Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [81]
By the time we entered the building it was all but night, and this made Carnacki distinctly uneasy. “Forces and entities rejoice and gather pow’r in darkness, according to Sigsand,” he said, as we made our way down the aisle with Holmes leading, lantern held aloft. Its light chased shadows out before us like dark conspirators surprised, and though I did not quite believe the essence of Carnacki’s quotation, his uneasiness at the approach of night communicated itself to me. I glanced over my shoulder, I peered into corners, I fancied following footsteps and looming attackers.
We reached the library and all was as we had left it.
By the light of our lantern and with Holmes looking on bemused from beside the octagonal table, Carnacki first swept a part of the floor with a broom of hyssop (as he called it), then took careful measurements before drawing a pentacle around both himself and me with a stick of blue chalk.
“I’ve recently learnt that some colors are just as effective as particular substances and shapes in providing a defense,” Carnacki explained. “Doctor Watson, before I complete the pentacle please empty your pockets of all smoking paraphernalia. Light can act as a path for certain of the forces we may encounter, and I don’t want you forgetting yourself.”
I tossed my matchbox and cigarette case over to Holmes whose part was to stay outside this magical protection, no matter what occurred.
“It appears you’re traveling in a non-smoking carriage tonight,” said my friend cheerfully.
“And your role, Holmes,” said I a little testily as I eased myself down to sit upon the cold floor, “might be better suited if you were tethered by a rope and making the noise of a goat.”
“Bravo, Watson!” He began to laugh, then sniffed and asked, “Is that garlic?”
“It is, and it’s a smell I hate,” Carnacki said, wrinkling his nose and producing from his bag several cloves of garlic strung on a sturdy cord, followed by a gold chain from which depended a glittering pentacle. He stepped through the gap in the yet unfinished chalked star. “Humor my eccentricities, please, Mr. Holmes, and put these on.” He draped the strange necklaces around Holmes’ neck. “Garlic is a wonderful protection against the more usual Aeiirii forms of semi-materialization that I am supposing this to be.”
“And what if it proves to be a Saiitii manifestation, as you call it?” Holmes asked. There was, I noticed, a lack of banter in his tone now, and I wondered if his prejudices were beginning to weaken a little, as were my own.
“I consider it unlikely,” said Carnacki, returning to the pentacle to smudge a clove of garlic in lines parallel to the blue chalk. “The hollow-eyed ghost Mrs. Westen and the housekeeper witnessed, and the similar images you told me Doctor Watson and yourself saw in the window, lead me to suspect there is a human will behind this, but uncertain and amateur. Those ghosts were mistakes, I believe. Tentative experiments. Anyone so inexperienced meddling with Saiitii matters would be dead by now … or worse than dead.”
“Experiments in what?” said I.
“Avatars.”
“Avatars?”
“Hindu mythology, Watson,” said Holmes. “Manifestations of their gods on Earth, or in this case a projected persona.”
“You put the idea very neatly,” said Carnacki. “Doctor, do you have your gun?”
In answer I produced my service revolver from my coat pocket.
“Good. There’s no telling what level of materialization may take place. It may prove useful.” Carnacki finished both the garlic and chalk stars, enclosing us both.
Holmes sat down upon the floor, back against the wall and closed the shutter over the lantern, plunging us into darkness. So we began our night watch.
How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet my companions sat open-eyed and close by, Holmes within a few feet and Carnacki beside me with our shoulders touching. From outside came the occasional