Necroscope - The Lost Years, Vol II Part 35

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Three days? It felt more like three weeks to Harry! His legs were like rubber, as if he'd fought an enormous battle, been knocked down, and was just getting back up on them again. He remembered his visit to Franz Anton Mesmer, their conversation in the graveyard in Meersburg, up to a certain point... and then nothing.

Or perhaps s.n.a.t.c.hes of a dream in the hospital, but that was all.

Maybe his visit had been a failure, maybe not. His head felt messed-up as ever - certainly his memory - but his concentration seemed a little sharper, like someone had taken a wire brush and scrubbed some of the rust off his brain. Mesmer? Well, possibly.

In Scotland it was mid-morning. But three days! Ye G.o.ds! And Harry was hungry to the point of ravenous.

He dumped the hospital shift, also the bundle of stained, crumpled clothing he'd brought back with him, showered and got dressed in fresh things. Then, still shy of using his talents too openly - and despite his shakes, probably from hunger - he rode his bicycle into Bonnyrig and bou ght food... then visited a hardware store to purchase a gallon of heavy-duty wood-stain and a new broom. He knew what the last items were for, but wasn't about to dwell on it Back home again, still shaking, he made a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, and fried bread, washed down with a mug of sweet coffee. He had some ideas that surfaced while he was eating; they seemed to stick to his mind the way the varnish-like wood stain stuck to the floor in his study.

That was what he was doing when the ideas finally crystalized: moving the few items of furniture, clearing the floor, pouring the stain straight from the can, and brushing it into pos ition with the broom. It wor ked like a charm, stank to high heaven - and he wouldn't be striking any matches in here for a while! Nor living in here.

Finished, he closed the door on the smell, clambered over piles of furniture and books in the corridor, went back to the kitchen for more coffee. And sipping it in his front room, he concentrated on his ideas; or rather on the idea, which wasn't his after all but had two sources that he actually remembered.

Sir Keenan Gormley, and Franz Anton Mesmer. The former had definitely suggested that Harry should backtrack, and try to remember where things had started to go wrong for him. And as for the latter... but things were only very vague in connection with Mesmer. Had he also suggested something similar? The Necroscope seemed to remember something of the sort...

Now, in his own home (and however shadowy certain of its memories had become), Harry felt relatively at ease. Well fed and safe for the time being from whatever 'enemies' he shared with B J. - free of her presence and influence - he decided on one final attempt 334.

335 at going back into his past to see if he could find a clue to his condition.

But first there wa s something that was even more important His mission to Mesmer had failed - well, probably - but there was still that other visitation experienced at E-Branch HQ. And since it was now part of his past, he began by recalling that oh-so-enigmatic face to memory: That kindly, learned face - a man's face, and long - with grey eyes whose inner orbits curved into the bridge of an even nose, over drooping moustaches that touched the corners of his small but by no means mean mouth. The forehead, large and open; the ruddy cheeks; the slightly protruding ears, with sideburns flowing into a full golden-brown beard. And those eyes - at one and the same time severe and smiling - with discipline, human ity, and a consuming mysticism blazing outwards from them.

Harry remembered his voice, too, full of learning, and in that moment it struck him that it had been a 'dead' voice from beyond the grave; and who better than the Necroscope to recognize that fact and know the difference? Then there had been an abrupt dismissal: 'Away with you now, for as yet it is not your time.'

Well, perhaps now it was his time. The Necroscope's mental barriers were once again in place; risking what he still saw as a fraught procedure, he lowered them, inviting contact. And: So, finally you would seek the source of your troubles in your past? (It was the selfsame voice, but seemed full of a wry humour now.) What do you hope to find there, Necroscope ? What's done is done, after all. Ah, but if you would know the future - come speak to me in Salon. But do not wait too long, for I have other times to scry upon.

'Salon?' Harry repeated the as yet unknown other out loud. Til come, of course,' - well, as soon as he knew where Salon was! - 'But who should I ask for?'

Michel de Nostredame, came the mind-boggling answer immediately. Find me in the church, no later than tonight...

It meant another frantic bike trip into town, this time to the small but well-stocked library. The bicycle was necessary, for unless he could use the Mttbius Continuum with an absolute guarantee that he wouldn't be seen, Harry was determined to avoid it And so into the afternoon he read all he could on Nostradamus.

Then an early dinner at a Bonnyrig cafe, following which and conscious of the hour - eager to be home again - he found a deserted alley and risked riding through a hurriedly, fearfully conjured door directly into his back garden. And finally a series of equally sweaty jumps to Salon-de-Provence, in the south of France.

The Church of St Laurent was a landmark and easy to find; its doors stood open; though he heard m.u.f.fled voices from somewhere within, no one challenged Harry as he approached Nostradamus's grave in an alcove, where his portrait hung on the wall. And staring up at that portrait... Harry saw that indeed this was the man who had Visited' him at E-Branch HQ.

There was no one around. Only the echoing old church, and from somewhere a scurrying of mice. Harry lowered his barriers, and under his breath said: 'Sir, I'm here.'

And: So you are! Nostradamus answered at once. And you're welcome, Harry Keogh, Necroscope. I've waited long and long for this day.

'You knew we were to meet''

Oh, yes. Nostradamus answered. For am I not a- what, a 'Precog'-after all? And isn't that why you came to see me?

That's exactly why,' Harry supposed he shouldn't be surprised, really. 'But if you know- or if you've seen this much of things, sir, that I would come to see you - perhaps you've seen much more? And I do need to know my future. But I need to see it clearly defined, not in fragments or cloaked in mystery. I mean no disrespect, but your writings are at best confusing. Oh? You've researched me, then. And did you find some reference to yourself, that you would now clarify?

To myself?' Now Harry really was surprised. 'In your Centuries? Why, no! I hadn't the time to read them all.'

That were as well. Perhaps you would be yet more confused. I myself am confused, and amused, by certain interpretations.

'But you've been dead quite a while. How can you possibly know of these interpretations?' The Necroscope was fascinated.

A good many of them that interpreted me are like wise dea d. And as you of all men are aware, we have intercourse of sorts.

Of course. And now Harry felt stupid. Nostradamus sensed it and chuckled, but not maliciously. What, you?

Stupid? Lazy, perhaps. But never stupid!

'Lazy?'

You have access to all the great libraries of the dead - all knowledge! - and yet you stumble.

The books of the future aren't written yet" Harry retaliated. 'And those that are are sketchy, couched in cyphers.'

As to why I wrote in brief, it was because I saw in brief. A lightning flash upon the mind, a picture come and gone. Revelations - or distillations? - of future things. Harry, do you remember your dreams? Not all of them, I am sure; and of those you do remember, not in every detail. So were - so are - my visions of tomorrow. I must record them quickly, lest they are lost. Why, I even thought that way! In quatrains obscure. Even now, because I have trained myself to it, my words and336.

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even my reasoning seem obscure. In my day there wer e other reasons. I had my detractors as well as my champions. Both were powerful. If a tongue spoke wrong, in the fantasies of certain sects, it could be cut out - the Inquisition!

Ah, so easy to talk of the past, for it is done and gone. But the future? Ever a devious discour se. Mercifully I am strengthened in the knowledge that I may no longer suffer harm. Yet in my day I suffered witches. Henry's Queen, Catherine de Medici, was one such. Fleeing pain, I embraced scandal. The Catherine is a wheel, did you know? As is time. Even as the stars and planets wheel in their celestial orbits, so does time. And what will be...

'... Has been!' Harry cut in. Time is relative."

Indeed! A good word: relative. Do you like word games?

This was such a departure from Nostradamus's previous theme that Harry was momentarily lost for an answer. But in any case, and before he could answer: I know you do. For you have heard them, and perhaps even played them, in the mouths of experts! And will again. Ah, take heed! Anyway, I have some word games for you. Are you game? Or, am I? What's in a game, or in a name for that matter?

Harry thought about it, for he'd been told several things and asked several things - all in a few dozen words!

And as in all of Nostradamus's writings, and his conversation so far, his meaning was obscure, hidden.

Word games, 'in the mouths of experts.' Spoken with dire inflection. But the emphasis was on 'in', and Harry believed he knew why. Nostradamus's experts could only be the Wamphyri. To play word games with them - as the Necroscope had done - was an invitation to disaster! Thus the great prophet was simply indicating that Harry had risked his all, and would do again. With the Wamphyri? But they were dead and gone, surely? And yet deep inside he knew that they weren't Not yet Not all of them. The idea came and went, much like Nostradamus's visions, or like the dreams to w hich he had referred...

Harry blinked his eyes, continued to divine the gr eat prophet's meaning: He desired to play a word game or games with the Necroscope. Was he game? And was Nostradamus game? Well of course he was, else he wouldn't have proposed it Or was he stat ing that he was a different kind of game? A game that was in his name!

'In your life you were ... Michel de Nostredame?' He made an opening stab at it And in your era, 'Nostradamus.' You refer to me in Latin, a dead language. Appropriate! And thus we are one in more ways than one. Do you know these ways? First, try my true name...

'Nostredame? It has ten letters - as does my whole name, Harry Keogh.'

A.

nd your a.s.sumed name: Necroscope! Indeed, it strikes me-I have been stricken - that Nostra damus and Necroscopus share much of a feel, a certain ambience or stimmung; a relationship? And so we return to that word again: relative. Are we,related, do you suppose? If so, then I am ancestral, patently.

For I am old and dead and gone, while you are new. But time, as stated, is relative. What came first, the chicken or the egg?

Frustrated, Harry said: 'If your riddle was in numbers, I might hope to match you!'

Names and numbers, they are the same. Nostradamus replied enigmatically.

'As in the Biblical sense,' Harry answered, neither agreeing nor questioning but equally mysterious.

Precisely! The number of a man is the man. And do you know your number?

1 A I.

Q J Y.

2 B K R.

3 C G L S.

4 D M T.

5 E H.

N.

7.0.

z 8 F P.

Because of his interest in - and his mastery of- sidereal or lateral mathematics, Harry understood something of the theories of numerology, and instinctively referred to the following table: 6 U V W X Nostradamus saw it in his mind and said: The Hebrew system! I know it. I speak it! It was the tongue of my Gran dfather, who taught i t to me. The letters of your name, Harry Keogh. Why see, they total eleven, and twenty-two! The first is the number of the visionary, the martyr, and the second of the Master Magician! Small wonder you are a dead- speaker, and move through secret places!

A dead-speaker? That rang a bell, but one that immediately tolled int o silence. As for the rest, the sum total of the numbers of his names: Harry knew and accepted the coincidence, but he had little faith in numerology as yet. 'And you're a seven,' he said. 'A seer, clairvoyant or prophet - or all three. Either way, as Michel de Nostredame, or Nostradamus, you have the same number, for both of yo ur surnames total forty!' (Another coincidence?) Would you expect any less? So much for numbers, but what of names?

To know a man's name is to know his number ,' the Necroscope answered, 'but how may we divine a name from a number? Or do you mean the meaning of names?"338.

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We get to it! Nostradamus was excited now. But in the next moment a cry. almost of pain: Ah, a vision - and a quatrain - but quickly, before it is gone!

Their minds were linked through Harry's talent. The Necroscope saw what Nostradamus saw: Time unwinding - no, devolving! A figure falling through past time, through the neon-blue (and scarlet, and green?) bars or life-threads of men, vampires...

and of what else? But vampires? Was this the past or the future? Whichever, it was unmistakably Mfibius-time. And the tumbling figure: a dead man, burned and blackened, sprea deagled as on a cross, spiralling into the past The vision was ghastly enough in itself but there was something yet more horrible about it. The Necroscope had seen this before, surely? His skin began to p.r.i.c.kle. But then: A b linding flash, a disintegration, a bomb-burst of golden fragments, like darts, hurtling outwards in all directions from the s.p.a.ce where that smoking sh.e.l.l of a body had been. The way they moved: angling this way and that, sentient as they sought exits from their NOW into other places, other tim es...

It was over, and Nostradamus groaned: Did you see? Do you have it? A quatrain, quickly!

And Harry said: 'A man of weird times and places falls in reverse towards some new beginning, some multiple fruition. Seem ing like death, it is in fact a multiple birth. His pieces are enabled by golden trans.m.u.tation...'

And it was as if Nostradamus sighed, Exactly! in the Necroscope's mind. My thoughts exactly. Do you have children?

'Eh? Only one.'

Ah, no-a great many, I think.

"Who knows the future?' Harry answered with a shrug, and thoughtlessly.

Ida - did - do!For in death I continue as in life.

"You'll help me, then?'

/ am helping you! Had you seen it before, my vision? That one of many visions?

For a moment there you thought so, for I read it in your mind.

'Yes ... no ... I'm not sure. Maybe it was a dream.'

But you cannot remember, cannot be sure. And didn't I say it was like that? The future guards its secrets well. Which is one of the reasons why I guarded my secrets. Note, if you will: Nostradamus is sp eaking plainly. It is difficult after all this time, but I am trying. For your sake. Therefore for ours.

'But still a word game to me. Great prophet, I have to ask you this: have you played with Them, too?'

A shudder. No, but I have seen...

'In your visions? There's no record in your quatrains.'

Ah, but there i s! But mainly since dying. Since knowing. There are those with whom the Great Majority will have no commerce. Their minds have illu mined mine. They impinge. But knowing a little, I saw or remembered a lot. What will be has been.

Riddles were all very well, but the Necroscope's frustration was mounting. He didn't want this opportunity to be wasted. 'Sir, tell me my future. I know I shouldn't ask -1 understand the dangers - but you've seen so very much of the fu ture in the stars, in your dreams, and in your bowls of water on their tripods..."

He seated himself on t he corner of Nostradamus's slab.

In the stars? I believe it is written, yes. For the stars are a million years ago, therefore a million years to come. And what are our dreams but extensions of the NOW? But my bowls of water? Like a crystal ball, do you mean ? Ah, no. All in my time had a device, and so I must have mine. Better to be seen to consort with 'science' of a sort than with demons who have gained entry to the mind. For the rack has power even over demons!

'It was a trickery?'

The water? My safety net! But the visions were instinct. Now tell me, do you need a crystal ball? And your visions: can you remember in detail, or explain what you have seen?

'No, they are outside my control. I inheri ted my visions, from a precog like yourself. But a lesser talent, of course. I have no control over them.'

Nor I mine. And I too inherited them. All in verse, in reverse.

'Your meanings are hidden!' (Harry's frustration was showing through now; he shuffled on Nostradamus's sarcophagus).

They must be. Forgive me. It is my way - and your protection! What of the golden darts? ( Again a change of direction, a return to a previous theme).

The darts? In your vision? They seemed sentient...'

Ah ! They knew...

'Knew what?'

What, indeed. What's in a name?