James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

Burton turned toward Abberline. “That is indeed strange. But I see nothing of the occult at work here. Tell Holmes to find someone else. I’m busy seeing to my friend.”

Abberline stared at him for a long moment, a look of befuddlement on his face. “Very well, Captain. Good day to you, sir. I hope Mr. Swinburne recovers soon.”

Burton turned once more toward his friend. “So do I,” he murmured as Abberline let himself out.

Burton sat by Swinburne’s bedside all morning. He talked to Swinburne, and when young Thomas fetched the morning paper from the vendor around the corner, read to him, pausing to comment on certain topics in which he and the young poet shared a mutual interest. Burton could almost imagine the youth uttering squeals of delight at some bit of literary news, or expressing colorful disdain over some draconian measure being considered by Parliament. But there was no response from the poet. He lay there peacefully, as one dead.

Burton feared for his friend, for he knew that Swinburne couldn’t last long in this state. Without nourishment, his body would slowly but inexorably wither away. Miss Angell came in every few minutes to dab his lips with a sopping wet cloth and dote over him. She begged Burton to eat, but he refused.

At midmorning, Dr. James Hunt came around again. “I’ve got some good news,” he said as he checked Swinburne’s temperature and blood pressure. “The barrister awoke this morning.”

“Splendid.”

“Yes. I just came from there. Sat bolt upright, stared at his wife of thirty-two years, and began to utter a bizarre string of gibberish.”

“Is he all right?” asked Burton.

James Hunt shrugged. “He seems to be now. From her story, I was convinced he’d had a stroke, but he’s alert and eating, though he still seems befuddled, as if he doesn’t know who he is or where he is. But I think his memory will come back in time.”

Burton scowled. “And this is good news?”

“Yes, of a sort. It means that perhaps this sleeping sickness won’t last very long. I also heard through the grapevine that two of the other men have also recovered, all showing similar behavior.”

Burton uttered a sigh of relief. “Roughly twenty-four hours since they fell ill. So Algy should recover by sometime tonight.”

James Hunt shrugged again, packing up his medical bag where it rested at the foot of the bed. “Makes as much sense as anything else regarding this malady. I’ve never seen anything like it, Richard. No one has. It has the medical community thoroughly flummoxed.”

Burton nodded grimly. “My contact in the government seems to think this sickness has broad, sinister implications for the Empire.”

The good doctor laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I’d watch Algy’s behavior closely once he does regain consciousness. I’ll be round again this afternoon to check on him.”

He paused in the doorway. “Algy isn’t my only patient.”

“I know,” said Burton. “I appreciate your help and your discretion.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Hunt. “I was talking about you. Get something to eat. Get some rest. I have a feeling you’re going to need it. This thing, whatever it is, isn’t over yet.”

With that he stepped through the portal and was gone.

Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes arrived at noon, the former carrying a bundle of afternoon newspapers he plopped unceremoniously onto the sideboard, almost knocking over a bottle of Saltzman’s Tincture.

“What the bloody devil?” said Burton.

“The whole city is talking about it,” said Milnes. “About them.” He pointed at Swinburne, lying in peaceful repose like a ginger cherub.

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re calling them the Awakened,” said Bradlaugh. “It seems they’ve all recovered, roughly twenty-four hours from when they first fell ill.”

“But they’re talking gibberish,” added Milnes.

“Yes, I heard as much from James Hunt this morning,” said Burton.

“What the bloody hell do you think is going on?” said Bradlaugh.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see how Algy behaves once he awakens. At least now we have some glimmer of hope that he will.”

Miss Angell came up and shooed everyone out while she worried over Swinburne. Burton, Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes took the papers into Burton’s study and pored over them, scouring every detail they could glean about these so-called Awakened.

The most information came from the barrister, Harrison Goforth, who had been the first to fall ill and hence the first to recover. He was still at home, recuperating, surrounded by family and friends and exhibiting some odd behavior the article did not touch on in any detail. The other cases were similar. Several of the articles detailed the backgrounds of these singular men, but Burton saw no connection whatsoever between them and Swinburne, and couldn’t imagine that Algy had ever met these men or interacted with anyone they knew. The only link any of these men had with one another was the strange ailment that befell them.

Burton ate a plate of cold cuts and smoked a cheroot, then wrote a letter to Isabel, who was visiting with her family in the country. Milnes and Bradlaugh had slunk out at some point, so Burton busied himself with working on his translation of A Thousand Nights and a Night , but couldn’t focus on it. He kept thinking about Swinburne. Nervous energy filled him and he couldn’t rest. He didn’t want to miss the poet’s awakening from this unusual ailment.

When Dr. James Hunt came by, Burton poured him a drink and the two sat in Burton’s study and talked of the other patients. The physician was reticent to give many personal details of each patient as he understood them but spoke about their symptoms in a general sense. All the men had, upon waking, spouted a stream of incomprehensible gibberish, and all had behaved as if they had no memory of who they are or where they were. Unusual too was how they seemed ill at ease in their bodies, showing undue fascination toward flexing their fingers and arms and spending a long time examining themselves in a mirror. James Hunt noted with intrigue how he’d watched his patient, the barrister Goforth, stare in revulsion at his reflection, followed by a long session of touching his nose, blinking his eyes, and running his fingers through his bristly salt and pepper beard. None of the men spoke; they communicated by grunting and pointing. Hunt likened it to watching someone revert to a pre-verbal form of intelligence.

Burton feared even more for his friend, and he listened with rapt attention, forgetting to keep track of the hour. At last, the clock in the hall chimed midnight, and he and Dr. James Hunt sprang from their chairs and rushed into the spare bedroom to check on Swinburne.

There was no change at first. The poet lay there as still and peacefully as he had since the previous morning. But Burton noticed a slight facial twitch, and Swinburne opened his mouth in a yawn. His eyes snapped open as he sat bolt upright in the bed, blinking at Burton and the physician. Next, he opened his mouth again, and a stream of inhuman syllables came forth in low-pitched tones Burton thought impossible for the high-pitched Swinburne to produce. Then he closed his mouth and stared at Burton and James Hunt, as if expecting them to say something.

“Algy?” said Burton.

Swinburne’s head turned at the sound, curiosity on his face. It seemed as if he not only failed to recognize it as his name but didn’t understand that it was a name at all.

“Algy, it’s me, Richard. I’m here with James Hunt. Do you remember who you are?”

Swinburne stared at them blankly.