“We should go spy on Father and Dr. Hood,” my brother said.

“Father will be cross if he discovers us,” I said.

“Father is always cross,” said my brother, and I conceded that irascibility was our father’s typical disposition.

“So we will have to be careful, like spies,” said my brother. I nodded vigorously – for what young boy does not entertain dreams of being a skilled intelligencer, pursuing secretive duties for crown and country, reliant on wits and nerve alone while plunged deep within enemy terrain? For all my brother’s youthful faults, he did from time to time redeem himself with adventuresome ideas such as this. Our curiosity regarding Dr. Hood’s talks with our father was nigh-irresistible; from time to time in the past we had been able to eavesdrop on their late-night discourse, sometimes skillfully, at other times with severe repercussions for our posteriors or leisure privileges. This night would be merely the latest episode in a long series of escapades into the adult world well past our allotted bed-times.

We had been changed into our nightshirts, most likely by Harriet, our family’s long-suffering maid and governess, for which I was most grateful. (I was, as a child, quite leery of uncleanliness, and disposing of such things as my soiled trousers would have put me into a state of intense perturbation. I did not know if my brother had suffered the same embarrassment, and knew he would not answer truthfully if I had asked, so I just assumed the irresolution of his bladder had been equivalent to my own.) Our sleeping attire we found most appropriate, thinking that if our nocturnal espionage was uncovered, we could adopt the manner of somnambulists and possibly allay the rage of our ever-volatile father. However, we did put on stockings, so as to muffle the tread of our feet as we snuck from our bedroom, down the stairs and to the doubled doors of the parlor, where Father and Dr. Hood were engaged in animated discussion as they continued to partake of our father’s brandy, and had – most helpfully for us – left the parlor doors open slightly, which facilitated our surveillance of their conversation. We crouched by that door, encloaked in the darkness of the hallway, and listened with great intent, sometimes espying one or the other of the men as they crossed the room to the sideboard.

We could only speculate regarding the origins of their intercourse, and the precession of ideas that our father and Dr. Hood had entertained thusfar, but it was clear after only a brief interval of listening that the topic of the moment was Hood’s electrical engine, the very same machine that had rendered my brother and I insensate. As, by this point in the evening, both Father and the visiting scientist had imbibed a fair share of intoxicating drink (as was typical for Hood’s visitations), and expected no audience of delicate womanly or childish ears for their words, their verbiage indulged in ample profanities, which in recounting I will deign to censure as I can without losing the gist of the dialogue.

We heard the clinking of a decanter knocking against the edge of a snifter, and saw Dr. Hood’s back as he stood faced away from us by the sideboard, refilling his brandy with an unsteady hand.

“What will you do with the damnable thing, Lannister?” our father bellowed. “The market for electrifying young boys is, shall we say, a niche, at best.”

“The possibilities are endless, my good man. It could replace gas lighting – power any number of machines – there may even be medical applications. The motile power of all organic life is, at heart, electricity,” Hood replied.

“By Christ, you’re not thinking of trying to resurrect the dead, like that Swiss bugger, are you?”

Hood made an broad, slightly wobbly dismissive gesture, and then moved out of easy view. My brother and I struggled to find a better line of sight without making too much noise. “It crossed my mind, but in the final reckoning, it seemed more burdensome than anything else. He wasn’t just bringing things back to life, he was constructing new creatures out of mismatched parts. Prohibitively intensive labor-wise. Besides, I heard the good doctor had some trouble with one of his… collages – complaints from the neighbors, civil entanglements. I don’t need that,” Hood said.

“Naturally. No one of sound mind would engage in such foolishness. There are too many persons living as it is; why return the expired to the animate side of the celestial ledger?”

“The electricists seem to think it’s a worthwhile pursuit,” Dr. Hood said.

I did not understand the term “electricists” at the time, being a child largely unacquainted with the world (despite my natural curiosity) but our father’s recognition was undeniable. He unfurled a string of curses that made my ears burn at the hearing of them. At the end, Hood murmured a curse of his own and swirled his brandy in its snifter.

“Please, Alexander, share your unvarnished opinion with me,” Dr. Hood murmured, his words dripping with sarcastic intonation.

“They seek to infiltrate every tier, every cranny of our society. They’re worse than the g-dd-mned Freemasons.”

“You’re just cross because the Freemasons wouldn’t let you in.”

“I MET AND EXCEEDED THE REQUIREMENTS FOR MEMBERSHIP, HOOD,” our father bellowed, his vocal assertion rattling a decanter on the sideboard. He lowered his tone quite considerably when he continued. “It was clear to me that my admission was blocked by a rival or rival who shall remain nameless for now. Further, I saw no merit in prancing about blindfolded in a subterranean crypt, pretending to ritually disembowel someone. Melodramatic balderdash.”

“You’d rather jump straight to the real thing, aye?” said Hood, as he pantomimed inserting a dagger into the abdomen of some imaginary personage.

“I’d RATHER capitalize in an immediate and profitable way from my new allegiances. What is the point of joining a secret society if not an elevation in status and influence? I do not require the veneer of lurid make-believe. Electricists, however, those spark-obsessed madmen– they are a true menace. They’ll let anyone join. No respect for class or station.”

“They’re harmless. I encountered a clutch of them in Baden-Baden, fully engaged in their dramatic masquerade: stomping about after dark on misty evenings, peculiar metal braces on their limbs, wildly impractical goggles. I scared them off with parlour tricks, very disappointing.”

“We must lower our voices. Their agents can be anywhere.”

“Do not worry about the electricists, my friend. They put on airs of evil, but they’re fussy tinkerers. They’d rather obsess over their gadgets than conquer. If it’s a truly malevolent shadow organization you desire, you need to look to those obsessed with the dark arts. The faction to truly be wary of is the –”

Here, I was shaken from my remembrances, as a subtle shift in the eldritch airs around me keened my awareness to the present day. The blackness of the surrounding expanse remained absolute, but I felt once more the slightest decrease in my velocity. My falling, it appeared, had again decelerated; the wind which had battered my face for an indeterminate amount of time as I recalled Dr. Hood’s visit was lessening in its intensity. Soon I was not only falling in a perceptibly slower fashion, but in an unnaturally slower fashion, as though the air was not air at all but some kind of liquid which was rapidly gaining viscosity. My breathing was unlabored, but the sense that the medium through which I fell was no longer air (or whatever took the place of air within the confines of this uncanny void), but oil or thick syrup, intensified and continued to intensify, until I was moving so slowly that I barely felt any motion at all.

Finally, all sense of motion ceased, and I was left in a spread-eagled posture, holding my lanthorn, affixed in the blackness with no indication of anything in any direction. The stillness and silence unsettled me, and were I not so accustomed to daring exploits and peculiar scenarios I might have panicked, but my steely adventurer’s instincts expressed themselves before I could scream overmuch. A few moments in this profound stillness and then new changes asserted themselves. The darkness was rapidly displaced by indistinct light, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Simultaneously, I felt a heat growing around me, and the sound as of a great suction echoing at an escalating volume, both just as sourceless as the light. All three intensified– light, heat, and noise– until I shielded my eyes from the glare and tried to protect my ears as well, but lacking sufficient hands, I fumbled to cover what I could.

Still the light and the heat and the noise grew until I feared for my sanity, for my very life, as my very physical limitations were tested. The inescapable violence to my senses threatened to overwhelm me, escalating until I felt that all three aspects of this antithesis of the void had consumed me, and I felt what I can only describe as a breaching of some unimaginable wall or plane, and the sound culminated with a massive and echoing concussion, and then the great noise abated, and I was plunged into darkness again, but a finite darkness, and falling again, but the familiar sort of falling one experiences in everyday life (as though from a tree or ladder), and the fall was quite brief, and I landed in a hammock, on top of a person.

“Such a thirst for knowledge!” Hood drolly exclaimed as he held back my struggling brother. “I think I shall need two chief assistants just to keep the peace.”

My father, restraining me in a similar fashion as I continued to thrash, emitted a dry chuckle. “Hood, these boys will spar at the slightest provocation. They are BORN RUMBLERS. Just the other day, that one dropped a vase on this one’s head.”

“Sounds like quite the row,” Hood said.

“The boy suffered no permanent damage. He’s quite stoutly beskulled, due to fortunate genealogy. As for the vase, its fate was far more dire, and not an uncommon one for ornaments in our household. My wife was unamused.” A weariness settled into Father’s face. “This is merely the latest in a series of violent reciprocities between my sons.” Here, my father lifted me up by my collar so that he could look at me “eye-to-eye”, and gestured for Hood to position my brother so that he could address us both simultaneously. Hood complied, and Father took hold of my brother’s collar. “They would be wise to allay their rascality before the damage to property is repaid in kind on their youthful posteriors.” Father dropped us both and rested a hand upon the handle of his sword. “Now attend to Dr. Hood’s request, and for G-d’s sake, be civil about it.”

Father set us down, and my brother and I walked abreast to Dr. Hood’s cart in a solemn, even formal manner, as if we were part of a carefully staged procession. As we walked, we took what small chance we could to push or trip each other as subtly as possible without further arousing our father’s ire. Our secrecy was perhaps overmuch employed, as Father and Dr. Hood had already moved to the sideboard and concerned themselves with the matter of beverage procurement – snifters of my father’s favorite brandy, to be specific.

Dr. Hood’s Journal of Experiments was a hefty tome, as large as the massive Holy Bible my father displayed near the entrance to his study. (Not being a particularly religious man, my father only consulted the Bible when his sons’ misdeeds sent him into an extreme distemper. His consultations were more kinetic than meditative or scholarly, consisting of lifting the Book from its podium and hurling it like a blessed missile at my brother or myself. Certain emphatic verbal invocations of the divine usually accompanied the act, along with much inarticulate bellowing and also some spittle.) The Journal’s cover was adorned with brass at the corners and along the spine, and held secure with a brass lock across the midpoint of its fore edge. The cover entire was marked with streaks of soot and grime, water marks, and many scuffs and scratches. Hood took the Journal everywhere and called it his “most steadfast companion.” My brother and I both attempted to lift it individually, but could not, and were forced to set aside our antagonism for a time as we carried the Journal to the visiting doctor and set it on an adjacent low table for his perusal.

Hood reached inside his shirt and pulled from inside it a brass key, looped about his neck on a piece of white twine. With a deft flourish, he unlocked the book and threw open its pages. Father chuckled a bit at Hood’s melodramatic theatre, but my brother and I were smitten by it; his mysterious charisma bewitched us as he flipped the pages of his Journal, sheet after sheet of esoteric diagrams and ornate, nigh inscrutable notes and captions, until he arrived at his desired page, a page four times the size of the rest, which he folded out from the spine and then down, to reveal the largest schematic yet.

“This is my latest design,” Hood said, “an engine for harnessing electricity, the energy which flows through storms, living creatures, even you and me. Like a lightning jar, but far more sophisticated. It is a complex contraption, but I have introduced some modularity into the plans so that they should be easily constructed, under my careful guidance, by two experienced and attentive assistants.” Hood smiled and winked at my brother and I. Our father was caught in the midst of an incapacitating snort, but quickly rectified the nasal obstruction and gestured with his snifter that we should begin our labours.

My brother and I had unpacked Dr. Hood’s cart on many of his visits, and treated his equipment with great and respectful care. Each time, the cart seemed near bursting with new wonders: strange machines; variegated flasks and bottles; small clockworks stuffed with intricate layerings of gears; and other items which defied easy description. On this occasion, the most prominent additions were four long thin iron poles, and a large spool of copper filament. We assembled the poles, along with other connective pieces, into a framework or scaffold of sorts, two of the poles arranged as great spires that towered over the rest of the construction and nearly brushed against the vaulted ceiling of the parlor. Hood shouted directives to us as he and Father indulged in multiple snifters of brandy. My brother and I, meanwhile, continued to pursue our furtive hostilities, each of us ensuring that Father was engrossed in conversation with his visiting friend before attempting a quick and well-placed jab on the other. We never cried out upon the other’s success, as even in our youth, we were trained to aspire to gentlemanly behavior.

Soon enough, we had completed the construction, and Hood retrieved from his cart a small chest, then pulled from the chest’s interior a large cylindrical shape, wound all about with more copper filament. He placed this spool-like object into an indentation at the center of the device, and connected metal clamps to notches on its housing. He spun the object to ensure that it rotated without obstruction, then moved to a standing metal frame studded with gears and connected to the object’s housing by long strips of iron.

“I will stand here,” Hood said, gesturing to the frame, “and, by treading alternately on these flat levers near the floor, cause the core spool to rotate at a magnificent velocity.” He began to tread, pushing down with his right foot then his left, as one lever contrived to rise up as the other was pushed down. Soon the core spool was spinning quite briskly, and emitting a low hum. Hood told me to take up a position near the framework, and directed my brother to a large brass hand lever at the far end of the scaffold, its handle wrapped in deep red fabric. “Pick up the two copper clamps you see before you. When I tell you to do so, you will attach them to the scaffolding. That will allow the pent-up electrical energy to flow from the core spool into the tallest poles of the scaffold, creating a spectacular cascade of man-made lightning!”

“I do not know that I am keen on having lightning in my foyer, Hood,” my father said.

“It’s perfectly safe, good man. I’ve tested this at least half a dozen times. Well, three times. And no one has died as a direct result of this experiment in any of my preceding attempts. It’s all a matter of sequencing.” Treading very quickly on the levers, Hood turned to my brother. “Now, when I give the word, push your lever up –” My brother immediately pushed the lever up.

The sensations I next experienced are not easily translated into words. I was, at least for a brief moment, unconscious. Preceding that was what I can only describe as a brief, almost explosive, extraordinarily loud hum, perhaps no more than a second long, that vibrated throughout my entire body. I had, of course, been subjected to the flow of electricity from the core spool to the scaffolding, my body standing in as a connector between the two copper clamps I had been unable to secure to the iron frame. Hood had leapt from the treadmill and pulled the lever my brother had connected. I immediately suspected my brother of intentional malice against me, of taking our familial rough-housing too far, and would have thrown myself at him in a rage, had I been physically capable.

Alas, I was not. My ears rang like cathedral bells, and I shook uncontrollably. I was still standing but I attributed this to an overstimulated “locking” of my muscles under the effect of the electric shock. A metallic taste filled up my mouth, and a odor of combustion touched my nose, but only in faint waves. Hood moved toward me, and regarded me, but kept his distance.

“Not what I intended, but still an opportunity to expand the bounds of knowledge. So, young man, how do you feel?” he asked.

The ringing in my head had subsided to the extent that I could hear and understand Dr. Hood’s inquiry, but crafting an appropriate response proved challenging. I continued to shudder with a disturbing violence and frequency. The intensity of the tremors all but prevented clear vocal expression. Still, I endeavored to try and, seeing Hood as an object of admiration, even an idol of sorts, I wished to impress him with an eloquent summary of my condition. I chose the word “innervated” as the best descriptor, and steeled myself answer the doctor’s question. My brother, having dishonorably won this latest round of fraternal squabbling, stifled laughter as I shook before the expectant Hood. My father swirled his brandy.

“Ininininnninninnernernernernernernvayvayvayvayvayvaytatatatatatatatttttttttededededededededed,” I said

“Did you say – did he say innervated or enervated?” asked Hood, beaming. “‘Innervated’ would make more sense, as he’s just had the very power of the sky thrust into his body!” Hood clenched his fist as he spoke and raised it toward the ceiling.

“Inninninninninninnnerrrnninnerrrrenninnervavavavavavava – ” I said, my spasms showing no sign of recession.

“He said ‘innervated’,” my father said coolly, gazing into his snifter. “Look at him, Hood, he’s positively quivering with pent-up energy.” Hood seemed very pleased with this assessment.

In a sudden and dramatic motion, Father drew his sword and pointed its gleaming tip at my brother. “I HEAR YOU LAUGHING. Accompany your brother upstairs.” A resistant syllable passed from my brother’s mouth before my father slashed the air with his blade, effectively “cutting off” the rest of his complaint.

“GO NOW,” Father bellowed, then added much more quietly, “and help him change his pants.”

Both Hood and I looked down and beheld the dark moist circle which now adorned the front of my trousers. I was chagrined, but Hood looked on me with compassion. “Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve only pissed yourself. I’ve seen grown men do much worse.”

I could not say that Hood’s words, well-meaning though they were, had much positive effect on my disposition, but I appreciated the gesture all the same. My brother arrived at my side, having shuffled slowly from his vantage point in the corner, and grasped my hand to lead me to our room. Again, I heard that abrupt thick hum and was rendered insensate, catching only a glimpse of my brother looking terrified before my sight went black.

One could say, if so inclined, that my circumstances had become neither better nor worse, but merely different, exchanging some details with others for no “net gain” of security or benefit. And, as I fell through the ink-like blackness of this new, but unfortunately familiar, expanse, I felt an equivalent inclination to agree with such an assessment. True, the malevolent gurgling thing which had stalked me through the cabinet’s interior (or first level, had I not yet escaped the widow von Kant’s strange artifact) was no longer an immediate threat. In its place, however, was this attenuated fall, already abnormal in its duration. I felt no ill effects thusfar; the overall sensation was actually quite pleasant, and beyond the possibility of windburn, I foresaw no injury from a protracted fall alone. Pleasant fall or not, though, this fall was still a fall, and as even the most rudimentary observation of the physical world will prove, all falls eventually stop, often with profound suddenness, much to the detriment of that which is engaged in falling. Suffice it to say: my prospects were not good.

The curious irony of my situation was such that I felt no dread about my fate. Though I might impact myself upon some surface at any moment, the nature of the expanse provided no visible clues as to when that collision might occur. Further, given that I had already been falling for some time – I had no watch to consult, but I hazarded somewhere between three and seventeen minutes had transpired between my leap through the hatch and the full realization of my circumstance – it was safe to presume that I had accumulated considerable momentum (assuming the law of gravity applied here as it did elsewhere on earth, which I admit was rather cavalier of me!). Only one conclusion could be drawn: as long as the current conditions persisted, if I ever did reach the ground, or the floor, or whatever awaited me at the end of this fall, my end would by virtually, and mercifully, instantaneous.

I realize that resignation to such a grim fate might seem alien or even distasteful, my faithful readers, and I admit a certain strangeness in the memory even as I recount it. Facing certain death with an eerie calm is not a state that most people experience, and fewer still seek out opportunities to do so. When one lives a life of great risk and adventure, as I do, the chances of finding oneself in such circumstances increase dramatically, and as with any activity, repetition makes even the most unnatural things more commonplace. Though it often lasts only until the immediate crisis has been averted, I have found that extreme danger often provokes a great clarity of mind.

As it was, the lack of immediate threat to my person, and the relentless, even soothing sound of the upward rush of wind induced in me a state of contemplation. Of course, I cannot discount the benefits of my natural scientific curiosity in this case. A less inquisitive person may have found himself shrieking in terror as he plummeted through the void, barely maintaining a grip on his lanthorn, that mundane object acting as his last tether to a comprehensible world and even his very sanity as he hurtled through blackest space toward mysteries he could not hope to fathom (though I’m sure, as the eldritch nature of the expanse revealed itself, and his throat became inflamed and raw from prolonged bouts of screaming, he would eventually find calm, and settle into much the same sort of rumination as I did almost immediately). I, on the other hand, was very quickly enraptured by this new domain and its unique, even marvelous qualities.

Hypothesizing that my current velocity and rushing pressure of the air as I fell would provide support regardless of how my limbs were arrayed, I endeavored to change my bodily position, making adjustments so that I might rotate onto my back. The first rotation took quite a while to accomplish, as I was perhaps erring on the side of over-cautiousness, but soon enough I found myself reversed, my face tingling at the absence of wind rather than its presence. The sensation was not unlike floating on one’s back in a large body of water, albeit without the accompanying wetness. I stayed on my back for some time, until the natural state of wanting to see the direction in which I was traveling (no matter how unrewarding that perspective might be) overcame my desire for novel experience. I rotated myself several more times for shorter intervals, to become more familiar with the process in case it revealed some utility later in my fall, but eventually the persistent downward motion and axial turning conspired to unsettle my stomach, and I ceased my aerial “tricks” before they had more unpleasant consequences.

Some time after my experiments in motion through the expanse, I perceived a very slight change in my velocity. Lacking instruments to gauge such matters, I could not say for certain, but I felt as if I had begun to decelerate. Naturally, this conflicted directly with all we know about gravity and the laws of natural motion. Further, I could very well have grown accustomed to the fall and was imagining some change in speed that did not in fact exist. At the same time, given the peculiarities of the widow’s cabinet – many of which this expanse clearly shared – I felt some latitude might be given to the idea those usually trustworthy laws might be, if not broken, then at least bent to varying degrees. A strong argument could be made that wherever I was, I was no longer bound by the rules Science had established.

The existence of a terrifying, seemingly limitless void that ran counter to humanity’s understanding of the universe naturally reminded me of my father. Always the polymath, he had many ideas about the workings of the physical world, just as he did about the mechanisms of the human mind. He was not a critic of Sir Isaac Newton – “He has many good ideas, especially for a mathematician,” he proclaimed on more than one occasion – but felt that the Newtonian laws, while they were solid general rules and an excellent springboard for further work in the field of physics, did not address the special cases which abounded in nature. Those special cases were the instances to which attention needed to be paid, for they were the instances most likely to spawn contradiction and confuse “the more soft-skulled members of the human race, especially those who lack ample opportunity for self-betterment.”

My father did not indulge in any personal experimentation vis-á-vis the physical sciences, preferring to speculate and test his own hypotheses in areas of knowledge more familiar to him. Instead, he set himself up as a patron of physical scientists, dispensing modest portions of his own estate to further the work of others as they probed various terrestrial and aetheric mysteries. Chief among the beneficiaries of my father’s magnanimity was Doctor Lannister Hood, who made frequent visits to our city home during my more childish years.

Dr. Hood’s visits were met with great enthusiasm from the entirety of the household. Father, of course, wished to “talk shop” with the man, but also enjoyed his company as a young and exuberant bachelor. So too my mother, who was at best tolerant and at worst greatly vexed by most of the scientists my father sponsored, listened eagerly as Dr. Hood recounted his tales of his experimental failures and successes and the journeys required to secure various substances and equipment necessary for the completion of the same. Hood’s work always required exotic chemicals or machines, or the rarefied expertise of some far-off artisan or alchemist, so he was never ill-equipped for tales. (Nor was he ill-equipped for money; in retrospect, I believe my father enjoyed Hood’s company so much because Hood was largely supported by his own estate and inheritance, and thus conflicted with my father’s frugality far less frequently than most of the other learned men he endowed.)

My brother and I were equally enthralled by the good doctor’s stories, and as the more perceptive amongst my readership will have already noted, I am certain his accounts of life as an itinerant gentlemen scientist and seeker of knowledge influenced me and contributed to the long and picaresque chain of events that have culminated in my current circumstance. However, as engrossing and thrilling as his stories were, there was another moment which my brother and I anticipated even more fervently. After Dr. Hood had arrived in our foyer, servants having towed the various cases and trunks that contained his equipage, and with booming voice greeted us all, and pleasantries had been distributed in the sitting room over comestibles, and an exciting tale or two had been told, Dr. Hood would clasp his hands together, lean toward my brother and myself and ask with a rakish grin: “Which one of you would like to assist me with my latest experiment?”

“I believe I have heard of that expedition, good sir, and the ill fortune that befell it,” I said, “though my knowledge is woefully incomplete. Can you share your tale, or is its wound still too fresh upon your soul?”

“I’ve spent an uncertain length of time in an infinite and inhospitable blackness. All other ill fortune, as you call it, is meager in comparison. Further, since there’s little else to entertain us here, and I relish the opportunity to talk to another living person, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” said Spiegel.

“I was born the son of a minor nobleman in Bayern,” Spiegel said, thus beginning his autobiographical narrative from a most traditional starting point. The tale was an intriguing one, so far as I could tell, but as he recounted his earliest memories – the weighty and familiar adventures of a precocious schoolboy, to which, as the attentive reader will most certainly remember, I too was no stranger – I found myself perpetually, and with increasing intensity, distracted by the most glaring discrepancy between the claims of Spiegel and the version of his story as told by the widow von Kant: to wit, his fully functional, and indeed wholly present, left arm. The presence of the arm put me in a profound quandary in regards to the truth of Spiegel’s words, a considerable disadvantage which I found troubling in the extreme. The widow von Kant had thusfar shown herself to be a woman of the utmost integrity, and I had no reason to doubt her words. However, Spiegel himself (assuming, of course, that this actually was Spiegel with whom I was now speaking) possessed the same unmistakable profundity of character, though I had known him only a scant few moments, and in extraordinary circumstances. The irreconcilability of their two truths waged a war in my brain as Spiegel told of his tutors and a personal “restlessness” (he used the word repeatedly), even before reaching adolescence, that caused him to engage in any number of risky endeavors that were quite inappropriate for a boy of his age and station.

“So I found myself aboard the notorious ship Scurah at the preposterous age of thirteen. You know its reputation?” Spiegel asked. I affirmed quickly that I had, not wanting to interrupt the natural momentum of his gest. Though I had not in actuality heard of the vessel before his mention of it, I had considerable knowledge of the corsair’s trade by way of my father’s voluminous library and idle afternoons spent exploring the pages of his many richly-bound histories, and assumed that such a grounding would provide the necessary context. He nodded, and proceeded to relate the circumstances of his time with the privateers, which included all the swordplay and trickery one might expect from pirates and their kin.

The most likely possibility was an impostor, presenting himself to the widow von Kant before her journey, or here, to me in the confines of the widow’s cabinet. If true, it seemed very reasonable to deduce that the impersonation had almost certainly taken place in Kolkata. A false Spiegel gained nothing by duping me, or anyone else who found themselves inside this peculiar box. Deceiving the widow, however, presented clear advantages – most obviously, the laying of a groundwork in which to trap or further swindle her at a later time. The only flaw with this reasoning was that the confidence man had left the cabinet with the widow and then disappeared. Unless a wider conspiracy was in play, with agents aboard the Holy Diver, such a plan had no clear benefit. This realization complemented the recent and peculiar happenings aboard the ship, and warranted deeper consideration.

“…and, covered in the blood of Captain Shillitoe, I raised my knife above my head and was met by the cheers of the Scurah’s crew, becoming the ship’s youngest captain at the age of fourteen years, four months. The corsair’s life was not for me, though, especially in a place of authority over other men of variable honor and intelligence, so I disembarked in Cathay with my share of booty and began a period of wandering.” I nodded to Spiegel and said “Ah, Cathay,” to assure him I was listening.

Perhaps, the cabinet was entirely a ruse, and the cabal of men who sought to harm or extort the widow von Kant had secreted one or more of their number in the cabinet, in preparation for future stages of their plan. Such a possibility cast doubt over Spiegel once more (who, based on what I gleaned from his words betwixt my own ruminations, had spent some time under the tutelage of numerous Oriental mystics). However, a plot that involved two disparate and clearly distinguishable Spiegels seemed to me needlessly complex. Once again, I was left with the likelihood that this Spiegel was the genuine one.

As Spiegel continued his tale, recounting an adventure amongst the tunnels of an underground city in Cappadocia punctuated by an encounter with a spider several times the size of a man, I realized that the only way to rectify these discrepancies between two individuals of unquestionable integrity would be to bring them together and determine where the fell influences of third parties had, for their own advantage, bent the truth to the detriment of the upstanding. Once Spiegel and the widow von Kant met and compared their accounts, any falsehood would be swept away and the remaining facts would shine out as a beacon of unblemished veracity.

Unfortunately, the realities of the cabinet intruded on my reflections, as the unsetting gurgling once more sounded, faint but distinct. Spiegel’s speech halted as the dreadful sound repeated, already more audible.

“Do you know what the source of that noise is?” I inquired.

“There are many strange things within the bounds of this cabinet,” Spiegel replied. “I’ve never felt the need to become more acquainted with any of them.”

“Yes, it seems best to avoid an entity responsible for such unsavory sounds, but we cannot run forever. While we may very well be able to run forever while confined in this cabinet, it seems like an undesirable course of action. If only we knew the way back to the cabinet’s door, or some other means of escape.”

“Oh, I’ve found a way out,” Spiegel said, as if this was a trivial achievement.

My spirits lifted and filled with a sudden exuberance, I took Spiegel’s hand and shook it with a vigor surprising even to me. “Sir, of all your surprises, I must admit that this is the most gratifying. Can you lead me to it, my good man?”

“I believe so,” he said, grabbing my lanthorn and nodding toward the darkness. I followed him, and we walked for (as was now all too familiar to me) an indeterminate amount of time, the hideous gurgling sounding ever closer. After a great deal of purposeful walking, during which Spiegel proceeded with the utmost assurance despite the lack of any landmarks or bearings, he stopped and I did the same. He handed me the lanthorn and began to scrutinize the floor of the cabinet until, barely visible in the dim lanthorn light, a faint square seam revealed itself, and then, a handle in the fashion of a bare metal loop, set in a shallow indentation near one edge of the seam. “Here it is,” said Spiegel, “This is the hatch I found.”

“A most joyous discovery!” I said. “But tell me, why have you not already made use of this egress?”

“I do not know where it leads,” said Spiegel.

“Surely, it leads out, away from this infernal cabinet.” The gurgling, which had been faint recently, now re-asserted itself, as if to support my argument.

“This cabinet is not bound by any rules that man knows. What guarantee do we have that this hatch does not lead to some other cabinet, or something even worse? Which is worse, the known… or the unknown?”

Spiegel raised a valid point, one that rooted quite firmly in my brain and filled me with equivocation. The hatch could lead anywhere, and at least half of those limitless possibilities could prove worse than our current predicament. (Such was the nature of fortune.) The source of the malevolent gurgle had thusfar been easily avoided; who knew what waited for us once we pulled up on that iron ring and relinquished ourselves to the whims of the unknown? At this point, the gurgling echoed out once more, louder than it had been since my first encounter with it, accompanied by a shuffling sound that I could only assume was the tread of the thing. The sound of it dragging itself across the floor of the cabinet was as unsettling as its characteristic gurgle.

“Have you opened the hatch? Perhaps we can see something of what waits for us below,” I hazarded. Spiegel crouched down and lifted up the hatch. Air rushed past me, down through the opening, but of what lay beyond, nothing could be seen. The orifice revealed only a blackness as profound as the blackness within the cabinet, if not moreso.

“That is not very promising,” Spiegel said. Behind us, the gurgling and shuffling grew ever louder.

Eager to maintain a healthy ignorance in regard to the source of the gurgle, I said “Surely, my friend, we won’t waste your marvelous discovery by not taking advantage of our only clear means of escape?”

“No, you are right, the hatch should be used,” he said, and gestured toward the uninviting hole. “After you.” The gurgling resounded again, at ever-increasing volume.

“Ah, but you, sir, have clearly earned the privilege of departing this bizarre cabinet before me. My time imprisoned here is just a moment in comparison to yours.” The cabinet began to reverberate, shake even, with approaching movement of the gurgling thing, as if a heavy stone was being dragged toward us.

“I’m not going first,” Spiegel said, with a hard look in his eyes and a distinct tone of finality that indicated no amount of polite deferral would change his mind. Right after he made clear his refusal, I felt a wave of hot moist air slide across the back of my neck, and the gurgling which had been merely approaching could be definitively labeled as having arrived at our location. Seized by the urgent need to act, and by nature concerned for Spiegel’s safety afore my own, I pushed him down into the mouth of the hatch and then, upon hearing no immediate distress, or in fact any sound at all from the other side of the opening, I dived in after him, contriving to pull the hatch closed behind me and prevent the gurgling thing from accompanying us as we fell away from the widow von Kant’s cabinet.

Whatever small debate occurred between these two aspects of my judgment was quickly neutralized by the emergence of what I can only describe as a malevolent gurgling somewhere nearby, and then a handful of words uttered in a language which I did not recognize, but which was guttural and salivary in character and immediately filled me with both dread and nausea. After hearing that unrepeatable sentence, self-preservation won out against curiousity, and I fled with all due haste.

I am unsure as to how long I ran, considered either in time or distance. The nature of the cabinet’s interior confounded reliable estimates, and the natural fear I experienced near the entrance to the cabinet would have made any of my guesses equally faithless. Eventually I noticed that I was screaming, however, and wisely stopped once my rationality returned, as it could give away my position to whatever might be inside the cabinet with me. I continued running so as to maximize the distance between myself and whatever lurked near the entryway, though naturally, given the cabinet’s qualities, I could not determine a safe distance. I was about to slow to a walking pace, and see if I could detect any signs of a pursuer, when my progress through the darkness was abruptly halted, as a pale and ghostly face loomed with great suddenness out of the impenetrable black afore me.

Seized with fear, my actions governed only by the unthinking instincts that placed survival above all else, I swung my lanthorn at the spectral visage, propelling my arm through the darkness with every ounce of strength that I could muster. One might well imagine my shock when the lanthorn not only impacted upon some substantive object, but elicited a reaction from that object, in the form of an exuberant shriek.

I held my lanthorn up to gaze upon what I had presumed to be some supernatural entity, but which now – in the miraculously unextinguished flame of my trusty lanthorn – was clearly a man of normal corporeality. True, he was shaggy and unkempt, with sunken cheeks and a matted beard, and the combination of his disheveled appearance and his sudden and incongruous arrival directly in my path would have been a source of perturbation for anyone in a circumstance such as my own, but he was in the end, merely a man, with nothing of the eldritch about him.

I said, “I suppose some amount of explanation is in order, and perhaps some expression of my remorse as well, as I certainly did not intend to harm anyone who did not seek to inflict injury on me, though of course I could not have known whether or not you meant to harm me, as I did not know you were so close to me, or even nearby, or in fact anywhere inside this cabinet at all, as I believed I was alone inside this construction, except perhaps for a malevolent force which I believe is hunting me through this vast, dark expanse.”

The man regarded me sullenly, while massaging the side of his face which had absorbed the brunt of the blow.

“Perhaps you can see,” I continued, “how I may have arrived at my erroneous conclusions about you and not immediately recognized your inherent humanity, given the profound darkness of this space, and your remarkably quiet manner of walking, and of course your own lack of personal illumination. A lanthorn.”

The man persisted in his sullenness.

“Now, however,” I said, “it is clear you are a man, and not a dread apparition intent on malicious acts against my person, so I do apologize for accidentally striking you, though I must say that perhaps this situation could have been avoided, had you been carrying a lanthorn of your own or had you not been so inaudible when you approached.”

The man looked on, his expression unchanged.

Feeling that perhaps a return to more civilized comportment might brush aside any lingering ill feeling, I introduced myself to the man, and stretched out my hand to him in genial camaraderie. After some time, he clasped my proffered palm with his free hand in a firm but unenthusiastic manner. “You speak English,” he asked, and I said with pride that I was indeed fluent in the language, and spoke it with, dare I say, both skill and flourish, having even received awards in my youth for the precision and eloquence of my oratorical machinations from no less than two different educational establishments, but the man interjected before I could expound upon my accomplishments in greater detail.

“I’ve no need for your curriculum vitae, your long-winded explanations have been proof enough. I was not asking so much as verifying aloud what I heard. It has been a long time since I heard another voice speaking English. A very long time…”

“How long have you been in this place?” I asked, and while the man attempted to calculate the length of his imprisonment, some of the hardness left his eyes, and indeed something close to melancholy appeared up in them, evidenced by tears which welled up upon their surfaces. However, almost as soon as his sadness revealed itself, he reached for his eyes and pushed the errant beads away while clearing his throat.

“I do not know how long I have been here. I am no longer sure this is even a place. I think that I might be dreaming, and trapped in sleep, so what might be a moment in the waking world is stretching out to eternity. Only in a dream would such a place make sense, with its unending darkness and limitless space. But does one grow a beard in a dream? Is one attacked by strangers with lanterns in a dream, who then apologize in the most roundabout language conceivable? Does one wander without food, or water, or sleep, for what seems to be weeks, months, perhaps even years and find no exit, no landmarks, no sign of any change in the realm in which he is trapped? The answer to all these questions is yes, or at least these things can happen. That you nearly broke my jaw is, ironically, a hopeful proof that this has not been a dream, or is no longer a dream, but it is not conclusive proof, and I am no longer certain that any proof could be conclusive. I have been here forever, or I have never truly been here at all.”

I was, for a moment, struck dumb. Such poetry lay in this man’s words, and such nobility! In a few moments he had laid out his sorry plight, wandering lost in a bewildering, unknown, unknowable place, without even a lanthorn to guide him, and described his very existence in words that not only evoked the very essence of that plight, but also could not fail to rouse the deepest sympathies within anyone who heard them. What an ordeal this man had suffered, and – I wagered – through no fault of his own, as had I suffered mine. I was overwhelmed with compassion for this man, and his suffering, so I pursued the only course of action that I felt might console him, given my own circumstances and limited resources: assuming an expression of benevolence and gratitude, I set down my lanthorn, stepped forward and grabbed the noble man’s shoulders, and began to shake him, with all the violence I could muster.

The man endured this treatment for some time, longer than I imagine I might, had our roles been reversed. He made no verbal or physical entreaty for me to stop, instead only staring at me, with eyes that in retrospect I realized were quite piercing and unwavering in their intensity. I returned his stare with a gracious smile, understanding that his capacity for expressing thankfulness or even comprehension of what I was doing might at the moment escape him, given his long period of solitude, and only explained myself when his faculties returned enough for him to phrase his inquiry as he felt best.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, in a voice unusually calm for such invective.

“Worry not, my friend,” I said, “and I hope I can call you friend, as I feel a bond has grown between us in the brief time we have become acquaintanced. I am bestowing upon you the gift of certainty, which is unfortunately the only gift I can provide at the moment. Surely even the deepest of sleeps could not survive such an rousing onslaught of shaking! This is no dream, and I am no phantasm of that dream. However strange, this is your waking life.”

The man put his hands upon my own and pushed them from his arms, and I knew I had been successful. I took up my lanthorn once more. “I hope I was not unnecessarily brusque, interrupting your introduction as I did, but your state of mind seemed more urgent than the rote observance of propriety,” I said, and then chuckled a little. My new friend must have been collecting his thoughts, and adjusting to the revelation that he was in fact awake and in the real world (however unreal it might seem), for he made no immediate response, instead staring at me, or perhaps merely staring in my direction while choosing how best to proceed. I waited patiently for his response, feeling any additional requests on my part would be unseemly.

The man exhaled deeply and said, “My name is Volker Herman Spiegel, last survivor of the von Kant expedition.”

Even the message itself resisted comprehension. BEWARE THE FALSE MAN. In what way was the man false? How was I to know the nature of his falseness, for there are many kinds of falseness available to a man, and furthermore how might I recognize it? And why had the deckhand come to me with this warning. If there were some rogue onboard planning mischief and this deckhand had caught wind of it, would not one of the officers been the most appropriate audience for such information. An intelligent person may have been able to assemble a clear answer to all these questions, but my mind was already occupied with the tracking of my attacker’s footprints and had no reasoning to spare for the unraveling of such an esoteric dispatch. The surest way to dispel the mystery would be to pursue the youthful deckhand and entreat him for an explanation of his curious warning.

However, such action would surely delay what I had resolved to do – namely, seek out the clay-laden traces of my assailant’s movements and follow them to their source, that I might reveal him to all the world as the cad and coward he was. Though the Captain and others were actively seeking his capture, he must be confident that he would not be found, for he had hidden onboard for several days without alerting anyone to his existence. Only I, having had my revelation about the means to track him, could flush him out of his hiding and force him to pay the penalty he so richly deserved for his injuries to me, and of course, to the sensibilities of the widow von Kant. No: the deckhand, being a member of the crew whose identity was known, could be easily sought at a less urgent time, through inquiry to Jones or Turner or even the Captain. (No doubt his delicate features and flashing eyes would make him easy to distinguish from the rest of the crew, who were generally of a more weathered and hardened sort.) Better now that I continue in my original pursuit, and waste no more time about it!

I held high my lanthorn and let its meager yellow light penetrate the blackness of the corridor. As I had expected, faint ovals of the same pale clay marked out the path of the blackguard. I smiled to myself; the fool could not have provided simpler means for revealing himself had he tried. The footprints continued down the hallway only a short distance, stopping in front of a cabin door, the same cabin, in fact, wherein the widow’s parcel was housed. I considered my own previous experience with that dark and ominous crate and felt my courage flag a little. Truly, there was something unnatural about that cabinet, and something within the crate that was equally unnatural. Circumstance (and my own deduction) had led me back to the eldritch artifact, however, and it compelled me to open the door to the cabinet and determine who – or what – had been housed inside.

Preparing myself for yet another attack, I turned the doorknob and pulled open the door with great speed, hoping to surprise any occupant of the cabin. My tactic was unnecessary, though, as the room was empty, save for the widow’s cabinet. The tracks led up to the cabinet’s edge, still as seamless and unbroken as it had been days ago when I had survived my first encounter. This cabinet, then, had been the intruder’s hiding place, unbeknownst even to the widow von Kant herself, for she had checked upon the parcel and declared it intact. But how had the blackguard freed himself from this wooden box? I studied the cabinet’s corners and edges, feeling the surfaces with my fingertips and scrutinizing the grain by the light of my lanthorn. If I had been told that the object was a single block of hewn wood, I would have believed such was the case, and could not prove otherwise, as whatever doors or hatches or compartments the cabinet contained were so expertly crafted and ingeniously hidden that I could not find where any such entrance began or ended. I wondered, what cunning woodworker brought this closet into existence? From whence, and from what tradition, does such singular craftsmanship derive? I had never before seen a wooden cabinet so flawlessly conceived that it completely withheld the details of its own construction.

I set my lanthorn on top of the cabinet and began to more thoroughly study its most accessible surface, the side which faced the cabin door, which I labeled its “front”. With great methodicality, I once again grazed the cabinet’s front with my fingers, attempting to account for any irregularities in the wood, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, and though my powers of observation were at their keenest, still I could find no sign of a point of entry. I rose from my crouched position and took up again my lanthorn. Obviously, the cabinet was impenetrable, and would only reveal its contents to those who possessed the obscure knowledge needed to unravel its sphinxian workings. Frustrated, I leaned against the cabinet to collect my thoughts, and the front panel of the cabinet slid open, causing me to lose my balance and fall headlong to the floor.

My readers will be pleasantly surprised to learn that I was not rendered unconscious by this particular fall, which was in actuality more of a stumble than a full-fledged drop, and I recovered my balance with ample time to avoid any new injury. I did not even drop my lanthorn. Being a educated man, well-acquainted with the concept of irony, I could not help but feel as though I were something of a plaything of Providence, as the goal of my meticulous searching had only been granted me once I desisted in my quest. I did not dwell on this fateful twist; instead I raised my lanthorn anew, in hope of revealing the cabinet’s contents and the answers also housed therein.

The interior of the widow’s cabinet was dark, noticeably darker than even the dim cabin, and my lanthorn failed to illuminate it to my satisfaction while I stood outside its confines. I crouched down and took one step into the cabinet, placing my head and right hand (which held my lanthorn) past the threshold of the cabinet’s newly-opened door. The deep blackness within the cabinet still failed to disperse, even with the lanthorn’s increased proximity; the lanthorn’s light seemed to move only a few inches beyond its glass. I leaned in farther and the darkness persisted. Truly, this was an undocumented scientific phenomenon – the inside of the widow’s cabinet seemed to absorb light itself!

I held the lanthorn low near the floor and saw the faint remnants of a single pale gray footprint on the threshold of the cabinet itself. I smiled, as my deductions had been proven correct; the fiend had concealed himself here, and was none the wiser to the fact that I had uncovered his “impenetrable” hiding place. Ha! I thought to myself. The blackguard’s outsize self-confidence would be his undoing. I leaned in even farther, so that I might place the lantern as close as possible to the nearest wall of the cabinet and see if the wall would show itself, and as I steadied my position, I was kicked firmly in the buttocks by some unseen assailant. I toppled into the cabinet and the door shut with a smooth and silent motion behind me.

This new attack had caught me unawares, engrossed as I was in the strangeness of the cabinet’s interior, and after falling, it took a few moments for my full mental faculties to return. The profound darkness of the cabinet did not aid me in re-orienting myself. Time was impossible to measure accurately, but I am relatively certain it took several minutes for me to locate and retrieve my lanthorn, even though I found it a few mere inches from my hand. Thankfully, its flame had not gone out.

The light of the lanthorn remained less effective than it should have been, but perhaps due to the acclimation of my eyes to cabinet’s strange darkness, I felt I could see farther now than I could whilst still outside the cabinet. I stood and turned in several directions, trying to find a wall. Again, the widow’s cabinet proved a bizarre and unpredictable object. The height of the cabinet seemed the same as it had been; outside, it had reached the bridge of my nose or thereabouts, and inside, I was forced to adopt a stooped posture while standing. However, while from outside the cabinet had appeared to be cubical, inside, no matter how far I reached or wandered in any direction (though I could not bring myself to wander very far, given the circumstances), I could not locate another wall. I found this exceedingly peculiar, as my ability to wander should be severely constrained by the dimensions of the cabinet. More peculiar still was the state of the floor of the cabinet, which was littered with a voluminous assortment of human femurs.

“Lad,” he said, “we must discuss your peculiar habit of lying on the floor in inconvenient locations.” Captain Stagg moved to help me to my feet, but Jones waved off his encroaching hands and assisted me in standing himself.

As I brushed off my clothes and searched myself for open wounds, I said, “I assure you, Doctor, this is no idle pastime, nor is it voluntary.”

“Who hit you this time?” Jones asked, around the bit of his pipe.

“Alas, I did not see my assailant. He crept up behind me in the dark, like the vilest of cowards. And dangerous too: as he rendered me insensate with a single blow, he must possess formidable strength.”

“I don’t think your skull’s the best measure of that,” Jones remarked.

I chuckled at the first mate’s sporting jest. “Fair enough, Mr. Jones, but the man is still a danger to all aboard, and I will happily aid in tracking down the scoundrel. First though– what of Mrs. von Kant? She was here when I was attacked.”

The door to the widow von Kant’s cabin creaked open and she emerged, careful to keep the door mostly closed behind her. “I am here, and unharmed,” she said. “When you were attacked, I ran to my cabin, and shut and locked the door behind me as quickly as I could. Please forgive me for not trying to assist you. I was terrified!”

“Milady, ” I said, “you did the only sensible thing. Had you tried to fend him off, who knows what harm could have befallen you? Did you see the blackguard as he struck me?”

“No, only a shape in the darkness. A large shape. As soon as you fell, I ran to my room…I am so very glad to see you unharmed,” the widow said, and then clutched a handkerchief to her face and trembled. I reached out to console Mrs. von Kant, but the Captain inserted himself between us in the confined space of the cabin, touching her shoulder with one hand while rubbing my back with great intensity with the other.

“Yes, we’re all overjoyed to see the boy without injury, but you needn’t concern yourself with these matters anymore, Mrs. von Kant. Go back inside your cabin and allow us to track down this interloper with all due haste, so that he poses no threat to anyone aboard.”

The widow nodded, glancing at me with concern and affection, and retreated into her room, while the Captain continued his persistent massage. “Gentlemen, we must seek out and capture this rogue before he strikes again. The last thing we need is another Martin Garrett wandering the ship. Speaking of that idiot – Jones, go below and make sure Garrett didn’t wriggle out of the brig.”

“Perhaps someone should stay here, near the passengers’ chambers, to ensure that no other harm comes to them,” Jones said, and puffed a bit upon his pipe.

The captain considered his first mate’s idea, while kneading my shoulder blades with his fingers. “Good idea, Jones,” he said, “Put Starkey on it.”

“I might be a better choice, sir.”

“In general, I believe you’re a better choice than Starkey for nearly any task imaginable, but Starkey will be more than capable of clubbing someone in the dark, should the need arise. Go check on Garrett.”

The first mate exhaled a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. “Aye, sir,” he said and climbed and moved past us in the dark toward the stairs to the lower decks. After he left, the Captain was lost, first in what I thought was contemplation of how to best ensnare my mysterious attacker, but which soon revealed itself to be another one of his episodes, as his massaging hand moved up and over to encircle my arm. I looked with great unease to Dr. Blight as the Captain’s free hand moved toward my other arm. Before the Captain could grip my shoulder, the doctor hit the side of Stagg’s head with his lanthorn, which shook the Captain from his confusion.

“Of course not! What? Yes!” exclaimed the Captain, and then he stared hard at Dr. Blight for a moment. “Did you…”

“Yes,” said Dr. Blight. “Now what of the intruder?”

“Right, indeed. I’ll collect the watch and have them assist in the search.” The Captain looked at me, somewhat chagrined, patted my shoulder twice, and then was on his way.

“What should I do, Dr. Blight?” I asked.

“I suggest that you return to your cabin, and lock yourself in. I know you want to join in the hunt for the cur who attacked you unawares, but the best place for you right now is out of harm’s way. You’re a guest on this vessel, remember? Furthermore, the fewer opportunities you’re given to be beaten about the head, the better. ” I related in truncated fashion the catalog of cranial collisions that made me confident that my brain was not in any significant danger, and the doctor considered them with a thoughtful expression. “At some point, my lad, you will have to come to where I make my medical practice here on the Holy Diver. I should very much like to take some measurements of you and your hapless brain case. But for now, retreat to your room and sleep safe in the knowledge that the Captain and his men will capture the cause of your most recent unconsciousness.” I saw the wisdom in the doctor’s words, thanked him for his counsel, and then walked the short distance to my cabin, securing the door as best I could.

After lighting a lanthorn of my own within my cabin, I probed the region of my latest injury, and though the soreness of the back of my head was predictable and even familiar, another discovery was peculiar indeed. Co-mingled with the hair, I felt a wet thick substance. I experienced a moment of panic, as my immediate surmise was that the substance was congealing blood, and the severity of my injuriousness had been missed by all present in the corridor due to the rapid unfolding of events and the considerable lack of light therein. However, when I brought my hand to my eyes, even in the dim lanthorn light I could see that the substance on my hands was not dark as blood would have been, but was instead pale gray, or perhaps a medium shade of gray, as the lanthorn light tinted the whole room in a warm yellow and did not allow for an accurate assessment of color.

Applying my scientific mind to the problem, I gathered what information I could, first rubbing the substance between my fingers, and detecting a fine grit to the particles. Then, upon smelling and delicately tasting the substance, I determined that it was most likely some kind of heavy clay, as one might use for sculpting or brickmaking. While satisfying as an appraisal of the mysterious substance, its likely nature failed to illuminate the greater mystery of why it was embedded in my hair. The means of its application seemed clear enough; whatever weapon the scoundrel had used to attack me had for whatever reason been covered in (or recently exposed to a source of) clay. Why this would have happened, and what it portended for the man and his motives for his assault remained stubborn in their elusiveness, and I pressed my intellect into the determination both these riddles as I tried to extract the clay itself from my hair and scalp.

I assumed, to start, that there was no such source of clay aboard ship, which, to be sure, was a somewhat bold axiom on which to base my suppositions, but in its favor were two significant factors: first, the need for clay aboard a sailing vessel is in most cases minimal; and second, the fundamental practicality of such an assumption. If there were a quantity of clay on the Holy Diver, then the identity of my attacker could easily be traced to whomever had most recently handled or been in contact with the clay. However convenient such a circumstance might be, it would not, in and of itself, provide any insight into why the man was on the ship, what he intended to do while here, or why he meant me (or any other passenger or crew member) harm. No, whatever deductions could be made regarding the character and schemes of this reprobate would not be derived from such a convenient happenstance!

Instead, I turned my attention to the determination of other reasons for the clay’s presence on the back of my head. Two possibilities presented themselves: either my attacker carried quantities of clay on his person with such frequency as to be oblivious to its presence, or he had intentionally brought some amount of the clay with him for the express purpose of applying it to his favored cudgel or, even more peculiarly, his own hands. The latter, implying as it did a ritualistic, even compulsive nature to the individual who had brained me, provided ample opportunity for extended ruminations on the inner workings of a clearly and profoundly disturbed mind – undoubtedly an engrossing and sensational subject, but unlikely to aid in the ultimate detection of the fiend. The former, though, showed much more promise, as a lack of attention to cleanliness in the area of the hands could be extended without overmuch whimsy to a lack of attention to cleanliness for the body in general, and not just the body, but also the clothes which surround it. This treacherous stalker, then, might not just have hands or a club streaked with gritty clay, but also sleeves and pants… and shoes also!

I felt a great excitement swell within me, as I realized that the origin of the miscreant might easily be tracked by that which he had foolishly overlooked: the telltale clay to which he had become all too accustomed, and which would now lead me straight to his hidden identity. He had walked up behind me, with great attention to any sound he might make, but none to what his feet might have left behind. I picked up my lanthorn, and determined to search the corridor for the footprints of my attacker. I threw open my cabin door, and was greatly startled by the sight of a person crouching just in front of my doorway. He also was startled and looked up at me. He was dressed in the manner of the other deckhands, in shabby working clothes, but seemed very young, with large bright blue eyes and almost girlish features, and a large knit cap ,not unlike Turner’s, pulled tightly down over his head. Before I could greet him, he ran off, stumbling up the stairs and into the night.

However, after I watched him flee, speechless due to my startlement, I noticed he had left something behind in front of my door: a small piece of paper, folded twice. I guessed that he may have been attempting to slip the paper under my door when I had surprised him. I picked up the note and carefully unfolded it. The page was blank, except for four words written in small, but keenly legible script: BEWARE THE FALSE MAN.

Night had descended upon the Holy Diver while our party had partaken of dinner, and only a few feathery tendrils of rosiness spread across the dark sky as I crossed the deck from the door of the captain’s cabin to the stairs below decks. The only available illumination were the scattered meager lanthorns that the watchmen kept or hung from hooks near the stations. Ominously, the peculiar black plume of noxious vapor, the same plume that Turner claimed had changed course with the ship as Captain Stagg steered hard away from it, was still visible, even in the nocturnal pitch. The night was overcast, so no stars could be clearly seen, but the plume was stood out as a darker area in the darkness above, and from time to time, the vapor phosphoresced with an eerie green glow. The unnatural sight of it unsettled me, and I turned away as quickly as I could.

As I strode with urgent pace across the boards of the mighty ship, I heard Starkey call out to me from his post nearby. “Mr. Starkey!” I responded, and tripped over some loose cordage that had not been properly stowed. However, I was able to maintain balance overall, and did not fully succumb to the rope’s entangling tendencies.

“You leaving supper early too?” Starkey inquired, now walking in tandem with me, and I admitted that I was doing just that. “It’s just as well,” said the able seaman. “I’m bettin’ the dessert course wouldn’t be all that impressive to a cultured gentleman such as yourself.”

“On the contrary, Starkey, under normal circumstances I would enjoy the end of the meal with all due enthusiasm, but there are matters I must attend to currently that will not wait for the consumption of sweets.”

“Does it have somethin’ t’ do with Mrs. von Kant? ‘Cause she just passed by here as well, looking quite disturbed, and in even more of a hurry than you.”

“Indeed it does, Starkey. I fear she may be in danger, if not from other malign individuals, than from her own haunted past.”

Starkey made a small uncertain noise and then said: “Y’know, sir, there are times when I know you’re speaking English, but I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re saying.”

Though I wanted to explain the whole situation to him, as I believed he had a good heart and was a man onboard that I could trust implicitly, I had to defer that conversation to a later time. “Pay it no mind, Starkey, but know that I will try to clarify matters for you when I can. Also, I hope I can count on you should I need assistance, as I did with Martin Garrett.”

I could see Starkey’s proud smile even in the dim lanthorn light. “Oh, aye, you can, sir! Just call out and I’ll be at your side!”

I believe Starkey tripped over another stray pile of rigging at this point, as I heard concussive sounds as of a man falling upon the deck, and Starkey’s voice was no longer beside me but far behind as I reached the stairs and heard him say “I’ll be fine, sir, carry on!”

I leapt down those stairs, but should have proceeded with greater caution, as they (and the corridor they led to) were narrow and dimmer even than above-decks. No sooner did I reach the foot of the stairs than did I collide with someone. The collision was not severe, but it was startling to both myself and my unwitting and accidental target. I heard the person involuntarily expel the air from their lungs, and there was a dull metallic clatter as something the person had carried dropped to the floor. As my vision acclimated to the deeper darkness of the corridor, I realized with shock that the victim of my blind haste was none other than the widow von Kant!

I immediately rushed to her, to determine if she had been injured and deliver my deepest apologies. She assured me she was fine, and I helped her to her feet, though not before she scooped up whatever mystery object she had been holding and obscured it behind her person. Her manner was still somewhat agitated but to a far lesser extent than it had been at dinner. For this I was glad, for it allowed me to make plain my embarrassment, and hopefully undo some of that shame with a well-worded accounting for my actions.

“I will never live down the indignity of slighting you in this way, Mrs. von Kant, and I hope you can forgive me. I felt I needed to attend to you as quickly as I could, after your hasty departure from dinner, and my enthusiasm literally overran itself in bringing me to you. Please accept my apology,” I said. The widow von Kant smiled and said “Sir, you have charms you do not even realize you possess.” I felt my heart’s beating intensify. The grace of this woman staggered my imaginative powers.

“Milady, you humble me with your noble ways. But what of your cabinet? Is it intact? And what is it that you are carrying? I hope I did not damage it in any way.”

“The cabinet is fine. I was just returning from checking on it. The seal is intact, so the captain has not been able to act upon his curiosity.”

“And the object that you’re carrying? What is it, might I ask?”

“Oh, it’s nothing important,” said Mrs. von Kant. She adjusted her grip on the object but kept it hidden behind her person.

Finding her evasiveness about such a simple matter confusing, but not wanting to seem impolite, I said “I do not mean to pry. I only ask so that I might provide restitution if it has been damaged.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it need not worry you. Nothing was broken or damaged.”

Intrigued by the widow’s deflections, I craned my neck and stood on tip-toe to try to acquire a look at the object, but she expertly maintained its secrecy with subtle movements. When I craned my neck in another direction, she altered her position once more. We proceeded in this fashion for some time. I hoped that my actions might seem playful and endearing, while still acquiring the knowledge about the object that Mrs. von Kant continued to conceal, but as my efforts continued, she seemed unamused.

“Your interest threatens to become improper, sir,” she said, a tone of restrained displeasure entering her voice.

I immediately ceased my attempts to determine the nature of the object and attempted to explain my motives. “Madam, I meant no disrespect. I recall with great pride your desire to confide in me some days ago, and I hope to prove myself worthy of your trust. Alas, my excitement at being your closest ally here on the Holy Diver may itself have interfered with that trust, and for that I must once again beg your forgiveness, for being too bold.”

Again, the widow smiled, and even shook her head a little. Addressing me with tenderness, she said, “You are such an inquisitive and… apologetic young man,” and kissed me gently on the cheek.

The effect on my disposition of the widow’s affections, even in this tamest of forms, was profound and immediate. Such elation rose up from within me that I began to laugh uncontrollably, a high-pitched, trilling giggle that reverberated in the cramped corridor, for sufficient duration that Mrs. von Kant’s face began to cloud with concern for my well-being. I too was becoming concerned, as I could not desist in giggling, nor could I inhale adequately for my brain to receive sufficient air. My worry intensified as the giggle persisted, and Mrs. von Kant began to look truly frightened, when I was knocked unconscious by a heavy blow to the back of the head.

The second course, when it did arrive, was a nourishing combination of roasted potatoes and some other root vegetables (though mostly potatoes), delicately seasoned and only very slightly burnt.

While we partook of this hearty fare, the widow von Kant elaborated upon her travels with her husband all across the Asiatic continent. The Baron’s wanderlust could not be quenched; he would no sooner come to the peak of one mountain before another taller summit entreated him to venture toward its airy top. This pattern was repeated with tempestuous rivers, secluded lakes, desolated plains, and the cities and civilizations of man all through that region. von Kant’s expeditions roamed far and collected nigh-innumerable treasures, and his restlessness propelled a fleet of boats around the globe, ferrying artifacts from every known dominion back to his estate in Prussia, for cataloguing and storage.

“Originally, his acquisitions ranged from artifacts of extinguished cultures to examples of contemporary art, but as I mentioned, as time progressed, the objects he procured were more often relics and reliquaries, totems, charms, and amulets, anything possessed or endowed with magical properties,” she said. “I noticed also that the very act of obtaining these items was becoming more strenuous, and that the native peoples we encountered were less amenable to his desires. Whereas before, indigenous persons were eager to assist us in our travels, in the latter of our expeditions, such charity was quickly dissipated by my husband’s descriptions of his goals. I could detect fear in their eyes, where before there had only been curiosity and joy.”

“Strange then, that your husband persisted in these searches,” Dr. Blight said. “No offense intended to your husband, may G-d have mercy on his soul, but surely as these dangers were impressed upon him, he must have had concern for your safety, if not his own.”

“He did, Dr. Blight, but his quest was like a fever. It consumed him, and he could not resist its demands. The concern of which you speak is quite natural, as I felt it at times in those final days, for both of us…” Here, the widow von Kant, turned her face away from her attentive audience for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure and continued with her enthralling tale. It would be difficult for my admiration for this amazing woman to have grown beyond the near-limitless bounds which it already encompassed, but with each word of her story, those boundaries did expand, and my heart swelled with them. I felt that this Prussian noblewoman might well be of the rarest species of human femininity, and wondered if her peer could even be found amongst the fairer sex’s Scandinavian population, where I had in earlier journeys first glimpsed what I held to be the female exemplar. Perhaps she was a “thing unto herself”, without equal on the face of this earth, the only world I could – at that time – honestly include in my considerations of such a topic. But here my lofty contemplations were once again proving somewhat detrimental, as the widow had proceeded with her story.

“– and that clockwork beast was only one of the many bizarre pieces we found. As the items he sought became rarer, more esoteric, some might even say malevolent, he told me less and less about what he sought and what it might do. Our last and longest expedition began near Danzig over a year ago, searching innumerable Baltic villages and cities scattered throughout both Prussian and Habsburg lands, and ended in the Indus valley, where he sent me ahead with the majority of guides and servants to Kolkata, while he and a handful of his most trusted men continued on in pursuit of some last key artifact. Before I parted from him, he professed again his love for me, and begged my forgiveness for the dangers I had faced while accompanying him. I told him such apologies were unnecessary, as I could not imagine a life without him and the adventures we had shared. With a final kiss, we parted.

“I waited one month for my husband,” the widow von Kant said, with a stark finality.

“And he never returned?” Dr. Blight said.

“Only his body, devoid of life,” Mrs. von Kant said. “Spiegel, his lieutenant of sorts, was the sole survivor. When he met me at my boarding house, his eyes were sunken but wild, his clothes in tatters, and his left arm completely missing. He could not remember how he had lost it, but the wound had been expertly dressed. His shoulder was an expanse of flat unblemished skin. If I had not known he was born with two arms, I might have guessed he never possessed the left one at all. Spiegel gave me a key to a storage building on the dock, where he had placed the corpse of my beloved husband, and a cabinet which contained the last accumulations of the Baron’s obsession, those pieces which, due to his ever-increasing secrecy regarding the matter, not even I knew the nature of. Spiegel assisted me in finding proper interment for my husband’s body, and then disappeared amidst the throngs of Kolkata. I never saw him again. I contacted Captain Stagg the next day, and booked passage with him to return home.”

“A terrible loss, a most regrettable loss,” said the Captain. “Now, this cabinet of which you speak, is this the… parcel, which currently resides below decks?”

“It is, captain,” said Mrs. von Kant.

“And you have no idea what is in it? No idea at all?”

“None. My husband took the cabinet’s mysteries with him to his premature grave.”

“Yes… mystery…” the captain was deep in thought.

“I should say it is quite mysterious!” I said cheerfully. “It was a veritable font of peculiarity when I saw it!”

The widow von Kant look quite perturbed. “When did you see my cabinet? Captain, I gave express instruction that no one be allowed near it.”

“Ah, m’lady –” the captain began, but sensing that a more thorough explanation was required, I commenced to provide one forthwith.

“Blame not the captain, Mrs. von Kant. It was an accident of timing and expediency. When I came aboard, the cabin that was originally intended to be mine had been inadvertently filled with potatoes, some of which I’m sure we’ve enjoyed as part of this delicious meal. While finding more suitable accommodations for myself, First Mate Jones told me to wait in the same cabin as your cabinet was stored – again, purely as a temporary solution – while he procured bedclothes, and another bed for them to be put on, in another room that was not as full of potatoes. As he left, the door to the chamber swung closed, and closed resolutely. I am not sure, not being a locksmith, but I believe the latch suffered some kind of mechanical failure, for I can see no other way that the door would not have allowed me egress from the cabin in which I stood. Perhaps some errant piece of timber was lodged in the lock… but no matter! As it was, due to the unopenability of the door and the ineffectuality of my calls for help, I was marooned, for the briefest of intervals, in the cabin with your cabinet.”

“You see?” said Captain Stagg. “No harm done, to the cabinet or to the fine young boy here.”

The widow’s countenance was still clouded with concern, and perhaps even anger. “You said it behaved strangely,” she said to me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure whatever the boy thinks he saw or heard can be explained away as any number of maritime commonplaces, the creaking of the ship, or the movement of its rigging,” said the captain.

“First, there was scratching,” I said, “coming from within the cabinet itself. I attempted to communicate with whatever was inside by scratching in the same manner, but this proved ineffective. Then the cabinet began to advance on me.”

“What?” said the widow von Kant and the captain in unison, though Mrs. von Kant then shot a furious look at the captain, and he was quieted immediately.

“Yes, the cabinet pressed upon me until I thought I might be crushed, but the timely return of Mr. Jones and the captain seemed to quell the cabinet’s agitation, and thus was I saved. I am certain I have the remnants of a bruise that I suffered while trapped with the cabinet, if you would be interested in seeing it.”

“M’lady,” Captain Stagg said, rising to his feet, “I do not wish to make untoward accusations, but if there is a living creature enclosed in that cabinet, we will have to renegotiate the terms of our contract.”

“That cabinet has been sealed for over thirty days. There cannot be anything living inside it!” The widow von Kant was now discernibly vexed. “I must check on the cabinet immediately. Please excuse me.” Mrs. von Kant rose, and with hasty pleasantries made her exit.

“Jones, help the widow with her… parcel,” the captain said, but the widow’s voice echoed back to the Captain’s chamber: “No, thank you, captain!” Jones looked at Captain Stagg and puffed on his pipe.

“Well,” said the Captain, with a heavy exhalation, “I guess that’s the end of dinner then, unless any of you are curious about what the galley chief’s cooked up for dessert.”

“Candied bleedin’ potatoes, most likely,” Turner muttered.

I, meanwhile, was unconcerned with the nature of the dinner’s final course. Clearly, the widow was upset, and her distrust of the captain was nearly as obvious as the captain’s unseemly interest in the cabinet’s contents. I ascertained an opportunity to gain the widow’s trust and her favor by assisting her with the current dilemma, and felt it would be a disservice to us both if I allowed that opportunity to pass by unfulfilled.

With bold decisiveness, I stood up from my chair and announced, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I feel that I am needed elsewhere at this moment, and cannot be detained by this evening’s dessert. I ask that you not impede my departure any further!” And with that declaration, I walked quickly from the room, to the aid of the alluring widow von Kant.

One might expect, given the mercurial nature of the sea and the harsh conditions that can often arise therein, that comfort and refinement are rare characteristics whilst sailing, both in the general nature of the voyage itself and in the specific temperaments of crew and passenger, not to mention the normal activities and goings-on that are as necessary in the middle of an ocean as they are when one is firmly positioned on a large and stable land mass. However, during my encirculations of the globe, I have found that it is those very principles of comfort and refinement that are most deeply prized, even by sailors, and the presence of and attention to maintaining a level of terrestrial decorum is often the strongest indicator of a captain who is truly “worth his salt”.

In this arena, Captain Stagg proved his experience and mastery. Given my own adventure thus far, I had to admit that I possessed certain (and I would say very reasonable) reservations concerning the nature of any meal, formal or otherwise, that would be provided to me while aboard the Holy Diver. However, much to the chagrin of my pessimism, the Captain laid out a feast fit for the finest tables of any country manor, and a positive miracle for a meal aboard a vessel several days’ journey into the Pacific. The captain hosted dinner in his own quarters, which were large enough to accommodate the event, and the table was dressed in linens and the food served in silver dishes, with candles set to brighten the dusky space with a soft and fluttering light. Once I arrived – I was the last of the guests, delayed by hygienic tasks which I had neglected due to my coma – the captain served wine, of which I took a small draught, on account of my recovering constitution. In attendance were myself; the widow von Kant; Dr. Blight; Jones; Turner; and of course, the Captain himself.

“Glad you’re finally here, my boy!” Captain Stagg exclaimed, and he moved toward me, but Turner and Jones positioned themselves in such a way that a direct path to me was blocked so the captain’s advance was undone, and instead he waved at me, and I heartily did likewise. The captain bade us to sit, and we chose seats that seemed most sensible for a satisfactory accomplishment of the meal: Captain Stagg at the head of the table; to his right, Jones and to his left, Dr. Blight; and the widow von Kant opposite the captain. Turner and I sat across from one another, immediately to the right and left of the widow respectively. I could not help but feel a surge of elation at the fortuitousness of this seating arrangement, as it not only placed a welcome buffer between myself and the captain for the entirety of the dinner, but also sat me in the closest possible proximity to Mrs. von Kant, a sort of double victory which I saw as a most providential blessing. The widow, as always, was breathtaking in her pulchritude and it acted as a revitalizing tonic to me, as it had when I was in the throes of my infirmity. Even the tapers’ meager light did not obscure her beauty, but instead recast it, so that new elements of its complex and many-faceted nature were revealed to me: the gentle definition of her neck and jawline, the straightness of the bridge of her nose, the sparkling chimeric color of her eyes as the candlelight twinkled in them –

The loud sharp sound of a man clearing his throat shook me from my reverie. I saw Turner glaring at me from across the table. “Butter, please,” he said. I handed him the dish, and he slapped a lump onto a biscuit, which he then shoved at his mouth.

At the behest of Dr. Blight, the passengers were asked to recount the nature and circumstances of their journeys. Naturally I deferred to Mrs. von Kant to share her tale first, for reasons of both courtesy and – I will admit – curiosity, and though I could see she was somewhat reluctant to be focus of our attentions (due to her admirable modesty, I am certain), she acquiesced and began to relate her story, while we enjoyed our first course, a quite serviceable potato broth.

The widow’s husband, the Baron Friedrich Mannheim Dampfwalze Reiniger von Kant, was a wealthy Prussian twenty-two years her elder, and a casual acquaintance of Mrs. von Kant’s parents, who were also of the noble class but of considerably lesser station, and also in dire financial straits. “I only knew of him as a rich man who paid occasional visits to my parents. Beyond greetings and pleasantries, I do not think we ever engaged in conversation. However, around the time of my sixteenth birthday and with little preamble, he proposed marriage. My father and mother made it clear how generous and important the baron’s offer was,” Mrs. von Kant said. “And I, being a dutiful daughter, accepted his proposal.

“Here, though, gentlemen,” she continued, “I must admit I had reservations about becoming a wife to this strange older man. Yes, I was dutiful, and I knew my place in society, as a woman and a daughter. But I was also young and impetuous, and the idea of being bound to a man whom I barely knew seemed profoundly… boring. I hope I am not shocking you with my candidness.” The rest of the table murmured assurances and encouragement, and my words were the most fervent of any of them, for already I had become enraptured by the widow’s tale.

“Luckily for me, my expectations were dashed almost immediately. Have any of you heard of Friedrich? He was a man of unique ambitions, especially for one born into privilege. He insisted that I educate myself, in all manner of fields – literaure, history, the natural sciences – and procured the finest tutors from across Europe to aid me in that mission.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. von Kant,” Captain Stagg interjected, “but in G-d’s name, why? Surely your dearly departed husband’s insistence on your education… well, it is just unseemly for a woman such as yourself to know such things.”

At this point a coy smile appeared on the widow von Kant’s face. “Why, Captain. Does the possibility of a learned, intelligent woman frighten you?”

“Frighten? No. I wouldn’t use that word to describe my feelings. It’s just…” the captain trailed off for a moment. A war was clearly visible within the Captain, between, on one hand, his distaste for Mrs. von Kant’s intellectual pursuits, and on the other, his desire not to offend or upset a fare-paying passenger aboard his own vessel. Finally, Captain Stagg exclaimed “It’s just so bloody unnecessary!” At this point I saw Jones cover his eyes with his hand, and Turner focussed on his soup with profound intensity.

Whatever fears they had about Mrs. von Kant’s reaction to their captain’s words seemed disproportionate, however, as the widow displayed no anger at the captain’s needlessly casual outburst, and in fact seemed amused by his reaction. “I see,” she said, “and what about you, Doctor Blight? Do you share the captain’s prejudices on female education?”

Dr. Blight chuckled as he set down his spoon and said, “Milady, I must admit that your pursuits are untraditional, but I am rarely offended by departures from tradition. As a matter of fact, I often seek them out.” Here the doctor laughed to himself again, though I could not perceive why. “But as a man of science, I must confess a conservative streak, and hope that your personal practices do not supplant the educational traditions concerning the weaker sex. I will readily grant that rare specimens of womanhood can engage in edification of the mind and grapple with the lofty concepts and abstractions that are readily entertained by the weightier male brain, and clearly you are one of these seldom-seen creatures that possesses the capacity. But I fear for my England, and for all of Europe, should some fad of ‘womanly erudition’ take root. The common male brain cannot endure the process of enlightenment. To place the common female brain under the same pressures would surely cause it to seep out their earholes.”

“An interesting perspective, Doctor.” The widow von Kant turned her lovely gaze toward me. “And you?”

For a moment, I was transfixed by the attention of the widow, and had to pause to regain the capacity for speech. When I did, it took great effort to avoid stammering or misspeaking, but eventually I was able to say “Mrs. von Kant, if the pursuit of learning would make all women as charming as you are, then consider me its most stalwart proponent.” There was a moment of silence, broken by a nearly-inaudible Mr. Jones saying “Hmm.”

“Sir, you are too kind,” the widow von Kant said, and I thought I detected a bit of color entering her cheeks, though due to the quality of the candle light in the room it was impossible to determine whether it was blushing or an errant shadow. Mrs. von Kant now turned to the first mate. “Mr. Jones. Do you have any thoughts pertaining to our current debate?”

Jones looked up from his soup, took a long draught from his pipe, removed the pipe from his mouth and said, “I’m just a sailor, ma’am.”

The widow von Kant smiled at Jones. “Of course you are, Mr. Jones,” she said, and continued to smile at him in silence for seven more seconds, before the captain said he hoped he hadn’t offended Mrs. von Kant and apologized if offense had been taken. She assured him no harm had been done.

“Instead, thank you for indulging my flight of intellectual fancy. I did not intend to generate any controversy, merely to engage in a bit of debate. However, our conversation has moved far away from our original topic, so let me return to why I am here aboard the Holy Diver.

“To make the subject more succinct and less contentious, the baron had his intellectual pursuits and he wanted me to share them; hence, my education. We began a long period of travel, moving from country to country all over the world in search of the mysteries that most intrigued him. He adored the sciences and the arts, but other more rarefied fields of study were his true desire. Those realms where empirical knowledge fails, where unknown powers seem to operate beyond our reckoning, the gray and murky regions of the earth and in our minds where humanity may be the plaything of entities we cannot begin to comprehend: these were his greatest love, perhaps his obsession. I speak, of course, of the occult.”

As if timed for the greatest capacity for startlement, at that moment, a great crash resounded in the hall just beyond the door. Combined with the nocturnal dark that had gradually overtaken the cabin, the effect was profound, with Dr. Blight and the captain making loud exclamations and Turner dropping his fifth biscuit on the floor. Even Jones’ eyes were open much wider than I had ever seen them before.

The door to the captain’s cabin creaked open, and from the blackness of the corridor stepped Starkey.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I brought the second course, but I tripped in the dark,” Starkey said.