Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

“We can’t find him,” seethed the Thing. “The damned out on the plain won’t hand him over! Your doing again!”

“Oh, yes,” said Cabal, matter-of-factly. “My doing again.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this!” the Thing roared, and vanished, leaving a stinking fog of sulphur fumes.

Cabal wafted at the smoke with his hand. “I rather think I have,” he said to himself. He put his hands on his hips and looked around the room, turning on the spot. “Now, what was I doing?” He consulted his notebook. “Ah, yes. Tea.”

The day died slowly, and the night came to the valley Cabal didn’t notice; he had drawn up many observations and plans over the last year and would soon start the great task of cataloguing them properly in his extensive coded records. The preliminary work took him several hours, two pots of tea, and a tin of luncheon meat that he ate from the can. The Assam tasted like boiled wood shavings; he would certainly have to go to the village and lay in new supplies the next day. He also drafted a couple of letters to addresses in Penlow on Thurse, explaining that their contributions, although appreciated, had proved surplus to requirements. Finally, as the evening wore on, he saw that he had written the same line twice and realised that his attention was wandering. It was time to rest.

He snuffed the candles out, poked the glowing coals a little, placed the fireguard carefully, and left the room. Out into the hallway and back towards the kitchen. He stopped by the door under the stairs, opened it, took down the oil lantern, and lit it. Then he descended into the cool air of the cellar.

In the corner was the generator, and this received his immediate attention; he’d been quite happy to work by candlelight earlier, but now he needed electricity. He tapped the fuel gauge, found it satisfactory, and turned over the motor. After a couple of dry attempts, it caught, and the maintenance lights on the wall started to gently glow.

He looked around. The cellar looked innocent enough: a few shelves with empty paint cans upon them, some old tools, bundles of ancient newspaper, a couple of mousetraps here and there. Cabal had made a study of cellars to make sure that his looked utterly average. He had done a good job. He stepped into the small, empty fruit cellar, ran his hand over the nitrous stonework, and worked a hidden catch. Placing both hands against the wall at shoulder height, he pushed hard, and it swung in and away. He fumbled in the darkness for a moment before finding a switch.

Beyond lay a large room, some forty feet along an edge and ten feet high. Along the walls were workbenches, shelves lined with specimens hanging in formaldehyde, instruments, and bookshelves loaded with dark tomes stolen from restricted collections. In the centre of the floor, beneath a surgical light, was an operating table that doubled as a postmortem slab. Cabal looked around for a moment as the last of the bluish fluorescent lights finished flickering into life. Everything was as it should be, everything in its place, that which he had left dead was still dead. That always simplified things.

He shrugged his jacket off, slung it onto the table, braced himself, and shoved the heavy piece of surgical engineering out of position. Moving the light to one side revealed the end of a block-and-tackle run that extended over to the far wall. He shifted the block from its storage place until it was over the slabbed floor exposed by the table. The slabs were massive — some four feet wide by eight long — but the one that usually lay directly beneath the table was special in two respects. First, it was only faced pumice, and so nowhere near as heavy as its neighbours. Second, there was a recessed ring in its exact centre. Cabal drew the hook down from the block and tackle and latched it onto the ring. He took the rope and pulled. He often thought he should replace this manual system with an electrical one, but he had put it off so often he had finally realised that he liked to use his own strength here. It was important to him that lifting the stone was an act of personal effort.

The gear clicked and ratcheted as he slowly raised the great slab. When it was safely clear of the floor, he gently pulled it away to one side on the rail, careful not to let it build up any difficult momentum. Once he had it clear, he walked back and stood, with his hands on his hips, over what lay revealed. The pit exposed was topped by a great pane of thick glass, and Cabal looked at the dark, reflective surface for a long moment. He thought of the last year and all that had happened to him and been done by him. He thought of all the towns and all the people, the tears and the misery. He thought of the carnival now rotting on the lost spur line, and all the undeniable evil it had wrought. He thought of Nea Winshaw in the interview room, and Leonie Barrow’s defiance right to the last. He thought of his brother, Horst. Then he looked at the glass and said to himself, “It was all worthwhile.”

He knelt by the pit and felt for a concealed switch beneath the lip. In a moment, bright neon tubes were flickering into life a yard below — beneath the great glass tank a yard square by two long that lay there.

Cabal looked down at the young woman lying suspended in its heart like a beautiful insect in amber, her hair — as rich and as yellow as a lioness’s — floating in a halo about her head. He touched the glass with his fingertips. This was all he had. All he had ever had since a day ten years ago. His glance darted around to ensure that seals were secure and none of the strange, perfect preservative had leaked. This was as close as he could get for now; he dare not break the seals and open the glass coffin until he was sure of success. Now, at least and at last, he could finally hope. He lay down on the floor with his face on the cool glass and felt comforted. His eyes flickered and closed. He spoke a word, a name, quietly, his breath clouding the glass. Then Johannes Cabal slept.

Ray Bradbury, for being a personal hero, and inspiration for this novel. It was Something Wicked This Way Comes that put in my mind the question “Where would an evil carnival come from, anyway?”

Marsha A. Davis, for encouragement, advice, and breaking the news about my punctuation as gently as possible.

Michael Davis, for putting up with Marsha saying, “Jonathan says …” on a regular basis.

Jane E. Eddlestone, for research, enthusiasm, and “enigmatic sauciness.”

Katharine Long, for her valued friendship and remarkable patience.

Linda “Snugbat” Smith, for her splendid illustrations.

Emma L. B. K. Smith, for her photographic prowess.

The Mediaeval Baebes for Salva Nos . I normally disapprove of authors who give sound track listings for their work, but I am always prepared to make an exception for myself. This album was played throughout the writing of the book and had, I am sure, an effect on my imagination. Whether you consider this an advertisement or a dire warning is entirely up to you.

And

Louise and Madeleine, for reasons too numerous to mention.

“That makes no sense at all,” Cabal had said. “You can’t exorcise ghosts with a rifle. I have some practical experience in the area, and that simply isn’t going to work.” Mr. Lintel had thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “Tink.” Mr. Scree said, “Dakuoof,” or something very like it, and they had returned to their work.

Metamorphopsychosis — a stage illusion that allows objects and persons to transform while in full sight of the audience, a variation of the more famous Pepper’s Ghost so obscure that even most magicians haven’t heard of it. Try mentioning it to any that you may encounter. It baffles them.