A Warning For The Horny

The reader will probably appreciate this story most if they are a fan of the works of M R James. Those who are not should hunt some out and explore them - Halloween or Christmas are the perfect time to do so. The master of the Ghost Story might not appreciate this tribute to his genius but it is proffered with humble appreciation none the less.

"Another snifter old boy - keeps the cold out don't you know."

"Don't mind if I do." The club was, as usual, enjoying Russian levels of heating on this dark December night. However, the excuse for another glass of that superb warming spirit was not to be neglected.

"Ha ha," laughed my companion, "say what they like about the United Universities Club but they can never deny that we retain a superb cellar!"

"Hear hear," sounded from a couple of nearby deep armchairs and more than one glass was raised in acknowledgement of the sentiment expressed.

"I believe we have good old Solon to thank for this particular case. Have you ever met the old boy?"

I shook my head My friend had perhaps forgotten that I had only been a member there for a short period.

"A most extraordinary cove but a man with a good few stories to tell. Given the nature of some of those he does relate it makes you wonder about those he chooses not to. Did any of you fellows happen to be here the night that he came into this very room and spoke about the Dark Pilgrimage?"

He had our attention now. Mr Solon was a man with a certain reputation. His wide travels and his notorious researches had put him beyond the pale of certain strands of polite society. However, we were all men of the world and scorned such close-minded attitudes. What Solon said was worthy of any scholar's attention.

"As I say old Solon was seated in that very chair. He had come in late and far from his usual self. Any of you who have met him will know that he is the most level-headed of fellows. Imperturbable I would have said if I had not seen him that night. Because he looked pale as he sat in that chair, pale and shaken to his very marrow."

"He did not seem to take note of us as his intelligent eyes looked searchingly into the unknown. Then he gathered himself together and began to speak. I still do not know if he was speaking for our benefit or purely to arrange his own thoughts. However, that tale he told has, I'll wager, never left the minds of those three of us who heard it. Sinclair has since been lost in the Amazon of course. Farquhar was already an old man and has since gone to his reward. Glossop was lost in the sinking of the 'Ajaccio' off Madeira last Summer. Then there is Solon himself. His recent trip to Nepal was undertaken for his health according to the yellow press. I suspect the truth is that he has gone to consult with the Tibetan masters and I suspect that he will choose not to return."

"Which leaves only myself. A strange thought and as I mull it over a heavy responsibility. For this story of Solon's deserves to be heard and to live on in the event that I should," he waved a hand airily, "be knocked over by an omnibus crossing the Tottenham Court Road or some such foolish nonsense."

The spirits were just as fiery and the heating just as efficient but for one fleeting moment there seemed a chill in the air of that sumptuously luxurious club-room.

My friend cleared his throat. "I feel a need to tell the story - just as old Solon told it to us that night. To the very best of my memory because he would never agree to repeat it. Not even to any of his original three hearers." He paused. "I would understand if any of you fellows chose to leave. It is not for everybody and it does not seem to have been a lucky tale for its original audience."

Needless to say nobody moved. My friend had set his stage with perfect skill and while Tutankhamen might have set a curse on those that plundered his tomb it was hard to suggest similar behaviour by the notoriously genial and generous Mr Solon.

"Let me begin. That afternoon Mr Solon was undertaking researches at a certain library well known to many of us. He was engrossed in his study of a unique hand-written manuscript when...

***

The heavy tick of the walnut grandfather clock gently sounded through the comfortable study rooms of the Library. Mr Solon leaned back to rest his eyes from studying the faded Arabic script on the priceless manuscript which occupied the desk in front of him. The personal first hand account of Ibn Foszlan.

A bowdlerised version was well known of course, even its shrouded details had astonished and outraged public sentiment. The Old Queen might be long dead but even after the Great War such spasms of Victorian morality retained their power.

It was the detail of this unexpurgated document that enthralled Mr Solon. Ibn Foszlan had travelled through that mix of peoples and religions so long ago but his observations had been acute. He had recorded details of ritual practices and social activities that could be found nowhere else. At least that was the general opinion.

Mr Solon was in the perfect position to refute any such claim. Who else had studied the arcane rituals and esoteric social constructions of the East as he had? Perhaps only one man and even that one had shared his knowledge on that long-ago weekend in the Rue de Lafayette.

He unconsciously glanced over to the more public area of the great University Library. The newspapers there were recording the tragic events in China, a war of almost unimaginable viciousness. A war to match the march of the Mongols or the depredations of the Huns. Mr Solon believed that Shanghai's little European cantonment, the leafy Rue de Lafayette and its equivalents, remained a relatively peaceful haven. For the moment at least. However, his old contact had long since left there and had last been heard of at one of the great temples of the interior. Who could tell if he had lived to see the war? Who could tell his subsequent fate if he had? One sadly had to assume the worst.

It made it all the more valuable that Mr Solon had been allowed to share at least some of the knowledge accrued by that notorious Serbian, if indeed he was a Serbian, adventurer in his chequered career. An unmatched knowledge of the ancient lore of a score of religious traditions in the great cultural melting-pot that the West simply called 'China'. Among them a certain psycho-sexual tradition that uncannily matched what he had read in the thousand-year old words of Ibn Foszlan.

Mr Solon carefully replaced his spectacles. He was a precise and fastidious little man only a couple of inches above five feet in height. A thick graying thatch of hair betrayed his age but lively intelligent eyes indicated that his zest for life was far from diminished.

To look at him one would have had no difficulty in identifying Mr Solon as a typical scholar of his time. Measured, calm, perhaps a little stuffy even. Many knew of his repute as the greatest living authority on the East. A status he accepted - assuming that the authorities mentioned were purely Western ones and that, even then, his old Shanghai contact was no longer a contestant. Compared to that remarkable Doctor he modestly considered himself a mere neophyte.

Curiosity had always fuelled Mr Solon. Had caused him to amass that great store-house of unconsidered scraps of information within his capacious brain. Details of every aspect of the East - most especially of those aspects ignored by the missionaries who formed so great a proportion of his intellectual colleagues in the field. Scraps that had made him the most sought-after consultant for those companies seeking to exploit the Chinese market. A sadly diminished trade now, of course, but on the other hand Mr Solon had already amassed Government bonds that would allow him to exist comfortably so long as he lived. It had also allowed him to provide an excellent education to his son. The young man showed promise - was already a Fellow of a prestigious college in this very University. It pleased Mr Solon that his family's intellectual traditions would last one more generation at least.

He frowned and rubbed his nose. His concentration had lapsed. Access to this manuscript was a magnificent opportunity not to be wasted in idle musings. The graphic detail of Ibn Foszlan's descriptions of those remarkable orgies along the Volga so long ago should have held his attention in an iron vice. In truth such matters held interest for him only as an intellectual curiosity. He had enjoyed a happy marriage but those days were long over. Now he lived in Chester Terrace the existence of a widower, a contented hermit alone save for his two tortoiseshell cats.

Mr Solon returned to his task and soon completed it. The account was relatively short but its every word was precious in confirming his long-held theories. Such exact likenesses with those tales told him long ago in Shanghai could not be mere coincidence. There was a hidden mystical congruence stretching across not merely thousands of miles but also across numerous centuries.

Now Mr Solon's heart did indeed beat fast. Not for the sexual nature of the descriptions but rather for their occult significance. The great tide of esoteric practice and learning that had flowed into the Western tradition. A cultural river that still flowed, unheralded and unobserved, to this very day. He himself had reason to know that some fools had sought to play with the forces bound into such traditions. They had sometimes destroyed others and almost always had destroyed themselves. Such knowledge was to be handled with extreme caution.

He collected his materials and prepared to return the priceless manuscript. Only then did Mr Solon look up and realise that he was not alone. How long had he been under observation by this remarkable visitor?

Remarkable in many ways. Even an old widower like Mr Solon could hardly fail to notice the young woman's beauty. Even when, as now, it was shrouded by an expression of confusion laced with terror. The power of that terror struck him so forcibly that it was several moments before he recalled that no woman, however beautiful, should have been seen in these hallowed, if sadly misogynistic, academic chambers.

"Mr Solon sir, it is you?" Her voice was every bit as pleasing as her figure. Truly a young lady of the sort that he had read about one day in an idle moment. An 'It' girl. She could grace any of those posters advertising the motion pictures that were the cultural phenomena of the age.

Mr Solon did not belong to this particular august academic institution and so felt no outrage at the young woman's presence. However, he was aware that he was it's privileged guest. However charming she might be his visitor was most definitely not allowed here. He wondered for a moment how he could extricate them both from a potential scene. Only for one moment because then the young woman spoke again.

"Mr Solon I have to ask you - have you heard of the Dark Pilgrimage or perhaps of the Strassov Codex?"

The latter part of her question was easily answered. Of course a man like Mr Solon was very well aware of the mystery of the Strassov Codex. A collection of ancient documents supposedly discovered by the Russian adventurer somewhere in the wilds of ancient Nubia shortly before the Mahdi's rising. Documents carrying what superficially appeared to be runes - though read as Viking runes they were utterly incomprehensible. Naturally enough since there was neither rhyme nor reason for Viking runes ever to have been used or found in the modern-day Sudan.

Most had come to regard the Codex as a forgery, an attempt to raise much-needed funds by Strassov. In the event such an effort would have been in vain since he had fallen foul of one of the Mahdi's spearmen while serving with the ill-fated Gordon. Finally the Codex had become rather a joke - a joke at the expense of two generations of cryptographers who had wasted their time trying to decipher it. Among them - in his under-graduate days - a much younger and perhaps much more foolish Mr Solon.

So he addressed the other, superficially more interesting, part of her enquiry. "I am aware of the Black Pilgrimage of course. The creation of Mr James. If you wish to learn of Khorazam and the Prince of the Air then perhaps you would be better off applying to that gentleman. The Black Pilgrimage is after all his invention."

He knew that he was being pompous but he was now a little annoyed. His work had been interrupted and, after all, a woman had no place here.

The young woman's reaction surprised, indeed shocked, him. A look of frustrated annoyance. "No, no, not the Black Pilgrimage. I mean the Dark Pilgrimage. That's what the Strassov Codex is all about. Even you don't know anything about it - I was rather relying on you Mr Solon. Do you perhaps know about what they call 'tramp signs'?

She had his attention now. "You claim to understand the Codex? Are you not aware of just how many great scholars have examined that document and ruled it a fake, a hoax."

"I do not claim it Mr Solon - I do understand it and I wish to God that I did not!"

The young woman pulled a piece of paper towards her and wrote down a string of runic characters. Mr Solon immediately saw that rather than being the true Scandinavian runes they were instead the peculiar characters used in the Codex. Then his remarkable young companion began sketching a cryptogram. Once completed she added a second line of writing in Norse runes followed by a third in the standard Latin alphabet.

Mr Solon watched with interest and then moved forward to inspect her work more closely. Rapidly he strode to a shelf and took down a book that he knew contained a plate depicting a page of the Codex. It took but a minute to translate the whole page according to the key provided by the young woman. In fact he did not need to translate it all. He halted on the fifth line when he met two words, 'Dark Pilgrimage.' He removed his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. It was remarkable. He looked at the young woman again but now with the utmost respect. He had been a fool indeed to under-estimate her so terribly. He gave her a nod of approval.

"It is a remarkable achievement but how did you come to discover this secret, this key to the Codex?"

"That is the thing." She paused before looking at him with eyes that betrayed a hesitation to speak but which also radiated total sincerity. "I have worked on the Codex for two years with no success. Then, one night last week, I dreamed the solution to the problem. I literally dreamed it. It just ... came to me." Her voice cracked a little as she spoke. "It came to me and I again I say that I wish to God that it had not!"

***

Mr Solon had heard enough. He hurried his new young acquaintance out of the Library, past the horrified stares of the staff, then out and into a cab. The journey to Sloane Square was a short one and soon his house-keeper had provided them each with a reviving cup of tea. Only then did he remember to ask her name - a startling oversight in one generally so polite but not so surprising when Mr Solon was on the trail of an intellectual mystery as intriguing as this.

"I am Helena Carr - I am one of the Wiltshire Carrs."

Mr Solon nodded his understanding. It was an affectation of the English landowning classes to identify themselves thus. Helena came from a 'county family' and he happened to know that the Carrs owned a lot of land around Wilton.

He produced his own copy of the Strassov Codex - a privately-printed booklet with plates providing a perfect reproduction of the original. How often had he pondered its mysteries but now with the key provided by Helena it was child's play to translate the first words.

'There was a man named Mord the Fiddler; he was the son of Sigvat the Red, and he lived at the Vale in the Rangrivervales.'

He paused and tried to comprehend the significance of those words. "But this is the.."

"..the beginning of the Saga of Burnt Njal," completed Helena Carr. "A saga written down a thousand miles away from where - and at least six hundred years after - this Codex was produced in Nubia. The Saga continues for two pages and then breaks off to allow the Codex to give its real message. The final two pages are the conclusion of the Saga. Clearly they merely hide the true document contained in the intervening pages"

Mr Solon had seen many mysteries and had played his own part in not a few. However, for the moment this one had him defeated. He found the plate representing the Codex's third page and resumed.

'What greater prize than to discover yourself, what better a partner than the man of your dreams, what finer a jewel than a woman's cunt satisfied. What worse a defeat than the acceptance of the bland, the expected, the tedious. To know true pleasure you must first know yourself and then not deny yourself. If, sister, you desire the true glory of womanhood then read these pages and follow their directions.'

Mr Solon coughed. He was surprised but not shocked by that reference to a woman's 'cunt'. He was used to such terms in his private studies. However, it was a different matter with a young lady present, even a modern young lady like Helena.

She sensed his reaction and gave a rueful half-smile. "Don't be concerned about the language Mr Solon. However, that is exactly the word that the runes denote and that is a very Anglo-Saxon term. It makes no sense."

"No more sense than any of this." Mr Solon rubbed the bridge of his nose and continued to translate. The next six pages were mixed short pieces of prose and poetry. All of an erotic nature. Fascinating in their symbolism and in their unapologetic celebration of female sexuality and arousal. He had seen the like before but it was rare - a tradition stifled by centuries of patriarchy and religious orthodoxy. The obvious comparison was with the work of Sappho. It was an amazing discovery but hardly a cause for Helena to seek him out and exhibit such clear distress.

'Sister - you have uncovered our secret and have earned your prize. If you follow our signs and imitate the courage of the Amazons then you shall truly enjoy the glory and the exquisite pleasure of the feminine. Be it with cock or with cunt you shall find your deserved and ordained destiny of the purest delight.'

More of that Anglo-Saxon vocabulary! The remainder of the document delineated signs and their comprehension. That brought Mr Solon's mind back to the strange words Helena had used before about 'tramp signs.'

He cleared his throat. "I, of course, know about 'tramp signs' Miss Carr. Those chalked markings made by vagrants, the gentlemen of the road, to designate locations where the locals will provide a bite to eat or a dry place to bed down for the night. Their exact interpretation varies from locale to locale but in principle is reasonably uniform. I can see a possible correlation with some of the signs described in this Cortex but there really cannot be one." He gave Helena Carr a reassuring and kindly smile from over his spectacles.

Helena moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and carefully weighed her next words. Until the very moment when she decided that having come so far she should go on to the end.

"Mr Solon - have you ever seen those 'tramp signs'?"

Mr Solon again gave her his fatherly smile. "They are rather a phenomenon of a past age I fear, Miss Carr. In my youth I would often see them. Both the chalk ones in town and also the messages made of sticks and tied tufts of foliage in the countryside. Now I doubt that a vagrant in fifty would even know their meaning let alone be inclined to make them. Outside perhaps of some of our Romany friends."

Helena Carr reached across and put her hand on his. "Please call me Helena Mr Solon." He seemed to feel the vitality of youth and health flow from her well-formed, graceful, fingers into his own self. It startled him and he looked at Helena again. Her face had a beautiful unflawed symmetry, the complexion of the classical English rose. Her features were proportional and attractive. Her eyes were a deep brown, intelligent and full of spirit. Long light-brown hair framed her face in a most charming manner and cascaded down to her shoulders. Helena Carr was a very beautiful as well as a very worried young woman.