Down: Pinhole (10 page)

The horses rose on their hind legs. John struggled to control the reins with one hand while drawing his sword with the other, but the townsmen chose not to pursue Reggie’s unfinished business.

One of them pointed toward the squat castle. Its main gate had opened and soldiers were streaming out.

“The lord comes!” a man cried, and the lot of them scattered and disappeared toward the river.

“Come on, John Camp,” Dirk yelled. “Ride like the wind!”

John slapped the flanks of his horse with his heels and the animal responded. In seconds the town was behind them and they kept riding hard for at least ten minutes before allowing themselves a look back to see if they’d been followed. It looked like they were in the clear but they kept up the gallop for a while longer to make sure of it.

“You don’t mess about,” Dirk panted when they finally slowed.

“In a war, you try to kill the other side’s general early on. In a street fight, you take out the meanest son-of-a-bitch first.”

Dirk looked impressed. “You sure you ’aven’t been to Down before?”

They were in the countryside again, carving their way through high grasses, veering away from the river when the ground became too boggy. After an hour or more of hard riding the river made a hairpin turn and a hill came into view.

John had been to the Royal Observatory at Greenwich many times; it was one of his favorite spots in London. He recognized the position of the hill relative to the river but there the comparison ended. The manicured parkland, the grand, red-bricked, domed and spired buildings were not there. Instead, a Tudor-styled timbered house stood at the highest point of the hill.

Dirk pulled up.

“That’s where we’re going. That’s Master Wisdom’s ’ouse.”

They rode upwards on a steep, well-trodden path, the small of John’s back pressing hard against the cantle. At the top of the hill they dismounted and tied the sweating horses to a post. The house was the most elaborate John had seen thus far, three stories of heavy timbering with white plaster infill.

As he was admiring it, men burst through the front door drawing swords, but they stood down at the sight of Dirk.

“Oy, what are you doin’ here?” one of them, a stout redhead, asked.

“I brung a special gentleman to see Master Wisdom. Is ’e about?”

The redhead approached gingerly, sniffing away, and once he had a nostril-f of John, he rushed back into the house, calling his master’s name.

Solomon Wisdom emerged into the fading light. He was thin and tall with stringy, graying hair to his shoulders, muttonchops and a long, sallow face. He wore a black mid-thigh frock coat, black trousers, a coarse white shirt and a black cravat, an outfit, to John’s eye, very much befitting a Victorian undertaker.

Wisdom studied his guest for a long while, sniffing discreetly while inching closer. Then his dour face transformed itself with a crooked smile and he extended a bony hand.

His elocution was refined, even elegant. “My goodness, me! Welcome, welcome, welcome. How very exciting. My name, good sir, is Solomon Wisdom. What shall I call you?”

“John Camp.”

“Is that an American accent I hear?”

“It is.”

“Well, even more exotic. Please come in. You’ve come from Dartford, I presume?”

Dirk answered in a deferential tone. “That’s right Master Wisdom, sir. We ’ad a bit o’ trouble and then we ’eaded ’ere and then we ’ad a bit more trouble and now ‘ere we are.”

“Well, then, come along. I’ll have food and drink brought in and we shall have an epic discussion. I can scarcely contain myself.”

Wisdom led them inside to a large room off the entrance hall. The furnishings were basic. A plaited, reed rug, a trestled table and dining chairs, and by the dormant hearth, a pair of cushioned armchairs with padded ottomans. The walls were bare. The only items of apparent value were a pair of substantial silver candlesticks on the table, dripping with yellow, solidified tallow, a stack of tarnished silver plates and a number of silver cups.

“Please, sit,” Wisdom said, gesturing at the table. “I can offer you drink. I have beer, of course, a cask of imported wine, and I have a few very special jars of rum. There’s a story to how I obtained them but that’s not for now.”

“I’ll have all of them,” John said.

Wisdom squinted. “Really? How marvelous.”

“Just joking. A beer would be great.”

“Humor! Marvelous indeed. Something in short enough supply.”

“I’ll have beer as well, Master Wisdom,” Dirk said.

Wisdom ignored Dirk and scurried out of the room. When he returned the red-bearded guard was trailing behind, awkwardly balancing a tray with three large mugs of beer. When he put the tray down he sidled over to Wisdom and whispered in his ear about finding John’s pistol.

Wisdom nodded, shooed the man away and passed the drinks to his guests before raising his own in a toast.

“To what will undoubtedly be a most remarkable and stimulating evening.”

John was thirsty and very much in need of a drink. He finished the beer off in a string of gulps.

“Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot,” Wisdom shouted to his man. “Bring more beer. My, my, Camp, I applaud your appetites.”

John wiped his mouth with his hand. “It’s okay to call me John.”

“Then you must call me Solomon.”

“Can I call you Solomon too?” Dirk asked.

“Of course not!” Wisdom scolded, immediately turning his attention back to John. “Well, John, I scarcely know where to start. My queries are multitudinous, poised to cascade forth as if from a burst dam.”

John rocked back in his chair, hoping it would hold his weight. “I’ve got my share of questions too, Solomon. But you first. Fire away.”

Wisdom put his mug down, his face suddenly returning to its funereal gravity. “So. You’re not dead, are you, John?”

“I certainly hope not.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“I am.”

“How is this possible?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have plenty of beer and even more time. I shall hang on each and every word.”

More beer appeared and John had a few more gulps.

“I’m not a scientist, Solomon, but this involves a fair bit of science. To get myself oriented to what you might and might not know, can I ask you what year you—well, left the Earth?”

“You mean the year I died. No need to pussyfoot around the subject. It’s a natural thing to ask one another here. It was 1874.”

John shook his head. “It’s hard for me to wrap my head around that, but my guess is, it’s going to be hard for you to believe what I’m going to tell you. Scientific knowledge has progressed quite a bit from what you’ll recall.”

John launched into a highly simplified rendition of the structure of the atom and the way particle colliders work, watching Wisdom closely for signs of comprehension, but the man was impassive. At the same time, Dirk’s mind had clearly wandered off somewhere far away, for when the young man finished his drink he let his eyes close and his chin fall to his chest. John carried on, explaining the Hercules program and the experiment that had gone bad. He talked about Emily, about Woodbourne.

At the mention of Brandon Woodbourne, Dirk’s eyes opened wide. It seemed he’d been listening after all.

“That sod’s gone off to Earth, then? Bloody ’ell! Well you can ’ave ’im. Nasty piece of business, that one.”

“He lives in your village?” John asked.

“Well, I’d say ’e roams about the shire, only a short ways better than a rover, thieving, doing ’is worst to fowks. ’E takes a considerable pleasure in choking and stabbing. I’ve asked me soldier acquaintances to deal with ’im but ’e’s a slippery one.”

John kept going but he’d need to ask about these rovers at some point. He talked about the theory of how a bridge between the two worlds had formed and about the experiment that had brought him to the place that Dirk called Down.

At that, Wisdom finally nodded and smiled.

“Quaint name, Down. I know the simple folk like to call it that. The name Hell does tend to make one shudder. So fraught with connotation, so biblical.”

John hardly noticed another presence in the room until he heard her clearing her throat. A fat, elderly woman, her face awash in moles, a scarf tied around her white hair, stood by the door, waiting to be acknowledged.

Wisdom looked up.

“Would you be wanting me to bring in some supper?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” Wisdom replied, impatiently. “Just get on with it.” He turned back to John. “I’m quite lucky to have a female, even though she’s quite repugnant. But at least she can cook which makes one’s existence the more tolerable.”

“I’m awful hungry,” Dirk said, childlike. “Do I get to eat as well?”

“Yes, Dirk, I suppose I’ll let you have some of my food. Now, I’m being rude, John. There’s an outhouse. Go down the hall and outside behind the house. You’ll find a trough of water for a wash if you like. We’ll eat, drink some more and talk until we are quite blue in the face.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” John said, rising.

When he’d left, Dirk timidly inquired if he was allowed to ask a question of his own.

“What do you want?”

“Are you going to be telling ‘im that I brung the lady ’ere too?”

Wisdom delivered a withering look.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“’Course not! You told me if I ever opened me mouth ’bout that you’d cut off me tongue.”

“Your tongue, your hands, your cock, and by God, your head! He’s never to know. No one must know, do you understand?”

Dirk nodded vigorously, as if the harder he worked his neck, the more believable he was.

“You was right clever not saying nothing ’bout all the Earth business when the lady sang you much the same song.”

Wisdom sneered, “Yes, I suppose I might aspire to be a player at Drury Lane if there were a Drury Lane in Hell, Dirk, my cretinous fool. Now shut your mouth. He’s returning.”

John settled himself back down and the old woman returned carrying a large platter of food and steel utensils.

“It’s mutton and boiled turnips,” Wisdom said rather proudly. “I shall be switching to wine. How about you, John? It’s quite good, from Francia.”

“France?”

“Yes, of course. The old names tend to stick here.”

“Sure. I’ll have some wine. What’s England called?”

“We are Brittania.”

John hadn’t realized how hungry the horseback ride had left him. He ignored the gaminess of the meat and shoveled down the food. One hard bite did a number on his most vulnerable tooth and he fished a piece of it from his mouth and flicked it onto the floor. The remaining half a tooth began to throb and he dealt with the pain by downing the rest of his red wine. It was drinkable and Wisdom’s man kept pouring. At least he wouldn’t be suffering from alcohol cravings here.

“So, John,” Wisdom said while chewing, “you’ve bravely travelled to
terra incognita
to find your lady. How chivalrous.”

“It’s my job. I’m in charge of security at the laboratory.”

“I sense there’s more to your actions.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.”

“Then we must assist you. It’s quite the story you’ve told and quite the quest you have embarked upon. There’s heroism, love, the dangers of the unknown, a journey to the underworld where you, Orpheus, do seek your Eurydice.”

“Might as well throw in a helping of Dante while you’re at it.”

Wisdom suddenly looked dreamy. “How I miss those books. How I miss any books. There are some, I’m told, but I possess none. It’s one of our many, many hardships. Are you a man of letters, John? You seem too fit and well-proportioned for the halls of academia.”

“I’m a soldier, a professional soldier. But I read a lot of history. I studied military history at college.”

“Fascinating. In America?”

“West Point. Know it?”

“Yes, I’ve certainly heard of West Point. Your Civil War generals Grant and Lee attended, am I correct?”

“You are.”

“Grant was your President when I died.”

“He was, until 1877.”

“Then you are a scholar and a soldier. Truly marvelous. I presume you were an officer.”

“A major in the US Army.”

Dirk saw an opening into the conversation and took it.

“There’s more to ’im than someone who gives the orders. ’E’s a fighting man. ’E dispatched a right old brute who accosted us in Thamesmead town. And we ’ad a squad of sweepers come through shortly after ’e landed and John put all of ’em down.”

Wisdom looked intrigued. “Is that so? Which squad, Dirk?”

“It was Captain Withers’ and ’e won’t be doing no more sweeping, that’s for damn sure. John ran ’im through with ’is own sword and now ’e’s taken it for ’imself.”

“I thought I recognized the style of weapon on your hip,” Wisdom said. “I am most impressed.”

“I didn’t come out scot-free,” John said.

“I saw you’ve been favoring your shoulder. We shall have fresh bandages and unguent for you anon. Tell me, when you were a soldier, where did you fight?”

“In Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“I don’t know this name, Iraq.”

“In your day it would have been called the Hashemite Empire. Babylonia, in ancient times.”

“Indeed, that is what it’s called here: Babylonia. So, in your twenty-first century, you are still fighting the Crusades?”

“I guess the other side calls it that. We don’t.”

“War is a never-ending story. In your world and in ours.”

“I’d like you to tell me more about your world. If I’m going to rescue Emily, I’ve got to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Quite right. I have been doing all the interrogations. Now it’s your turn. Shall I start with myself?”

“Please.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, fifty?”

“Fifty-five, as of 1874, that is. I was a lawyer in London, with a busy commercial practice. Life was good, or so I thought. I had a comely wife, one son and one daughter who both matured admirably and acquitted themselves well in their early adulthood, though I do not know what became of them. It is enough to know that they did not, to the best of my knowledge, become denizens of this domain. How suddenly things changed for me. I discovered through intercepted correspondence that my wife and my legal partner, one Abner Coopersmith, had been engaging in an affair of the heart. I was blinded by rage and determined to have my revenge. I knew a man, an Irishman in London by the name of Caffrey, who was skilled in the art of explosives. I knew all sorts in those days, from lords to scoundrels. Caffrey supplied me with a cask of black powder that I placed in the basement of Coopersmith’s house in Tavistock Square while he was in attendance. I lit a long fuse and made my escape. I brought that house down, John, upon the heads of Coopersmith, his wife and his children. The police came to suspect me and in time, moved to make an arrest, but I eluded them for a spell until, in despair for the life I had lost—not Coopersmith’s life, I assure you—I threw myself off the highest possible point of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and immediately thereafter, I found myself here, in Hell, in a rather sodden field, quite remarkably intact. Caffrey was caught and hanged within weeks. Allow me to introduce him.”