The Anubis Gates

He opened his bloodshot eyes and glanced up at the clock that sat on a doll-crowded shelf just below the niche where old Dungy’s head was perched. Quarter to nine. In another hour or so, he told himself, Horrabin’s hoodlums will bring Ashbless to me, and we’ll adjourn to the subterranean hospital.

* * *

As the cab rattled past St. Paul’s Cathedral, William Ashbless peered out at the dark square on the west side of the huge church and remembered begging there as Dumb Tom. I never, he thought, get to use my voice. Dumb Tom was mute, and so of necessity was Eshvlis the cobbler, and though William Ashbless will be a voluble poet, he’ll only be copying from memory poems he read and memorized long ago.

His mood was a blend of relief, anticipation and vague disappointment. It was certainly pleasant to be back in England again, free at last of all that hellish magic, and able to look forward to meeting, as he knew he would, Byron, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth and the rest of the gang—but now that he was, irrevocably, Ashbless, and had wandered back into the scope of the Bailey biography, there could be no more major surprises for him; he’d already read his own life story.

He still half wished that the test he’d thought up during the month-long voyage of the Fowler had turned out negative. It had occurred to him that if the universe was dead set on his being Ashbless it would have to get busy and do two things. It would have to have seen to it that the manuscript of “The Twelve Hours of the Night,” which he’d last seen on the desk in that room at the Swan With Two Necks, was somehow conveyed to the Courier office in time to have been published in December; and it would have to make sure the Fowler arrived in London in time for him to attend the gathering at John Murray’s, and meet Coleridge again, on the second of April. Both were unalterable facts in the life of the Ashbless he’d studied, and if either one didn’t happen, then he might still be able to be his own man, with the capacity for chosen action, able to feel hope and fear.

But when he’d gone to the Swan this afternoon and asked them if they were holding any mail for William Ashbless, they’d told him he owed postage on three items. These had proven to be a letter of acceptance from the Courier, together with a check for three pounds; the December 15 issue of the paper, with the poem printed in it; and a letter from John Murray, dated the twenty-fifth of March, inviting Ashbless to an informal gathering at the publisher’s office a week later—tonight.

It was settled. He was Ashbless.

And it wouldn’t be dull—for one thing, there were some pieces of the story he would be interested to watch unfold. Where, for example, is Elizabeth Jacqueline Tichy, my wife to be? I’ll presently tell Bailey that I first met her way back in September of last year. I wonder why I’ll say that. And of course the final question is: who is it that will meet me in the Woolwich marshes on the twelfth of April in 1846, stab me through the stomach and leave my body to be found more than a month later? And how in hell will I make myself keep that appointment?

The cab had slanted to the right, past the Old Bailey onto Fleet Street, and now drew to a stop at number 32, a narrow, pleasant-looking building with lights glowing behind the curtains. Ashbless stepped down, paid the driver, and as the cab clopped and jingled away into the night he took a deep breath, glanced up and down the street—noticing a beggar boy slouching in his direction—and then knocked on the door.

After a few moments there was the snap of a bolt being drawn back and the door was opened by a sandy-haired man with a glass in his hand; and in spite of the haircut, beard-trim and respectable clothes that Ashbless had spent most of his three pounds on, the man stepped back uncertainly when he got a look at the huge bronzed visitor.

“Uh… yes?” he said.

“My name is Ashbless. Are you John Murray?”

“Oh? Yes, yes, do come in. Yes, I’m Murray. You gave me a start—if there is such a thing as a typical poet, sir, may I say you don’t look anything like him. Would you care for a glass of port?”

“I’d love it.” Ashbless stepped into the entry hall and waited white Murray re-bolted the door.