James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“You’re in my home at Gloucester Place. Charles Bradlaugh and Richard Monckton Milnes brought you here last night. Do you remember?”

Swinburne turned his head to the left, toward the room’s sole window. It was full dark, the only light coming from lanterns flicking in a distant window. He looked around then, seemingly fascinated at the architecture evident in the walls and ceiling. The lamp Burton had lit moments earlier cast strange shadows about the room.

Swinburne lifted his arms and stared at them, flexing the pale, freckled fingers before finding his face and probing it like a blind man.

“Get him a mirror,” said James Hunt, and Burton went for a small shaving mirror Miss Angell had brought up earlier. He held it aloft before Swinburne, and the poet uttered a shriek and cowered from it, pulling the covers over his chin.

“It’s all right, Algy,” said Burton. “It’s you.”

The poet quickly recovered, rising and studying his face in the mirror, turning his head this way and that, discovering his ears and tugging them before running his fingers through his unruly tangle of thick red hair.

The doctor rummaged in his medical bag.

“James is going to examine you now,” said Burton. He stood back and watched as their mutual friend gave Swinburne a thorough going-over, checking everything from his blood pressure to his reflexes. Swinburne cooperated, showing as much interest in Hunt as Hunt showed in him. When he finished, he stood and looked at Burton.

“He’s as healthy as outward appearances would suggest. Again, I can’t find a bloody thing wrong with him.”

Burton motioned for James Hunt to come closer. “Perhaps the malady goes deeper than we can observe,” said the explorer. “There is definitely something off about him, don’t you think?”

“There’s always been something off about Algy,” Hunt replied.

“No, that’s not what I mean. Look at him. Absent is his characteristic twitching, his nervous energy.”

James Hunt turned toward his patient and stared at him for a long moment; Swinburne busied himself with studying his reflection in the shaving mirror once more. “By Jove! You’re right, Richard! I was so used to his spasms I hardly missed them. But yes, they’re gone. It’s as if…”

“He’s someone else,” Burton finished.

“Yes, but, that’s impossible. He’s just suffering from a peculiar form of amnesia.”

“Perhaps,” said Burton. He glanced at Swinburne, who returned his gaze with anything but confusion or befuddlement. Burton got the feeling the the diminutive poet was only pretending he didn’t know what he and James Hunt were saying. “Is it unusual for an amnesiac to cower from their own reflection?”

“I’ve heard of them not recognizing their own faces,” said Hunt, “but no, not that I’m aware of. This is a most singular case.”

“Except for the fact that it is not that singular,” said Burton. “All over London other men are exhibiting the same symptoms.”

“True,” said James Hunt. “But there’s nothing tying these men together. Perhaps they experienced similar trauma.”

“I very much doubt your barrister patient was undergoing the lash,” said Burton with a grin. “We need more information.”

“We need to closely watch not only Swinburne,” said Hunt, “but the others. Now that they’re all awake, their behavior will be more informative.”

Burton nodded. “I’ll keep a close eye on Algy. Please keep me apprised of your barrister and the others.”

James Hunt nodded. “Help him to jog his memory. The sooner he recovers, the sooner we’ll get back our old friend.”

James Hunt turned to Swinburne. “So long, Algy,” he said as he left.

“So long, Algy,” Swinburne repeated when James Hunt had closed the bedroom door behind him.

“Algy?” said Burton, but the poet just looked at him, a bemused grin on his face.

Burton stayed up with Swinburne most of the night, naming things Swinburne pointed to and helping him when he once fell out of bed, as if he had forgotten how to walk. But he soon discovered his legs—and tottered about like a child taking its first furtive steps. Swinburne wandered into Burton’s study, and the explorer followed him, pointing things out to him and keeping Swinburne from touching anything. He seemed most intrigued by Burton’s wall of weapons, including various swords and spears from his travels in Africa and Persia. Then, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Swinburne crashed in a heap on his sofa while Burton dozed in his favorite chair. As he dozed, he dreamed.

“Fire!” shouted Burton, and he felt the muffled thud as two torpedoes left the Nautilus and flew toward their targets. A minute later his First Mate shouted, “Direct hit!” and the bridge of the submarine erupted in cheers. Burton grinned, but held up a steadying hand. The battle was not over yet. They watched through the forward view port as a pair of black basalt towers carved from the surrounding rock into obscene obelisks crumbled and collapsed onto the sea floor, filling the dark ocean water with debris. Debris that would help mask the Nautilus from the beings they’d just attacked.

“Hard about,” said Burton, his one good eye peering into the gloom they’d just created. They needed to move quickly and attack from another angle. He had learned long ago that the best defense was to not be around when your enemy came for you. He had already lost so much; he couldn’t bear losing anymore.

Nemo. Isabel. Elizabeth. All had fallen to the Deep Ones. The surface world was under attack as well, but all Burton could do was try and reduce their numbers before they marched onto the land. That, and help ships that ventured too near one of their underwater cities.

“We’re coming round again,” said the navigator, a big burly Sikh who reminded Burton of the submarine’s previous commander.

“Fire!” said Burton.

Burton awoke suddenly, nearly falling out of his chair. Bismillah , he thought. What a strange dream. I wonder what brought that on?

He realized he had tears in his eyes and wiped them away before standing. Swinburne was nowhere to be seen, but he heard a familiar and excited voice coming from the guest bedroom, and went to investigate.

Swinburne was tucked in bed, grinning while Monckton Milnes read to him from a book of erotic poetry. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Monckton Milnes. “Your housekeeper let me in. She didn’t want to wake you again after the other night.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Burton. “What’s going on here?”

“I’ve taught young Swinburne to read again,” said the older man with a smile.

“Don’t let Miss Angell see that book, said Burton, “or hear a word of it.”

Monckton Milnes grinned and closed the book. “He has been speaking as well. Mostly parroting what I say, but he understands basic concepts. Who am I, Algy?”

Swinburne looked at Monckton Milnes and said, “Richard Monckton Milnes.”

“Wonderful!” said Burton.

Swinburne pointed at Burton. “Richard Francis Burton.”

“Right again!” said Monckton Milnes. “And where are you?”

Swinburne thought about this for a moment, then said, “Gloucester Place.”

“This is a bloody breakthrough!” said Burton.

“Bloody breakthrough,” Swinburne repeated. “Richard Francis Gloucester Place Burton. Richard bloody Monckton breakthrough Milnes.”

The two men laughed despite themselves, which Swinburne seemed to take for encouragement. He pointed to himself. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”