The second pamphlet—a sheet folded to make four sides of print—was entitled “The First Call of Enoch.” The inside-front page bore a long passage printed in the symbols. The facing page transposed them into Latin characters, the words looking like randomly grouped letters.
The back page offered an English translation: garbled nonsense concerning the power of angels.
However, it provided the key he needed.
He got up, crossed to one of his desks, and retrieved from it the telegraph message Christopher Spoolwinder had given him aboard the Orpheus.
With the pamphlet as his guide, he was able to give meaning to what had originally appeared to be gobbledegook:
THE BEAST . . . THE BEAST . . . THE BEAST . . . YOU SHALL BOW DOWN FOR . . . I REIGN OVER YOU . . . BORN FROM THE WRECK OF SS BRITANNIA AND . . . IN POWER EXALTED ABOVE THE FIRMAMENTS OF WRATH IN WHOSE HANDS THE SUN IS AS A SWORD . . . TO REND THE VEIL . . . FROM THE FALLEN EMPIRE . . . NOW . . . LIFT UP YOUR VOICES AND SWEAR OBEDIENCE AND FAITH TO HIM . . . FOR THE ROYAL CHARTER . . . WILL DELIVER HE . . . WHOSE BEGINNING IS NOT NOR END CANNOT BE . . .
He stared into space, stunned by the implication. That telegraph machines the world over had been affected by the aurora borealis was an established fact. That the one aboard the Orpheus had spewed out this message, which employed a language also used by the Enochians, suggested—incredibly—a causal relationship between Oliphant’s ritual and the atmospheric phenomenon.
“By God, Oliphant,” he murmured. “Did you truly summon something?”
“He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun him. He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is simple. Teach him. He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep. Wake him. He who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise. Follow him.”
—ISABEL ARUNDELL, FROM THE PERSIAN PROVERB
The next ten days of recovery were interspersed with visits to the British Museum’s reading room, where Burton researched John Dee, the Elizabethan alchemist and occultist who’d sought to identify the purest forms and expressions of existence, primarily by communicating with divine beings. Dee claimed to have achieved this through scrying, which was undertaken by his associate, Edward Kelley. Together they’d learned—or created, Burton suspected—the language of the angels.
The hours of reading didn’t provide him with any further revelations, but it gave him a solid grounding in the theories that apparently motivated Henry Beresford, Thomas Lake Harris, Laurence Oliphant, Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy, and the League of Enochians.
By Monday the 17th of October his bruises had vanished, his ribs healed, and his arm offered only the occasional twinge. With a loaded Beaumont–Adams revolver concealed beneath his light jacket and swinging his swordstick as he walked, he left the house, tipped his hat to Mr. Grub the vendor, who was cooking corn on the cob on his brazier, and made his way to Baker Street. Eschewing the cabs—after so many days of inactivity he preferred to walk—he headed toward Portman Square. It was autumn but unseasonably warm and humid. The air was thick with dust, soot, and steam, and stank to high heaven. The flow of sewage through the new north-to-south tunnels was still being slowed by sluice gates, which would not be fully opened until the big intercepting tunnel was complete. Foul viscous liquid was seeping up through the streets and only flower sellers were happy about it, for it had become a necessary fashion to walk with a fragrant bouquet held to one’s nose.
By the time Burton reached the square, perspiration was running from beneath his topper and he had grit in his eyes, so he stopped, sat on a bench, removed his headgear, put it down, and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
He sat back and watched a herd of geese being guided along by a farmer and his two boy assistants, obviously on their way to market. A man on a velocipede attempted to steer his vehicle past them. His penny-farthing hit one of the birds, squashed it, wobbled, and toppled sideways, expelling steam with a hiss that matched those produced by the angry flock. The man sprang to his feet and shook his fist at the farmer. An argument ensued. Punches were exchanged. A constable arrived on the scene and separated the combatants. The velocipedist rode back in the direction he’d come, his machine clanking unhealthily. The geese were shooed on. Once the participants were out of sight, the constable picked up the killed bird, examined it, and carried it away with a satisfied grin on his face, undoubtedly anticipating a goose supper.
Burton considered the strangeness of the city. It was filled with mechanical marvels, yet England’s agricultural roots were still plain to see. The place was so madly eclectic it was almost impossible to characterise.
It is off-course. It has become something it was never meant to be. It is broken.
He looked around at the square. He’d never sat here before, but a vertiginous sense of familiarity suddenly flooded through him, causing his heart to flutter.
How can you consider this natural? Velocipedes? The atmospheric railway? Steam spheres? Rotorchairs? Submarine ships? All developed within the space of twenty years? It’s impossible!
He gasped and leaned forward, gripping his cane with both hands, feeling himself dividing.
The Afterlife? Mediums? Magic rituals? Madness! Madness!
“Go away!” he wheezed. “Leave me alone!”
You’re moving too slowly. Piece it together, you fool. Hurry!
He heaved himself to his feet, reeled, and staggered to one side, only avoiding a fall by slamming the point of his cane into the ground. He raised a hand to his head and used his fingers to trace the long scar that parted the roots of his short hair. Just how much had the concussion damaged him?
He struggled to regulate his respiration then picked up his hat, put it on, and quickly walked from the square to Oxford Street, turning left into the busy thoroughfare.
Impatiently, he elbowed through the crowds, hurrying along, his mind awhirl. Traffic and voices roared in his ears. So did his pulse. He angrily knocked a beggar aside—detecting at once that the man’s blindness was a sham—and turned into Charing Cross, following it south to Leicester Square, where he entered Long Acre, which, a few yards on, joined St. Martin’s Lane. A few more paces took him to its junction with Mildew Street, and there, on the corner and opposite a building site, he found the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club. It was an unprepossessing three-storey building with a plain portico arching over the three steps that led up to the entrance. He tried the door. It was locked. He knocked and waited. He yanked the bellpull; knocked again. No one came. Muttering an oath, he was turning away when a flier, pasted to the wall beside the door, caught his eye.
THOMAS LAKE HARRIS
America’s Foremost Scryer and Summoner
Author of The Wisdom of Angels
A Lecture Entitled:
EVOCATION AND COMMUNICATION:
ON SUMMONING ADVISORS FROM THE SPIRIT WORLD.
Here: Wednesday 9th November, 9 p.m.
Open to Members and Sanctioned Guests Only.
Note to the General Public:
Mr. Harris will be giving a presentation entitled:
THE TRUTH OF SPIRITUALISM
At Almack’s Assembly Rooms,
King Street, St. James’s,
On Tuesday 8th November, 8 p.m.
Open to all.
Burton copied the details into his notebook, descended the steps, and walked a little farther along St. Martin’s Lane until he came to Brundleweed’s. Once again, the jeweller’s was closed and the grille covered the window. Looking past the metal bars, he noticed changes in the window display. The tools on the benches had been moved. Plainly, Brundleweed was around; the explorer had just been unlucky in catching him.
Tearing a page from his book, he took his pencil and scribbled: Require engagement ring at earliest possible. Please inform when convenient to call. Alternatively, deliver to me at—
He added his address, signed the note, pushed it through the letterbox, and walked back the way he’d come. Halfway along Oxford Str
eet, he turned right into Vere Street. Number 7 was a narrow house squashed between a hardware shop and a Museum of Anatomy. It had a bright yellow door and a tall, narrow, blue-curtained window. He lifted the knocker and banged it down three times. After a short wait, the door opened. He knew instantly that he was facing Countess Sabina.
She was of indeterminate age; either elderly but very well preserved or young and terribly worn. Her hair was pure white and pinned back in a bun; her face was angular with large, dark, slightly slanted eyes, which, like the corners of her mouth, were edged by deep lines. She wore a navy blue dress with a white shawl. Her hands were bare, the nails bitten and unpainted.
She looked at him curiously, then gave a slight start of recognition and said, “You are Richard Burton.” Her voice was musical and slightly accented.
“Yes,” he replied. “I apologise that I wasn’t available when you called on me. I’ve been—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out her card, holding it up with the handwritten side facing her. “I’ve been wondering about this.”
“Come in.”
She led him along a short passageway and into a small rectangular parlour that smelled of sandalwood. At her behest, he put his hat on a sideboard, leaned his cane in a corner, and sat at a round table. She settled opposite him. Her eyes never left his.
“You do not believe,” she said softly.
“In a coming storm?”
“In mediumship.”
“I didn’t. Now I don’t know what to think. Since my return from Africa, I’ve experienced one strange circumstance after another, and now nothing feels as it should, and if I find that mediums are not the charlatans I’ve always taken them for—I mean no affront—then I shan’t be at all surprised.” He paused, and added, “Countess, I know all about your role in government and about Abdu El Yezdi.”
Countess Sabina nodded and smiled sadly. “I am not offended by your skepticism. Perhaps I would feel the same way had my life been different. As it is, the responsibility of communicating Abdu El Yezdi’s instructions fell to me, and—” She pressed her lips together and shrugged. “It weighed heavily. To be at the centre of such very rapid changes in the world, and yet to know—” She stopped again and appeared to focus inward, her lips moving silently.
“To know?” Burton prompted.
“To know, as you say, that nothing is as it should be.”
“Due to El Yezdi’s influence?”
“It goes far deeper than that, sir.”
Burton unconsciously ran the fingers of his right hand across his jawline. The sensation he’d experienced in Portman Square was still with him. He felt disjointed, more so even than during the days of malarial fever.
A shaft of light was slanting through the gap in the curtains. Dust motes waltzed slowly through it. Burton’s and the countess’s shadows stretched across the floor and up onto the flock wallpaper. The room felt suspended in limbo.
“Would you explain from the beginning?” His voice was oddly hollow to his own ears. Distant. “Tell me about when Abdu El Yezdi first contacted you.”
The countess took a long, slow breath, exhaled, and said, “It was when the Great Amnesia was first recognised. According to my diary, I arrived in London in 1838 to search for my cousin, who’d come here from our native Balkans the year before and had not been seen since, but that mission meant nothing to me when I read of it. The accounts of my activities during the three years leading up to The Assassination, although set down in my own hand, felt like the recollections of someone else. I was disoriented and lost. It was as if I’d gone to sleep in my own bed in the old country only to awaken in an unfamiliar room in a strange land. To make matters worse, I began to experience vivid dreams, in which another used my own voice to address me. I thought I was going mad.”
She stopped, looked down at her hands, and the muscles at the sides of her jaw pulsed.
She flexed her fingers and went on, “This invisible presence introduced itself as Abdu El Yezdi. I could not converse with him, for as I say, he appropriated my inner voice in order to address me. At first, he spoke only in my dreams, assuring me that he was real, would not harm me, was my friend, but required my assistance in order to achieve a great purpose. He then started to communicate during my waking hours, though when he did so, I would inevitably slip into a trance. He told me that The Assassination of Queen Victoria was never meant to happen; that it had been caused by a man who stepped out of his own position in history and into ours.”
“What?” Burton interrupted. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
“Bear with me, Sir Richard; I shall try to explain.” She ruminated for a few seconds before asking, “Will you consider that in every circumstance there is inherent at least one alternate action? For example, one can respond to an opportunity or challenge with acceptance or refusal; one can react to an event aggressively, passively, evasively, or engagingly; one can choose to walk straight on, or turn back, or go to the left, or to the right.”
Burton gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.
“In a coherent world,” she said, “the option selected obliterates the rest; the alternatives may exist for a little while longer, but as the consequences of the decision taken develop, those alternatives become irrelevant and inapplicable.”
She waited for Burton to again indicate that he comprehended. He said, “Very well. Pray, continue.”
“When the most appropriate decisions are taken—that is to say, the most appropriate within the context of the situation—a chain of consequences develops far into the future, knitting together with other chains to form a strong cohesive whole.” Countess Sabina place her right elbow on the table with her forearm pointing straight upward and her hand fisted. “Like the trunk of a tree,” she said, holding the pose, “from which no deviations sprout, for inappropriate decisions are either corrected by subsequent ones or their consequences lead nowhere, while the alternate decisions—the ones not taken—have no consequences at all.” She lifted her arm slightly then banged her elbow back down to emphasise the verticality of her forearm. “This is what we call history.”
Burton thought of Darwin and murmured, “You propose a sort of natural selection, wherein decisions are a response to context, and consequences evolve, and only the fittest of them survive to contribute to the ongoing narrative?”
“Good!” the countess exclaimed. “You have it, sir! You have it! But make no mistake—there are no moralities or ethics involved. An appropriate decision isn’t necessarily a good or right or nice one. It is merely the decision whose consequences will survive for the longest. Time has no virtue.”
“Nothing but blind, pitiless indifference,” Burton quoted.
“Precisely so.” Again, she raised and thudded down her elbow. “This, as I say, is the mechanism of a coherent world.” She suddenly splayed her fingers wide. “But The Assassination caused history to divide into branches. There is no more coherence.”
“Why?”
“Because there was interference from outside the context; from a presence that bore no relation at all to the chains of causes and effects that were active at just after six o’clock on the tenth of June 1840; from a man whose rightful place was in the far, far future.”
Burton momentarily closed his eyes and tried to digest this. When he opened them, Countess Sabina was still fixed in her pose.
“A man from the future,” she repeated, “who somehow travelled backward through time to observe the failure of The Assassination, only to find that his presence changed the outcome. Existence bifurcated. There were now two histories. In one—the original—Edward Oxford failed to shoot the queen. In the other—in our version—he didn’t.”
“Was Abdu El Yezdi the man?” Burton whispered.
“No. The traveller was a descendent of the assassin, Oxford, and was called by the same name.”
“But how could Oxford have descendants? He was killed at the scene. He had no children.”
“In ou
r history, yes. In the original, no.”
Burton gestured weakly for the countess to stop. She waited patiently, holding her pose, while he struggled to process the revelation. When he indicated that he was ready for more, she went on:
“The traveller was in a bind. He couldn’t return to his own time, for his own ancestor was dead, meaning he no longer existed there. This paradox, along with prolonged exposure to what, for him, was the distant past, drove him insane. He died.”
For a third time, Countess Sabina bumped her elbow, drawing attention back to her raised forearm and widely spread digits.
“It made no difference. The bifurcation he caused had already broken the mechanism of Time. Paths not taken and decisions not made no longer faded into non-existence but instead gave rise to multiple consequences.” She wiggled her fingers. “History splits and splits and splits again, and the farther these multiplicities grow from the path the single original history should have taken, the weaker the barrier between them becomes. Picture it as a tree, if you will, whose branches extend away from the trunk and keep dividing until they blur into a mass of twigs.”
Burton raised a hand in protest. “Wait. Let us suppose I accept all this. Where does Abdu El Yezdi fit into it? Who is he? What is this great purpose he spoke of?”
“I do not know who he is. He’s as much a mystery to me as he is to you. But I know he’s aware of you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told me many times that I would one day meet you, and that I must tell you to seek out the poet, who will lead you to the truth.”
“You refer to Algernon Swinburne?”
She responded with a small shrug. “As for Abdu El Yezdi’s purpose—his use of me, and now of your brother, as a means to communicate with the government and influence individuals—it is to prevent a war.”
“A war between whom?”
“Everybody. It will engulf the planet and barely a single country will escape it. He has seen it, sir. In some histories it comes sooner, in others later, but in all of them it comes, and entire generations of men are lost. Only in ours, perhaps, will it be avoided, for Abdu El Yezdi has guided us carefully.”