The Lazarus Gate Read Free

to view the painting before month’s end. And it will be double the usual price. Remember, Hu, that Mr. Ruskin requests the utmost discretion in our dealings. You will be invisible on this errand, understood?’
    Hu nodded.
    ‘That is all for now,’ the Artist concluded.
    Hu moved for the parcels, but hesitated when his eye caught the fresh canvas in the centre of the room.
    ‘What is it, Hu?’ asked the Artist, impatience creeping into his tone.
    ‘Will you require a… buyer for your latest work today, master?’ Hu asked.
    ‘Ah… no. Not today. This is something altogether more interesting than a mere commission.’
    Hu gathered the parcels and bowed again. A bumping and scratching from the closet in the corner caught his attention, and he bowed once more before hurrying backwards in the direction of the door, casting a nervous glance at the corner before heading down the stairs whence he had come. The Artist strode across the room towards the closet, pausing only to take down a jar from a shelf on the wall. When he reached the closet, he reached inside the jar for some strips of dried pork, which he threw down to his pets.
    ‘Yes, yes. You see it too, don’t you, my pets; my muses? This is most unexpected. The picture shows us what will come to pass, but how should one interpret such an image? If I am right, then it is all happening rather sooner than expected.’ He paused to throw more meat into the closet. Chains rattled as his pets scrabbled for the titbits.
    ‘What am I to do with this information, do you think? Who can I trust?’ His ears pricked up as a low murmuring began. He smiled as one of his pets struggled to make a noise—first a gurgling, then a mumble.
    ‘L… L… Lazarussss,’ came the weak reply. The Artist’s smile broadened with pleasure.
    ‘Yes, my sweet. I rather thought you’d say that. Who’s a clever girl?’

PART 1

    The world was never made;
    It will change, but it will not fade.
    So let the wind range;
    For even and morn
    Ever will be
    Through eternity.
    Nothing was born;
    Nothing will die;
    All things will change.
    A LFRED , L ORD T ENNYSON

ONE

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN HARDWICK
3rd January 1891
    A s I sit here at my desk to write this narrative, outside my window the night draws in all too quickly, and the orange-hued London fog that so characterises winter in this great city has dropped. It is at once enveloping, smothering and yet oddly comforting; comforting because it means that I am home at last. Little less than a year ago I never would have dreamt that it could be so.
    The events I am about to record are true insofar as my memory allows. When reading the memoirs and monographs of others, it has often occurred to me that the recorded facts contained within cannot be wholly accurate. The human brain, after all, can only store so much information before it becomes fragmented or distorted. Therefore I have set down in writing every relevant detail as faithfully as I am humanly able, such as my skill with words will allow. I testify to you that this tale is true and in earnest. Though you might well think this story odd, or impolitic, or even unbelievable, it must be told—for who could believe that this document is anything but a work of fiction after reading it? I can scarcely believe it myself, and I wish it were not the truth. For what this ‘adventure’ has taught me is that there truly are more things in heaven and earth—to misquote the Bard—than one can dream of. And precious few of them are wholesome. I am changed, quite irrevocably, by my experiences. I have learned, this past year, what fear truly is, and I doubt if I shall ever sleep well again knowing it.
    This then, is my story; the true and honest testimony of John Hardwick.
28th March 1890
    My arrival in London had been unceremonious, but nonetheless long awaited. I had spent forty days at sea with but two brief stops, and no hardship that may have lain in store for me could have dampened my