In those far distant coasts,
For other great and glorious ends
Inhabit, my yet unknown friends.’
Hollond was positive he did not mean angels or anything of the sort. I told him that Traherne evidently took a cheerful view of them. He admitted that, but added: ‘He had religion, you see. He believed that everything was for the best. I am not a man of faith, and can only take comfort from what I understand. I’m in the dark, I tell you...’
“Next week I was busy with the Chilian Arbitration case, and saw nobody for a couple of months. Then one evening I ran against Hollond on the Embankment, and thought him looking horribly ill. He walked back with me to my rooms, and hardly uttered one word all the way. I gave him a stiff whisky-and-soda, which he gulped down absent-mindedly. There was that strained, hunted look in his eyes that you see in a frightened animal’s. He was always lean, but now he had fallen away to skin and bone.
“’I can’t stay long,’ he told me, ‘for I’m off to the Alps to-morrow and I have a lot to do.’ Before then he used to plunge readily into his story, but now he seemed shy about beginning. Indeed I had to ask him a question.
“’Things are difficult,’ he said hesitatingly, and rather distressing. Do you know, Leithen, I think you were wrong about—about what I spoke to you of. You said there must be one of three explanations. I am beginning to think that there is a fourth.
“He stopped for a second or two, then suddenly leaned forward and gripped my knee so fiercely that I cried out. ‘That world is the Desolation,’ he said in a choking voice, ‘and perhaps I am getting near the Abomination of the Desolation that the old prophet spoke of. I tell you, man, I am on the edge of a terror, a terror,’ he almost screamed, ‘that no mortal can think of and live.’
You can imagine that I was considerably startled. It was lightning out of a clear sky. How the devil could one associate horror with mathematics? I don’t see it yet... At any rate, I—You may be sure I cursed my folly for ever pretending to take him seriously. The only way would have been to have laughed him out of it at the start. And yet I couldn’t, you know—it was too real and reasonable. Anyhow, I tried a firm tone now, and told him the whole thing was arrant raving bosh. I bade him be a man and pull himself together. I made him dine with me, and took him home, and got him into a better state of mind before he went to bed. Next morning I saw him off at Charing Cross, very haggard still, but better. He promised to write to me pretty often....
The pony, with a great eleven-pointer lurching athwart its back, was abreast of us, and from the autumn mist came the sound of soft Highland voices. Leithen and I got up to go, when we heard that the rifle had made direct for the Lodge by a short cut past the Sanctuary. In the wake of the gillies we descended the Correi road into a glen all swimming with dim purple shadows. The pony minced and boggled; the stag’s antlers stood out sharp on the rise against a patch of sky, looking like a skeleton tree. Then we dropped into a covert of birches and emerged on the white glen highway.
Leithen’s story had bored and puzzled me at the start, but now it had somehow gripped my fancy. Space a domain of endless corridors and Presences moving in them! The world was not quite the same as an hour ago. It was the hour, as the French say, “between dog and wolf,” when the mind is disposed to marvels. I thought of my stalking on the morrow, and was miserably conscious that I would miss my stag. Those airy forms would get in the way. Confound Leithen and his yarns!
“I want to hear the end of your story,” I told him, as the lights of the Lodge showed half a mile distant.
“The end was a tragedy,” he said slowly. “I don’t much care to talk about it. But how was I to know? I couldn’t see the nerve going. You see I couldn’t believe it was all nonsense. If I could I might have seen. But I still think there was something in it—up to a point. Oh, I agree he went mad in the end. It is the only explanation. Something must have snapped in that fine brain, and he saw the little bit more which we call madness. Thank God, you and I are prosaic fellows...
“I was going out to Chamonix myself a week later. But before I started I got a post-card from Hollond, the only word from him. He had printed my name and address, and on the other side had scribbled six words—’I know at last—God’s mercy.—H.G.H’ The handwriting was like a sick man of ninety. I knew that things must be pretty bad with my friend.
“I got to Chamonix in time for his funeral. An ordinary climbing accident—you probably read about it in the papers. The Press talked about the toll which the Alps took from intellectuals—the usual rot. There was an inquiry, but the facts were quite simple. The body was only recognised by the clothes. He had fallen several thousand feet.
“It seems that he had climbed for a few days with one of the Kronigs and Dupont, and they had done some hair-raising things on the Aiguilles. Dupont told me that they had found a new route up the Montanvert side of the Charmoz. He said that Hollond climbed like a ‘diable fou’ and if you know Dupont’s standard of madness you will see that the pace must have been pretty hot. ‘But monsieur was sick,’ he added; ‘his eyes were not good. And I and Franz, we were grieved for him and a little afraid. We were glad when he left us.’
“He dismissed the guides two days before his death. The next day he spent in the hotel, getting his affairs straight. He left everything in perfect order, but not a line to a soul, not even to his sister. The following day he set out alone about three in the morning for the Grepon. He took the road up the Nantillons glacier to the Col, and then he must have climbed the Mummery crack by himself. After that he left the ordinary route and tried a new traverse across the Mer de Glace face. Somewhere near the top he fell, and next day a party going to the Dent du Requin found him on the rocks thousands of feet below.
“He had slipped in attempting the most foolhardy course on earth, and there was a lot of talk about the dangers of guideless climbing. But I guessed the truth, and I am sure Dupont knew, though he held his tongue....”
We were now on the gravel of the drive, and I was feeling better. The thought of dinner warmed my heart and drove out the eeriness of the twilight glen. The hour between dog and wolf was passing. After all, there was a gross and jolly earth at hand for wise men who had a mind to comfort.
Leithen, I saw, did not share my mood. He looked glum and puzzled, as if his tale had aroused grim memories. He finished it at the Lodge door.
“... For, of course, he had gone out that day to die. He had seen the something more, the little bit too much, which plucks a man from his moorings. He had gone so far into the land of pure spirit that he must needs go further and shed the fleshly envelope that cumbered him. God send that he found rest! I believe that he chose the steepest cliff in the Alps for a purpose. He wanted to be unrecognisable. He was a brave man and a good citizen. I think he hoped that those who found him might not see the look in his eyes.”
Space was published in The Moon Endureth—Tales and Fancies, published in 1911. This version of the story was taken from Project Gutenberg.
Reviews
The Annihilation Score
Charles Stross
Orbit
£16.99, hardback, 416pp.
published 2nd July 2014
Review: Noel Chidwick
Bob Howard, the newly anointed Eater of Souls, leaves stage right to pursue bears. Meanwhile, his wife Mo, steps up to the footlights. Under her chin she tucks her possessed killer violin made of human bone, and is ready to take on the latest problem to hit humanity—an exponential increase of the population developing super powers. How will Mo and the Laundry save us?
If what I’ve written so far makes little sense, then do yourself a massive favour and read Charles Stross’ series the Laundry Files. You’ll be thoroughly entertained as Bob takes on the demons released on the world using only his wits and his occult skills nurtured as IT support for an off-line anti-supernatural government body.
Back here, at book 7, we at last get to hear Mo’s story, working with her to save humanity and explore her anxieties. This is also Stross balancing the gender books:
