My Dear Rackham,

I hope you are reading this. If you are, it means that Alia has successfully relayed it to you without anyone else noticing; I need hardly warn you to read it when no one else is watching. She will also have given you another letter, much shorter, and much less interesting – if you take my advice, you will allow yourself to be seen reading that one, and perhaps even leave it lying around so someone else might read it. It is entirely devoid of sensitive information. I am risking this because there is altogether too much to say, some of it directly relevant to you. But if the risk is too great, indicate so in your next message and I will take a page from Martineau in my subsequent missives. Rest assured that I was able to discern the full meaning of your last letter.

Obviously in arranging all this I had to share with Alia that you were concerned about, if not danger, at the very least surveillance from members of your own expedition. She demanded to know the names of those who opposed you. “Even if you knew, what on earth could you do?” I replied. She took that opportunity to show me just how many knives and other blades were stashed in the hidden pockets of her flight suit, along with an ample supply of garrote wire and some curious Nipponese throwing-weapons with very pointy ends. I considered asking her just which weapons in her arsenal she was actually trained to use, but thought better of it. Instead I advised her that, for now, discretion was preferable to outright confrontation, and she grudgingly agreed. I leave it to you decide how much else to share with her in the interest of your own safety, and caution you to never, ever give her cause to become angry with you.

The details of our escape from Machlou could easily fill an entire letter all on their own, but I will elide them for now. Someone at La Gardelle who knew we were in the attic decided to tell the authorities, and we found ourselves slipping out the back, down to the river, and into the Gromit while innkeeper delayed the constable at the front door. We were fortunate that the people of this region are Bretonnes, having more in common with our Caledonian and Gaelic neighbors than the Gallians with whom they share a country. The folk of Machlou are more than a little resentful that a garrison of Gallian troops is now stationed there to enforce the Quarantine, which many believe to be nothing more than a conspiracy to hamper their fishing industry. Suffice it to say that we found a surprising number of people willing to help cover our escape without even knowing, or caring to know, our purpose. Bertrand took us upriver several miles and let us out along a trade road.

We were decently outfitted for a cross-country trek, our chief disadvantage being that Jacobs (the Muscle, you will recall) had an arm in a sling and a thoroughly stitched-up torso, which meant he would not be carrying any heavy loads. Therefore we had to shed some weight, and left behind mostly weapons, ammunition, and some survey gear. We departed armed only with pistols, save Sharma, who cherishes his long-range Enfield rifle – nearly as tall he is – that he has affectionately named Kali.

Our three-day westward hike ended up taking us four due to an excess of caution; Sharma would scout ahead and we would get off the road rather than meet other travellers. On those occasions when there was not enough time for this, Van Dyke’s cover persona served reasonably well. We camped just out of sight of the road in quiet-looking corners of glens and fields. After long weeks traversing the mutilated countryside of our homeland, spending time hiking through an unmarred, beautiful land was a much-needed balm. I will not lie: it occurred to all of us to simply remain here, to make new lives on the Continent and leave the troubles of Albion behind. My only hesitation was in abandoning my compatriots, not least of all yourself, but whether that would have been enough to sway me is now an academic question. After what we saw at Mont-Bré, I know we must go back.

The afternoon of the fourth day we broke from the road and followed a winding track toward the saint’s hill. We had our first clear view of it from a mile away, and while trees still obscured the flat-topped summit itself, the chapel there, and the dolmens nearby, we already knew that we would not find it deserted. Campfire smoke in the sky betrayed some sort of encampment, and tracks along our path suggested that they, whoever they were, had recently brought up a wagonload of supplies. There followed a lengthy discussion as to how to proceed. Van Dyke was strangely noncommital during all this, which made a good deal more sense in retrospect. Jacobs favored a surprise ambush, despite my repeatedly insisting that we had no evidence that those on the hill would necessarily be enemies. In the end he agreed to my plan: an open and peaceful, but cautious, approach, but with an ace in the hole.

That ace was Sharma, who broke from the track and clambered up the hillside through the underbrush, intending to find a vantage point to cover our approach. We allowed him ample time for this purpose, then made our own way up the hill along the winding track, arriving at the summit an hour or so before twilight.

The chapel of Saint Herveus, you will recall, is a medieval building of crumbling stone, no doubt revered by some of the locals, but long overdue for a renovation, and seldom visited. It was at the moment, however, serving as a base of operations for several men, two of whom confronted us as we walked up. They wore no uniforms, but their bearing evinced some military training, and they were well-armed. They escorted us from the chapel down a path to the site of the dolmens, where we found five more men. Three of them were also soldier-types, and the last two I could pick out as an archaeologist and his aide from a hundred feet away, just by the way one was crouching near one of dolmens and the other was furiously scribbling the first’s dictations into a notebook.

But at the time I barely processed this fact, because my eyes were on the Obelisk. I need hardly remind you that the last time we were at Mont-Bré there was no Obelisk, just the ring of dolmens that I suspected were far older than the local lore credited them as being. Now, in the center of the dolmen ring, there it stood. For reasons that will soon become clear I cannot provide exact measurements, but to the best of my memory, it was, in size, shape, and inclination with respect to the surrounding stones, identical to the Obelisk you encountered late in August on the loch.

I must have been standing there, staring at it agog for a good while, because the archaeologist had ample time to wipe his hands, walk up to us, and introduce himself. “Pleased ta meetcha. I’m Dr. Brown.”

Hopefully my spelling has successfully conveyed my next realization, nearly as shocking as seeing the Obelisk, which is that this gentlemen was New Columbian. Dr. Brown gestured toward the Obelisk. “She’s a beaut, ain’t she? Not quite active yet, but soon, soon.”

“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “You don’t seem surprised in the least to see me, but I must confess a great deal of surprise in finding …” – I gestured at the Obelisk, the soldiers, the whole scene – “… all this.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you must have a ton of questions. And I have quite a few for you. You know what? We outnumber you so I think we’re going to get to my questions first. Maybe back at the chapel?” The soldiers nearest us stepped a little closer, and I noticed the other ones at the site readying their weapons. “How about you leave your weapons right there at your feet and we’ll take a little stroll that-a-way.”

No one was pointing a weapon at us, but the aura of menace was unmistakable. Dr. Brown’s cheery smile carried no air of threat itself, but his eyes were ice-cold. Adding a macabre tinge to an already tense situation, the man who I took for his aide was crouched by the Obelisk, babbling to himself and clapping his hands as if he could not contain his excitement about what was to happen next.

Van Dyke and I crouched to lower our pistols to the ground and stood slowly again. Jacobs did not move. I begged him sotto voce to do the same, but he stood impassively. Twenty seconds passed in silence.

“Darn,” said Dr. Brown. “It looks like things are going to get uncomfortable.” He nodded curtly to one of his men, who raised his rifle, aiming at Jacobs. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glint of light coming from a line of trees at the crest of the hill, sixty yards away. A signal.

That is when things began to happen very quickly. Jacobs dove toward me and barreled us both to the ground. The soldier shifted his aim, but before he could fire we heard a crack from the direction of the signal, and he reeled backwards, shot through the heart. The other one who had been standing near us crumpled to the ground after a second crack just a few seconds later. The rest were already reacting, seeking cover behind dolmens and the obelisk itself. One of them judged the direction of Kali’s ire incorrectly and left himself exposed – another crack, and he was dead. Meanwhile, the “aide” let out a rather primitive-sounding cry of rage and scrambled toward us on his arms and legs, like an ape. Jacobs rolled up into a crouch, took aim, and – despite having one arm still in a sling – brought him down with a single bullet to the head.

Dr. Brown, sheltered behind a dolmen from Sharma’s view, looked at Van Dyke. “Now or never, wouldn’t you say?” he said. For a brief moment, Van Dyke’s face betrayed a spasm of shock and anger, but he quickly brought it under control. He retrieved his weapon. Jacobs glanced at me uncertainly. The two remaining soldiers, peeking out from behind cover, seemed similarly unsure of what to expect next. I hesitated, and Van Dyke fired a round – squarely into Brown’s chest. The look on the archaeologist’s face as he coughed up blood made it all too clear that this was not what he had been expecting.

That was when the thrumming began. At first I mistook it for an earthquake, but the ground was steady – rather it was the very air that seemed to shake, with a deep sound like an orchestra composed entirely of string basses. Suddenly I was aware that in the bloody wreckage of Dr. Brown’s torso lay the shattered pieces of a stone worn around his neck, and that twisting coils of energy passing from that pendant to the Obelisk were what was causing the thrumming.

That awareness was coupled with a heightened awareness of everything around me – I glanced at my own hands to confirm that, indeed, I had shifted to a translucent state. I was immediately self-conscious and wondered what the others would think, but their attention was focused elsewhere. Invisible to them, but visible to me, crackling arcs of energy emitted from the Obelisk into each of the five corpses now on the ground around us. And the corpses rose. They were mere shells, animated somehow by the Obelisk, but they moved with surprising speed. Another crack from Sharma, and one of them fell – only to rise again the next instant and continue on its way. One of the soldiers at this point was running pell-mell away, but the other one remained huddled behind one of the dolmens. The animated corpse of one of his compatriots found him crouched there, and … suffice it to say that I am glad that the dolmen blocked the others’ view of what befell the poor man. It is a vision I will have to carry with me to my grave.

Dr. Brown’s husk was upon me, its mouth open as if it meant to clamp down on my flesh. Even as its arm passed harmlessly through my ghostly shoulder, I instinctively pushed it away. My hand entered its chest, but then – I am not sure how to describe it, for I did not solidify, but rather it was as if, by force of will, I laid claim to to that particular bit of space that both our forms were occupying, and Brown’s body was forcefully ejected away from my hand. He flew away from me, slamming into a dolmen thirty feet away.

If I was reasonably safe from the creatures, the same could not be said of Jacobs and Van Dyke, who were beset upon by three of them, fending off clawlike hands and gnashing teeth as best they could, finding their pistols of no use whatsoever. But my chief attention was now focused on the Obelisk. In my mind’s eye it glowed with eldritch light, but within it was something that seemed alive. Deep in the heart of obelisk was a bulbous mass, pulsing in rhythm, like a misshapen heart the size of a cow’s head. Hanging down from it was a tentacle or tendril, or perhaps artery, that extended below the ground going deep, deep, to the edge of my perception.

I headed toward it. There was no wind, but I felt resistance as I went forward, despite my incorporeal state. The closer I got the more it was like I was striving upstream against a strong current. I could hear the sounds of struggle behind me but my attention was focused ever-forward; I sensed that if I could only reach the thing, and somehow stop it, we might be spared. Time seemed to stretch thin, and my final steps up to the Obelisk felt like they took a lifetime. At last, my arm passed through the side of it, I grabbed, or tried to grab, the hideous beating thing in its center, to crush it, eject it, will it away, whatever might work …

For an instant I was connected to it, and I saw. A great yawning awareness filled me, but I cannot tell you a thing about it now, for like a dream it has slipped away, and even so it only lasted for a second before my mind shut down and I slumped to unconsciousness. I count that fact as a blessing.

I have tried to relay that entire scene in as much detail as possible, given its importance, but now of necessity I must take a step back and summarize, for, as with my experience in the storm on the Channel, in the aftermath I was not myself, this time for a period of about twenty-four hours. When I came to, Sharma was sitting over me, Jacobs was tending to a campfire, and Van Dyke was crouched rather sullenly off to the side, his face a black-and-blue patchwork of repeated bludgeonings. I learned later that this was not the result of the corpse attack. He had been making a concerted effort to write down everything that I said in my delirious state, and, considering the suspicious exchange between him and Dr. Brown, Jacobs felt that he should not be quite so presumptuous, and made his feelings known a little overzealously.

My striving toward the Obelisk had, in fact, taken close to five minutes, during which Sharma had moved up from the treeline, and the three of them had been in embroiled in a pitched battle for their lives. At the moment when I reached into it, the Obelisk had shattered, the corpses had collapsed, and only then (I assume) I had taken solid form once again, slumped on the ground. Nowhere was there evidence of a once-beating heart-like thing: only shards of stone. While I was indisposed, the others made a good effort at gathering the larger pieces back together for sketches and analysis.

We spent two more days at the site, gathering evidence and taking notes of whatever we could salvage. I am able to confirm from pieced-together shards that the runes on the Obelisk are also ur-Samekh, and perhaps with access to a proper library I can provide a bit more, but the detonation did away with much of what would have been valuable information. Some of the dolmens were themselves destroyed in the blast, others blackened by a fine dust that obscured their markings.

Van Dyke was, unsurprisingly, not forthcoming about much of anything. I had to remind Jacobs and Sharma that we had expected some sort of Society twist in all of this, that it was part of the game, and that we were fortunate that whatever he did was not the outright betrayal that perhaps Brown had expected of him. My best guess was that they had recognized each other, but had not necessarily been allies, and Van Dyke deemed it better that the man die than that the nature of their connection might come to light. Of course, had he let Brown live, we might have learned much from him, and the awakening of the corpses might never have happened. But while he has much to answer for, I was not willing to make a summary judgment concerning his fate.

We found frustratingly little at the encampment to further identify Dr. Brown and his entourage. We could find no official communiques, no orders, not even personal effects among the soldiers’ things. If this was an official N.C. military expedition, it was a highly covert one. More likely it was an independent operation of some sort – perhaps the soldiers were mercenaries? Brown’s work-table and notes would have been a valuable trove of clues, but they were situated near the Obelisk, and did not survive the explosion in readable form.

One afternoon I chided Jacobs for not letting me know that three of his stitches had come loose in the fight. “But sir,” he asked, dumbfounded, “How did you know?” Upon recollection I realized that I had idly wondered about it, looked at him, and had simply seen. It was not the total transformation of perception that has accompanied my ghostly state, but something smaller, more targeted, and, sadly, still something not under my conscious control, it seems.

Speaking of my Ability, the cat is out of the proverbial bag to some extent with respect to my companions. If nothing else, they know I was adjacent to the Obelisk when it exploded, and yet I somehow survived. Sharma, at the very least, must have seen the way that I sent one of the corpses flying through the air, but he has said nothing about it. Jacobs, for his part, repeatedly insists that that we had additional aid during the fight. He claims that, at one point, a ferocious wolf pulled a corpse off of him when he was at the point of death. He also says that a blind old man was standing near me when the Obelisk exploded. None of the rest of us saw anything of the sort, of course. But I thought I saw a beating heart within the Obelisk, but afterward there was no evidence of such a thing – who am I to gainsay him?

We made our way cautiously back to Machlou over another four days. It was a good thing we had not done anything overly rash with Van Dyke – though he was undoubtedly a persona non grata among us, we needed him to slip into town and find Bertram. We had to bide our time for another couple days before he was able to secret us onto the Gromit. One thrilling vortex-ride later, we found ourselves back on Garnsey, where Alia had arrived just the day before with your letter.

It will take me some time to sort through all the information we have gathered, and so my more detailed and scholarly conclusions will have to wait for future letters. But the idea that drew me back toward home is this: what if I could do to the Obelisk at the loch what I did to the one at Mont-Bré? Getting there will be a trick, of course. And in the meantime we must sort out what is going on with these New Columbians. It is no coincidence, I assume, that Dr. Brown had a stone pendant similar to the one that Throckmorton – I mean Thompson – gave to Robards. But what is their agenda? Brown’s “soon, soon” rings hauntingly in my ears – it is as if he was trying to awaken the Obelisk, or at the very least was eager for it to happen.

Now my hand is cramped and my ink is dry; I hope Alia is able to deliver this to you surreptitiously, else it has all been a wasted effort. Do try to keep her from doing anything too rash. And, as ever, stay safe, my friend.

Warm Regards,

Crane

Dear Crane,

Our intrepid Alia circled the skies and did cloudless loops high overhead. Well, I can say our letters have more thrilling adventures now. In Big School, we copied the Martineau text diligently, not seeing the elegance in safe words, which always pointed to high marks. Urquart would write, “Viz. Rackham” on your papers, adding to your frustration completely. Those easy days are gone, unfortunately, and now we must bravely forge forward and adopt new purposes.

Today, my new focus is study—a strategy Urquart instilled in me. He would see how life is, and pride would swell: using the full extent of a man’s knowledge to courageously ward away vice and doubt. Bennington always says that a mind unstimulated is like a blank slate. I look to Stratham, too, and how his thoughts seem to straighten a jumbled mess into meaningful order.

Thorpe is intent today; he knows a distraction may imperil his original heading. The arcane identity of the Obelisk seems now quite secondary to what MacTallan has been telling us, and the Cairns loom ahead. I do not know who found these structures, but the patterns of information painstakingly gathered in the troubled months after the Incident indicate that the trees near Thornskye actually flourished, and took on new appearances. Scorched tracks had riddled the earth, leading toward the Obelisk.

Thorpe has fully resupplied us, and shortly we gather the men to dine, and to move the equipment we acquired out to a motorized contraption. Tomorrow sees heavy activity; we may try to find and follow the same road that MacTallan had been found on, for better or worse. Some clues may elude us, but your description of the runes coordinates exactly with our records, correct in age and method.

But as for this fabled Rexley, forget it all: it is absent from maps, and not worth pursuing. It is a forgotten name for a place out of legends.

Sincerely,

Rackham

[to see the hidden message embedded in the above letter, mouse over the text below]

Alia did well letters now copied not safe to write papers completely gone must adopt new strategy he is using a ward Bennington mind blank Stratham thoughts jumbled Thorpe knows his identity now MacTallan and I found patterns in the trees and scorched earth Thorpe and men move out tomorrow may follow MacTallan for clues your coordinates correct but Rexley is not a place

12 September

My Dear Rackham,

I do not know when I will be able to send word back your way, but I will take the opportunity to write a brief update. What I lack in news from Mont-Bré I make up for in time, being cooped up in an attic with little else to do. Read on and discover why.

My life these past few days has felt something like a play where the playwright has gone out of his way to create Colorful Characters, hoping perhaps that these will compensate for a singular Lack of Compelling Dialogue. Indulge me:

Dramatis Personae

Bertram, the Smuggler: In a manner that seems to me wholly inappropriate for someone whose occupation is deeply concerned with secrecy, the man never stops talking. He has accrued a large number of stories in his long and varied life and seems worried that he will not get a chance to relate all of them to us, so he fills any silence he can with more words. He can keep up this monologue, with both hands on the tiller, and yet the omnipresent cigar clamped to one side of his mouth is never seen to even so much as wobble. Verily, I think this man has an Ability all his own, albeit one of limited scope.

Crane, the Professor: So named by Bertram (even though I have explained to him more than once that I do not currently hold any university position). Dour and quiet. If this be one of those New Columbian “vaudeville” productions, Crane is undoubtedly the Straight Man.

Jacobs, the Muscle: He is the sort of soldier who joins the military not out of a sense of family tradition or patriotic duty, but because he enjoys commiting violence and it seems as good an avenue for that as any. One shudders to think what line of work he would have sought out otherwise. Jacobs finds every story that Bertram tells endlessly fascinating and/or hilarious — often flying in the face of Reason. But one has no indication that Reason is this man’s strong suit.

Sharma, the Scout: I lack the instrumentation to verify my theory, but I am reasonably certain that two Sharmas would weigh the same as one Jacobs. A Pandjaran born and bred, he survived the devastation of his homeland and, perhaps for that reason, seems the least fazed by everything that has befallen Albion in recent months. Reputedly a crack shot.

Van Dyke, the Spy: If one is obligated to travel with an agent of a mysterious Society, facing the possibility that he will report your every action and may even undermine your ultimate objective if it contravenes his own secretive agenda, one could hardly ask for a nicer chap than this one. Handsome, genial, well-read, gregarious but not too talkative. Even though he is apparently a Lowlander by birth, his chief asset to us is that he is also fluent in Gallian.

It is with this merry band that I set out from Garnsey on the eighth of September in Bertram’s unassuming single-sail dory, the Gromit. Sanders had introduced us to Van Dyke, who in turn had had dealings with Bertram, though my impression is that the smuggler is an independent operator and not a Society man himself. I will attempt to summarize for you his disquisition on the vortex storms and how to get through them. “Air’s a treck to’t, see?” as he might say.

From Garnsey’s shores the storms are often visible, but not always. One might be led to assume that their lulls create windows whereby one might sail easily away, but one would be most mistaken. The storms have a nasty habit of rolling in quickly as soon as there is a boat in the water. (When I asked Bertram if he was suggesting there was a malicious Intent behind the storm, he grunted as if this was self-evident.) Within them, there is no prevailing wind and no real hope of pushing straight through. Certainly no hope of weathering them until they go away — they will not ebb until you succumb or somehow make it out. (My experience on the Sigsbee would seem to be an exception, but I said nothing.) The trick — the ingenious, improbable, and altogether suicidal trick — is to use the centripetal force of a vortex to slingshot around it, steering at just the right moment to disengage, centrifugally, and latch on to the next vortex, ideally one rotating in the opposite direction, and repeat the process. This results in nothing resembling a straight course, but as long as one is patient, and makes no mistakes whatsoever, one can eventually get where one is going. The additional trick is that, times being what they are, there are many watchful eyes on the Gallian coast, and to arrive undetected it is best to arrive at night. But of course navigating the vorteces without daylight is impossible. Therefore it is necessary to leave mid-day and to time one’s break from the storm on the other side for dusk.

Suffice it to say that our experience in the storm perfectly matched Bertram’s description. There was a certain elegance to it, I must admit. The most nerve-wracking moment was undoubtedly when, within sight of land, Bertram took us back into the storm because the sky was not yet dark enough and we might be spotted. All the while, he did not stop talking, Jacobs rarely stopped chuckling, and Van Dyke kept sending knowing smirks and grim nods my way as if we were in on the same joke. Sharma napped. When we emerged the second and final time the sky was growing dark. We could see the lights of the town of Machlou — by no means the closest landing point to Mont-Bré, but it was the place Bertram used for his smuggling runs and we thought it best to play it safe. The last of the vorteces was receding behind us.

The next moment there was a terrific crash and the sound of splintering wood as we lurched to starboard. Van Dyke, who had been sitting on the gunwale at that moment, was thrown overboard. I thought perhaps we had hit a reef, but then a gigantic form passed beneath us in the water: we had just been rammed! It was difficult to make out details in the dimming light, but whatever it was was at least thirty feet long. It was skimming just below the surface, and through the distortions it made in the water it was clear it was coming around for another pass.

Van Dyke had surfaced and was making competent strokes back toward us, but the water was rough and his progress slow. The ominous outline of our underwater aggressor drew ever nearer, and it became clear that it was heading, not directly for us, but rather for our floundering comrade. Another splash: this time Jacobs, shirtless, diving into the water, a curved knife blade clenched between his teeth.

The creature surfaced. It all happened so quickly, in the twilight chaos, that I fear I cannot give the scene the detail it deserves. What was it? No shark, no whale, though its body was most like one of those, but the head resembled nothing so much as a crocodile of the Nile: the snout elongated, the teeth numberless as it opened its maw. The sound that it made as Jacobs thrust his blade into the roof of its mouth was guttural, ancient, unearthly. It flailed, and in doing so drenched us and very nearly capsized the Gromit.

But somehow we stayed upright and afloat, and in the next moment we were scrambling to pull Van Dyke and Jacobs back aboard. We spent the next minutes limping toward shore, anxiously looking every direction, waiting for the next attack, but it never came. Perhaps the wound was sufficient to drive it off. Perhaps we had passed into shallower waters. Or perhaps the Intent behind the storm had made one last angry gesture before we passed out of its influence.

The Gromit weathered the hit it took reasonably well. Jacobs was not so lucky. Some of those teeth had torn him a nasty gash from waist to armpit, and his left arm was broken in two places. Our plan had been to slip quietly past Machlou, up the river that empties there into the bay, and disembark far from prying eyes. Now, instead, I needed to land as soon as possible to try to save Jacobs’ life. Bertram had contacts in Machlou, unsavory gentlemen engaged in all manner of illegal dealings, but this meant they had out-of-the-way places to stash goods (and people) and were accustomed to getting things (and people) into town surreptitiously.

That is how we find ourselves in the attic from which I write. We are above a rather bustling and boisterous inn, La Gardelle, near the river. While that might not seem very low-profile, the noise of the place helps mask our own activity, and we have ready access to food and water. Bertram is constantly coming and going, bringing news, negotiating with our thuggish benefactors. Their price for keeping us hidden here will not be cheap. Van Dyke has proved his worth by procuring for me the medical implements I needed to sew Jacobs back up and set his arm. I was amazed that he had managed it so quickly in a foreign land; I understand from Bertram that the man’s accent and demeanor were both so natural that he had passed successfully in town as a Gallian. Spy indeed.

We have been here four nights. Jacobs is now stable, but still in need of several more days’ rest. There was some discussion of leaving him here and pressing on, but Bertram does not trust his Machlou contacts any farther than he can see them, and thought it likely that if we left him behind they would sell him out to the authorities. And so we wait, and so I write. More anon.

17 September

I fear for your safety, my friend; I am in receipt of your last letter, but the circumstances of its retrieval are unusual, and I find myself wondering (even more than usual) whether what I write will find its way to you.

We remain in our attic hideaway. I sent Bertram back to Garnsey to report in and gather news. He returned with your letter and an accompanying note from Alia, which I will reproduce below:

Dr. Crane: Some weeks ago … [here she began to write “Benjamin” but then crossed it out] … Rackham asked that if I should ever meet his expedition and find him absent or indisposed, before assuming that he had no letter to send, I should check his portable writing desk, which has a secret compartment in the bottom that he showed to me, and bring whatever I found there to you. I landed near Greysham on the 13th of September and found the expedition in good order, certainly compared to the last time I had seen them. Thorpe seemed well, despite his alarming appearance. He told me Rackham was out investigating local happenings and would not be back that day. At an opportune moment I located his belongings and found a letter in the compartment, included here. I did not read it, but glanced at it briefly enough to see that it was indeed intended for you, and that it was incomplete.

My feeling is that Thorpe was not telling me everything he knew. I detected a hint of concern in his tone. I hope that I am making too much of this, but I will return to Greysham as soon as is feasible to verify that Rackham is well. In any case, upon arriving at Garnsey I found you absent, but Robards had in his company a smuggler who was to be returning to you soon. I was not certain whether the greater good would be to ensure the privacy of your correspondence or to get the letter to you as soon as possible; I hope I have chosen correctly. Bertram knows what I will do to him if he betrays your confidence. -Alia

I believe she has indeed chosen correctly, though it concerns me now more than ever how easily the sensitive and personal information we are including in these missives could be read by others. For myself, I say, damn their eyes and write on; in these trying times I sometimes feel it is only our correspondence that keeps me sane, and I am loath to cease or censor it.

Judging from the smudges of ink at the end of your letter, I gather that you had to break from it in haste. My best guess is that something caused you to hurriedly stash it in your writing desk — and as to that, my friend, very clever indeed! I have made no similar arrangements with our messengers but will adopt your stratagem or something similar at the first opportunity. Were it not for the rather explosive revelation you were in the process of writing at that moment, I might not be fearful for your safety; as it is, I certainly am. But I will press on in faith that you will receive this in due course.

Throckmorton, or should I say Thompson, a New Columbian spy … I can hardly fathom it. I am not so naive as to be surprised that nations with cordial relations may still spy on one another, of course. But this would mean that he has been operating under an assumed identity since at least the time he and Robards began serving together, five or more years ago. Incredible.

I am not familiar with Rexley; either it is a code name or my geographical memory is lacking. I believe I can help you with the location coordinates, however. In the N.C. military system, the first and second numbers will indicate latitude and longitude, respectively, in hundredths of a degree. The third number is the “key” in that it references a fixed point, usually a central location or base of operations, though it may be an arbitrary point for particularly sensitive communications. Assuming the location referenced is roughly local, by my calculations it is approximately 46 miles north and 61 miles east of “110”. Get thee to an atlas, and if there is indeed a town called Rexley in your vicinity try that as your 110. Otherwise try other landmarks of note. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.

That communique, combined with the stone pendant, imply that the New Columbians know much more about the Incident — and perhaps even its cause — than they are letting on. I agree with you that until we know more this is best kept strictly between us.

Jacobs’ recovery continues; he is a remarkably fast healer, and my hope is that we will be able to depart in a few more days. He and I have been staying out of sight. Sharma too, as a Pandjaran would be especially conspicuous in these parts, though he does slip out at night to get some air. Van Dyke has the locals believing he is a minor playwright from southern Gallia on holiday; he has booked a legitimate room in the inn and enjoys the run of the town. As envious as this makes the rest of us, at least it allows him to keep us supplied and informed. Apparently there is a close watch on the coast and constant military patrols here and at other coastal towns; the Quarantine is very real and our caution is not unwarranted.

I will send Bertram back to Garnsey with this letter, and with instructions to check in on Campbell and the New Columbians, as well as reporting to Robards. Apparently the captain is operating out of the governor’s house now. Good to hear that relations between them have improved.

When next I write I hope to have news from Mont-Bré; my daily prayer is that you will be safe, secure, and able to receive it!

Warm Regards,

Crane

Dear Crane, my friend,

I am glad to report to you that we have enjoyed a taste of rest and recuperation this past week, well-deserved after our recent episode, but also vital for our continued success. I have also had the fortuitous opportunity to gather some information about Throckmorton.

Or should I say, Lieutenant William S. Thompson of the New Columbian Expeditionary Forces?

I’m getting playfully ahead of myself with that revelation; I will detail to you all I know as my letter progresses. But I ought to first tell you about the newest member of our expedition, one Professor Hugh MacTallan. That’s right, Crane—the same MacTallan who wrote several well-researched and groundbreaking journal articles on the anthropological and sociological significance of historical astronomical events. I think you remember me sending you an advance copy of his research on the documentation of proximal comets and airbursts from near-orbit meteors among the scholars of the ancient world; this would have been at least four years ago, before our visit to Mont-Bré.

We met MacTallan—more accurately, rescued him—about three days ago. As you may recall, in my last letter, I mentioned that Thorpe had seen a small village marked on his rough map of the highlands. This was, of course, after we had been able to get our bearings somewhat, having fled east from the site of the Obelisk for two days. Finding that we were near the coastline, we decided to travel so that we would have the sea on our left, never losing sight of the shoreline. This allowed greater accuracy to plot not only our day-to-day position, but also to stay within easy sky-sight of one of our two aeronautic heroines.

At any rate, about two more days of hiking southward (at a rate thankfully slower that what we had known before), Thorpe appointed Kilcannon his new lieutenant, and ordered him and Arasaku to scout ahead for sign of the village. Thorpe’s caution is new, but I confess we all welcome it, ever since the harrowing trials of the last week, and especially because the scenes of death that we found at Innesmere are still burned into our minds.

Kilcannon and Arasaku came back in short order not only with news of the village, but also a new companion—dirty, disheveled, and looking somewhat flustered. He introduced himself as the good Professor, at which point he explained that if it were not for a quick-thinking Arasaku, he may well have plummeted to his death off a seaside cliff. MacTallan had been in the area, alone, doing some research into what he called “outcroppings” that he found in the vicinity; having taken a mis-step along a rocky path he found himself under the shifting weight of a rock that had dislodged from the cliff face. This led to his precarious position hanging from a thin ledge upon which he had caught himself; apparently expecting no one to find him, he did not cry out. Arasaku, rather, had caught rather expert notice of the dislodged rock interposing his own pathway which he and Kilcannon were exploring as a safer route down from the chalk cliffside. Recognizing that this small boulder seemed out of place, he looked up, and saw MacTallan struggling, about to fall further. We should be thankful that Thorpe and Robards saw fit to employ some men not only of fighting ability but also of some athletic prowess on this mission: Arasaku quickly found a path up the rocky face to where MacTallan had fallen and lowered the shaken man a rope.

Bennington was able to treat him with a minimum of effort; with a spot of tea and the remainder of my digestive biscuits, MacTallan was right as rain and in high spirits to have encountered us. I am happy to note that it was MacTallan that was able to obtain us entry into the little fortified town of Greysham, about a half-mile from the sea, the place from which I write you tonight.

We are all lodged in an old but perfectly comfortable hotel called the Downborough Arms. This, I can tell you, has boosted our morale tremendously. Thorpe and the men asked me to re-read one of your earlier letters where you narrated your dealings with the simple folk of Howgate, so that they might compare the situation in which we find ourselves here in Graysham.

Crane, you wrote of a folk relatively untouched by the Incident, but unfortunately that is less so here. The initial stories we have heard chilled us to the bone and made us think back, of course, to the Innesmere catastrophe. Imagine parents casting out changeling-children into the street, folk waking up in their beds with mutations too horrible to describe, whole mob scenes driving out those poor devils chosen by Fortuna to bear the debased forms of nature disturbed—the people here wear faces of grief and shock, of fatigue and confusion, and for good reason.

We have endeavored to bring a little hope into their otherwise altered lives, sharing what news we felt safe to give. With full understanding of the need for discretion, we have told them that while Albion seems the epicenter of the Incident and Caledonia a bedeviled land, there is hope on the Continent. We did not tell of the tales of destruction that you and I had learned from the Colonies, nor of the plight of the New Columbians—ah yes, I am getting to our friend in a moment. But whatever good news we could breathe to these destitute survivors of a world gone mad, I felt it best to do so.

It was MacTallan that aided Thorpe in making the first of the acquaintances here. The town had appointed a new mayor in the wake of the first of the rat-men attacks, and this man, Bledsoe, united the families who were left in the town after the ravages and erected a wall. Nothing more than a rampart in most places, it is nevertheless a structure that can be guarded, patrolled, and otherwise fortified against enemies. Over the last year Bledsoe had embraced MacTallan’s presence as someone knowledgeable—even if the Professor no longer could access his library at Thornskye. Apparently the last few months had seen fewer attacks, and this is why Bledsoe had sanctioned MacTallan’s solo explorations, although I sensed some mild chagrin on Bledsoe’s part when we told him the circumstances of our encounter with MacTallan.

There are some fifty families here, many having lost members in the wake of what they call the Changes. Only Bledsoe will talk to Thorpe and most avoid him; I sense that if Graustein had made it back with us, the townsfolk would have treated him likewise. We have only been here for a day and a half, but we have been received well, and there are already inquiries about able-bodied men joining our force. They will have to learn to take orders from Thorpe, however—something we have not yet discussed with any interested parties.

Now onto our New Columbian friend, Throckmorton (who I shall call by his real name from now on). As of the writing of this letter I have done nothing with the information save record it here. Bennington seems far more lucid and much like herself ever since we escaped the area of the Obelisk, and, like I said earlier to you, I have begun to respect her more. However, I read some caution in your account of what Sanders showed you in the laboratories at Elizabeth, and I am not quite convinced that her ties with the Society are weakened enough to make her into someone in whom I can fully confide. While he is our captain, Thorpe seems changed, and I feel that revealing what I learned when I attempted to scan Thompson’s memory—and, later, his personal items—may unsettle him, not unlike how Robards had leapt to easy but alarming conclusions when you confronted him with what you knew of his stone medallion. The next person I thought of is Stratham, but he seems singularly focused on reaching the Cairns, and cares for little else. Finally, MacTallan is someone I feel I could trust, but only if given time—it is too early to allow him to have knowledge like this about our troupe.

So it is only you and I who know this now.

In reading your account of Thompson’s gift of the stone, I took it immediately to mind to scan his memories for some clues as to how he came by the stone or what it meant to him. Now, Crane, lest you become jealous in some way of my command of my Ability, let me say that I had some particular difficulties with this task. The reading of memories, I find, is painful and not always successful to the extent I imagine beforehand.

I was careful about the setting and timing of my attempt—late at night the first night after we arrived, when Thorpe’s men were allowed some much-needed relaxation in the front room of the hotel. Bledsoe, after MacTallan’s generous introductions, allowed the lads free reign among his liquor stores, and this was a liberty that, may I say, they took to its most logical end. A little after midnight I found a more comfortable chair and settled in, my eyes fixed on Thompson, whose slumped form joined the others at the round tables in the hotel tavern area.

My eyes rolled back and I allowed myself to find the wave of sound. No longer able (or daring) to use my eyes, I reached out with my mind’s eye instead, visiting the mind of the man who was my target. Breathing shallowly at first, I concentrated on each breath, finding a resonance inside my body that would harmonize somehow with the noise.

No such noise came; for many solid and soundless minutes, all was still.

I tried again, this time redoubling my concentration. I half-expected a splitting migraine this time, as my temples had already throbbed with the anticipation of joining with another consciousness, taking in the confusion and chaos of the senses. I tell you, I sat there in my chair, feeling no different than I had on all of the other nights that I had been successful (especially in the case of Bennington some weeks ago), and following the same procedure that had attuned me to my otherworldly perceptions before. But no sounds filtered into the backgrounds of my waking dream; there was no wall of noise to channel.

Something was blocking my attempt, Crane: I could feel it. What it was, though, I do not exactly know. It was like staring at a blank wall. There should have been something there, but instead all I could sense was the absence of a thing.

So how, you may ask, did I learn of his identity?

The bloody fool left it in his jacket: a telegrammed set of orders from NCHC, the New Columbian High Command. It struck me, after I opened my eyes, that a clue to Thompson’s—then Throckmorton’s—true intentions regarding having given the stone to Robards may yet lie with this man’s person or his possessions. Thorpe’s men have very few personal items apart from their clothes, weapons, and tools, and, while the lads were sleeping, it was short work to locate Thompson’s scant items. I first searched his pack, finding nothing; I had been about to give up when I then detected a folded sheaf of papers poorly sewn into the lining of the jacket.

For your eyes only: I copied below the contents, and then did my best to replace the papers and re-sew the gap I created in the cloth.

FROM:             NCHC-GEORGETON

TO:                  LT. WILLIAM S. THOMPSON, 4^TH EXPEDITIONARY

LIEUTENANT:

GRAVE SECRECY WARRANTED [STOP]. TRACK ALL MOVEMENTS VIA AERO [STOP]. MAKE COPIES OF ALL RECORDS TO THE EXTENT POSSIBLE [STOP]. MAP LOCATION 67-88-110 KNOWN AS UNSAFE [STOP]. WILL PROVIDE FURTHER ORDERS THROUGH CONTACT AT REXLEY [STOP].

NEW COLUMBIAN HIGH COMMAND

My Dear Rackham,

I feel rather the fool; I have been at my wit’s end cursing what I took for bad luck, but which now reveals itself as the workings of Providence. For almost two weeks I have been stymied in my efforts to leave Garnsey for Mont-Bré, but had I succeeded in departing even a day ago, I would have missed your letter and your invaluable sketches of the Obelisk-runes. And those may not even be the most consequential piece of information I received from you, for reasons that will become clear.

Allow me to begin by relating the conversation with Robards that took place shortly after I sent my last letter. I wanted him to confront the possibility that his unusual sway over the minds of others might be caused by something more than his usual charisma, so as to help him understand the sudden change in disposition toward him on the part of the New Columbians and the governor. I thought that the best approach would be to coax him into voicing the idea first; if he thought it was his idea it might sit better with him.

But I lack your smooth tongue, my friend, and am rarely at my best in such situations. To Robards’ mind all his difficulties were simply the result of irrational behavior on the part of those around him. He seemed alarmed when I broached the subject of the peculiar autopsies of Smythe and Dodgson. I may have made a mis-step when, at one point, unsure of what to say next, I consulted a conversational matrix I had sketched out in my notebook with optimal responses to his most likely statements. He found this somewhat alienating, and suggested that if I wanted to pick apart his brain that I kindly wait until he was properly deceased. That would have been the moment for a judicious reply, but in a fit of pique I went off-matrix, as it were, and pointedly inquired as to whether he had lost anything of particular value in the storm at sea. That plainly struck a nerve, but he mistook my meaning. “You stole it!” he bellowed, and lurched forward to grab me.

Instantly — and quite unintentionally — I became incorporeal, in what I can only assume was a reflexive act of self-preservation. Robards passed through me and slammed into the wall behind me, wheeled, swung a punch which whistled cleanly through my head, and another, before finally stopping and staring at me, thunderstruck. I hastened to explain that what he had just witnessed had been happening to me since the Incident. I swore to him that I had stolen nothing, and told him about seeing the glowing object fall from the ship and descend into the depths. And, fortunately, he listened. While I had not intended to reveal my Ability to him, it seems to have worked out for the best. When I suggested that perhaps he had an Ability of his own he gave the notion at least some credence, and we discussed the issue at some length.

More importantly, he confided in me about the object he had lost in the storm. It is, or was, a rough-hewn piece of stone with some runes carved on it, worn around his neck and then kept in a desk drawer in his cabin on the Sigsbee while we were at sea. It had no particular effect that he could discern, though his anger upon realizing it was missing, and his violent response when he thought I had stolen it, he attributes now to some strange power it must have had over him that has, thankfully, subsided.

I had him make drawings of the runes on it, to the best of his memory, but it is only today, with the receipt of your letter, that I am able to confirm that they are, indeed, of a piece with the ur-Samekh carvings from the Obelisk. At this point you are no doubt dying to know where he got this thing from, and you would do well to heed the answer. Robards says that he had it from none other than Throckmorton, who presented it to him at the chamber site before we all parted ways. It was not given as a mystical talisman or secretive object of great import, however, but as a simple good-luck charm, an innocuous memento between longtime war-compatriots about to take disparate paths. That, at least, is how Robards took it. Whether it was in truth given in the same spirit is for you to discover, if you can. The thing is now gone, of course, and perhaps I am making more of it than is warranted. You have made no particular mention of Throckmorton other than that he remains with your party, but I urge you to be cautious and mindful of the fact that there may be more to him than is apparent.

Moving on. Satisfying as it was to achieve a breakthrough of sorts with Robards, doing so did nothing to accelerate the repairs to the Sigsbee. In any case, it was no longer evident that Campbell would willingly take us where we wanted to go once she was seaworthy. And so I took a room at an inn in town, the better to survey other options for leaving the island. Stockport is a trading hub, and the pubs near the water are chock full of merchant seamen stranded here by the closing of the port, growing more restless with each passing day.

Recalling that your family’s riches originated in the mercantile world, I confess I let your name drop while buying drinks for some merchant captains one night. I don’t think any of them recognized Benjamin Rackham — no doubt they would have been taken aback had they known of the ways that you have amassed and disbursed your personal fortune — but the family name had the desired effect. I learned from these gentlemen that, while the port is indeed closed, that has not prevented smaller smuggling vessels from risking crossings to the Gallian coast, and some have even returned, bringing some goods and, more importantly, information. And so I have something to report, albeit third-hand, on the state of the world.

The good news: The effects of the Incident are not present abroad. Word is spreading about a cataclysm that has befallen Albion, and rumors abound. (The bitter irony there is that no matter how fanciful some of those rumors must be, they will only rarely prove as strange as the truth.) The sudden lack of contact and trade has created all manner of disruptions, to be sure, but the people of the Continent and beyond seem safe from this particular malady.

The bad news: The governments of the Continent are in a state of high alarm, and their chief priority at this juncture is to quarantine Albion completely. One story circulating — I have no way to verify it — is that a flotilla of our vessels that had survived the crossing was denied landing at the port of Brabant, and when they continued toward the docks nonetheless, they were blown out of the water by the shore artillery. All this is why it has been so difficult to find passage toward Mont-Bré. Braving the vortex-storms is no small risk to begin with, but the prospect of being caught breaking quarantine raises the bar even further, and it is only since your letter arrived that I have been able to make arrangements …

But I am getting ahead of my story. I must interject with an unrelated episode that happened a week ago, albeit one with some ominous portents. After a long period of silence, the governor asked Robards for aid in investigating an incident at a coastal village on the other side of the island, not far from where the Sigsbee originally landed. He and I took a dozen men and, arriving there, heard a harrowing tale from the villagers about mer-men crawling out from the sea and trying to steal their babies. No one had been hurt, however, and indeed, all the invaders were dead. But the story became curioser, as the villagers did not report any actual struggle with the creatures. They had all expired on their own, four of them on the beach, and two more who had made it into the village, one in particular who had burst through the door of a nursery room before collapsing. (Hence, “stealing babies.”)

There followed a rather long and perplexing investigation, but I shall spare you the details, since at the end of the day what provided the answers we sought was an autopsy. A thoroughly unpleasant autopsy, I should note, as the bodies of the creatures stank like dead fish. I could see why the villagers had described them as “mer-men” but you must not imagine a full hybrid in the manner of the were-rats. They appeared human in most respects, save for a sliminess and discoloration of the skin, and some evidence of emergent scales. And then, of course, the gills. They had lungs, but these were shriveled, useless, vestigial. Instead they had enlarged necks with six pairs of gill slits. Yet this appeared to be their only adaptation toward life in the water. They did not have webbed hands or feet, and their mouths, teeth, jaws, and digestive tracts were all human or very nearly so. My rather macabre conclusion is that these creatures found themselves able to breath in the water, but unable to get food there. They went ashore in search of sustenance — and there suffocated.

All this hints at a rapid mutation, reminiscent of what I found in Smythe and Dodgson. But that in turn suggests that these things were once men, and there are no reports of six men gone missing locally. It was Robards who quietly reminded me that we lost exactly that many men during the storm, and I tried to discern some identifying mark on the corpses that would confirm or deny that horrifying possibility. I cannot say with certainty one way or the other. Only that, despite their monstrosity, I cannot help but feel some sympathy for these creatures. It must have been a horrible way to die.

This brings me to more recent events, those since the arrival of your letter. I had been avoiding the College, but what you read in Bennington’s mind convinced me that it was worth another visit, if only to discover whether she does, in fact, have a laboratory there. Robards came with me this time. The president (a portly gentleman by the name of Sanders) welcomed us into his office, and we discussed the plight of Albion and what news and rumors we had heard since last we met. “Curious, isn’t it, Doctor Crane,” he opined, “That after all the trouble you have given the Society over the years about striding bravely into the future, it is mucking about with ancient artifacts that seems to have brought about the Apocalypse.”  Insufferable git. But I maintained composure, and steered the conversation toward Bennington — yes, yes, he did remember her, bright pupil, pride of the Society — and whether she maintained a laboratory here — no, nothing like that, just a tiny school really, all the interesting stuff happens elsewhere.

He was lying, of course, but short of confronting him and forcing our way through campus I could think of no way to proceed. But then Robards cut in: “Surely there must be something of hers left lying around, eh? What could it hurt to let us have a look around?” The words themselves, you will agree, were totally innocuous. But I felt a prickle at the back of my neck as he spoke them, as if there was an energy in the air, and I knew what he was attempting. To my surprise, it worked! The change in Sanders was sudden and total: he went from smug to subservient in an instant. The next minute he was handing Robards his own key-ring and directing us to the basement of the adjoining building. As soon as we were alone I asked Robards whether he had meant to activate his Ability, and he admitted that he had. “Thought I’d give it a try,” he said, shrugging.

A try. A try. I have been trying several times a day for weeks to gain any sort of control over my newfound gifts, without success. Your own Ability appears to be a double-edged sword, unfathomable in its potential yet necessitating constant vigilance against cacophony and madness. But Robards decides on a whim to attempt something he barely believes in, and meets with unfettered success. I have no words, Rackham. “Jealousy” does not even begin to cover it.

I digress. We located the laboratory — not currently in use, but some of the notes and logs left behind verified that it had been Bennington’s. Foremost in my mind as we investigated was your vision of her dream — had this place been, in fact, the site of “gruesome vivisection?” Or was that simply a figment of her nightmare, a manifestation of residual guilt (no doubt warranted, this being the Society) but not literal in nature? Given the examination tables and the diagrams on the walls, this was no doubt a place for anatomical investigation, but I found no concrete evidence of anything morally questionable. What was clear is that much of the research had been hematological in nature. Looking back at one of your earlier letters, I now believe that when Bennington referred to Society-sanctioned research into the superstrata of the blood, it was her own research that she was referring to.

In a locked cabinet we found a box containing several vials filled with red liquid — possibly blood — as well a syringe; the contents of the vials are evidently meant to be administered subcutaneously. They are labeled, but in an odd notation, and it will take me some time, with the aid of the lab logs, to make sense of it all. (Needless to say we took all those things with us.) Sanders had bid us join him for tea, so we returned to his office. I found his constant desire to gratify Robards to be a little unsettling, now that I knew the cause, but that did not prevent me from taking advantage of the situation. I mentioned my desire to reach Mont-Bré. He indicated that the Society occasionally makes use of local smugglers when transporting sensitive materials, and offered to help me make contact.

Which is how I come, once again, to be writing to you on the eve of a departure. Good news — but not without complications. Eager as he was to help, Sanders was also adamant about sending one of his own men along to Mont-Bré. We have relented on that point. Given the size of the craft we are to take, there will only be room for me, this Society man, and a couple of Robards’ soldiers. Certainly riskier than traveling with a whole company, or at least the remnants of one.

My heart goes out to you and your party, who have had to endure travails infinitely more difficult than our own. Reading your account provides no shortage of events to marvel at, but I feel obligated to utter one note of caution regarding Stratham. I credit that in a time of crisis he seems to have found reserves of strength and resilience, and indeed that he may have saved you all in some way at the Obelisk. But burning his own books, as you describe, seems altogether out of character for the man. If the mental strain of the events at the loch are affecting him, it could have dire consequences for your expedition. Proceed with care. I wish I had fewer warnings and more answers to offer you, and if all goes well, I soon shall!

Warm Regards,

Crane

My dear Crane,

There were times these last two weeks when I was gripped by a fear that our correspondence might come to an abrupt end. A horrid thought, indeed, and while it was fueled especially by the nightmares of the last few days, it was also grown out of our consistent failure to erect an aero beacon on any stable strip of land between the abandoned outpost at Tydonn and our present location.

Countering and dispelling that pall, as you can easily imagine, was the bright, shining morning star dipping out of the cloudy sky late in the day yesterday. The black storms were far enough to our west and south—although a wide ring around the site of the Obelisk—and for that reason we were able to clearly make sight of the aero, using a medical hand-mirror that Thorpe found among Bennington’s supplies in order to signal an approach.

Laray leveled a rifle at the flying machine at one point, I am embarrassed to tell you: yet before we condemn his judgment as poor, his eyesight was keen, and he was the only one among us to notice that the aero approaching was not Alia’s. I stayed his hand when it occurred to me that the aero had been first circling, as if to locate our group, rather than dive, as if to attack. Fortunately my quick thinking spelled a better outcome: on the ground, we hailed Alona’s arrival to cheers around the entire camp. The small packet of letters from you explained everything, of course, and Thorpe himself drank a toast to the female flyers of our country that have replaced—and surpassed—the “Skylads” we lost in the Blood War.

Now I am most interested in making this preface short, because given a safe return to Garnsey (Deus willing) by the second of our intrepid ferrywomen of the air, you hold now in your hands the copies of several journal entries as well as my rough sketches of the environs of the site of the Obelisk, and I am eager to introduce them. I will only say here how that while most of us are still alive (except Graustein and Thorpe’s lieutenant Elberts) we are certainly shaken and glad to be nowhere near the Obelisk. Bennington’s mind has mostly returned to her, I am relieved to report. As for Thorpe, he appears to have an Ability—or perhaps we ought to call it a Quality—quite different from what you or I have been experiencing; I have made sure to detail it well in my appended notes.

I can also report that we are all in good spirits having heard not only of Robards’ success (I obscured the finer details of his apparent sway over the men of the Sigsbee) but also in the comfort and respite you and your company must be enjoying on Garnsey. I will note that there is some coincidence regarding Elizabeth College that is present in my notes; read on.

Finally—and forgive this little paragraph written with a hasty hand, as my heart has leapt into my throat to think of the next leg of your expedition—if you mean to journey to Mont-Bré, then I think you will be very interested in my copies of the runes that we found near the Obelisk. My final journal entry included with this letter will describe it in full, but before I gathered this up to give to Alona, I made additional, full-page copies of the runes that appear on other sketches. Perhaps these will replace your old notes to some degree, if you find similarities between these and the inscriptions at Mont-Bré. I have only a vague memory of the carvings on those ancient stones, and the boxes of graphite rubbings your assistants dutifully made during those weeks we spent there. As the financier for that expedition I tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible, preferring to get out of the way in favor of the experts. It was you who convinced me that on our next venture I needed to take a more involved role, and, well, here I am now, Crane.

Allow me a short note of praise for your excellent idea to convince Robards to sail for the Gallian coast. Perhaps there will be some vital clue that links our happy past to our ever-darkening future and will summon the sun to break the dark swirling clouds that hang ever on the horizon. I do not attempt florid prose with that description: I mean quite literally about the clouds.

I will close this portion of my correspondence to you by noting that my opinion of Stratham has changed. You will read in my copied entries how Stratham outright saved us at one point, despite Thorpe’s consternations; but among us all Stratham seems the least marred by the last two weeks. He is changed, indeed—but for the better, as if a confidence has seized him and given him a new wisdom. Most admirable, however, is that this morning I saw that he had selflessly burned his books for our cooking-fire, their blackened spines poking up amongst the ash and embers.

May Fortuna continue to smile on you,

Rackham

—

August 23

Broke camp at the first light of dawn, which I estimated to be a quarter to seven. Thorpe organized two parties—Thorpe leads mine and Elberts leads the other. One group scouts ahead and sends back two to report to the second, whereupon the second group meets the first and then has scout duty. Allows each group to rest or eat, &c., on a rota.

Dark clouds at the south-east with some movement noted in upper strata, starting about noon. Shadows on the road cast by smaller tendril clouds. Our group found a paved road, broken in parts but generally passable. We were able to speed up pace even as we headed into higher altitudes. Rockier terrain forward, fields to the south and west.

No signs of civilization—Caledonian moonscape. Many places we passed seemed scorched, as if from warfare, but devoid of shell craters and foxholes as on a battlefield. Found a small wood that had been reduced to sticks and ash, with earthen outcroppings in a ring formation. Did not investigate—Thorpe impatient to make progress while we had the light.

Slight headache occurring after evening meal, with noises like a distant waterfall in my mind. I was able to block them out but needed to focus my eyes on something bright, like a fire or a star above. All of us in one group make thirteen: myself, Thorpe, Bennington, Graustein, Stratham, Elberts, Laray, Arasaku, O’Doole, Kilcannon, Wright, Throckmorton, and Bell.

—

August 24

Some sunlight breaking through the clouds in the morning, no sign of the cloud-tendrils. Food palatable, men (and Bennington) in good spirits. Thorpe checks map incessantly.

Found end of paved road in ruined town around four in the afternoon. Thorpe’s map notes the place as Innesmere. Thorpe did not want to enter the town but Bennington made the case to find the injured or sick. Spent last four hours of daylight clearing out old hotel and adjoining buildings.

Scenes of horror in many areas of the town and inside buildings. The dead take different forms: some eviscerated and left to rot, scenes of combat. Others like mummies, but a ghostly white, as if drained of vitality and life, with skin like paper. Whole phantom-families in their beds were found by Thorpe’s men in nearby apartments. Thorpe ordered pullback after fifth building was cleared.

Headache manageable but still noticeable. Will not take laudanum; I fear a loss of control at this stage. Need to practice concentration and calm.

The place where we have taken shelter looks to be a school. Slate boards in most rooms and broken furniture litter the halls. One group of furniture looks to have been a barricade of some sort, separating an upper floor from the remainder of the building at the top of the wide stairway. We cleared part of barricade at lantern-light. Found gruesome scene of rotted corpses beyond, many look to be torn apart. Many bodies in this area seem to have military uniforms. Same scorching noticed on walls and ceiling in places.

Found headmaster’s library with school letterhead: The Waterford School. I know of it—a younger cousin attended here some years ago.

—

August 25 and 26

Thorpe wishes to spend three days assessing the town to find survivors, or, failing that, clues as to its demise. Bennington has advised against: she believes that there can be no one left alive. We follow Thorpe while we can afford the time. Today is darker; sun is low and cold.

Bennington has confided in me that her nightmares have returned. Graustein’s eyesight is getting worse but he holds vigil at night—his hearing has compensated somewhat. He can no longer use a rifle, but he can help with injuries.

Second day of slow investigation. My group of searchers have found some canned food and a few usable weapons to add to our supplies, including a fine pistol, which I have taken for myself. Terrible scene of carnage found at town hall and at bank. More barricades, evidence of strong defense mounted by citizens before being overwhelmed.

The rat-men attacked here. Several bodies with faces contorted into rodentine features and excessive body hair were found separated from the human dead. Perhaps some erstwhile survivors had dragged them into the pile we found before some final attack was made. We have also found earth outcroppings at sites that correspond to scenes of most violence.

Something seems to have disturbed our captain (besides the horror we have witnessed here). Complaining of tingling in his extremities. Blotchy skin apparent on neck, arms. Bennington has examined and taken notes, found some ointments to soothe the sensation.

—

August 27

Morning was barely noticeable from the night. Awoke to find darkness and black dust settling upon encampment at the school, wafting in through doors and broken windows. My headache has returned more intense than ever—I have considered turning to the laudanum or at least to alcohol, but I need to keep a clear mind at all times. Bennington appears exhausted from troubled sleep but has same fortitude. Society or not, I now admire her.

Thorpe has awoken to find patterns in his skin in reds and browns, now covering large areas of his body. He seems troubled but says there is no time for his ailment, and does not wish to draw from medical supplies. Bennington has examined sample of mummy-like flesh from a poor victim. Notes that the skin is brittle and crumbles easily, as if desiccated. No cause apparent.

It was decided (by Thorpe, Bennington, and myself) that we must move away from Innesmere lest the “wererats” sense our presence and return. I relayed the story of Robards and his offensive against the warren in Crane’s earlier letter; Thorpe is not convinced that we would be as successful, and wishes to risk neither men nor time. I cannot say that I blame him, but I note that this is a different Thorpe than we have had of late.

We did the best we could getting a start to our move after some time spent regrouping and reviewing maps. A ransacked local library proved useful, and turned up a large book about historical sites in the area. Stratham made quick claim of it and advised Thorpe on a new direction of approach toward the Obelisk.

Surgical masks from the Tydonn search were welcome, as the black dust irritates eyes, skin, and hampers normal breathing. Worst of the storm subsided around noon (so I guessed) and the sun was stronger in the afternoon. This long arm of the storm seemed to approach from the south-east.

Walked five hours, lost paved road after three. Stratham’s path has us following a river to the loch where the Obelisk stands. Should reach that by evening tomorrow. Made camp in an orchard at an abandoned farm. Thorpe is fearful of buildings now, and intones warnings that rat-things could come up from basements.

—

August 28

Awoke to almost unbearable migraine. By force of will I quieted my trembling and allowed the cacophony to overwhelm me. My mind reached out to Bennington in the next tent. Bennington was seeing unholy terrors invade her own memories, all in her dreams. Main image: graduation from the college on the windswept island, and the laboratory she had set up there. But the cadavers and the experiments haunt me now. Twisted scenes of torture and insanity! I saw Society men, decorating her with awards, but in her mind these credentials had been perverted into commendations for pain induction and gruesome vivisection.

I opened my eyes—migraine subsided and was replaced by dull pain at temples. Graustein had difficulty getting Bennington alert and ready to move. Weather is somewhat better and Thorpe is resolved to reach the loch tonight.

Uneventful but exhausting hike at a good pace but mostly uphill. Men need rest and Graustein is slowing us with poor eyesight. Cataracts now impeding all but bright lights. Bennington has run out of eye-drops from medical supplies. At least the others seem healthy and unaffected by the dust clouds of the days past. Made encampment on bank of wide panorama, only the stars above to lull us into calm.

—

August 29

Migraine is at peak on this cold morning. We are awoke on promontory overlooking loch. Concentration difficult. Noises in my mind seem to emanate and echo from the island in the loch.

Breakfast of strong coffee helping with migraine. Digestive biscuits found at Innesmere pantry perhaps the most delicious I have tasted since childhood. I wonder about the family from whose pantry we took the foods we now pass around among us. I think about their house, their neighborhood. Before the Incident.

Thorpe orders a stay on the rocky ledges until his men return with reports from scouting ahead. Fine; allows time for sketch of loch and consultation with Bennington. Bennington seems calm but far-away, not unlike the shell-shocked lads from the War. Graustein now believes he is hampering the mission; I try to give him hope that perhaps his condition is reversible.

Elberts first back from scouting teams. Reports clear path down to shores of loch. Thorpe’s team returns with description of abandoned cottages not far from shores, hope for boats to cross to island.

Thorpe makes decision to cross loch before nightfall, citing concerns about rat-men attacking camp; he thinks island is safer. No disagreement but I sense the scenes at Innesmere changed him. I am more concerned about the Obelisk but I have no evidence from which to argue. Stratham is eager to reach the site, seems cheerful in spite of misery of last few days.

Second scouting group was right: old boats found among the cottages. The cottages are not altogether deserted, if one counts the bleached and desiccated skeletal forms of their former inhabitants. Bodies of victims seem contorted, not in repose like at Innesmere: one paper-dry form up against wall, arms clawing in vain, another on floor, seeming to crawl away.

Now on island. My temple throbs in pain and I can hardly write. Maddening sounds from all directions makes putting pen to paper almost impossible. Directly in front of us: a hulking gray mass, surrounded by mists, incongruent with landscape backdrop. A monstrous presence dropped into idyllic scenery.

I can describe it only through glances from my periphery of vision: direct gazing leads to stabbing pains and watered eyes. General chill has descended upon our hardscrabble encampment. Tempers fraying. Stratham has gone to look ahead at site of Obelisk in direct defiance of Thorpe’s command. What we are doing here is now questioned in my mind.

While the last of the sun hangs in the horizon I am sketching what shapes I can make of the Obelisk, its summit of rock, and the twisted and blackened trees that remain here.

Stratham is rambling without stop about his books and runes. He is different now—animated, manic. Bennington can hardly speak and her body is in near-constant state of trembling. I now wholly fear for the success of our part of the expedition and care nothing for my fortunes. A world like this knows no comfort from money in any case.

—

August 30 and 31

Finally a few moments of rest to write following our flight from the island early in the morning hours. I will set down here what I know, what I saw, and the rest from the reports of others.

Late yesterday evening, Elberts set out to find Graustein, who had also disappeared at some point. I daresay that Thorpe had been well-distracted over the whole affair and left our camp, ordering Laray, Arasaku, Kilcannon, and Throckmorton to fan out on each side of the island in search of the junior professor. Elberts ordered remainder of men to guard camp while he went forward on the island to find Graustein. Stratham also gone without a trace.

Winds picked up and soon we were amidst a tempest. Lost some supplies into the water. Tents and shelters useless. Black dust clouds descending from sky high above and touched down at site of Obelisk. Surgical masks donned but we huddled close, protecting Bennington especially. Ethereal blue light seen flashing at base of funnel cloud. Then, a screeching, keening howl, a flash, and a compression like a shell from the Great War. Found myself knocked well into the water. Silence followed.

Hours passed and around dawn Thorpe and his men returned to our relief. Regrouped and discussed plans; my headache gone, Bennington seeming to rouse somewhat.

In full light of dawn we ventured toward Obelisk. In morning light, I could see the shape of the thing: rough-hewn base effacing to sharp-cut rock, like a spire, pointed tip, flat face. The carvings on the front and sides remarkably like those we saw at Mont-Bré, but additional shapes present. It does not pain me to look upon Obelisk today, and the sounds have vanished.

We found Stratham furiously sketching and making rubbings of outcropped black stones in a ring around the Obelisk. I am now close enough that I can take more precise measurements. Obelisk is sixteen feet high from base to tip, calculated from angle of sun and length of shadow measured at ten o’clock. Five feet at widest point; two feet at narrowest point at tip. Fine tools used to chip away oblong rectangular prism on three sides; back face left rough but rounded off by different tool. Sloped side of spire portion, angles forming tip look to be intentional, with some effort for symmetry evident. Front face and selected areas on both sides feature both angular and circular cuts; circular cuts are less deep, like scratchings, in intricate spiralled patterns, and angular cuts are thought to be Ur-Samekh or a close variant (as explained to me by Stratham).

Ring of similar stones have same types of circular scratches and deeper angled gouges. Sophisticated tools would have been necessary to bite this deep into the dense, almost crystalline rock. Ring of stones set an average twenty feet from base of Obelisk, in intentional eight-point pattern, with relatively accurate measurement of equidistance.

We found Graustein and Elberts, or who we believed were they: complete transformation into the terrible ghostlike apparitions, dry husks of men. One figure seemed to lead the other before being scattered like litter to the ground, arms flailing, digging deep into the unyielding earth. Poor devils!

When the blue light emanated from the Obelisk last night it enveloped Graustein and Elberts. What Graustein was doing there, Deus only knows. Stratham foolishly approached to get better look at the clouded Obelisk to verify Ur-Samekh; had been found by Elberts moments before the loud howl. Stratham watched as Elberts grabbed Graustein; described the man as “trance-like.” Light enveloped them; they screamed and turned bone-white. The pair fell to the ground in the form we found them now. Stratham then reported uttering three words—or syllables—memorized out of his books. A wave of energy pulsed from the rune-rock in front of him and out across the loch. No way to know if this is what protected us from the rays that claimed Elberts and Graustein but we cannot think of any other explanation.

Thorpe proclaimed Stratham’s recordings to be enough for the trouble and loss we incurred. Frankly I could not have agreed more with the man. I aided a weak but alert Bennington into a boat and helped collect salvageable supplies. Hiked back down the original trail until nightfall again to new encampment. All of us exhausted and our mind shattered, could not eat or drink.

—

September 1 to 3

I believe I was wrong about the cloud patterns. I now theorize that the black dust is spewed by the Obelisk—generated, perhaps, or called, I am not truly sure of the right word—in forceful swirls that loop back from the north. Like a child drawing a stick through algae in a bog. May explain some of the counter-current of the clouds from the south.

There is only a dull rumble in the edges of my hearing. Bennington is much better and upright now, eating what she can when we rest. Thorpe is a man bound, leading us at a forced march toward the east. Stratham has voiced an opinion to return and learn more about the Obelisk. Thorpe will hear none of it, and no one takes up Stratham’s banner, even myself.

We were too occupied to notice, but one of Thorpe’s eyes have changed: like a cat’s eyes, glowing with an internal light when shined upon. First noticed this around the fire on the first night after our flight from the loch. I am not strong enough to read his memories, nor would I want to at this time. He has also seemed to lose some hair on the left side of his face, the side that bears the changed eye. He will not suffer inquiries on the topic.

Two days now of hiking. Have reached downward slopes, to our relief. Thorpe has allowed a slower pace for now. His map notes a small village on the shoreline, which he has proclaimed to be our next destination. Stratham confides in me that the book he found at the school tells of another site of interest, perhaps connected somehow to the Obelisk, some fifty miles south and east, nearer to the coast. I will make no mention of this to Thorpe—or Bennington, for that matter—until the time is right. All I can hope for now is that the village is like the one in Crane’s letter, untouched by calamity and ruin.

We have better weather today and our thoughts now turn to the aero. Thorpe orders a search in a five-mile radius of a clearing, any open and generally flat land that we might set up the makeshift beacon. Bennington and I have taken this time to consult with Stratham, who has made compelling arguments that the expedition must now turn south to a site he calls “the Cairns.” We resolve to come to Thorpe with our position during the evening meal.

My Dear Rackham,

As you will see below, I had composed some letters before hearing from you, and have written once since. You may find them all herein. -E.C.

—

The Channel, 16 August

Sometimes it is helpful to sketch out the Best Case Scenario, if only because it gives an occasion for a hearty guffaw. For a steam-powered vessel like the Sigsbee, crossing the Channel should be an easy errand, an afternoon jaunt — in good weather, and at one of the narrower points, one could expect to be wiggling one’s toes in the sand of the Continent in two hours’ time. And, if nothing is to be found there — if the local inhabitants have been transformed into cannibalistic proto-beings, or if all that is to be seen is a vast wasteland — why then, back to Howgate in time for dinner!

I am writing at the end of our first day at sea, so that fact alone should indicate that we are not operating under the B.C.S. While this hulking ship does indeed boast a powerful engine, it runs on coal, and Campbell is (quite rightly) loath to use his stores up when he does not necessarily know where he will acquire more. So we have unfurled sails, but you can well imagine that the daunting weight and seeming impregnability of our floating fortress makes for slow going, especially when tacking into a headwind.

And, finally, we are not attempting the shortest crossing, but rather angling south and a little west, thereby doubling (or more) the distance we must cross before we make land. But for this we cannot blame harsh circumstance, or the weather, but none other than the obstinate Doctor Crane. I sold the notion to Robards this way: any crossing will tell us some of what we need to know about the reach of the Incident’s effects and the state of the outside world. Why not also choose a destination that pertains to our original mission and might help us understand all of what has happened? If you have not already guessed, I am referring to the dolmens we investigated at that old saint’s hill some years ago. At the time it was just another job, but I have been harboring a suspicion that the inscriptions on it might bear some relation to those on the stone, or the Obelisk, or both. If I had my notes from that case the matter might be settled quickly, but of course they are lost. And so there is nothing for it but to go there again.

But I may be getting ahead of myself; first we must cross. If you note a marked decline in my penmanship, you may blame the great swells and unpredictable winds that have plagued us thus far. Slow going indeed!

—

The Channel, 17 August

“Dark tempests of black dust.” Those were your words, were they not? Or at least your report of what Alia saw. If yesterday, nothing about our storm seemed out of the ordinary, today I am kicking myself for having missed so many clear signs of the unnatural. What I took yesterday for dark patches of sky now appear as coiling tendrils of blackness, connecting sky to sea in swirling funnels, the largest of which could engulf our ship. Dozens of these surround us now, and it is only the unceasing efforts of the crew that have kept us from being blown into one. We no longer have a clear sense of our heading or position.

I am not entirely unskilled in matters of sail, but these New Columbians are a proud bunch, and even if they had not rebuffed my offers of assistance, Robards ordered me to stay clear of the rigging. “We cannot afford for you to get hurt of all people, my good man!” I have remained at the ready in case of injuries, but there have been none, and so I have been keeping out of the way, spending my time observing.

First Observation: Robards is not wearing a magical amulet. I am being fanciful, of course, but in all seriousness I refer to my vision of him some weeks ago. Though the glow I perceived had no clear shape, it was certainly of a position and size that made it easy to imagine as something worn around the neck. But, our stormy environs being what they are, I have had opportunities to behold him barking orders bare-chested, and he wears nothing whatsoever around his neck or on his chest. If there is some sort of item responsible for the glow, is he keeping it in his quarters? I do not feel I am certain enough to merit breaking in and going through his things, though that does not keep me from wondering.

Second Observation: Those orders he barks … it is remarkable to me how readily both Campbell and his entire crew hang on the man’s every word. I have worked with military men many times over the years, and seen my share of war zones, and it seems to me that the norm when forces from different countries (even allied ones) come together is a great deal of machismo and posturing — harmless bravado at best, stubborn and counterproductive turf protection at worst.  That Campbell would put his ship and crew at the disposal of, and under the command of, Robards so very readily continues to baffle me. But the way they respond to him is not simply a matter of protocol; it is eager, it is … devoted.

Writing those words just now, it occurs to me that their behavior is really no different than that of Robards’ own men in the expedition. They love their captain, they are devoted, they would die for him — and some have. But that has not struck me as odd, partly because they were in fact his men, partly because of the extremity of our circumstances, and partly because I have always known him to be a charismatic leader, one who easily inspires loyalty. That selfsame loyalty coming from foreign strangers remains puzzling, however.

Third Observation: The Sigsbee has a mooring tower for aeros! It was retrofitted with it, of course, and the structure is currently disassembled and lashed to the deck, since they lost their aero itself in the chaos at Yarmouth. I had found it strange that the New Columbians had a female crewmate, but now that I understand she is their aero pilot, it makes perfect sense.

—

Stockport, Garnsey, 20 August

So much to relate. The previous page ended abruptly, and with good reason — in the middle of writing I heard an eerie howling noise and the ship groaned from stem to stern. I quickly stowed my writing implements in a waterproof box and made my wobbly way to the deck to see what was going on. I was afforded only a glimpse before a dozen voices ordered me back down, and I was happy to comply. For what I saw was that we were approaching one of the dark funnels, the biggest one yet, and given our momentum, there was no question that we were going to hit it.

I was in a narrow corridor belowdecks when the ship pitched precipitously upward, and I suddenly found myself falling toward the stern, careening helplessly toward an iron-studded bulkhead that, I feel certain to say, would have split my head open like a melon had I hit it …

… but I went through it. I dispense with all the hesitancy and qualifications with which I described a similar experience in my first letter. I was awake, and entirely alert, and there can be no mistake. I became incorporeal, or at least partially so, enough so that my substance passed harmlessly through the bulkhead and through the space beyond. (My scientist’s brain counters: “But are you certain that it is you that became incorporeal, and not that by some force of will you made the environment around you so?” To which I respond: “It was me; I felt it; I know it to my very bones.”)

It did not stop there. In a blur I passed through the bulkhead, the galley, another bulkhead, and in one brief moment my torso and head were passing through the captain’s quarters while my legs were outside the ship — and then I was falling through the air. Of course I could scarcely make sense of any of it at the time, but in reflection I have surmised that the vortex had literally lifted the Sigsbee up into the air — only some ten yards or so, but still, no small feat. I hit the water with nary a splash, sliding into it like falling through a cloud.

I was down there for some minutes — whether, in my translucent state, I did not have to breathe, or simply found it easier to hold my breath, I cannot recall. But I turned, and I saw. Not with my eyes, I know that now, because I am one of those chaps who cannot bear to open their eyes under the water, especially seawater. By reflex mine were clamped shut, and yet I saw: the vast expanse of ocean around me, the ship suspended in the air.  In the next instant, I saw the glow, the very one I had seen on Robards’ chest, falling from the ship. Not Robards himself — indeed, every soul on that ship I could sense, most hanging on for dear life, some, like me, falling or fallen into the brine — just the glow. It hit the water and continued to fall, not descending gradually as a stone might, but picking up speed the deeper it went.

I strained my perception to follow its course. Looking down now, I saw it disappear, somewhere near what I imagine must have been the ocean bottom. And then … oh, Rackham. Even as I write this now my hand trembles and my heart palpitates at the memory. Down there, I sensed … something. A vast, inky presence, size unfathomable, lurking at the bottom of the world. It exuded malevolence, and an insatiable hunger. The amount of will that was required to turn my gaze away from it, back upward … I had not guessed I had that will within me, my friend. Far easier it would have been to let go, to be sucked downward like that eldritch glowing thing.

But look upward I did. I saw that the vorteces were dispersing, that the Sigsbee had crashed back down to the water, but was now far from me, at the very edge of my perception. But I also saw that one of its landing boats was nearer at hand, perhaps having been knocked loose in the chaos, and that some of those others who had fallen overboard were struggling toward it.

Let me be clear: in my natural state I would not have been able to see that boat, to say nothing of the fact that I would have long-sinced drowned. I was still incorporeal, and found that easy strokes propelled me effortlessly toward the craft. Some had already clambered into it and were grabbing oars and paddling and looking around, trying to gather up other survivors. “What will they say,” I thought to myself, “When I rise up like a ghost through the bottom of the boat, sit down casually, and grab an oar myself!” But just then, it all ended: my body solidified, my vision darkened, I gulped down mouthfuls of seawater, and broke the surface sputtering and flailing. A lifering was tossed my way and I was pulled aboard.

Those other castaways believed it no small miracle that I was found. No one had seen me fall overboard; no one had seen me in the water; only at the very last moment had I surfaced, scant feet from the boat! It was a miracle, of course, but of an entirely different sort. And it was followed by yet another smile from Fortuna, to whom I really ought to consider building a shrine at this point: we had land in sight. Indeed, it was the selfsame land that the Sigsbee was now making for. Her masts were in shambles but under steam she was able to limp ahead, taking on water as she went.

And that is how I come to be writing from the isle of Garnsey. If you have a map handy you will realize that we were not as far off-course as I feared. Campbell grounded the ship on a sandy beach, and those of us in the boat rowed up some hours later. Half a dozen men lost, many minor injuries, but all in all things could have been much worse. We were greeted by locals, and learned that nothing amiss had happened to their island, though given the queer weather, they had remained isolated these past months. We unloaded the ship of vital supplies and began to hike overland to the town of Stockport.

I saw “we” in all this, but regretfully, I must admit that after my underwater experience I was in a state and of no use to anyone. Indeed, on the hike, I was hauled along in a stretcher, feverish and babbling (I am told). Only today has my mind cleared, and only now am I afforded a moment to try to record some of what has happened.

I have just come from a town meeting where Robards related to the local authorities all of what has happened back home and the dreadful state of the world. I say “all,” though of course there was plenty he left out. It is no lie to say that the Incident is a mystery, but he declined to mention our proximity to the source of that mystery. I had always thought of the captain as one of that sort who excels at navigating the social particularities of military life but can be surprisingly tone-deaf and awkward when interacting with civilians. Certainly I had seen him that way in the past, but today he had his audience enthralled. The governor of the island is falling over himself to make accommodations for us and to make arrangements to retrieve the Sigsbee and get it somewhere where repairs can be made.

—

Stockport, 26 August

I cannot tell you what a relief and a joy it was to receive your letter! I suppose first of all I should explain the remarkable chain of events that allowed this to be.

I mentioned that the New Columbians counted an aero pilot among their number. Alona is her name; she was quick to ask whether a functional aero was to be found on Garnsey, and her inquiries led us to Elizabeth College. It sits on the hill overlooking the town, and boasts an impressive number of faculty for such a backwater institution — none of whom had seen fit to join the town meeting or introduce themselves upon our arrival, curiously enough.

Or not so curiously, as we soon discovered. I accompanied Alona there, was ushered into the president’s office, and introduced myself. Upon hearing my name his eyes nearly burst out of his sockets, and only then did I observe the figure on his lapel and the embossment on his stationery. He is a Society man, and knew me by reputation. Indeed, Elizabeth (as it happens) is a Society college, through and through. Suffice it to say that the conversation was somewhat strained after that point! But I was civil, and, present circumstances being what they are, he thankfully seemed inclined to let bygones be bygones.

Say what you will about the Society, they gave us aero technology, and without that we could not have been corresponding all this time. I do not pretend to understand it. But the College is in possession of an aero, an older prototype. More to the point, they have a proper mooring tower. Alona managed to get its beacon working, and two days later, Alia arrived. The black dust she observed over land and the funnels that bedeviled our crossing appear to be similar — perhaps different manifestations of the same phenomenon. In any case, as I’m sure you have gathered, she is nothing if not confident, and felt sure of her ability to avoid them. She was curious enough upon detecting our beacon to risk the crossing, God bless her.

So. On to your letter. I laughed long and loud when you brought up school days, and those penny dreadfuls we used to smuggle in. I am sure you recall the one about the wily privateer Captain Peregrine, Scourge of the Iberian Fleet! He would sail from Garnsey, the very isle where I am now, and his secret lair was a cave in a cliffside, big enough for a ship to sail into. At this very moment, the Sigsbee is docked in just such a cave, undergoing repairs, and I am writing from a nook in the side of said cave, where every sound is an echo. Perhaps I should search for buried treasure! If only those Everwood lads could see me now …

You will forgive me if I have not practised my “ability” of late, certainly not since the storm. There will be a time for that but I am not yet ready. As for the glowing object, I believe it to be at the bottom of the sea, and have seen no sign of the same on Campbell. As for Robards: I have already mentioned the unusual level of devotion the New Columbians gave our captain. When I saw the exact same response to the man at the town meeting in Stockport, it suddenly dawned on me: what if he, too, has an Ability? Not to read the minds of men, or see and move through things, but to bend others to his will with only the slightest effort? And, if it is indeed some sort of Ability, as it is quite a subtler effect than what we have experienced, is it possible he is not even aware of it?

The clearest evidence for this has come in a sort of negative proof. This morning, at breakfast, things were very different. Campbell wanted to reconsider our plan. He was now rather disinclined to take his ship into Gallic waters. And by all that is holy, why should he be inclined? That he should have placed himself under the command of a foreign officer and sail into untold danger bound for enemy soil seems incredible, and it was as if that fact had finally dawned on him. Robards, for his part, did not seem to grasp what was happening. I watched him adopt the same commanding, inspirational tone that had served him so well, but now it fell on deaf ears.

In a way all this is moot, since there are still some weeks of repairs before the Sigsbee is seaworthy. But I am still determined to reach the dolmen site. I am readying for, if not a confrontation, let us say a “clearing of the air” with Robards, where I hope to find out much and perhaps even share a little. There is no shortage of other vessels in Stockport, and so perhaps a smaller sortie might endeavor to complete the crossing, if he is willing to spare some men.

I know where else I could look for help, but the thought of ascending the hill again and saying “please” makes me grind my teeth.

So, who knows what the future will bring? At the very least I will place these letters in Alia’s hands … or perhaps Alona’s. The two of them have been thick as thieves, comparing notes, making plans, and getting the prototype working. It appears we will soon have two working aeros, and therefore a more reliable communication network. Whether that will help in reaching you in the north, who can say, but at the very least I trust that you will be able to pen a reply upon your safe return!

Warm Regards,

Crane

Dear Crane, excellent Sir,

I must admit, reading your most recent letter not warmed my heart with some much-needed hope. Reading your descriptions about normal, (perhaps) good-natured, honest folk—that made me yearn for a day long past that sadly we may never see again in this altered world.

It also cast my mind back to our tender years at Everwood. Your playful self-admonishment about doing what is sensible and subsequently dashing off a hastily-written narrative made me smile with nostalgia for Big School. I think you remember Urquhart, whose precision clock kept in Albertus Hall would chime out the late offenders to the weekly essay submissions—who almost always included us. Well, with conditions the way they are, I can say anything written by you, on time or late, will be met with gratitude. And I am sure you recall old Ames, our headmaster, who pronounced that our young partnership would run us into ruin; I will never forget the blistering reprimand we endured after Edwards caught us running smuggled penny dreadfuls into the campus. Ah, if he could see us now!

On my side, I can report that Alia’s timing has been no less propitious here as well. First, Thorpe thanks you for the food supplies that you purchased (or bartered) from the good people of the village—fresh produce and preserved fish were most welcome around our makeshift kitchen these past few days. Second, I should note that tomorrow we leave through the northern passage toward the site of the Obelisk. My plan is to continue my journal throughout the next fortnight, but write more than just the scanty notes and sketches that I have made up to this point. I believe that we are moving into a phase of our journey that will be fraught with uncertainty and not a little danger, and for that reason, I wish to capture as many details as I can.

Along that theme, I was happy to have found a little blank notebook as spoils of a search of our deserted compound. It hadn’t occurred to me that I had run out of sheet paper following my last letter, and I couldn’t bring myself to tear pages out of Bennington’s medical journals. If you get future letters written in dull pencil, that will be because my inkwell has finally been exhausted.

I confess that it is now when I wish our places were exchanged, not least because a voyage on a New Columbian ship would be intriguing. More to the point, however: I say this because the closest we have to an expert in antiquities is Stratham, and I know how you feel about him. He has been mostly quiet, lost in the few books we have allowed him to take. After Thorpe returned with his men from the Ravine he became yet more introverted, and he seems inscrutable of motive and mood. Bennington and I made the joint decision to tell him nothing of what happened to Gujparat and poor Kensington, save something oblique about a wild animal attack.

All that is to say that I fear Stratham may not be of much good when we finally reach our destination—for this leg of the expedition at least. You are the master archaeologist; you proved your mettle when we encountered the strange carved stone, placing the date and the markings into a timeline that confirmed our hopes (and our fears). For my part, I will do what I can to make sure that there is at least an accurate recording of all we see and find, so that I can at least shuttle notes to you that will provide more clues. As for Stratham, I am expecting nothing more from him than I would from a well-meaning assistant, unless he returns to his better senses and displays some of the talent for which I am paying a lot of money.

Other snippets of news appear in my mind as I close this letter and prepare for what may be as long as a fortnight of travel toward our objective. First, we are sending back some medical supplies and a few small pieces of infirmary equipment back on the aero. When we completed a more thorough search of the compound where we are currently taking shelter, Thorpe’s men found a few crates of bandages, tinctures, pills, and instruments, as well as some sort of anaesthesia device and a steam-powered machine that looks like a pump. We took what we could shoulder in our packs, and Thorpe ordered the rest to be shipped to your team, upon hearing that you are now the most formidable navy afloat!

All levity aside, the next piece of news that I can recount is that since the horrific attack from the Creature, Thorpe’s skin looks a bit more normal and Bennington’s nightmares have seemed to subside. For myself, I can still hear voices and noises if I try to concentrate on them, but I certainly feel as if I have a measure of control over them—or at least, for now, they are simply suppressed by some mechanism. Graustein’s hair is permanently white now, however, and he complains of poor vision, for which Bennington has given him some eye drops found among the crates.

Finally, I read with some alarm your doubt in the trust we have put in Robards. I am sure that his camaraderie with Campbell is the same as any soldier’s or seaman’s upon meeting another in the same profession. Then again, I looked back at one of your previous letters and I read again your description of the glowing object that only your changed eyes could see. It would be interesting to find out that this new captain had a similar object in his possession. I want to advise you to “practice” your newfound ability as I have tried on occasion during these last few weeks, but I also know it might be potentially dangerous. I said that I was going to turn my attentions toward Bennington—and I will in good time—but we are still far from having all of the facts about the Incident or about what we truly encountered in the cold cavern chamber. You always were the more circumspect of the two of us; even if I may not put total faith in Bennington, Thorpe, or even Stratham, I trust your judgment.

For now, I will sign off: it is late and tomorrow we break camp. I also need my sleep, as I cannot quell the anxiety I feel for the next part of our journey.

With greetings and best wishes,

Rackham

My Dear Rackham,

The sensible thing to do would have been to write to you as time allowed and then keep the letter, ready to hand to fair Alia should she arrive in time, mayhap with a short post-script to account for more recent developments. I even sat down to do this very thing on several occasions, but could not stop dwelling on the prospect of those pages lingering, unsent, and so did not even begin. This is foolish; there are good reasons to record what is happening, even if you never read my words. For posterity if nothing else. But today, Fortuna smiles upon me: the aero has flown in on the very eve of our departure! And so I am able to write to you, and this rambling prologue serves only to explain why I am, once again, writing in haste.

These past weeks have been exciting times for our expedition; less so for me. While Robards & Co. have ranged up the coast in search of a seaworthy vessel, I have remained in Howgate, both to administer to our own casualties and to provide what aid I can to the village’s own people.

Ah, Rackham, ordinary people! Civilians, families, untouched by the Incident! I overstate: they are, of course, not untouched. They have lost contact with even their neighboring towns. Most of those who have left have not returned, and those that have tell tales of horror. And yet, they themselves have not come under any sort of attack, and their gardens yield their produce, the sea its fish. Day-to-day life for them has not changed much. Indeed, many of them display the same skepticism toward our stories and warnings that we did toward those first reports from the Colonies, as you yourself described.

One night in the tavern I found myself drawn into conversation with two elderly fishmongers, trying to convince them that the very presence of our ragtag expedition must at least prove that something of consequence is happening in the world, but they remained unconvinced. They suspected a Ruse put forth by the Government, a ploy to raise the level of alarm and thereby levy more taxes without complaint. I had not the heart to tell them that the Government they so enjoy despising may not even exist any more, for all we know.

Fortunately, my ministrations have earned our group enough goodwill in the village that they do not resent our presence. I have set half a dozen broken bones, pulled a handful of abcessed teeth, and delivered three(!) babies. And yes, before you ask, those were my first experiences with childbirth outside of a textbook. Neither my time in the university, nor battlefield, nor museum prepared me for the life of a family physician. All my career I looked down (with no small measure of disdain) at colleagues whose lives took that path, yet now I find that, should we ever see ourselves clear of this current state of calamity, I should be happy to retire to a village such as this and tend to their workaday illnesses and cares until the very end of my days.

Your own reports fill me with a heady mix of sympathy, revulsion, and wonder. I mourn for the dead at the same time as I burn with curiosity about your new ability. Unfortunately, when it comes to the changes in my own physiology as a result of the Incident, I have nothing new to report. I have had (and have spent) ample time attempting to trigger the odd perceptions and abilities that I have related previously, but entirely without success. My working theory is that responses are more easily induced by danger or stress, both of which have been (happily) in short supply of late.

I mentioned we are leaving on the morrow, so best to catch you up to just how that has come to be. Robards took half a dozen men and made for Yarmouth, hoping to finding a bigger ship there, ideally one attached to the naval station. They found a deserted town, and a strange blight that made the air difficult to breath and their skin to break out in colorful rashes. But they also found a ship — and not even one of ours! A New Columbian ironclad had been stationed there as part of some cockamamie military exchange program. They had lost their captain and half their crew when the town came under attack at the same time the blight arrived. (I need not mention that the timing of these events coincided perfectly with the Incident.)  The survivors hunkered down aboard their beast of a vessel, which is where Robards found them.

You can imagine my surprise earlier today, watching the N.C.S. Sigsbee sail into Howgate’s modest bay, belching steam, with Robards standing proudly at the prow alongside the ship’s officer in charge. Campbell is his name, by the way. Every bit as self-assured and impudent as one might imagine a N.C. seaman to be. He and Robards behave like close friends. Campbell and his crew have signed on to our expedition, placing themselves willingly under Robards’ command.

I am, of course, full of questions. What is the nature of the blight and the attack on Yarmouth? Did Robards and Campbell know each previously, or have they just bonded quickly? For that matter, I have all the above information from Robards himself — what if he cannot be trusted? I hope I will have time at sea to get some answers.

Warm Regards,

Crane

Dear Crane,

As I begin this letter to you it is with fervent hope that Alia is able to locate you, either before you embark on your sea journey or, failing that, somehow afterwards. At the end of your last message, you noted with some uncertainty if the letter would find me. I am glad to report that it did, although Alia told us that she had some difficulty this time locating our encampment—even though buildings of brick and stone are easier to sight from the air than tents of canvas under the eaves of the forest.

Apparently there are storms of some enormous kind that she sees now on her voyage between our two expeditions, or at least this latest run between us. Dark tempests of black dust that interpose their tendrils enough so that sighting the ground becomes all but impossible except in the brightest day. This time, she found our beacon using a magnetometer, but only on the retour from a wide circle, having missed us the first time. The alarming thing was that here on the ground we recalled only a string of mildly cloudy days. It must be that the storms are to the south but progressing northward and have not yet reached us.

I write this evening confined to my cot, my senses reeling from the stench of death that still lingers here in the little white-tile room that we have dubbed, at least for now, the infirmary. I suppose I have an improved respect for Bennington, since over the last week I have seen her dispense critical attention to our men without regard for rank or status; and whatever her allegiances are, I care little just now after having seen what I did.

Gujparat is dead—Graustein heaved him away and out of here earlier this morning and then set to cleaning up the blood. As for Kensington, we have no idea where the body is (if it is still a body), and cannot spare the time or the effort to find it. When I write their families—if I ever get an opportunity to write them—I anticipate that those letters will be sad ones indeed, and I will have to choose my words carefully to spare the families unpleasant imaginings as I explain the causes of death.

Crane, in the wake of the devastation to the Colonies I know that many tales reached our ears, safe in our comfortable offices, homes, and cafés. Your recent words on the familiar-yet-alien doppelganger landscape we find here ring in my mind, especially to think now of the life we knew only some months ago. I recall hearing some of the strange stories of horror that began to trickle back to the Continent and knowingly dismissed many as either patently impossible, a likely product of a disordered mind, or an outright shocking joke, told to get attention in dimly-lit taverns.

I am now revising many of those judgments.

Two days ago I found Gujparat in the forest, having gone after him myself—foolish perhaps, I see that now—when he and Kensington did not arrive back from their reconnaissance. The trace I found of the men first took the form of a canvas supply pack swinging from a branch high overhead, its tools and instruments strewn about on the ground below. As I turned and strode into a clearing, I heard his labored cries and heavy moans coming from the area ahead, a rocky descent down to a wide river. Sensing the clear presence of danger, I drew my pistol and found a little pathway down to Gujparat, whose bloodied and broken figure I could see on a rock promontory. As his left leg ended in a tangled mass of shredded bone and muscle at the shin, he had apparently been trying to crawl away from the scene of something horrible, lifting and dragging himself as best he could on one good arm and a willpower of iron. As for Kensington, I saw no trace of him.

It wasn’t until that evening when Gujparat had awoken from his trauma that either Bennington or I could get any useful information from him. Thorpe wanted me to show him and a detachment of men where I had found Gujparat, but I think my reasoning that we needed first to learn what Gujparat knew beforehand won out in the end. I didn’t tell Thorpe that another reason why I was keen on questioning the poor man right away was because I sensed that we had little time before his impending death to find out what had happened.

As you know, I spent some time in Pandjara on the Mission, and I have a smattering of Sindhoo. I must say it was another point that impressed me about Bennington—her Sindhoo is not altogether bad. Where and how she learned hers I do not know, but I confess it added a dimension to her otherwise inscrutable nature. At any rate, between Bennington and I, we were able to capture a great deal of information from Gujparat as the laudanum calmed him enough to temporarily set aside his immense pain and speak a few words. We took furious notes throughout this exchange, and I will copy my notes into a representation of our dialogue with as much fidelity to my recollection—and to Gujparat’s voice—as I can muster.

“Kensington and I were searching, trying to find another way to get back on the North Road. We went into the forested area to the west about a quarter of a mile, maybe more. We didn’t think the wetland would be as thick there. We were right—the land started to slope up and away a bit and become rockier.

“After about another hour of walk we found a good trail. It went up into a hill. Kensington said something about the torch stakes, and that we would go back at night if we could find water. I did not understand but I put a stake in wherever Kensington pointed.

“I was resting after we had drank up the last of our water. Kensington said he heard a river and went to see; he came back after an hour and said he found good water. I went with him—we walked along a cliff and under big rocks overhead. Then we saw a river.

“We were going to turn around to go back to camp when we heard a sound that made us cover our ears and scream. Kensington was vomiting from the sound. It made my eyes shake and we fell down. I looked up and there was something around Kensington’s leg. He yelled and I saw a green-black rope (?) twist around his leg and up to his hip. It looked like a snake but it was coming out of a cave above us, and more of these shapes dropped down to take hold of Kensington. I could not run. I saw the ropes bite into Kensington’s legs and arms and rip them away. Blood was everywhere. I knew Kensington was dead.

“I got up and all I could think about was how to get away back the way we came. I jumped up on the rocks and the sound got louder again. The sound was like a wall of sharp whistles and it made my blood boil. I closed my eyes and then I felt a sting on my foot. I looked down and my leg was gone. At that point I felt another sting on my back and the creature tore by equipment pack away. I took my chances and dove downward off the rock instead of trying to stay and fight it. I fell a long way and broke my ribs, but if I hadn’t done that, I would have ended up like Kensington.

“I looked up from where I fell and I could see maybe twenty of these green and black snakes waving from outside of the cave. They were very long and some of them looked like they were sliding along the rocks, searching for more victims. Then the terrible sound stopped and the snakes went back into the cave. I think my eyes went black for a while.

“The next thing I remember is that I was trying to crawl up the rock again to find the path. About an hour later, Rackham found me.”

When I returned with the mangled Gujparat, Bennington noted that the areas where his body had suffered the most damage were bloodied but also slick with a translucent, slime-like substance. In transporting the wounded man, this ichor stained my clothes and had transferred onto my arms and chest. Where it had made contact with my skin, I felt a numbing sensation, not unlike an area affected by a venomous bite. While this was not particularly painful, Bennington ordered my assignment to a cot for erstwhile observation, to which I naturally assented.

As the laudanum worked its way through his veins I watched Gujparat slip into unconsciousness. I thought about what I had read in your letter about letting your focus drift to a subject, and I decided to try it. As the minutes passed, I let all other emotions and thoughts drain from my consciousness, and I let the sounds at the periphery of my awareness rush forward like a flood, overtaking me in a furious cacophony. Remembering how it caused me pain to open my eyes during these episodes, I resolved to recline with my eyes closed yet with my face toward Gujparat, in an attempt to reach out to his resting mind with my own.

Crane, I could read the man’s memories. He had told Bennington and I the details from his perspective as if narrating a short but dreadful tale; but when I “channeled” the sounds and signals from the sleeping man, they filled in several more details than what she and I had gleaned from our strained Sindhoo. For example, Gujparat and Kensington had argued about getting off the main road because Gujparat did not want to risk straying off their planned course. Kensington’s Sindhoo was quite limited, and I read in Gujparat’s thoughts that he felt it was easier to give in to the wishes of his companion.

His next series of thoughts was about the torch stakes—these are my invention, I should add. Gujparat knew what Kensington did not, which was that the Tesla beacons at the top of the stake only flash if the first one in the series is “jumped” with the hand generator—which I have here with me at camp. Thus, Gujparat knew that the torch stakes would have been of no use to the men, and he was annoyed with Kensington for bringing otherwise useless equipment with him on the scouting foray.

Gujparat also thought Kensington a fool for going ahead without him to find the source of the river. I suppose that in some cases, military training does not always bequeath common sense.

Something horrid also happened during this episode, Crane, and I am loathe to describe it but I know all information shared between us might have a benefit somehow. I stopped reading Gujarat’s memories at the moment his mind’s eye recalled the attack from the tentacled being that inhabited the cave. The fear—the panic—the blistering pain—I knew I could sense it all and drink it in, so to speak, if I allowed the cascade of sound to continue to overtake me. Had I done that, I would have borne scars of that unholy experience which would not have been shaken quickly. I opened my eyes and removed myself from concentration as soon as Gujparat’s first screams resounded in my mind. Even still, my hands shook and I found myself bathed in sweat as I awoke from my trance.

In closing, I would now advise you to continue to practice whatever—ability—you describe to me. We may have been altered from the Incident, or we may have acquired these peculiarities from our presence here; it matters little exactly how, but I am beginning to understand these as gifts of a sort, aberrant as they might seem, but not altogether useless. Do keep your eye on Robards, and on my side, I will resolve to place my focus on Bennington in the days ahead. There may indeed be more to these two than we know.

With wishes for a safe sea crossing,

Rackham