The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(105)
The spacious, windowless room was dimly lit by rows of candles, their flames glinting off the rusty metal swords and making the faces of the Cabell ancestors look even more spectral, as if the artist had painted their portraits after their deaths from drowning. At one end of the table, a figure sat half in the shadow, head tilted, arms outstretched, palms facedown on the linen tablecloth in front of him. The meager light from the lamp placed in the middle of the table scarcely penetrated the gloom enveloping him. Doyle led the group a few paces to the opposite end of the table. Leaving them there, he approached the medium with reverential steps and whispered something to him, presumably to awaken him from his trance. The medium moved his head very slowly, as though emerging from a long snooze or a heavy bout of drinking, and looked at the others without seeing them. Ankoma was a skinny fellow whose age was difficult to judge, owing to his flowing beard and no less bushy hair, which all but swallowed up his features. Only his beady eyes twinkled intriguingly amid the cascade of grey locks that fell over his brow. He was wearing a sort of loose-fitting dark tunic, and around his neck hung colorful necklaces and strings of beads, among which Wells thought he glimpsed the tooth of some unknown animal. Speaking to no one in particular, the medium began to utter a series of guttural noises, which sounded as if he were choking on a chicken bone.
“He says there are many spirits here,” Doyle translated dutifully.
“Hmm,” grunted Murray, who refused to be easily impressed.
Doyle looked at him sternly in admonishment, then proceeded to the introductions. Once these were over, he invited Murray to take the seat facing the Great Ankoma, while he sat on the medium’s right and Wells and Jane on his left. Once they had all settled in their chairs, Doyle resumed his role as master of ceremonies.
“Excellent. Now, Ankoma is a specialist in automatic writing,” he explained to Murray, “and so is going to communicate with Emma’s spirit, and if she agrees, he will try to make her talk to you by writing on this slate.”
“But I don’t want Emma to write on some stupid slate!” Murray protested. “I want to see her. I want her to appear to me as she did in the garden!”
Doyle wagged his head, genuinely dismayed by Murray’s stubborn attitude.
“Look, Gilmore . . . ,” he explained patiently. “Every medium has a method or a special talent for communicating with spirits; you can’t just oblige them to do it another way. Besides, the main thing is for you to talk to her, isn’t it? The way you do it is secondary.”
Murray looked suspiciously at the slate on the table, next to the gas lamp.
“Did he communicate with his Bantu ancestors using slates?” he inquired coldly.
“Obviously not,” replied Doyle, who was becoming irritated by Murray’s insolence. “He used palm leaves. But we are a bit more civilized over here . . .”
“Palm leaves . . . ,” sighed Murray. “Very well. Carry on, Amoka.”
“Ankoma,” Doyle corrected.
“Ankoma, Ankoma . . . ,” Murray repeated, spreading his hands to encourage the medium to proceed.
Ankoma nodded almost indifferently, as if his orders came from a higher power unknown to men, and certainly to Murray. His body seemed to slacken, losing its previous rigidity, his eyes closed, and a sort of beatific calm relaxed what was visible of his face almost to the point of imbecility. Then he began a gentle rocking movement, which grew more and more intense, until soon he was writhing around on his seat as if someone had stuffed it with stinging nettles. Moments later, he began to jerk and make ridiculous gurgling noises, like a boiling kettle, which made Doyle sit up in his chair. Everyone sensed that something important was happening or was about to happen. And they were right, for just then a lengthy, spine-tingling sound, like grinding teeth, rent the air. They all peered into the surrounding shadows, trying to see where the screeching was coming from, until they realized it could only have been made by the rusty hinges on one of the doors. They examined them through the thick gloom, but both were closed. Then the floorboards began to emit faint, intermittent creaks, warning them that someone was walking toward them across the room. Murray arched his eyebrows as the steps came closer and closer before seemingly moving away again, as though whatever it might be had begun circling the table with sinister slowness and was scrutinizing them. Murray looked first at Doyle, then at Wells, but the two men ignored him, busy as they were exchanging uneasy glances. For his part, the Great Ankoma remained silent, staring apprehensively into the darkness enveloping the dining room. After several moments during which they looked at one another in bewilderment, Doyle drew the medium’s attention with a subtle gesture and then pointed to the slate, as if to remind him that this was his usual way of communicating with spirits. The Great Ankoma picked it up with his scrawny hands, where the crisscrossed veins beneath his pale flesh stood out like snow-covered roots, and held it for a few moments as though unsure what to do next. At that moment, Wells squeezed Murray’s shoulder abruptly, a gesture that was meant to encourage him, but in spite of the distraction, Murray noticed Ankoma make a suspicious movement under the table. When Murray caught his eye, the medium placed the slate facedown on a piece of chalk as his body seemed to go into brief convulsions, and a nonsensical refrain spewed from his mouth. A few seconds later, he turned the slate over with the nonchalance of someone removing a cake from the oven and pushed it toward Murray. On the side that had been clean, he recognized his beloved Emma’s scrawl: “Hello, I’m Miss Mournful,” he read in disbelief.