Sherlock Holmes: The Shadow From Beyond (17 page)

One of these dream scenes was so vivid that I see it clearly in my mind today as it was those many years ago. In this sequence I was looking down at a bizarre ceremony that took place in front of the massive underground temple I had discovered earlier. The area was lit with torches set along the walls, and cauldrons of burning oils and large bonfires that elaborately clad natives frantically danced around. A rhythmic drumming played intensely and the air was filled with the cadence of hoary chanting. The air was heavy with sandalwood incense, but it could not mask the smell of rotten decay that hung thickly upon the atmosphere.

At the front of the temple a very large doorway had opened along ground floor of the structure, a strange green glow issued from within and a thick mist curled eerily outwards from inside. (I remembered passing my hand across the length of that very facade of the temple earlier, and had not noticed any aperture, in fact the wall was completely solid!)

Before this opening was a line of naked people who stood sullenly with heads down and shoulders slumped. Judging from their skin and physical features these natives were from a different tribe as those who danced about wildly. The chains around their necks and the crack of whips across their backs bespoke of a slave class. These poor natives had been led into the spectral green glow that bathed the area before the temple opening where they slouched in silence. Now the drumming became more frenzied and the chanting rose to a deafening volume. The dancers began to run in circles about the bonfires, every few seconds tossing some powder of sorts into the flames that produced colorful sparks and clouds of bilious purple smoke. I watched this strange ceremony before me in awe and fear. What could it represent? What was its purpose? Suddenly there was a flash of bright light from the temple entrance and the smell of death assailed me. My eyes watered at the wretched scent and I gagged violently but continued to watch the ritual below which was now at its chaotic height. It was then that I noticed the thick mist that poured out of the doorway and how its wispy tendrils curled about the naked natives chained before it. The captives were possessed somehow, in a trance like state that held them in place, without resistance. The tendrils of mist then abruptly coalesced, solidifying into rubbery tentacles that curled tightly around the victims, who only then began to scream in terror. Their struggles were for not as all were dragged into that glowing aperture, and deep into the bowels of that abhorrent structure, to be lost forever. Meanwhile the dancers and drummers continued their activities with heightened abandon, more incense was lit and another line of shackled victims was led before the blasphemous shrine, the ritual to be repeated God knows how many more times!

I suddenly awoke with a sharp ache in my head and a throbbing in my temples. I was slightly bent over and covered in debris from the fall. I had come to a hole in the dark path above and not seeing it in the low light, tumbled downward. I had been unconscious for an unknown amount of time and all was still about me. Confusion was quickly replaced with fear as I suddenly recalled my situation of being lost deep within the bowels of this subterranean abyss. There was no sound, and very little light surrounded me. Some illumination lay ahead though, and by straining my eyes to the gloom I noticed a small point of light that shimmered far off down the passage ahead. I started towards it. The going was painfully slow as my knees and palms had become severely torn by the rough stone shards I had previously crawled over.

About a hundred yards onward I came upon a grim yet familiar object obstructing my path, my hands had settled on a skeletal corpse of a long dead occupant, definitely of human nature. At first I reacted in fright, my heart raced, and I retreated, but realized this was no horror from the void, just a pile of old bones, the spirit of which was long departed. The moldy rags of a decaying robe and sash surrounded the calcified remains within, a holy man of sorts I assumed, perhaps a former priest of that subterranean temple encountered earlier. Then I felt the cold sensation of metal against my fingertips. A piece of jewelry or relic was in one of the robes pockets, it was of medium size and weight and slightly larger than a man’s hand. I removed it from the corpse and slipped it quickly into my own pocket. I would examine it later if I survived this ordeal. After whispering a small prayer over the disturbed remains I continued onward toward the feeble ray of light that beckoned to me from the distance.

I arrived at a place where sunlight seeped in through a breach in some of the stones above, and assumed it had been created by the shifting of the earth over time. This was also the source of the fresh breeze that had managed to find me in the depths below and guide me back to freedom. My hopes rose and I felt renewed energy flow through me as I sucked in the fresh air. I feverishly dug out the rest of the breach while dust and stones fell inward about me clogging nose and mouth and blinding eyes. But spurned on by the rays of the sun that enveloped me I was soon free of my prison and laying in the warm glow of a golden dawn, gasping in deep breaths of precious oxygen.

I had emerged from my underground tomb on the face of the mountainside, and judged by the position of the sun above, that I was on the opposite side from the cave entrance I had entered during the sandstorm earlier. There was not a soul around. Not a sound but that of the swirling wind greeted me. The sandstorm had since died down to a minimum and I could once again see the massive desert that sprawled outward around me for miles on end.

Using the sun as a guide, I set off cautiously toward the direction of where the original battle had raged between my group and the Saracen attackers. I did not wish to be noticed by any Muslim rebels who may still be lurking in the area so I crept from cover to cover behind rock formations and bushes. Luckily I did not encounter any enemies and in time met up with about two dozen Crusader soldiers from my group who had been scattered in the storm, and were now regrouping wayward horses and gathering displaced supplies.

They explained that when the Saracen numbers had been reduced to less than a threat the rebels had retreated, melting back into the dunes. Only their dead littered the area. In the end only four Crusader soldiers had been slain and a score injured from our side, but five remained missing, their bodies had not yet been accounted for.

I explained to the remaining Crusaders that I had become lost and disoriented during the chaos of battle and was separated from the main group during the raging sandstorm. At one point I lied that I had fallen and hit my head on a stone, resulting in unconsciousness for a few hours. I never attempted to mention the cave I had entered or the other Crusaders that had sheltered there with me. I doubted that any would believe my strange tale and strongly felt that any attempts to send soldiers into that cave complex in attempted rescue would be like feeding corpses into the maw of Death himself. Eventually the missing soldiers were listed as being lost to the sandstorm or captured by rebels, and our party moved on.

Throughout my return home I never mentioned to those in my group the unknown horrors that brought screams of terror from those brave troops that had sheltered with me in that cave. I remained silent about that ancient hidden temple discovered beneath the mountain, and I surely never spoke of the dead priest I encountered or the relic taken from him during my flight from that evil place. In fact I tried to bury those events deep in the back of my scarred mind, denying the entire episode as a bad dream, although it was surely a living nightmare.

Our reassembled caravan travelled along the northern coast of Africa for a few more months, joining up with other returning Crusader parties along the way. Rebel attacks became less frequent as our ranks swelled and as we travelled further from the Middle East, by the time we arrived in Morocco all evidence of resistance had completely faded. I spent another month in Morocco, administering last rights and spiritual guidance to those in need who were returning from the war in the East. Eventually I tired of all the suffering that streamed west, my health and faith were waning. I gained passage on a ship that took me across the Mediterranean from Tangiers to Algeciras, Spain, and was soon travelling through Europe once more. I was weary of the road and at the end of my reserves, but happiness grew with each difficult step that brought me closer to home, and in time I finally gazed upon my precious abbey in Siresa.

It has been almost four years since I departed on my spiritual quest with a heart full of motivation and promise. Now I returned a broken man, a shell of myself, empty and frail. I have vowed not to leave my abbey ever again, to live out my life in deep contemplation and relative solitude, seeking forgiveness for the sins waged upon that Muslim nation in the name of my God and on the orders of our Pontiff.

The relic I found on the dead priest within those dark caverns has sat wrapped in a burlap sack ever since, buried at the bottom of a large travel chest along with other souvenirs of my voyage. Once or twice out of curiosity I have taken out the artifact to examine its strange design; a circular metallic border of some unknown compound surrounding a pitch black flawless gem that reflects no light whatsoever. Along its border on both sides are inscriptions in a language foreign to me. Beautiful and enchanting to look at, that ancient ornament seems to emit a sensation of pure evil and dread when handled, and caused me uncomfortable visions during the night afterwards. I avoid it and make sure to pray before retiring to bed at night, and although it makes me feel uncomfortable, I cannot seem to part with it. I know that it is an ancient and powerful relic of whose exact purpose is unknown, other than to remind me of that terrible phase of my earlier life.

Thus is the tale of my return from the Middle Eastern Crusades of the late tenth century, a grim voyage of death and suffering in which I was a willing accomplice, and have since relived in graphic memory and nightmare ever since. I will forever regret those years in service of my God, when I helped lay waste to my fellow man in His name, falsely and without justification. May this entry help educate those who read it in the future to not make the same mistakes as I.

I also pray that in writing this journal I may somehow remove the terrors that haunt my dreams and the guilt that plagues my soul. Lord please forgive me.

Francesco Ortega,

Friar of the Abbey of San Pedro de Siresa, Aragon, Spain. 1143 AD.

The Eye of the Watcher

“An interesting tale is it not?” Holmes asked when he noticed Watson had done reading the journal entry. “This Ortega fellow pens some very interesting elements in his tale, indeed supernatural as well as historic. I would normally dismiss most as imaginative fiction, a ruse, but in light of our present situation I must take most of it as fact.”

“Yes Holmes I must agree.” Watson replied as he lay the journal book down on his lap. “It is a tale of adventure and horror within an incredible and epic journey. Normally I would also discount its contents but in light of our present situation I will agree to assume most of the tale is truth. How does it help our investigation?”

“Well Watson, after reading the Ortega journal and examining the other historic notes and maps within the folders you found at Lebda’s mansion, including this one,” he held up the ‘Ahnke-keth’ file, “I have managed to surmise the following...”

Holmes then began to recount his findings as Watson, listening attentively, sipped his brandy.

“One of the routes indicated on this map of northern Africa traces a path that may have been taken by Ortega and his group of returning Crusaders.” He unrolled the map on the table before them. “According to Harper’s transcriptions this route followed very closely to the assumed location of the ruined and fabled city of Ahnke-keth and its ancient Stygian temple complex rumored to have been located nearby. No true proof of the existence of Ahnke-keth has since been found, and reference to the fabled city is only casually noted in a few of the cursed texts found at both Professor Harper’s home and at Lebda’s mansion. Copied translations from those books are collected in this file, and by having read them I now have a clearer idea of that ancient city’s history.

“In the file it is stated that the inhabitants of Ahnke- keth completely vanished one evening when the moon was full and bright, leaving behind a veritable ghost town. Not one member of that city’s population was ever seen from again, nor were any bodies found. Those who visited the town after the catastrophe reported finding carts abandoned in the streets with all goods intact and stalls in the market still piled with wares. Produce and meals had been left to rot on tables, washing half completed, tools scattered about and further evidence of chores simply abandoned in mid task. It was as if daily life had suddenly stopped, and everyone had just disappeared. Soon afterwards various horrific rumors spread about what may have happened to the inhabitants, but none could be confirmed as there had been no survivors or witnesses. From that point onward the town was shunned by most, resettlement never mentioned.

“Left to its ghosts, the haunted city and its temple complexes nearby were eventually swallowed by the sands of time during storms and lost, buried among the shifting dunes. In recent years a few archeological projects led by very shady groups have attempted to locate the lost metropolis but all have failed. One expedition may have been sponsored by Lebda himself no doubt, and it seems Harper had recently attempted to locate the city as well, perhaps with success. “It is most probable that friar Ortega and the Crusader army he was with returned via this indicated route, near to the ancient forbidden city, and that friar Ortega stumbled into the actual buried ruins of the Stygian temple at Ahnke-keth unexpectedly while seeking refuge from the sandstorm he encountered. The skeleton he came across deep in those caves was most probably an ancient Stygian priest who had died, possibly by accident, and the relic extricated was some pagan artifact whose exact value remained unknown to Ortega until his death.