And this is the woman who has my son so completely in her spell, (Harry’s Ma spoke up). And you are proposing to go into his mind to try and correct or expunge her influence? How will you go about it?
I shall discover what I can of the Necroscope’s problem. (Again Mesmer’s shrug.) After that, since I may not reveal to him the actual cause of his—what, lesions?—perhaps I can suggest when they occurred? Surely if he knows when the damage was done, he’ll be able to work it out for himself who is responsible?
Good! said Harry’s Ma.
And Keenan Gormley put in: I suggested something of the sort myself
While on second thought, Harry’s Ma said, But a lot better if you could break this creature’s spell on Harry without his knowing there is one! If you could do that, then he would be his own man again.
But you said he loved her, Mesmer pointed out. And as you yourself are proof, that is the strongest spell of all …
Mary Keogh had no answer to that. But Sir Keenan said, Do what you can. We’ll be grateful for anything of benefit.
But please be careful! With which the voice of Harry’s Ma—and all of their “voices,” their dead thoughts—faded slowly away, drifting as the Necroscope drifted in his sleep …
Harry didn’t remember anything of his dream, only that he had dreamed of dead voices locked in some obscure argument. But in any case his sleep must have been beneficial; he felt relaxed, rested and quite well. Post-hypnotic suggestion—Mesmer’s implants, of course—but the Necroscope didn’t know that. Instead he would consider his mission to Mesmer a failure, and wouldn’t know what the dead doctor had achieved until much later.
Time to wake up, Harry! (Mesmer’s last words to him.)
Drifting in a place between sleep and waking, the Necroscope began to stir. He felt air from an open window, and sunlight on his face; he smelled crisp, clean sheets covering his shift-clad body, and idly wondered how much of his life was a dream.
And then he wondered at a certain antiseptic smell …
Crisp linen? A shift? And voices speaking … in German?
Switzerland! And Mesmer!
Harry’s eyes snapped open; he clutched at his bedclothes and swung his legs to one side; he sat up. And his weakness at once belied any feelings of well-being. (Mind has only so much say over matter, after all.) He tried to stand up, swayed, was at once grasped and gently lowered back to his hospital bed.
“How long?” he asked then, looking at the doctor and two nurses who stood by his bed. Their concerned expressions immediately turned to smiles. And:
“Three days,” the Swiss doctor told him, in excellent English. “And four to go before you can be up. Exposure, we think. Despite that you seem in good condition, it has left you quite weak. But from now on, I think you should recover very nicely. Except—”
Harry looked at him inquiringly. “Yes?”
“Oh, there are one or two questions. You carried no documents. We don’t know who you are, or where you are staying. We think people might be worried about you. You are a tourist, am I right? You can perhaps help us with these enquiries?”
No, he couldn’t. But then, he didn’t have to. “Tired,” he mumbled, letting himself sink into his pillows. “Can’t we talk later?”
“Of course, of course!” The doctor ushered the nurses out of the room, and at the door turned and said, “I will come and talk to you later, Mr … . ?”
“Smith,” Harry told him. “John Smith.”
“Smith,” said the other smiling. “Yes, a good old English name. Rest now, eat later, and perhaps then we’ll talk.”
But a moment after he left—
—The Necroscope was scrabbling his clothes together from a wardrobe beside the window. And when he was sure he was leaving nothing behind … then he, too, left.
III
NOSTRAMADNESS!
THE DEAD IN THEIR GRAVES CONVERSED—NOT WITH THE NECROSCOPE, BUT about him—with each other, across all the miles between, as they had learned to do through him.
How did it turn out? Harry’s Ma was fearful still.
As well, and perhaps better, than I expected, Franz Anton Mesmer told her. For one thing, possibly the main thing, you were worried about the grip that this woman had on him?
Yes? Her anxiety was obvious.
Well, no more, said Mesmer. And then, more cautiously, At least, I think not.
And Sir Keenan Gormley, unable to control his excitement, joined in: You mean you’ve broken her spell?
One of them, Mesmer answered. I don’t think I’m qualified—that is, I shouldn’t have any legitimate, professional concern—about the other. That isn’t for physicians or friends, nor even for a mother, but for Harry himself. And after all, a subject’s will is still the most important factor. Harry wanted someone to help him find himself again. But as for his love for B.J. Mirlu—whether he should love her or not—surely that’s for him to decide? Should I have weakened the post-hypnotic commands which he has accepted by giving him others that he can’t possibly accept? I think not. And he does love her.
So what real good have you done? (Mary Keogh again, still worried “to death.”)
I discovered two blockages or lesions in the Necroscope’s subconscious psyche, Mesmer answered. Two areas where, through the interference of outside agencies—through hypnotism or beguilement—his will has been subverted. But unlike me, whichever persons did this to him were utterly unscrupulous and powerful beyond reason! Marvellous hypnotists, both of them. And yes, I recognized the work of one at once.
B.J.! said Mary Keogh, bitterly.
Of course. The same girl who defeated me all those years ago. Ah, but this time the shoe is on the other foot! Your son has been taken in and out of trance so frequently that the connection has been weakened to breaking point. And yes, you were quite right: he might well have been driven out of his mind by the truth, causing an abrupt interfacing of his several states. Indeed, I was witness to just such an interface! Fortunately I was on hand, in mental contact with him, and was able to take some of the strain. But it is precisely because the balance is so delicate that I was able to do something more than that.
And Sir Keenan wanted to know: What, exactly?
There are … triggers, Mesmer explained. Key words that trip when Harry hears them spoken by B.J. Or at least they did, but not any longer. Now when B.J. tells him things that are not so, he will know it. And when she orders that which he wouldn’t normally do, he won’t obey; or if he does it will be of his own volition.
He’ll be his own man? Mary Keogh’s dead voice was lighter by several degrees.
Yes, and no … Mesmer sounded uncertain. And before they could question him: I said that more than one person had interfered with Harry’s mind—
—I knew that! I’ve known it all along! Harry’s Ma cried.
But Mesmer continued: And whoever the other person was … (The baffled shake of an incorporeal head.) His commands are so deep-rooted that I simply can’t reach them. They are locked in; they’ve never been relaxed; they’ve fused in position to become almost a part of Harry.
Do you know what they are? Sir Keenan sounded suspicious; the others sensed a frown, despite that his face was long gone into ashes. Do you have any idea what it is that’s so restricting him?
I don’t know. I couldn’t get in, Mesmer admitted defeat. When I probed … why, the seal locked itself tighter still!
Anyway, Harry’s Ma said after a moment, you did what you could, for which I’m thankful.
And one other thing, Mesmer continued. I also planted an idea in his mind, one that we talked about previously: that he look back into his past and try to remember where things started to go wrong. That way it’s possible he might yet discover for himself the identity of whoever is responsible. It should at least provide him with a clue, or maybe even a suspect.
But as for now? (Sir Keenan again.)
(Mesmer’s shrug.) As for now—we can only wait and see.
And
as their conversation terminated and their metaphysical thoughts were drawn back to their own places, Mary Keogh wondered why Sir Keenan Gormley, ex-Head of E-Branch, was suddenly so quiet, so thoughtful, but no longer willing to share what he was thinking …
Three days? It felt more like three weeks to Harry! His legs were like rubber, as if he’d fought an enormous battle, been knocked down, and was just getting back up on them again. He remembered his visit to Franz Anton Mesmer, their conversation in the graveyard in Meersburg, up to a certain point … and then nothing. Or perhaps snatches of a dream in the hospital, but that was all.
Maybe his visit had been a failure, maybe not. His head felt messed-up as ever—certainly his memory—but his concentration seemed a little sharper, like someone had taken a wire brush and scrubbed some of the rust off his brain. Mesmer? Well, possibly.
In Scotland it was mid-morning. But three days! Ye gods! And Harry was hungry to the point of ravenous. He dumped the hospital shift, also the bundle of stained, crumpled clothing he’d brought back with him, showered and got dressed in fresh things. Then, still shy of using his talents too openly—and despite his shakes, probably from hunger—he rode his bicycle into Bonnyrig and bought food … then visited a hardware store to purchase a gallon of heavy-duty wood-stain and a new broom. He knew what the last items were for, but wasn’t about to dwell on it.
Back home again, still shaking, he made a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, and fried bread, washed down with a mug of sweet coffee. He had some ideas that surfaced while he was eating; they seemed to stick to his mind the way the varnish-like wood stain stuck to the floor in his study.
That was what he was doing when the ideas finally crystalized: moving the few items of furniture, clearing the floor, pouring the stain straight from the can, and brushing it into position with the broom. It worked like a charm, stank to high heaven—and he wouldn’t be striking any matches in here for a while! Nor living in here.
Finished, he closed the door on the smell, clambered over piles of furniture and books in the corridor, went back to the kitchen for more coffee. And sipping it in his front room, he concentrated on his ideas; or rather on the idea, which wasn’t his after all but had two sources that he actually remembered.
Sir Keenan Gormley, and Franz Anton Mesmer. The former had definitely suggested that Harry should backtrack, and try to remember where things had started to go wrong for him. And as for the latter … but things were only very vague in connection with Mesmer. Had he also suggested something similar? The Necroscope seemed to remember something of the sort …
Now, in his own home (and however shadowy certain of its memories had become), Harry felt relatively at ease. Well fed and safe for the time being from whatever “enemies” he shared with B.J.—free of her presence and influence—he decided on one final attempt at going back into his past to see if he could find a clue to his condition.
But first there was something that was even more important. His mission to Mesmer had failed—well, probably—but there was still that other visitation experienced at E-Branch HQ. And since it was now part of his past, he began by recalling that oh-so-enigmatic face to memory:
That kindly, learned face—a man’s face, and long—with grey eyes whose inner orbits curved into the bridge of an even nose, over drooping moustaches that touched the corners of his small but by no means mean mouth. The forehead, large and open; the ruddy cheeks; the slightly protruding ears, with sideburns flowing into a full golden-brown beard. And those eyes—at one and the same time severe and smiling—with discipline, humanity, and a consuming mysticism blazing outwards from them.
Harry remembered his voice, too, full of learning, and in that moment it struck him that it had been a “dead” voice from beyond the grave; and who better than the Necroscope to recognize that fact and know the difference? Then there had been an abrupt dismissal: “Away with you now, for as yet it is not your time.”
Well, perhaps now it was his time. The Necroscope’s mental barriers were once again in place; risking what he still saw as a fraught procedure, he lowered them, inviting contact. And:
So, finally you would seek the source of your troubles in your past? (It was the selfsame voice, but seemed full of a wry humour now.) What do you hope to find there, Necroscope? What’s done is done, after all. Ah, but if you would know the future—come speak to me in Salon. But do not wait too long, for I have other times to scry upon.
“Salon?” Harry repeated the as yet unknown other out loud. “I’ll come, of course,”—well, as soon as he knew where Salon was!—“But who should I ask for?”
Michel de Nostredame, came the mind-boggling answer immediately. Find me in the church, no later than tonight …
It meant another frantic bike trip into town, this time to the small but well-stocked library. The bicycle was necessary, for unless he could use the Möbius Continuum with an absolute guarantee that he wouldn’t be seen, Harry was determined to avoid it. And so into the afternoon he read all he could on Nostradamus.
Then an early dinner at a Bonnyrig cafe, following which, and conscious of the hour—eager to be home again—he found a deserted alley and risked riding through a hurriedly, fearfully conjured door directly into his back garden. And finally a series of equally sweaty jumps to Salon-de-Provence, in the south of France.
The Church of St. Laurent was a landmark and easy to find; its doors stood open; though he heard muffled voices from somewhere within, no one challenged Harry as he approached Nostradamus’s grave in an alcove, where his portrait hung on the wall. And staring up at that portrait … Harry saw that indeed this was the man who had “visited” him at E-Branch HQ.
There was no one around. Only the echoing old church, and from somewhere a scurrying of mice. Harry lowered his barriers, and under his breath said: “Sir, I’m here.”
And: So you are! Nostradamus answered at once. And you’re welcome, Harry Keogh, Necroscope. I’ve waited long and long for this day.
“You knew we were to meet?”
Oh, yes. Nostradamus answered. For am I not a—what, a “precog”—after all? And isn’t that why you came to see me?
“That’s exactly why,” Harry supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, really. “But if you know—or if you’ve seen this much of things, sir, that I would come to see you—perhaps you’ve seen much more? And I do need to know my future. But I need to see it clearly defined, not in fragments or cloaked in mystery. I mean no disrespect, but your writings are at best confusing.”
Oh? You’ve researched me, then. And did you find some reference to yourself, that you would now clarify?
“To myself?” Now Harry really was surprised. “In your Centuries? Why, no! I hadn’t the time to read them all.”
That were as well. Perhaps you would be yet more confused. I myself am confused, and amused, by certain interpretations.
“But you’ve been dead quite a while. How can you possibly know of these interpretations?” The Necroscope was fascinated.
A good many of them that interpreted me are likewise dead. And as you of all men are aware, we have intercourse of sorts.
Of course. And now Harry felt stupid. Nostradamus sensed it and chuckled, but not maliciously. What, you? Stupid? Lazy, perhaps. But never stupid!
“Lazy?”
You have access to all the great libraries of the dead—all knowledge!—and yet you stumble.
“The books of the future aren’t written yet,” Harry retaliated. “And those that are are sketchy, couched in cyphers.”
As to why I wrote in brief, it was because I saw in brief. A lightning flash upon the mind, a picture come and gone. Revelations—or distillations?—of future things. Harry, do you remember your dreams? Not all of them, I am sure; and of those you do remember, not in every detail. So were—so are—my visions of tomorrow. I must record them quickly, lest they are lost. Why, I even thought that way! In quatrains obscure. Even now, because I have trained myself to it, my words and even my reaso
ning seem obscure. In my day there were other reasons. I had my detractors as well as my champions. Both were powerful. If a tongue spoke wrong, in the fantasies of certain sects, it could be cut out—the Inquisition! Ah, so easy to talk of the past, for it is done and gone. But the future? Ever a devious discourse. Mercifully I am strengthened in the knowledge that I may no longer suffer harm. Yet in my day I suffered witches. Henry’s Queen, Catherine de Medici, was one such. Fleeing pain, I embraced scandal. The Catherine is a wheel, did you know? As is time. Even as the stars and planets wheel in their celestial orbits, so does time. And what will be …
“ … Has been!” Harry cut in. “Time is relative.”
Indeed! A good word: relative. Do you like word games?
This was such a departure from Nostradamus’s previous theme that Harry was momentarily lost for an answer. But in any case, and before he could answer:
I know you do. For you have heard them, and perhaps even played them, in the mouths of experts! And will again. Ah, take heed! Anyway, I have some word games for you. Are you game? Or, am I? What’s in a game, or in a name for that matter?
Harry thought about it, for he’d been told several things and asked several things—all in a few dozen words! And as in all of Nostradamus’s writings, and his conversation so far, his meaning was obscure, hidden.
Word games, “in the mouths of experts.” Spoken with dire inflection. But the emphasis was on “in,” and Harry believed he knew why. Nostradamus’s experts could only be the Wamphyri. To play word games with them—as the Necroscope had done—was an invitation to disaster! Thus the great prophet was simply indicating that Harry had risked his all, and would do again. With the Wamphyri? But they were dead and gone, surely? And yet deep inside he knew that they weren’t. Not yet. Not all of them. The idea came and went, much like Nostradamus’s visions, or like the dreams to which he had referred …
Harry blinked his eyes, continued to divine the great prophet’s meaning: