The Magic Lands Page 30

  THE SHIFTING LAND

  "What...what do you want?" Tom murmured, the dense mist seeming to hem them in.

  "You need not fear me," the figure voiced genially, putting up a gloved hand as if he thought they might run. "I am not the Ripper, lord forbid it!"

  Tom and Jack backed away a little, regarding the man suspiciously. He didn't look dangerous, but they had learnt to be on their guard. "Who are you then?" Tom questioned.

  "My name is John Watson and I am at your service," the stranger replied, stepping cautiously toward them, revealing a compact black bag that he carried at his side.

  "You're a doctor?" ventured Jack, nodding at this and the man smiled.

  "Semi-retired now I'm afraid. Occasionally I answer a call if my services are required, and that sometimes means that I must walk these fog blighted streets at an unusual hour, but as I have already assured you, you need not fear me. There are others however, about whom I would not say the same."

  "You mean Jack the Ripper?" offered Tom, a chill creeping through him, making him shudder and he saw that the doctor was similarly affected.

  "It is a terrible business," he observed, his face dark with memories, "but there are those who would see an end to it. In fact, a good friend of mine is at this very moment engaged in bringing the monster to justice. And if anyone is able to do so, you can rest assured that Sherlock Holmes is that man."

  "Sherlock Holmes!" exclaimed Jack, almost a shout. "But that's not..."

  "What year is this?" cut in Tom, saying the first thing he could think of and all he got for his trouble was a startled look from Jack and an odd one from Dr. Watson, who shook his head as if baffled.

  "Why, it is eighteen hundred and eighty nine of course. Are you suffering from some form of amnesia?"

  Neither Tom nor Jack could make any reply to this. The tricks of the Beast were becoming more and more outlandish it seemed, mixing reality with fiction, and they were left disoriented and bemused.

  "Well," Tom managed to say at last, "I hope your friend succeeds. But we really must be going now." With a quick gesture to Jack he made to turn away, intent on disappearing into the fog which was so thick now they couldn't see more than a few yards in any direction.

  "One moment," the man called, striding after them, "I shall walk with you, at least until we reach a safer neighbourhood. I could not return to Baker street knowing that I had allowed two youngsters to find their way home by themselves."

  Uneasily, Tom and Jack accepted the doctor's offer and they walked on, their mistrust of everything in this bygone time causing them to remain silent, unwilling to enter into any further conversation with a man who, as far as they were aware, had never really existed.

  "Now, where do you live?" Dr. Watson enquired a little further on, as they came to the end of the street, and as the man waited for an answer Tom was overcome by a longing just to tell him everything. But what would be the point? This man was surely a pawn of the Wolf and nothing more. It was all a charade, a game, and yet it was a deadly one for all that, in which people died and madness danced in their murderer's eyes.

  "Not far from here," he heard himself say, unable to think straight, yet certain within himself that they had reached the darkest regions of the Beast's dreamland.

  "I dare say your parents will be relieved to have you safe at home," commented the doctor. "Now which way is it? It can be difficult to tell when the fog is this bad I know, but tell me the name of the street and I will do my very best to see you safely there."

  Glancing toward Jack, an unspoken agreement was instantly reached between them, and Tom knew that the time had come for this part of the charade to end. "We can't go home," he said slowly, stepping away from the man, Jack doing the same. "We don't live here."

  Dr. Watson gazed at them for a moment, his expression ambiguous and it seemed he would question what had just been said, but then from out of the fog, something large yet agile sprang at them and Tom was thrown to one side, the thing, whatever it was, grazing past him, sending him to the ground. As he picked himself up, he looked for Jack but the mist was so thick that he couldn’t see any sign of his friend, or of the doctor, although the sharp, venomous hiss of their assailant told him that he, at least, was close at hand. He waited, eyes straining to see into the fog, almost calling out but holding back, afraid that he would attract attention to himself. Out of the mist in front of him there came the sound of a scuffle and sidling forward, Tom saw Dr. Watson struggling with a dark figure only a few feet away. The two combatants grappled with each other, something that looked very much like a knife raised in the air, the black silhouette of the blade clear against the whiteness of the fog.

  From the left Jack suddenly appeared, leaping to the doctor's aid, swinging his fists wildly. There was a vicious snarl, of anger more than pain and before Tom had a chance to join his friend, the attacker grasped Dr. Watson by the throat pushing the man viciously backward, before fleeing into the fog. Jack almost made to follow, his adrenaline pumping, but the prostrate form of the doctor was at his feet and he stopped himself, concern for the injured man getting the better of him. Kneeling down, he immediately saw blood and realised it was more serious than he had suspected. He turned to look anxiously at Tom. "I think he's badly hurt," he muttered, the doctor unmoving and quiet.

  "Dr. Watson," Tom said, leaning down to get a better look. "Dr. Watson! Are you all right?"

  To the relief of them both the man stirred, his eyes watery and unfocused, but there was recognition in them as he attempted to sit up, a groan escaping him.

  "Take it easy," Jack advised, "don't try to move."

  Dr. Watson smiled weakly. "I am relieved to find myself in the hands of such a competent physician," he remarked, his voice shaking a little.

  "He had a knife," stated Tom, remembering what he had seen, his eyes drawn to the man's blood soaked waist-coat, and putting a tentative hand to his wound, Dr. Watson nodded.

  "It would appear you are correct, my young friend." His face was pale and sweat trickled from his forehead. Upon his neck were scratch marks, scored by sharp nails. "However, it would not be advisable for us to remain here. I must ask you to help me up so that we can depart from this devil's lair, before that madman returns to finish the job!"

  Neither of the boys needed any urging and so, with Tom and Jack supporting the wounded man, they began to walk very slowly into the waiting night.

  Both men knew that there would most likely be something evil awaiting them at the top of this long flight of stairs; they could sense something, a presence perhaps and each had their blades readied, the weight of cold steel reassuring in the threatening atmosphere. Their shadows distorted on the bleached walls, cast by a pervasive light from below, but as far as they could tell, nothing else moved.

  Eventually, they neared the summit of the lighthouse, their ascent achieved without incident. Above them, through a hatch, an emerald glow illuminated the tower and as he stepped beneath it, Dredger felt a strong premonition that arcane forces were at work, that power, ancient and strong, was all around them.

  Manoeuvring himself cautiously through the hatchway, Dredger surveyed the great lantern. It consisted of perhaps eight lenses held by a light metallic frame, and was set in a revolving carriage, moved, the warrior noted, by a clockwork mechanism, so as to show a regular series of flashes to any vessel at sea. A narrow walkway went completely around it, no doubt for maintenance purposes and moving cautiously onto this, his boots ringing on the metal, Dredger made a slow circuit. He shielded his eyes from the huge lantern as he went, yet watchful for anything that was strange or out of place. He saw nothing however. The place was empty and he frowned, wondering if his senses might have betrayed him. Outside, a heavy rain had begun to beat down, drumming against the glass and listening to it, amplified in the stillness that settled about him, bathed in the green radiance of the warning lamp, his uneasiness returned, the nagging conviction that there was something wrong.

  "Somethi
ng is amiss here..." he began, turning to where he fully expected to find Mo. But instead, he found only space and silence. Mo had vanished.

  Rushing to the hatch, Dredger leant through, peering down the staircase for any sign of the other man, but to no avail. "Mo!" he called, but no answer came. Even if his companion had chosen to descend for some reason, he would have signalled first, the warrior was certain of it. No, this was more of the Beast's wiles. Foul magic was at the heart of it. "So you test us further," he said aloud. "Well that is as it should be. But I promise this. When you come for me, you shall not find me such easy prey."

  Defiant and yet disturbed that Mo could have been taken so easily, leaving no trace that he had ever been there at all, the warrior stood alone as the weather raged on, and for some time he remained there, listening to the howling of the wind.

  As Mo had made to pass through the hatchway behind Dredger, he was assaulted by an all encompassing darkness, blinding him momentarily. But it was not only his eyes that were affected. His very consciousness was indefinably subdued and he reeled under its influence, falling to his knees, too overcome even to cry out.

  Summoning all of his strength of will, he concentrated on restoring his faculties, but the power which bound him was incredibly resilient and he found himself helplessly drifting, arrant energy pulsing within him, seeming to pass through his mind and then on into his deep subconscious. It numbed him and caressed him, stroking the root of his being. He was besieged by it and it would not be denied.

  But still, Mo fought back. He resisted the consoling agency that worked to capture his resolve. He would not bow down to the artful ministry of the Beast. Rejecting the dark serenity that danced within his soul, defying it in the name of everything he held dear, Mo forced it from him. But even though it subsided, it did not leave him immediately, instead crawling from him slowly, an agony of loss, and he knew that one moment of weakness would call it instantly back to him.

  But he was not weak. Holding fast to his beliefs, he expelled the last remnant of its sweet decay and very gradually as if his mind had been lost in a fever that had suddenly been broken, his senses returned to him. The darkness lifted and he was able to focus his eyes upon his surroundings.

  He stood in a long hallway that stretched indefinitely before him and turning, he faced a solid wall of white brick, with no visible sign of any exit or entrance. Briefly he examined it, but was not surprised when he failed to discover anything of significance. The rest of the corridor walls also appeared to be constructed of the same white brickwork, and yet it was not a true white he observed, and for reasons Mo did not quite understand, he found it disquieting. Underfoot lay a dark-coloured carpet, thick and luxuriant, but none-the-less vaguely perturbing, its texture somehow unpleasant, but he ignored these feelings of unease, attributing them to what he had just been through and applied himself to the situation at hand.

  Naturally, the Wolf was testing him, but there was more to it than that. It had suited the Beast very well to separate he and Dredger, but Mo knew that he had been brought to this location for a specific purpose. His enemy had waged a spiritual attack upon him and he had repelled it, barely. Now he would have to walk the long passageway before him, until he reached the goal that had been set for him by his adversary, and having no choice, he would do just that, although not perhaps in the way the Beast expected.

  The White Wolf believed itself to be the overmaster of all worlds, an office ordained, and yet Mo understood much that was otherwise forgotten, had learnt many truths that had been thought lost through the course of time.

  He started along the corridor and what had appeared to be a man began to shimmer, swiftly losing shape and form. Where two feet had trod, four now went, softly padding, lithe and supple; where a man's muscle had once been, now the sinuous tendons of a beast rippled, unbridled strength and power in every stride. Around the great head a golden mane flowed, and dark, wise eyes gazed keenly from a noble face.

  Tom realised that although the man was pretending otherwise, his injury was serious. Dr. Watson had managed to slow the loss of blood, but the wound was obviously deep and it was becoming more and more apparent that he wouldn’t be able to go on much further.

  "I think, my friends, that I will have to stop and rest awhile," he said shortly, his head bowed. Nodding, Tom glanced at Jack and saw in his friend's eyes a mirror of his own concern and fear.

  Coming upon the entrance to a dingy building, its high stone walls grey and cheerless, the two boys guided the man toward it, thinking it would serve as a temporary shelter.

  Easing the doctor carefully to the ground, he was able to lean his back against a wall. They made him as comfortable as they could but Tom knew that they would soon have to decide upon a course of action that would bring some aid to the injured man.

  "There is an irony here" said Dr. Watson softly, finding it difficult to speak now, "with myself being a doctor, and yet there is so little I can do. The wound is very deep and I am losing too much blood."

  Jack looked at him despairingly. "There must be something we can do?"

  "Yes," the man agreed, trying to seem optimistic, though he grimaced with pain. "But if it is to be done, it must be done quickly."

  "I'll go and get help," Tom declared with firm conviction, although it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. After being apart from his friends for so long, he did not want to go off on his own again when there was every chance that the White Wolf was merely playing games with them, using this situation to tear them away from each other, to separate them once more. But even if that were so, it did not alter the fact that a man was dying right before his eyes. How could he just stand by and watch? And yet maybe it was all just another test, his mind argued, uncertain. Maybe the Wolf had set another little quandary in motion for the express purpose of assessing their characters? But why should the Wolf care about that one way or the other? What difference could it possibly make to such a creature? Tom recalled how Mo had told them that the Beast's most cherished wish was to destroy their spirit, to break them down until all hope was lost. And the tool the enemy favoured to achieve this end, Tom knew, was subversion. Who could say what was truly real in this counterfeit kingdom? And who could say that the denizens of dreams could not be made to suffer, if the hand that weaves the fabric of their existence saw fit to punish them?

  "It's all right," Jack said quietly, eyes downcast, breaking the difficult silence. "I'll stay here with Dr. Watson, but be as quick as you can, okay? Just don't get lost!"

  With a small smile, Tom nodded to his friend. They both understood that there was no choice. Peering up at the wall opposite them, he could just make out a sign which read: Bilk St.

  At least I know where we are.

  "It’ll be all right," he promised as Jack looked up at him. "Let's hope there's someone nearby." With that, he turned and left them, moving quickly through the fog.

  He had to find someone, but who could be trusted? The mist clung to him, making it impossible to see anything clearly until he was almost upon it, the occasional sounds he heard difficult to identify or pin-point from which direction they came.

  After what seemed to him to be a very long time, Tom began to suspect he might very well be going around in circles as there was no reliable way of distinguishing one dark street from another. When he had first set out, he had believed it would be relatively simple to navigate his way through the city, thinking he would use the street-signs to aid him, but he had soon discovered, to his dismay, that the White Wolf had other plans for him.

  He had seen many plaques where street names should have been, but every one of them had been blank, and it did not take very long for the simple truth to occur to him, that he could not now get back to the place where Jack and the doctor were waiting no matter how much he wanted to. He was angry and disappointed with himself for having been so foolish. But he had to think positively. He couldn't just accept defeat because he had made a mistake. He knew the name of th
e place where he had left his companions, so maybe whoever he found to help them would know the way back there.

  I must have faith. Without it, he would be utterly forsaken.

  Pressing on into the poorly lit back-streets and lanes, he prayed that he would soon come across someone who would be willing to help him. The problem was however, that the area he had wandered into seemed entirely uninhabited, the buildings either derelict or apparently abandoned. There were no lights shining in any of the windows, many of which were broken, the empty frames dark, no sign of life anywhere.

  He knocked loudly on the door of any house that he thought had even the remotest chance of having a tenant, but no-one had responded after several attempts and this only served to intensify his uneasiness.

  Turning into another dreary alley he caught sight of a figure lolling against a doorway and as he was on the verge of desperation, he ran toward them without a second thought. As he drew near the person he saw that it was a woman, a shawl draped around her shoulders, her greying hair concealed for the most part by a scruffy hat. He approached her, apprehensive but relieved that he had found finally someone. "Excuse me," he started, trying to be as polite as circumstances allowed.

  The woman eyed him with interest and smiled, the teeth she still had blackened and uneven. "Ello, lovey," she said, her voice hoarse, "lookin' for company?" Her face was painted with rouge and dark eye-shadow and Tom was reminded obscurely of a clown.

  "I need help," he explained, "my friend is hurt."

  The woman continued to smile, a strangeness in her eyes that Tom found disturbing. "Dearee me. Why don't I take you 'ome, then you can tell me all about it."

  "No, you don't understand," Tom said loudly, but the woman only laughed at him, licking her lips in an exaggerated manner.

  "What's the matter, not up to it? Can't handle a real woman, aye? Per'aps you're only fit to fumble with little girls. I could show you things that would open your eyes. I could make you feel things that you’ve never even dreamed of."

  Tom looked at her with both horror and fury. He felt sick inside. Turning away quickly he ran back along the alley, with no thought other than to escape her disgusting leer. After a while, he slowed to a trot before finally coming to a complete halt beneath a single streetlight that burned dimly above him.

  What should I do now? What can I do?

  From somewhere close by there came the sound of footsteps and starting, alarmed by the sudden echo that came to him through the quiet, deserted streets, Tom listened trying to determine from which direction the person came.

  "Hello!" he shouted out, hoping to attract their attention, "I need help!" But no answer came back, the fog heavy around him.

  The footsteps had ceased the moment he called out and Tom was beginning to feel decidedly ill-at-ease, uncertain as to what he should do; whoever had been walking there had stopped at the sound of his voice, yet for some unknown reason refused to answer him. Who was it there in the darkness?

  As he wondered, a stony coldness eased through him as if he had sensed something malign was close by. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he began to sweat, his body shivering at the first touch of fear. "Who's there?" he called, a tremor in his tone, his voice almost failing him, but even as he spoke, a figure appeared out of the mist, only a few yards away.

  "I have looked high and low for you," the man whispered, the words like shards of ice, aimed at Tom's heart.

  To Tom, it felt as if he had become rooted to the ground, his body unable to react, though his mind screamed at him to run, and he watched in silent fascination as Jack the Ripper

  advanced, the small scalpel held in his white gloved hand gleaming coldly in the weak light, as if eager to do its bloody work.

  Dredger grew restless. He had prowled around the interior of the bleak lighthouse long enough and he sensed that whilst he did so, others were carrying the burden of battle.

  But was it not for him to lead the fight? He had to gain release from this sombre prison.

  The warrior knew that the island was part of the Wolf's domain and so it followed that the fabric of its reality came from within the Beast's scheming mind. Thinking hard on this, Dredger concluded that if only he could break the illusion of its substance, then he might escape, perhaps to the place Mo or the boys had been taken to.

  Acting on impulse, he moved hurriedly to the outer door of the structure and flung it open, confronting the now violent storm that thrashed the rocks, the wind whipping at him cruelly as he walked out into it, braving the onslaught. The rain lashed against him, fragments of stone and ice picked up by the wind cut his face and hands, but still Dredger strode on, out across the rocks, away from the tower with its beacon of emerald light, his mind set on one thing only as the elements tried in vain to force him back.

  The lands of the Beast, his memory recited to him, are forever shifting, for they are ephemeral dreams forged from madness.

  He knew that he must bend this particular dream to his own will, if only for a moment, and coming to the brink of a rough rock-face that stood out over the boisterous sea, a mass of heaving darkness beneath him, with his sword gripped tightly in his hand he dived out into the foaming waters, reaching for the ebony depths that lay far below.

  Fear seemed to have frozen his muscles and Tom was left wide-eyed, disbelieving as he watched Jack the Ripper approach him. Around them, a strange crackling sound began, building slowly toward a crescendo, the noise quickly becoming so acute that Tom reflexively put his hands over his ears. He saw the Ripper hesitate, his gaze leaving Tom for the first time, shifting rapidly back and forth, trying to ascertain the cause of the disturbance; to Tom it sounded as though something was being brutally torn apart, like the roar of the thunder when lightning reaves the air. But that was as far as his reasoning went for he knew that this distraction, whatever it was, had given him an opportunity of escape, and he meant to take it.

  Spinning around, his body at last responding, Tom made to run but was stopped in his tracks by an apparition that he hardly dared believe could be real, although at that very moment it was probably the one thing in all the world he most wanted to see.

  Dredger, his eyes fixed on the man who threatened the boy, stood only a few yards off, his sword readied, his expression a promise of death. "It appears I come at a welcome time," he breathed, never taking his gaze from the man who wielded the scalpel.

  "You have a new protector, I see," Jack the Ripper uttered, his voice full of arrogance.

  Dredger returned only a mocking smile. "It will give me pleasure to send you back screaming to the pit of corruption from whence you sprang," he hissed, "back to wallow in your master's filth." The warrior nodded for Tom to move behind him and the boy obeyed at once.

  With a virulent laugh, the Ripper came after him. "I have no master, fool," he spat. "I worship only blood, and now I shall kneel at the altar of that of the child."

  Dredger began to caress the air with his sword in a series of graceful, fluent disciplines, cutting the fog into ribbons of white smoke.

  "I have spilt more blood than you could ever imagine," he said almost nonchalantly, his face darkening, his eyes aglow with golden fire. "I am the bearer of such nightmares even the likes of you should fear. Look into my eyes, little brother, do you not see your sanctuary, do you not know your homeland?"

  Tom felt a chill run up along his spine, and all at once a dread greater than any he had experienced thus far gripped him with glacial fingers.

  For a few seconds the Ripper stared at the tall warrior and it seemed there was something in his eyes, a moment of recognition, but then with agile speed he came forward, his long cloak flying, gleaming blade poised to strike and moving with a grace and precision that belied his large frame Dredger went to meet him. The scalpel flashed and came down, only to glance off the warrior's right shoulder as if it had met with some kind of armour. Before he could stab at him a second time, Dredger had seized the man's arm in one powerful hand, putti
ng the virtue of his own sinew against the demented strength of his foe, the two of them just for a moment locked together, their eyes alight with unearthly joy. But it did not last long. Sweeping in a wide arc, Dredger's sword sliced through the vaporous air and cleaved the Ripper's neck, the keen edge of the steel cutting through muscle and bone effortlessly, blood spurting in a crimson spray, staining the mist a delicate pink. The man's head tumbled smoothly through the tainted air, disappearing into the heart of the fog, leaving the now headless corpse to collapse upon the pavement, where it twitched for a moment before becoming still.

  Tom, who had watched the brief fight in unblinking horror, only stared at the scene of carnage that had followed; some of the man's blood had rained upon him, upon his face and his clothes and he could only ask himself a single question in the midst of his disgust, a question for which there seemed to be no plain answer.

  Was this all there was, kill or be killed?

  At that moment it seemed to him that this was indeed the way of things, that the real truth of the matter was that they were all nothing more nor less than beasts themselves.

  Absently, he shut his eyes to bring an end to the picture of savagery that tormented him, tears gently beginning to roll down his cheeks and he tried to find the courage to face the man who had saved his life, but who frightened him in a way which went beyond his understanding.

  Sitting there in the grey shadows, watching the deep mist moving aimlessly around them, Jack let his thoughts drift away.

  Jack the Ripper, his mind sighed. Jack the Ripper. Jack.

  Beside him, slumped against the wall, Dr. Watson had been quiet for some time and on several occasions the boy had leaned close to him to check that he was still breathing.

  Maybe he's dead now. Maybe I'm all alone with a dead man.

  Somewhere inside his head a ghost crept, an alien thing, tugging at his mind. Who are you? it asked patiently. Who are you really?

  I'm Jack.

  Yes, that's right, the ghost agreed, that is exactly who you are.

  Faintly, the man next to him mumbled something, but Jack couldn't make out what it was.

  Finish the job.

  "What...?" Jack started to ask but found himself unable to continue.

  You must finish what you have begun. Put this poor wretch out of his misery. He's as good as dead already. Do it, Jack. You know you want to.

  Jack shook his head, trying to clear his mind of these strange thoughts.

  You are JACK! You know who you are, don't you? JACK. JACK!

  A memory, peculiar and remote, surfaced in his mind. An image of a woman all dressed in white.

  "Did you think I would let you go so easily?" she purred, her scarlet lips pouting very slightly. She stood barely six feet away, leaning against the opposite wall.

  Jack felt an odd sensation begin to stir inside him, an unchecked excitement that grew rapidly, sending a shiver of pleasure through his body.

  "You do know who you are, don't you, my dear one?" the woman questioned, her eyes sparkling, drawing him down into their brilliant depths.

  "I'm Jack," he answered confidentially. "Jack."

  "Yes," the woman confirmed, "you are Jack, my Jack. And Jack has a job to do."

  A black cloud hung over him now, eclipsing his reason and although part of him resisted it, the darkness crushed him, the intensity of its power forcing him into submission.

  "Kill this man," she urged him lightly, as if it had no meaning, yet still Jack wanted to say no, the fading spark of his conscience not yet extinguished, but his mind could not even form the word, the shape and sound of it slipping from his memory.

  "And when the deed is done," the woman in white promised, "I will take you home with me. Now wouldn't you like that? I think that you would."

  This is a bad dream, nothing but a bad dream. But then Jack looked down at his hand and saw a small silver blade, gleaming dully.

  "Do not be afraid," she counselled him, "this is your destiny, Jack. And you cannot contest your destiny."

  Struggling to gain control of his mind, the face of the woman overwhelming him, the boy glanced over at the injured man.

  "Slit his throat," encouraged the woman, her voice sweet, "feel the rush of death, know its beauty as you slide the blade across his flesh."

  His hand was moving with a will of its own. Jack was powerless to stop it.

  You are Jack. JACK! Jack the Ripper.

  As the scalpel's deadly point advanced toward the man's throat, Jack could only wonder who he really was.