James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

Burton had inwardly hoped his old friend would quickly return to his old ways, getting reacquainted with his familiar haunts. But upon leaving Grosvenor Place, the new Algernon Charles Swinburne walked purposefully past every pub and shunned every opportunity for female companionship that was available at this hour and instead knocked at the door of the home of the barrister, Harrison Goforth, the first to be afflicted with whatever had befallen Swinburne and the others. At first, Burton was surprised, but soon realized that the young man probably wanted to meet another in his condition to compare notes, as it were. Burton stood watching them from the corner, Swinburne standing on Goforth’s top step as the much older man looked him up and down. From this distance, he couldn’t tell what they were saying, but the old gentleman seemed to warm up quickly to Swinburne’s presence, and they clasped arms in a peculiar handshake, each man grabbing the other’s forearm and wrapping their arms around each other in a brisk shake before releasing. This turned into the two pointing at one another’s arms and legs and laughing at the seeming absurdity of human construction. Then Goforth reached inside his door, said something to someone inside, and returned with his hat, a gray bowler, in his hand. He slapped it onto his head, and the two men sauntered off as if they were old friends who had known each other for years.

Burton watched for a moment more from his hiding place next to a lamp post and spied a police officer in a dark coat emerge from the alley across the lane and follow at a leisurely pace. This, of course, was the man Abberline had set on Goforth to track his movements. Burton moved off behind him, keeping his distance, careful not to arouse the policeman’s suspicions as well as Swinburne’s. He would likely have a difficult time explaining to the copper who he was and what he was doing and would lose track of Swinburne in the process.

Swinburne and Goforth made a day of it, moving about the city like a pair of tourists, pointing out the architecture of various buildings, and dining in a restaurant near the Strand. But what astounded Burton the most was when they spent the afternoon at a meeting of the Theosophic Society. Swinburne had never shown the slightest interest in the occult. Like Burton, he had always been a devout unbeliever in anything remotely supernatural. So, Burton was shocked when they disappeared into the Theosophes’ regular meeting place. He loitered about for several minutes before consulting his pocket watch and heading off to meet with Abberline at their appointed time and place. He caught a hansom and arrived in front of the Diogenes Club just as Abberline was coming up the sidewalk.

“Captain Burton? Is that you?”

Burton removed his hat. “It is indeed.”

“By Jove! I barely recognized you. I’m glad you’re on my side.”

“I just left from trailing Algy,” said the explorer.

“Aye. And what’s your friend up to?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I don’t like it.” Burton described what he had witnessed.

Abberline nodded. “That does indeed sound strange. And you said he’s with Goforth?”

“At the Theosophic Society,” said Burton. “Algy’s never been interested in the occult.”

The policeman shrugged. “Perhaps they’re looking for an explanation for their mutual condition? After all, medical science doesn’t know the answer to what befell them.”

Burton shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, at any rate, it fits with what we’ve witnessed of the others’ behavior.”

“Oh?” Burton raised an eyebrow.

“The rest of the Awakened have all paired off as well. Three groups of two. I figured they had read about each other in the paper and met to see if they could learn more about what happened.”

“That was my initial guess as well,” said Burton.

“But each of my men has described the same as you, that they met, made introductions, and then went off like they were fast friends. It boggles the mind, it does.”

“I saw your man tailing Goforth, by the way,” said Burton.

“Yes, Havisham. Good man. Can’t shake him off with a stick, that one.”

“Yes, well. I made him easily. Next time, each of your men should be in plain clothes. It would not look good should it be discovered that the police are following certain of the citizenry.”

Abberline’s mouth gaped in surprise. “No, I should think not. Quite right, Captain. I’ll let my men know immediately.”

He checked his watch. “I’m going in to meet with Mr. Holmes. Are you coming in?”

“No.”

“Well, then I’ll be around to Gloucester Place this evening to let you know what he says.”

“Sounds good.”

The two nodded to each other and parted ways. Burton moved up the street, eager to get away from the Diogenes Club. He realized he hadn’t had another bout of whatever feeling had plagued him that morning, and wondered if it had been temporary, or if he had merely been so focused on keeping up with Swinburne and his new friend that he hadn’t noticed anything was amiss. He looked around cautiously, seeking the faces of his fellow Londoners to see if they held something else.

At first, he saw nothing other than the regular hustle and bustle of men and women going about their daily affairs. A street urchin sold papers on the corner, reminding him of young Thomas Malenfant. An elderly man and woman in swishing finery left an establishment and crossed the street, carefully avoiding a lumbering black pantechnicon pulled by a pair of large drays. This reminded Burton unsettlingly of his encounter with the infamous Professor Moriarty, and he continued onward.

A dense gray fog rolled in, obscuring buildings and sky and leaving only vague outlines of the city’s structures. As the sun danced across particulates in the air, Burton swore he saw a massive shape hovering in the distance, like some strange airship. It was held aloft by a huge ovoid mass, like a giant balloon, and had a long gondola suspended underneath. Burton squinted into the fog, eager to make out additional details, but it was gone.

Someone bumped into him, and he realized he had stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. He stared at who had hit him and saw a short fellow with enormous black wings growing from his back. Burton blinked and the wings were gone.

Burton’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as the sensation he’d experienced that morning came on stronger than before. He moved through the crowd of people and sought refuge against the dirty brick facade of a building that stood on the corner of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. Burton gripped the brickwork and stared up the street at a mind-numbing array of people and conveyances transposed over the familiar street traffic he knew. An elephant lumbered up the street, a gilded litter sitting atop its back containing a swarthy, officious-looking man with a thick mustache and decked out in flowing blue silk. An impossibly large turban sat atop his head. A man moved passed Burton wearing a long leather coat with flames embossed upon it. He was tall and thin, with a gray mustache and long beard. A tall stovepipe perched on his head with brass-rimmed goggles wrapped tightly around the brim. In a moment these apparitions faded, leaving behind the usual London scenery.

“Bismillah,” Burton murmured. Pull yourself together!

The weird tableau was gone, but it once again left Burton with the feeling that each reality he had witnessed existed at once, one on top of the other, like colored plates of glass stacked upon each other. The street vendor selling apples across the street was also a tall, muscled warrior, clad only in sandals and a loincloth, a bronze sword hanging from a leather scabbard upon his broad back. The young woman stepping down from the carriage near where Burton stood was also an Atlantean priestess in a flowing robe of white silk, uttering some mysterious rite in an ancient and long-forgotten tongue. The thought that there were other places, other Londons, somehow co-existing with this one, was pervasive and all-encompassing. It made him sick with terror.