The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(115)
“Arthur!” cried Murray.
“Find him, Gilliam! Find the creature!” Doyle commanded, his legs swinging in the air as he tried to scramble back up.
Murray screwed up his eyes and looked around. And then he saw him. The plaster, descending from the sky like a fine snowfall, had begun to settle on the creature, outlining his head and part of his shoulders against the sooty air, revealing a shape that although still hazy was clearly human . . . As Murray had suspected, the spirit, or whatever it was, stood only a few yards from him, clutching the banister on the other side. He realized it must have been there all the time, just far enough away so that Murray’s lunges with the crossbow did not send him plummeting down to the hallway, waiting for Murray to tire himself out before pushing him over the edge.
But now the rat was visible, and like a typical rat was fleeing, scuttling along the banister toward the staircase. Murray was afraid he would escape without anyone being able to stop him. Then he looked at the crossbow he was still clutching. From where he stood he had a clear view of the stairs and almost the whole hallway. Peering through the billowing smoke, he could see that Doyle was still struggling to clamber up onto the edge of the hole. Trusting that Doyle’s strength would not fail him, Murray began to tighten the string. Doyle had described the loading of a crossbow as difficult and time-consuming, but he had also assured them that the power of a crossbow’s arrow was unrivaled by that of any other type of bow, as it was almost impossible to miss a target with it, and that encouraged him. He placed his foot on the metal stirrup and, using all his strength, tightened the string, which moved up the shaft with exasperating slowness. He glanced again at the position of the creature, who had just leapt over a small gap between the ledge and the top steps and was beginning his descent. Murray had no time to lose.
To his astonishment, the creature then stopped in his tracks and studied Doyle, who was still dangling pathetically above the hole; after a few moments, instead of continuing his escape, he retraced his steps and began to walk slowly over toward the author. Murray watched with horror as he realized that the monster, spurred on by the rage and the evil that possessed him, had decided that, before escaping to continue spreading his reign of terror through the world, he would take Doyle’s life. Murray swore. There was no way for him to reach his friend before the creature did. He could only finish loading the crossbow and fire it as quickly as possible. With a rasping cry, he tugged harder on the string, baring his teeth in a ferocious gesture. He could feel his neck bulging, and a sharp pain shot up his back, as if his spinal cord were also a string about to snap. Tiny lights started dancing before his eyes, but he managed not to flag. The bowstring moved slowly up the shaft. An inch or two more and it would slot into the notch on the revolving nut. With a mixture of despair and impotence, he watched the Invisible Man, whose outline was becoming gradually clearer as more plaster dust settled on him, pause beside Doyle, his chalky head moving from side to side, searching for something on the ground. Terrified, Murray saw him crouch down and pick up a heavy stone in his ghostly hands and raise it above his head. Then he dropped it angrily onto Doyle’s left hand. Doyle let out a fearful yowl as his fingers slipped from the edge. The creature picked up another stone, making ready to crush Doyle’s other hand, cackling like a madman. The outline of his mouth resembled a gash in the smooth white sheet that seemed to cover his head. Murray, too, gave a cry of pain as the bowstring finally slotted into the nut. Raising the crossbow, he aimed at the creature’s unfinished creamy silhouette, and before the monster could hurl the second stone at Doyle, he fired.
The arrow cleaved the air at an astonishing speed and plunged into the creature’s shoulder, propelling him several yards before slamming him against the wall. There he remained impaled, like a big pale butterfly pinned to a piece of cloth. Seeing he had hit a bull’s-eye, Murray expelled all the air from his lungs. He had done it! He had shot the Invisible Man! However, now wasn’t the time to revel in his exploit, when Doyle was holding on like grim Death to the edge of the hole with one hand. Murray discarded the now-useless crossbow and, after taking a deep breath, ran as fast as he dared along the ledge, feeling the floor break up beneath his feet like flakes of pastry. Reaching the end of the narrow strip of floor, he took a running jump and landed on the other side of the gallery. He was amazed to have emerged unscathed from his ordeal, but without wasting a second he ran toward Doyle, flung himself to the floor, and managed to grasp Doyle’s hand just as his fingers were starting to slip disastrously off the edge, his last reserves of strength finally drained.
“I’ve got you, Arthur!”
? ? ?
IT WAS A GRUELING task, but nothing compared to loading a crossbow. With Murray’s help, Doyle managed to clamber up over the edge of the hole. For a few moments they both lay sprawled on the floor, utterly exhausted, almost unconscious. Realizing they had no time to waste, they quickly got to their feet. Doyle coughed a couple of times, examining his bloody hand with the stoicism of a soldier accepting his wounds, and then contemplated the figure half-outlined in white pinned against the wall.
“We must take him with us,” he said.
“What!” Murray exclaimed.
“He’s an exceptional creature and should be the subject of a scientific study.”
Just then the creature’s head, which had been slumped on his chest, began to lift. One-eyed as he was, he contrived to look straight at them, as if he were the very essence of loathing or madness itself. A moment later, he vanished. He simply ceased to be there. All that was left was the arrow driven into the wall, no longer impaling anything but the air. From its wooden shaft a trickle of red blood appeared.