Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.
Chapter 10: In this Last of Meeting Places
To Marlow's credit, he neither shrieked nor fainted at the abrupt manifestation of the apparently sourceless Cockney voice. His gun slipped from his suddenly lifeless grip; he fumbled and managed to catch the rifle before the butt could strike the ground and set it off. "What madness is this?" He gasped, tentatively groping out with his free hand to the ostensibly unoccupied entrance like a blind man. "Light trickery? A spirit?" His fingers bent as they encountered an obstacle where none appeared to be, and in wonder his hand flattened against the unseen plane.
" 'ave we met?!" The blood drained from Marlow's thin face, his dark eyes bulged in his skull. He violently recoiled, his thick swallow audible as he rubbed the offending hand on his tunic absently.
"My God . . ."
"Let's keep our 'ands to ourselves, shall we?" The discarnate voice griped. Muted footfalls resounded through the small grotto as ghost footprints appeared in the packed dirt floor, advancing into the room. "Nice little place you've got 'ere, mate. Not quite Kensington—"
"Skinner?" Sawyer blurted finally, his guns having mechanically lowered to rest back in the hostlers at his hips. The relief at hearing the familiar voice was eclipsed by more staggering dread and confusion. "Skinner, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be back on the ship with Nemo—"
"Bloody nice way to greet a chap. Especially since I've come to rescue you're sorry hide, though that noble venture devolves rapidly into a long and terribly depressing story . . . my God it is good to see you." Tom felt the cool presence of a hand at the nape of his neck and turned to where he thought the invisible man to be, his eyes scouring the spot vainly. "This is quite the island, eh?" A soft chuckle, cut off by a brief, abrasive cough. "You want to introduce me to your friend before 'e keels over?"
Marlow was unmoved from where he had retreated, his countenance equal parts aghast and stupefied, his coloring bone white. The rifle was still clutched in his wildly shaking hands, the muzzle waving in a trembling, frenzied gate from floor to ceiling. Sawyer jumped forward, his hands raised, and the quivering barrel was whirled to aim level with his chest.
"Easy there, Marlow." Marlow made a low clicking noise deep in his throat, pointed weakly to the empty space from which the voice was emitting. "Just take it easy." Reaching a hesitant hand forward, Tom grasped the gun barrel and turned it from him; Marlow allowed himself to be relieved of the weapon. Sawyer thumbed the hammer back into safety before setting the gun against the wall, then turned to lay a hand on Marlow's thin, quaking shoulder. "Remember, I told you about him. This is Rodney Skinner—"
"—gentleman thief." Skinner added with listless enthusiasm. Marlow remained static for a moment, his eyes wandering over the space wildly, looking like a cornered rabbit about to bolt.
One quivering, open hand extended.
"Charlie Marlow." He gasped. "Captain of The Palestine." The gaunt man jolted as his hand was grasped, but closed his fingers around the apparent fistful of air. He allowed his arm to be guided in a gentle rise and fall.
"Good to meet you, Charlie." Marlow did not correct the invisible man, but offered a tentative smile. A glance at the agent beside him, and the expression broke into a disbelieving, overwrought grin.
"By Jove." He laughed skittishly. "By Jove, I do believe I've finally lost my mind."
"Join the bloody club." Marlow leapt as his back was thumped amiably. " 'ave you got anything to drink? And maybe a bandage, I seem to be bleeding again."
A few minutes and the fire was coaxed back into a healthy glow, they scattered around it, drinking weak coffee from chipped cups and listening to the mounted pot begin to boil. From the floating ribbon of bandage, Skinner was revealed as seated against the wall, slowly winding the white strip over his lower arm. The silence was charged, and Tom chewed his lip.
"Skinner—"
"Give me a minute, mate." Skinner admonished wearily. The tin cup rose, tipped, dark fluid rolled a clean line through the vacant air, evanescing before it completed its obvious track to the dirt floor.
"I'm sorry, Sawyer, I . . ." Marlow had hardly wrenched his eyes from the invisible thief's display since his arrival, but with the sudden expulsion he jerked his focus to rest on the younger man, and regarded him with an expression that was harried, but nonetheless relieved.
"I think I would have been more concerned if you had believed me." Sawyer said with an understanding shrug, a humorless smirk. "It's sort of something you have to see to believe."
"No pun intended, of course." Skinner added, broke off into another discreet cough. Sawyer frowned. The compulsory query was deferred by Marlow's fierce headshake.
"You don't understand." The sailor continued with a note of exasperation, and he raked his fingers through his unruly dark hair. "It seemed terribly unlikely you would be with them, and I at first thought you may have escaped, but I couldn't take any chances--"
Sawyer's brows drew together and he raised a hand against the feverish flood. "Wait, slow down. What are you talking about?"
Marlow let out a heavy, quavering sigh, and stared down into his bitter coffee. When he began again, it was with the slow, calculated lilt of a seasoned narrator. "When my bark was procured by the government for purposes undisclosed, I was demoted to first mate. One hardly uses crates to carry coal, but it wasn't of any particular concern to me -- this was to be my last voyage under my current contract. Other than the soldiers who were to discreetly accompany us, I had a crew of fourteen men, their nationalities varying from English to Norwegian. We were not delayed in setting out despite the extenuating circumstances, and caught a fair enough wind that we were ahead of schedule when we encountered a strange fog, one that persisted for three days. It led us off course, and we were wrecked against the reef.
"Thinking perhaps we had come across one of the minor islands surrounding Sumatra, we headed ashore. Upon our first arrival, the gates of the city were closed and we encountered none of those . . . creatures. Rather, we came upon the natives who inhabited the ruins. They reacted violently to our intrusion."
"The basin." Skinner interjected. Marlow startled slightly, then nodded in his vague direction.
"We were forced to flee back to the ship. We armed ourselves with the weapons cache, though with casualties our small band was at a fierce disadvantage. A number of men, thinking that we must still be near islands more civilized, took one of the longboats and headed out to sea. The rest of us went about finding another route into the mainland, where there would be undoubtedly endless resources. Our fresh water supply was exhausted, our food near out. The only thing we were in surplus of was despair and ammunition.
"We found a strip of beach to the south-easternmost point of the island, and it is the only place I have found that does not let out into insurmountable cliffs or closed caves. We went into the jungle, and you can imagine what we found." Marlow closed his eyes; his tanned face contorted in emotion. The fingers of his empty hand pressed to one temple, and he lowered his gaze. With a shaking voice, he resumed. "No matter how well-armed a man is, there are some things one cannot prepare for, and even prepared, cannot always face. There were more than a few instances when we were surprised, broken apart by an attack from those . . . monsters. I fear I am the only one left."
The sailor let out another heavy breath before the hand dropped, his expression composed, and he fixed Sawyer with a deadly serious stare. "I started watching shortly after their arrival, thinking . . . that I may steal their craft, I suppose, though God knows what I would have done with it. Desperation will drive a man to insanity." He barked out a cynical laugh. "But I seem to get ahead of myself.
"They came in a great flying machine."
He caught only slight glances of dark catacombs beyond, twisted and caved tunnels, pungent with the stench of rot, the most furtive glimpses of unimaginable terrors that shined like grease in the torchlight, masses that hung from the ceilings bloated and furred and erupted from the ground in clustered groups of fantastic color and sheen. He was quickly lead into another chamber, and left with a simple parting of the sibilant voice:
"I trust you will find your accommodations most suitable." Followed by the clang of the iron door closing behind him, and the lock's heavy tumblers falling into place.
There were no sumptuous furnishings incongruent with the subterranean backdrop, no facades of debonair civility. The large den was illuminated by harsh electric lights that gleamed off the surplus of metal, of glass, the lurid rainbows of chemicals as they pooled, dribbled, ran, reacted with froth and steam. Along the far wall were shelves lined with books, medical journals and scientific texts of every language and form, paralleled by a line of steel tables occupied with every associated instrument imaginable. The only discrepancy in the laboratory scene lie with the gentle, resonant notes of a violin, echoing through the stifled air that reeked of carbolic acid. The dulcet, mournful melody was marked with a horrible, agonized shrieking.
"It seems he's nabbed another." Came a level, phlegmatic voice. A white curtain separating a corner of the room snapped back, revealing a willowy gentleman upwards of sixty in age. He was wiping his red soaked hands on the blood streaked apron covering his trim waistcoat and trousers. "Captain Nemo, is it?"
"What nest of horrors is this?" Nemo breathed with a distracted nod of affirmation. The feral screaming had tapered into silence. "What in the name of--?"
"Nothing of concern, Captain." The dour gentleman turned to flick the curtain shut behind him, leaving only the brief impression of red and matted black. With an air of indifference, he began rolling down his shirtsleeves as he crossed the room, and offered a cordial nod of his sallow, white-fringed brow. "I suppose introductions are in order. Dr. Alphonse Moreau."
"Another failure, dear doctor?" A gruff voice quipped haughtily, and Nemo turned. A second man was seated at one of the metal tables, he bull-faced, middle-aged, possessing a head of immense size, with a long black beard that tumbled halfway down a stocky chest. Despite the prominent, dictatorial aura of his upper body, his feet dangled a few inches short of touching the floor. When he finally looked up, he regarded Nemo without removing the monocular corked against one beady blue eye, took the captain in with an air of curiosity tinged with more than a hint of disdain. "George Edward Challenger, as you undoubtedly already know." A small bone was pinched between his thick, hairy fingers, and he returned to it without further intermission.
Moreau seemed either not to have caught the condescension in the other man's tone or chose to ignore its presence, muttering somewhat to himself as he approached one of the flanking tables, where, upon a chemical hot plate, a kettle rested. There the first signs of the previous decadence reemerged: a porcelain tea tray was produced swiftly from a cabinet. "One would expect such creatures to be of considerable fortitude in regards to their environment, but these have given me by far the most trouble. Always when extending the arms; the elasticity of the arteries--"
Challenger glanced up with a sneer. "Or perhaps it is fact that you are using pseudoscience in an attempt to combine a dog and a baboon and make it wear a bloody suit--"
"Enough drivel, by God!" One of the curtained archways that lined the back of the room billowed outward suddenly with violent intrusion, and Nemo regarded the interloper with open astonishment. He was of a bear of a man, burly and robust in body, with a solid neck beneath an intelligent, brusque face. His hair was coarse and black, his jaw massive and clean-shaven but for a small goatee. Expression contorted in preparation for some further howl, the man broke off in sight of Nemo; he offered a curt nod of recognition, glowered at the other men with his burning coal eyes before retreating back to the divided room with another flap of the fabric screen.
"Tea, Captain?"
Nemo shook his head slowly in astonishment as he advanced further into the chamber. "You are all . . . employed by this madman?"
"I believe 'imprisoned' is the proper term." Moreau stated nonchalantly as he handed the captain a delicate cup. "This doctor fellow hardly runs a proper democracy. I was snatched from my island, which was so brilliantly exposed by that feeble minded Prendick, Challenger from his home—"
The stubby man with the robust cranium looked up, moaned with genuine woe that contorted his puggish features, "My poor dear wife, she must think me dead and gone!"
"—and Robur . . ." Moreau's weathered face shifted slightly in vexed befuddlement as he looked to the archway. "All the same, we were taken rather abruptly upon his flying contraption, completely disillusioned from where we ended."
"Hardly." Challenger snorted with disdain. He had abandoned his bones and was in the process of cutting and lighting a cigar. "Surely it is some jungle of the Amazon hitherto unexplored, a conclusion I have come to in view of the reptiles and insects this doctor has brought to me to classify. Never before—" he gestured to a large jar resting on the desk beside him, which encased a number of brilliant crimson centipedes a foot in length, curled in the glass container like ropes of grotesque licorice, "--have I come across scolopendra with this distinct venom. A single bite could kill a grown man in less than a minute. Not to mention a species of swamp adder of indistinct ancestry, with a bite that could drop an elephant almost instantly. Even Australia's Inland Taipan is incapable of such a feat. And fossils," he waved a hand to the skeleton before him, puffing out a smoke ring, "of both ornithischian and saurischian dinosaurs, in such quantity and in such pristine condition, with species never before identified . . . we must be resting on a massive graveyard. The largest yet discovered, I would venture to say."
Nemo had, throughout the motions, been scouring for the gramophone from which the violin music was emitting. He could find none. It was then that he noticed a forth figure, sitting in an armchair, secluded from the others in shadow and blue tobacco smoke. The only thing perceptible of him were the fluid, melancholy motions of drawing the bow.
Challenger caught his gaze, and his mouth skewed in annoyance as he broke off his lecture. "Pay him no mind. He does nothing useful other than carry on with that racket while enjoying our proprietor's considerable hoard of cocaine. Indolent wretch."
Nemo watched the silhouette for a moment longer before turning back to the other men. "And none of you have attempted to escape?"
Moreau simply made a noncommittal noise in his throat, his gaze distracted. Challenger scoffed, puffed out his barrel chest. "G.E.C. would hardly give up the opportunity – Nay, it is my professional responsibility to the scientific community to study the exceptional and prehistoric specimen brought to me by this lunatic."
A roar of laughter. Robur had reappeared and stood leaning against the furthest wall with a sardonic grin, his powerful arms folded over his massive chest. "Meaning when he attempted the noble feat, two of those Burmese fellows gave him a licking he'll not soon forget!"
Challenger purpled, bared his teeth. "Someone of your obviously limited mental facilities should not play such dangerous games, Robur, lest your infantile jabber provoke a just thrashing!"
Robur grinned wider; he turned his hands up, palms exposed. "Provoke? I invite it! It's been a while since I've had a good row, though anything you offer could hardly qualify."
Moreau had retrieved a text from one of the shelves and was studying its contents intently; he spared a cross glance at the two men."A moment of professionalism, would you?"
"What is he keeping you here for?" Nemo pressed, mystified and disconcerted by the scientists' apparent apathy to their plight. Robur came away from the wall, strolled towards the Captain while waving a hand to their laboratory surroundings.
"The vivisectionist and the midget—"
Challenger leapt from his chair, which reduced his height by a number of inches, began rolling up his sleeves. "I will ask you to hold your tongue no more before I rip it from your bovine skull!"
"—he uses for his experiments. And he has found use of my Albatross."
Nemo regarded Robur carefully, levelly, said nothing; the aviator's black eyes glittered. "You're wondering how?" The question was a low growl. Nemo simply nodded.
Robur's broad shoulders slouched slightly, his expression became malignant, eyes burning subdued black fire; he stoked his goatee pensively. "I once held two men for weeks upon my 'contraption'," he glowered at Moreau, who showed no discernible response other than continued impassivity, "on the rational that I was their superior in intellect and strength, and therefore had the right to do what I would. It seems the tables have turned." He scowled at the captain. "What of you? How did you come to be in this veritable hell?"
"Chance." Nemo murmured after a moment. "Or fate. I have come to find that the two often intertwine."
Challenger, nonplussed at the apparent disregard, clenched his jaw and moved to smooth his jacket before stating with forced levelheadedness, "If you two are quite finished jawing, I'm sure my colleague Moreau would not mind showing a fellow man of science our work."
He vaulted down into the gaping chasm, the vines breaking under his monstrous body as he latched, rebounded from the rock walls in an ape's primal gate, and came to rest at the base, calf-deep in putrid gray mud. Around him the darkness stirred to life; giant bloodworms erupted from the foul water, thrust out at him with proboscis lined with black teeth. Spiders scuttled down the walls in floods, lumbering beetles the size of cabs emerged from the shadows.
He tore through them, dismembering their spindle legs, crushing their skulls like rotted fruit, stomping them, ripping the fluid bags of their bodies and gobbling the ooze that exploded when they burst. He was soon alone, the insects having retreated while others lay dead and dying at his feet, he panting raggedly, coated in fetid slime.
The smell was gone.
His jaw ground, he snorted, roared in confused frustration. He launched himself furiously at the wall and began to climb, reaching into the grottoes and snatching out more of the concealed insects, mutilating them, devouring them. Halfway up of the chasm he stopped, leaned close to a slick, sharp rock, and breathed deeply.
The smell, stronger, sweeter: fresh blood, a beacon in the darkness.
And with renewed vigor, he followed.
(There was blood under his fingernails.
He studied his hands, trembling violently, moaning desperate negations under his breath. "It can't be. It can't. He's sabotaged me."
His hands were ruddy, tender from being scrubbed; a thin, rust colored film remained just under nails usually so carefully trimmed, nails that were then ragged and torn, standing out in beacons against the long, thin fingers that were pressed to the scratched and dilapidated surface of the desk.
His surroundings were unfamiliar, the time unclear. The tiny room's wallpaper was bleached and peeling, the atmosphere pungent with the odor of mildew. Against the wall a naked, stained mattress lay on a fractured box spring, coils of metal erupting in discord from the fabric. Beside it was a battered bureau lined at the base with mouse holes, and he could hear them scuffling in the absolute silence that defied his quavering words. He was dressed as he last remembered, in the same suit, though the collar was torn, his hat and cravat missing, his shirt cuffs frayed and without clasps. His jacket was spotted with dark colored stains, his hair disarray, his cheeks unshaven.
His attention was on none of these things. Spread out before him in the air of perfect civility that defied his vagrant surroundings was a collection of beakers and phials, scales, glass bottles of chemicals he need only look at to identify. And in the middle of the sophisticated throng, heaped upon a small cloth, was a pile of chemical salt.
"It won't work." He gasped. "It won't work because the salt was defective, the salt--"
And came the passing thought, drifting through his mind on a gentle air, And you think only one batch of salt has ever been made defective?
There was a newspaper folded neatly upon the desk between his hands, the Pall Mall. At the top was the date. It had been two days since his suicide. He took it in his shaking hands; the headline blared his name.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
One week after the body of Edward Hyde was discovered dead by apparent suicide in the home of the well-respected Dr. Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S. etc., there remain many unanswered questions in the peculiar case. Edward Hyde has been confirmed posthumously as the murderer of Sir Danvers Carew, who was savagely beaten to death this past October in the Soho district. Many bear speculation to whether or not he is also involved in the untimely disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll, though the authorities say there is too little information to come to any conclusions at this time. Police have been summoned to search the doctor's property, though no indications of a concealed body have been found.
No evidence has emerged as to whether or not Dr. Henry Jekyll and Mr. Edward Hyde were involved in some criminal misdeed together, begging the question to whether Dr. Jekyll were in some way responsible for the murder of Sir Carew. Of his client, Mr. Gabriel Utterson refused to comment, saying only Dr. Jekyll was a well-respected member of his community and a fine physician, and the suspicious actions before his disappearance were influenced by great physical and metal duress, almost certainly caused by some threat to his person or reputation.
The root of this blackmail will undoubtedly soon come to light, as well as details to the two men's ambiguous relationship. Inspector Lestrade (Scotland Yard) commented that the case appears to be a straightforward, but would give no further details.
In yet another bizarre turn of events, the body of Edward Hyde was reported by confidential sources to never have reached the morgue. When confronted with this, Inspector Lestrade further comments that it is a likely mix-up in transportation, but it is nothing of concern to the general public.
Concealed lower on the page was a second story, and with mounting dread his eyes flickered over the terse announcement.
Prominent Lawyer Found Dead In Home
Mr. Gabriel John Utterson of Soho was found dead in his home late last night by his housemaid, the apparent victim of a botched home invasion
"You bastard!" Jekyll screamed, threw down the paper and beat his hands against the table in a paroxysm of fury and despair, causing the phials and beakers to tinkle against each other with the crystalline chime of bells. "YOU BASTARD!"
He rested his head against the table, and sobbed. After a moment he lifted his eyes, and through his tears began to measure out the sugary grains of salt.
Edward Hyde had won.)
So, it's been a while . . . (sheepish grin) Please, before you tar and feather me, let me explain.
My computer crashed the night I was going to post, and I literally lost everything. I was forced to completely rewrite this chapter by hand, while waiting for a friend to try and salvage my poor hard drive. So I am very, very sorry for the delay. It will not happen again.
I really wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response from last chapter by having this chapter up quickly, but . . . So, instead of this chapter, I want to thank you all for your patronage by having the next chapter (Chapter 11) posted within the next five or six days. Thank you for all of your patience and your wonderful comments, they mean the world.
Stormyrose: Thank you for the review! I'm not quite clear on sneaking novels out of the attic, but I'll definitely take it as a compliment!
bloodstoneteres: Thanks! Hopefully this chapter meets your expectations.
nannon: I'll tell you a secret . . . I'm a bit partial to him as well. And we'll definitely be seeing more of him. Thank you very much!
As for the characters introduced:
Professor George Edward Challenger: A scientific jack-of-all-trades, he is most noted for his arrogance, crudeness, and explosive temper. He is, however, a genius of rarely paralleled caliber, and capable of extreme devotion to those close to him. He is featured, most notably, in the books The Lost World (1912) and The Poison Belt (1913) by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Dr. (Alphonse) Moreau: A scientist who practiced the vivisection of animals on his secluded island, as well (established in the graphic novels) the development of hybrid diseases. He is from the work The Island of Dr. Moreau (1896) by H.G. Wells.
Robur: A megalomaniac and brilliant inventor, he is the creator of the first flying machine, The Albatross. He is from the books Robur the Conqueror (1886) and Master of the World (1904) by Jules Verne.
Any guess to whom the mysterious forth man may be?
I would very much appreciate any comments as well as criticism.