Doyle thought for a moment. 'Something stirring in the plane from which they draw their information. A powerful disturbance, like a storm at sea before it draws within sight of land.'
'The equivalent of psychic barometers registering an otherwise invisible change in pressure.'
Doyle shifted in his seat. 'I admit I'm uncomfortable with the idea.'
'In the East, dogs and cats grow restless before an earthquake strikes. We send canaries into mine shafts to detect the presence of deadly gas. Is it so hard to imagine human beings are capable of similarly subtle perceptions?'
'No,' said Doyle patiently. 'But it doesn't make me any more comfortable.'
'The activation of an entity as formidable as the one described as this Dweller on the Threshold would generate quite a thunderhead on whatever plane it resided.'
'If such a thing were true—'
'If the return of this being is indeed what the members of the Brotherhood—the Seven—are after, how would these black magicians prepare the Dweller's 'passage' for rebirth?'
'I'm sure I don't know—'
'The spilling of blood? Ritualized murders?'
'Perhaps,' said Doyle, growing weary of the interrogation. 'I'm not familiar with these things.'
'But It would have to be born as a child first, wouldn't It?'
'Maybe they're shopping around for a nice couple in Cheswick to adopt the little nipper.'
Sparks ignored the jibe. 'A child with blond hair, seen in a vision? Taken from his father against his will, his mother an unwitting conspirator?'
'I'm sorry, Jack, but it's all a bit too much for me. I mean,
Blavatsky gets away with this sort of thing, but the reader naturally assumes, or at least I did, that it's all metaphoric or at the very least archaic mythology—'
'Isn't that what you wrote about in your book? The ill use of-a child?'
Doyle felt himself go pale; he'd almost forgotten his damned book.
'Is it, Doyle?'
'In part.'
'And you wonder why they've come after you with such aggressiveness. What further confirmation do you require?'
The question hung in the air between them.
'Doyle ... let me ask you,' said Sparks, softening his tone. 'Knowing what you do about its history, what do you suppose this Dweller would be on about once it got its feet back on terra firma?'
'Nothing too out of the ordinary, I imagine,' said Doyle, refusing to commit himself emotionally to the answer he knew was correct. 'World dominion, total enslavement of the human race, that sort of thing.'
'With a good deal more sophisticated weaponry available to the bugger this time around. Our capacity for mass butchery has increased a hundredfold.'
'I would have to agree with you,' said Doyle, recalling the presence on the list of Drummond and his burgeoning munitions empire.
Satisfied with the impact he'd made, Sparks sat back in his seat. 'Then we'd best put a stop to this business straightaway, hadn't we?'
'Hmm. Quite.'
But first I need to know you're not one of them, thought Doyle. I need to ask you why I should believe you're who you say you are, and I can't, I can't just now, either ask or believe, because if you are mad, you may not know or recognize the difference, and by asking I endanger my own life.
'What is an arhanta?' asked Doyle.
'You've never encountered the term?'
Doyle shook his head.
'Arhantas are Adepts in the Tibetan Mystery schools. Possessing spiritual powers of the highest order, an elite warrior
class. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about them is the degree of sacrifice they are required to make.'
'What sort of sacrifice?'
'An arhanta spends the body of his life developing certain arcane—you might call them psychic—abilities. At the height of his strength, after years of hard, thankless study, the arhanta is asked to entirely forsake the use and exercise of those powers and to undertake a life of silent, anonymous contemplation, far removed from the centers of worldly life. It is said there are twelve arhantas alive in physical life at any given time, and it is their radiant presence and selfless service alone that prevents mankind from self-destruction.'
'They're not supposed to use these alleged powers to fight evil?'
'The teachings say that has never happened. It would be a violation of their sacred trust, with far more grievous consequences.'
Doyle chewed on that thought with no little difficulty. 'Why would the boy call you one, then? On the face of it, you don't readily answer to the description.'
'I have no idea,' said Sparks. He seemed as genuinely conflicted and confused as Doyle.
They wrestled with these thorny contradictions awhile. Doyle was jostled out of his brown study by the carriage running over a rough patch as Larry led them off the road onto a cart path leading through a dense copse of woods. Emerging into a clearing on the far side, they were greeted by the heartwarming sight of the Sterling 4-2 -2 they'd left in Batter-sea, waiting on north-running tracks. Smoke belched from its stack, the furnace stoked and ready to roll. Behind it trailed a full coal hopper and, even more encouragingly, a passenger car. Emerging from the cab with a welcome wave was none other than Brother Barry, late of Pentonville Prison. There was nothing of the sentimental reunion about this meeting, however; it was grim, fast business, and hardly a word was spoken. Effects were transferred to the train, horses set loose to run, and the carriage carefully concealed in the woods. Sparks and Doyle boarded the passenger car, and the brothers took to the engine. Within moments they were underway. The sun slid low on the horizon; they would make most of their northern run at night.
Although customized, the passenger car was Spartanly appointed: four double seats facing each other, removable tables between them. Two bunked sleeping berths in a rear compartment. Planked wooden floors, oil lamps set in otherwise bare walls. A simple galley with a loaded icebox, stocked with provisions for the journey.
Sparks assembled one of the tables and sat down to pore over a packet of maps. Doyle took a seat across the car from him and utilized the silence to arrange his medical inventory and clean and reload his revolver. He obeyed an instinct to keep his pistol close at hand.
After an hour had passed, Barry joined them and laid out a peasant's supper of bread, apples, cheese, salted cabbage, and red wine. Sparks ate alone at the table, making notations and working with his maps. Doyle sat with Barry in the galley.
'How did you get out?' asked Doyle.
'Coppers let me go. 'Alf an hour after you went off.'
'Why would they do that?'
'Tried to follow me, didn't they? Hoped I'd lead 'em straight to you.'
'And you eluded them.'
'Only in a trice.'
Doyle nodded and took a bite of apple, trying not to appear overanxious. 'How did you know to meet us where you did?'
'Telegram. Waitin' for me at the train yard,' said Barry, with a nod toward Sparks, indicating the telegram's sender.
That followed logically; Sparks must have sent the wire when he was out this morning, Doyle thought. He finished his wine and poured another cup. The hum and rattle of the tracks and the wine's warming properties applied an agreeably stabilizing remedy to his apprehensions.
'Barry, have you ever seen Alexander Sparks?' asked Doyle, keeping his voice low but not unduly confidential.
Barry cocked an eyebrow, glancing at him sideways. 'Odd question.'
