Authors: Paul Finch
Of course, even if the creature was successfully confined, the situation was intolerable. During day-time, George Cyrus-Jones was able to conduct himself normally; he even went into business, and met a young woman whom he fell in love with and married. But always the
spectre
of his other self lurked close by. His father at last sought an answer overseas. Throughout the 1840s and early 1850s, Abyssinia burned with internecine warfare, but in 1855 one
Kassa
Haylu
, a successful chieftain, was crowned Emperor Theodore II, and a period of comparative peace followed. Professor Cyrus-Jones, hopeful that his former misdeeds might have been forgotten, returned to Abyssinia with his stricken offspring, only to find that there’d been so much change in that once-mysterious land that knowledge of the old ways had largely been lost. He searched for several years, but nowhere could he find a reversal to the enchantment.
At length, in 1858, he and his son returned to England. The ageing archaeologist had
realised
that his days were numbered and that George would soon be the head of the Cyrus-Jones family, which was of course a potential disaster. In the professor’s mind it had become essential that someone must be on hand at all times who understood and could help manage his son’s condition. In that respect, he brought back to England with him two sturdy henchmen; two Ethiopian warriors raised on the old traditions of their land and experienced in the hunting of dangerous beasts. To blend with London society, they adopted the western names Joseph and Nigel and dressed as gentlemen-servants. During the years that followed, they performed simple domestic chores around the family home, though whenever necessary, if their boisterous charge escaped, they would pursue and recapture him. As such, throughout the 1860s, progressively less was seen of Spring-Heeled Jack, and when Professor Cyrus-Jones finally expired in 1868, the leaping monstrosity had all but vanished from London’s consciousness.
All was not well, however. After his father’s death, George Cyrus-Jones fell into a depression. He feared the last chance for a cure had now eluded him. This depression deepened with the premature death of his wife, Clara, two years later. The tortured man now completely drew into himself, becoming a recluse even during day-time, avoiding contact with anyone, including his children. When he himself finally died in 1879, at the age of fifty-four, it was a mixed blessing. His family mourned, but they were hopeful the curse had died with him.
Very shortly afterwards, this hope would be rudely dashed …
“Well this is a fascinating story, but there’s one thing I don’t understand,” Colonel Thorpe interrupted. He occupied a wing-backed, fireside chair in the
parlour
, and in his own inimitable fashion, had made himself quite at home. He had a brandy in one hand and his pipe in the other. “These Ethiopian chaps,” he continued, addressing Charles and Annabelle, who sat hand-in-hand on the facing sofa.
“This Joseph and Nigel.
Why should they return here to assist? That makes no sense to me, Miss Annabelle. Your grandfather looted the tombs of their ancestors. Why should they dedicate their lives to containing the horror they presumably believed he’d brought on himself?”
“In the first instance they were paid to come here,” Annabelle replied. “But there was something else. Abyssinia is a land that has gone though great upheavals, spiritually as well as politically. Much like our own country, colonel, its native beliefs were gradually subsumed by imported religions – Christianity, Islam, even Hinduism. Beings once revered as deities were re-
rationalised
into demons, evil spirits.”
“And if Nigel and Joseph
are
representative of their people,” Charles added, “it seems there’s a growing belief that what torments the Cyrus-Jones family is not some malediction invoked by a priest of
Kalengu
, but
Kalengu
himself.” The young soldier remained entirely straight-faced as he said this. “I’ve spoken to both men on the subject, and they’re quite firm. As long as
Kalengu
, or this manifestation of him, is allowed to run amok in England, then he can’t run amok in Abyssinia.”
“Which as far as they’re concerned is a good thing,” Annabelle added, “because when he runs amok in Abyssinia, his children, the locusts, run amok with him.”
There was a short silence.
“So they’re jailers?” the colonel said.
“Nigel and Joseph?”
“Of a sort,” she agreed. “They mean to keep
Kalengu
in England at all costs.”
“How considerate of them.”
“They’re not unreasonable men, colonel,” Charles said. “They know that in this climate the locust can never fly, so in Britain the worst we have to put up with is the mischievous imp himself.”
“No consolation to your family, Miss Annabelle.”
“Oh, they
do
assist us,” she said. “As I say, both men live in this house as footmen. They have done ever since my grandfather brought them here. We’d already dismissed the other servants out of necessity.”
“And do they help with the main problem?” the colonel wondered.
“Absolutely.
Whenever my father – though now it’s my brother of course; forgive me, I can hardly get used to the idea. Whenever he escapes, and it happens more and more frequently as he matures, they hunt him until he’s retaken. They don’t always manage it – Sebastian is young and strong, and Joseph and Nigel are both now middle-aged. But they try very hard and are often successful.”
Colonel Thorpe switched his leonine gaze to Charles. “But you, captain – you presumably don’t intend them to perform this service indefinitely, or else you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to interest
me
?”
“I think the whole thing’s gone far enough,” Charles said.
At which Annabelle inclined her head. She extricated her hand from her
fiance’s
and placed it in her lap. “Charles wishes to present my brother to science,” she said.
Charles stood up, his face taut. He paced the room, fingers tucked into his waistcoat pockets. “I feel we’ve lingered in the superstitious shadows over this for too long,” he finally said. “For all we know, this could be some hereditary biological fault, which may be correctable. There’s a fellow in a circus that’s been touring. They call him ‘the Elephant Man’. He’s hideous, a monster … but I’ve read that it’s a medical condition and that it might even be treatable. You’re a man of the world, Colonel Thorpe, wouldn’t you agree?”
The colonel gave it some thought, before
harrumphing
. “My personal experience is irrelevant to this issue. But at heart I’m a realist, and it’s quite plain to me that, whatever the cause, and if for no other reason than your family’s collective sanity, Miss Annabelle, this matter must be closed.”
She made no objection.
Colonel Thorpe turned to Charles. “You mean to trap the fellow, I presume?”
“Once he’s transformed. Whoever we take him
to,
they must see him as he really is.”
“I agree.” The colonel rubbed his chin. “It won’t be a simple thing. But you’ve come to the right chap, which of course you knew all along.”
Charles nodded.
“Just out of interest, where are our Ethiopian friends now?”
“They’re searching for Sebastian as we speak,” Annabelle said.
“And do we anticipate their resistance to our scheme?”
“They won’t be happy,” Charles replied. “They think that if we put Sebastian before a doctor, he may be cured, and as
Kalengu
is not some disease but a living entity, it will be dispelled back to its land of origin. And the locust storms will recommence.”
“So we can’t count on their support?”
“I fear not,” Annabelle said.
“In which case we must act quickly.”
The colonel checked his pocket-watch. “It’s half past nine. Do you expect these men to bring your brother home any time soon?”
“Ordinarily it would be dawn, or the early hours,” she replied.
“Then we’ll work on the basis they’ll recapture him by midnight. Any extra time after that is a bonus.” The colonel stood up. “Captain
Brabinger
, you will stay here and protect Miss Annabelle. I shall return to my house in Bloomsbury, where I must collect several key items. I’ll be back inside the hour.”
Moments later, the two men stood in the open front door. The colonel was now
hatted
and coated again. “You knew I would follow when you came to see me,” he said.
“It was
an impertinence
,” Charles replied, “and I
apologise
for it.”
“I’m more intrigued than annoyed. I understand why you expected me to be interested in the hunting aspect. But in the club this evening, I made it quite clear to you that I considered this whole business a fantasy. How did you know I would still come?”
“A man like you, sir, would have no option.”
“Indeed?”
“In your very wide experience, which earlier you erroneously described as ‘irrelevant’, you can’t have failed to witness the most extraordinary things, even if you’d rather not admit to them in the prosaic confines of
The Union Jack Club
.”
“You seem very sure.”
“Colonel Thorpe,” Charles said, “I was left for dead on the field at
Isandlwana
. I wasn’t just wounded in the face with an
assegai
,
I was struck across the back of the head with a
knobkerrie
. My skull cracked, it bled out profusely. I lay in a delirious state for a considerable time. Only by a miracle, did the Zulu priests not turn me over and disembowel me as they did with all the others.”
“That barbarism is called
hlomula
,” the colonel replied. “Its purpose is to free the angry soul of a slain warrior before it contaminates the slayer.”
Charles nodded soberly. “A sensible precaution, I now
realise
.” He paused, before adding: “Colonel Thorpe, throughout those terrible, sun-baked hours as I lay on the verge of death, I saw red-coated figures moving back and forth amongst the dead, wringing their hands, howling like children. I thought Lord Chelmsford and his men had returned. Only later did I
realise
that I’d been quite alone – just me and the vultures. The figures I saw were those
very
agonised
souls that the Zulu priests had released. They were lamenting their slaughtered state.” He paused and ran a nervous hand through his hair.
“And despite that spiritual experience,” the colonel said, “you feel science may provide an answer to this other problem?”
Charles made a weary gesture. “The truth is I’m too confused. Did I really see those phantoms, or was it simply that I’d suffered a head injury? Is Sebastian cursed, or is it a medical matter? Either way, it has to be dealt with.”
“That is undoubtedly true.”
The young officer.
“Perhaps I was already receptive to the uncanny when I first went to Africa. My prior involvement with the Cyrus-Jones family might have prepared the ground for that. But Colonel Thorpe, I was only stationed over there for five years and yet in that brief time I was exposed to much that was inexplicable. You have traversed the globe from one end to the other. In a lifetime of hunting and exploration, you’ve delved into its most remote and sinister corners. I felt certain that if any man would know for a fact that strangeness and horror exist in this world, it would be you. And that you of all men would best know how to confront it.”
A short silence passed. The colonel was grave-faced when he finally placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “As I told you before, you’ve come to the right fellow. Now, is there a gun in this house?”
“There are several.”
“Arm yourself with one. I’ll return shortly.” And he left into the fog.