Black Ceremonies (12 page)

Harper felt his throat. “You cut me, you bastard!” he declared, in some surprise. “Head hurts as well. Leastways, not as much as yours though, huh?” he said, fashioning bandages for his wounds from the bounty hunter’s shirt.

“Now, what am I gonna do with you?” As he went through the bounty hunter’s pockets, Harper pondered what to do with the insensible man. He found a cheroot. “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

Harper lit up, then rolled the unconscious bounty hunter into Gibson’s grave.

As he filled in the grave, Harper considered his situation. Franklin had cheated him, and now he would never know where the money was buried. Perhaps Franklin had even lied about it being buried in the cemetery. He wondered how long it would take to dig up every grave. “Too long,” he said aloud, looking around him. “Lot of dead men.”

His gaze alighted on the grave he had randomly pointed out to the bounty hunter. It looked no different to any of the others, apart from the name on the wooden cross.

Harper began to laugh wildly.

The name on this marker read: Cal Harper.

Was it possible?

“Only one way to find out.” He gathered up his tools, and once again set to digging up a coffin.

Harper grunted in exertion, as he pulled on the rope that he’d fastened around the coffin. “Damn heavy.” He almost laughed – heavy, that was a good sign.

Straining, he finally pulled the wooden box free of its burial pit.

Harper felt sure he had the right grave this time. “Thought you were being smart, hey, Franklin? Thought you could cheat me, huh?”

A sudden moaning disturbed Harper and he cast around looking for the source, his hand pulling his gun free. “Who’s there?”

But there was no further sound, and he could see no one. Harper holstered his pistol, picked up the crowbar and returned his attention to the coffin.

“Oh, Jeezus!” Harper reeled back from the charnel stench that was released as he forced off the coffin lid.

Holding his nose against the smell, Harper stepped closer to the oblong box. He had not expected the coffin to be occupied by a body. Only the gold. The gold was there all right; still in the cloth bags it had been in when they had stolen it. The bags were packed tightly around a body.

Harper grunted. The corpse was naked and teeming with maggots. He felt sick but steeled himself for a closer look.

Despite the ruined and decayed flesh, the corpse was still recognisable. Harper staggered away and vomited. He had recognised the decomposing body of Brett Franklin.

Harper wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “How in the hell could that be possible?” He shook his head, bringing a burst of pain that made him wince. It couldn’t be possible. It wasn’t possible, he told himself.

Again, Harper heard that eerie moaning, and he span round, drawing his gun. No more bounty hunters were going to take him by surprise. But again there was no one there.

“All right.” Harper took a step closer to the open coffin. Half expecting Brett Franklin to rise up, he kept his pistol aimed at the corpse.

But apart from the writhing of the maggots, there was no movement within the wooden box. He fired anyway, three bullets into the putrid remains of a man he had killed back in Youngerville.

“It ain’t possible.” Harper spat. “I don’t know how you got here, Franklin, but one thing I do know is that you’re dead.” And just to make sure, he fired again, two more bullets into the corpse. “There, that should keep you resting in peace.”

Hunkering down beside the coffin, Harper pulled out one of the cloth bags.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, Franklin, if you tried to trick me and replace the gold with rocks.” He hefted the bag in his hand, reassuringly it felt and weighed like gold coins. He shook it, and smiled, pleased by the sound of the coins jingling.

Harper opened the bag – it
was
full of gold coins. “Seems like I’ve done you an injustice, Franklin, old friend.”

He retied the bag and began to remove the rest. “No use to a dead man, now, is it?”

With one bag remaining, a shadow fell across Harper, and he looked up. But once again there was no one to be seen. “Damn graveyard, getting’ to me.” Scanning the cemetery, he reached for the last bag, and felt a hand close on his wrist.

“What the …?” Harper’s face contorted in an expression of horror and disgust. The putrescent hand of the late Brett Franklin was gripping his wrist.

“Let go of me, dammit!” Harper tried to pull free, but the hold was firm. He tried to pry the corpse’s fingers loose to no avail.

“How on earth?” On one of the fingers that grasped Harper’s wrist was a gold ring – the ring that Franklin always wore. The ring that Harper had taken from Franklin’s finger after he had killed him. Harper had not noticed it before, now he fumbled in his pockets with his free hand. And found that the ring had disappeared.

Harper drew his revolver, and aimed it at the corpse’s head. “Damn you, Franklin, if you don’t let go of me, I’ll blast you to hell,” Harper snarled.

The corpse remained impassive, and Harper began to laugh. “I already done that, ain’t I?”

Suddenly Harper changed his hold on his gun, and furiously struck the cadaver’s hand with the butt of the weapon. Again and again he rained blows upon it, and just as suddenly he stopped again. His wrist still imprisoned in the grasp of the corpse’s hand.

“You think you’ve got me beat, don’t you, you bastard?”

Looking around for some means of freeing himself, Harper spotted the shovel. He had cast it aside after uncovering the coffin. It was beyond the reach of his hand. So he lay flat on the ground and manoeuvred himself around trying to reach the tool by hooking it with his foot. Still it remained out of reach.

“The cemetery lies on the other side of that hill.” Jeb Shelton pointed ahead.

“You think we’ll—” The sound of a single shot interrupted Marshall Wes Procter’s reply. “Come on,” he yelled, spurring his horse forward.

“It’s him all right.” Procter confirmed.

The man in the grave still lived. But only just.

“Harper, can you hear me?” Procter leaned closer to the dying man.

Harper gasped for breath. “Franklin wouldn’t let me go.” Blood spluttered from his mouth. “Bastard had hold of me … wouldn’t let me go … held my wrist tight … couldn’t break his hold.” Harper’s words were growing fainter now. “Bastard said he’d kill me … couldn’t escape … but I cheated him of his vengeance …” Procter thought Harper was trying to laugh. “Used a bullet on myself …” With a bloody gurgle, Harper fell finally silent.

“What do you suppose happened, Marshall?” asked a puzzled Shelton.

Procter surveyed the scene. An open coffin with its dead occupant. Several bags of gold coins. A freshly dug grave, with a wooden marker that already bore the name of its
just-dead
occupant – Cal Harper.

“He said that Franklin had a hold of him, wouldn’t let loose, and he couldn’t break that hold.” Procter shook his head.

“Hell!” Shelton looked in the coffin, and turned pale.

“Take a good look.” Procter spat on the cemetery dirt. “That’s the fate that awaits all of us.”

Shelton had seen enough and stepped away. “But is that really Brett Franklin?”

The Marshall shrugged. “Hard to tell, body’s too far gone to say for sure.” Procter paused to light his pipe. “But hell,” he continued, “I can’t see how it can be. Brett Franklin’s only been dead two weeks. Harper killed him in Youngerville, and he was buried there too.”

Shelton frowned. “What I don’t understand—”

Marshall Procter cut him off. “Best not to try. Reckon he was raving at the end there. And besides, they always called him Crazy Cal. I guess he really was.”

“
The Book of Setopholes
? Pah!” Professor Ernest Mellman snorted in derision. The archaeologist leaned back in his armchair. “Next you will be telling me, you believe in Lovecraft’s
Necronomicon
!”

Professor Julius Greydin glared at his seated guest. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mellman. Lovecraft’s book is a mere fiction.”

Mellman chuckled. “Oh, and
The Book of Setopholes
isn’t?”

“Of course not,” snapped Greydin.

Although the academics were aged similarly – in their fifties – they were quite different in appearance.

Professor Greydin stood by the fireplace smoking his pipe. He was a tall, slim, and rather handsome man, with sleek dark hair. His colleague was shorter and broader. He wore a large pair of glasses, and what little remained of his hair was white.

One other man was present – although he was many years their junior – one of their students named Tony Danziger. He was quietly examining some of the curious tribal masks that adorned one wall of Professor Greydin’s study.

“Really, Julius, you know as well as I do that that book does not exist.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mellman,
The Book of Setopholes
does exist,” insisted Greydin.

Professor Mellman glanced at Tony Danziger, and winked. “Have you tried Arkham’s Miskatonic University, Julius?”

Greydin did not bother to respond to his flippant comment.

“No, I’m sorry, Julius, but the only place it exists is in the minds of a few poor deluded souls.” Professor Mellman chuckled again. “You’re not one of those are you, Julius?”

“You’ll eat those words before the week is out, Mellman.”

“Well, I know I have a healthy appetite,” Mellman slapped his ample belly, “and I’ll try almost anything when it comes to food, but I doubt I’ll find a few words very filling.”

Greydin muttered, “Oh, you’ll taste humble pie.”

Tony Danziger – a fine example of youthful vitality – had been listening with interest. His curiosity in need of satisfying, and fearing that the professors would come to blows, the tall and broad-shouldered student decided that now was a good time to interrupt. He sat in one of the leather armchairs and asked, “Excuse my ignorance, but just what is this
Book of Setopholes
?”

Professor Mellman answered, “It’s a fantasy. Haven’t you been listening, Tony?”

“Pay no attention to him, Danziger. You are aware of course, that Plato tells us Solon learnt of Atlantis from an Egyptian priest.” Greydin held up a decanter. “More brandy?”

“Of course.” Mellman held out his glass.

Danziger nodded in response to both statement and question.

Greydin refilled their glasses, then began to pace the room. “
The Book of Setopholes
is a legendary book of knowledge written by an Egyptian priest. Among the wisdom it contains, is an account of Atlantis and its fate.”

“You mean of its drowning?” Not surprisingly, the student was familiar with the story of the legendary island.

“Yes, but Setopholes tells us that the Atlanteans worshipped dark and evil gods, with unholy rites and human sacrifices. But then – for some unknown reason – they gave up their bloody worship of these foul beings. It was then that Atlantis was drowned by the waves of the sea, as a punishment for turning away from their evil gods,” explained Professor Greydin.

“Hmm,” Danziger considered this. “A slight difference from Plato’s account then.”

Professor Mellman poured himself another glass of brandy, and said, “Ah, but that’s not all is it, Julius?”

“You’ve probably assumed that Setopholes was the name of the Egyptian priest, but you would be wrong. His name is lost to us,” continued the anthropology professor.

The student asked, “Then who, or what, was Setopholes?”

Professor Greydin went on, “He was the man who told the nameless priest all of the arcane knowledge contained in the book.”

“Come on man; get to the best bit,” Mellman urged.

“All right, all right, Mellman, I’m coming to it.” Greydin glared at his colleague.

“Setopholes was a wizard who passed on his wisdom to the priest, by the use of a spell, and the knowledge was revealed to the priest in his dreams.”

Unable to restrain himself, Mellman interrupted, “But the best part of this fantastic tale is that the things the priest learnt from these spell-sent dreams happened on another world.”

Greydin again glared at the archaeologist.

“Isn’t that the most outrageous thing you’ve ever heard, Tony?” Mellman laughed. “No, wait a minute, what’s more outrageous is that anyone would believe such a thing could possibly be true.”

Unwilling to offend either professor, the student remained quiet.

As did a scowling Greydin.

“But of course it’s all a hoax,” said Mellman.

“So, just what is the origin of this book, then?”

“There are references to it in a Victorian book called
Mysteries of Dark Wisdom
; you have a copy haven’t you, Julius?”

“Of course I have,” Greydin replied. “Would you like to see it?” he asked Danziger.

“Yes, Professor, I would.”

As Professor Greydin went to retrieve it from one of the many bookcases contained in the room, Mellman went on, “It claims that there were translations and copies of
The Book of Setopholes
made through the ages, among them Greek and Latin, and even some medieval copies. Unfortunately for Julius, this Victorian book is universally considered – not to put too fine a point on it – a load of old tosh.” Mellman laughed again.

Greydin grunted. “Huh! That’s what you think.” The anthropologist had taken the book to his desk.

“Not just me, old boy.” Mellman remained where he sat, but Danziger went to take a look.

“This is Charles Roland’s,
Mysteries of Dark Wisdom
, published in eighteen ninety,” Greydin said, pride evident in his voice. “Not many copies survive.”

“Charles Roland? I’ve never heard of him,” admitted Danziger.

“Few have,” Greydin conceded. “And to be honest, little is known about the man himself. He was born in eighteen forty-three and died, or at least, was last seen in nineteen o seven. But what is certain, is that he was an expert on the occult.”

Professor Mellman snorted again. “Hah! He was a charlatan and a crank.”

“Few men have dared delve as deeply into such matters as Roland,” contended Professor Greydin.

“This book is a compendium of sorcery and the occult, but its primary interest is the information it provides upon
The Book of Setopholes
,” Greydin explained.

“So, apart from Atlantis being on another world, what else is in
The Book of Setopholes
?” Danziger turned the pages of the Victorian book carefully.

“It’s a collection of magical spells and rituals, information on gods and demons, and records of the history and events of Setopholes’s world.”

Professor Greydin ignored Mellman’s snort. “Roland intended to publish a translation of
The Book of Setopholes
, and a more detailed book about it and its contents. Alas neither was to appear.”

“Bloody good job if you ask me.” Professor Mellman’s opinion was scathing, “Roland was no more than a mere writer of fiction, and not very good fiction at that.”

“Well, I for one would like to read it,” said Danziger. “May I borrow this please, Professor?”

Greydin was pleased that the student was showing such an interest. “Yes, but please be careful with it.”

“I will; don’t worry.”

Mellman groaned, “Oh, for goodness sake, Tony, you don’t want to be wasting your time reading that.”

The clock struck the hour – ten o’clock.

The student smiled. “Speaking of time, it’s time I was off.”

“Yes, me too, Julius. Thanks for the brandy, excellent as always. I will see you tomorrow.”

“It’s been an interesting evening, Professor Greydin. Thank you. And don’t worry about your book, I’ll return it in a couple of days, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine. And I may have something very important to tell you then.”

“Oh?” Mellman’s curiosity was aroused. “And what might that be?”

But despite Mellman’s enquiry, Greydin would say no more on the matter and wished his guests goodnight.

Student and professor shared the same route for part of their journey to their respective homes.

“Well, what do you suppose that was all about, Professor?”

Professor Mellman smiled. “Can’t you guess?”

“I’ve really no idea.”

“You know; Julius has never been married?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” admitted Danziger. “Do you mean he intends to announce his engagement?”

Mellman shook his head. “It’s rare for Julius to let someone borrow one of his precious books.”

Professor Mellman’s apparent change of subject had Danziger puzzled.

“He likes you, young Tony.”

“You mean …?” Danziger was dumfounded, momentarily lost for words. “Just what are you suggesting, Professor?”

“Suggesting? Was I suggesting something? Ah, I have to go this way now, and much as I’d like to continue our conversation, it’s much too chilly for me to hang around here. I’m off home, young Tony. No, I’m none the wiser than you. We’ll just have to wait and see what revelation Julius has to make.”

A couple of days later an uncomfortable Tony Danziger was back in Julius Greydin’s study. He had only intended returning the professor’s book, but Greydin had insisted he come in. Professor Mellman was again sitting by the fire.

“Well, Julius what’s this all about?” Mellman asked, once Danziger had joined them.

“I told you last time you were here, that I might have an important announcement to make.”

Danziger looked worried. He had assumed that with Professor Mellman present there would be no embarrassing declaration by Professor Greydin. Surely, the professor was not going to reveal that he was in love with him in front of his colleague.

Greydin spoke, “As Mellman knows, I have been searching for many years, for what I suppose you could call my heart’s desire. It has proved to be a most elusive search; one that I feared would never find fulfilment. But now, and I can scarcely believe it, my quest has come to an end.”

Danziger glanced at Professor Mellman. Mellman smiled back.

“After all this time I have finally found it.” Professor Greydin paused dramatically, before announcing, “Gentlemen, I have
The Book of Setopholes
.”

The student breathed a sigh of relief; he thought he saw Mellman wink at him. The old devil had been kidding him all along!

Mellman was saying, “Really, Julius, you don’t expect us to believe you’ve managed to locate a copy of that damned book, do you?”

“Not just found, Mellman. I have it. Well, don’t just sit there come and see; you too, Danziger,” urged Greydin, unlocking one of his desk’s drawers.

From the drawer he carefully removed a large book, and gently laid it upon the desk. The other men gathered round. The ironbound book was easily identifiable of being of great antiquity.

“My God!” Mellman gasped.

Greydin opened the book turning to the title page. “This is what you have refused to believe in for more years than I care to remember, Mellman. This is probably the only surviving copy of the only printed edition of the legendary
Book of Setopholes
,” he announced, his tone reverential.

For once Mellman was speechless. It was left to Danziger to ask, “Where on earth did you get it, Professor?”

Greydin was reluctant to reveal how he had come by the book, “A dealer in antiquities and antiquarian books that I know located it for me. But that’s not important, what is important is that the book exists,” was all he would say.

Danziger had read all about the different editions of
The Book of Setopholes
, but he had never expected to see one. Especially not the printed version of 1510.

The book was nearly five hundred years old, and had been included on the Index of Forbidden Books by Pope Paul IV in 1559. Quite naturally, it was not in good condition, but it was a miracle it had survived at all.

Neither Mellman nor Danziger pressed Greydin for further information on his acquisition of the book; they were too eager to see what was printed on its fabled pages.

At first, Mellman was convinced the book was a fake, but reluctantly he had to admit, “Well, Julius it appears to be genuine. Though of course it will have to be analysed to prove whether it is or not.”

Although Danziger did not know much Latin, especially that of Renaissance Italy, the three men studied the ancient tome late into the night. The student having to content himself with the translations made by the other men, and the grotesque woodcuts that illustrated the book.