"Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash."
Louis Aragon
Several seconds passed, but London seemed content to simply kneel there and watch the chest of our guest rise and fall.
"Fane Steele?" I asked mildly, interested to see the effect the name had on her. She shifted her head upward so that the professor could glare at me through one eye.
"You will not repeat that name in my presence," London snapped, "Not ever." Brushing a few dark locks out of her eyes, she stood up and surveyed the prone body of the man. She took a deep breath, as if composing herself, and then turned to me.
"Put this man in the upstairs bedroom," she said quietly, "And do not touch him with your bare hands. When you are finished, come see me." And with that, London turned and walked into the back room, casually discarding the syringe into a bucket as she went. I watched her go for a moment before donning gloves as she had commanded, slinging one of the man's arms around my shoulders and, part-carrying and part-dragging him, made my way upstairs.
I returned to the back room in the parlor to observe her putting away several small, labeled bottles into a nearby cabinet. I admired how her black hair had an almost bluish glow in the lamplight before clearing my throat. She turned, and seeing me, asked how the patient's condition was.
"His breathing's regular, but the man's sound asleep." She nodded slowly, before turning back to her task.
"He would be," the professor said as she put away a solution of iodine, "That solution I gave him contained a ten-percent solution of morphine, with food coloring for effect."
At these words, I gaped at her. London Black detested lying—had she not repeatedly denounced it as 'the worst level of buffoonery'? She would rather tell the full, blatant truth rather than coat her words, which was why she had made so many enemies.
"That wasn't the cure?" I gasped, fully comprehending what the professor had done. She had signed the man's death certificate as surely as if the paper was in front of her.
She looked at me with a clear, steady gaze. "There is no cure for Tipota, Watson." She said seriously. I was astonished—to have the professor tell such a lie about something like this was so completely out of character for her that for several seconds I could not speak.
"But then—but then—how long does he have?" I whispered, as if the man sleeping above us could somehow hear. The professor stared at a point in the distance, doing some calculations.
"Oh, it's impossible to tell, really—there are so many factors. I'd say…thirty, perhaps forty years." She said finally, jotting a few numbers down on a paper and then nodding in agreement with herself.
If my jaw had hit the floor earlier, at this point it was somewhere in the basement.
"You said—there wasn't a cure—"I said weakly, wondering what was going on today and if it was all a rather strange and convoluted dream. London turned her back on me and pulled out a small bottle containing painkillers from the nearest cabinet, wincing as the shelf pressed on her injured side.
"There is no cure for Tipota, particularly not Tipota from the Follis tree, Watson," she said as she casually poured two pills into her open palm and swallowed them, "Because there is no Tipota. The word is Greek for 'Nothing'."
I stared at her in further astonishment, if it were possible. "Nothing?"
"No, it is Greek for 'Stupid Assistant,'" London snapped, for a moment her characteristically sarcastic self, before leaning with her back on the counter and holding me in her gaze, "Yes. Tipota means 'Nothing'. The Follis tree does not exist either—and here I was certain you would catch on, Doctor, seeing as how you studied the language—it is merely Latin for 'Fool'. So when our friend told the poor man above us that it was Tipota that he had, he meant it literally."
I shook my head in awe at her acuity before a sudden thought struck me.
"Professor. If the poison really was a fake, why didn't you just tell him that?" I demanded, determined to make at least some sense of the matter. London smiled rather sadly at me, almost in pity.
"Why do you think?" she asked, pushing away several strands of hair from her eyes as she spoke, "If I had told our guest then and there that he had not been poisoned, he would have thought me one more cog in our friend's cruel trick, and probably would have keeled over then and there out of the utter fear and despair that would have taken hold of him. Imagine the irony, Watson—the lie sends him all the way here, only for the truth to kill him!" She looked away as if thinking about other things, and then looked at the package that had, until now, sat unregarded on the nearest table. She took the package gently, weighing it in one hand before sniffing a corner cautiously. London looked up at me.
"This is not a bomb, then. I shall go to my study, and may not return for a couple of hours. You are to remain at the man's bedside and attend to any needs that arise. Alert me at once should the man's condition change!" And with that, she strode out of the room, parcel tucked under one hand.
I stood there for several seconds in silence before bursting into laughter.
Fane Steele…
The name echoed through my mind as I stared at the unconscious man's face. It had a most peculiar effect on London—invoking a mixture of respect, anger and…dare I say it? Fear?
The man stirred, bringing me back to reality. A moan escaped his lips.
I took his pulse and examined his eyes, noting that his heart rate was almost normal, but the pupils still slightly dilated. All at once, the man bolted upright with a loud yell.
I hushed him quickly. "It's all right, you're fine, and you're safe now!" I told him urgently, worried that his cry would aggravate the professor further. The man gazed wildly about before seeming to realize that his emergency had passed.
"Where am I?" he asked, still talking in a British accent. I smiled gently, careful not to make any sudden movements.
"You're at 222 Locketer's End—residence of the American, Professor Black. I'm her assistant—William Watson. I should go tell Miss Black you're up-"
Quiet footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned to see the very woman I was speaking of.
Something was wrong with her—she was even paler than normal, and normally she was as white as a sheet. There was a strange glint in her eyes, and her left hand was trembling almost imperceptibly. I noted small burn marks on the knuckles of her left hand.
"Good Afternoon, my good man," she said politely to the bedridden man, "I am glad to see that you are awake again. Do you need anything? Water, perhaps, or something to eat?"
The man waved her offer. "No, my good lady. I must thank you for saving my life—I am forever in your debt." I saw the look she gave me, and I felt odd knowing that we shared a truth…and the lie.
"I was wondering if you could perhaps tell us your name, and how you got into this awful mess," London continued, her voice as sharp and steady as a surgeon's scalpel, betraying none of the inner turmoil I had glimpsed.
"Oh, yes. My name is John Baker, a resident of Chelsea, in England. I own a variety of townhouses and tenements in the nearby area, you see." The professor wordlessly pulled over a chair and sat down, cobalt eyes gazing with a new intensity at the man as he spoke.
"Recently, I had a tenant for one of my more favorite properties," Baker went on, "A charming young man by the name of Fane Steele. He was very polite to me, you see—always paying the rent on time, inviting me round for tea…that sort of thing. I never quite got his occupation (He was always rather vague on the subject), but other than that, he seemed all right.
"One afternoon he asked me to call, and made a passing comment to the suggestion that it would be worth my while. I obliged him, and when I entered he was the very image of courtesy. He sat me down and offered me tea, which I accepted. There was an odd look in his eyes, but I didn't concern myself about it until later.
"'Are you feeling quite well, Mister Baker?' he had asked me as he poured (he had rather the same manner of speech as your friend here, Doctor), 'You look somewhat pale.' I told him I was rather stressed, as it turned out that a few of my tenants had been revolutionaries. I had been forced to evict the lot of them, and had quite a bit of explaining to do to the Constables. He nodded in sympathy, though I wonder if he truly was concerned at the moment. 'You can never tell if a man's hiding something,' he opined sadly, 'it's impossible to take one's word for it these days.'
"I agreed with him and bemoaned the rarity of good people these days, and it was then that I saw a package wrapped in brown paper, perched upon the kitchen countertop. It struck me as odd because there was no postage marked on the thing, and the nearby papers were all singed and blackened. Fane caught my glimpse and smiled.
"'Ah, I see you've caught a glimpse of my newest acquisition. The package,' he smiled as if he knew something I didn't, 'A gift to a…colleague. I'm certain that sh—that they will appreciate it, as I had gone through some trouble to obtain such an item.' I felt a nagging suspicion that I was here for Steele's own benefit and not for mine, and so I politely asked him what business required my presence. He seemed surprised by the question, glanced at the clock, and asked me if I had an appointment. I lied to say I had, and got up with the intent to leave as quickly as possible. I was no more than six steps away from the door when I collapsed.
"When I awoke, I was unable to move or speak. There was a cloth over my eyes, and I heard faint footsteps. A hand pulled away the fabric, and I saw myself looking into Steel's face—except that this time, his face was malicious and his eyes mad.
"'Good. You've awoken consciousness,' he had told me, 'I was beginning to worry that I had miscalculated the dosage. How are you, my good man?' and with that, he pulled up a chair and sat next to me, plucking a syringe from the bedside table as he did so.
"'I have a favor to ask of you, you see,' he said as casually as if we were having the discussion over a light Sunday lunch, 'The package you saw is destined for America, to that colleague of whom I told you. Unfortunately, I will not be able to take it there myself, as I must leave the country tomorrow. Post is not an option, as you know, as it is so utterly unreliable. And it is of the utmost importance that it reaches its destination intact, untouched, and in time.' Here his eyes grew colder, and he smiled mockingly at me, twirling the needle between his slender fingers.
"'And that is where you come in, Mister Baker,' he said. His thumb pressed on the plunger briefly, and a single droplet of liquid seeped out of the tip, sparkling like the finest crystal.
"'The Follis tree is a beautiful thing,' he said, almost to himself, 'It is utterly unique in its geographical location—found exclusively on the Isle of Demons, a few degrees north of the Galapagos Islands! From its bark oozes a marvelously slow-acting poison, with extremely entertaining effects—The island natives call the toxin the 'Tipota'. Do you know how long it takes for Tipota to kill its victim, Mister Baker? Just over twenty days before the effects manifest themselves; that is, clouding of the vision, swelling of the heart and so on. It can be administered to the victim in any number of ways; from injection to consumption to absorbing it in the skin (They say it is what really killed Cleopatra!) and allows the assassin a very generous head start before the toxin kills. But now I ramble—back to the task at hand.' He leaned forward slightly, and I saw the insanity that filled his eyes.
"'Please,' I had begged him, 'for the love of God—' But his expression darkened at my words.
"'God, you say?' he whispered, twirling the needle between his fingers, 'You think God can save you, here? If you must pray to anyone, pray to me—for is it not I that holds you from death now? 'Fane shook the needle in my face, mocking laughter erupting from his mouth. After a few seconds, he composed himself.
"'Here are your instructions,' he said to me, lazily waving a slip of parchment before my eyes, 'you are to bring this package to Richmond, New York, in America. There you will travel to 222 Locketer's End, where the American scientist London Black resides. She knows the antidote to Tipota, and will administer it to you, but only if you get there in time. Here, I have written it on this paper so that you will not forget. You have twelve days…starting now!' And with that, he stabbed the needle into my chest, pushed the plunger down slowly, pulled it out and then tossed it aside. He then gathered up his coat and a satchel, left the package next to me on the bed, and left…his laughter ringing through the halls behind him." Baker took a long, shuddering breath as he finished his tale. London nodded slowly.
"I see," was all she said. The professor stood up, did a brief examination of the man, and then finished, "You are still recovering from the effects of the antidote. You shall have to remain here for a few hours, until you are strong enough to return to England. Watson—you must attend to this man's every need. I shall be in the laboratory for the remainder of the day, and am not to be disturbed. Good day to both of you." And with that, she turned and left. Baker and I were left to ponder the ringing silence.
"Steele said Miss Black was his colleague," the other man said at last, "What is it that they do, exactly?"
I smiled as I recalled the zombie attack three nights ago, and all the various escapades that the professor had forced me to join her on in her quest to hunt and eradicate monsters.
"They hunt the Darkness;" I answered slowly, "But the Darkness hunts them too."