Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

“It’s Santeria, isn’t it? A milder cult than purest voodoo, brought to the New World in slavery by the Yoruba people of Nigeria, and then incorporated into and hidden amongst the rituals of Catholicism. A belief in ancient gods and spirits, and the eternal presence of the human soul. I should imagine every islander believes in it a little. Even you, captain. You have a cockerel feather in your hatband, there to bring you luck.”

Williams looked slightly embarrassed. But Holmes could see, from the big man’s expression, his conclusions had been accurate.

“Okay, yes,” the captain breathed. “But there is nothing like human sacrifice in Santeria. So what is it that you are driving at?”

Then his expression altered to amazement when the great detective merely shrugged.

“I’m not quite certain, yet,” Holmes admitted.

Then his gaze swung to the painted wall.

“Hush now – the game’s afoot.”

The sad young blonde woman – this Meg – had just shown up again. By her accent from before, Holmes had already discerned that she’d be headed back to the American Midwest in a few hours’ time.

Or would she?

There was a hiss from the pathway above. The local woman in her turban – she had put in an appearance too. Meg hurried up to greet her, and they went off side by side.

They stuck to the paved section for the first few hundred yards, then struck off across open ground. Holmes and Williams followed at a careful distance, ready to drop to a crouch if either of the pair looked back.

Soon, they had reached the outer edge of Jarvistown, which told you just how small this ‘city’ was. There were a few wooden shacks, an area filled up with the rusting hulks of abandoned cars. And beyond that, a copse of conifer trees. The women disappeared inside it. And Holmes snorted quietly. He could see a fire flickering in there.

“But why would she go willingly to her own murder?” Williams asked him, keeping his voice low. “Did the other woman trick her?”

“I think not,” Holmes murmured. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”

Their pace got slower. They were entering an area where the tiniest snap of a twig, the merest rustle of the dead pine needles underfoot, might alert the others to their presence. So, despite their size, they went like cats, their every movement measured.

And, within another minute, they were staring through the tree trunks at the source of the bright orange flames.

It was a small bonfire, which illuminated the tiny clearing that the women had stopped in, drenching it in bright yellow and amber light, shadows dancing everywhere Holmes looked, so that the whole place had the semblance of being under sunlit water.

And there were more people waiting for the young blonde visitor – two other females, roughly the same age as the one who’d brought Meg here. They were both wearing silken turbans too. And – sitting cross-legged by the fire – there was a considerably older local man, in his late sixties at the very least. He had a grey, shaggy mass of hair and beard, and was dressed informally, in an old T-shirt and shorts.

All three of them were wearing many strings of coloured beads. But those adornments had been added to in a particularly curious fashion. There were symbols painted on their faces, not unlike the ones that Holmes had seen inscribed beside the township’s doorways.

The elderly man had a band around his head, with dyed feathers pushed into it. He got up with a lithe nimbleness that belied his age. And, with the three women in attendance, he proceeded to perform a ceremony, centred around the American woman.

Potions were mixed and applied to her face and shoulders. Powders were ground up and cast across her. Smoke was blown from fat cigars, and liquor half-imbibed, then spat into the fire. Names of gods were then invoked that Holmes had never heard the like of.

It culminated with the sad young woman being required to lie down on the turf beside the flames. Holmes tensed, and Blessed Williams did the same. If a knife were to be produced right now …?

Both their hands went to their guns. But the expected murder did not happen.

Meg crossed her arms atop her chest, then let her eyelids slip shut of their own accord. She became so very still that she took on the semblance of a corpse. But why, Holmes wondered, would a living person do that willingly?

The man had produced a rattle, which he proceeded to shake at the immobile woman. His chanting rose to a strange, raucous pitch.

The flames of the bonfire suddenly dropped lower. There was no physical reason for it that Holmes could make out, since there was still kindling aplenty. It was more as if a cold, damp wind had sprung up out of nowhere, slowing down the conflagration. And yet the air around them was completely still.

The shaman’s chanting abruptly stopped. He continued churning with the rattle, and crouched lower over poor young Meg. His face was twisted into one of the most saddened expressions Holmes had ever seen. And he was whispering, like he was trying to coax something out.

Meg had been utterly immobile throughout all of this, not the slightest twitch from her body. If it hadn’t been for the tanned colour in her cheeks, Holmes might have supposed she was already dead. She didn’t even flinch when the rattle was passed a mere couple of inches over her face.

The bonfire’s flames dropped lower still, and a grey dimness claimed the clearing.

Something else moved. Something just above the silent woman. It was grey itself, and filmy, and Holmes could not make out precisely what it was, at first.

But as it lifted higher, he could discern it was a head, a face.

Meg’s head. Meg’s face. But neither of them in the flesh. A ghostly copy of the features of the woman.

It opened its eyes and looked around. And smiled. The first time since he had encountered her that Holmes had seen her do that. Then the faint outline of shoulders, and then a torso, appeared. And Holmes figured out what this ritual was intended for. Meg’s immortal spirit? It was tearing itself loose from her corporeal body.

He remembered his companion, and glanced across. Captain Williams’ massive frame was trembling gently. He had lived here all his life and – surely? – had seen many peculiar events associated with the Santeria cult. But nothing quite like this. His expression was hollow.

But he had not risen to his rank by being weak of nature. So good Blessed held his nerve and plain refused to move, watching the bizarre scene like a hawk.

Half of Meg’s spirit had risen from her body, now. And that was having an effect on her corporeal being. As Holmes watched, the blood began to drain from her face. Her mouth dropped slightly open, and her head tipped slackly to one side.

Her flesh and blood … they were expiring, now that her spirit was departing them. That explained the previous deaths. There were not any homicides being committed here. This was an arcane form of self-destruction.

And Holmes believed that he could guess exactly why. But still, he could not let this pass. Meg was not even in her mid-twenties. She had her whole life stretching out before her, holding every sort of possibility, whatever she might think. And to abandon it at this stage …?

So he drew his pistol, springing to his feet and stepping inward. And was pleased to note that Captain Williams followed suit.

“Enough of this!” Holmes yelled.

Every eye in the small clearing swung to him. Even those of the spirit of blonde Meg, although the fleshy eyes below them remained closed.

“You have no right to deprive this woman of her time amongst the living, even at her own request!”

The elderly man who’d been conducting the ceremony looked alarmed for a brief instant. But he calmed down very quickly, his arms dropping to his sides. And, standing up as straight as he was able, he peered back at the detective.