Interview with the Devil: Professor Moriarity...Part Four, Baker Street Stories, trivia, artwork at The Baker Street Universe

Interview with the Devil: Professor Moriarity...Part Four

"You think you know what life is all about, until you discover that you know nothing." Professor Moriarity

As  you can imagine I was profoundly disturbed by the Professor's revelation, for I had the sense that he was not only a dangerous man, but a very cunning one, far more so than any story had ever portrayed him. Some men are able to disguise their motives through altruistic gestures...such as politicians who bestow a town with a new bridge, while at the same time siphoning off kickbacks from the contractor whom they secured the work from. Others hide their ill will in violent actions which are contrary to what they truly seek, such as Hitler invading another country, but his true intent not domination of that country but subjugation of the human spirit...seeking power as a means to control the universe!

This man who sat on the opposite side of the table from me surely fit in one of those categories at times, but I suspect he had motives much deeper than even those I have just illuminated.

The interview continues now:

He saw the look on my face, then looked to Morina, who was also surprised. So evidently there was some new truth being tipped from a cauldron of molten past.

"I don't understand. The Black Hand were never known as liberators and fighters for justice."

He smirked at me, twisting one thick hand around the other as was his wont, when he was excited or nervous.

"That's because the liberty they sought was not for the wealthy and empowered, but for the power and helpless."

He leaned forward again, enveloping me in the power of those magnetic eyes.

"You see, the Black Hand, which I borrowed from a common fairy tale of the Germans, a man who would rob the rich and serve to the poor, that tale was the root of my convictions and my need for seeing balance and justice in the land."

"So you robbed the rich, to give to the poor?"

"At first." He said, a look of regret touching his eyes for a moment.

"But when they began retaliating by taking even more from the wretched, and hanging them for my crimes, I could no longer stand by and just be a robber alone. I gathered together the strongest of the weak and trained them in the arts of war."

Morina stopped him a moment with a touch. "Father, you never told me this."

He placed his hand over hers and gave her a warm smile. "Child, you know so much already that I wish had never been revealed. I didn't want to burden your heart further. Death is not an easy thing, even when committed in the name of righteousness."

I pondered those words, imagining all our own soldiers returning from the cold hell of war across the sea...and being welcomed back, but finding little solace in the warmth of their reception, because they knew from experience that a lost father, a broken son, a shattered love could never be mended, even if it was done in the name of peace.

She nodded finally, then sat back. He looked to me.

"Okay. I get this. You're telling me that you did not begin as a man determined to undermine England and kill Sherlock Holmes."

"Actually. I did."

I was silent a moment and confused.

He smiled at my consternation. "Mister Pirillo, the words 'a man does not live by bread alone,' were not spoken just to remind us that we are creatures of the spirit, but to motivate us to seek a higher truth, a truth not born of the manure that those in authority strive to get us to adhere and believe...even as we lose those dear to us."

He touched the scar on his head a moment, as if remembering, then eyed me again. Once more seizing my thoughts and attention.

"Your good Queen Mary of  Scots is not the woman or man I was under when I began my campaign to destroy England."

"Then you are not from this, nor my own Baker Street Universe?"

He shook his head. "I know of both Professor Moriarity's, and their habits were not my own, though their brilliance equally as great. You see, a man can be great at many things, but one thing I've never been great at is deceiving myself into believing that I know more than my Creator."

I paused a few moments to consider that as he took another sip of tea. Morina exchanged glances with me, then gave me a coy smile and looked away. Charming girl I thought, not realizing at the time what she was.

Finally, I spoke again.

"So you formed the Black Hand, a band of...uh...poor folk..."

"And downtrodden." He added, his eyes sparking with memories.

"And those who needed help." I agreed. "And with them you sought to bring justice to England."

"And to all other lands beholden to her."

"That's a tall order." I said, touched by his sincerity, though still a bit frightened at his ambition.

"Yes. But a worthy one." He sighed, rubbed his eyes to get the fatigue out of them. It was night outside now and nearing dawn once more. We had been talking for hours now, with brief breaks to relieve ourselves, and compose our thoughts.

I had to excuse myself several times to go outside and breath fresh air, as the atmosphere in that man's backroom was cloying my intellect and causing me a great deal of confusion. He was nothing like the Moriarity of Doyle's, nor my more gentle Moriarity, or the stern, intellectual cruel of Doyle's that fought Sherlock. Here was a man, seemingly one of destiny, who sought to unwrap the coils of a great society and wind them into a proper direction. No politician, but a warrior with a heart of iron, if not gold...determined to change the course of destiny.

I sat back down in the backroom, after clearing my mind and checked my cell phone for charge.  This was what was taking me so long. Next time I interview, I promised myself yet again, I will bring spare batteries, but of course the Iphone doesn't allow that, and I can't live without it. Yet. So...

"But you did come into the crosshairs of Sherlock Holmes eventually?"

"Yes." He replied, another far-off look in his eyes. He looked back at me.

"You realize now that I am much older than I appear?"

"Yes." I admitted, giving his daughter a searching glance, then back to him again. "The legends of the Black Hand began long before the Victorian England of Holmes."

"Many centuries in fact." He replied.

He leaned on his thick muscled arms and continued. "If not for Merlin's help, I would not be here today giving you this interview."

"How did he help you?"

"He and Paracelsus found a method for extending life. A formula which utilized the core cells of the body to renew it."

"Stem cells." I gasped.

He looked confused a moment, then nodded. "You mean that silly science the locals are playing with these days?"

"Yes."

"Something like that, but with a bit more truth to it. For you see..." He leaned closer. "Stem cells are physical, but the true cells of the body are embedded at a much higher level. In a part of our being that not physical instrument can touch."

"Then you have discovered the fountain of youth?"

He laughed. "Do I look young to you?" He waved at me. "Wait! Don't answer that. No, not a fountain of youth, but a method whereby one can tap into the Source."

I gave him a confused look.

He gripped my arm. "Son, you and your friends. You search for the Truth, do you not?"

I gave him a surprised look. He smirked. "Don't think because I am so old, I am not smart enough to see into your very soul itself. Were I not able to,  you would never have entered this shop, nor found it."

Morina laughed. "So many fools have sought us, but father has sent their thoughts scattered and far away, thus causing them to lose the trail."

"Mind control!"

"Not, not mind control." He pointed out. "But a gentle nudging. Sort of like when you change the course of a conversation to get an angry person away from their temper."

"Misdirections."

"That's it."

He smiled, happy I got it. "I know you and others like you seek the Source, to become one with it, to learn how to do the utmost good with every word, deed and thought you live."

"True."

"But, lad." He said, gripping my arm so tightly it hurt. "The truth must be lived. It cannot be learned by words alone. That's why humanity fails to find the fountain of youth, and fails to find its own Source."

I shook my head. Too much information. I strove to guide the interview back towards Holmes once more. "Okay, so how does Holmes come into the picture?"

"I have read your stories. And in one you mention an evil Holmes, am I not right?"

"Yes. From an alternate Victorian England to the one that my friends live in."

"That one came from the world I have left to come here."

I felt a chill go up and down my spine.

"He was my brother!"

Once again I am left with nothing more to say or think, as I consider the ramifications of what was revealed. A man of such dark purpose as Moriarity the brother of Holmes, but neither Moriarity or Holmes being what we know them as, but as direct opposites. Polar to what we would expect and hope for. A dark Holmes and a profoundly mystical, if not powerful philosopher Moriarity.

At that moment my cell phone made a croaking sound. (I'm smiling. I programmed that into its interface to let me know the phone was about to shut off.) I shut it off.

I will return with more of this interview once the phone is charged again, if I can keep my eyes open that long.

Sincerely,

The Author and Interviewer

John Pirillo

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(New) Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Stricken Flag By John, artwork, stories, videos at ImagineNation

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Stricken Flag 

By John Pirillo

  

The morning sun blazed across the horizon with fingers of fire that lit the dawn and stirred humanity from its dull slumber across the Victorian capital of London. Street vendors roused themselves from their simple beds, loaded their carts with apples, oranges, pears, walnuts and almonds, cashews from the India Isles and cinnamon from the Chinas. They folded dazzling, colorful silks woven in the Japans, as well as bright silver and bronze pots hand crafted in the Americas. Anything that could be made and made cheaply, or bought cheaply to be resold on the streets was game for them as they woke up and readied themselves for another busy day of striving to gain one more pound for their family to survive upon or themselves to drink down for that night.

The merchant ships stirred lightly against their restraining tethers, anchored to the wharves by sturdy rope and anchors, while sailors blinked blood shot eyes from sleeping off a drunk, or being up all night at the crow's nest.

The Queen's Royal Guard dressed to kill. Literally, marched through the dawn fog that was misting along the wharves as they made their way to a lone ship. It had slipped into its berth earlier the night before and had not stirred with life since.

Captain Mortimer Herald, a young man, with a future as bright as the morning sun, led his men to the ramp into the ship and was the first off to lead them up. He was never one to shirk responsibility or danger. He drew his sword, as did the others. None expected anything lethal, but better to be prepared.

They had been warned of the unusual stillness of the merchant ship by Wells and Jules, whose warehouse was several stretches down the wharf from it. They had returned from a flight to Paris where they had been tending to some friends they had there.

"Men, no harm unless attacked." Captain Mortimer insisted.

The men didn't have to answer. They knew how angry he was if thwarted in his instructions, and besides that, they took pride in such a strong and obviously brave young soul leading them into victory after victory. They were the most highly decorated platoon of her Majesty's royal guards.

The Captain climbed the ramp to the ship and stepped down on its main deck. Still quiet. He sniffed the air. A strange smell seemed to pervade it. He nodded to the men behind him and they all spread out, taking fore and aft of the ship, while several headed for the top deck.

He took two men into the hold, where he expected the Captain to be, since the Captain's cabin appeared to be empty with no bed slept in. Which was peculiar perhaps, but not unusual when a crew was anxious to get home and dared not rest if they had a certain deadline to make. Though in retrospect, remembering the expected merchant ships, there were none of this flag expected. Something about the flag stirred a memory, but he couldn't pinpoint it, which was unusual, as he wasn't one to forget. He filed it for later thought, and continued into the hold, his sword at the ready.

"Figgins, anything?"

His right hand man shook his head. He looked to the other. "Shelly?"

"No, sir."

Captain Mortimer nodded, uncertain nonetheless. Something smelled about the way the ship was so quiet...as if it had been abandoned. Or worse.

As they got deeper into the hold, Figgins began swinging his sword wildly, screaming. "Bloody Mary if you'll take me with you!"

Then Shell did the same. "Captain, we're surrounded."

Captain Mortimer looked wildly about him, fully expecting to see some activity, but there was none, until he stopped looking, then he saw them. He saw...

=====================================================

Watson put a handkerchief over his nose as he descended into the hold of the abandoned ship. He slowly removed it, sniffing the air, and then waved above him.

Sherlock descended, followed by Inspector Bloodstone. "What a disaster." He stated, eyeing the dead soldiers that lay on the floor, their bodies emaciated and torn by something sharp.

Watson kneeled next to one and Sherlock next to another.

"Cloves." Sherlock stated.

"Same." Watson agreed.

They both stood and looked at the Inspector. "These men were exposed to a deadly gas manufactured by the Germanies. It was used in the last war between them and the French." Sherlock explained.

"I see."

"No, you don't." Sherlock explained calmly. "That gas was totally removed from the face of the planet. It does not occur naturally and none but the one man who invented knew its formula and Her Majesty, Queen Mary of Scots, had him behead."

"Nasty affair that." Watson said, remembering the public execution. "The executioner had to use his axe several times to finish him off. Poor man was in great pain before he died."

"As were these, dear Watson." Sherlock reminded him.

He looked at the Captain, whose face was filled with horror, his eyes forever frozen on something only he could see. "He had such promise. I knew his father."

"As did I." Inspector Bloodstone added. "Her Majesty was grooming to take over her forces in the current war against the Hollow Man."

"That will grieve her greatly." Watson said softly.

"Yes. Because she also loved this young man as a son. He was, after all, a nephew. However, distant."

Sherlock nodded. "Whatever gas was here now is gone."

"As it would be." Watson declared. "It only lasts twenty four hours."

"But it still doesn't explain the vanished crew." The Inspector pointed out.

"No. It doesn't." Sherlock replied, but one thing might.

He stooped and drew a finger across the wounds. "Notice that the slices are very light and though bloody, are not deep enough to have caused their deaths."

Watson kneeled beside him. "By Jove, Holmes, you have the straight of it.  These men were plucked from this mortal coil by fear, not pain."

Sherlock eyed his friend. "Oh, they experienced pain all right. I imagine more than you or I could endure."

"Notice the extension of the young man's eyes."

"As if they were ready to flee their sockets."

"The color on the rim of the white."

Watson took out a magnifying glass. "Inspector, could you hold that lamp a bit closer."

The Inspector did so.

Watson inhaled sharply. "I believe the iris was actually detaching from the white itself." He looked at Holmes. "That's impossible."

"But..."

"When the possible has failed..."

"We examine the impossible." The Inspector finished for them.

Sherlock stood up and swept up the stairs from the hold.

"That was strange." The Inspector said with distaste.

Watson laughed. "Oh, you don't know the half of it. Hurry, he's on to something."

They rushed up the hold stairs and came out onto the main deck. As they did, Sherlock was rushing to the jack mast where the flag hung limply in the bright afternoon sun. The Thames waters rippled noisily to the sides, swishing in and out, causing the ropes and pulleys of the sails to cling and clang as they banged against each other.

"Ah-ha!" Holmes cried out.

Watson and the Inspector caught up with him. The Inspector started to reach out and touch the flag that was near Holmes. Sherlock grabbed his wrist in a viselike grip and looked into his eyes. "If you value your life, you will not touch this flag. It is stricken."

The Inspector's face went white as a ghost.

"Smell the cloves."

"Dear God!" The Inspector uttered angrily. "The flag!"

"Yes." Sherlock affirmed. "Their very signal of safety and safe port was also their death. For if even one touched it, the poison would spread to the others and touching the flag released a mist like poison that swallowed the entire ship before all expired."

Watson shook his head. "The Hollow Man has struck yet again. And not one soul could strike a blow to save themselves."

Sherlock nodded. "Such is the nature of war, Watson. To those who lose, it is victory for the winner."

"But what happened to the original crew?" The Inspector demanded.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and looked out to sea. "The Hollow Man always has a need to expand his crew of the living dead."

Watson and the Inspector both crossed themselves at the same time.

"The Dark War nears." Sherlock said with a scowl. "And has even begun in small ways, and none are as yet aware how deadly it has become."

"God have mercy on our souls." Watson muttered.

"And let us pray we keep them intact." Sherlock uttered, and then marched solemnly down the deck to the ramp to debark. He had much to ponder and think about.

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