The Magic Lands (57 page)

Resting with their backs
against a high brick wall they attempted to regain their breath,
neither one able to speak, but no sooner had they begun to relax
than a thunderous echoing roused them back to urgency, the
unmistakable pounding of boots as someone ran through the labyrinth
of alleyways that surrounded them. Louder and louder the sound
became, almost deafening until it seemed to be all around them and
at every moment they expected whoever it was that hunted them to
appear from out of the fog. And yet the mist remained unbroken and
very gradually the echoes receded, moving away until they faded
into utter silence.

Left alone in the shrouded
street, neither Tom nor Jack had any idea what they should do, for
they were caught in a city of darkness and a murderer was on the
loose.

But worse even than that, most
terrible of all, was that both of them believed without question
that whatever, or whoever, might be out there, one thing was not in
doubt.

It was stalking them now.

A metal door waited invitingly
before them, slightly ajar. Beyond, the low flicker of a light
illuminated the interior.

"After you," whispered Dredger
with a subtle twist of his lip, not quite a smile, and without even
glancing at the other man, Mo eased through the doorway, moving
slowly. Already grasped firmly in his hand, his blade proceeded
him.

Once inside the lighthouse,
they found themselves in a small passageway. Immediately before
them were iron steps leading upward and a few feet further ahead
another door was visible, this too open a fraction and it was from
here that the wavering light

originated. Approaching it with
quiet stealth, Mo looked back at his companion and tapped the hilt
of his sword. The warrior drew his own blade, following close
behind.

With no further hesitation, Mo
planted his boot against the door and thrusting it open, stepped
through, his weapon glinting in the light of a lantern hung from
the wall, but he found the room uninhabited. The furnishings were
functional, only a stout table and several chairs, a large cupboard
and a stove, and upon the table two mugs sat, each filled to the
brim with a brown liquid that sent up wreaths of steam.

Moving briskly to the stove
where a kettle was placed on a hob, Mo touched it experimentally.
"Still hot," he uttered.

Dredger's eyes moved restlessly
around the small room, inspecting it with deliberate care. There
was no exit other than the way they had entered. "It would seem our
host has left us refreshments," he said, gesturing toward the
mugs.

"Would you care to be the first
to test the quality of the beverage?" offered the fair-haired man,
walking to the table and taking up one of the drinks. He sniffed it
and held it out to his companion.

Dredger shook his head with a
brief smile. "I think I will pass."

"The stairs then?" suggested
Mo.

"Do we have a choice?"
countered Dredger and was already heading for the door. "If our
host will not come to us…" his voice called back as he entered the
hallway.

After a final examination of
the room, Mo joined the warrior at the foot of the staircase and
they began to climb, their boots sounding on the iron steps, giving
full warning of their approach. But whether quiet or loud, whether
cautious or otherwise, it made little

difference, for they knew full
well that whatever was up there was already expecting them.

Above them, immersed in
the swirling fog, Tom and Jack could just make out a sign depicting
a large, dark animal, impaled on a long spike. The lettering over
the portrait read:
THE BOAR
HUNT.

From within the tavern, many
voices could be heard, some laughing coarsely, others shouting
insults and rebuttals, one or two singing to the strains of a
piano, the song unintelligible. But if it offered any sort of
sanctuary to those out on the street, with its promise of a crowd
and companionship, its lure was not taken by either of the boys who
now cowered beneath its brick facade. More wary than ever, they
attempted to creep past the front of the building, crouching low
when they came to any windows, trying to avoid unwanted attention
from the patrons inside. They had already decided that they should
steer clear of everyone, if they could, feeling it to be the only
way they could remain safe. So far they had succeeded in this
endeavour, pushing on through the maze of the city, even though
they were cold and damp from the fog and weary of pursuit. But as
they came to the tavern door and made to move swiftly past,
ignoring the sudden rush of warmth and the smell of food that
wafted from the half open door, to their dismay a thickset, bearded
man chose that moment to lurch out and tripping down the step,
collided with Jack.

"Hey boy," he slurred, catching
hold of Jack's arm and although he struggled, the man would not
relent.

"Let me go!" Jack shouted, but
although worse for drink, his accoster was far too strong and held
him easily. "Tom!" he cried and was immediately answered, for Tom
was there at his side, grabbing the arm that held his friend and
pulling at it, at the same time aiming his boot at the man's shin
and landing a kick that provoked an anguished cry of pain and fury.
This proved distraction enough for him to loosen his hold and Jack
took the opportunity to scramble away, falling for a moment but
regaining his feet quickly to race into the mist, Tom following
close at his heels.

Behind them they could hear
curses and recriminations but the man did not give chase and they
were soon a good distance away, weaving their course ever further
into the catacomb of alleys and shadowy streets. Visibility was by
now minimal as the fog continued to cloak the city.

"This place gives me the
creeps," Tom confessed, as they slowed down and began to walk.

"We'll be all right," Jack
reassured him, but the truth was he was just as frightened as his
friend.

Somewhere in the distance, they
could hear a voice calling out into the veiled night. "Another
murder!" it cried. "The Ripper strikes again! Read all about
it!"

"What does that mean?" asked
Jack as they stopped in their tracks, but a thrill of terror was
already running through him as realisation dawned, the knowledge of
where they were, and when. He looked at Tom but found the other boy
was staring into the darkness, his face paler than the mist.

"Jack the Ripper," Tom stated
in a subdued voice, merely confirming what Jack feared in his
heart.

Then something stirred close by
and the boys knew they were not alone, and as they spun around a
figure stepped forward out of the fog to face them.

THE SHIFTING LAND

"What...what do you want?" Tom
murmured, the dense mist seeming to hem them in.

"You need not fear me," the
figure voiced genially, putting up a gloved hand as if he thought
they might run. "I am not the Ripper, lord forbid it!"

Tom and Jack backed away a
little, regarding the man suspiciously. He didn't look dangerous,
but they had learnt to be on their guard. "Who are you then?" Tom
questioned.

"My name is John Watson and I
am at your service," the stranger replied, stepping cautiously
toward them, revealing a compact black bag that he carried at his
side.

"You're a doctor?" ventured
Jack, nodding at this and the man smiled.

"Semi-retired now I'm afraid.
Occasionally I answer a call if my services are required, and that
sometimes means that I must walk these fog blighted streets at an
unusual hour, but as I have already assured you, you need not fear
me. There are others however, about whom I would not say the
same."

"You mean Jack the Ripper?"
offered Tom, a chill creeping through him, making him shudder and
he saw that the doctor was similarly affected.

"It is a terrible business," he
observed, his face dark with memories, "but there are those who
would see an end to it. In fact, a good friend of mine is at this
very moment engaged in bringing the monster to justice. And if
anyone is able to do so, you can rest assured that Sherlock Holmes
is that man."

"Sherlock Holmes!" exclaimed
Jack, almost a shout. "But that's not..."

"What year is this?" cut in
Tom, saying the first thing he could think of and all he got for
his trouble was a startled look from Jack and an odd one from Dr.
Watson, who shook his head as if baffled.

"Why, it is eighteen hundred
and eighty nine of course. Are you suffering from some form of
amnesia?"

Neither Tom nor Jack could make
any reply to this. The tricks of the Beast were becoming more and
more outlandish it seemed, mixing reality with fiction, and they
were left disoriented and bemused.

"Well," Tom managed to say at
last, "I hope your friend succeeds. But we really must be going
now." With a quick gesture to Jack he made to turn away, intent on
disappearing into the fog which was so thick now they couldn't see
more than a few yards in any direction.

"One moment," the man called,
striding after them, "I shall walk with you, at least until we
reach a safer neighbourhood. I could not return to Baker street
knowing that I had allowed two youngsters to find their way home by
themselves."

Uneasily, Tom and Jack accepted
the doctor's offer and they walked on, their mistrust of everything
in this bygone time causing them to remain silent, unwilling to
enter into any further conversation with a man who, as far as they
were aware, had never really existed.

"Now, where do you live?" Dr.
Watson enquired a little further on, as they came to the end of the
street, and as the man waited for an answer Tom was overcome by a
longing just to tell him everything. But what would be the point?
This man was surely a pawn of the Wolf and nothing more. It was all
a charade, a game, and yet it was a deadly one for all that, in
which people died and madness danced in their murderer's eyes.

"Not far from here," he heard
himself say, unable to think straight, yet certain within himself
that they had reached the darkest regions of the Beast's
dreamland.

"I dare say your parents will
be relieved to have you safe at home," commented the doctor. "Now
which way is it? It can be difficult to tell when the fog is this
bad I know, but tell me the name of the street and I will do my
very best to see you safely there."

Glancing toward Jack, an
unspoken agreement was instantly reached between them, and Tom knew
that the time had come for this part of the charade to end. "We
can't go home," he said slowly, stepping away from the man, Jack
doing the same. "We don't live here."

Dr. Watson gazed at them for a
moment, his expression ambiguous and it seemed he would question
what had just been said, but then from out of the fog, something
large yet agile sprang at them and Tom was thrown to one side, the
thing, whatever it was, grazing past him, sending him to the
ground. As he picked himself up, he looked for Jack but the mist
was so thick that he couldn’t see any sign of his friend, or of the
doctor, although the sharp, venomous hiss of their assailant told
him that he, at least, was close at hand. He waited, eyes straining
to see into the fog, almost calling out but holding back, afraid
that he would attract attention to himself. Out of the mist in
front of him there came the sound of a scuffle and sidling forward,
Tom saw Dr. Watson struggling with a dark figure only a few feet
away. The two combatants grappled with each other, something that
looked very much like a knife raised in the air, the black
silhouette of the blade clear against the whiteness of the fog.

From the left Jack suddenly
appeared, leaping to the doctor's aid, swinging his fists wildly.
There was a vicious snarl, of anger more than pain and before Tom
had a chance to join his friend, the attacker grasped Dr. Watson by
the throat pushing the man viciously backward, before fleeing into
the fog. Jack almost made to follow, his adrenaline pumping, but
the prostrate form of the doctor was at his feet and he stopped
himself, concern for the injured man getting the better of him.
Kneeling down, he immediately saw blood and realised it was more
serious than he had suspected. He turned to look anxiously at Tom.
"I think he's badly hurt," he muttered, the doctor unmoving and
quiet.

"Dr. Watson," Tom said, leaning
down to get a better look. "Dr. Watson! Are you all right?"

To the relief of them both the
man stirred, his eyes watery and unfocused, but there was
recognition in them as he attempted to sit up, a groan escaping
him.

"Take it easy," Jack advised,
"don't try to move."

Dr. Watson smiled weakly. "I am
relieved to find myself in the hands of such a competent
physician," he remarked, his voice shaking a little.

"He had a knife," stated Tom,
remembering what he had seen, his eyes drawn to the man's blood
soaked waist-coat, and putting a tentative hand to his wound, Dr.
Watson nodded.

"It would appear you are
correct, my young friend." His face was pale and sweat trickled
from his forehead. Upon his neck were scratch marks, scored by
sharp nails. "However, it would not be advisable for us to remain
here. I must ask you to help me up so that we can depart from this
devil's lair, before that madman returns to finish the job!"

Neither of the boys needed any
urging and so, with Tom and Jack supporting the wounded man, they
began to walk very slowly into the waiting night.

Both men knew that there would
most likely be something evil awaiting them at the top of this long
flight of stairs; they could sense something, a presence perhaps
and each had their blades readied, the weight of cold steel
reassuring in the threatening atmosphere. Their shadows distorted
on the bleached walls, cast by a pervasive light from below, but as
far as they could tell, nothing else moved.