Gaslight Fantasy: A Ripping Yarn by Jaqhama

[Jaqhama]

oh yes please! I really do enjoy your writing

So as not to break this story up, I'll post a bit about A Strange Knight's Tale at the conclusion of this one.

Cheers: Jaq.

And now below...another short installment...

[Jaqhama]

     Every night for the rest of the week we sought out the Baylok.
     For nought.
     Neither Bull’s compass nor our diligent searching turned up any trace of the creature.
     Frederick wanted to inform both the Police Commissioner and the Home secretary…but Bull prevailed upon him not to do so.
     Citing the obvious reasons of A: It would sound like the tale of a madman and throw shadows on Frederick’s impeccable police record. B: Should Fred’s story be believed; once word circulated amongst his numerous constables, it would doubtless also reach the ears of both the general public and the newspapers.
     It wasn’t hard to imagine the chaos that would ensure. Suspicion would fall on anyone acting out of the ordinary (and that occurred every night in Whitechapel) innocent people would be targeted for one reason or another. I foresaw harassment, beatings, even murder…all committed with the excuse and claims that the perpetrators thought they had caught the Baylok.
     Voicing these amongst ourselves ideas, Frederick reluctantly conceded that notifying anyone would be a mistake.
     So our private quest to find and rid the world of the Baylok continued as before.
     Bull suspected that his compass no longer functioned. It had not moved at all since the night it was damaged.
     “Could it be that the creature has moved to another city or town?” I wondered aloud. “That would explain why the compass is not locating it.”
     “Thought about that,” answered the American. “Haven’t seen anything in the papers about any nasty murders taking place elsewhere.”
     “Perhaps the dastardly thing is in hiding? Knows that the three of you escaped his last attempt on your lives?” This from my uncle.
     “Thought about that also,” Bull admitted.
     Susan took a deep breath. “I had the ‘orrible idea that maybe the Baylok has got itself knocked up, and is lying low somewhere in the Chapel…waiting to give birth to its kids.”
     “Knocked up?” asked Henry.
     “Local term for getting oneself preggers,” I supplied.
     Henry coloured. “Ah, I see.”
     “Yeah,” said Bull Sackett ominously. “That’s the thought I had that worried me the most.”

*          *          *

     I couldn’t spend all my days worrying about the monster. So on the Monday of the next week, after a weekend spent in fruitless search, I invited Susan to my own club, for a look around and lunch.
     “You remember what ‘appened last time we went for a dinner in Frederick’s club,” she said. “I don’t want no trouble like that again.”
     “Nonsense,” I insisted. “Something like that will never occur in my club. I guarantee it.”
     With some reluctance she agreed to accompany me.
     We took a Hansen from my uncle’s home and a fine, sunny day it was for a drive. Susan looked positively radiant in a dark red dress that she had made herself, on a previous occasion. A small bonnet, worn at a jaunty angle, set the dress off very nicely.
     I had outfitted myself carefully in a tweed suit complete with a snappy waistcoat and a flat corduroy cap.
     Alighting from our Hansen we drew admiring looks from passersby. I’m sure we appeared quite the well-to-do couple as, arm in arm, I escorted Susan up the steps that led to the entrance of my club.
     We paused so that she could read the legend above the marble pillared doorway.

The Explorers Club

     “I might ‘ave guessed you’d be a member of something like this,” she observed. “Great white hunter, African adventurer…I bet you’re a regular Henry Morton Stanley ain’t you?”
     “You know of Stanley?” I asked.
     She gave me a withering look. “Just ‘cause I don’t pronounce me ‘A’s and sound all snooty like when I talk, don’t mean I’m a thickhead Allan. Course I know who Mr. Stanley was. He was the one what found Dr. Livingstone. Everyone knows that.”
     “Actually I’m not sure everyone does know that Susan. But even if they do…shall I tell you something about Stanley that most don’t know?”
     “Yes, go on then?”
     “The natives of the Congo region in Africa, the Kikongo, call him Bula Matari. The Breaker of Rocks. Due to his indomitable spirit and refusal to give up on any task he sets his mind to.”
     “Bula Matari. Oh, I like the sound of that. It sounds strong and deep.”
     Pleased now she gripped my left arm tighter. “Come on then. Show me your Explorers Club.”
     We stepped through the wide open doorway and walked towards the reception desk directly opposite. There were a few people sitting around in the lounge chairs provided in the foyer. Some sipping tea and reading papers. Cigar and pipe smoke was thick in the air. I inhaled the aroma deeply. It reminded me much of the Explorers Club in Cape Town. I felt a momentary pang of homesickness. This was broken a second later by a happy cry from the reception desk.
     “Master Allan. Oh welcome back sir!” An elderly chap in his early sixties rushed around from behind the desk and came up to us. He took my extended hand and pumped it up and down with vigour.
     “Timothy, old chap. Good to see you again also.”
     “Ah, we’ve missed you Allan. I heard you were back in London. I knew we’d see you sooner or later.”
     “Timothy, may I present my good friend, Miss Susan Saunders.”
     Susan was pleased when the extended hand was offered to her, and her own fingers taken in a soft grip, accompanied by a small bow and a gentle shake. “Delighted to make your acquaintance Miss Saunders.”
     “Pleased to me you ‘an all Timothy. Better call me Susan, you had. I’ll get ideas above me station if you go around calling me Miss Saunders.”
     The old fellow’s eyes positively twinkled. “Well we can’t 'ave that can we darlin'?”
     She stared at him in surprise. “You taking the mickey, Timbo?”
     Timbo? I winced.
     “Not me princess,” he continued. “I was born under the sound of the Bow Bells me’self, I was. Don’t let the posh accent I use around ‘ere put you ‘orf. I only uses that to make me’self sound more important than I am.”
     “Gawd ‘an Bennett,” she said. “Well I never. You old rogue, you.”
     He winked at her. “That’s what I am alright darlin’, an old rogue, and don’t you forget it. Why if I was ten years younger, I’d call young master Allan here out on the green and duel him to the death for your affections.”
     Susan laughed in delight, while I stared at Timothy in astonishment. “Good God.”
     He winked at me also. “More to many than meets the eye. Hey young Bwana?”
     “Timothy,” I replied. “Truly have you hid your light under a bushel all these years.”
     He shrugged. “When I got promoted in the Army, back in me Africa and India days, it was put to me by a Colonel I knew, that if I got rid of me Cockney accent, and took on some airs and graces, I could do well for me’self. And how right he was ‘an all. I ended up with a Captaincy a’fore I left the regular army, I did. Then some private soldering in a few different countries after that. Came back ‘ome to Old Blighty with a sackful of loot, a chest full of knickknacks and a firm intention not to set foot outside this Sceptred Isle for the rest of me born days.”
     “Oh that’s wonderful Timbo,” gushed Susan. “How did you end up here?”
     ‘Timbo’ pointed a finger at my chest. “His old man and I knew each other. In a few different countries ‘an a few different wars I might add. When he started the grand idea of the Explorers Club he offered me the job of overseeing the place. Twenty odd years ago that were. Been ‘ere ever since.”
     Susan turned to me in surprise. “Your Father started the Explorers Club?”
     “Here, and in a few other countries as well. He never was one to sit down and relax for a minute. He loved the idea of opening a club for men like himself (and Timothy here) who’d been adventuring in exotic parts of the world. Nothing he liked more than meeting up with other likeminded individuals, and catching up on all the gossip from other parts of the Empire, and beyond.”
     “Why that’s amazing Allan. Where is your Father now?”
     A shadow crossed my face. Timothy coughed politely. I took a deep breath. “Story for another time m’dear. Another time.”
     There was a moment’s silence. Susan looking at me with a frown. Timothy came to the rescue with perfect timing. “Arthur Ignatius is here. In the reading room, he is. Looking up books about South America I think.”
     “Arthur’s here?” I said with a smile. “Oh excellent. I’ll have to introduce Susan to him. I’m sure they’ll get on famously.”
     “Bound to,” Timothy agreed. “Go on then. Off you go, young couple. Don’t worry about me. I’ll still be here when you finish. Come back and fetch me and we’ll have a cuppa and a chat before you leave.”
     Assuring him we would do so, I practically dragged Susan away toward the reading room.
     “Who’s Arthur Ignatius when he’s ‘ome?” she asked.
     “Someone I’m sure you’ll know when I introduce you,” I replied mysteriously.

*          *          *

 

[Mich]

Timbo 

[Victoria The Mistress]

I'm seriously liking the new character Timbo.......can't wait to meet Arthur!! 

[Mich]

Yes, so as for the characters I'd say:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Allan Quatermain, and Arthur Conan Doyle. Not sure about Susan,( maybe Mina Harker ?)

[Jaqhama]

I was a bit tired tonight, so have only added a small segment. And possibly only a little to be added over the weekend...but never fear...the story will continue.

     Back at my uncle’s house Susan was nattering away ten times to a dozen.
     “They have women members an' all. And I met that Arthur chap, the writer. And the library and map room, they’re huge. Must have books an' maps about everywhere.”
     My uncle smiled. “I can see you’ve had a very enjoyable afternoon Susan.”
     “’Core, it was really great, Henry. That Timbo feller, I mean Timothy, he's a real caution, he is. An' Allan knows everyone. Or should I say, everyone knows him. He’s quite the famous chap ain’t he?”
     “Infamous might be a better description.”
     “Why thank you uncle,” I said. “I bumped into your chum Selous while we were there. He passed on his regards.”
     “Ah, the legend himself. I must catch up with him. He’s here one minute and gone the next. He’s like you, always hopping about.”
     I took my leave for a moment and left Susan waxing lyrical about the Explorers Club. She had enjoyed it immensely, it being nothing like the rather stuffy club the inspector had taken us to previously.
    I found Bull Sackett in the sun room. Overlooking  the spacious back garden. He was sprawled out on a lounge. As I walked in he put something down on the table next to him.
     “Howdy Allan. I was just reading your uncle’s novel.”
     I glanced down at the cover of the book to which he was referring. “Oh, that one. Yes, stirring stuff what?”
     “How much of it is true?”
     “Many embellishments I assure you.”
     “Maybe he should write a story about the Baylok…won’t have to embellish anything then.”
     “No, probably have to withhold the more gruesome parts of the story.”
     Bull stood up and looked at me seriously. “I’m going to return to America, Allan.”
     I was stunned. “What? Why?”
     “We ain’t found the Baylok. I ain’t sure the compass works anymore. I’m scared the critter might be headed to New Orleans. To carry out its threat to harm Esmeralda.”
     I sat myself down on the end of the lounge. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
     “I’ve had the idea a few times in the past couple of days. It's nagging at me. Like a sore tooth or an itch I can’t scratch. And, Hell, I’ll be honest…I miss Esmeralda. But now I’m worried about her safety as well.”
     “Don’t blame you old chap,” I agreed. “And you know I’ll keep looking for the Baylok.”
     “Figured you would. Why I want you to have this.” He held out the magical compass. “If it still works, all well and good. If it don’t, then it ain’t going to matter if I leave it with you. When you’re finished with it, you can have it sent back to me in the States.”
     I didn’t know what to say, but I tucked the precious object away in a secure pocket. “Have you told Henry or Frederick of your plans?”
     “Nope. Figured I’d wait until supper tonight. I checked the sailing times. Won’t be a ship leaving for New York for at least another ten days. I’ll keep looking for the Baylok until then. Might get lucky.”
     I nodded. “I think you’re doing the right thing. In fact if it was me, I’d return to Esmeralda, pack up lock, stock and barrel and move somewhere the creature doesn’t know about.”
     The American smiled grimly. “Was thinking exactly the same thing myself. I kinda feel like I’m running out on you, leaving the job half done.”
     “Nonsense,” I told him. “You have your new wife to consider. No one’s going to think badly of you for that, Bull.”

*          *         *

[Victoria The Mistress]

Ah, chivalry!! .......

I hope Esmerelda is alright....... 

Now, where IS the pesky Baylok??

*Eagerly awaits the next episode* 

[Jaqhama]

Mich wrote...

Yes, so as for the characters I'd say:

We shall see.

[Jaqhama]

Ah, chivalry!! .......

I hope Esmerelda is alright....... 

Now, where IS the pesky Baylok??

*Eagerly awaits the next episode* 

I'm sure the Baylok is slinking around somewhere.
What's that shadow behind you???

[Chrononaut]

crackerjack, my good chum!

[Mich]

Well if it can shape change, it might change into someone they know or one of the main characters themselves...Scary thought!

[Jaqhama]

I have returned...and the story continues...


     Frederick and my uncle were shocked and not a little concerned, when Bull Sackett told them of his plans over dinner that night.
     “Good heaven’s man, you may be our best hope of locating the creature and you’re planning to run off back to New Orleans,” said Frederick bluntly.
     “That’s not fair,” I protested on behalf of my American friend. “If it weren’t for Bull, who knows what havoc the Baylok would have wreaked already in London?”
     My uncle reluctantly agreed that I was correct. “Bull rightly worries about Esmeralda being in danger. I understand his concern. Were our positions reversed I have no doubt I’d feel the same way.”
     “Bleeding right you would,” said Susan. “Course he has to go and protect his wife. We’ve no right to insist he stay here, not any of us. Why if it weren’t for him I’d likely not even be here now. I’d be lying gutted in that alleyway, I would.”
    Bull Sackett inclined his head in Susan’s direction. “Thank you for understanding.” Then he added. “I’ll spend the rest of the week looking for the Baylok. Maybe I’ll get lucky again.”
     Frederick apologised and mumbled something about being under a lot of strain. As I’m sure he was. He being the leading detective that was on the case.
     Dinner passed in a somewhat desultory fashion after that. Most of us quiet with our own thoughts. At ten p.m. Bull announced that he was returning to Whitechapel to seek the monster out once more. I agreed to accompany him, as did the others.  The Hansen and its single horse had been stabled nearby. (God knows what the owner of the place thought of us coming and going at all hours. He grumbled that next time we should just let ourselves in, with the key he handed my uncle, and thus save us waking him up late at night.) So again, we all climbed aboard the Hansen and my uncle cracked the reins and we set off in the Chapel’s direction.

                     

*          *          *

     And again our search proved fruitless.
     Bull and I traipsed the alleys and side streets until three a.m. in the morning. The thick fog was prevalent; a light rain had drifted down from the overcast sky all night. My new coat and Bull’s western duster had kept us dry on the inside, despite the fact that the water ran in rivulets from our hats and outer garments.
     The magical compass had not moved by the tiniest fraction. Reinforcing Bull Sackett’s fears that it was broken.
     We returned to a main intersection where we’d agreed to reunite with our friends. We passed a couple of police constables on the way. They gave us a cursory once over. Our long coats hid our armament from any but the keenest eyes.
     “Bad night to be out lads,” I observed.
     “Looking for the Ripper, we are sir,” came the answer. “Hopefully this foul weather is keeping the bugger indoors.”
     “Hope so,” I nodded.
     “Might I ask what you two gentleman is doing out and about at this hour, in this weather, sir?”
     That caught me by surprise.
     Before I could answer the second constable nudged his companion. “I seen these two blokes with Inspector Abberline. Word has it that they’re hunting the Ripper for him themselves.”
     He looked at me. “Is that right, sir?”
    “I…ah….am not at liberty to say officer. But the Inspector will vouch for my friend and I. I can assure you of that.”
     The second constable grinned at me. “I heard you was a famous hunter from Africa and this other cully is an American bounty hunter.”
     “Hasn’t helped you find the Ripper though has it?” said the first officer, with some irony.
     “Ah, no. I’m afraid not,” I admitted.
     The second constable shrugged. “More of us looking for the nutter, better chance we got of someone catching him I reckon. You two gentleman be about your business. Bit of an open secret you is. Anyone from headquarters asks us about you, we don’t know nothing and we ain’t seen you.”
     “That’s jolly decent of you,” I responded.
     He touched a finger to his cap. “Probably see you around again sirs.” And with that, he and his companion walked away and disappeared back into the fog shrouded streets.


                 

  *          *         *

     “I did pass the word around to a select few of my men, that a hunter from Africa and an American gentleman were assisting us in our hunt for the Ripper,” Frederick said. “I’ve managed to avoid mentioning your ‘help’ to my superiors however. God forbid the press should get wind of it. I can see the headlines now; Great white hunter and American gunfighter stalk Jack the Ripper through the alleys of Whitechapel.”
     Susan laughed. “Sounds very romantic when you put it like that Fred.”
     It was now four a.m.
     Bull had relocated all his belongings to my uncle’s house. Fred now often slept a few hours on the spacious lounge. Susan likewise, had a bedroom set aside for her on the top floor.
     “Well, boys and girls, I’m off to my bunk,” I told them. “Better luck tomorrow night perhaps.”
     With their goodnights ringing in my ears I made my way to the second floor and my own sleeping quarters.
     Wearily I shrugged out of my waistcoat and shirt. Pulled off my boots and removed my trousers. Pulling my socks off, I climbed under the soft covers and turned off the lamp on the bedside table. I heard the others moving around for a few minutes. Bull’s room was on the same floor as mine. My uncle’s and Susan’s bedrooms were on the floor above. I heard goodnights and footsteps, doors shutting and about then I fell into a dreamless slumber.

                *

          *          *

     What awakened me I have no idea.
     One moment I was sound asleep and the next moment my eyes sprang open and I was instantly alert. I’d been a guest in my uncle’s home for some time now. I was familiar with all the creaks and groans that the old house produced at night. The wind moving the branches of the trees about outside. The faint glow from a nearby streetlight. Even, sometimes, the chittering of a squirrel or screech of a passing bat.
I had no idea what had caused me to awaken, but I knew it was none of these things. A feeling of dread swept through me. Sweat broke out upon my forehead. I turned my head…and froze!
     There, leaning against the wall, next to the bedroom doorway, was my Zulu Assegai…and the blade was glowing!
     I took a shaky breath. Impossible. I had left the shortened spear in the cane rack downstairs. Next to the rack that I had hung my rain-sodden great-coat on. Yet here it was, now inside my bedroom…and glowing with an eerie blue radiance.
     What? When? How? All these thoughts flashed through my mind. Yet the sense of dread I had felt upon awakening was, if anything, growing stronger. I felt that some nameless terror was creeping through the house. That at any moment, something awful and deadly would loose itself upon me.
     I threw back the covers and slid out of my warm bed. Hastily I pulled on my discarded trousers and slipped on my waistcoat. Ignoring my shirt and my boots I shoved my bare feet into a pair of soft leather slippers.
     I padded silently over to the bedroom door and picked up the assegai beside it. The wooden shaft was warm to the touch. The strange blue light was reflected against my skin. As soon as it was in my hand I felt better. As though somehow, having the weapon in my hand gave me some sort of power.
     Power to face whatever was creeping through the house.
     And something was.
     Death was stalking the corridors of my uncle’s house. I was certain of it.

*          *          *

[elkedoring]

Ah wonderful! Another installment of the story! Most suspenseful!

[Mich]

Oh Dear Lord, don't stop now!

[B. Fugu]

We are now so thouroughly hooked than you can use it to manipulate us.

[Jaqhama]

   I reached out to open the bedroom door when I felt something burning against the inside of my left thigh.
   I thrust a hand into my trouser pocket and hastily pulled out the object that was suddenly emitting such heat.
   The compass! It so hot it almost scalded my left palm. In the eerie blue light emanating from the assegai, I watched the small needle quiver and move to the right side of the small dial. I moved my hand…and the pointer resettled itself…again pointing to the right.
   The Baylok!
   Here…inside my uncle’s house.
   I shivered and not from any coldness in the air about me.
   The needle moved again, further to the right.
   How had the creature entered the house? Through a window or door on the ground floor? If so…what about Frederick? Was he not asleep on the lounge? Or had the inhuman thing already…?
   No. I would not think about that now. The compass plainly told me one important fact…the Baylok was either heading past my room towards Bull Sackett’s new sleeping quarters…or was on the floor above…and going directly towards Susan’s bedroom.   
   Taking a deep breath I turned the handle of my door and pulled it slowly open. I stepped well back, lest I was mistaken and the monster was in fact outside my own room. I held the short spear in stabbing position. It fairly pulsated in my hand, as though eager to do battle. I pulled the door fully open and waited a moment.
   No black shape hurled itself upon me from the darkness of the corridor. I breathed out a little and peered to the left and right of my door. The strange blue luminance from the assegais’ blade providing me with light enough to see by.
   I stepped quickly through the open doorway, looking left and right…nothing. The short corridor was empty in both directions.
   I glanced again at the compass in my left hand. The needle pointed unequivocally to my right. I started in that direction. To the set of stairs that led to the floor above. Where my uncle and Susan slept each in their own rooms, unaware of the doom that was approaching them.
   I flicked the soft leather slippers from my feet. Both the corridor and the stairs were carpeted, with a thick, rug pile. I started towards the base of the stairs, moving soundlessly. I had a brief thought to open Bull Sackett’s bedroom door and awaken the American, but decided that even the slightest sound might alert the intruder in our midst.
   So I continued on, past Sackett’s closed door, until I reached the first step of the stairwell.
   Holding the assegai in front of myself, using it’s radiance, I peered up the stairs. It was only a short flight, but they twisted back on themselves before reaching the top. Still I saw nothing.
   Using the same steady, but cautious movements that I hunted animals with in the African bushveldt, I climbed the steps.
   As I approached the turn in the stairwell the Zulu spear in my right hand began to throb, the blue light became brighter. What this meant I had no idea. Yet I now realised that the assegai was a sorcerous weapon. Obviously possessed of some magical power of its own. How it had appeared inside my room, after being left in the cane rack downstairs I did not know. And at that moment I did not care. My entire being was focussed on the last remaining steps before me. I rounded the turn in the stairwell. I took five more soundless steps. I set foot into the corridor that ran in both directions on the top floor. My uncle’s bedroom was to my left, at the front of the house. Susan’s bedroom was to my right, overlooking the back garden. The compass needle pointed to the right.
   I shoved the magical object back into my trouser pocket and took the short stabbing spear in both hands. I silently faced the right side of the corridor. Again the blue light showed me that there was nothing in sight.
   But I saw that the door to Susan’s bedroom was open.
   Less than a dozen quick paces brought me up to her door.
   I took a deep breath and stepped into the opening.
   The blue light emanating from my spear illuminated the interior of the room quite clearly.
   Susan lay on her back, tousled hair spread out across the pillow. In sleep she seemed almost childlike.
   A tall, dark figure loomed over her.
   Once again I had the impression of a creature that was half human and half rodent. The skinny frame, ending in clawed hands and feet. The long snout, open now in a snarl of pleasure. The beady eyes, once red, now as black as ebony; but glinting in the light cast by my assegai. One long, furred arm was just reaching out. The talons about to touch the soft flesh of Susan’s throat.
   A voice spoke. “Nahg Shentani. Soola pa ma’sa. Psei, psei. Ma ta urg.”
   I recognised the words as being uttered in the Zulu tongue…and they had been spoken by me?
   The hideous creature before me froze.
   The claw that had been about to encircle Susan’s throat was snatched back in surprise.
   The glittering black eyes burned into my own.
   The Baylok hissed and flexed it’s talons at me. “Who speaks?”
   And again I heard my own voice answer, but in a language I could hardly speak, in words I did not know.
   “Tea Shaka. Impi Zulu.”
   “I am Shaka. King of the Zulu Impis!”

               

  *          *          *

   
   






      

[elkedoring]

Dramatic music ensues!! Another wonderful installment!

[Mich]

O.M.G.!!!!!

[Jaqhama]

            The Baylok stepped backwards, away from Susan’s sleeping form. In seemed to me that the creature was almost in shock.
   “You are dead,” it said. “Dust these many years.”
   “As shall you be,” replied the voice that was not my own.
   For a moment neither of us moved.
   I heard Susan murmur. “Hmmm?” Her eyes opened. She blinked sleepily. Then her eyes widened as she saw the thing standing beside her bed.
   She screamed!
   The Baylok leaped forwards, whether to do harm to Susan or myself I do not know.
   Without any volition on my own part I leapt forwards to meet the inhuman terror.
   We crashed into each other atop Susan’s supine form.
   The claws latched onto my side and shoulder.
   I trust the assegai deep into the creature’s chest.
   We both roared, or screamed, I am unsure which.
   I twisted the short, thick blade of the stabbing spear. Jerked it up and down. The claws raked across my own neck and chest. Thick, black liquid gushed out of the Baylok’s wound. Red blood flowed out of my own.
   I stepped backwards, pulling the spear free of the creature. It placed both hands over the wound and gasped.
   I threw myself forwards again, and once more the sorcerous spear found its mark in the other’s flesh. A flailing talon tore open the skin of my forehead. Momentarily blinded, I shook my head to clear the blood from my eyes.
   The creature reeled back, pulling itself off the spear imbedded in its body. It coughed black liquid up, from somewhere deep within itself. It looked at me. I was sure I saw fear in its glittering black eyes.
            Then it whirled around and threw itself against the closed window next to Susan’s bed.
            The window exploded into shards of glass as the creature smashed through the flimsy barrier.
            Without a moments hesitation I hurled myself through the same shattered window.
            We were two floors above the ground.
            I saw the Baylok land heavily, and then it was upright, back on its feet and staggering away.
            The ground rushed up at me. I made a futile attempt to twist my body and land on my feet, risking broken legs. I crashed into the grass and rolled over several times. Whatever force had taken control of my body took no notice of any injuries I might have sustained. In an instant I was back on my feet and running after the fleeing creature.
            Behind me, I imagined I heard Bull Sackett’s voice, calling out to me.
            I glimpsed my enemy rushing across the neatly cut grass ahead of me. Aiming for the high wall that surrounded the garden on the street side. I slid to a stop and raised the assegai.
            Waited.
            The creature leaped upwards, arms stretching out to grip the top of the wall, and clamber over it.
            The thrown spear took the thing in the centre of its spine and with a shriek it crashed back down onto the grass on my side of the wall.
            I lope forwards.
            I take deep breaths, relishing the scents in the air. I can smell the flowers that have been planted. The freshly cut grass. The thick, rich aroma of turned earth. The sky above is still dark and overcast, although there is a faint ray of red far off, heralding the arrival of the morning sun. The fog is lifting, it drifts about the garden in little wisps, here and there.
            The soft grass beneath my feet feels luxurious. I reveal in the movement of my limbs and muscles. It is long since I have walked upon this world. But I am not one to forget my promises.
            The Shentani is back on its feet. It has twisted its forelimbs, reached around to its back and is pulling my assegai free of its flesh.
            As I reach the creature it springs at me again. I catch its throat in my left hand and hold it from me. I slide my right arm around its back and grasp my spear. With a wrench I free it and then thrust it into the monster’s side.
            The Shentani howls.
            I laugh.
            I jerk my weapon loose and then stab it into the beast again, and again. Only my hand upon its throat stops it from collapsing to the earth.
            I open that hand and the creature drops to its knees.
            I kick it in the chest and it falls onto its back.
            I then use the blade of my spear to slit it open, from throat to stomach. The huge wound spurts the thick, black fluid that the Shentani call blood. I bend over and, with my free hand, reach inside the awful wound and rummage around.
            There…this is what I seek.
            I take hold of the strange organ, deep in the centre of the Shentani’s chest, and close my hand around it. I pull it free with a sticky, sucking noise.
            And the demon screams!
            Before my eyes it changes into something that is neither a man nor a woman, nor yet an animal.  The facial features flow and twist. The body spasms and writhes and shifts its shape upon the grass before me.
            Yet still does it live.
            The eyes, still glittering black, stare up at me.
            The mouth opens and strange sounds come out. The wisp of a word, the guttural grunt of an ape, the screech of a bird, the sibilant hiss of a reptile.
            I hold the organ I have withdrawn from the thing’s chest up before it. I close my left hand, as tightly as I am able. It had been throbbing in my grip. Now the substance of which it is comprised bursts asunder. Some of the horrid black mucus burns the side of my face. I squeeze still tighter. Like a man will squeeze a soft piece of fruit, to extract the juices within. I feel something dig into the palm of my hand.
I open my hand and look. There, in the centre, rests a fragment of rough black stone.
            I look down into the eyes of my enemy and smile.
            “I told you I would kill you again,” I say.
            The Shentani mouths some more meaningless noises. It even raises a hand, as though it might expect mercy, from me, of all people.
            I smile again as I touch the tip of my assegai to the fragment of rough black stone.
            A spark of blue lightening joins the two together for a moment. Then the fragment in the palm of my hand breaks into smaller pieces. These pieces crumble to dust. I look down at the creature lying at my feet.
            The eyes are almost beseeching.
            The mouth tries to speak, one last time.
            Then the body begins to liquefy.
            It melts before my eyes.
            And even as it melts it gives off wisps of thin, oily, black smoke…that dissipate almost as soon as they rise into the fresh, morning air.
            The body melts away and is absorbed into the soft green grass of this foreign soil.
            I raise my left hand up to my mouth and, with a single breath, blow the fine black powder in my palm, away into the air.
            I hear voices and see people running from the large dwelling.
            Three men and a young woman. All white.
            I turn and look about myself, taking deep breaths, enjoying the scents about me. The sounds of the birds awakening in the trees, to the morning sunrise.
            I see many buildings, of red brick. Large and unusual. I notice that the grassy area I am standing in is neat, as though it has been somehow tamed. This is not my homeland, I know this.
            I flex the muscles in this body. It feels good. Young and fit and strong. I could learn to like it. But I am not as the Shentani.
            I stare fondly at my assegai. It still pulsates with the blue light. I touch the blade to my chest and feel the power flow through me. Instantly the wounds on this body are healed.
            The four running toward me have stopped.
            We gaze upon one another.
            “Who are you?” whispers the wide eyed, young white woman.
            “I am who I have always been,” I tell her. “I am Shaka. King of the Zulu Impis.”
            Then I left the body of the young white man, and returned to that place from whence I had come.


                     

*          *          *

[Mich]

Oh WOW! Totally gripping....

[Victoria The Mistress]

 

[Jaqhama]

   I opened my eyes to find myself laying on the lounge in my uncle’s sunroom, overlooking the rear garden. The sun was up, a rosy glow and shafts of bright light sparkled off the dew-wet grass and flowers.
   Susan knelt beside me, her hand in mine. My uncle, Bull Sackett and Frederick, hovered nearby.
   “What happened?” I asked.
   “Kinda hoping you could tell us Allan,” replied the American.
   “You killed the Baylok,” my uncle told me excitedly. “Or at least someone did.”
   The Baylok dead? And I had killed it? I shook my head, confused. “I remember throwing myself through the bedroom window, after the Baylok. I remember the ground rushing up at me.” I paused, looked down at myself. Good God! I was covered in dried blood. Shocked, I tried to sit up.
   “Hush now, Allan,” Susan pushed me back down.
   “Am I bleeding? Am I badly wounded?”
   “You’re fine,” Bull assured me. “The dried blood is just on your clothes.”
   I let my head fall back onto the lounge pillow. I felt very tired.
   “I can’t seem to recall anything after my impromptu flight out the window. Perhaps I hit my head when I landed?”
   “I think it was rather more than that young man,” said Frederick.
   I looked around at those assembled. “Something happened?” I surmised. “You said I killed the Baylok? How? And why don’t I remember it?”
   “Susan and Bull got the best view of what happened,” my uncle told me. “I think one of them should fill in the blanks for you.”
   I met Susan’s eyes, she seem very concerned.
   “Tell me,” I requested.

               

*          *          *

             Susan had woken up from a deep sleep, hearing a familiar voice speaking strange words. Words she was unable to make out. She opened her eyes, to find the Baylok standing beside her bed. She screamed. A moment later the creature had leapt forwards…only to be met by Allan as he jumped to meet the thing.
   The fought atop Susan’s bed. She lying beneath them. Unable to fling herself away.  Allan had the short spear in his hand, it glowed with a strange blue light. He stabbed it into the Baylok. In its turn the creature inflicted awful wounds on Allan’s torso and face.
Stabbed again, the creature turned away and hurled itself through the closed window, shattering the glass in all directions. To her horror, Susan watched Allan throw himself out of the window in pursuit of the thing.
   Rolling from her dishevelled bed Susan ran to the window and looked down. Expecting to see both the Baylok and Allan lying wounded on the grass, two floors below. Surely the man at least, must have broken some bones when he impacted with the ground?
But no…the Baylok was up and running across the wide garden…and Allan was also on his feet and pursuing it. He moved amazingly quickly, as though the wounds he had received in her bedroom and any injuries he might have incurred in the two story drop were as nothing.
            Bull Sackett burst into her bedroom. Pistol in hand, eyes searching everywhere.
           “Here,” she cried.
            The American rushed over to the window and stuck his head out, following her pointing finger.
            They watched Allan dash across the garden. Then saw him stop abruptly. The Baylok had almost reached the high wall that separated the garden from the street opposite.
            They watched Allan draw back his arm; preparing to throw the spear in his hand.
           And then it was as though Allan’s body shimmered and another form stood there. Superimposed over his own form. A tall, lean warrior. Draped in the pelt of a leopard. Ebony flesh gleaming in the early morning sunrise.
            The black warrior’s form became the more distinct of the two. Suddenly the arm that supported the spear flew forward, as he hurled the weapon at the fleeing Baylok.
            The broad bladed spear impaled the creature, just as its claws grasped the top of the high wall.
            It shrieked and dropped to the grass.
            The black warrior jogged towards his fallen adversary.
            Susan and Bull Sackett watched in shocked fascination as the ebony man battled against the midnight black monster.
            For long moments the two dark forms struggled against one and other. The watchers in the window saw the short stabbing spear pulled and thrust into the Baylok’s body several times.
            The creature collapsed onto the grass.
            They heard strange, guttural noises issuing from its mouth.
            They were too far away to see what the ebony warrior did next, but they heard the scream that was torn from the inhuman creature, so awful was it that Susan covered her ears.
Even Bull Sackett flinched.
           When next they looked back…the Baylok lay on the ground…and seemed to be dissolving.
           The ebony warrior in the leopard pelt was holding the blue glowing spear against his chest. The blue radiance spread all over his body.
           Without a word to each other, both Susan and Bull Sackett turned from the shattered window and sprinted out of the bedroom. They met Henry and Frederick on the landing.
           Both of the older men were armed with pistols, Frederick also having the sword from inside his cane to hand.
         “What’s happening?” demanded Henry.
         “Downstairs,” cried Susan. “Quickly, into the back garden.”
          She and the American ran headlong down the carpeted stairs, followed closely by the other two men.
          They dashed through the ground floor sunroom and hastily unlatched the door that led into the back garden.
          Through the door they ran, across the dew covered grass, toward the ebony skinned figure standing motionless near the high wall.
          Reaching the figure they slowed.
          Susan gasped and the three men with her either cursed or asked for God’s help, depending on their personal inclinations.
          They saw a tall, lean black warrior. With gleaming skin, the hair on his head shaven almost down to the bone. He was dressed in the mottled pelt of a leopard. His arms and legs were bare. Muscle rippled across his body. In his right hand he held a short stabbing spear. The blade of which glowed with a strange blue light.
          “Who are you?” gasped Susan.
          “Tsa maro tsa toomba. Tea Shaka. Impi Zulu.” The fierce looking figure responded.
           And Henry, who had himself spent time on the dark continent of Africa, and who had a smattering of many native dialects, took this to mean that the ebony skinned warrior in front of them had just introduced himself as the Zulu King, Shaka. A man who had been dead and buried since the year of our Lord…1828.
           The man before them smiled…and then his form seem to become transparent, indistinct…and another’s form became visible. For a moment the two were merged together, then the ebony skinned warrior faded away and a white skinned man stood before them.
           His clothes were but bloody tatters. Yet there appeared to be not a mark upon him.
           Allan looked at them blankly for a second, then his knees buckled and he crumbled to the grass before them.           

 

*          *          *

          “Good grief,” I exclaimed.
           Again I shook my head. I could still remember nothing after leaping through the shattered window in Susan’s bedroom.
           I made to get up from the lounge. Susan pushed me back down. I had all the strength of a new born kitten. “No,” I said to her. “I must get up. Help me up, take me out into the garden.”
          She glared at me, but could I was not going to desist. “Alright then, but mind how you go. Slow and steady is the ticket.”
          “Here,” Bull Sackett stepped forwards and helped me to my feet. “Lean on me, amigo.”
           Gratefully I did so.
           Slowly we walked out of the sunroom, and at my direction, over the grass beneath Susan’s window. Easing myself down onto my knees I scanned the ground.
           To one who has been brought up tracking in Africa, the signs were easy to read. The grass was still crushed by the falling bodies. Later it would straighten and the tracks become all but invisible, but at the moment I could read the signs as easily as another might read an open book.
           I followed the trail from beneath the shattered window and away across the garden. The others walked behind me, watching me closely. I stopped. “This is where the spear was thrown,” I stated with confidence.
          “About there,” agreed Bull. “How did you know?”
          “Because from this point on, the tracks that I, apparently, made up to this point, become heavier, deeper. The grass is crushed flatter, as though a person who weighs more than myself has made them.”
          “This is about where you faded away and that other feller popped up,” the American confirmed.
           I continued to follow the spoor. Over near the high brick wall the grass was crushed flat for several feet. “This is where they fought,” I said.
           Susan and Bull assured me that, again, I was correct.
           I got down on my hands and knees. Looking closely at the grass, trying to discern I knew not what.
           Bull was carrying the Zulu assegai. I asked for it. He passed it over to me. I grasped it strongly in my right hand. I felt nothing unusual. No eerie blue light emanated from it. I touched the blade to the skin of my chest. Nothing. I lowered the point and touched it to the crushed grass at my feet. Nothing. Whatever power had lain dormant in the weapon was now gone.
          “You all realise of course, how lucky we’ve been?” I pointed out. “While we thought we were hunting the Baylok, in reality, the creature was hunting us, in its turn.”
          “How on Earth did it know where we were?’ questioned my uncle.
          “Reckon I’ve figured that out,” confessed Bull.
          “Me too,” said Susan forlornly. “That ‘delving’ into me mind it did. When I was passed out. It found out about Esmeralda and the compass. Must have found out where Henry and Allan live ‘an all.”
           I nodded. “Yes, I expect that’s it. But not to worry. Chin up Susan, old girl. Wasn’t your fault. The evil creature was possessed of powers that we have little idea about. All’s well that ends well hey?”
          My companions were all looking at me. I smiled and shrugged. “I suppose this is the end of our strange adventure, then?”
          “Looks like it,” Bull agreed.
          “I wonder why the spear did not…err…show any magical properties when you and Bull fought the creature previously?” my uncle inquired.
          “Perhaps it needed to taste the Baylok’s blood first?” I answered. “That the blood of the creature somehow energised it. Woke it up, as it were.”
          “Hmmm…yes, yes. You could be right Allan. Pon my soul, dashed odd business what?”
          “You’re not bleeding wrong,” said Susan.
          “I wonder what connection Shaka had with the creature?” Frederick mused.
           I shrugged again. “I have no idea. I think N’Longa knows. The witch doctor who gave me the assegai. Those juju men seem to have mystical powers that we white men do not, as yet, comprehend.”
          “No wonder they call it the Dark Continent,” observed Susan.
          “So what now Frederick?” asked my uncle. “The Baylok is dead, or at least gone back to whatever Hell spawned it. Which means that our Jack the Ripper won’t be running around Whitechapel any longer, hacking anymore poor women up.”
           The inspector pursed his lips. “The creature is disposed of. The Ripper won’t be committing any more atrocities. He will simply become another legend, in a city full of legends. Mayhap, as the years go by, he will be thought of merely as a myth. I believe that is best. Let us not mention any of this to anyone, apart from ourselves. Let both the Baylok and the Ripper become whispers to scare small children with, as the years pass.”
          “Unless one of us writes this adventure down in our memoirs,” Bull Sackett said.
           Frederick smiled at him. “Yes, then let people wonder if any of this really occurred…or is but a work of fiction.”
          The others turned, talking amongst themselves as they walked toward the house, but I held back. I still clasped the assegai in my right hand. I looked around the garden once more. “Thank you, Shaka,” I said softly. “Thank you, Impi Zulu.”

                 

*          *          *

           Frederick excused himself and went off to attend his office. The rest of us sat around the sunroom, eating a hearty breakfast, prepared by my uncle’s housekeeper. She had been staying with her sister the night before, and so was completely unaware of the events that had transpired in and about the house.
           “Mmm,” I mumbled through a mouthful of toast. “Almost forgot Bull, here.” I pulled the American’s magical compass from my left trouser pocket. “You’ll be pleased to know it still works. Grew red hot and the needle moved, when the Baylok was close by.”
           He accepted it gratefully. “That’s good to hear. I’ll return it to the voodoo folk in New Orleans, with many thanks. Hopefully I’ll not have need of it again.”
           I nodded.
          “What are you going to do with the spear,” he asked.
          “Yes,” said Susan. “I was wondering about that me'self. Going to hang it back up on the wall are you?”
           I shook my head. “As Bull returns to America, so must I soon set sail back to Africa. I shall take the assegai with me, and make a safari, back to N’Longa's village. I shall return it to him, also with many thanks.”
           I then looked full into Susan’s eyes. “Perhaps you might care to accompany me?”
           She was startled. “What…me? In Africa? Well I never.”
           I waited.
           Then she said. “Well, why bloody not hey? I mean if I can survive the Baylok, I can survive anything. Even your Dark Continent!”
           I had the feeling I was grinning like a loon. Must have been, judging by the amused expression on Bull Sackett’s face.
          “Splendid,” I exclaimed.

                 

*          *          *

          We all dined in the Explorers Club that night.
          Timothy delighted to see Susan at my side, and equally delighted to meet an American Texas Ranger.
         “We’ve ‘ad all sorts in here before now Mr. Sackett. But never a Texas Ranger. A real life pistoleer. Welcome sir, welcome indeed.”
          It was a fine night. Frederick was with us and decided right then and there, that he would abandon his own dull Gentlemen’s club and henceforth make the Explorers Club his preferred choice of establishment, for dining and drinking. My uncle arranged a membership for him. As any full member could vote in a newcomer.
          I introduced Bull and Frederick to Arthur and also my African associate Selous. Susan having met them both on our earlier visit. The chef and staff outdid themselves with the menu and later, a whole group of us were sitting around the smoking room, including three or four other women, apart from Susan. We had a bonny time with the drinks and snacks and conversation. The aroma of cigar smoke, pipe smoke and glasses of beer, whiskey and rum, made me pine for the other Explorers Club in Cape Town. Too long had I been away from the country I loved. I was delighted that Susan had agreed to accompany me back to Africa. I was looking forward to showing her the sights. In my mind, I was already arranging a romantic dinner, at sunset, atop Table Mountain, overlooking Cape Town.
          I caught her eye across our table and smiled.
          She grinned back and raised her wine glass to me.
          Was it my imagination? Or did I see her blow me a discreet kiss?

                           

   *          *          *

Tomorrow…Bull Sackett sets sail for America. Allan and Susan prepare to leave for Africa…and something else…

   

[Jaqhama]

     It seemed that the day of Bull Sackett’s departure came all too quickly.
     For the past week the five of us had wined and dined every night.
     Susan and I were now officially a ‘couple’. I had convinced her to leave her own lodgings and move to my uncle’s house. For proprieties sake we still slept in separate rooms. I had already booked us passage on a ship bound for Africa and both Susan and myself felt that the days could not pass fast enough for us.
     But we were all sad to be saying goodbye to our American friend. Such a staunch companion had he been.
     We would all have taken the train from London to the coast with him, had he not insisted that we should say our farewells there.
     So it was that we piled his meagre luggage into a double horse Hansen and accompanied him to Victoria station.
     With a porter placing his baggage onto the train, we all stood around on the wide platform making small talk and pleasantries, until it was time for Bull to board his train, that would take him to Portsmouth, where he would board a ship for his voyage back to America.
     We all promised to visit with him and his new wife at a future date. I invited them both to Africa, an offer which Bull assured me he would one day take me up on.
     It was a somewhat sad affair, as partings between people who have formed strong friendships often are.
     In no time at all the platform guard blew on his whistle and informed all in the vicinity that the Portsmouth train would be leaving in five minutes.
     “Time to go, I guess,” said Bull. He was dressed in his ‘gambling suit’. Wide brimmed black hat. Black pants and jacket. His embroidered red vest and white shirt beneath. String tie around his neck…and the wide, leather tooled gunbelt on his hips. With his ankle length duster worn over the top of his other clothes, the holstered pistol was not noticeable.
     Susan threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, tears in her eyes. “I’m so going to miss you, Bull Sackett.”
     He hugged her back. “Likewise, honey. You take good care of Allan here. I won’t be around to keep him out of trouble now.”
     She smiled. “Noble by name and Noble by nature.”
    I swear he blushed.
     Frederick and Henry stepped forward and took turns slapping the American’s back and shaking his hand vigorously.
     Then it was my turn.
     “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.
     The darkly tanned, lean face, split into a wide grin. “Me either. I ain’t much of one for goodbyes.”
     “Let us not say that this is goodbye,” I suggested. “Let us say rather that this is…as you American’s are fond of saying…a see you later moment.”
     He nodded. “Much better.”
     I couldn’t help myself. I stepped forward and embraced him with a hug of my own. “Godspeed, Bull Sackett. Godspeed and the Devil’s luck.”
     He gave me a fierce hug in return. We stepped apart and clasped hands. “Viya con dios, yourself, Allan.”
     The conductor blew his whistle. Three times. Long and sharp. “All aboard, all aboard. Leaving now. All aboard. London to Portsmouth. Leaving now.”
     There was a shrill whistle from the head of the locomotive. A huge billow of smoke shot up into the air. With a clank, all of the carriages began to move slowly forward.
     Bull Sackett hopped up onto his carriage and leaned out, holding onto the brass rail beside the open doorway.
     He looked each of us in the eye. One by one. The train began to pull away from us.
     Suddenly he shouted, loud enough to make sure we all heard him clearly. “If’n any one of you should ever need me, for anything at all…I’ll come for you. My word on it!”
     We all nodded and waved. I pointed my finger at him, with thumb raised, as though I was firing a shot off.
     He nodded back at us in return.
     With his free left hand he touched the brim of his hat to us, nodded once more, then turned and disappeared inside the carriage.
     The train had gathered speed, in moments the last carriage was past us and disappearing down the straight tracks, into the distance.
     Susan had her head pressed against my shoulder. She was openly crying. I am not ashamed to admit that my own eyes may have been somewhat moist.
     Frederick and my uncle waved until the train was out of sight.
     Uncle Henry turned to myself and Susan. “Well, that’s that, then.”

                        

*          *          *

     Southern Africa, Some months later.

     I am pleased to say that Susan was the exception to the rule.
     She loved Africa.
     We had sailed from England less than two weeks after Bull Sackett had, himself, taken his own ship back to America.
     Our vessel had landed at Cape Town, that bustling sea-port of trade and commerce, and within hours I was re-acquainting myself with old friends and associates.
     We had indeed taken that evening meal atop Table Mountain.
     A carriage to the top. A table, and chairs to sit on, and a meal prepared by stewards, hired for the occasion. The sun setting over the ocean, the red rays producing a wondrous panoramic light show as the solar orb sank below the horizon.
     It was there that I proposed marriage to Susan, and it was there that she accepted.
     A dizzy month we spent in Cape Town. A non-stop array of dinner parties and invitations; to attend the latest show or join a local safari. In the midst of it all we were married in a small church overlooking the bay. The guest list was large. I knew many people and I was popular. More so than ever now, with a beautiful young woman as my bride.
     I owned a large house below the slopes of the Table. With a fine view over the harbour-side city. Susan was enchanted by everything. Here her accent meant nothing to most people. The vibrant city was filled with citizens from every country imaginable. Accents and origins meant nothing. We dined with Lords and Ladies, aristocrats and adventurers. Explorers and artists.
     And of course, because it was me that Susan married, we frequently dined or spent time with rogues and scoundrels as well.
     But that was life in Cape Town in those days. Sometimes the staunchest friends were the most unlikely citizens.
     A month or so was all I could stand however. I’d had enough of socialising back in England. I proposed to Susan that I make ready a safari, one that would take us away from the Cape and deep into that country called Zululand. I dearly wanted to return the assegai to the man who had gifted it to me. I had many questions, perhaps not all of which I would receive answers to.
     Susan agreed wholeheartedly.
     We left Cape Town and travelled first along the Eastern Coast.
     Susan had discovered the delights of horseback riding and so that was how we travelled. Horses were safe to use in this part of Africa. The dreaded teste fly was not a danger here.
     We took our time, we had two wagons with us, and a small group of porters and bearers that I had known for many years and knew I could trust. We stopped at the homes of people I knew the first week.  Then we ventured into the coastal veldt alone. We camped on deserted beaches of pure white sand. Swam in crystal clear waters. At other times we laagered up beneath the sweeping branches of old forests or out on the open veldt itself.
     This was our honeymoon, and what a magical time it was.
     We were in no hurry. I wanted to show Susan the wide variety of scenery and wildlife available in that most beautiful of countries.
     I hunted only for fresh meat, and much to my surprise, Susan insisted that I show her how to hunt and shoot herself.
     Understanding that I did it not so much for the sport, but for the necessity.  
     I had once hunted for sport. When I was much younger. But I had quickly realised that there was little ‘sport’ in shooting an animal with a firearm from a hundred feet. All it took was a steady hand and a keen eye. And to me, sticking the head of one of Nature’s creatures up on the wall of my home, to point at and gloat over was abhorrent.
     In my career as a white hunter I seldom, in fact, led hunting safaris. I preferred to lead parties of explorers and adventurers. Traders and missionaries.
     In any event, Susan took to the wild countryside of the bushveldt like a fish to water.
     A month or so after having left the Cape and enjoying many sights and wonders along the way, finally we came to that part of the country known as Zululand.
     And within another day or so we were approaching the kraal wherein dwelled the old juju man, the witch doctor, N’Longa.

                        

*          *          *

     We set up camp down hill from the kraal. Then Susan and I continued on foot. Walking across the grassy meadow that led toward the village.
     Some young boys came up to us.
     “Bwana Allan,” they cried out delightedly. “Bwana Allan and a pretty lady.”
     Due to the profusion of traders, explorers, geologists and missionaries, most of the younger generation of black Africans had a decent grasp of the English language these days. Which was just as well, as my grasp of their native Zulu dialect was sparse to say the least.
     Laughing they ran ahead of us, to announce our arrival to the rest of the village. We followed along at a more stately pace. I, pointing out to Susan, the shape of the unique beehive houses, that were ingenious to the Zulu people.
     And then a strange thing happened. I noticed it and mentioned it to Susan, with not a little concern in fact.
     As we drew closer to the village, men began to gather. They lined up on each side of the dirt road that led to the centre of the kraal. I saw they were garbed as though for war. They were dressed in the pelts of leopards and lions. They held large shields, made of wood and cowhide. All were armed with both the long and the short assegais’.
     It was too late to turn back toward our camp. Taking Susan’s hand in my own, we continued forward.
     Closer still we drew to the fierce looking black warriors…and then they began to smack their spears against their shields. Slowly at first the beat was, but as we came to the first of their line the beat increased. Faster and faster it became. The sound of hundreds of Zulu’s beating their spears on their shields was incredible.
     Susan was alarmed and said so.
     “No, no,” I assured her. “This is not a declaration of war or hostility…this is a salute…normally reserved for dignitaries, or great warriors, or someone who has performed some feat or act which the Zulu warrior greatly admires…and uses this display to acknowledge it.”
     Although I must confess, I was at a loss to understand why the ebony skinned warriors that we were now walking past, were performing this show of admiration for us?
     At length we had walked past the entire line of saluting warriors, and just as we reached the end, the tempo increased as fast as they were to strike their shields. Then suddenly it stopped. Then they all lifted their assegais’ above their heads and as one voice shouted out. “Allan! Allan! Allan!”
     Then they slammed the butts of their spears down onto the ground…and fell silent.
     I was stunned.
     A tall, lean warrior walked towards us from the centre hut. He also was clad in the pelt of a leopard.  He also carried a shield and an assegai.
     He approached Susan and I.
     He stopped a few paces in front of us and raised his spear and likewise slammed the butt down upon the earth.
     “I see you, Allan. Lion-Killer. You have returned to us. We welcome you.”
     I knew this man. He was with me when I killed the man-eater.
     “I see you, M’chaga. Son of Tula.”
     I waved my hand about, indicating the dual line of warriors on each side. “I don’t understand?” I said.
     He smiled. “You are a brave man. The Zulu always salute brave men.”
     “For killing the man-eater all those years ago?”
     He was still smiling. He shook his head. “For slaying the Baylok.”
     Susan and I gaped at him in astonishment.
     “But,” I said helplessly. “But, that was in England. Thousands of miles away. Over the great ocean. How do you know about it?”
     “N’Longa has spoken of it.”
     Again I was stunned. “How does he know of it?”
     More smiles. “You must ask him yourself, Bwana Allan. He waits inside for you.”
     The warrior pointed to the door in the centre of the beehive shaped hut in front of us.
     Susan and I, too amazed to say anything, followed the pointing arm and entered the hut of N’Longa, the juju witch doctor.

                          

*          *         *

     N’Longa was old. How old I have no idea. He was old the last time I had seen him. He sat upon a raised dais of leopard and lion pelts. He was small and both his body and face were wrinkled with the lines of age. His wizened face grinned at me when we entered. He bid us be seated and I introduced him to Susan and explained that we were married.
     He nodded.
     In my right hand, wrapped in canvas, I had carried the magical assegai. I un-wrapped it now and passed it to him. His ancient eyes gleamed. “I said you would have need of it.” His English was almost perfect. Perhaps the best I had ever heard from an older African native.
     “How did you know?” I asked.
     “I am a juju man. A sorcerer. I know many things. I see many things.”
     “You can see into the future?” Susan asked incredulously.
     The other shrugged. “I can see things that are yet to be. I can see things that have been. I can see things that will never be.”
     Hardly a satisfying answer.
     “Shaka came to me,” I said. “He killed the Baylok, not me.”
     N’Longa smiled again. “The power of Shaka was in the assegai. I told you that. That power channelled through you, Allan Lion-Killer, Shentani-Killer. Doubt not that you slew the evil creature. Few men could have accomplished the task, even with the power of Shaka to aid them.”
     “But you foresaw the future, when you gave me the spear,” I pointed out. “So you must have known what would happen. You must have known that I, or Shaka, would be able to kill it?”
     The old witch doctor shook his head. “No. I saw only that you would be unable to kill the Shentani without the spear of Shaka. That is not the same thing.”
     “You saw me fighting the Baylok, the Shentani, without the spear?”
     He nodded. “Yes.”
     “What happened?”
     “You died,” he said simply.
     Susan gasped.

                      

*          *          *

     “Long ago. When I was as I am now, but Shaka was just a boy, of some fifteen years, a Shentani ravaged the land of the Zulu. Many women and children did it kill. In terrible ways. Many warriors who hunted it, did it also kill. It was a pestilence upon the land. A terror too awful to imagine.
     “It killed a boy who had been a great friend to Shaka. He swore vengeance upon the creature. He came to me, as he knew I had great wisdom and some power, and asked me how he might slay the Shentani.
     “I told him that the force of his hatred for the creature must be placed into his assegai. That the force of his will must be indomitable. That he must know, from the first second that he battled the thing, that he was the more powerful, that he would win. That he would slay the Shentani. I told him that should he doubt, even for the tiniest fraction of a moment, that he might not kill it…that he would die instead!
     “The boy-Shaka listened in silence to all that I said, then he took up his spear and went forth from the village.
     “He sought out the wicked creature, and he found it.
     “A mighty battle it was. The Shentani was fast and vicious. Its life force was strong. But Shaka was faster and stronger and more powerful. He suffered dreadful wounds, these he ignored, as though they were as nothing to him.
     “Eventually, the Shentani lay dying at the boy’s feet. It spoke to him. “You have killed me this time young warrior. But I cannot truly die. I shall come again to your world.”
“Then I shall be waiting,” answered the boy. “And I will kill you again!”

                

   *          *          *

    

[Jaqhama]

 N’Longa smiled at us. “So you see, friends, Allan and Susan, Shaka kept his promise.”
     We were at a loss for words.
     It was Susan who managed to speak first. “What is the Shentani?”
     “Shentani means demon. It is a creature from the Out-Of. The Other World. Everything in the Out-Of is the opposite of here. What is dark is light and what is light is dark. Sometimes there is a crack between our world and that world. Sometimes one of the Shentani slips through, to make its mischief here.”
     “One of the Shentani?” asked Susan.
     The old man nodded. “The Shentani is not the name of a single creature. It is the name for all of them. There are many.”
     “Good Lord,” breathed Susan.
     The old man continued to nod. “I have seen a time, a future time, when the crack between the Out-Of and our world grows large. When thousands of the Shentani creep through. It is a time of chaos and terror. A bad time, for all the peoples of this world.”
     “Good Grief,” I exclaimed. “When does this occur N’Longa? What can we do to stop it?”
     He shrugged. “When it is, I will not say. And there is nothing any of you can do to stop it.”
     “Surely there is something we can do?” I asked in horror.
     “What happens, happens, friend Allan. It does not do to try and shape the future too much. Meddle with things just a fraction too much…and all might fail horribly. I have spoken of these things enough.”
     And we saw that he would not be drawn to discuss the events he had foreseen any further.
     I noticed that he had placed the assegai of Shaka into a hole, cut into the dais. As though it was there for that very purpose. On the opposite side of the dais a similar hole held another upright shaft. This was a long staff, of curious design, with strange symbols I did not recognise, carved along its length. The top of the staff had been carved into the shape of a cat’s head.
     “Is that another implement of power?” I asked curiously.
     He saw where I was looking and nodded again. “The staff of Sulieman. It waits until he returns for it.”
     “He?” I asked.
     “You remind me of him,” N’Longa told me. “You are not my first white friend. In years past he was my blood-brother. Many adventures did we have together.”
     “What was his name?”
     “Kane. Like you he was a great explorer. A great adventurer.”
     He stood up from the dais. An ancient, wizened figure, yet possessed himself of some intangible power.
     I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. “How old are you N’Longa? You were old when first we met. Yet now, years later, you appear unchanged.”
     He grinned and chuckled. “If I told you my age in years you would understand, you would brand me mad, friend Allan. Yet I will say to you that I was not always Juju-mana to the Zulu. They are but a new race upon this ancient land. I was old when this land was young. Many races, many peoples, I have lived amongst. All gone now, as dust beneath the stars.”
     He was staring right through me, as though re-living all those ages past.
     Suddenly he laughed and clapped his hands. “You killed a Shentani. A great feat. All here salute you for it, friend Allan. Now come you both. The Lion/Demon-Slayer and his wife. You will be our guests tonight. You will sleep in your own hut, within the kraal. There shall be a great feast. Much dancing and song. You are part of our legends now, our myths. Warriors will tell the tale of how you carried the spirit of Shaka into battle once more, for as long as the tribes of Africa exist.”
     And he took Susan and I by the hand and led us back out into the sunlit centre of the village. Where the assembled warriors still stood in two lines, in all their warlike finery.
     He raised our hands up above our heads and the multitude of ebony skinned Zulu’s gave a great cheer.
     As the cheer died down I leaned close to N’Longa and whispered in his ear. “What will become of Shaka’s spear?”
     And he leaned close to my ear and whispered in return. “When you have need of it again…it will be here, awaiting you.”

                           

*          *          *

     London: Friday, November 9, 1888.

     Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline was in his office when Constable Jenkins burst in.
     “Inspector! Sir, come quick! There’s been another one!”
     The younger man was ashen-faced, and had obviously been running fast, judging from his deep panting
     Frederick looked at the other with a raised eyebrow. “Another what, Jenkins?”
     “Murder, sir. The Ripper. He’s done another one.”
     Frederick’s mind whirled. “What? What are you talking about man? That’s impossible! The Bay…”
     He stopped himself. Cutting short whatever he had been about to utter. He changed direction. “How do you know it’s another Ripper killing?”
     “Seen the body me’self, sir. Hacked to bits, it is. Blood and bits of inside and outside all over the place. Awful it was. I spewed me guts up after seeing it, I did.”
     Frederick paled. He swallowed hard. Hastily he stood up from his desk and reached for his top coat. “Right then, young Jenkins. Where is the victim’s body?”
     “13 Miller’s Court, just off Dorset Street, over in Spitafields sir.”
     The inspector was shrugging into his coat. “Who discovered the body? And what time was it found? And do we know the identity of the victim?”
     Jenkins was nodding frantically. “Mary Kelly, sir. Local prossie, err, I mean prostitute sir. About twenty five she is. I mean was. Her landlord went round her doss, looking for his rent. Door was locked. He peered in through the window. Saw her body lying on the bed. Fair chopped to bits. After he’d lost his breakfast he screamed blue murder for a rozzer. I mean a constable, sir.”
     Frederick had snatched up his sword cane and was heading for the door. “What time was this then, Jenkins?”
     “About ten forty five, or thereabouts, this morning sir.”
     Frederick nodded. “Excellent work, Jenkins. Now come with me. Run outside and stop the first Hansen you see. Don’t worry if it’s occupied. Pile them out and grab it for us.”
     “Already got one waiting for you, inspector. Used it me’self. Knew you’d want me to get ‘ere as quick as I could.”
     Frederick was impressed with his young constable’s actions and said so. “You’ll go far, Jenkins. I can see that.”
     The two men hurried along a corridor, toward the front door of the police building.
     Finding the carriage awaiting them out front the two officers climbed aboard. The roof hatch was open and Frederick looked up at the driver. “Miller’s Court in Spitafields. Quick as you please, man.”
     The driver touched his finger to his cap and, recognising the urgent tone in the inspector’s voice, flicked the reins of the single horse. “Get up there, Turpin. Go on lad, hasty like now.”
     The horse broke into a fast canter. People walking across the street cursed and yelled as they came close to being run down.
     They sped off towards Miller’s Court like the Devil himself was chasing them.

                       

*          *          *

     The Hansen made its way through the throng of people who were assembled outside number 13 Miller’s Court.
     Frederick and Jenkins alighted from the cab. The inspector requesting the driver to move a short distance away and wait for them. There was quite a large crowd gathered. Frederick and Constable Jenkins ignored the hue and cry that started up when they were sighted.
     There were several of his constables about. They had formed a wall between curious onlookers and a rundown shack. Preventing people from peering through the broken window of the small room, inside which lay the remains of the late Mary Kelly.
     Frederick spied a sergeant he knew well. “Bergen. Keeping the crime scene clear are you? Good man. Yes, keep these lollygaggers back. Who’s been inside?”
     Sergeant Bergen essayed a hasty salute. “Morning sir. No one’s been inside inspector. Door was locked when I got ‘ere. Left it locked. Knowing you’d want the scene of the murder kept as clean as possible.” He shuddered. “Few of us ‘ad a look through that broken window though. Gawd ‘an Bennet, Fred, you’ve never seen such a bloody ‘orrible sight. You’ll need to steel yourself ‘afore you go in there. I’m not joking. Hard as nails, me, you know that. And I puked me breakfast up, I did. Most of the lads who’ve had a peek did, an all. I saw some of them other woman, what the Ripper had sliced up. That was nothing Fred. Bugger’s done himself proud with this one.”
     The inspector did not begrudge Sergeant Bergen the shortened use of his name. They had known one and other for many years. And if Berg said it was so bad he had lost his breakfast himself, then Frederick knew it was going to be very bad indeed.
     “I’ll just have a look through the window myself first,” Frederick said.
     “Very good, sir. Me and the lads will keep these cullys back for you.”
     Taking a deep breath Frederick walked over to the window that Berg had indicated and leaned lower, to allow himself to see through the broken pane of glass, in one side of the window. There was a thin, ragged curtain on the opposite side, but it was not pulled fully across the window and so the inspector, like his men before him, was able to see the interior of the small room quite clearly.
     “Oh my God!” he breathed.
     The room was very small. It only contained a roughly made wooden bed. A small chest of drawers, used as a table, stood beside the bed, against the far wall. A half melted candle stood a lonely vigil on a dirty saucer.
     Frederick squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them again. As though hoping that the image which presented itself to him, the horror inside that small room, might somehow miraculously disappear.    But it was not be.
     He opened his eyes and took another look.
     There was a figure lying on the bed. Arms and legs splayed out. Naked. Things had been done to the body. Horrible things. Terrible things. Some of the interior organs, including what Fred guessed were the intestines, had been strung up, around and above the bed, and in other parts of the room. There was blood everywhere.
     He turned away from the crack in the window and remembered to take a breath.
     “You alright, sir?” asked the sergeant.
     “Probably not, Berg.” Frederick had approached the single front door to the shack. It couldn’t rightly be called a house. He reached out and tried the door latch. Berg had been correct, it was locked from the inside.
     Locked from the inside? Then how had the killer got out? Good God! Was it possible that the murderer was still in there?
    “We’ll have to get this door open Berg. A good kick should do it. But stand well back afterwards. It’s possible the killer is still in there.”
     His sergeant looked at him in surprise. “Still in there Fred? You reckon? Where’s the bugger got to hide? You can see just about every inch of the room through the window?”
The Baylok seems to be able to hide bloody anywhere, Fred though to himself. But I can’t tell Berg that.
     “Could have got caught out. Trapped in there, when the body was discovered. Didn’t get a chance to flee. Could be under the damned bed or hiding underneath the flaming windowsill, for all I know. Just kick the bloody door open Berg and stand back, there’s a good chap.”
     His long time associate looked at him. Saw he was serious. “Right you are sir. Oi! Jenkins, Cartwright, Stubs, get yer arse’s over ‘ere. Truncheons out lads. I’m going to kick the door in. Mad Jack might still be inside. Be ready.”
     Still inside? The constables that Berg had called over took deep breaths. Took firmer grips on their police issued batons.
     Berg looked at them, saw they were prepared and stepped closer to the flimsy wooden door. Raising his leg he gave a powerful kick against the latch on his side. With a crack the door burst open, slamming back against the wall as it was propelled past the limits of the hinges. Sergeant Bergen immediately jumped backwards.
     The inspector had his sword cane ready. He could pull the blade out in a moment. He waited. As did the constables arrayed beside him.
     No monstrous figure burst forth from inside the small hovel.
     Taking no chances Frederick stepped forwards slowly. He leaned from side to side and inspected as much of the room, to the left and right of the open door, as he could see from outside.
     The mutilated body lying on the bed was now plain to see. One of the men beside him vomited copiously onto the cobblestones.
     Frederick braced himself and stepped through the doorway. He was still on his guard. He looked to his right and left, crouched down and peered under the rickety wooden bed. Even pulled back the door and looked behind it. Then he bent his neck and stared carefully up, at the ceiling above his head. No one, nothing. The room appeared to be empty…of any living creature at least.
     “Right then…Berg, Jenkins. Continue to keep this crowd back. I’m going to shut this door and have a very careful look around. Before every Tom, Dick and Harry comes down and starts messing about. I’m sure it won’t be long before the Coroner and the Police Commissioner arrive. I want to have a careful look around before they get here…clear?”
     “Crystal, sir,” replied the sergeant. “You need any help, just call out, sir.”
     “Thank you Berg. I promise to do so.” Taking hold of the door, steeling himself, Frederick pushed it slowly closed.

                 

*          *          *

     “My God, Henry, you’ve never seen anything like it. Poor woman was literally torn to bits. I mean actual bits. Half of her was hanging across the top of the bed, on the wall, the table. Hard to tell what was still inside her and what wasn’t.”
     Frederick took another long swallow of the brandy that Henry had poured him. They were alone in the house. Henry’s housekeeper was off on some errand.
     “Good Lord,” muttered his friend.
     “But I tell you something, Henry. And I’ll tell this to no one else. That poor soul wasn’t killed like the others. She wasn’t cut up by those taloned hands of the Baylok. Oh no, this was worse…she was opened up from the inside out. I could tell by the way the edges of the wounds curved outwards. Do you understand what I’m saying Henry?
     “She was pregnant man. Pregnant I tell you. And her baby clawed its way into this world by virtue of tearing her belly wide open. That’s not just my opinion, the coroner, horrified as he was, agrees with me completely!”
     “How many others know about this?”
     “Just myself and the coroner, and I swore him to silence. In fact I told him I’d have him gutted by footpads, if he breathes one word of this to anyone. Even the Police Commissioner doesn’t know the full extent of our observations. Can you imagine the panic if this gets out? But Hell and Damnation, Henry…whatever horror tore itself out of her body, then, sliced her into bits and pieces and spread those bits all around the room. And the coroner and I agree on another point as well…some of her organs were missing…and some of those that were left had been gnawed on. Gnawed on and, for God’s sake…half eaten in some parts!”
     Henry swallowed hard. “Remember what Allan and Bull told us?”
     “Of course I bloody remember. How could I not?”

     Now I can impregnate…and be impregnated. Now can I give birth to a legion. Half-human and half-Baylok they will be.
     They will be able to endure the daylight hours. They will be able to mate with humans of both sexes.
      They will become an army of Bayloks. Our metabolisms are far different to your own feeble bodies. We can be impregnated and give birth within weeks…weeks do you hear me?
     Soon I and my children will rule this polluted city…and that will be but the beginning. An entire world beckons us…I can barely wait.”

     Now I can impregnate…

     The two men looked at each other.
     “God help us,” said Henry.
     “Because the Devil is already here,” replied Frederick grimly.

                     

THE END

[Jaqhama]

Well ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...I hope you enjoyed this rather unusual tale.
I had a lot of fun writing it, in fact I no idea what I was going to write or what direction the story was going to take from installment to installment.
It just kind of flowed out of me each time I sat down at the keyboard.

Now..the competition of which characters in my story have in relation to other real life or literary characters.

Frederick Abberline really was the police inspector assigned to the Ripper case.
The murdered women really were who they were, and were killed where they were killed. The dates of their deaths and the descriptions are also accurate.
Shaka really was the famous (or infamous) Zulu King.
Susan Saunders bears no relation to any other character from history or literary fiction. (That I'm aware of.)

Ok...for the first person who posts up a list of who some of the other characters in my story have alligence to in either real life or other literary fiction I offer a prize...

I'll send a free, autographed copy of Flashing Swords anthology, issue # 11, availbale on the 1st of August to that person. It contains my novella entitled A Strange Knight's Tale. (A much more serious and darker story than this ripping yarn.)

The competition will run from this moment until Midnight of August 15th.

If no one guesses who all the characters are, I will award the free issue to the person who comes up with the most characters.

If someone guesses all the characters the competition will stop at that post and I will notify everyone right away.

The winner can PM me their address details.

Good Luck...and I'd like to thank everyone who has read or commented on my story so far.

I will post up some information on Flashing Swords #11 and A Strange Knight's Tale tommorow night.

Cheers: Jaq.