The Map of Chaos (44 page)

“Emma . . . ,” he spluttered.

“No, Monty, please,” implored Jane, horrified. “Don't jump. Emma wouldn't have wanted it—”

“Emma!” cried Murray.

He wheeled round, and leapt back into the room.

“I knew it!” Doyle exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew he wouldn't jump.”

Taking no notice of him, Murray ran toward Wells and, grabbing his arm, dragged him over to the window.

“Look, George, look!” he said, his eyes flashing. “It's Emma, she's there . . .”

“What?”

They all rushed over to the window and poked their heads out expectantly.

“I don't see anything,” Wells murmured.

“Nor do I,” said Jane, screwing up her eyes. “What exactly did you see, Monty?”

Murray didn't answer. He spun round and darted out of the room. Alarmed, the others pursued him, almost stumbling over one another on the stairs. When Murray reached the spot where he had seen Emma, he halted and looked around, anxious and confused. The others arrived, gasping for breath, but before they could ask him to explain, Murray took off again across the lawn. His friends watched with pitiful faces as he ran up and down the pathways and around the lily ponds calling Emma's name, pausing occasionally, as if to listen, before resuming his mad, pointless race. At last he fell to his knees, exhausted, crooning his beloved's name amid loud sobs. Wells went over to Murray, knelt down beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Murray looked at him, his eyes ravaged by the most devastating grief imaginable.

“I saw her, George, I tell you I saw her,” he whispered between sobs. “It was her. She was there . . . Why did she vanish?”

Doyle also knelt beside Murray and smiled benevolently at him.

“She's trying to get in touch with you, my friend,” he explained almost affectionately, like a father consoling his child, “but she can't find a way. Perhaps she simply wants to remind you of your assignation at Brook Manor. She herself prearranged it the day she died. As I once told you, spirits need a conduit in order to communicate with us. They need mediums . . .”

T
HREE DAYS AFTER THE
G
REAT
Ankoma arrived in England, Murray was at the door of Brook Manor just as evening was beginning to blur the contours of the landscape. He was accompanied by Jane, who had been watching over him that day. Waiting for them inside the house were Wells and Doyle, who had arrived in a hired carriage that morning with the medium. The Great Ankoma wanted to spend a few hours in the spot where the séance was to be held, allowing the spiritual forces there to scent him, like someone letting a strange dog sniff him before stroking it.

“I still don't know how I let myself be talked into coming all the way here,” Murray snapped at Wells when he came to open the door to them.

Murray kept muttering to himself as he strode into the hallway, and Wells and Jane exchanged knowing looks. After a perfunctory embrace, Wells shepherded Murray into the dining room, where the séance was to take place. At a glance, he saw that his friend had at least spruced himself up a bit and wasn't wearing his clothes inside out, something for which he doubtless had Jane to thank.

“I promise you won't regret it, Monty. Just try to relax so that the mysterious forces of the Hereafter don't feel rejected by you, and—”

“That's enough, George, please,” interrupted Murray, waving his hand impatiently. “I came here to see Emma, not to listen to your spiritualist nonsense.”

Wells nodded with a sigh as the two of them, followed by Jane, entered the main reception room adjacent to the hallway. The room felt warmer, thanks to the last of the afternoon light, which was shining on the hearth. The mounted deer heads continued to challenge one another, caught in a duel that would never take place. At the far end of the room, Doyle was waiting for them, firmly planted in front of the door leading to the dining room, like a sentry guarding the entrance to the Hereafter.

“Good evening, Gilmore,” Doyle greeted Murray. “I'm glad you came. I am sure that not only will you not regret this, but that you will also—”

“If you don't mind, Doyle,” Murray cut in sharply, “let's get started, shall we?”

“Of course, of course, we can begin at once,” said Doyle, who was not prepared to skip any part of the ceremony simply because of Murray's impetuosity. “However, before I introduce you to the Great Ankoma, who is busy concentrating in the dining room, let me remind you that he has traveled all the way from South Africa just to help you, that he has never taken part in this kind of séance before, and that he isn't motivated by greed. All of that is to his credit, as I'm sure you will appreciate, and I hope you demonstrate that by behaving with the due respect.” He looked straight at Murray, doing his best not to appear threatening and, ironically, achieving the opposite effect. “The Great Ankoma only speaks the Bakongo dialect, but I shall interpret for him. I managed to pick up quite a few words during my stay in his village.” With this, Doyle turned around and, opening the door ceremoniously, pronounced: “I hope you are prepared, Gilmore. Your idea of the world will change as of tonight.”

The spacious, windowless room was dimly lit by rows of candles, their flames glinting off the rusty metal swords and making the faces of the Cabell ancestors look even more spectral, as if the artist had painted their portraits after their deaths from drowning. At one end of the table, a figure sat half in the shadow, head tilted, arms outstretched, palms facedown on the linen tablecloth in front of him. The meager light from the lamp placed in the middle of the table scarcely penetrated the gloom enveloping him. Doyle led the group a few paces to the opposite end of the table. Leaving them there, he approached the medium with reverential steps and whispered something to him, presumably to awaken him from his trance. The medium moved his head very slowly, as though emerging from a long snooze or a heavy bout of drinking, and looked at the others without seeing them. Ankoma was a skinny fellow whose age was difficult to judge, owing to his flowing beard and no less bushy hair, which all but swallowed up his features. Only his beady eyes twinkled intriguingly amid the cascade of grey locks that fell over his brow. He was wearing a sort of loose-fitting dark tunic, and around his neck hung colorful necklaces and strings of beads, among which Wells thought he glimpsed the tooth of some unknown animal. Speaking to no one in particular, the medium began to utter a series of guttural noises, which sounded as if he were choking on a chicken bone.

“He says there are many spirits here,” Doyle translated dutifully.

“Hmm,” grunted Murray, who refused to be easily impressed.

Doyle looked at him sternly in admonishment, then proceeded to the introductions. Once these were over, he invited Murray to take the seat facing the Great Ankoma, while he sat on the medium's right and Wells and Jane on his left. Once they had all settled in their chairs, Doyle resumed his role as master of ceremonies.

“Excellent. Now, Ankoma is a specialist in automatic writing,” he explained to Murray, “and so is going to communicate with Emma's spirit, and if she agrees, he will try to make her talk to you by writing on this slate.”

“But I don't want Emma to write on some stupid slate!” Murray protested. “I want to see her. I want her to appear to me as she did in the garden!”

Doyle wagged his head, genuinely dismayed by Murray's stubborn attitude.

“Look, Gilmore . . . ,” he explained patiently. “Every medium has a method or a special talent for communicating with spirits; you can't just oblige them to do it another way. Besides, the main thing is for you to talk to her, isn't it? The way you do it is secondary.”

Murray looked suspiciously at the slate on the table, next to the gas lamp.

“Did he communicate with his Bantu ancestors using slates?” he inquired coldly.

“Obviously not,” replied Doyle, who was becoming irritated by Murray's insolence. “He used palm leaves. But we are a bit more civilized over here . . .”

“Palm leaves . . . ,” sighed Murray. “Very well. Carry on, Amoka.”

“Ankoma,” Doyle corrected.

“Ankoma, Ankoma . . . ,” Murray repeated, spreading his hands to encourage the medium to proceed.

Ankoma nodded almost indifferently, as if his orders came from a higher power unknown to men, and certainly to Murray. His body seemed to slacken, losing its previous rigidity, his eyes closed, and a sort of beatific calm relaxed what was visible of his face almost to the point of imbecility. Then he began a gentle rocking movement, which grew more and more intense, until soon he was writhing around on his seat as if someone had stuffed it with stinging nettles. Moments later, he began to jerk and make ridiculous gurgling noises, like a boiling kettle, which made Doyle sit up in his chair. Everyone sensed that something important was happening or was about to happen. And they were right, for just then a lengthy, spine-tingling sound, like grinding teeth, rent the air. They all peered into the surrounding shadows, trying to see where the screeching was coming from, until they realized it could only have been made by the rusty hinges on one of the doors. They examined them through the thick gloom, but both were closed. Then the floorboards began to emit faint, intermittent creaks, warning them that someone was walking toward them across the room. Murray arched his eyebrows as the steps came closer and closer before seemingly moving away again, as though whatever it might be had begun circling the table with sinister slowness and was scrutinizing them. Murray looked first at Doyle, then at Wells, but the two men ignored him, busy as they were exchanging uneasy glances. For his part, the Great Ankoma remained silent, staring apprehensively into the darkness enveloping the dining room. After several moments during which they looked at one another in bewilderment, Doyle drew the medium's attention with a subtle gesture and then pointed to the slate, as if to remind him that this was his usual way of communicating with spirits. The Great Ankoma picked it up with his scrawny hands, where the crisscrossed veins beneath his pale flesh stood out like snow-covered roots, and held it for a few moments as though unsure what to do next. At that moment, Wells squeezed Murray's shoulder abruptly, a gesture that was meant to encourage him, but in spite of the distraction, Murray noticed Ankoma make a suspicious movement under the table. When Murray caught his eye, the medium placed the slate facedown on a piece of chalk as his body seemed to go into brief convulsions, and a nonsensical refrain spewed from his mouth. A few seconds later, he turned the slate over with the nonchalance of someone removing a cake from the oven and pushed it toward Murray. On the side that had been clean, he recognized his beloved Emma's scrawl: “Hello, I'm Miss Mournful,” he read in disbelief.

“Oh, dear, it looks as if the Great Ankoma has contacted the wrong spirit,” Doyle remarked, disillusioned.

Wells and Jane nodded, also disappointed, though still glancing about warily.

“No, no,” Murray hastened to explain. “Miss Mournful is the private nickname I used for Emma.”

He contemplated the message on the slate with a puzzled expression. He could have sworn he saw the medium up to some trick, probably exchanging slates under the table, but that wouldn't explain the creaking door or the footsteps pacing round them. Above all, it didn't alter the fact that no one knew the nickname he had used with Emma in private. No one but her.

“Then . . . good God, he's contacted Emma!” Wells exclaimed, overcome with emotion.

“Yes, dear George! We did it!” Doyle bellowed excitedly. Then he turned toward Murray and barked, “Remember what I said to you, Gilmore, about believing in spirits if a loved one speaks to you using words only you and she were aware of?”

Murray looked at Doyle askance and then nodded slowly.

“Go on, Gilmore, the channel is open,” Doyle urged, exalted. “Speak to Emma. Ask her anything you like. For instance, why don't you ask her if—”

Murray cut Doyle short with a gesture, contemplating him with a mixture of unease and indignation before raising his eyes to the ceiling.

“Emma, my love, are you really there?” he asked tentatively, unable to keep a tone of optimism from creeping into his voice.

“She already told you she's here, Monty,” Wells remonstrated. “Why not ask her if—”

But before he was able to finish his sentence, Murray gave a start and sat bolt upright in his chair. The others looked at him, bewildered, not understanding what was the matter. For a few moments, Murray remained stiff and pale, a stupefied look on his face as he held his breath.

“Oh, God . . . ,” he howled. “Oh, God . . .”

A few seconds later, still flattened against the back of the chair, he heaved a deep sigh, letting out all the air he had been keeping in, then raised his left hand to his face and gently stroked his own cheek, as though touching it for the first time, his lips breaking into a smile of dizzy joy.

“She caressed me!” he declared, filled with emotion as he clasped Wells's arm. “It's all true, George. Emma is here. She caressed me—I felt her fingers touch my cheek!”

“Calm down, Monty,” Wells implored, looking inquiringly at Doyle.

“Calm down! Didn't you hear what I said? Emma is here!” Murray leapt out of his chair, casting his gaze anxiously around the room, unsure where to look. At last, his eyes alighted on the medium, and he commanded, “I want to see her!”

Alarmed, the Great Ankoma made a little grunt that seemed to express doubt.

“Make her appear, I beg you!” Murray implored, seized by an almost childlike excitement. “I'll give you anything you want!”

As he was pleading with the medium to make Emma materialize, even if only in the form of a vaporous ectoplasm, Murray could feel the blood throbbing so hard in his temples that he seemed to be on the point of passing out. Or perhaps it wasn't that, but the fact was that the light in the room, made up of the flames from all the candles and the oil lamp, seemed suddenly to grow dimmer.