told you I was the most resourceful sleuth of the paranormal ever! If I twist the hilt a certain way and pull it out, a hidden walking stick will emerge. The sword blade is hollow, you see!’
Good as his word he drew a thin walking stick out of his sword. Then he winked and added, ‘But this isn’t any old walking stick. It’s a swordstick and contains a rapier. So I can climb the dune despite my injured leg and defend myself if that chap up there turns nasty.’
I gave him a thin smile in appreciation of his optimism.
The man on the dune hefted a large double-bladed axe as Yorick struggled up the slope. When the sleuth finally stood before the barbarian and spread out both arms in a gesture of peace, the axe went up and came down. One arm was severed. Yorick grinned sickly at me and called, ‘I haven’t finished yet. He still might be my ancestor.’
‘Hit him with your walking stick!’ I urged him.
The axe was raised and lowered again; the second arm fell free.
‘Too late. It’s messy but looks worse than it is. I’m Yorick Porridge and can still convey friendly intentions through my facial muscles. The fact he has severed my arms doesn’t prove we’re not related. Not all ancestors love their descendants!’
I turned away, not caring to see the result. I heard a dull thunk and then, ‘Well, I was Yorick Porridge.’
I increased my pace, hoping to catch up with Hiram Abiff and offer him my services. It was time to forget about wine. I could learn to be a mason or anything else he might need. I could be his scribe, helping him commit his secrets to writing. We could go to Egypt or anywhere he darned well pleased. We would be safe from Jubela, Jubelo and Jubelum; and I knew how to live without access to a working telephone.
BEHIND EVERY GHOST
‘Behind every great man stands—’
‘A dreadful ghost,’ interrupted Puck.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Dreadful ghost; abominable spook.’
Blinker sighed and turned hurt eyes on the younger man. ‘I was about to say a good woman. A cliché but true nonetheless. I suppose the fact it’s a cliché is what makes it true. Consider my wife, for instance.’
‘No thanks.’ Puck fanned himself with the newspaper.
‘I really don’t know what you—’
‘Behind every dreadful ghost stands a woman with a bloody knife,’ sniffed Puck, ‘or a phial of poison or a smoking revolver or something like that.’ With an utterly contrived yawn, he moved away.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Blinker.
‘I have no wish to trade homilies,’ said Puck, ‘so I thought I would explore the garden and knock off the heads of the gnomes with a croquet mallet. Very nice sport when you can get it, believe me.’
‘You are too sardonic for your own good, my lad. I don’t know what passes for manners in the city, but out here—’
‘Ah yes, the city,’ sighed Puck dreamily.
‘Damn place,’ growled Blinker.
‘Where do you keep the croquet mallets, Uncle?’
‘There are none in this house.’
