I stared at my friend, wondering if something in the night's business had addled his brains.
He returned my gaze with his usual frank, half-amused expression firmly in place.
I waited and, finally, cracked.
"What in the world," I asked slowly, "can that possibly have to do with this mess?"
For the first time since we'd left that accursed asylum, Holmes smiled.
"How much do you know of Jewish history?" he asked.
I shrugged, and he continued.
"There are legends," he said.
"Legends that trail back to the Holy Land itself, and that are known to only a select few.
When you first spoke to me, I was nearly certain that
Adcott
must have a twin that no one had been aware of, or a cousin who bore a striking resemblance to the dead man that they were trying to pass off as
Adcott
to win the funds from the Tontine.
There were obvious answers, but very quickly, the obvious answers caved in, one by one.
"I then began to explore the less obvious, and there was something that bothered me from the start.
Jepson's name.
I knew it was familiar to me, but Aaron is hardly an uncommon name, nor is Jepson, so I set out to see if I could find what it was that itched at my mind.
"My search led me to the local temple, and the Rabbi, an old friend, was very helpful.
He remembered the name of Aaron Jepson immediately, but the Jepson he remembered had been dead for many years.
Jepson was a Rabbi, or had been.
He migrated to London about fifty years ago and made a home here, but even among his fellows he was shunned.
Rabbi Jepson had spent years in the Arabian Desert, studying and fasting.
He came away from that study – changed.
He had scrolls and teachings that were unfamiliar to the others already settled here, scrolls dealing with legendary creatures and the
Kabbalah
.
Scrolls dealing with the Golem.
It is reported that he had a scrap of cloth that contained verses from
Alhazred
himself, inscribed in blood.
Bits of a larger work."
"The
Necronomicon
?" I asked dubiously.
"That work has long been passed off as legend.
And what in the world is a Golem, Holmes, and what has it to do with Michael
Adcott
?"
"The Golem was an instrument of revenge," Holmes continued. "It was a creature formed of clay and brought to life by the will, faith and rage of a Rabbi.
It would serve the purpose of that rage, and only the Rabbi himself could control it."
"And
Adcott
?" I asked, not certain I wanted the answer.
"He was no man of clay."
"No," Holmes agreed.
"He was a man brought to a sort of hellish, painful un-life by the science of
Caresco
Surhomme
and the diabolical research of Aaron Jepson.
It was the incantations, and the clay, Watson, clay from another place – another time.
Clay inherited from Jepson's father, Aaron Jepson Senior – Rabbi Jepson.
The substance in that sixth vial was the very clay of which I speak.
When I found a bit of it on your doorstep, I was intrigued.
When I saw the vial, I was certain.
"Through the power invested in the clay, Jepson was able to exercise enough control of
Adcott's
re-animated form to lead it about in public.
You'll recall that
Adcott
never spoke, not at your first meeting, nor at any time thereafter."
"But he did," I said at last.
"He spoke, right at the end.
What do you suppose he said, and what enabled him to do what he did?"
"He spoke in Hebrew," Holmes answered at once.
"The words were very clear, and I suspect, appropriate.
I believe that
Adcott's
soul managed to make use of the same power that the elder Jepson would have used to animate clay.
He used his will, and his faith, and he spoke the only words that could bring him peace.
"He said 'It is done.'"
I stared at Holmes for a long time, watching for doubt, or belief, anything in those wise eyes that would prove a clue to the mind beyond, but he had turned his gaze to the fire once again, and grown silent.
"I wonder," I said, rising and retrieving my coat, suddenly very tired and ready for my own home, and my bed, "who got the money."
Holmes didn't look up as I departed, but I sensed the smile in his answer.
"To the living go the spoils, Watson.
Always to the living."
Shaking my head, I opened the door and made my way into the late evening fog.
It has been hours since I last saw Eric, a lifetime of shattered reality, an age of dissolving foundations. An eternity. I know I should go to him, should try to help, but I know also that he would not answer if I called, would not come to the door, were I to knock. I must look horrible, hair unkempt, face scratched from my attempt this morning to shave. I could not use the mirror. Truth begins with proof, yet I will fight it until death forces its own truth upon me, if that is the choice. I cannot bear to know what he knows, to see what he has seen, and they may be watching, for they have seen me. I will not look into a mirror.
Eric Blount, student of the arcane, philosopher of dreams, academic genius, was my best friend. I grew up a quiet, shy boy, uncertain of what I would do with the great gift of life ahead of me. Eric knew from the beginning what he wanted. He wanted to go beyond the gift, to see whence it came and to follow it to the source. Life held no contentment for such a man. He inspired in me both awe, and an incredulous, half-hero worship that even the ridiculousness of the bulk of his conjectures failed to stifle. He was incorrigible.
It started harmlessly enough, or so it would have seemed. He spent hours alone, pouring over volumes of arcane "wisdom," searching page upon page of words left behind by such luminaries as
Eliphas
Levi, Alistair Crowley, and Madame Blavatsky. He spent a good three years among the adepts of the modern Rosicrucian Order. That was an amusing period, what with the candles and altars and assorted implements of their rituals. It proved not enough. Though he claimed certain successes with these unlikely arts, he was not happy with his progress.
"I would be dead twice over before I could discover anything truly valuable at this rate," he complained one day. He had shown to a nearer point of truth? Rationality aside, for it is the greatest of hindrances in this type of affair, suppose, say, a poet, while writing, is in some sort of rapport with some higher state of existence? Or an artist? Certainly a writer can mold from mere words on paper images that warp reality as we know it, yet make it real for us at the same time."
"Are you saying, then," I asked with a grin, "that our reality can be made less real by these arts?"
"Not exactly," he answered. "I am trying to suggest, and I know that this will amuse you, but bear with me, that such creative acts have had a great part in the creation of our reality. I believe that man, given a choice, sees, touches, and believes in what is most convenient or beneficial to man. Were enough people to decide to perceive
red as yellow, it would be yellow, and all those who still saw red would be issued corrective lenses and labeled as abnormal."
"Surely you can't believe this is true of everything?" I exclaimed, certain that I would get the better of this argument. "If that were the case, could we not disbelieve the chairs from beneath us and send ourselves crashing to the floor?"
Eric's eyes momentarily shared my amusement, but only momentarily. The light of the hunter on a trail was in them, and I resigned myself to another period of his eccentricity.
We spoke then of other things until the bottles were both dry. Eric then rose, bidding me a good night's sleep, and departed to the shadows of the streets. As he left, he stopped by the large, full-length mirror I kept beside my door. Being particular of my appearance, I had purchased it some years before at an auction. He spoke no word as he gazed at his reflection, but his expression was odd, as though struck for the first time by some peculiarity of his appearance. At the time, I paid this no mind. Since then I have had occasion to dwell upon it in sharp detail.
I wish to God I'd reached out and put my fist through that glittering surface and shattered it then and there, damning the risk to bone and skin.
It was several weeks later that I decided to return Eric's visit. After procuring two bottles of Campo Viejo, 1972, I began the mile or so trek to his flat I seldom made use, in those days, of public transportation, and the risks of operating a private vehicle on the roadways grew less enticing with each passing headline. Eric felt the same. Our visits invariably began with one of us making the journey across several residential blocks and through the paths of the Municipal Park. The trip was somewhat more uncomfortable on my part, with Eric living as he did among the more run-down tenements, and I hurried my steps upon reaching his side of the park.
The front door to his building hung open, dangling loosely from one hinge. I made my usual mental note to prevail upon him to move out. His reasons for remaining in such seedy surroundings had always remained obscure to me. His inheritance as last survivor of a well-to-do family left him amply provided for.
"It's the freedom, Percy," he'd once told me "No women peering from their window to yours, discussing things that are no business of theirs and drawing attention to where it is not desired. People there' respect your privacy, as long as you lock it away tightly enough."
He had indeed succeeded in this. I knocked on the metal-reinforced door loudly, nervously glancing every few seconds over my shoulder to the shadows that seemed to shift behind my back whenever I denied them my attention. After a few moments, I heard hurried footsteps within.
"Who is it?" Eric called, not opening at once.
"Percy," I answered, "only Percy, Eric, come to return your visit, and your wine. Open this door, you know how this place makes me nervous."
There was a clatter of chains, a rattling of bolts and locks, and the door swung wide. I did not enter immediately, my shock would not allow it.
The apparition before me hardly reminded me of my friend at all. He was gaunt, not in the manner of who is starved, but as though he'd not slept for days perhaps weeks. His eyes, bloodshot and dark with fatigue, darted about wildly, searching the shadows that hail plagued me only moments before I found my own fears magnified intensely. Pushing Eric aside, I darted into the room, slamming the door behind me.
"My God, man!" I cried. ''What is happening here? You look half-dead, not to mention delirious. You've even gotten me nervous."
"Come," he replied, "to the den."
I followed, depositing the wine bottles on a table in passing and making a vain attempt to straighten my now disheveled appearance. I made to glance into the mirror in the hall, but to my consternation, it was curtained with a cloth of deepest jet. I moved to pull it aside, and Eric leapt, his shaking hands clutching like talons, and grasped my arm with surprising strength. My hand stopped inches from the dark cloth covering the' mirror.
"What?" I stuttered, backing away and pulling my arm free. "What in hell are you doing? I only wanted to comb my hair! Why in the blazes is the damnable thing covered, anyway?"
"Not yet," he hissed, tugging on my arm. "First come to the den, it is safe there."
By this time I was beginning to seriously fear for my friend's mental state. I had seen him act in peculiar fashion on many occasions, but never to the point of inducing discomfort upon himself. It was only natural, and it made me not a little nervous to be alone with him in such condition. With a longing glance at the mirror, I allowed him to lead me through the beaded curtains that closed off his "sanctum sanctorum" from the more mundane parts of his home.
This room had never failed to invite my curiosity, even my awe, I suppose, in the intricately piled and jumbled displays of occult bric-a-brac it offered, the shelves piled with dusty, ancient volumes, and walls hidden behind brightly colored tapestries. It was truly impressive, or had been so on my last visit. Now it was filled with clutter along the walls. The furniture, even the rug, lay piled in corners, dragged as far as possible from the room's center. A brazier stood, small wisps of incense smoke wafting
ceilingward
from its coals, marking the very center of the floor. Around it was drawn a circle in white, perhaps six feet in circumference. Concentrically, a larger circle, seemingly burnt into the wooden floor surrounded this. From the outer edge of the larger circle, the points of a pentagram shot outward toward the walls of the room. Strange symbols lined the space between the circles. With a final entreating glance to be certain I'd followed, Eric leapt over the symbols to land, breathing in ragged gulps within the center ring.