seemed to regard the camera with a cold, almost clinical expression. Even on what should have been a joyful occasion. “Was there such an outbreak?”
“Impossible to say. Von Westarp ran the orphanage as a private enterprise, funded with his own money. There are no public records. No death certificates.”
“So he was taking in kids,” said Lorimer, “but at the same time he didn’t want outside visitors.”
Marsh added, “And he ran the whole thing on a country estate, family land. Plenty of room for hiding things.”
Lorimer voiced the key question. “What was he doing?”
“Isolating them,” Will murmured, almost to himself. “Seeking the ur-language.” The others glanced at him, expecting elaboration. Stephenson appeared particularly keen to know Will’s thoughts. But Will was preoccupied with legends and myths, hoary old tales of the first warlocks.
“What ever it was, the orphanage ran quietly for most of a decade. Until ’29, when Himmler gifted von Westarp with the rank of SS Oberführer.” Stephenson closed the file. “Here ends the lesson. Now let’s see what Krasnopolsky died to bring us.”
Lorimer stood. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness before the clattering projector tossed a bright white square on the screen and the wall behind it. Lorimer nudged the projector, centering it.
The film began with the Crown seal, and this notice:
MILKWEED / GRACKLE
MOST SECRET
UNAUTHORISED DISSEMINATION OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN
THIS FILM CONSTITUTES TREASON AGAINST THE UNITED KINGDOM OF
GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND AS DEFINED BY PARLIAMENT
IN THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT OF 1920. PUNISHMENT UP TO AND
INCLUDING EXECUTION MAY RESULT.
MILKWEED / GRACKLE
Well
, thought Will,
I’m in it now.
The room strobed dark and light so quickly that Will’s eyes ached in the effort to keep up. A parade of images flashed on the screen, sandwiched in moments of darkness. The dark frames were placeholders, he realized, representing the portions of film damaged by fire. After the reel spooled past the outermost layers where fire had done the most damage, the dark stretches grew shorter. But not enough to make viewing easy or comfortable.
Will struggled to absorb the surreal tableaux. A shirtless man hovering twenty feet above an orchard. Half a second of nothing but a brick wall, then a nude woman standing before it with no transition. A young man with pale eyes laying his hand on an anvil, the film shimmering, the metal sagging. Another man standing halfway inside a wall, like a ghost. A muscular fellow on a leash (a
leash
?) scowling at a mortar emplacement that imploded upon itself. The ghost man standing in front of a chattering machine gun. The leashed man scowling at an upside-down tank. A soldier throwing something at the anvil man, and a flash.
The subjects of the film wore belts with dark leads running up to their skulls. Each and every one of them. Repeated viewings didn’t make it any less horrifying.
They watched the film again. And again. And again.
Will was so wrapped up trying to assemble the images into a single story—trying to conceive of how von Westarp had achieved these unnatural results—that it wasn’t until the third viewing he noticed an obvious problem.
“There’s no sound,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Of course there’s no bleedin’ sound,” said Lorimer. “It’s a silent fucking filmstrip.”
“That’s a shame,” said Will. When Marsh asked him why, heelaborated. “If we could
hear
those proceedings, it would be a great boon. Alas, that’s not an option.”
“So you do think this is supernatural?”
“Are you not watching the same film as I, Pip? Because I believe I just witnessed a flying man. A
flying man
. That is not natural.”
Stephenson said, “What are those things they wear? The belts, and the implants.”
Will shook his head. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea. This
“Impossible to say. Von Westarp ran the orphanage as a private enterprise, funded with his own money. There are no public records. No death certificates.”
“So he was taking in kids,” said Lorimer, “but at the same time he didn’t want outside visitors.”
Marsh added, “And he ran the whole thing on a country estate, family land. Plenty of room for hiding things.”
Lorimer voiced the key question. “What was he doing?”
“Isolating them,” Will murmured, almost to himself. “Seeking the ur-language.” The others glanced at him, expecting elaboration. Stephenson appeared particularly keen to know Will’s thoughts. But Will was preoccupied with legends and myths, hoary old tales of the first warlocks.
“What ever it was, the orphanage ran quietly for most of a decade. Until ’29, when Himmler gifted von Westarp with the rank of SS Oberführer.” Stephenson closed the file. “Here ends the lesson. Now let’s see what Krasnopolsky died to bring us.”
Lorimer stood. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness before the clattering projector tossed a bright white square on the screen and the wall behind it. Lorimer nudged the projector, centering it.
The film began with the Crown seal, and this notice:
MILKWEED / GRACKLE
MOST SECRET
UNAUTHORISED DISSEMINATION OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN
THIS FILM CONSTITUTES TREASON AGAINST THE UNITED KINGDOM OF
GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND AS DEFINED BY PARLIAMENT
IN THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT OF 1920. PUNISHMENT UP TO AND
INCLUDING EXECUTION MAY RESULT.
MILKWEED / GRACKLE
Well
, thought Will,
I’m in it now.
The room strobed dark and light so quickly that Will’s eyes ached in the effort to keep up. A parade of images flashed on the screen, sandwiched in moments of darkness. The dark frames were placeholders, he realized, representing the portions of film damaged by fire. After the reel spooled past the outermost layers where fire had done the most damage, the dark stretches grew shorter. But not enough to make viewing easy or comfortable.
Will struggled to absorb the surreal tableaux. A shirtless man hovering twenty feet above an orchard. Half a second of nothing but a brick wall, then a nude woman standing before it with no transition. A young man with pale eyes laying his hand on an anvil, the film shimmering, the metal sagging. Another man standing halfway inside a wall, like a ghost. A muscular fellow on a leash (a
leash
?) scowling at a mortar emplacement that imploded upon itself. The ghost man standing in front of a chattering machine gun. The leashed man scowling at an upside-down tank. A soldier throwing something at the anvil man, and a flash.
The subjects of the film wore belts with dark leads running up to their skulls. Each and every one of them. Repeated viewings didn’t make it any less horrifying.
They watched the film again. And again. And again.
Will was so wrapped up trying to assemble the images into a single story—trying to conceive of how von Westarp had achieved these unnatural results—that it wasn’t until the third viewing he noticed an obvious problem.
“There’s no sound,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Of course there’s no bleedin’ sound,” said Lorimer. “It’s a silent fucking filmstrip.”
“That’s a shame,” said Will. When Marsh asked him why, heelaborated. “If we could
hear
those proceedings, it would be a great boon. Alas, that’s not an option.”
“So you do think this is supernatural?”
“Are you not watching the same film as I, Pip? Because I believe I just witnessed a flying man. A
flying man
. That is not natural.”
Stephenson said, “What are those things they wear? The belts, and the implants.”
Will shook his head. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea. This
Similar Books
