Whyborne
A week or so after the passing of Griffin's father, I perused the morning paper over coffee and cereal.
Our breakfasts as of late had been quiet, ever since Griffin received his mother’s letter in the morning post. Our dinners had been quiet as well, to be honest. I could only prattle on so much about my work at the museum, after all. Griffin ordinarily would discuss his cases with me, but he’d dismissed my questions with a few terse words before lapsing back into silence.
I scanned the paper for headlines that might draw him out. Prince Tuan Banished to Siberia blared one. Three Others Sentenced to Decapitation for role in Boxer Uprising.
“It looks as though the Chinese Emperor will return to Peking,” I remarked. “And supposedly a wealthy Filipino is paying a bounty on American ears. I wonder if he’s a sorcerer looking for body parts. Although I suppose nothing but ears would be rather useless.”
“I see,” Griffin said absently.
I lowered the newspaper just far enough to peer at him over it. He sat with his coffee cup forgotten, staring off into the distance. Mourning dictated he wear a black tie and vest, rather than his usual more colorful clothing.
I suppressed a sigh. Damn James Kerr for doing this to Griffin. I’d always been instructed not to speak badly of the dead, but Griffin’s gloomy mood left me increasingly angry with the fellow. How could anyone raise a man like Griffin, only to abandon him for falling in love with the wrong gender? As though my sex somehow outweighed all the good Griffin did in the world.
But Griffin didn’t need my anger, even if it was on his behalf. He needed me to find some way to engage him, to get him interested in the world and out of his own thoughts. Easy enough to do in bed, of course, but the effect only lasted until the next morning. What Griffin needed was a case challenging enough to demand his full faculties. Perhaps it would give him the space to heal, to lessen the immediacy of his grief.
The soft clack of the mail slot falling closed echoed through the house. “I’ll get it,” Griffin said, rising to his feet. “Finish your breakfast before you’re late for work.”
“I’m going to try to remove the curse from Dr. Gerritson’s pearl this morning,” I said.
For once he seemed to hear what I said. Stopping, he frowned at me. “Doesn’t that one kill people?”
“Only Polynesian chiefs.”
He still looked dubious, but didn’t argue, only left to get the mail. Over the last month, I’d studied infusing magic into objects, in the vague idea I might be able to place some protective enchantment on Griffin’s wedding ring, for when his cases took him to dangerous parts of town. It occurred to me, if one could put a spell on something, one might equally be able to take it off again. The Ladysmith’s trove of cursed objects seemed as good a place as any to test the theory. If I made the museum a slightly less deadly place to work, it would surely be for the better.
Griffin’s tread sounded in the hall. “Anything interesting in the mail?” I asked.
“A letter from Ruth, a flyer for Pears’ Soap...” Griffin put a package wrapped in brown paper on the table between us. “And this from my brother.”
Griffin’s two older brothers had been adopted separately from him. While he hadn’t yet located the eldest, he’d managed to track down the middle brother, renamed Jack Hogue by the couple who adopted him. Jack had joined the other stampeders in the Yukon, and the two had exchanged lengthy letters over the past year.
“Perhaps it’s gold?” I suggested.
Griffin hefted the package. “It is heavy, although not heavy enough, I think.” Retrieving a penknife, he cut the twine around the parcel and slit open the paper wrapping to reveal a letter and a battered cigar box.
We exchanged a puzzled look. “What does the letter say?” I prompted.
Griffin unfolded the paper and read aloud:
Dear Griffin,
I’m sending this from St. Michael, where I intend to stay until I get your reply—I hope soon. When I last wrote, I mentioned my intention to spend the year in what we’ve dubbed Hoarfrost camp, way up in the mountains north of the Yukon River. Although others have found gold, I think Nicholas and I discovered something far more valuable. I’ve enclosed a photograph—it looks like some sort of broken column, buried deep in the permafrost.
Griffin frowned and opened the cigar box. A photograph lay atop the straw packing. I leaned forward and peered at it with him. Although the poor lighting it had been taken in failed to show details, the photo revealed a deep pit dug through layers of gravel and dirt. At the bottom rested a jagged bit of broken rock, which looked like the base of a stele. Other fragments of rock lay in a jumble around it. Some appeared to have carving on them.
It doesn’t look anything like what the natives make. They don’t have any kind of writing, and this column or what have you has some strange words on it, although I couldn’t tell you what it says. I showed the fragment to a couple of Tagish I know. They said the entire area is bad medicine, so I’m guessing whatever is here hasn’t been disturbed by anyone in a long time.
Nicholas knows a little about these things and said it might be from an unknown civilization. I mentioned you’re friends with the lady archaeologist and Dr. Whyborne, so he suggested I send this to you to show them. Or maybe you know some collectors who would be interested?
Keep the fragment I sent with this letter, whatever you decide. After finding this, Nicholas has taken over the saloon, instead of working the claim, in case there’s more to it. If the weather holds, we plan to continue digging through the winter and see if we can find anything else. Let me know if we should wait for you or the lady archaeologist.
Sincerely,
Jack
“Do you think there’s anything to this?” Griffin asked.
“It certainly looks like something,” I admitted, putting the photograph aside. “Let’s see what your brother sent us.”
Griffin removed the straw packing to reveal a small, flat rectangle of greenish stone. It had been carefully polished on two sides and what appeared to be a rounded edge. The other three sides were rough and broken. Although weathered, the signs of carving remained clear, including a series of dots and lines I thought I recognized. Where had I seen them?
Oh. Oh dear.
“The pattern. It seems familiar, but...no. Never mind,” Griffin murmured, a puzzled frown on his face. “What do you think? I know you’re not an archaeologist yourself, but your philological studies have given you knowledge of at least some ancient peoples.”
“I have seen something like it before,” I said. “In a book in the library. One of those kept under lock and key. You said it seemed familiar to you?”
“I...no.” Griffin shook his head. “It was just an odd feeling, nothing more. You said you’ve seen similar things among the restricted tomes? That isn’t good.”
“No,” I agreed. “It probably isn’t.”
“Is the artifact dangerous?” His face paled sharply with realization. “Jack. He’s in St. Michael now, but what if he returns to Hoarfrost, where he found this? Do I need to warn him? Would he even believe me if I did?”
“Griffin.” I put my hand on his, stilling him. “I don’t know. But I promise you, I will find out.”