Ghosts by Gaslight (23 page)

“Hardly,” I rebuffed him. “I am, as you say, a scholar, and I read extensively in the new theories of mind. My speculations on such matters lead me in very different directions—inward, not outward. The feeling came from part of you, I would say, from some unnoticed or suppressed corner of your mind. You felt it when the woman Abiha abandoned you, leaving you trapped in your marriage with Margaret, and you felt it again when locked in this cell. Could your dissociative impulse be nothing more than a method of achieving freedom by the only means available to you—via a fantasy? Could that be why a disturbed mental state accompanied each occurrence of that feeling, and why you seem compelled to expound this unlikely tale to the bitter end?”

He regarded me with a critical eye for a good minute. I felt that he was surprised, and perhaps even slightly amused, by my claims.

“You may be right,” he said, finally. “I was wrong to belittle you, Michaels. I’m sorry.”

I dismissed his apology as unnecessary, but was secretly pleased to have earned it.

O
N THAT ENCOURAGING
note, I left him to see about the visit to Margaret’s resting place, in the hope that this would put the dreadful affair behind him for good, little knowing how complicit I was about to become in the conclusion of these events.

I wish you to understand and accept, Inspector Berkeley, that I acted unknowingly, and in full faith of Doctor Gordon’s good intentions. I will swear before any judge you name, in this world or the next, that I thought him resigned to his fate, that this last concession would see him walk to the dock and ultimately to the gallows. He spoke no more of his work or of the woman he felt had betrayed him. When I returned to his cell with the escorts assigned to him, he was already on his feet, his head bowed and his attire as neat as he could manage, given his circumstances. He seemed a gentleman fallen on hard times, not a villain.

Constables Teale and Collison secured his wrists with handcuffs and led him from the cell. A small steam carriage awaited us at the exit from the administration wing, where the patient’s temporary release forms were properly signed and witnessed. I rode with the driver, while my unfortunate companion sat between the two constables in the locked cab. We made our way down the long drive and through the main entrance under a sky as gray and leaden as granite, its featureless expanse broken only by the oval silhouette of an airship rising in stately fashion from the station with propellers deeply droning—one of Gordon’s own designs, if I am not mistaken.

The journey to Longbrook Valley and the catacombs of Exeter proceeded uneventfully. We were met, at the steps leading up through the Lower Cemetery to the entrance in the grim hillside, by the priest and, rather disconcertingly, the catacombs’ bricklayer, who was of the impression that we required his services. On the discovery that all of our party were living and no vaults needed to be sealed that day, he left muttering under his breath while Doctor Gordon and I ascended.

The arrangement was that the two constables would wait without while I accompanied the patient to the vault. The priest unchained the gate and allowed us through, then secured the entrance behind us. The air was cool and close within the catacombs themselves, and I longed for more light than my meager lantern provided. The walls were made of heavy, dark stone and fashioned to convey a sense of Egyptian antiquity. I was reminded of Gordon’s alchemical fantasies and wondered what he made of them now.

“I feel it again,” he told me, on that sepulchral threshold. “And I know now that it is fate, after all, brought me here.”

He seemed feverish to my quick inspection. “Do you wish to proceed? There would be no dishonor in turning back.”

“No,” he said. “I must see her. And I know now that I shall.”

We walked into the catacombs and followed the priest’s directions to the Dissenters’ section. There we scoured the sealed vaults, looking for fresh brickwork and a new brass plaque. I found Margaret before he did and stood in silence before telling him, reading the graven message that marked out the record of her days.

“Margaret Josephine Gordon, beloved wife, 1842–18—.”

It seemed very little to me then, and still seems so now.

“This is it,” said Gordon. He had come up behind me without making a sound. “Do you carry a journal with you, and a pen?”

“Of course,” I said—and that is the last thing I remember. Constable Teale found me unconscious on the floor of the catacombs with a large bump protruding from the back of my skull, struck from behind just as Margaret had been—by her husband, Doctor Gordon.

Y
OU MIGHT SAY
that, if what I tell you is true, I am lucky to be alive. I assure you that I curse the error of my judgment with every breath, and I wish I could explain what happened that day with any more clarity than this.

Certain facts are indisputable. The catacombs were sealed; the only entrance was attended by the two constables and the priest. No one entered or left until sufficient time had passed for them to come in search of us. When they found me unconscious and alone, reinforcements were summoned and the catacombs meticulously searched. Even Margaret’s vault, the most recently sealed, was opened, but her body was the only occupant.

Of Doctor Gordon there was no sign. He vanished that day as thoroughly as any ghost, my notepad and pen with him, and I believe you when you assure me, Inspector Berkeley, that no trace of him has been found.

I maintain that I had nothing to do with his disappearance, although I do not blame you for reaching the opposite conclusion. The only material way for the accused murderer to escape from the catacombs was with the assistance of an accomplice, and the constables’ solemn oath that they let no one enter or exit is supported by the priest’s eyewitness account. If these three are excluded from the list of possible collaborators, that leaves only me. Furthermore, I had the obvious opportunity to concoct this scheme, while supposedly interviewing him in Exeter Vale.

I am, however, sanguine about my confinement, for it has provided me with the opportunity to write this full and frank testimony—and to make one small but possibly critical discovery that escaped my attention in the catacombs.

In the inside pocket of my coat, folded carefully in four, I came upon a note written on one of my own notepapers, but in a hand very unlike my own. I enclose it with this account as evidence of the fugitive’s state of mind, and its bearing on the matter of my innocence.

Your conclusions must be your own, Inspector Berkeley. I have nothing left to reveal, and no further speculations to offer. (I presume, however, that you have interviewed the bricklayer, along with the porters of the asylum, and are doing everything in your power to find the woman Abiha, about whom Doctor Gordon speaks so vehemently.)

Yours most sincerely, et cetera,
John Wesley Michaels, M.D.

Michaels—

I am sorry to have used you in this despicable way. On entering the catacombs, I find that hope has returned; for the attainment of another possibility, the one that has thus far eluded me, is now within my grasp.

How much you believe of my story, I may never know. Perhaps none at all—in which case this short missive will provide yet more evidence to support a diagnosis of madness. If, however, you have detected the faintest ring of truth in my account, then you should attend carefully. The import of what I have to tell you has repercussions for not just this great Empire, but all humanity on this world.

Abiha told me that my experiments were flawed, and perhaps they were in application, but not in essence, for what else could possibly have drawn her to me? My machines sent ripples through the ether between worlds, alerting her and her allies to the existence of my work. They came to investigate; they misunderstood what they saw; they approached me, thinking me like them, free to wander the wondrous Helioverse she spoke of. Perhaps they hoped to recruit me. That I do not know—but now I know their cause, I can safely swear that I would never ally myself with such beings.

You see, Michaels, it occurred to me that night to wonder: if so many alchemists in our world had made the same discoveries—how they could possibly have been forgotten. Why, when their conclusions are so openly discussed in their texts, isn’t this means of travel available to us all? The answer lies in how you yourself described them: “lunatics and misfits,” I believe, were your very words. Someone must have calculatedly driven them into disrepute—but again, why?

It is clear to me now that the one thing Abiha and her people do not desire, under any circumstances, is for someone to build a machine that replicates what they alone can do. Giving such a machine to the masses would open up whole worlds to exploration and exploitation, robbing them of the advantage that they are careful to maintain.

I said that I had made a mistake that night, by resisting her. Had I meekly abandoned my theories, Margaret would not have died, and I would not be as I am now, the center of scandal, my work in disrepute, all that is dear to me in this world dead and demolished—entirely by her hand.

So much for the “light of the intellect”!

What has also become clear to me is the possibility that Abiha too made a mistake. When I grasped her and was pulled into the ether, I did not return unscathed. The ether altered me, as it must alter everyone who touches it. I recognize it now. I feel it when it is near, and I have concluded that I could enter it again, under my own volition, if only given the opportunity.

But how to navigate such formless spaces? How to avoid being lost forever in the void between worlds?

“We all of us have places of significance,” Abiha told me. Hers are laboratories like mine, where great men dream of travelling the universe. What if some places resemble the poles of a magnet, except that like attracts like, tuned to an individual’s vital experiences? This explains why she came alone to me, not with an army of fiends at her back. Such a navigational mnemonic would enable her to cross the gulf between worlds as easily as stepping from room to room, unfettered by mere matter!

And I could do likewise, if I could manage the trick of it.

Far from egoless acceptance of guilt, dear Doctor Michaels, the dissociation I felt in my cell offers me both the means to escape and an opportunity to gain revenge upon the woman who killed my Margaret. I feel it even more strongly now, here in this place of mourning and loss. The ether presses hard upon the reality of this world—this world I now suspect to be paper-thin and as easy to puncture as water. For the ether is none other than my river of life, the universal fluid we ride like swans, not realizing we can take flight at any time.

In a moment, I will make the attempt. If I succeed, I will follow this fateful catacomb to one in another world—hers, perhaps, if the congress has not ended, or another nearby—leaving you a mystery, this apology, and a further exhortation to read the authors I named during our brief discourse. Don’t let the silence subsume their voices, for each is a victim of those who would condemn our world to isolation and ignorance. Take up their dream of the ultimate transportation, and follow, if you can. And when you think of me, remember their words, not mine:

I touched the state when only Truth remains.

I swept away pleasures and pains.

The Highest which is beyond the reach

Of the four ancient Vedas

came
     here
        to me!”

[Author’s note: Every reasonable effort has been made to trace the copyright holders of “I left the world” and “The Eightfold Yoga” by Pattinattar, English translation by Kamil V. Zvelebi, and to obtain their permission for the use of this copyright material. The author apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints of this story.]

Afterword to
“The Jade Woman of the Luminous Star”

After spending a million-plus words and ten novels in one fantasy universe, I’ve been tinkering recently with something new. My intention is to explore the Helioverse in a novel called
Liminus,
and the opportunity to write this story, a distant prequel, could not be resisted. I’m grateful to John Harwood, for both his assistance and friendship I value beyond words.

—S
EAN
W
ILLIAMS

Robert Silverberg

Robert Silverberg has been a professional writer since 1955. Among his many novels are
Lord Valentine’s Castle,
Dying Inside,
Nightwings,
A Time of Changes,
and
The Book of Skulls
. He is a many-time winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards, was Guest of Honor at the 1970 World Science Fiction Convention in Heidelberg, and in 2004 was named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America. He and his wife, Karen, live in the San Francisco Bay Area.