The Whisper

It was just a whisper in my mind, but I heard it.

The voice was a girl's; faint, insistent and erotic. I shook my head to clear it; I must have imagined the words—strange words. "Free me, Emerson, and you shall have me."

My name is Emerson L. Palmer. Any guesses which rock group my par­ents were big fans of at one time? Still are actually! I am a student at ______ Uni. studying history. Why? Well it seemed a good idea at the time, the time being at the start of my second year Sixth. Now in my final year at Uni. I can­not see where my History degree will take me. It will be a good degree but it doesn't give me an obvious job or career.

What do I do, apart from study history? Well I drink beer (I am at Uni. re­member), date girls, look at porn, play tennis, swim and build model railways (but not necessarily in that order or all the time).

When, or perhaps more importantly, where did I start hearing voices?

The full moon might have been an appropriate time and at the foot of an old and crumbling castle perched high on a cliff top might have been the place but in truth it was neither then nor there.

It was in broad daylight and in the centre of London. Well, not quite the centre but certainly at a pivotal location. I was on the top of the Monument, the tallest isolated stone column in the world, built to witness that on the second day of September 1666, at a distance eastward from it of 202ft, which is actual­ly the height of the column, a fire broke out in the dead of night in Pudding Lane which, as the wind was blowing, rushed devastatingly through every quarter of London with astonishing swiftness destroying most of the City—the Great Fire of London 1666. I told you I am a history student.

I had just climbed the 311 steps up to the gallery beneath the flaming urn, com­memorating the Fire, and was gazing out across the Thames holding onto the railings thinking how wide the Thames was when I heard just a whisper, the voice of a girl, faint, insistent and, yes, erotic. I turned with the word, "par­don?" on my lips but there was no one there. I was completely alone. I shook my head—had I imagined it? I circled the gallery around the pillar but there was no one there at all, I stepped into the column onto the spiral stair and looked down, right down to the entrance. There were undoubtedly people com­ing up but no one at all close to the top.

I returned to my lookout puzzled, thinking over the words I had heard, try­ing to make out if that was what I'd really heard as I resumed my survey of the river and the cityscape of London. The voice was not easy to clear from my head. Surely I must have imagined the sound and the whispered words, "free me, Emerson, and you shall have me." I was unnerved.

The sudden whiteness of the sunshine after the gloom of my descent of the spiral staircase was dramatic. I walked away from the monument, keeping in the sunshine, keeping away from streets in shadow; despite the heat of the day feeling a little cold, a little unsure, yes a little peculiar with a funny feeling on the back of my neck. But I had not gone far when all of the moment I felt colder because I was in deep shadow. I had not stepped into it but it was sud­denly there. I glanced upwards, puzzled, to see what cast the shadow and all of a moment the brilliance of the sunshine returned.

I shook my head to clear it—had I really seen that? A gaunt ivy clad tower where no tower should have been—indeed no tower was. It wasn't there—not at all—just the pavement and the roar of traffic. Was I going a bit mad, hear­ing voices and seeing things?

The voice came again, just as before, the next day as I was crossing the road by The Tower of London—the White Tower of the Conqueror (begun 1078). Just the same as before — a whisper in my mind "free me, Emerson, and you shall have me." I stopped dead and nearly got run over. A lot of hooting of horns and embarrassment. What was this, what was this "free me, Emerson, and you shall have me?"

I mentioned I was a student of history, so it is not perhaps surprising that I bothered to look at old maps of London. Had there been a tower where I, per­haps, had thought I'd seen a tower? Had an archaeological dig found founda­tions? Was there a record of a tower? It was not good to find the answer in the affirmative, nor was it good to catch a further glimpse of the dark tower anoth­er day, a longer glimpse this time of a tower that wasn't there.

Now it did not take too much thought on my part to surmise that the voice and apparition were connected, not too much thought to decide to spend some time away from London back with my parents where such things did not hap­pen. But of course I had to go back to London, back to my studies and some­how it just did not work out that I could avoid the City around Pudding Lane.

It is not easy standing at the top of the Monument in the rain and watch­ing the three dimensional outline of a tower, a tower I could not actually see but its outline quite clearly shown by the rain simply not falling through the space. I was staring, not just looking, the rain soaking my hair, hair which whilst not standing on end was certainly creeping on my scalp. I was fright­ened; why was I seeing this—why me?

"Free me, Emerson, and you shall have me." It was clearer now, such a sweet voice, a voice that sent a tingle through me, through my groin. What did it mean? Free her (who?) from what (or who)? The latter part of the message seemed very clear in its meaning.

I must have stood for an hour, the tower getting no clearer, and the voice imparting no further information. Soaked through I descended, to the puzzled gaze of the attendant, and out into the street. I walked steadily towards the tower, you can imagine my legs shaking, and then it just wasn't there and the rain was now falling through where it had been or not been, depending on how you look at it. What was going on? But I was not sorry to see it gone—what if I had touched it? I was shivering and in need of a hot bath and pleased to go home by Tube.

Seeing the tower substantial, ivy clad and flinted was not easy. I had not expected it. The sun was out and the day quite different from the rainy day I had spent standing on the Monument looking at the rainless shape of an im­possible tower; I was walking with a friend—a friend I had hopes would be­come a very good friend indeed — she was not at all expecting me to grab a lamppost and gape at, at nothing, nothing she could see. No, she could not see a tower, what was I talking about, was it some sort of joke (not a good one)? It spoilt the day. I tried being myself, walking on with her, ignoring the appari­tion, ignoring the strangeness impinging on my world but the mood of the day was broken. It was not the success I had hoped. How could it be with a voice in my mind, "free me, Emerson, and you shall have me;" how could it be when the tower's appearance matched my researches, matched a tower demolished five hundred years before; how could it be when I had seen a figure watching me—from the very top of the tower?

I just wanted to get away, away from London again, escape this phan­tasm. You think me scared? You bet I was scared but that voice, that faint femi­nine voice, that sweet voice charged with, it seemed to me a certain eroticism, called me—a call in my mind drawing me to the tower. Could I resist? I certain­ly did, for a time, but it was not that many days before I was back within sight of the Monument. My relief at not seeing the flint tower was palpable—or should have been to anyone looking at me. It was not there, not even a faint out­line or disturbance in the clear air. Relief, I suppose, mixed with disappoint­ment, but not very much, as I was intrigued and fascinated as well as fright­ened. I turned and walked away heading to continue my studies in a library. I had not gone six paces. "Free me, Emerson, and you shall have me;" I heard as clear as day. Much, much clearer than before. Slowly I turned, people looking at me oddly as, I expect, I looked white as a sheet, an expression of dread on my face but it was now there, the dark flint tower looking as solid and substan­tial as the Monument itself or the office buildings and shops around me.

I was drawn towards it, drawn by the voice or fascination with something that could not be there. Was I mesmerised? I don't know but I walked past the people on the pavement as if in a trance until I came slowly up to the solid flint base of the tower. People were passing me, ignoring the tower. Could they not see it, not see the iron nail studded door just slightly ajar?

It was the blare of a car horn, I think, that brought me to my senses, caused me to run, run wildly in no particular direction. "Come to me, Emer­son, free me and you shall have reward." Gasping for breath I stopped, unable to run further away—the river was in my way. Fight or flight? I had chosen the latter, instinctively, but was there anything to fight? Was there danger? Too bloody right there was danger! Beyond the iron nail studded grey oak door would have been, well almost certainly would be—for towers always have them—a circular stone staircase leading upwards and did I want to ascend only to find the tower disappearing as it had done before and me falling down and down to break my bones on the hard stone pavement below? I did not like the idea of breaking bones.

Panting, I looked around for a cafe. I had to have a coffee. The words, the sweet voice, had changed. I sat nursing my coffee. I knew I must not go back, must stay well clear of the Monument and the whole area, not go back, must stay away... but I had heard another word after "Come to me, Emerson, free me and you shall have reward," and that had been a plaintive "please."

Now don't get me wrong I do not see myself as a Sir Galahad type, better make that Sir Lancelot, as Sir Galahad was rather too virginally pure to be me at all. My thoughts did not turn that way. No, I did not see myself ever as a knight in shining armour ready and willing to save the ladies or protect their virtue. My worldview was rather different but that "please," had an effect on me. I tossed and turned in bed, my mind going round and round. I would have to go back, I knew it.

It was a Saturday morning. It was all so much quieter in the City than on a weekday and I was early. I had hardly slept and had simply got up and taken the early tube. The tower was there, I could sense it before I saw it; knew it would be there and, indeed, as I turned a corner there it was. Dark, yes, but a little less foreboding with the sunlight reflecting from it and, at its top, a figure seeming to look straight at me. I stopped. Should I wave? It seemed so mun­dane, such an ordinary commonplace thing to do to a lady in an enchanted tower. 'Lady?' -- well the voice suggested that. 'Enchanted?'—well what else? How else was I to describe this strange structure, this ghostly apparition? Fair enough, a phantom tower, a ghostly tower... no perhaps my first choice was more reassuring. I waved.

"Have me, Emerson, and you shall free me."

The voice again. Clear as a bell in my head.

I may have been mad, foolhardy, perhaps under a spell (though I think not) but I walked towards the tower with a clear resolution. I was going to go in. I had to meet her.

As before the door, the iron nail studded door, was ajar. This time I did not run but touched the door — yes touched, it was solid, as solid as the floor you are on, and I pushed. I had expected the door to creak open, well wouldn't you? But there was no creak. It swung easily and I stepped inside. One moment I was in the sunlit street of twenty-first century London: the next, who knows where I was.

It did not feel that different but I was shaking, oh yes I was frightened all right; frightened as I put one foot on the stone stair. Oh yes, certainly there was a spiral stone staircase, I had not been at all wrong in my expectation. I began my ascent, my footsteps loud on the worn stone of the steps. It was little different in one way from ascending the Monument, all I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and ascend one step at a time but it felt so different and I was conscious all the time that I was out of my depth, climbing further into something that was not of my world and all on the call of a voice, faint, in­sistent and erotic. As I climbed there were thin lancet windows letting me look out on a London that was still my own - I was relieved to find I was not, as I had half suspected, climbing into a mediaeval world of an earlier time. But I was climbing, step after step I ascended and step-by-step I neared my goal of the top of the tower where I had seen her and had waved.

Can I really describe to you the sumptuousness of the chamber I found at the top, the sight that met my eyes as I reached the final steps and looked through the doorway? Can I describe the richness of the tapestries, the gleam of the gold and silver, the bright colours, the quality of the carving on the furni­ture? That it was a lady's room there was no question and nor was the sex of the person who awaited my arrival in any doubt. She stood in a dress, an em­broidered green dress of the kind you might have expected an Arthurian lady to have worn or certainly a pre-Raphaelite vision of the Arthurian court. In one hand she held some needlework, the other raised to a pendant around her neck, and above this a face of enchanting loveliness—for I was enchanted, quite rooted to the spot by her beauty. Sunlight through a window caught the burnished copper of her hair and shone from the silver clasps holding it and her eyes, her penetrating eyes were of a brilliant green. Demurely her eyes dropped from mine and she raised a hand. Was I to kiss it, a form of greeting lost to my modern world?

It was evidently so. I moved forward, bent my head, and holding her hand in mine, lowered my lips. It had occurred to me that there might be nothing to touch, that what I was seeing was not real, merely the ghost of a person long past but the hand was warm, as warm as you or me.

"Emerson." Her voice clear, real, oh certainly with an accent that I could not place but, more than likely, it was an accent long lost, an accent not heard for a long, long time, may be centuries. Even then, before I heard her story, I could not think she was of my world. Her voice was clear, real and so feminine with an erotic timbre that caused me to shiver; I had not heard the like.

"You have come, answered my call. I was not sure... I had hope."

I had questions but she put a finger to her lips and stood just looking at me as if, I like to think, it was a moment she wanted to cherish and with a look on her face that I wanted to take as one of pleasure. I was happy just to stand looking at her in turn, at her beauty, poise and ravishing copper hued hair. It seemed an age we stood looking at each other. Had she fallen in love with me from afar, was that why she had called me? That could hardly be, but I knew her voice had charmed me, enchanted me from a distance and now, on seeing her, I could think of nothing but her. Infatuation, maybe already love.

"Come," she said taking my hand, and together, she leading, we ascended another stone staircase, this time not stark and stony but relieved by hangings and pictures, out onto the roof, the crenellated top of the flint tower and stood looking over my world—modern London with all its glass, steel, concrete, noise and bustle.

"Passing strange," she said, "I understand little of this—your time."

And as we stood, hand in hand, she told me something of her story. It was a tale of fantasy, one I could scarcely credit or believe: yet I had the evidence of the flint tower, the lady herself—the fact that the tower was not really there, could not be there—for it had, so the records said, been demolished five hun­dred years before.

She had been locked away by a jilted suitor, a magician, a wizard if you like, imprisoned until she gave herself to him. His anger, his rage at rejection had been as surprising as it was terrible. How could he have thought she, a young girl, would have wanted a man like that? There had been no understand­ing, no agreement, not apparently even an approach to her father about the matter. She would not have gainsaid her father but the match was not his wish—most certainly not. Her father, fearing harm, had given her a pendant for protection, the one she wore today. But he had been unable to prevent her im­prisonment, or the tricks used to entice her into the tower and despite his skill, her chin lifted, his immense skill indeed, he could not free her.

But the suitor could not harm her as long as she had the pendant - the pre­sent from her father—for her father too was a great wizard and its magic had proved too strong for her gaoler.

I shook my head as I stared at the skyline towards Canary Wharf and the great River Thames, this tale could not be true there were no such things as wizards, could be no such thing, magic was just conjuror's tricks not real.

A stalemate. The, let us call him, the Black Wizard (though it was not a name my lady used), could not have her as his bride, could not take her by force, could not even touch her let alone have her carnally; for such became his desire. But she was imprisoned in this tower from which she could not escape; could not leave the tower. Oh yes, she had tried but the further she had climbed down the steps the slower became her progress and, try as she might, she could not reach more than halfway. She had tried throwing herself from the battlements to end all in frustration but that too was denied her. Escape was not possible that way. The Black Wizard had not ceased his advances, his desire had not abated over the long years but she would not have him, whatev­er he said, whatever he threatened, whatever he offered, whatever he pleaded.

A stalemate that carried on and on down the ages. Ages? Oh yes. Enchant­ment indeed.

She had seen the City burn from her tower, had seen it rise again the same shape as before but with strangely different stone spires, had seen it grow fur­ther than the eye could see as the smoke thickened, had looked out on seas of yellow pea soup smog, had seen the bustle of the river grow, had seen the fly­ing machines, great caterpillars of the sky dropping their fiery hate. Had seen the same death from the sky repeated from smaller machines coming in great swarms and had seen London burn again, had watched a stillness and then once more the City changing and soaring into the sky, great towers far exceed­ing her own gaol in height. She had sat in her tower of loneliness year upon year and watched. Weary, so weary but still she did not relent. The Black Wiz­ard would not achieve her.

She looked out now on a London of stone and glass, few things stayed the same. The great White Tower was still there but even that changed with the years, the centuries.

"Wear it always for it will protect you from ways of men, my father said. What did I, a young girl, know of the ways of men? What did I know at all then? I have learnt so much, have had more than an age to learn, but I have never known the ways of men." She looked at me then, just a glance, but in it was the reminder of her oft-repeated message to me, a message I would not wish to resist.

What did he, the Black Wizard, do away from his stone tower? She had no idea but could not think it was ever something worthy and good.

Yes, she slept. Sometimes she thought it might be for years at a time but she had no real measure just the changing panorama of the City. She might watch someone out there for a few days and then awake and find him, or her, gone and someone else there or the person very much older, or a building gone.

"I do not age, I do not change. Look you at my reflection in this silver. It was like that when I first came to this cursed tower." Her fine pale fingers held a plate of highly polished silver as I looked at the reflection mirroring her beau­tiful features.