Not the Philosopher's Stone
By Christopher Jon Luke Dowgin
Part of the Sinclair Narratives

Three months ago, I, Caroline Sinclair, travelled with Mark Hopkins to this dead sea, hoping he would not offer me up to some Sodomites—like Lot did to protect these angels we were traveling with. I would be lucky if I didn't turn to a pillar of salt trying to escape this adventure. Hopkins, treasurer of the Central Pacific Railroad, discovered some lost Ute pictographs at Promontory Peak in Utah about giants traveling by serpent ships who had a magic stone that fell from the stars that brings immortality. He just happened to be there to watch the golden spike nailed into the meeting point of the Transcontinental Railroad which would leave his wife, in a few years, the 26th largest estate in history—nothing compared to my Henry's wealth hidden under the streets of Salem, Ma…

March 28th, 1878
Salton Sea California

 

 

We were searching for descendants of the Icelandic-Canadians, well there was no Canada yet… Leif only opened up the trade route, but they kept a coming. As we can see on the Kensington Runestone, which chronicled the Icelandic Civil War in the 14th century, at last one of them might have been able to read and write.

"Caroline, why do you insist on wearing that frilly dress;" Bjorn taunted her. "What if the 7th Calvary came charging, or even Venusians…"

"I can put you on your back in a flash; one toggle and the skirt is off—"

The Ivilyuqaletem tribe has tales of these blue-eyed blonde giants sailing on the Great Horned Serpent's back. In their myths, they recount how the Serpent has a jewel between its eyes that appears as a red moon at night. When it beached, the tale goes on describing giants encased in steel leaving its belly.

"You're getting saucy—what would Henry say…"

Most of Iceland was illiterate at the time. So who could chronicle the sea voyages and immigration that might have continued up to the current day with the inrush of Norwegians; besides the runestone author? There were stories of some Vikings who thought they had found a Northwest Passage.

Roald Amundsen of Norway, has many old Viking maps, and any day now plans to make the trip through the Northwest Passage. Well, the original map had them sail south on the Colorado River to the Salton Sea... To be fair, Vikings did make it to China by land, but never found Japan or the Pacific... Achak and his brother Malsumsis (Massachusetts/Agawam descent) were going to handle our introduction to the local tribe. Well, the sea is now a desert. It dried up in 1580.

I toggled the skirt, revealing my pantaloons and leather boots. I slid up and straddled Bjorn's feet with mine, wrapped an arm around his waist, compressed, and flipped him over my hip onto his back. I then handed him a cup of lapsang souchong; half milk and half agave. He took a sip and placed the saucer on his chest.

Yes, we are going to try to dig up a Viking ship in the middle of the desert. Mark was paying a fortune for the best archaeologists. He enjoyed digging along with the rest of us, telling jokes, and setting up banquets for every meal. He truly was a kind soul.

"You two are quite friendly," Mark commented. "Just curious, should I have a table set on the floor?"

We weren't the only ones looking for the ship.

"No, he loves poking me in the ribs," I chuckled. "He just hates knowing there is something he can't have…"

Franklin Hamilton Cushing, Smithsonian Institute curator of the ethnological department of the National Museum in Washington, D.C., was also looking. He was coming with a contingent of Zuni warrior magicians of the Priesthood of the Bow, and a small detachment of Pinkerton's.

"I'm just biding my time." He knows better; Henry wouldn't kill him—he would embarrass him for a few lifetimes, drop coconut crabs in his bed randomly for a few more lives, and lock him up in a public bathroom in Oscar Wilde's neighborhood.

"Cushing's group is almost here," Olaf informed us as he came up.

Damn Pinkertons…!!!

Someone on Mark's archeology team walked up with a silver Thor's hammer and an almost complete ivory comb. "Thank you—Caroline, what period would you date these?"

My Irish relatives in Pennsylvania gave me firsthand accounts of these blaggards—who killed their sons, brothers, and fathers and blamed it on some Molly Maguires from Éire. They also blamed the murders on the labor union that was meeting at the Ancient Order of Hibernians, calling them some fairy cult.

Olaf grabbed a plate of crostini topped with tenderloin and crème de fresh, and laid down next to Bjorn on the Oriental rug spread across the desert floor. "This is the life," Olaf said, tilting a straw hat over his eyes.

They were no Maguires!

The stone—you ask! Sorry, I'm easily distracted in the heat.

In 536, the sun disappeared. Some say three volcanos amount of ash erupted. As darkness descended, crops failed from Norway to China. Scandinavia collapsed. The world of Beowulf was in Fimbulvetr, waiting for Ragnarök. The climate changed in the late 8th century, and Norway rose first and began viking.

To this day, they never found what volcanos blew their tops. Some say it was a meteor. An ancestor of Hrafna-Flóki, found the ruby in the heart of the crater within Finnmark, Norway in 540. Family tradition says, it was in the hand of one of many strange and dead Trolls. Throughout the wreckage, what they found, was strange metal scattered everywhere. Soon after, the metal was forged into many famous swords, one plunged into a tree Sigmund found. Some Sámi in the nearest village are rumored to be still alive today who saw the meteor land over the mountain.

"Caroline," Mark called. "Do you mind placing your skirt on again; I fear my wife more than your Henry—for your sake; she is a good shot!"

We had been camped for four days when Achak and some Ivilyuqaletem came out of the sea into view. They had dug up the serpent prow.

"You two," I called to the honey bear twins, "time to get up and play." Olaf finished his sandwiches before getting up, and Bjorn chugged his tea as he rose. Henry forced these two lugs on me; they were to be my bodyguards…

The Ivilyuqaletem had called up their priest to placate the Great Horned Serpent. Bjorn and Olaf followed Achak back, flapping their wings, joking about the Thunderbird as the Native American Thor in Freya's wings.

Before reaching the sea, the gruesome twosome climbed the bluff to the north and south; four other of Henry's reincarnated third generation Vikings surrounded the dig team on the flats.

The dig went on for another four days like that. Finally, over the largest bluff to our west, Olaf saw Cushing waiting with his witch-doctors and Pinkertons. I think Olaf wanted to pull them in from that way…which was good.

"Would Henry want any of our finds, beyond the stone?" Mark asked as he studied a bent sword, a carved head of Frey that broke off a pillar, and various metal scraps of kitchen goods.

Cushing had a spy—Thunderchief. Bjorn was fooled right away. He figured anyone named after Thor was A.O.K.

Under the boards where your legs would be stationed when rowing, a young girl found the stone after she dropped her doll. Thunder Chief stole it like candy. He was halfway up the west bluff whooping when Cushing and his troop fled down upon us.

Mark outran Bjorn and caught Thunderchief. He struggled with Mark, almost gaining the upper hand. It was like a young Jones, fighting the Injun above the circus train car. Then Thunderchief saw Bjorn and his axe, dropped the stone, and ran yelping.

Ivilyuqaletem descended from behind Cushing on several horses and counted many coups. Cushing looked like Custer swinging his head like a cat on a pier watching mice disembark a ship while minnows jumped out of the sea as the Ivilyuqaletem encircled him. The four Vikings on the flats tied up those who looked like the leaders and sent the other Zuni on the way.

The Ivilyuqaletem rounded up the Pinkertons. I never found out what happened to them…

 

March 29th, 1878
North of Yuma on rail

I just said good night to Mark as I left his cabin. I was getting tired, and Bjorn followed me to my room as we left Mark pondering the ruby over a cup of peppermint tea as it glowed on the copper smoking table.

It was the last time any of us saw him.

Unfortunately, he did not spend enough time in the rays of the stone. Rumors said porters saw Black Bart sneaking off. Mark seemed to have been smothered in his sleep, and the ruby was gone.

—

After seeing Mary to her bed, I head to mine within this mansion that most universities would pale in scope to. The grieving widow is my employer and friend. I'm her secretary. She is being hounded by a gold digging son she adopted. He was her cook's son... If she isn't careful, he will strip her of her controlling interest in the Central Pacific Railroad. Henry sent me—excuse me, Edward. Everyone's favorite immortal is now being called, Edward Searles of Methuen, MA. In a past life, two thousand years ago in Canaan, Mary was his grandmother Anne.

Mark. In the past, helped Henry by providing guards on one of his rail services to protect President Arthur. The plan went south, forcing Henry to assume Edward's life.

The real Edward has been enjoying Barbados for the last three years…

 

Late 1883
Knobb Hill, San Francisco

I was reading the Boston Globe. Around me, hanging drapes, banging on walls, falling off ladders was my reincarnated third generation Viking crew. I brought them up from Salem to decorate Mary Hopkins mansion. They didn't mind the white overalls; but some had concerns about picking out color palettes and hanging frilly curtains. I was sort of having fun with these friends of mine, who were all over 6ft and 200lbs, placing doilies on marble topped side boards. Bjorn, though, was having a ball picking out textiles for the Davenports and bedspreads. I think he was very comfortable with any activity that happened on a couch or bed.

"I really enjoy that spread…" Mary smiled. Bjorn was bent over laying the latest textile on her king size bed. "How much would that cost for the night?"

"I don't think you can rent the fabric, especially after we—oh, you saucy wench!"

"A woman can dream, even if her body hung up the towel."

"Caroline," I called her attention to the paper, "that bastard Henry Luce started up a new magazine—Life he calls it; I wonder how many lives he and his friends have taken to start that paper?" I found a second chair to supervise from in her room. "Watch him get Taft's fat son into the White House…"

"Why do you upset yourself reading those damn papers?"

"Tokyo beat Roselle and Edison to the punch…"

"What—" Caroline snapped as some leather wallpaper fell all over her, knocking her off her stool. Mary was laughing, trying to help free her.

"Tokyo is the first city to be lit at night by electricity—Krakatoa blew its lid again; I bet it will create some earthquakes..." I say looking to the sides. Well we were in San Francisco.

"Wasn't it the volcano that caused that cold summer in 1816 – " Bjorn said.

"How do you make snowballs in the middle of summertime —" Mary interjected.

"I remember that July snowball fight you had with Olaf, and you threw him into that eight foot tall snowman you guys built using the fire truck—"

"Epic!"

"That was the summer that Lord Byron bet the Percys he could write a better horror story—"

"Prometheus Unbound, that monster was epic!" I think that was Bjorn's new word.

Olaf walked in with pink 1,000 count Egyptian sheets, and Bjorn just laughed about the snowman.

"I didn't pick the color…" Olaf protested.

"Don't mind him; he's gone snow blind." I said.

"Later tonight, we can compare what is pinker, my cat or the sheets…" Mary said.

I think Olaf's face would have won as he ran out.

Mary just tilted her head lower and watched him leave, smiling.

"I didn't care for Byron's vampire; I wish someone would write a better—I think I know him…"

"Who dear?" asked Caroline.

"This guy they are calling Black Bart, I think it is Longinus—I can't be sure. They say he was caught after robbing the Wells Fargo. A shipment intended for Cushing—"

"You think it was him—" Mary bolted.

"Now, Mary," Caroline said, "don't get excited; we won't know until we visit—does it say where he is?"

"He is in town."

"He owes me," Olaf said, returning with a Persian rug sample cut from a private chamber in Hagia Sophia. "I caught him cheating around the time of Captain White's murder—he was about to take my last dime when he laid down four aces, and the fifth fell out of his sleeve…"

—

I was asleep with Caroline beside me, in this four poster. The headboard almost reached the ceiling with intricate floral carvings as the pillars terminated just before, topped with little pine cones. The footboard was eight inches thick and a foot above the mattress with complementary patterns, and pillars topped with identical pine cones just reaching above it. It was a princess and the pea mattress, and Caroline was sleeping soundly—when a vase overturned downstairs. Probably one of the four Ming vases…

It could be one of my twelve large loafs downstairs—but something was off. It got quiet. Then the old Sufi adage came to mind; when it is quiet in a house, there must always be a thief. Since, thieves are always quiet.

I woke up Caroline. She cracked her neck and sat up with her legs over the side. Her knee-length bloomers were concealing enough, and will provide enough motion in close quarters. I had an old pair of comfy linen trousers on as we left for the hall. Mary was the first to the stairs with her Hotchkiss-Springfield Armory Model 1883 Bolt-Action Tube-Magazine Rifle. Her favorite for shooting black jackrabbits—granted she never hit one yet. Olaf came out after us, and Bjorn was trying to get around Mary. I wouldn't want to be in front of her, but then again, with her aim, it might be the safest place.

The ten other members of my crew met us at the bottom. The study door was open and the safe was agape. Mary ran to the safe.

"Thank god they didn't take my licorice and root beer!"

"What!" Olaf said.

"Do you think I would trust 13 large men with enormous appetites—though if any of you have an appetite beyond my lickorice… I can accommodate any size."

They all just backed out of the room slowly.

We did a thorough search; nobody was to be found.

"I'm guessing," I said, "they didn't find the ruby on Bart."

"So they figured we might have bought it from him when he was in town." Mary stated.

"That is my guess."

"Since we're up, let's go see how black his mustache really is," Caroline quipped.

Bart in Norwegian is mustache.

We went down to the Old Mission Police Station on 17th. The chief had received orders from the mayor to empty the cells, besides Bart's, so we could talk to him in private. The chief let us into the hall and walked back to his desk.

"So, JC—its been awhile." Longinus said with a grin.

"Forty years or so—it looks like you aged five years; something wrong?"

"I was searching for some Phoenician treasure in the Rockies when I hit my head on a stalactite and woke up surrounded by uranium…"

"So, you need a bit of tonic…" Caroline asked.

"Oh, I got enough," Longinus continued. "Now it is about another glowing metal. A gold one..."

"I'm guessing you hid it pretty good," I asked. To this day, I haven't found his Spear of Destiny he poked me with. My blood on the tip gave him his longevity—or his curse, he says…

"Yup."

"OK, we are done here," I said.

"What, you don't want to buy it!"

"I trust your hiding skills; nobody will be able to do any damage with it. "

"How do you know I won't tell somebody else?"

"Have you ever listened to yourself give directions—putting a dollhouse together on Christmas is a cakewalk in comparison."

Inside the precinct, we found this small, barrel-chested fellow in a cowboy hat. He had a Boston accent snapping at some flatfoot. "My boy I didn't come from the Badlands on my pony for nothing—have you eva tied to get a hose on a tain afta the last time he took a tip he came back missing his balls!" I never understood how Beacon Hill could be so rich they could not afford 'r's…

"Harvard man…" I asked.

"Magna Cum Laude 1880."

"Still a wetback," Mary said. She stayed in the precinct, hitting on the patrolmen. She was hoping she could get a private detail or details…

"Deputy Sheiff, Teddy Roosevelt, mam," he said, offering his hand to her. "I'm looking fo some Sioux magical items he might have stolen from the Badlands."

"They found nothing on him, and take it from me, if he took them and hid them, nobody is going to find them," I said.

"Well, them ed devils, they will find mo shells and attles. I'll guess I will go take a dip in the Pacific then—it will be weird seeing the sunset on the ocean."

First impressions can be wrong—I thought he was daft; in time he became one of my closest friends. Even when he would say something completely stupid.

Twain, could never let him get away with his imperialist racism though…

He did make the mold for Marlon Brando, Orson Welles, and Hemingway. Looking back now, it might of not been a good thing; we know how they all turned out…

 

April 25th, 1887
San Francisco

We had been married now for almost a month. Our marriage wouldn't hit the social pages till November. Mary was fearful that her cook's son would contest our marriage to remain in control of the Central Railroad. So we wanted the marriage to be substantiated before he found out.

Caroline suggested that Mary and I could help each other. It was harder for me to bring my money into circulation.

I could not go to the general store for some licorice and a paper and expect change for an emerald. The sources I used to convert bullion and jewels into cash were expecting prime points, and there was the fear they might talk about the little that they could peer into my life.

Mary was the richest woman in America. Upon her death, she would leave me the 26th largest estate in American history. My wealth, alone, was 25 times larger. She knew her adopted son, would contest our marriage, calling me a gold digger.

She should have left him in the kitchen…

"Know I don't feel so bad gawking at your arse, since legally, on paper, that is, it is mine…" Mary giggled. Caroline just loved watching me squirm.

William Dubois just entered with a Western Union; "Hank, it is for you. It's from a warden?"

Dubois was born in Great Barrington, MA, in the Berkshires, where Mary grew up. I had built her a castle with Henry Vaughn, who would later build the National Cathedral. William's mom died the year we began construction. He worked his way through Harvard, working for Mary on his summer breaks. She had become his ward.

She had learned a lot since she had adopted Timothy. She became a better judge of character. Dubois, he was going to lead people to a better life. He had a kind soul.

"So what does it say my smoochy moochy…"

Caroline squeezed my ass, and I jumped a foot.

I felt like one of those Mormons watching Mary's dead husband try to hammer the golden spike in—especially when Mary was making all of those comments of where she wanted my golden spike to be hammered.

God—she was my grandmother in another life.?!

"Well, cum on what does it say.."

"Longinus wants to bargain for his freedom," I summarized as my voice cracked.

—

"If…you get me out, the stone is yours."

"How can you trust this worm!" Bjorn said, lifting him by the throat through the bars.

"He has always been honest," I said. "If not open. I know you have four other plans in play."

"Tigers, don't change their stripes," Longinus croaked as Bjorn let his throat go. "What do you say?"

"Mary will have the governor grant your pardon."

"In fact, if you bend over I can shove it—"

"OK, she jumped the gun," I cut Mary off.

"I want to let you know, madame," Longinus said, clasping his hands in front of his lap with sloped shoulders, "I didn't, kill your husband.

"He woke up in his chair as I turned on him from above trying to sneak by, and he began hyperventilating until he turned blue—"

Longinus then snapped back in half, and a green glow and a mucous cloud emitted from his mouth. It coalesced into the shape of Mary's dead husband.

"Dear, please forgive this man. The effect of the stone was like drinking a gallon of Coca-Cola; all that cocaine. I closed my eyes to try to stop my heart from racing just before he was leering over me. In fact, he tried resuscitating me by holding my hand and patting it—my god Mary, I just want to slap a ball gag in your mouth and ride the Pony Express all night. I want to ride my choo-choo through your tunnels all night!"

It was then Longinus bolted upright; "Yuck, I feel so violated."

"OK, where is—never-mind, just give me the map!" I said. "William, don't pull—"

It was too late; he locked himself in an empty cell. "Bjorn, can you find the warden?"

"Hand me the pardon and I'll hand you the map."

"On the count of three—one, two—"

"On three or after?"

"Three—"

He just grabbed it from my hand.

Mary, Caroline, and I walked out in a hurry.

"Hank;" yelled Dubois. "You are not going to leave me…"

The pardon was for next month. With red tape, we figured he would be out by November.

—

We followed the map to a one-legged dwarf's chamber pot, which we had William empty, to find us a clue, pointing to the shed behind the most celebrated brothel in the city. There we found another clue painted on a hinny's ass—Bjorn got kicked in the ribs. After swimming in the wooden water tower on the tallest building, we had Olaf drink dry the largest vat of bier of Anchor Steam that pointed us to a gull's nest in the harbor where we found Thunderchief plucking the ruby, with his right hand that said love on the knuckles, from an ass right before he jumped into a Pinkerton's launch.

Thunderchief got locked up in Longinus' cell and heard him talk in his sleep, the night before we got to the prison.

 

May 3rd, 1887
New York City

We just got off one of Mary's trains. After checking with the Warden, we found out that Thunderchief had replaced Sitting Bull in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. Cody got on our train in South Dakota. Soon after boarding, Buffalo Bill opened a window and stuck his rifle out. He was ready to shoot some bison. Mary had paid Olaf and the gang to shift—hard in their seats, or get up and shift to the other side of the train all at once. Maybe bang into him while doing so every time he lifted his gun at a buffalo.

"So, Sinclair, I hear you're good with the saber," Cody said. "What about the riffle?" He lifted to take aim, but Olaf spilled his tea on him as he passed.

Caroline was having a ball watching leaning into William.

"No, fraid not," I said. "It's a little impersonal and disconnected.

"Looking into a man's eyes, it is harder to deliver a death blow than offer a scar to one's ego."

"Coup!" Achack yelped. "Kwey!"

We had Achak and his brother get hired by the Wild West Show to get close to Thunderchief.

The steamer was going to deliver us to Liverpool in seven days. Cody was going to have to set up in Earls Court overnight after the wagons delivered them to London.

They were the entertainment for Queen Victoria's 50th year on the throne.

Well, thirty five in truth. Prince Albert knocked her up thirteen times and ruled in her stead during her confinements.

So she called all of her children toads, her grandchildren were going to fight each other in WWI, and Albert died of typhoid thanks to Salem native William Prescott.

Being a famous author, he had the ear of presidents and queens. He got sick delivering the typhoid vial that killed Zachary Taylor from the son of a Harvard professor who was waiting on the gallows who specialized in poison, even though he used an axe on another professor…

The spare he carried with him. After a dinner with Victoria and Albert, in which Albert suggested he wanted another baby, he slipped it to the queen.

Within the week, she dosed his bangers and mash. He lingered on for quite some time, but the typhoid won in the end. Though Prescott didn't live long enough to hear the news…

Victoria was just coming out of her mourning…

It's been 19 years since our mutual friend, George Peabody, passed on leaving his bank to the Morgans.

"The Pineapple King dethroned King Kalakaua, and we are setting up a Navy yard in Pearl Harbor," I said, sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean going by as I read the Globe eating licorice.

"I can see that idea bombing," Olaf said, walking by.

Dubois was retching over the rails with my Viking crew teasing him without mercy.

"Sinclair," called Cody. "Have you ever thought of a Kendo exposition—we could always use fresh displays of martial skills?"

"It is not that entertaining; mostly we stand looking at each other a lot—and in a blink of an eye the battle is won and nobody saw it."

"Ever think of choreography—"

"You mean lying?"

"Well yeah my entire show is a lie married to misdirection and embellishment!"

"No thanks."

The steamer started lilting to port. My licorice fell off the table and slid under the railing. Some dolphin was going to have fresh breath tonight…

The Pinkertons jumped onto the deck. A white bald Buddhist monk and a bald fat Cockney jumped Dubois. Olaf took four Pinkertons before they could raise their Colts. Not to be outdone, Bjorn took a chez lounge and barreled over eight, yelling 'epic'! Trygve, Magnus, and Sven went to check on the captain and crew; the rest went to the machine room.

I saw Cushing and rushed in. Cushing threw a right, but I grabbed the outside of his elbow before he could plant his left foot, and pushed him back. He went to swing with the other hand, but I still had his right arm preventing him from pivoting. I lowered his arm backward. He fell on one knee. I kicked him in the chest. He got up and came in. Cushing swung left, and I slammed his right shoulder, increasing his arc of his hook, and he fell short of my face by two inches. I tickled his belly, and he bent over. Then I led him by his head and kicked the back of his knee. Down he went. He went to kick. I grabbed his knee and stepped back, pulling his groin, before he rolled over.

Three Pinkertons helped him up and over the railing, where the rest of them waited on a private launch.

Du Bois was boxing a young Charles Bennet and Alister Crowley. Du Bois puked on Bennet and knocked out Crowley with a left jab, a right hook, and then an uppercut that sent him over the railing. I had William train with Lou Sullivan…Caroline rushed to help him, but got there in time to cut the ropes of a lifeboat for him. Bennet got the hint when the mechanics from the engine room appeared with large steam wrenches and jumped overboard to save Crowley.

Bjorn was running around looking for the stjornborði, or the side rudder. Olaf just laughed. Magnus and Sven and the rest were sailing us on to London.

—

I retired to the bar. I expected the bartender to transform into Albert, my Miskatonic University professor friend. Somehow, he always finds me in the middle of any adventure. As I was sipping my Pernod, a man in tweed waistcoat and jacket checked his Waltham, tipped his bowler up, and clicked his watch closed as he sat on the stool next to me. "Hello Henry," he said as he took the umbrella off the crook of his elbow and bent forward to hang it on the hook under the bar.

"Hello, Albert," I acknowledged him.

"How's the battle with the Miskatonic U against keeping Cthulhu from accidentally inhaling us before his next sneeze?"

"Oh, I saw you on the past Tuesday— have you found Thunderchief?" Albert said, sipping my Pernod. "Do you think he has given the stone to Cushing yet?"

"No, I think Cushing would not have attacked if he had it."

"Well, he has always been three midgets short of cowardice; How's Longinus involved?"

"I think he befriended Brigham Young and heard of Mark finding the pictographs. Young was allowing Hopkins to use his archives of Ute and Mormon texts. His longevity is failing and needed a little tonic."

"Why would he sell it?"

"He just needs a boost, and he could always steal it back when the new owner dies.."

"Is he still in jail?"

"I bet he caught the next steamer a day behind us."

"What do Thunderchief and he have in common?"

"Nothing, Longinus was only following the stone, and it was dumb luck Thunderchief ended up in the same cell."

"Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity—why hasn't Thunderchief given it to Cushing?"

"I figure Cushing has not agreed to his asking price."

"So his life could be forfeited in Cushing's eyes?"

"Afraid so."

"So England becomes your Treasure Island…"

"I have only read up to the sea voyage—I do like the trust Young Jim has in Long John Silver…"

Mary sits on the other side of the man with the bowler. "Who is your friend? Did I miss anything?"

The man in the bowler looked at me and then her, shrugged, paid for his drink, blowing suds off his mustache, and left. So did Albert.

 

May 9th, 1883
Earl's Court London

Queen Victoria sat in her private box in a blue dress, breaking her tradition of black, with a laughing Scotsman next to her. Buffalo Bill is just leaving her to take center ring.

Next to me, an Irishman is sneezing into his popcorn; "Excuse me, I'm afraid I caught a cold from one of my kids."

"No problem," I say.

"What do you think of the Irish cause?" the sick, pale father asks, looking a little sanguine.

"I mean, do you think the Brits have bled them long enough—how long can you sink your teeth into a nation before they bleed out?"

"Well—"

"They have drained the spirit from us; they are using the Unionist and their Orangemen as their familiar to feed on us, the blood suckers—oh there is my family, what is your name—we might meet again," said the devoted Iris father.

"Henr—Edward Searles."

"Stoker, Bram Stoker. Good talking to you!"

Thunderchief just entered the ring, leading a war party attacking a pioneering cabin. The pioneering father pushing his family into the home, takes a shot, before moving inside to shoot through the window as the house is encircled. The braves now unhorse, and creep in on the house. A bugle blares, the Sixth Calvary rushes in and the Braves depart.

By now I notice Thunderchief has snuck out. I motion to Achak and his brother Malsumsis to leave the show and follow.

Caroline is sitting with Du Bois as he talks to a young pressman. "I was studying to be a priest—my family has avoided the troubles of the Catholics for almost 600 years—an ancestor saved Henry the Second from the battlefield, pulling him into his saddle we still are horsemen, raising them for the track, my father started a publishing dynasty, I'm supposed to inherit—Catholic, I was to be a Catholic priest in Anglican England, but now I have ink on my lapels…"

"I always wanted to start a paper to speak about the struggles of the Negro and one day hope to uplift our souls," William said with pride.

"Oh, my father started a social movement," the young man said. "He fired a labor oriented reporter, who founded The Clarion…I could leave my father—"

"Be happy you have one."

Mary just walked through and had Caroline move over as she handed out the popcorn. William shared his with Edward Hulton the younger. His father owned the second largest newspaper chain in England, with their press and horses in Manchester.

I venture off to meet Arthur Waite. He just recently started a religious, magical society with others from the oldest mystical lodges in London. It was the Golden Dawn. He would know the names of the people who would be bidding on the ruby.

"You know the Indonesian king had a meteor the royal Kris knives been fashioned from for thousands of years the al-Hajar al-Aswad in the corner of the Kaaba, meteors have been revered since they say, since Adam," Waite went on.

"The ruby made its way to Stavanger, from there the first Vikings sailed. They went as immigrants to a quiet land where they could hide their longevity and not be feared."

"Within my library I have the Magnus Codex of the Prose Edda it mentions them sailing to a land of volcanoes to throw the ruby in. The Eskimos told them of a land that was once connected to their realm—a land of fire and ice."

"Yes. They couldn't throw the stone away. They came to terms with their blessings. They lived in peace with the Eskimos until the Irish Culdee monks arrived. They followed their seal hunt to what is Canada now."

"Our Templar myths state they met the Mi'kmaq, who confused their path and history from the unworthy who would only seek longevity for their own selfish needs without giving back to society."

"You said you know someone who knows who would be bidding on it?"

Achak and his brother just got to me.

"I would leave your friends behind; he is a little scared of Asiatics.."

"Where can I meet—"

"Sax Rohmer at Scotland Yard."

Edward and William left the old ladies to find some younger lasses. Around the popcorn and souvenir counter, they bump into Bennet and Crowley again, but they brought wands and knives.

Edward brandished his cane and disarmed both of them and swiped the back of Bennett's legs and crowned him as he raised his head off the ground. William strikes the same blows Sullivan used at Ong's Hat to knock out his rival.

They were walking away when I found them, and I led them back to the gals. Caroline told me later about their adventure.

—

Smoking a meerschaum pipe with a drawn serious face, a bit pale, widow's peaked with hair slicked back, was a man fiddling around outside the precinct. Elementary, it must be the amateur occult detective, Sax Rohmer.

"You must be Henry," Sax says, shaking my hand. "Who are your lovely companions and this young lad?"

"W.E.B. Du Bois and my benefactors Mary and Miss Caroline."

"Glad to meet you," Sax said, shaking William's hand. "Ladies, charmed."

He kissed Mary's hand, and she fingered his palm.

"Well…" he said.

Mary smiled.

Achak and his brother Malsumsis appeared out of the smog of the gaslight. "There is someone watching this door from behind us, behind the curtain on the fourth floor right next to the apothecary sign," Malsumsis mentioned.

"Two bald lads—what is wrong with your friend?" asked Achak.

"Are…you, Sino.." asked Sax. For a sword, he was a bit short and not that sharp…

"What is with him.." asked Achak. "They had bad Manitou."

"Ignore them," William said with glee. "I already laid them flat twice!"

"You two, keep watch as we go in," I asked.

"Why did you bring us here?" I ask.

"I wanted to introduce you to the highest bidder," Sax said, holding the door open to the morgue.

Once we got inside, an older gent walked our way. "Henry, this is William Wynn Wescott," Sax said. "Royal coroner and lodge brother. His compatriot in the autopsy, Arthur Conan Doyle."

They just nodded.

"I would shake your hands, madams," Wescott said. "But, my hands have a bit of brains about them." Doyle shrugged with his hands inside of a corpse.

"For I'm afraid, I'll need to introduce the highest bidder, for he is just a tad incapacitated," Sax said, pointing at the man that Doyle had his hands within. "Mr. Right Ho."

The corpse was viciously lacerated with deep, jagged, angry cuts that left behind not much of its torso's interior.

"Before I was married," Mary started. "I met a few men who left me prone, alone, like the corpse there, I wanted to eviscerate…."

"Somebody must have got real mad to want to kill em that way…" William said.

Then the corpse bolted upright, at least his spirit.

Corporeal and mucus green. He spat out a catfish bone. "I kept telling me wife her cooking was going to be the death of me—then again, that fish gave me a hell of a fight, but it would seem he won in the end…"

Another man entered; "My son, didn't you notice the contortion of the neck muscles, the darkening under his Adam's apple, and the puckering of the lips; he died trying to expel the bone." Said another man in apron and gloves.

"This is my mentor," said Doyle. "Dr. Bell."

"Glad to meet you," Bell said, shaking my hand. "He must have been savaged after death; there is very little blood splattered about."

It reminded me of Captain White's death, which inspired Poe's Tell-Tale Heart. Poe's Dupin would inspire Sax's and Doyle's detectives in their fiction.

"Crowley and Bennet were seen leaving his brownstone the evening he was found," said Sax.

William choked.

"I received a scroll from Cushing," said Wescott. "Cushing is holding the bidding at the old Temple in Paris."

My family escaped the Templar Temple by boat at La Rochelle when King Philip IV sent out a death warrant for all the Templars in Europe in 1307. He had the pope assassinated and placed a cousin on the papal throne, who pulled a Becket and gave us warning. Jaques de Molay was supposedly sacrificed, their leader. Some say his face is on the Shroud of Turin. He did look, a little like me…

My grandfather, William Sinclair, made a bargain with Robert the Bruce for land outside Edinburgh for some horses to defeat Longshanks. He brought the Templar's treasures there, and I brought them underneath Salem, MA, into the tunnels first carved out my the thermal vents of its volcano.

"I always wanted to see the old family seat…" I said with glee.

"Sorry, Napoleon tore it down. The tunnels only remain under the current park, where Cushing is holding his little auction," Sax said.

"What he said," said the corpse. He looked at Doyle, with his hands inside his prone body beneath him, and then the room. "Well, OK. I guess I have nothing to add." Then the corpse sank back into ectoplasm, and the body swallowed up his spirit.

"Saints be alive," Doyle said. "I knew spirits existed—I got these amazing photos of Lady Cottingham's garden fairies—"

"You should meet my young friend Houdini, he loves ghosts," said Sax.