THE IMPOSSIBLE MISTER LAPIN INVESTIGATES: THE AFFAIR OF THE TERRIBLE BOAR, by Peter Wordworth

THE IMPOSSIBLE MISTER LAPIN

In which our hero tells his remarkable story, thus far.

Like many young men faced with unbearable circumstances, I found myself compelled to become a rabbit.

Perhaps I should clarify. In the past, unbearable circumstances have driven many young men to take incredible risks, hoping for even the slightest chance to change their fortunes. In this respect, I am no different than any other young man. However, as far as I am aware, I am the only one to successfully Transfigure myself into a whimsical cross between a man and a rabbit.

After an initial fit of staring, most individuals react to my unusual appearance with inquiries as to why a man would choose to become something other than a man. More adventurous souls ask why I would choose a rabbit, when there are so many more fearsome and impressive animals in the world. In answer to the first question, I must admit it was simply because I saw in Transfiguration the potential to be truly extraordinary. I suppose I could have enhanced my physique, augmented my intellect or sculpted my features, but such choices lacked the flair I found so essential to my experiment.

No, if you intend to change the world, it is not enough to simply succeed. You must do so with panache!

As for the second inquiry, that is rather more personal, and seldom shared outside a close circle of confidants. Ever since I was a young boy, I have always wanted to be a magician, able to conjure a rabbit from a fine silk top hat to the delight and amazement of my adoring audience. When I was ten years old, I was positively monstrous to my parents for six full months, until at last they relented and hired a tutor to introduce me to the conjurer’s art that summer. It must have mortified them to hire a charlatan for their only son, but I was entranced at the prospect of learning magic and eagerly counted the days to his arrival.

When he finally appeared, it is a stroke of understatement to say that Master Eckhart was not what I had been expecting. Rather than the tall, glamorous entertainer I had envisioned entering behind a flourish of his opera cape, he was a stout, sour-faced bulldog of a man dressed in unfashionable clothes of dubious origin. His eyes were mismatched and perpetually crossed, as though watching each other distrustfully, while his hands always seemed covered in a thin coat of grease from the bacon sandwiches he continually demanded of our poor cook. Such was the hardness of his look that if he had been discovered on the property at any other time, I have no doubt my father would have had him shot for a bandit without so much as speaking to him.

Despite appearances, it turned out Master Eckhart was able enough at his craft, and his brutish looks concealed a sharp mind with a keen eye for detail. He could produce pennies from nowhere, name your card with uncanny accuracy and conjure rabbits and doves as naturally as the creator Himself. Unfortunately, however, his great gifts did not extend to teaching. His preferred method of instruction was to sit across the table from me and eat a seemingly endless supply of sandwiches, pounding his fist and shouting corrections as I stumbled through a series of disastrous card tricks and painfully inept sleight of hand. By the end of each afternoon his voice would be hoarse and my shirt front entirely covered with bacon flecks, yet each morning the farce would begin anew, a grim march of ineptitude. I learned but two things from the entire time his services were retained: first, that I am utterly and forever hopeless at the conjurer’s art, no matter how much I might practice; and second, that I shall never eat another piece of bacon so long as I live.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my love for the fantastic slumbered for many years after that disappointing season of tutelage. It was awakened quite by accident during my first year at university, when Professor Blackburne made an offhand remark about the work of the early Italian alchemists during a lecture on the chemical properties of gold. Of course he ridiculed the concept, but that didn’t matter. My mind was ablaze—the notion that a lost Art existed that could turn base materials into wondrous new forms entranced me. I decided on the spot that I would find a way to succeed where others had failed, revive this maligned discipline and restore it to its proper place of honor.

Applying myself with a passion, I soon learned how one could accomplish astonishing things with a sufficient source of funds and dedication to achieving their task. In the guise of compiling a history of the early years of the chemical sciences, I began acquiring texts from all across the continent, many of them long since written off as little more than whimsy or conjecture. Every free moment I could wrest from my conventional studies I put to use in old libraries, rare book emporiums or in correspondence with those few experts who would return my letters on the subject. Piece by piece, I started to find a shape to the puzzle, and each time a new fact fell into place, I only felt more driven to realize the whole.

Such was my dedication, in fact, that regrettably my academic work began to suffer. Letters from my father accumulated, at first remonstrative, later incensed, and finally coldly dismissive. Letters from my mother also arrived, some apologizing for my father’s temper, others scolding me for disgracing the family name. Not one letter asked what it was that had sparked my interest, or why I felt so compelled to pursue it. When the final letter arrived containing a small sum and words to the effect that I had been disowned, at least until such time as I could conduct myself as a reasonable gentleman, it was hurtful but sadly not a terrible surprise.

As my research deepened and the rift with my family widened, I took leave from university, only to be told after four months’ absence that I had been officially expelled for, among other reasons, “an unseemly pursuit of foolishness.” Unlike the missives I received from my parents, I have kept that letter—I consider it something of a justification for all my actions since.

Youthful bravado aside, however, I must confess that I came very near to ruin before my studies of the Art at last bore fruit. The very night of my successful Transfiguration, I was living in a small rented room in a highly disreputable area of Shoreditch, where I owed six months’ back rent to one Louis Moreau, the drunken Frenchman who owned the establishment.

I can recall the very moment the last piece fell into place. The candle—my last candle as it happened—was burning low on my rickety reading desk, filling the room with greasy smoke from the cheap wax, when suddenly I bolted to my feet, the force of my epiphany nearly flinging me across the room like a cannon shot. It was sheer simplicity: The reason the Art had never functioned coherently was because the various theories and experts that informed it were always viewed as in competition, each striving not only to present its case but also to prove all the others incorrect.

Taken together, however, and ignoring the individual prejudices of their supporters, it was soon evident that they formed a ragged but increasingly coherent whole. A missing piece in Italian theory was supplied by a well-known truth in German treatises, while an error in calculation made by the Greeks was corrected by proper application of an obscure principle from the manuscripts of The Black Bruce, the reclusive and persnickety Scotsman who’d supposedly lost his head to the king’s witch hunters. Twice, if legend is to be believed.

As the knowledge took shape in my head, the glyphs and materials swirling like an illustrated whirlwind, an understanding at once surprising and utterly absolute came over as well: I had to do something with this newfound potential. Something astonishing. Something marvelous. Something that could never be questioned as mere charlatanism. Something the world had never seen before, and quite possibly never would again. But what?

Lead into gold? Too ordinary. I’d never have anyone think it was more than just a clever trick. Besides, was the sum of my ambition and talent to be a mere demonstration of the creation of wealth? Unsuitable.

Eternal youth? Too many troubling questions. Also, how was I supposed to prove that it worked? Summon the requisite experts and worthies to watch closely as I…didn’t age? I was a young man, and likely they would not be satisfied until decades had passed with no sign, and even then I would like as not be accused of some form of cosmetic trickery. Not at all what I needed.

True immortality? Too many far-reaching implications for success, let alone any possible mistakes or miscalculations. Also, I liked the possible tests even less than those for a youth serum. Visions of repeated stabbings, beatings, drownings and worse swam before my eyes. No. Not that one either.

Dozens more followed, each a less likely candidate than the last. Many were discarded for lack of suitability, while others for want of the necessary materials. Just as my frustration bordered on unbearable, fate intervened and I spied a slim volume that had been hidden away at the bottom of the stack. Waterston’s World of Wonders, my first and most favorite childhood book of magic, its cheerful illustration of the dapper magician producing a rabbit from his fine top hot worn from travel and the grip of delighted young hands.

I saw that rabbit and I thought of my childhood dreams, how they had met such a disappointing end, and I knew at once what I had to do.

From that moment it was simple. There was no formulae for what I wanted to enact, exactly, but with the lunatic confidence of newfound wisdom I simply chose two formulae whose combination could theoretically produce the effect I desired, and set about making the adjustments almost instinctively. When the ink dried, I checked the formulae one last time, took a deep breath, and changed myself and the world with six minutes, seven symbols and surety of purpose.

It was over so fast I hardly noticed the formulae was complete at first. There was no pain, only a kind of curious tingling that ran through my body like a shiver brought on by placing a toe in cold water, then nothing. I was momentarily shattered; had I, burdened by insomnia and a desire to prove myself, simply imagined the whole thing? I slammed my hand down on my desk and gave a yell as I saw its neat white fur coat. Transfixed, I brought my hands up before my eyes and found them identically furred; with just a touch of hesitation, I reached for the mirror on my night table and held it up to the light. Looking back at me was a curious amalgam of man and rabbit: familiar human eyes set between long ears possessed of the same delicate white coat I’d seen on my hands, set off by a wet, twitching nose at the end of an ever-so-slight muzzle.

I was right. The Art was real, and I’d found a way to unlock its secrets.

I could not help it—I began to laugh, at first suppressed giggles, then outright chuckles, and finally peals of what must have sounded like positively lunatic hysteria. Walls thudded and voices hollered as my merriment roused my neighbors one by one, but I paid no heed to their threats and curses. I simply continued to laugh until it felt like my whole body would shake itself apart from sheer excess of humor. I was, quite simply, overwhelmed by joy.

At last there came the familiar dragging shuffle followed by the triple knock on my door, signifying the arrival of my landlord, no doubt summoned from a stupor by the complaints of the other tenants. I rose to answer, only to freeze two steps from the door. How would he react? What would I say? Would I soon find myself confronted by an angry mob? What had I really done?

Just as quickly, however, I rallied my courage. I had sought marvel and spectacle, after all, and that meant I was going to have to reveal myself sooner or later. Best to take that first step now, while the fires still burned bright. I collected myself, adjusted my ears to a more dignified position, and swung the door wide open. Sure enough, Monsieur Moreau was waiting in the hall, the odor of strong wine, sharp cheese and stale bread hanging about him as usual.

“Is something wrong, sir?” I said as calmly as I could mange.

“Some noise, only,” my landlord said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His required warning delivered, he was already half-turning away before he stopped and turned on his heel with almost comic sluggishness. Monsieur Moreau slowly looked me over from head to foot, once, twice, the inscrutable expression that drink lends to some concealing any trace of surprise or alarm, and all the while swaying ever-so-slightly back and forth, like a boat tied up at harbor. “Are you…?” he began, only to trail off into a bleary stare.

“Yes?” I prompted, surprised to find I was actually faintly offended by his lack of reaction to my new state. “Can I help you, Monsieur Moreau?”

“Eh…non, non.” Moreau waved his hand dismissively again. Quite unbelievably, he turned and headed back to the stairs, occasionally leaning on the wall for support. When he reached the top, he called out to me, still not looking back. “Bon soir, Monsieur Lapin.”

“Bon soir, Monsieur Moreau,” I replied rather incredulously, shutting the door and beginning preparation for what I quite rightly expected would be the longest day of my life to that point and some time past it. As I packed my meager belongings, I found myself smiling again. In vino veritas, as the saying goes, and indeed my imperturbable landlord had neatly if quite inadvertently provided me with the final touch for my Transfiguration. A nom d’Art, as it were, a new identity for a disowned man. As names go, its origin is impossible, its meaning simplistic, its implications ridiculous, its relevance at once all too obvious and yet also perfectly descriptive.

Of course I fell in love with it.

IN THE COURT OF WOLVES

In which Her Majesty brings word of curious deeds afoot.

It should come as no surprise to students of politics that Her Majesty was an avid, if discreet, breeder of exceedingly clever wolves. After all, it simply wouldn’t do for Her Majesty to throw her detractors and other enemies of the Crown to doltish or laggardly creatures. I waited at the edge of the garden, watching her feed long strips of bloody steak to the circling animals, feeling my nose twitching ever so slightly. It is an unbearably obvious display of anxiety, but given my unique nature, I think I can be forgiven a case of nerves in such predatory company.

“Mister Lapin! A pleasure!” Her Majesty beckoned me over. Around her, the wolves regarded me with inscrutable yellow eyes above bloody jaws, but at least they had the courtesy to refrain from licking their chops. One does not refuse a queen, of course, so I mustered my resolve and crossed the garden. The wolves parted to allow my presence, then resumed circling, shifting their gazes from the bucket of steak, to myself, and back to the bucket of steak with alarming similarity of focus. After dispensing with the required formalities, Her Majesty cut to the heart of the matter directly. “We have been made aware of a very odd situation transpiring in the home of a dear friend.”

“I am ever in Your Majesty’s service,” I replied. “How may I be of assistance?” As the only legitimate Consulting Transfigurist and perhaps more importantly the most famous odd individual in Britain, I have found that I am now first to be contacted when unusual events occur. So far none of these events had turned out to more than the merely mysterious or misleading surrounded by an air of excited supposition—delightful puzzles to be solved, certainly, but far from the realm of the impossible.

“Lord Thomas Dare, a most dear friend to us, reported that a prized golden statue has gone missing from his Yorkshire estate.” Her Majesty patted the head of one of the nearby brutes, and it licked her hand like the gentlest of lapdogs. “We would greatly appreciate your invaluable expertise in securing its swift and safe return.”

“With respect, ma’am, I would scarce tread on the toes of Scotland Yard’s expertise—” I began, but she held up a hand. As it rose, the wolves followed it keenly. Three drops of blood fell to the stones of the garden.

“Your concern for our constabulary is noted, Mister Lapin, but we are assured on good authority that evidence exists that the statue, to put it plainly, escaped on its own.” Her Majesty fixed me with a level gaze, uncannily mirrored by a dozen pairs of yellow eyes.

“Animation? True animation?” I could scarce contain my excitement. Tales of such phenomena are found in a number of different texts of the Art, but they were always apocryphal, never instructive. I myself had attempted the feat only once, but to no visible effect. Something in the formulae had been missing, I was quite sure of it, another missing piece in my often still too patchwork discipline. I’d put it out of my mind since then, favoring the more immediate rewards of Transfiguration, but perhaps it was time to revisit the subject.

With a start, I realized my mind had been wandering, and that the Queen and her court were still watching. “Of course! I shall go at once, ma’am!” Overcome with the joy of the moment, I bowed like a thespian receiving a shower of roses. My ears caught a derisive snort from some distance away, but by the time I looked up, there was no sign of a possible culprit.

“Superb! Then you shall have use of our carriage to convey you to your dwelling and collect any necessary materials, then depart for the station at once.” The Queen smiled, and I was relieved to see nothing wolf-like in her expression at all. A liveried attendant hastened to her from beyond the ring of trees, and I took some small satisfaction in seeing that his level of discomfort appeared almost equal to my own. At a gesture from the Queen, he handed me a sealed envelope. “A writ containing our full confidence and authority in this matter,” Her Majesty explained. She favored me with another smile.

“Please be so kind as to avoid misplacing it or its contents, Mister Lapin.”

A DISTRESSING RESTORATIVE

In which an unusual injury is revealed, and the nature of the peril becomes clear.

“So there you have it, Mister Lapin,” Tom finished with a flourish, sipping his scotch and peering intently at me in the flickering firelight. Upon my arrival, I had been pleasantly surprised to find Lord Dare—or Tom, as he insisted “any friend of Her Majesty’s” refer to him—an affable man of athletic stature and apparently as able an intellect. Not one to stand on ceremony, he had ushered me directly into his parlor to explain the source of his distress, lighting a fire to ward off the evening chill. “You can see why I inquired as to securing your services?”

“I can indeed,” I concurred, trying not to display an unseemly amount of excitement. I did not wish my gracious host to think I was taking delight in his misfortune, but after hearing his tale and examining what evidence remained it seemed that my services as a Consulting Transfigurist were finally—finally!—truly required. It must be remembered that this was the first tangible proof witnessed with my own eyes that something genuinely astounding was afoot in the world. That is, aside from my own groundbreaking studies, naturally.

Tom’s story had been brief, but what it might have lost to brevity it easily made up in peculiarity. It seems that the statue in question was of a wild boar, commissioned some three centuries ago in honor of a device on his family’s coat of arms. Legend held that it was fashioned from solid gold, though privately his lordship confided that such talk was not entirely accurate. It was an impressive specimen regardless, life-sized and posed in a fearsome manner, with small rubies for eyes and genuine ivory for the tusks. Whenever it was moved, Tom told me, it required a team of at least four stout men to carry.

The trouble began a little over a week ago, when Tom had left his study to investigate a curious clamor coming from downstairs. Descending to investigate, he witnessed not misbehaving servants or interloping criminals, but the boar itself somehow come alive and running amok, overturning furniture and gouging great gashes in the walls with its tusks.

Thinking it no more than an ordinary animal in costume, perhaps released as some kind of poorly judged prank, Tom waved and shouted at the beast, attempting to scare it outside. When it rounded on him, however, its unnatural nature revealed itself. “It was the sound of the hooves that changed my mind,” he’d remarked, shuddering. “They were so heavy, it sounded like thunder rolling down the hallway.” Only his experience as an accomplished hunter allowed him to keep his wits about him and avoid being trampled as the beast issued a monstrous bellow and charged.

Even so, its preternatural speed was such that it savaged Tom’s hand as it went past, a twitch of its powerful head enough to send him flying. It might well have been his end, except he was fortunate enough to land behind an upturned oak cabinet. Still, the beast attacked the cabinet until it was reduced nearly to splinters before it turned away in apparent frustration and escaped by crashing through the wall, thundering off into the bitter chill of the Yorkshire night.

Since then, the boar had been spotted several times, at first solely on the grounds of the estate but later at the outskirts of the nearby village. It always appeared at night, and while Tom was the only person who had been injured thus far, it had charged several unfortunate servants and local villagers caught in its path, and only a combination of blind luck and quick thinking had prevented terrible injury. The villagers were near panic, and Tom said a handful of his more superstitious staff had actually fled in the previous nights. It was an untenable state of affairs, and so after settling we resolved to set out to hunt down the beast without delay, assuming I could find a way to return it to its previous statuary condition.

Even more troubling in its own way, however, was Tom’s injury. When I examined the wound, I found myself utterly confounded. Instead of the vicious gash I expected, Tom displayed something altogether different. There was indeed a wound that had received a surgeon’s stitching, but the skin in and around the injury had turned to solid gold. According to Tom, the curious amalgamation had begun spreading as soon as the wound began healing. Amazingly, despite having apparently worked its way into the muscle, the transformative effect had done nothing to the utility of the limb—it was as functional as ever. The progress was slow, but nevertheless, if not arrested before long, would pose some serious and unusual questions for his health.

“So where shall we begin?” Tom asked, putting down his drink and re-wrapping his wound. If I detected a hint of nerves in his otherwise steady voice, it was forgivable. As one who knows only too well, it can be most unnerving to find your form altered in ways previously undreamt of, most especially since he did not initiate the alteration.

“With the matter immediately before us,” I replied, and outlined the measures I’d devised as a solution. It was perhaps a bare and hasty plan, but I had been sketching it ever since Tom spoke about the boar’s curious animation, and his injury had drawn the final lines to give it shape. “With your permission, I shall retrieve my materials, and we can begin.”

A DASH OF INSPIRATION

In which a plan takes shape.

“So, for the matter at hand. I have a theory,” I began a short time later, taking hold of Tom’s arm and placing it in a set of containment symbols. “Whatever power animated the boar was potent, but uncontrolled.”

“So this is an accident?” Tom looked down at his arm suspiciously.

“In a way, yes.” I smiled as reassuringly as possible. “But it’s a fortunate one, unlikely as that may sound. The fact that some of the boar’s miraculous nature has been transferred to you allows me to determine not only a means to arrest your condition’s progress, but also determine the origin of the creature’s spontaneous Animation.”

“Incredible,” Tom breathed, watching as the symbols slowly began to glow, faint golden light filling out the curves and swirls like slow-moving water. “What’s happening?”

“I am drawing out some of the Æther that was transferred from the boar into your wound during the attack,” I said, carefully noting which symbols were lighting up and which remained darkest. The simplest glyphs were reacting most strongly, though a curious flickering of some of the more elaborate sigils was still evident. Powerful energies were at work, but in very unusual ways.

“Ether?” Tom asked quizzically, eyes still fixed on the display.

“Æther,” I said, reflexively correcting the pronunciation. “A term for the essential element of the Art. A magnificent and mysterious material, most often vapor, sometimes liquid and rarely—very rarely—solid. For all the scrutiny it has received throughout the history of the Art, little is known for certain about its essential nature, though its uses and implementation habits are extensively documented.”

“So if you are detecting the presence of this Æther, then doesn’t that mean there must be another practitioner of your particular talents nearby?”

“Unlikely,” I said, though truth be told, it was a possibility that had certainly entered my thoughts. Each time a letter arrived back home, I wondered if it might be another Ætheric chemist might be trying to contact me; if they were out there, however, so far they had remained mute. “Though rare, there are tales in certain histories of the Art that tell of objects, places or even individuals who demonstrate a curious magnetism for Æther, which in turn can supposedly cause all manner of strange phenomena. Such an attraction could account for the boar’s remarkable behavior.

“In any event, one reliable property of this wondrous substance is known as Karlov’s Sympathetic Principle,” I continued. “This holds that a source of Æther is naturally attracted to similar sources.”

“How is that useful?”

“Do you have a lamp or a lantern we can use?” Tom nodded in the direction of the mantle. There was an old brass lantern, its glass scratched and nicked but otherwise intact, sitting amid the other trophies on display. “Perfect!” I took a very fine blade and etched four of the symbols that had reacted most strongly, one for each pane of glass. They began to glow almost immediately, faintly at first but soon strong enough to produce a deep orange radiance, like a sunset viewed through amber. I set the lantern down on the table with just a bit of a flourish. “By following which one of these symbols glows most brightly at any given moment, we should find ourselves on a direct path to the boar.”

Tom blinked, then let out a hearty laugh, as much relief as merriment it seemed. “Astounding! Damn the hour—I say we depart at once, and kill the damned thing before it causes any more infernal mischief.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid we can’t leave just yet.” I drew out a measure of Turkish cane powder, tipped it into the silver bowl next to his afflicted hand and began mixing it with a solution of ink, honey and a dash of philosophical salt water. “While I commend you on your willingness to ignore your own condition in favor of bringing down the beast, I cannot ignore the fact that the amalgamation is continuing apace, and if left unchecked could well compromise the rest of your body by dawn.

“I can arrest the progress,” I said, before he could dwell too long on that unfortunate image, “there’s no question about that, though I must admit there is an elusive property to your condition that prevents me from reversing it entirely. There is also the matter of preparing suitable counter-agents, should the boar be encountered, which will draw out its animatory Æther. That will take some time, though in respect to the urgency of the matter, I shall endeavor to work swiftly.

“Regardless, these glyphs should ensure that your auric infection spreads no further, and allow you retain the use of your limb.” I tested the mixture in the bowl with my finger, found it had heated satisfactorily, and traced out a quick series of Transfigurative glyphs on his arms. I was careful to let the ink in the bowl swirl back to formlessness between sigils so as not to confuse the process.

“Remarkable,” said Tom, flexing his fingers like a man just come in from the cold. At my nod, he lifted his arm and swung it hesitantly to and fro, gingerly at first, then with increasing vigor. Quite unexpectedly, he gave me a broad smile. “You know,” he quipped, “now that I know the condition isn’t terminal, I’m rather unsure of whether or not I want you to reverse it! Looks rather dashing, don’t you think?”

“Without a doubt, though if you’ll pardon my asking, isn’t it growing rather heavy?” While Tom certainly seemed to be in peak condition, the weight of the gold surely would try even a stout man’s physique before long. “I’ve halted the process, but still, surely that additional weight must be wearisome.”

Though other factors certainly played a part in our friendship over the years, it was Tom’s answer to that question that certainly helped set the tone for the years to follow. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he took his feet, called for his coat and rifle, and gave me a smile of absolute confidence. “It certainly is—all the more reason to get going, wouldn’t you agree?”

THE PATH IN THE WILD

In which a difficult trail is followed, and an unfortunate confession is made.

“I must confess, this is the most unusual hunt I’ve ever undertaken,” Tom said, picking his way carefully around a patch of brambles. “Our quarry notwithstanding, normally I’d have at least a man along for the ammunition, and some dogs to flush the beast.” Having split up what few stout men remained in his employ to help safeguard the village and his household against the creature’s return, however, his words became little more than a reminder that we were on our own. “Nasty business, this.”

“I’ll give no argument to that,” I agreed, nearly stumbling over a stone as we made our way across the uneven ground. We’d walked at least two miles, perhaps more, but even with a clear night and the lantern light it was slow going, as the carefully tended lawns of the estate had long ago given way to tangled undergrowth and the occasional mire for which Yorkshire is justly famous. Making matters worse, a cool, light rain visited us periodically, not quite enough to soak through our coats but enough to leave a measure of misery each time. “Do you have any idea where this is leading us? Toward the village, perhaps?”

“No, that’s a bit more to the southwest,” Tom said, indicating the correction with the barrel of his rifle. “I’d say we’re heading towards one of the outlying cottages. Vicar Stephens’, perhaps, or the home of Doctor Sykes.” He spared a glance for the lantern, as he had a dozen times previously. “I take it the glow is a good sign?”

“Positive indeed,” I answered, with more cheer than I felt. “Judging by the gradually increasing brightness, I’d wager that we’re coming close to our quarry.” I pointed in the direction of a wooded hillside in our path. “Likely no further than that stand of trees, I’d say.”

“Definitely Doctor Sykes’ cottage, then.” Tom swore as his foot sunk into a patch of mud and struggled for a few moments before pulling it free with a consumptive gurgling sound. “If I’d known we were going to pay him a visit,” he said sourly, watching the ground more closely as he walked, “I’d have simply taken a pair of horses or the carriage down the main road.”

“I suppose it would be too much to ask of a boar to take a more civilized path,” I agreed. “I wish I had come more prepared, myself.” My boots had long since soaked through, and I found myself longing to be back at the fireplace.

“Oh, I don’t know about all that. You seem to possess quite an arsenal of tricks,” Tom said affably. “Seeking lanterns, counter-agents—I take it these are holdovers from the previous investigations I’ve read so much about?”

“Not exactly, I’m afraid.” At last the topic I dreaded had come to light. I cleared my throat, not quite sure what to say next but feeling Tom deserved my honesty. “I’m afraid my investigative record has been somewhat, ah, exaggerated in the popular press.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “I’m rather fond of the remoteness of my estate, and even so I’ve still read of, oh, I’d say a half-dozen of your adventures!”

“Adventures is perhaps too strong a term,” I replied carefully. “That is to say, while each investigation was certainly revealing in its own way, yours is the first case that has ever proven to be…genuine, shall we say?”

“Incredible!” Tom exclaimed. “Not a single other case proved preternatural?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What about the Devonshire Devil Hound?”

“Clever application of makeup.”

“The Phantom Strangler of Paris?”

“A savage pet, unwittingly loosed against innocent neighbors.”

“No! The Dunwich Haunting?”

“Several gentlemen and a bedsheet, assisted by strong liquor,” I said, growing more embarrassed by the moment. Such is the problem with fame, particularly the sensationalized sort that all too often had followed me since my Transfiguration. In addition to the vague disappointment that always accompanies discovering mundane origins for purportedly paranormal phenomena, my efforts to disclose the truth were overshadowed by those more interested in legend and fancy. “Despite my best efforts and occasional threats of legal action, I have been unable to stop the spread of these wild tales.” I spared a sideways glance for my companion, feeling a shameful flush as I recounted my unspectacular exploits. “I apologize if that is not exactly the record you had hoped to employ in this matter.”

“Nonsense,” Tom said confidently. “For one, one need only look at you to realize that you’re quite obviously no scheming charlatan, if you’ll pardon my saying so. For another, if a man goes hunting based on the word of others, and it is discovered that they lied to him about the abundance of game, do you judge him a failure?” He snorted derisively. “Not if you’ve any sense. Besides,” he added wryly, “you’ve certainly found something legitimate this time!”

“Quite so,” I replied, grateful for the camaraderie. Through the trees, I could see the outline of a small cottage beyond. No lights burned in the windows, but the lantern’s glow steadier increased as we approached. I could feel my heart racing faster and faster; unless my understanding of Ætheric properties was fundamentally flawed, we were about to encounter perhaps most potent example of the Art outside of my own laboratory. Despite the dangers, I could not help but feel a smile cross my features.

There is, after all, a singular joy to be found in mysteries.

When we had just about reached the drive, Tom signaled a halt. Without taking his eyes off of the cottage, Tom asked me quietly, “Any notion of what we should expect?”

“Honestly? Apart from the boar, which you’ve already encountered, I have no idea.” I surveyed the dark shape ahead. “It’s possible that your condition indicates it is losing Æther, which would make it slower and less dangerous, but I would not wager on it.”

“Very well,” Tom said grimly. Without anything else to say, we continued, the light of the lantern cast long shadows down the drive, the night sounds that are so often a source of familiar comfort turned strange and sinister with tension.

Whatever waited ahead did so quietly, in the dark.

THE PILFERED PAGES

In which a curious crime is uncovered, and dark truths intimated.

In a pinch, a glance at the state of a man’s library can be better than hours of conversation for painting a picture of his mind. Not only do the titles betray particular interests and fancies, but unlike most other possessions, the state of the books themselves is often in direct contrast to the value attributed to them by their owner. I place far more trust in a gentleman whose books betray cracked spines, weathered covers and creased pages than in one whose library shelves are immaculate. Supposedly beloved volumes layered in dust, with no sign of having ever been opened, likely have an owner with a mind to match.

In this respect, I would likely have found Doctor Sykes excellent company, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances of the moment. Drawn by the phantom trail of the Æther lantern, we found the front door standing open, the darkness receding grudgingly at the lantern’s approach. Inside, the cottage was a classic academic retreat: sitting room shelves laden with books; curious souvenirs placed upon the mantle; walls papered with maps of the world, tables of the elements and paintings of exotic landscapes.

As Tom picked his way through the front room, calling out for the doctor and looking increasingly grim, I stopped to examine the library more closely. “Is the good doctor a well-traveled gentleman, Tom?” I asked. A few prominent maps and paintings featured scenes of the Far East, and a glance at the spines displayed some with unmistakably Oriental themes. Intrigued, I knelt and examined the nearest one more closely, only to discover a curious sight—it appeared to have a significant number of pages excised, the ragged shreds left behind pointing at a hasty removal.

“Yes, but why does that matter?” Tom asked, looking around warily. “I daresay we should finish searching the house before we stop to examine the man’s shelves.”

“Fair enough,” I granted. While Tom made his way about the rest of the cottage, calling for Henry, I performed a quick inventory of the library. Despite being neatly shelved, it turned out that more than one book was missing pages, and as I set them aside a strange pattern began to emerge.

“No sign of him,” Tom said when he returned a moment later. “His wardrobe was open and nearly bare, as though he’d packed for traveling, but his steamer trunk is still at the foot of his bed. Food on the table in the kitchen as well. It’s as though in the middle of dinner he suddenly decided to go on holiday, then left his luggage behind and his door ajar in his haste to depart.” He shook his head, confounded, then gestured to the stack of damaged books I had assembled. “What have you found?”

“Something equally curious. I am no detective, but I do know my way around a library,” I said, pointing, “and look here. Most scholars tend to group their books in categories, keeping like next to like for ease of reference. Call it a university habit. In this collection, shelves of Western literature and texts are untouched,” I pointed again, “while those pertaining to Oriental matters have been subtly but extensively rifled. In particular, these works I’ve set aside have had whole sections removed.”

“Are you saying Henry was robbed?” Tom asked, looking puzzled.

“A possibility,” I allowed, “though seems unlikely that a thief would steal just pages from a book—why not take the whole volume? What’s more, I doubt that a common thief would even reach for these books in the first place, especially given the availability of objects of more immediately appreciable value.” I pointed at the fine clock on the mantle and some of the more accomplished paintings. “If a thief pilfered my laboratory, I’d expect them to snatch up the containers marked ‘gold’ and ‘silver’, since they are widely prized commodities, even though in truth they are not half as precious or expensive as my concentrated eleric extract or Sicilian iocaine dust. Still, value aside, there’s the matter of what was actually taken.”

“Information regarding the Orient, yes.” Tom said.

“It appears their interest was even more specific than that,” I replied. The names on the spines told a story of their own: A History of the Chemical Sciences of China, Volume 1; The Folklore and Mysteries of the Chinese People; Bartleby’s Primer on the Natural Wonders of the Orient; A Traveller’s Grammar of the Oriental Languages; and, perhaps most mysteriously (and ominously) of them all, The Legendary Treasures of Asia: Famous Tombs and Lost Monasteries. “Our thief may have taken care to tear out particular information, but they neglected to remove the indices from the books as well, which meant while I don’t know precisely what was stolen, I was able to identify the contents of the missing sections, at least in a general sense. Viewed from this perspective, it seems that our thief had an interest in certain rare species of flowers common to a mountainous region of China, as well as their role in ancient and forbidden folk practices.”

“Henry spoke of visiting a sacred mountain on his last trip, two years ago,” Tom said, rubbing his jaw. “He told me they had some of the most delightful flowers you could imagine, even brought some back pressed in the pages of his journal.”

“An interesting coincidence,” I said, hoisting another volume, “as our mysterious burglar was also interested in the burial location of the Ghost Emperor, a rather infamous chemist and grave robber from the same region. And it appears that the thief also wanted the proper spelling—or rather, pictographic representation—of all of these elements in their original language.”

Tom blinked, then let out a surprised whistle. “You deduced all that in just a few moments?”

“Impoverished students learn to read quickly,” I replied. “Conserves candle wax. The question remains, however, why would anyone go to such lengths to excise these specific portions of the texts? Why not take the books, or simply cast them into the fire?”

“And what has happened to Henry?” Tom asked, frowning darkly. “I don’t like this at—what? What is it?”

“Apparently I’ve heard something,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. It was not as flippant or contrary a reply as it might seem—to my surprise and quite of its own accord, one of my ears had perked up and swiveled in the direction of the door. At first, I thought it might be detecting the distant rumble of one of Yorkshire’s famous storms, but then I realized the sound was too rhythmic, too regular.

Something very large and heavy was approaching, at speed!

TOM’S METAL IS TESTED

In which a vicious adversary is at last confronted.

Though it must have been merely a matter of moments, seconds really, between the first stirrings of alarm and the appearance of the monster, I confess each breath felt positively an hour at the time. Survivors of harrowing experiences frequently describe how time seems to slow to a crawl, as though the world were suddenly submerged in an icy lake and each gesture a diver’s ponderous motion, and until that night in the cottage I had always believed it something of an exaggeration. Having survived that encounter and too many others like it in the years since, I now freely admit my error.

My embarrassment becomes more profound considering that I was the first to realize the danger. Hearing the thunderous gallop approaching, I turned and saw through the doorways the most malevolent pair of eyes I have ever seen, twin points of crimson light in the dark, narrowed with bloodthirsty malice and growing rapidly larger with each passing moment.

Still more quickly than I could find words, Tom spun and shouldered his rifle, staring down the charging beast with the apparent detachment of a gentleman shooting pigeons in his backyard. “Got you now, you brute,” he muttered, then squeezed the trigger. The round struck home with a high cracking sound and one of the two crimson lights went out. A hideous squeal erupted from the beast, something between the whistle of a train and the hissing of molten metal being poured in the foundry.

“Brilliant shot—” I began, but stopped when I realized that his marksmanship, while superb, had only thrown the thing off pace for a few steps, and it had nearly reached the door. I fumbled for the pocket where I’d stored the vials I’d prepared, but found my fingers stiff and clumsy. My gaze locked with its remaining eye and I suddenly and quite distinctly felt myself freeze in place. One of the most unfortunate side effect of my Transfiguration is that I occasionally find I share certain habits with the common rabbit, one of the most inconvenient being a certain tendency to be struck stock still when faced with a dire threat to life and limb. That, and a need to dig up gardens that sometimes requires all my will to subdue.

Particularly if they contain delicious roses.

Fortunately I was not alone that night. “Look out!” Tom bellowed, putting his shoulder down and knocking me clear across the room before somehow changing direction and diving for the opposite corner. The boar turned first one way, then another, trying to track his movements, but succeeded only in missing us both. It thundered past and collided with the doorframe before plowing straight through the wall like a cannon shot, followed by sounds of crashing metal and breaking china as it thrashed around the kitchen.

“Is it ready?” Tom asked, attaining his feet with a wrestler’s leap.

My hand finally cleared my pocket, sparing the vials from destruction as I tumbled, but at the cost of scattering them across the floor when I hit the ground. I grabbed for the nearest one, but it hit the tips of my fingers and rolled further away. “Just need a moment!” I called out, quite unnecessarily.

“All right, then,” Tom replied with the same unhurried nonchalance, reloading his rifle. From the kitchen came another of those thunderous grunts, as well as the scrabbling clatter of metallic hooves digging trenches into the stout wood. “Come on, you beast!” Tom growled, sighting down the barrel into the darkness of the kitchen. “See if I can’t take that other eye!”

Astoundingly, the noise from the room beyond abruptly halted, save for the protesting groan of the timbers. A low hiss rattled the windows of the cottage, like that of a colossal kettle nearing the boil. This happened once, twice, a third time, and I realized the beast was doing its impression of a bull snorting in its pen. Yet it wasn’t coming for another charge.

“I—I think it understood me,” Tom said, a note of quiet awe mixing with his otherwise cautious tone. “Is that even possible?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, but then there is something distinctly amiss with its very Animation, so I must admit the door is open to many possibilities I hadn’t entertained earlier.” Having quite lost my dignity but at last come up with one of the vials in hand, I stepped carefully away from Tom’s line of fire and regarded the monster. Sure enough, we stood not a half dozen paces apart, the light from the lantern revealing the creature to me clearly for the first time. It was much as I’d imagined from Tom’s description, save that his words had hardly conveyed the preternatural terror of seeing such a hulking golden monstrosity moving as if alive.

Nor the wonder, for as the light played over it, I could see that its Animation was clearly no natural Ætheric phenomena. Each limb featured large glyphs, clearly Oriental in design and layered at points of articulation in a combination of exceptional craftsmanship and efficacy. I realize that it may seem odd to praise the grace of a creature who so far had simply managed to knock over furniture, terrify livestock and punch large holes through standing structures, but without those more detailed symbols it would have been little more than a stiff-legged brute incapable of anything more than a straight line shamble. It was quite remarkable, even if the fact that those very qualities were endangering my life. A final piece of the puzzle fell into place, though not one that filled me with any special hope for poor Doctor Sykes.

“Peter,” Tom prompted quietly, shaking me from my reverie. “I’m no expert, but this would seem an excellent time to destroy the blasted thing.” At those last words, the boar snorted, narrowed its remaining eye and lowered its tusks. “Oh, right,” Tom muttered, just as it threw itself at us again.

With no room to build speed, the charge was far less imposing than it had been when the beast was coming up the drive; at the same time, such comparison is rather like stating a lightning strike that impacted fifteen feet away was far less intimidating than one the impacted only five feet away. Both are still likely to set your hair on end and your heart racing.

Fortunately, by this time I’d at last managed to recover my wits, and if may be so bold, they are few things quite so dangerous as a Transfigurist with time on his hands. I threw the door to the kitchen closed and danced back a step, keeping my hands on the wood but moving my lower body out of harm’s way. “Help me!” I called to Tom. Not a moment too soon—the boar’s initial impact rattled the door and nearly carried me off my feet.

“It’ll never hold!” Tom objected, but bless his heart, he didn’t argue, just put his gun up and lent his shoulder to the door. “The frame’s half off!” Sure enough, the door shook again, and the points of two ferocious tusks erupted a full six inches through the wood. The monster gave another squeal, this one with unmistakable notes of triumph, and began worrying at the door, sending out a shower of splinters as it shook its head to and fro. “I thought you had your countermeasure ready!”

“Can’t risk it just yet,” I replied. “Just give me a moment to work!”

“Well, at least you have a plan,” Tom said rather archly, the metal of his Transfigured limb scraping loudly as he struggled against another rattling impact.

“When I give the word, jump clear,” I said, finishing the fifth and final necessary symbol on the door. I unstoppered a vial of pitch from my pocket and applied it to the symbols, just to be certain, then nodded at Tom. The snout of the boar was just starting to break through, which meant I had but a few more seconds before the effect would be ruined. “On my mark—now!”

Tom launched himself backward, nearly tripping over his rifle, and before the boar could force its way through I slapped the door with my palm as hard as I could, using the impact to excite the formulae. With the familiar whoosh of rapid Transfiguration, the solid wood of the door collapsed into a flood of thick, viscous tar. Fortunately, one of the advantages of my condition is a newfound facility for rather impressive leaps, and so neither Tom nor I were more than splashed by the adhesive.

As I’d hoped, the boar’s head was entirely coated with a thick layer of pitch. It issued a strangled snort and stumbled forward blindly, trying to shake off the sticky mixture, but its front hooves quickly became mired in the tar spread across the floor.

Still, I was not about to place my faith in the efficacy of a simple formulae. Taking care to approach from as far back away from the beast’s head as possible, I poured the contents of one of my vials of prepared counter-agent over the creature. Given its deliberate rather than accidental Animation, I feared that the reaction might take a few moments, but as it happens, I needn’t have worried. The boar’s struggles ceased almost instantly, the quicksilver extract from my vial darting across the exposed portions of the creature’s body and evaporating the Animating symbols in a hissing cloud of Æther. A small portion even slithered under the tar coating, and with a final, bubbling snort, the beast’s head lowered and fixed in place.

“Amazing,” Tom said, though I noticed he did not lower his rifle completely for a few more moments. “Is it—dead?”

“In so many words? Yes.” I thought of questioning whether that term truly applied to a thing which had never lived and only now had been returned to immobility, but decided against it. “It was just a matter of getting close to ensure that I could apply the proper formulae.”

“If it was that simple, why didn’t you just toss that stuff at the beast while it was charging the second time?” Tom asked. “Why the business with the door and the tar?”

“You’ve obviously never seen me take a turn as bowler,” I replied. My friend regarded me quizzically, as I suppose a lifelong athletic type might. “Let us simply say that it’s safer to make sure the beast is entirely immobilized, rather than risk our lives on my pitching skills.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Tom said. He looked around the room and exhaled slowly. “We’re still left with the mystery of what happened to Henry, however.”

“I’m afraid I think I know where we might find him,” I said, taking up the lantern. “Follow me.”

THE UNFORTUNATE CASE

In which one mystery’s solution proves another’s beginning.

Tom at my heels, I headed into the back bedroom and knelt in front of the steamer trunk. As I feared, the lantern reacted strongly to the trunk, causing a small series of Oriental characters to appear. “This may not be pleasant,” I warned, “but we need to take a look inside.”

“Are you sure?” Tom asked. I nodded. “Very well then,” he said, taking aim over my shoulder. “Let’s not take any chances.”

Suitably guarded, I placed my hands on the trunk, took a deep breath and opened it. As the lid rose an audible gasp escaped both of us, along with a muttered prayer from Tom. Laid inside the trunk was a solid gold statue of only too lifelike detail, realistic in every respect from the folds in his clothing down to individual hairs on his head. As precise as these details were, however, they paled in comparison to the expression frozen on his features, a look of such wide-eyed horror and despair that I fear I shall never purge it from my memory despite a thousand nightmares spent trying.

“Oh, Henry,” Tom muttered, when he had composed himself. “What happened to you?”

“Not what, but who,” I said, leaning in to inspect the statue more closely while trying to avoid its terrible gaze. One of Henry’s hands was palm outward, as though trying to ward off an assailant, but the other was curled tightly against his chest. A flash of color from between his fingers caught my eye, however, and I reached in carefully to retrieve it, doing my best with an averted gaze. “I suspect that for some reason, it seems that Henry took an interest in a very dangerous individual. Or rather, he may have…attracted its notice.”

“What? This ‘Ghost Emperor’ person you were talking about?” Tom said. “How could he have possibly have anything to do with this?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I replied, withdrawing my hand from the trunk, “but given the evidence, I can’t rule it out either. Plus there’s this to consider.” I displayed the flower that had been clutched in Henry’s own. “This is Imperial scarlet amaranth, and while I am not incredibly versed on the subject, I do know that the Chinese have long employed it in their variations of the Art. Particularly for immortality elixirs, which as I recall were something of a fixation for many of their practitioners.”

“Henry did say he’d brought some flowers back,” Tom said.

“True, but look at this.” I held it up higher, shone the lantern on it. “This is fresh. Where would he have gotten it?”

“Perhaps a garden?” Tom ventured weakly. “I mean, surely you’re not suggesting that Henry conjured up some kind of ancient Chinese phantom?”

“I don’t know.” I sat back and wiped my brow, as much to quiet my racing thoughts as anything else. “My own experience with the Art tells me that many more things are possible than conventionally imagined, but the idea of some sort of specter rising up in Yorkshire, changing a man to gold and loosing a statue across the countryside?” I shook my head.

“Well, can you cure him?” Tom held up his golden hand. “You seem to have made admirable progress with my condition.”

“Possibly, but I’ll need to examine him at length, and—”

“Hold on a moment,” Tom said, pointing at the inside of the trunk lid. “Put the light on that. What is it?” I looked over and saw a ragged string of Oriental characters scratched into the material. “That’s writing, isn’t it? What does it say?”

“I don’t know, but I believe I can find out,” I replied, running to the sitting room and back as I picked up the language primer. “Let us just hope these were not among the characters excised,” I said, settling down to study and compare.

It took almost an hour wrestling with the vagaries of pictographic language, but eventually I found the translations for each of the characters that poor, doomed Henry had scratched into the lid of his makeshift coffin before the Transfiguration had run its course. Their meaning would stay with me for months afterward, returning to my thoughts to distract me during the day and bedevil my dreams by night.

Indeed, out of all the strange and ominous events to follow, I still think back to that night in the cottage as perhaps the most telling incident, when I both sealed a friendship and started on the trail of an enemy more ancient and terrible than I could have imagined in those rosy early days.

Henry’s words, carefully chosen as only the dying can, translated simply:

The Ghost Emperor awakens, and the Year of the Boar heeds his call.

Darkness ahead.

The days of Odd Britannia had arrived.