James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

The biggest woman Burton had ever seen looked up at him impatiently. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see a patient of yours,” said Burton. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”

“Sign your name here,” she said, pointing to a ledger. Burton dipped a nib pen in ink and scrawled his name. The woman spun the ledger around and read it. “Oh, Captain Burton. Dr. Seward has been expecting you.”

“Will you take me to him, please?”

“Follow me.” The woman stepped through an adjoining door into the hallway and Burton and Abberline followed. They came to a row of doors and the woman knocked on one of them. They heard a muffled, “Come in,” and she opened the door.

“Dr. Seward,” she said. “Captain Burton is here to see Mr. Swinburne.”

Burton heard the creak of a wooden chair and a man popped his head out the door, smiling at Burton.

“Hello,” he said, stepping into the corridor. “I am Dr. John Seward.” He extended his hand, and Burton took it, giving the man a brisk shake. “Who is your associate?”

“Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline,” said the policeman, shaking hands with Seward as well.

“Splendid. Well, I know you want to see about your friend right away. His has been a most interesting case. When he began asking for you, I knew I must get word to you immediately.”

“I’m glad you did,” said Burton. “Are you sure my presence won’t hinder his healing?”

“On the contrary,” said Seward. “I believe seeing you may bring him back to himself. If you will follow me.”

Taking a ring of ponderous keys from the nurse, Seward led Burton and Abberline through a veritable maze. The urine-and-vomit smell was stronger, and behind heavy doors they heard more sounds of human torment. Stopping in front of one of the doors, Seward inserted one of the heavy keys and unlocked it. “His is a most unusual case. Mr. Swinburne is quite a brilliant poet. I’ve been familiarizing myself with is work.”

Burton and Abberline followed Seward into a padded cell. Swinburne huddled in the far corner of that room, tied in a straitjacket, drooling.

“Is this how you treat all of your patients?” said Burton, scowling.

“My apologies, Captain Burton. Mr. Swinburne tends to get overwrought at times. He’s been, uh, finding ways to hurt himself. For instance, goading the orderlies into thrashing him. He seems to, ah, enjoy it.”

Burton nodded. “Yes. Algy’s body interprets pain as pleasure.”

“Ah,” said Seward. “So he was like this… um before? Well, it’s very interesting. But what I’m most interested in is his state of mind. He has shared with me some most outrageous things. Things I’ve never heard before from any of my other patients. His psychosis is very peculiar.”

“Swinburne is a peculiar fellow,” Abberline offered. Burton silenced him with a stare. You’d be in a similar state if your mind had been imprisoned for weeks inside an alien body in the remote past , Burton wanted to say to the policeman. But he had been forbidden by Mycroft Holmes from discussing the exact particulars of what happened to the poet, and at any rate, had he told anyone the truth he’d likely be tied in a straitjacket right next to Swinburne. “I assume that is what you wanted to see me about?”

“Yes,” said Seward. Addressing Swinburne he said, “Algy, you have visitors. Captain Burton and Inspector Abberline.”

Swinburne stared straight ahead, not looking at either of them, a glazed look in his eyes. His fiery red hair was flayed all about his head.

“Talk to him,” Seward urged. “It may do some good. For you both.” He stepped out of the way as Burton leaned toward his friend.

“Algy?”

“Richard? My hat! I need a drink.”

“I know, old friend. I’m sorry.”

At first Burton had thought his friend had suffered no ill effects from having his mind usurped by a member of the Time-traveling Great Race of Yith. But then, weeks later, he started to be tormented by strange dreams of his captivity in the deep past. Then other things began to assail him. Hallucinations. Foul moods. It got so bad that his parents had him committed.

“Bloody hell, Richard. The shoggoths.”

“The shoggoths are all gone, Algy.”

“No. Just sleeping,” said the poet. “’That which is dead can eternal lie, but with strange eons even death may die.’”

“What?” said Burton. He had heard that sinister phrase before, uttered by the deceased John Hanning Speke in his own dreams. It sounded even worse coming from Swinburne’s lips, more real and therefore more dangerous.

“Time out of joint,” said Swinburne. “Captain Richard Francis Burton has come unstuck in Time. My Aunt Petunia’s pretty lace bonnet. Unstuck. Captain bloody Richard Gloucester Place Burton.”

“He’s out of his bloomin’ tree,” Abberline mused. Burton ignored him.

“Algernon. What do you mean Time is out of joint? What do you mean I’ve come unstuck?”

“Time, Richard. It’s off kilter. Mycroft knows. Mycroft bloody Holmes well knows. Look at the Sphinx!”

“Sphinx, Algy? In Egypt?”

“The White Sphinx,” the poet corrected, shaking his head. “On the hill. The damned Morlocks. In the tunnels, Richard. Don’t go in the tunnels!”

“Remarkable,” said Seward, writing something on a notepad.

“Under London, Richard. Don’t go under London.”

“We’ve already been, Algy. Last night,” Burton whispered, conscious of Seward listening in right behind him. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We saw the Morlocks.”

Swinburne stared wide-eyed, but said nothing.

“How long has he been this way?” Burton asked Seward.

“Since he was first brought to my attention,” said the doctor. “I specialize in extreme cases such as his, and came all the way from Carfax to study—er—treat him.”

“What seems to be the matter with him?” Abberline asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Seward. “He’s suffered some trauma which has greatly interfered with his sense of time. He talks about things that have already happened as if they haven’t yet occurred, and current affairs as if they are old news.”

“By the Fungi of Yuggoth,” the poet screeched. “My hat, Richard. The bloody Morlocks are mucking about through Time.”

“What do you mean, Algy?” said Burton leaning close and locking eyes with the poet. “What must I do?”

Swinburne returned the explorer’s gaze for the first time since Burton had entered the padded cell. “You must go all the way to the end, then stop. You must stop Mycroft bloody know-it-all Holmes from getting the map.”

“Map? What map?”

“The Map of Time.”

“What the devil is he talking about?” said Abberline.

“I wish I knew,” said Burton, standing and turning to face Seward.

“Listen,” said the poet, “Richard Francis Burton has come unstuck in Time.” He giggled, as if what he’d just uttered was the most fantastic joke, one of the bawdy tales he used to regale them with at the Cannibal Club. “Richard? Richard?”

Burton shuddered. “I’m right here, Algy. I haven’t gone anywhere.”

The poet giggled once more, his eyes wild.

“Did any of that make sense to you?” asked the doctor.

“Some,” said the explorer.

“’We are not sure of sorrow, and joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow, Time stoops to no man’s lure,’” the poet muttered, giggling.

“That was a bit of his verse,” explained Burton. He reached into his jacket and handed Seward his card. “You will contact me if his condition changes, for good or ill?”

“Of-of course,” said Seward, taking the proffered card.

“Richard,” said Swinburne as Burton turned to leave.