The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

“In Magick, on the contrary, one passes through the veil of the exterior world (which, as in Yoga, but in another sense, becomes ‘unreal’ by comparison as one passes beyond), one creates a subtle body (instrument is a better term) called the Body of Light; this one develops and controls; it gains new powers as one progresses, usually by means of what is called ‘initiation’: finally, one carries on almost one’s whole life in this Body of Light, and achieves in its own way the mastery of the Universe.”

—ALEISTER CROWLEY, MAGICK WITHOUT TEARS

Burton opened his eyes and saw, inches in front of them, orange light wavering across white silk padding. Something was burning his hand. He moved it and recognised the shape of his clockwork lantern. He realised that he and it were inside a coffin.

Buried alive.

With a yell of terror, he slammed his hands into the lid. It came loose, slid aside, and fell away with a loud crash. He threw himself out of the box and tumbled to the floor, panting wildly, his fingers digging into the crevices between flagstones, clinging to physical existence.

Panic slowly loosed its claws and his senses stabilised. He glanced around. He was in one of the bays; its iron gate closed, chained, and padlocked. There were five coffins occupying the shelves; the one he’d been in, three that were dusty and cobwebbed, and another that appeared new. From inside the latter, he heard movement.

Burton pushed himself to his feet, took hold of the coffin’s lid, and eased it open. Swinburne was inside. The poet blinked and mumbled, “I’m famished. What’s for breakfast?”

“It’s not morning, Algy. We’re in the catacombs.”

Swinburne sat up, his eyes widening. “By my Aunt Tabitha’s terrible touring hat! I dreamt a horrible monster!”

A familiar chorus of voices said, “No dream, Mr. Swinburne. It was Gregory Hare.”

Burton turned. Perdurabo—still inhabiting the body of Thomas Honesty—was standing on the other side of the gate, his eyes black and his mouth twisted into a nasty smile. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He said, “You caused him considerable damage, Burton; left him a bruised brain inside a burned and mangled carcass. You have my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?”

“Growing a new body from material harvested from corpses is a complex business even in 1918, where it’s a well-established science. My people have had to cobble equipment together from what they could find here in your primitive time. Our first creation was an utter mess, but Mr. Hare, who would otherwise have died, allowed us to transfer his consciousness into it, which kept it alive and thus allowed us to examine its faults and perfect the technique.” He held an arm out to the left, and from that direction a shuffling and dragging sounded. The abomination that had captured them flopped into view. Its many eyes glittered. Its profusion of knees and elbows angled chaotically. Its long, many-jointed fingers twitched and trembled. A large nodule at the side of its misshapen core split wetly open to reveal long, uneven fangs.

“Good afternoon, Sir Richard,” it bubbled. “Had I known it was you at Down House, I would have broken your neck rather than your arm.”

“Hello, Mr. Hare,” Burton replied. “You’re looking well.”

Swinburne gave a screech of amusement.

“Let me have him,” Hare said to Perdurabo. “I’m hungry.”

His master waved him away impatiently. “Later. I want him to witness my rebirth. Go and check the other catacomb, Mr. Hare. He may have brought more men with him.”

Reluctantly, the creature scrambled away, its talons clicking and scraping across the floor.

Perdurabo wiped his face with his sleeve and closed his eyes. He swayed slightly, appearing to lose himself momentarily.

“You’re pale,” Burton said. “Weak. The hour, I suppose.”

The black eyes met his. “Indeed so. It is difficult for me to move this body during the daylight hours. Tom Honesty is a good deal stronger than he looks. He’s a very uncomfortable vehicle, Burton. I shall be glad to be rid of him.”

Perdurabo turned his attention to Swinburne. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swinburne. In my history, you are regarded as England’s finest romantic poet. I have admired your work since I was a boy.” He stopped, frowned, and continued, “It is curious, though—during the final days of the war in Africa, I sensed a vague but omniscient presence which I could never identify. You exude the same charisma. Have you travelled to the future, sir?”

“Knowing I’d find you there?” the poet responded. “Most certainly not.”

Perdurabo threw his arms wide. “Ah. Such are the convolutions of time. What is true of this history is not necessarily the truth of another. Confessions and denials mean far less when every possibility gives birth to a new reality.” He closed his eyes again and put his head back. Dreamily, he continued, “I can feel them; all those futures. Division after division; an infinity of causes and consequences blurring together. Time itself is evolving, my friends, and mankind must review his relationship with it if he is to survive.”

“The 1918 you came from,” Burton interrupted, “it is not a part of this world’s future. Why did you cross into an alternate past? And of all of them, why this one in particular, Crowley? ”

At the use of his real name, Thomas Honesty’s eyebrows shot up. “You know more than I anticipated! How?”

“I have my resources.”

“And are hardly likely to give them away. Very well. I understand. You play a very good game, but in vain, I’m afraid, for there is but one of you—” the abundant tones of his voice suddenly intensified and separated from one another slightly, so, even more, it sounded as if a crowd was speaking all at once, “—while I am manifold.”

“And tedious,” Swinburne added.

Perdurabo glared at the little poet, then laughed. “Oh, Mr. Swinburne!” he cried out. “I shall enjoy killing you!”

He staggered slightly and hissed, “Damn this bloody groundsman! Will he not stop fighting me?”

“Answer the question,” Burton demanded.

“Wait.” Crowley put his fingertips to his temples, screwed up his eyes, and concentrated. Half a minute later, he sighed, dropped his arms to his sides, and smiled. “Why this history? For two reasons: it is the only one in which Bismarck has been sidelined and Germanic nationalism quelled to the point where a surprise attack can, in a single stroke, put paid to their ability to wage war; and it is the only one in whose future I don’t exist.”

“For the latter reason alone,” Swinburne interjected, “it is surely the best of them.”

“It’s a vacuum,” Crowley continued. “For whatever reason, it appears my parents do not meet in this version of reality. My absence means I can gather all my myriad variations here without stepping on my own toes, so to speak.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We shall be unified in a single body.”

Burton looked past him and for the first time properly took in the chamber beyond.

The catacombs beneath the Dissenters’ Church were bigger than the neighbouring tunnels—wider, taller, and evidently more extensive. From the confines of his cell, which was at one end of the main gallery, Burton could see many more passages branching off from it. The general topography he took in automatically, but it was the scene in the central corridor that engaged his full attention. The floorspace was crowded with machinery, chemical apparatus, vats, surgical beds, and a network of pipes and wires. It was all as exotic and arcane as the paraphernalia he’d seen in Battersea Power Station but, unlike the equipment there, this had a central focus: a throne upon which a body—naked but for a loincloth—was strapped.

“The Supreme Man,” Crowley said. “Humanity evolved. Designed according to Mr. Darwin’s extrapolations, created by Mr. Galton’s methods, and maintained by Mr. Joseph Lister’s genius.”

The figure was, Burton estimated, about seven feet tall. Its skin was bluish-grey, stretched over lean muscles and a rangy skeletal structure; long-limbed, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested; a body that obviously possessed both strength and speed. The head, though, was disproportionately big, with a massive cranium that swelled up and back from a small, oddly delicate face. The cheekbones were fine and angular; the nose comprised of two vertical slits; the mouth small and lipless; and the jaw pointed. The eyes were closed, slanted, and very large.

The body was completely motionless, not even breathing.

“It holds such a brain, Burton; a central sorting house for all the many Aleister Crowleys. My perception will gain clarity across every strand of time. Where you must make a single choice whenever life offers you options, I’ll be able to take every course of action and see all the possible consequences at work.”

There were people moving around the throne. Burton saw Charles Darwin and a man he recognised from portraits as Francis Galton. There were four Enochians, though he felt certain others were present but out of sight.

The muffled rumble of thunder penetrated the ceiling. Crowley looked up at it and gave a nod of satisfaction. A woman emerged from one of the side passages and approached.

“Sadhvi!” Burton shouted. “Are you all right?”

Sister Sadhvi Raghavendra ignored him and said to Crowley, “We cannot delay any longer, Master. The storm is at its height. Mr. Burke has gone to the steeple to raise the mast.”

Burton noticed that her eyes were glazed. She was in a trance.

Crowley addressed his captives. “I must take my leave of you for a little while. I’m glad you both came. I want you to see this.” He turned away and followed Raghavendra toward the machinery.

Swinburne nudged Burton in the ribs and whispered, “Look at the far end of the corridor. They’ve dug a hole through the wall. Do you suppose that leads to the River Effra? Perhaps Bhatti and Krishnamurthy are in the shadows there.”

The explorer felt for his pistol and wasn’t surprised to find it gone. “Unarmed,” he muttered. “But I still have these.” He glanced up, saw that Crowley, Galton, and Darwin were examining a piece of equipment, and pulled the lock-picks from his pocket. “Keep your eyes on that opening, Algy. Maybe we can join Bhatti and Krishnamurthy in a concerted attack.”

He set to work on the padlock.

“Now would be a good time,” Swinburne murmured, “while neither Burke nor Hare are here.”

Focused on his task, Burton asked, “What are our captors up to?”

“They’re fitting some sort of device to their creation’s head. Like a crown but with wires extending from it and connected to an ugly metal contraption. By George! They need to let William Morris loose on all this machinery. It’s hideously utilitarian.”

Burton felt the ground vibrate beneath his feet again. He heard a distant roar.

“The instruments are measuring the storm,” Swinburne observed. “Dials and lights are responding to every crack of thunder.”

“This weather is no more natural than that which gripped the Royal Charter,” Burton noted. “The science of the future has given Crowley mediumistic control of atmospheric conditions.”

“That seems more like magic.”

“So does any science before one understands it.”

The padlock clicked.

“Ah! Bingo!”

He looked up and saw Francis Galton adjust something on the crown-like apparatus before moving over to a sparking and hissing stack of metal disks.

“Burton,” Crowley called. “Pay attention. In a few moments you’ll witness the advent of a new species of human. I have referred to him as Supreme Man, but I think perhaps there’s a better designation.”

“Supercilious Man?” Swinburne suggested.

“You’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Swinburne.”

“I do hope so.”

“Trans-Temporal Man!” Crowley announced. “Let him be born! Do it now, if you please, Mr. Galton.”

Galton took hold of a lever and pulled it. Burton and Swinburne raised their hands before their faces as the catacomb was suddenly filled with lightning. Electricity leaped from machine to machine, snapping and cracking, spitting and hissing; so bright they could see it even through their eyelids. Bolt after bolt arced into the crown, and the figure beneath it jerked and spasmed in its restraints.

For thirty seconds, they were blinded and deafened by the din, and their skin crawled as the air itself was filled with static. Then, rapidly, the tumult subsided and as Burton unshielded his eyes there came a final flash, which momentarily illuminated the mouth of the hole in the wall, revealing the faces of Bhatti and Krishnamurthy.

The two men ducked back out of sight.

“Prepare yourself,” Burton whispered to Swinburne. “On my word, we’ll rush out and cause as much damage as possible.”

“It breathes!” Crowley cried out. “It breathes! See, Burton—I have made a new life!”

Through the bars of the gate, the explorer examined Crowley’s creation. Its wide chest was rising and falling in steady respiration.

“Lister!” Crowley barked. “Examine it! Examine it, man!”

A young fellow, remarkable for his high forehead and bushy sideburns, stepped into view. He listened with a trumpet-shaped stethoscope to the tall figure’s heart, took its pulse, then pressed an instrument to the side of its head and pushed a button. The artificial man groaned, then became still as Lister stepped away.

“It’s ready,” he said.

Crowley nodded his satisfaction. He stepped to the throne and stood face to face with his creation. Putting his hands to either side of its head, he used his thumbs to push open its eyelids, revealing the black eyeballs beneath. He gazed into them and said to one of the Enochians, “This will take a few minutes. Do not disturb me. When the transfer is complete, this body I currently inhabit will collapse. Imprison it. I intend to make Thomas Honesty suffer for all the trouble he’s given me.”

He became silent and motionless.

Lister, Darwin, Galton, Sister Raghavendra, and the Enochians stood back and watched, oblivious to all but Crowley.

“Quietly,” Burton hissed. “We’ll move around behind them. Grab something to clock the Enochians over the head with.”

He eased open the gate and slipped out into the passage. Swinburne followed. Bhatti and Krishnamurthy cautiously emerged from the burrow at the other end of the catacomb. They’d obviously watched and waited for Burton to make the first move. He signalled to them to keep to the right, where they wouldn’t be seen unless someone turned around.

The explorer inched past a quietly buzzing metal structure, squatted, and put up a hand to signal Krishnamurthy to halt. The young Indian nodded, then looked horrified, raised his pistol, pointed it at Burton, and fired. The report was tremendous in the enclosed space. Burton felt the bullet brush past his ear and thud into something behind him. He turned. Hare loomed over him. Swinburne hollered as a ten-fingered hand clamped his forearm, yanked him into the air, and hurled him spinning into a wall. Burton dived toward a length of pipe he saw on a workbench, intending to employ it as a cudgel. Hare’s great weight thumped down onto him before he reached it. He was aware of shouts and screams. More shots resounded through the chamber. A stone surface slammed into his face. He was flung upward, hit the ceiling hard, and dropped onto a table. It collapsed beneath him. Tools clanged across the floor. Burton tried to rise but the heel of a foot smashed into the side of his face. He went down again, felt himself lifted, and was enveloped in a crushing embrace.

Through blurring eyes, he saw Thomas Honesty fall back from the throne and collapse to the floor; saw the Enochians drawing pistols; saw everyone scattering for cover. Reports rent the air as guns fired.

Burton felt himself turned and forced down, back first, onto a knotted limb. His spine was bent to its limit then pushed beyond it. Pain flared. With his one free hand he punched, grabbed, and clawed, but to no effect. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

The agony increased. His vertebrae crunched. Darkness narrowed his vision as if he were sinking into a well.

He groped for his jacket pocket, found the opening, slipped his fingers into it, and retrieved the lock-pick.

Momentarily, there was nothing, then Burton’s senses returned as he sprawled backward onto the floor, felt a tremendous release, and looked up at the bellowing and thrashing monstrosity standing over him. The lock-pick was deeply embedded in one of Hare’s many eyes.

The explorer rolled out of reach and tried to take measure of the chaos around him. Swinburne was nearby, grappling with Francis Galton, the two men rolling on the floor, screaming and shouting as they punched and wrestled.

One of the Enochians was down with a bullet in his shoulder, but two more men, who’d been working in one of the side tunnels, had raced out and were taking pot-shots at Bhatti and Krishnamurthy, pinning them in a corner behind a barrel-shaped contraption.

Crowley’s mesmerised captives clung to the ground, making themselves as small as possible. Sadhvi Raghavendra was nearby, crouching beside a thick column of bundled cables. Burton crawled toward her. Bullets ricocheted around him.

The Trans-Temporal Man opened his jet-black eyes. He turned his head and shouted at one of the Enochians, “Get over here and unstrap me. At once!”

“Sadhvi!” Burton called. He put his hand to the side of her jaw and turned her face until she was looking dazedly at him. “Break loose! Don’t let him control you.”

The explorer radiated mesmeric authority. It was a technique he’d practised many times, attempting to dominate and influence through the eyes alone—but he’d only ever succeeded with it after preparation and in silent and calm environments. How could it possibly be effective in the midst of a pitched battle?

“Feel his presence in your mind,” he shouted above the din, “and step aside from it. Step aside, Sadhvi. He has no control over you.”

She frowned and blinked in confusion. All of a sudden, she and the column and the wall behind it jerked away from Burton and rapidly receded. For an instant, his disoriented mind struggled to comprehend what was happening, then he realised something was gripping his ankle and dragging him away from her. He snatched at a table leg. The furniture overturned, sending short lengths of pipe clanking onto the flagstones. He grabbed one, rolled onto his back, and used it to club Gregory Hare. The creature’s hold loosened. Burton kicked himself free, staggered to his feet, reversed the pipe in his grip, and holding it at one end with both hands, stabbed it downward into to misshapen mass of Hare’s body. It pierced the mottled skin and sank into flesh. Hare emitted an ear-splitting noise, like the whistle of a locomotive, and shoved Burton away, sending him reeling into a workbench.

Swinburne kicked free of Galton, charged at the thrashing creature, and launched himself into the air, landing amid the flailing limbs and applying his full weight to the pipe. It sank deeper. Blood fountained from its end.

Krishnamurthy bellowed across the chamber, “Get away from it, Swinburne!”

Before the poet could oblige, a knotted fist caught him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he toppled to the floor, skidding across it, leaving a smear of Hare’s blood behind him.

Krishnamurthy immediately jumped from cover and loosed a volley of shots. Burton, on his knees, felt the bullets drilling through the air above him and heard them thump into Hare’s body.

Hare shrieked and tumbled backward.

The explorer yelled, “Straight to hell with you, Gregory Hare!”

Beyond the floundering creature, Damien Burke stepped into view, having returned from the Dissenters’ Church. He calmly took in the scene, pulled the odd-looking cactus pistol from his pocket, and shot a spine into Swinburne, who was struggling to his feet. The poet sagged back to the flagstones.

Burke turned his attention to Burton. The explorer scrabbled away from him but felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck. He reached up and plucked a spine from it. His senses began to swim. He sagged onto his side and, with dimming vision, watched as one of the Enochians unstrapped Crowley. The Trans-Temporal Man rose from the throne and shouted, “Enough of this!”

The gunfire stopped. Burton heard revolvers clicking fruitlessly. Those machines that were still sparking fell silent. Nothing that required ignition functioned.

Crowley vaulted over a bench, pounced on Krishnamurthy and Bhatti, and knocked their heads together. They folded to the floor.

Burton tried to rise but the strength was draining from him.

“Mr. Burke,” Crowley said, “check the cell. I want to know how Burton got out of it.”

An Enochian snatched up a large spanner, strode to the explorer, and stood over him. “Shall I kill him, Master?”

“Certainly not. Empty his pockets, and be thorough about it.”

Burton was unable to offer resistance as his clothes were searched. It took all his concentration just to cling to consciousness.

“I think he picked the lock,” Burke reported.

Crowley bent and hauled Krishnamurthy up by his collar. He dragged him toward one of the bays. “Find whatever he used.”

“A locksmith’s tool,” Burke replied. “Mr. Hare has it in his eye. He’s dead. May I kick Burton in the head, Mr. Crowley?”

“Yes, Mr. Burke, but I’d be obliged if you’d avoid doing any critical damage.”

Groggily, Burton pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Burke as he approached.

“You killed my partner,” Burke said.

Burton sneered and slurred, “Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.”

A boot smashed viciously into his jaw.

Awareness came, departed, and returned. Hazy shapes moved, and voices drifted in and out of cognition. Slowly Burton realised that the cold, flat surface pressing against the side of his face was a flagstone. Blurs coalesced and gained edges. He saw a barred gate.

He was back inside his cell, with the five coffins, but without Swinburne. Instead, he found Thomas Honesty sprawled beside him.

The explorer stifled a groan, rolled over, and sat up. The cell swayed around him. He held his head in his hands and fought the urge to vomit.

I’m tired. So bloody tired. How much more of this madness can I take?

As much as is necessary to get the job done.

Then Damascus.

Except he didn’t want Damascus any more.

He gritted his teeth, raised his head, and looked at Honesty. The groundsman’s eyes were open but glazed, his face slack.

Burton reached out, shook him by the shoulder, and croaked, “How are you feeling, old chap?”

“Where am I?” Honesty slurred.

“That’s a long story. What do you remember?”

The man rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Saw you murder John Judge. Nightmares. Have I—have I been in the Cauldron? Why do I think that? I recall—no—I don’t know. By God, I feel weak.”

Burton got to his feet. His head was aching abominably and his lower left molars felt loose. Half-dried blood caked his moustache, lips, and the left side of his face. His arm was throbbing.

He looked through the gate. Crowley’s people were clearing the central passage, moving the machines and equipment into the side corridors. The twisted, multi-limbed carcass of Gregory Hare lay where it had fallen, with blood pooled around it. The Trans-Temporal Man was sitting cross-legged on a table and appeared to be meditating.

A voice hissed from the cell to the right. “Sir Richard, are you with us?”

“Is that you, Krishnamurthy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir—that didn’t quite go to plan.”

“My fault. I shouldn’t have got caught in the first place. Is Algy with you?”

“No, just Bhatti.”

Swinburne’s voice came from the left. “I’m here. What shall we do?”

“Watch and wait.”

Sister Raghavendra, perhaps hearing the whispering, looked up and saw that Burton had revived. She walked over and checked the padlock. “If you attempt to escape again, Sir Richard, you’ll be shot in the kneecaps. The Master wants you alive but he has no reservations about causing you immense pain. Tomorrow you will serve not a primitive government, but a visionary leader.”

“A despot!” Burton snorted.

She winked at him. “Benign. All those who support him will be artificially advanced to a new stage of physical and mental development.”

“And those who oppose?” he asked, puzzled by the wink.

“They will provide manual labour or die.” Raghavendra leaned closer to the bars and, in barely audible tones, said, “I’m free of him but he doesn’t realise it. Stand ready, Richard. I’ll do what I can.” Aloud, she added, “Do not cause further disruption. If you attempt anything, your friends will be killed in front of you.”

“What’s he doing?” Burton mouthed, nodding his head in Crowley’s direction.

“He’s settling into his new form. Its brain has been designed to accentuate his mediumistic connection with his alternate selves but it will take him time to learn how to use it. I have to leave you now, else I’ll rouse suspicion.”

She moved away.

Burton watched her go then turned back to Honesty and squatted beside him, peering into his eyes. “You were possessed, Mr. Honesty. I shall try to explain.”

For half an hour, the explorer spoke quietly and rapidly, describing the nosferatu and how, like a parasite, it had lodged in John Judge before transplanting itself into Honesty. He told how Honesty had been used to create strigoi morti in the East End, their presence causing panic, and how that panic had been channelled into rioting by the Enochians’ seditious anti-German campaigning.

“Un-dead,” Honesty mumbled. “And me? Oh, God! Am I strigoi morti?”

“I don’t think so. Perdurabo can’t feed off the volonté of a body he inhabits and didn’t occupy you long enough to transform you into a nosferatu, but when we’re through with all this, we’ll have Monsieur Levi examine you to make sure.”

Burton pointed past the bars of the gate at Crowley’s new form. “Our enemy has his own flesh now,” he said. “There’s no other presence inside it to resist him the way you did, which means he can move around in daylight as easily as any of us. He’s intent on attacking the British and Germanic governments when they gather in Green Park tomorrow morning.”

“Attack how?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to—”

A low whistle from Krishnamurthy interrupted him. He moved to the corner of the cell and murmured, “What is it?”

“I was listening. I know how he intends to do it.”

“Tell me.”

“For half the length of the River Effra, where the new sewer tunnel encloses it, there’s a wide brick shelf running alongside the water. For the rest of the way—the upper reaches—the shelf narrows and is of hard clay, but between those two stretches there’s a short section where the clay has been cut away and shaped ready for the next section of brickwork. The workmen have dug a large niche into the wall there for storing their tools and materials. Bhatti and I encountered two Enochians by it. We overpowered them and found they’d been guarding a wheeled trolley on which rested a big barrel-shaped affair. We took a closer look. I’m certain it was a bomb, Sir Richard—a bloody huge one. If Crowley drops it on Green Park, it’ll leave nothing but an enormous crater.”

Burton was silent as he digested this. Then, “Drop it how? He’ll never get past the Orpheus. It would take—” He stopped. His eyes widened. “Bismillah!”

“Sir?”

“He’s going to hijack the Sagittarius!”