Miriam nodded and sat, and no more was said until after the tea Mrs. Hudson brought had been poured.
I was, of course, aflame with curiosity as to what had brought her to London, this woman who was quite probably the last person on earth I would ever have expected to see here. I restrained myself—after all, a gentleman cannot press a lady to speak until she is ready—but it took quite an effort on my part. For Miriam Shah had once quite literally saved my life.
Miriam took a long sip of tea and shuddered slightly. “That’s better,” she said. “I believe I understand now why Englishmen are so driven to expand their empire—it keeps them away from this chill climate.”
Then she said to Holmes, “Have you ever heard of the Kitab al-Azif?”
Holmes started slightly—a reaction that would have, I think, been unnoticeable to all save myself, who had known him for years. It was one of the few times I have ever seen him register surprise.
“I have read of it. My knowledge is, I must admit, somewhat sketchy. Kitab is, of course, Arabic for ‘book.’ Al-Azif, as I understand it, is a term used by Mussulmen; it refers to the buzzing of nocturnal insects, which their superstitious minds take to be the howling of afrit, or demons. The consensus is that the book was written by a Yemenite named Abdul al-Hazred, around A.D. 700. The work was subsequently translated several times; first into Greek by Philetas, who renamed it the Necronomicon, or ‘Book Concerning the Dead,’ and later into Latin by Olaus Wormius. There was also an English translation in the late sixteenth century by the occult scholar Dr. John Dee, who called it the Liber Logaeth. There have, I believe, been more recent translations as well. The book’s contents are supposed to be a compendium of ancient lore and forbidden knowledge concerning various pre-Adamite beings and creatures, some of extraterrestrial origin, who once ruled the earth and who anticipate doing so again.”
“Your information is correct,” Miriam replied. Then she was silent for a moment, as if gathering herself. As much to fill the silence as anything else, I interjected, “Surely such a work must be considered the product of a demented mind.”
“If al-Hazred was not mad before he wrote this infernal opus, he surely was after he completed it,” Miriam said. “Those who have looked through the pages of the Necronomicon say it is the most dangerous book in the world because it gives far more than just the knowledge that these Old Ones and Elder Gods exist—it also instructs the reader in various ways to summon them from their places of exile, that they may rule the earth as they did eons ago.”
I looked to Holmes, assuming he would immediately dismiss such a bizarre statement as utter claptrap. He was slowly filling the bowl of his pipe with shag, and he did not pause in doing so. Instead he said simply, “Please go on.”
Miriam continued, and as I listened, my astonishment at her story became great enough to almost supersede my astonishment at her presence.
“According to legend, al-Hazred had delved deep into forbidden knowledge and ancient, hidden cults. He had visited Irem, the dreaded City of Pillars, and other lost conurbations even more dangerous. He had communicated with the djinn, and afrits, and nameless beings still more primal and powerful. And all of this he put down on parchment—a lifetime of mind-shattering, soul-blasting experiences.
“It is an uncontested fact that, as each successive translator copied the Arab’s work into his own language, he edited out various teachings and sections—perhaps because he considered them to contain knowledge that man was not meant to know, perhaps in the interests of brevity and clarity, perhaps both. For whatever reasons, the few copies of the Necronomicon extant today are known to be heavily abridged. Far more text is missing than has been left in. The original Latin edition was over nine hundred pages; the Liber Logaeth not even six hundred. These pages were assumed lost; the complete al-Azif has not been seen for centuries.”
“Until now, I take it,” Holmes said. His voice was flat, almost contemplative. He had finished filling his pipe, but he did not light it. He sat quite still, his attentive gaze fixed upon Miriam. “Pray continue.”
As Miriam continued to speak, I felt an involuntary shiver caress me, and wondered at it—after all, I was used to the damp chill of a London fall, and normally would have scarcely noticed it. But now I shivered. It felt as if the fire’s heat were somehow not penetrating the room, even though I could see it blazing away beyond the hearth.
“Two years ago a large ceramic container was found in a cave far back in one of the many narrow canyons near where my people live. There was some concern among the more superstitious villagers that to open it would be to unleash a plague of demons and ill luck. So it was taken to Kandahar, where it was sold to a ferengi.”
Holmes put down his pipe and steepled his fingers in front of his face, looking, for a surprising moment, almost as if he were praying. “You said the container was sealed. How did you know what the contents were?”
“There was writing inscribed in the clay. And there was this as well, impressed into the wax seal.” From within her jacket she withdrew a folded piece of paper and handed it to my friend, who opened it. On it was drawn some sort of symbol—of its exact configuration I cannot say, but as Holmes held it up to look at it, the paper was poised for a moment in front of the fire, which illumination allowed me a brief, translucent impression of the sketch. It was abstract, and even in that imperfect glimpse seemed somehow wrong, as if it represented some sort of spatial anomaly. I can think of no better way to describe it. Before I could ask to see it, Holmes had crumpled it up and thrown it into the fire.
“That is known as the Elder Sign, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.
“It is. The writing on the container was al-Azif, in Akkadian.”
“Ah. Which was the lingua franca of the Arabian world until approximately A.D. 700.”
“Just so,” Miriam said. “It would appear that al-Hazred felt the book’s contents important enough to write down the entire manuscript a second time, for safekeeping.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Then Holmes said, “You have followed the ferengi—the foreigner—who brought the manuscript to England. Why? I understand the volatile nature of the text, but why have you elected to pursue it?”
She glanced at me, then replied, “I volunteered. I am one of the few from my village who speaks French and English, and I have heard whispers, ever since I can remember, of the ancient and shunned sects, the worshipers of Those Who Came Before.” Her hand went to her throat, touching the charm that hung there. “Mashallah,” she murmured, then continued: “The existing copies of the Necronomicon are kept under lock and key, lest the knowledge it still retains be used to shatter civilization. How much more dangerous, then, must the unexpurgated version be? It must be found, as quickly as possible. That is why I have come to you, Mr. Holmes.” She glanced at me again, and smiled. “And I could not resist the opportunity to see you again, however briefly, John.”