Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [99]
“Has your husband told you what the sessions consist of?”
“He has. Apparently, Mr. Dunn has him lie on the table in the library. Then he positions several of his balloons around the room.”
“The balloons?”
“They are supposed to aid Cal in the process.”
“Which consists in what?” Coleman said. “Does Dunn fill his head with pictures of the life to come?”
“No,” Isabelle said, “just the opposite. He tells Cal to allow his mind to fill with the agony that afflicts him.”
“Whatever for?”
“Mr. Dunn says that since Cal’s pain is the route that will lead him out of this world and into the next, it is necessary for him to immerse himself in it, in order for his transition to be a smooth one.”
Coleman frowned. “Does your husband at least feel that Dunn’s ministrations are helping him?”
“He insists they are when I ask him, but if you could see the look in his eyes . . . I think he cannot stand for his sessions with Mr. Dunn to be anything other than helpful.”
XI
Summerland, Poughkeepsie
June 22, 1888
According to Dunn, not just the Hudson but the stretch of the river next to Poughkeepsie is the site of a doorway from this world to the next. Of course it would be, wouldn’t it? But (supposedly) all manner of phenomena visible on the surface of the water during the late 1850s, reported in local papers. Must research.
Strange how tired I am—not from any exertion, obviously, but from the stress of Cal Earnshaw’s rapidly worsening condition, and its effect on his wife. Tonight, she made her most direct plea yet for Dunn to allow her to take Cal and depart for home. Dunn would have none of it, insisting that he and Cal still have a great deal of preparation to do. He tried to draw me in on his side, but I refused. Perhaps I should have spoken more forcefully, insisted that Dunn send the Earnshaws on their way.
Would that I could climb into bed and sink into slumber—but the combination of the memories the last few days have stirred and the balloon that floats near my window keeps me awake.
XII
“I intend to take my husband and depart this house immediately,” Isabelle said. “Will you help me?”
“Yes,” Coleman said.
XIII
There was a moment’s resistance, then the tip of the rapier broke the balloon’s skin. Coleman couldn’t say what he had expected—for the paper sphere to burst, or deflate, or shoot across the library on its suddenly released contents—but assuredly, it was not the gout of thick black fluid over the blade of the sword, across the floor. He drove the rapier in to the hilt, through the balloon’s other side, and withdrew it as his tutor had instructed him, ready for a second thrust.
He need not have bothered. Listing to the right, the balloon was sinking, dark liquid dripping from the cuts Coleman had made to it. The stuff was thick as treacle and struck the marble tiles with a wet splat. With a strangled cry, Dunn ran for the sword rack. Coleman stabbed the next balloon, stepped forward, and slashed the balloon after that. By the time he heard Dunn’s shoes slapping the floor behind him, Coleman had opened a vent in the fourth of the man’s inventions. His sword was coated in whatever filled the balloons, which oozed across the floor in growing puddles that stank of rot. It seemed impossible that such a substance could cause the balloons to rise, and yet—
Coleman turned, sweeping his sword in a wide arc that caught Dunn’s stab and flung his blade to the side. The man recovered quickly, cutting an X in front of him. Rather than parry, Coleman retreated several paces. Dunn was considerably stronger than he and had selected a heavy cavalry saber for his weapon; Coleman did not rank his chances of defeating the man especially high. If he could distract him from Isabelle, who had assisted Cal up from the table and was supporting him as he limped toward the library door, then Coleman would consider his performance a success.
Truth