So, probably all of you will never have read or heard of 'She: A History of Adventure' by Henry Rider Haggard. It was published in a magazine in the years 1886-7, much like Sherlock Holmes originally appeared in magazines like The Strand.
It is, in short, a story about a trip to Africa on a revenge mission, which backfires on the adventurers when they discover that the woman they are supposed to be taking revenge against is supernaturally beautiful, and utterly unstoppable.
Here is a link to the synopsis. I know it sounds boring, but if you just skim through it quickly, this whole fiction will be much easier to understand, and will also be amazing!
.org/wiki/She:_A_History_of_Adventure
The reason I've written this is that 'Sherlock' and 'She' were published around the same time - but they were completely different. The whole point of Sherlock Holmes is that the supernatural doesn't exist, it's just a bag of tricks. But in 'She' the supernatural is undeniable.
I thought it would be interesting to throw together two novels of the same period and see what on earth the completely opposite characters do. For example, how does Sherlock react to this woman of supernatural beauty? How does she take to an unwelcome explorer with too much knowledge about her past?
And how does the poor, long-suffering Watson deal with everything, especially keeping his erratic companion under control?
And most importantly, how does the novel end? With the addition of a bad guy seeking out immortality through the Spirit of Life, will they be able to stop him? What will She make of it? Will any of them become immortal? Can London and the world at large be saved?
I don't even know yet.
Give this a try and I assure you, you will love it! Please review if you enjoy it, I live off reviews! I can't write without them.
1
The Shadow of Eternity.
"Watson!"
The obnoxiously loud cry came from downstairs, at the same time that the front door slammed and Mrs. Hudson gave a shriek of pure alarm on the landing. She must have seen whatever it was he was doing or carrying.
"Watson, I need you!"
"What have you done this time?" John sighed, long-sufferingly, and put down his newspaper and pen. There were no ink rings around any of its headlines today.
He hoped, secretly, that Holmes had something juicy to entertain them with while the papers were currently dry.
"I need you to help me move this upstairs!"
There was a clunk, something very heavy hitting the floorboards.
Now that sounded exciting.
Watson limped downstairs immediately.
Holmes was kneeling beside a massive iron box, and reaching into the inner pocket of his frock coat.
"Good Lord, what on earth is that?"
"It is a mystery, Watson. A mystery we are going to solve."
"Oh, goodie. Where did you get it?"
"A dying man gave it to me."
"Did he give it to you, or did you offer to take it from his cold stiff hands?"
"No, honestly. He asked me to deliver it to a man by the name of Horace Holly."
"And are you going to deliver it?"
"I thought I would have a little look at it first."
Holmes had by now produced whatever it was that was in his pocket, which happened to be three keys of varying sizes.
John sighed, again, and reached down to grasp the handles of the iron box.
"It's heavy!" he gasped, letting it drop again.
"Of course it is, old boy. That is why we shall carry it together."
Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk as they ascended the stairs together - Watson's leg miraculously showing no signs of weakness under the extended pressure.
They placed the box beside the dining table and both descended to the floor with it, Holmes sitting cross legged in his childish glee. He looked as though Christmas had come early, and that Mr. Claus had brought an extra large iron-wrapped present for him.
"Well, then." he beamed, scattering the keys onto the boards and then picking up the largest, most modern-looking one, "Would you like to open it or shall I? Yes, quite right, I'll do it."
John didn't bat an eyelid. This was Holmes on a very good day.
The key was a little rusty, and took some time to turn, but Sherlock was patient. Eventually they prized the lid open, to reveal... another box. This one was made of wood, and covered with dust.
"Ebony." Holmes remarked, lifting it out of the case and picking up the next appropriate-looking key, "Crumbling ebony. At least a few centuries old."
He glanced up at Watson with a mischievous glance.
"The plot thickens."
They opened this lid rather more gingerly.
Both men sucked in exhilarated breaths at the awe-inspiring sight.
Inside was a magnificent silver casket, about twelve inches square by eight high. It appeared to be of Egyptian workmanship, for the four legs were formed of Sphinxes, and the dome-shaped cover was also surmounted by a Sphinx.
"Oooh, that looks very old!"
Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, peering over their shoulders. If it was possible for anybody to bustle whilst standing perfectly still, Mrs. Hudson was the woman to manage it, and she was doing it now. John found it very distracting, and apparently so did Sherlock, for he called out in a brash tone, "Tea please Mrs. Hudson!" and away she scurried downstairs.
"Watson, this looks rather authentic." he muttered, in raptures, "There can be no doubt, in fact. The tarnishing reveals it clearly. But what is inside?"
"A silver key for a silver casket." Watson commented poetically.
Holmes frowned at him.
"Naturally." he retorted, before inserting said smallest silver key into the lock, and twisting it flamboyantly.
He then waited, poised, for a few moments, to allow the tension to flourish and become beautiful. His ink and chemical-stained fingers gently lifted the last lid on its ancient hinges.
It was filled to the brim with some brown shredded material, more like vegetable fiber than paper. Holmes snatched up a strand, put it in his mouth and savoured it, turned it over in his mind for a moment, and then spat it back out.
"Also authentic." he concluded, apparently having no other connections to speak of.
Odd, for him to have only one point upon a piece of evidence.
It must be really old, then.
Watson reached out to lift the shredded paper away, fearing that there would be nothing hidden beneath it after all.
Sherlock immediately slapped his hand, hard, and continued with the process himself.
"Ouch!"
"Well then, don't touch my things."
"This is a dual mystery-solving process!"
"It is my casket!"
"It is not. It's a dead man's casket."
"Stop being so petty, Watson. You'll get frown lines."
Watson stopped being petty, because he didn't want to ruin Holmes' good mood, and also because he had a secret abhorrance of frown lines. And he had suspected that he was developing some around the brow and mouth just this morning, in the mirror. He resented that Sherlock had picked up on this already. Perhaps he was touching his face too often, or performing some other bizarrely unconscious gesture that apparently shouted out to the world that he was worrying about worry lines.
"How did you know about the frown lines?"
"What?" his companion gazed up at him, broken out of a reverie of contemplation.
John repeated his question impatiently.
"What frown lines? I was only riling you up, old boy. You really don't have any. Stop fretting, or you'll get fret lines."
"Are fret lines different from frown lines?"
"Would you really like for me to go into detail upon my new theories of the reading of a man's face by the positioning of skin grooves?"
Holmes actually looked rather hopeful that he would say yes.
John told him, angrily, that he would rather not hear any more about it, thank you very much.
Sherlock huffed and removed the last clump of shredded paper.
He held aloft a surprisingly modern-looking envelope that read, in a slanting scrawl, "To my son Leo, should he live to open this casket."
"That envelope has a name on it." Watson warned.
"Well, of course it does."
"Which means it would be rude to open it."
"My dear Watson! When have I ever solved a case by being polite to people?"
"This isn't a case, Holmes. This is an accidental find."
"Whatever makes you think that it isn't a case?" Sherlock came back, quick as lightning.
John stared levelly at him, trying to unravel the twisted logic of his game. There were too many gaps in his knowledge of Holmes' own knowledge to be sure of anything.
"What aren't you telling me?"
"Why are you always so adamant? I am making this as exciting for you as it is for me! If you know everything you will dampen my high spirits, with your sensible moods. And I can't abide a fellow who drains me of my energies. You understand, Watson."
With that, he threw the envelope to one side and dived into the casket again, this time pulling out two rolled-up parchments, one ancient and one new, a small chocolate-colored composition scarabaeus adorned with Egyptian symbols, and something roundish and heavy in a cover of yellow linen.
He pounced on this latter item first, unwound the linen - and discovered a dirty yellow pot sherd, undoubtedly ancient, scrawled upon in the later uncial Greek character, for the most part perfectly legible, the inscription having been executed with the greatest care.
"Reed pen used to write it." Holmes observed, inspecting the red-coloured letters, "I need a translation. Aha!"
He grabbed the ancient scroll and found it to be a direct translation in black-letter Latin.
"Why does nobody make it easy for me?" he sighed.
Then he opened the modern parchment, and cried aloud.
"Translation of the Uncial Greek Writing on the Potsherd! How marvellous. What a dear chap for writing it all in plain English for me, I'm a little rusty with my Latin. But first! The letter. It should make things a lot clearer to begin with."
He took up the envelope, broke the seal without any show of delicacy or remorse, and pulled out a sheaf of equally new paper. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed.
"No more than two days old, the scents are fresh." he commented, "Turkish tobacco. Our friend wasn't lying when he told us he'd been abroad. Obviously he misses it. Also sweat. And sickness. He really was on his death bed. The handwriting trembles."
John leaned over his shoulder as Sherlock read aloud the awful ancient secrets of that pot sherd, smiling a glorious wry smile to himself, skipping out the parts he found unnecessary and emphasising those which most intrigued him.
"My Son Leo, when you open this... I shall have been long enough dead, blah blah blah... my voice speaks to you from the unutterable silence of the grave... My sufferings, physical and mental, are more than I can bear... At the best I could not live more than another year..."
"Poor devil." John muttered.
"Holly, my friend, will have told you something of the extraordinary antiquity of your race. The strange legend that you will find inscribed by your remote ancestress upon the pot sherd was communicated to me by my father on his deathbed, and took a strong hold upon my imagination... I determined to investigate its truth...
"On the coast of Africa, in a hitherto unexplored region, some distance to the north of where the Zambesi falls into the sea, there is a headland, at the extremity of which a peak towers up, shaped like the head of a Negro... far inland are great mountains, shaped like cups, and caves surrounded by measureless swamps... the people there speak a dialect of Arabic and are ruled over by a beautiful white woman, reported to have power over all things living and dead...
"I was wrecked upon the coast of Madagascar, my last illness seized me... to you I hand on these the results of my labor, to investigate what, if it is true, must be the greatest mystery in the world... if it can only be rediscovered there is a spot where the vital forces of the world visibly exist. Life exists; why therefore should not the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also?
"I have so provided that you will not lack for means... He who would tamper with the vast and secret forces that animate the world may well fall a victim to them... if at last you emerged from the trial ever beautiful and ever young, defying time and evil, and lifted above the natural decay of flesh and intellect, who shall say that the awesome change would prove a happy one?
"Choose, my son, and may the Power who rules all things, and who says 'thus far shalt thou go, and thus much shalt thou learn,' direct the choice to your own happiness and the happiness of the world... Farewell."