Strathmore Public Asylum
London
August 12th, 1937
Michael wiped the sweat from his
brow with his sleeve as he looked up at the imposing old edifice of the
asylum. Once it had been quite posh; the place for the great and the good to
send their sons whose minds had turned, a discreet place for ‘rest,’ and where
their eccentricities could be treated, contained, and most importantly, hidden.
Now it was run down, only suitable
for street beggars and vagabonds with nowhere to go. The crown footed the bill, and considered it
fair price to keep the streets clear of loonies.
It was a hot, muggy day, the sort
of day that made sensible Londoners seek the shade of drawing rooms, not wander
the streets of the West End, where the stink from the sewer grates clung to one
like a humid shroud. ‘But at least a nice
wind had picked up,’ people would say.
But Michael knew that it was an ill
wind. And he knew what rode upon it.
***
The keeper (orderlies, they had started calling them,) led Michael into the
filthy room where his quarry was to be found.
The men here were not chained to their beds as in other wards, considered
the ‘safe’ variety of lunatics. Thus
Michael was allowed to enter unescorted, affording him some privacy with the
man he had come to interrogate.
He found Bert in the bed closest to
the window on the far side of the room.
The man lay upon his rusty metal cot under a rumpled grey blanket. His clothes were worn, frayed and soiled, all
colors running together into a flat grey.
His skin was equally grey, leached of life and blood, and his hair was a
dingy white. Grey.
But then, everything in the world
appeared grey to Michael these days, ever since she had come and taken away all the color. But he was going to make it all right again,
and Bert was going to help him, whether the old man wanted to or not.
“Wake up,
Bert.” The old man was turned away from
Michael, but he could sense Bert’s eyes open.
Bert would know who addressed him, no introductions would be needed.
“Where is
she, Bert?”
The old man
kept his silence, but Michael remained calm.
“I know you
developed the ability to track her. You
follow the wind, and it always leads you right to her. She’s come back to London again, and you are
going to tell me where her next victim will be.”
“Go away,
Michael.” The voice was a gravelly slur,
with the lazy drawl of street trash, the sort of voice Michael’s father taught
him to detest; the voice of the poor.
But Michael knew Bert’s secret.
“Don’t give
me that fake accent. You did your best
fit in with the people of the gutter, but I know better. I’ve done my research, Bert. You were Albert James Smythe of Surrey, son
of Sir Robert Smythe. You could have
been an artist, a singer, anything you liked, you had so much talent then,
didn’t you? But that’s what she needs,
isn’t it Bert? She needs our kind;
talented young boys, so full to the brim of creativity, imagination…life. She feeds
on that Bert. She encourages it, builds
it up, and then she drains it all, drains us dry of the things that made life
special. Makes us less than we were. Makes us hollow inside. That’s what she did to you and me Bert,
hollowed us out like withered old logs.”
“It weren’t
like that, Michael-“
Michael’s
voice cut him off with a sharp hiss, “don’t lie to me, Bert! Don’t lie to yourself!” She ruined you
like she ruined me. Like she ruined so
many before and since. But it wasn’t
enough for you, was it? You were
cleverer than most, cleverer than me at least.
You learned some of her magic, learned to read the wind, and you
followed her. You followed her just so
you could recapture some of your lost spark, didn’t you?”
The old man
had rolled over and struggled to sit up now.
His rheumy eyes welled with tears at the memories. Michael continued.
“When you
were near her, felt her power, the winds of energy she rode upon, it was like
having your old self again, wasn’t it?
You could feel again, you
finally felt complete.”
Here Michael’s voice took a bitter
tone. “You followed her from victim to
victim, happy to be with her again, and she allowed you to remain in her
presence like a fawning puppy because she enjoyed the attention. You watched as she drained all those boys of
their life! You watched as she drained
ME!”
Bert struggled feebly, shaking his
head and trying to grab Michael’s arm.
“It weren’t like that Michael.
She never meant any harm to any of us.”
A slight smile creased his wrinkled lips. “I never harbored any ill will for what she
done to me.”
Michael grabbed the old man by the
shoulders and shook him violently, “You didn’t have a sister, Bert! Do you know
what happens to the girls while she is draining us, Bert? There’s a reason she never feeds on girls. They can’t stand it like we can. It…does things to them. Different
things than it does to us.”
Both men were silent for a few
moments. “Do you know what happened to
my sister, Bert? She didn’t end up in as
nice a place as this, Bert.” Michael
gestured around to the peeling walls and breathed in the stench of the unwashed
men. “Not nearly as nice as this.”
Michael reached into his pocket and
pulled out a small, chipped porcelain box, with a single ballerina’s slipper on
top where a delicate figurine had once stood on point, before being snapped
off. Opening the lid revealed the metal
mechanism of a music box. Michael began
to wind the device.
“I’ve been travelling Bert. I’ve researched her, where she has been, what
she has done, and most importantly, what she is.”
Bert looked over in fright at
Michael as he continued slowly winding the music box’s mechanism. “Oh yes Bert, I know. Her kind go by so many names, don’t they? Or maybe there is only her. Maybe all the legends are just her. Lamia, succubi, genies, the leanan sidhe,
dozens more, perhaps all those legends were simply her, travelling the
world. We have no idea how old she is
after all.”
Michael stopped winding the music
box. “But she can’t go on forever. You see, I learned some of her magic
too. I remember some of the words she
used, pure gibberish and nonsense to most, but they mean everything once you
learn how to harness their power. But as
I said, I’ve been traveling. And she was
not my only teacher, Bert.”
He placed the box on the bed and
closed the lid. The tiny slipper began
to revolve, but no music could be heard. As he did this, Michael muttered under
his breath.
The effect on Bert was
immediate. His body stiffened,
stretching out to its full length on the bed.
His eyes stared straight forward and his mouth fell slack, working open
and closed like a fish.
Michael leaned in close. “You are going to tell me where to find her
Bert. I am going to be ready for her
when she arrives, and when she does, I am going to put an end to her, once and
for all, do you understand?”
Bert had no choice but to nod.
“Good.” Said Michael. “Now tell me Bert, where is Mary Poppins?”
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