Speak To Me, Friend

“I tell you they gather where the fog is thickest.”

The old man lifted a trembling finger toward the harbor window.

“Not rats. Not gulls. Not smugglers.”

He smiled with the broken dignity of a man who had once expected respect.

“The children with glass eyes.”

The sailors laughed.

The Chinese proprietor merely sighed and continued tending the brazier.

Outside, London's East End vanished beneath a yellow fog that swallowed ships, warehouses, and men alike.

Inside the opium den, no one believed Mr. Edwin Ashcombe.

No one, perhaps, except me.

I first met Edwin Ashcombe in the winter of 1889, when I was newly employed as a clerk for a shipping concern near Limehouse.

Every evening, after balancing invoices and tallying manifests, I walked past narrow alleys where signs in unfamiliar characters swung above little shops. Lanterns glowed crimson through the mist. Strange spices scented the damp air.

Respectable gentlemen claimed such streets were dens of vice.

Respectable gentlemen visited them often enough to know.

My curiosity eventually overcame propriety.

That was how I found myself descending crooked steps into a cellar where the smoke hung so thick it transformed every lamp into a tiny moon.

The proprietor, a quiet Cantonese gentleman everyone simply called Mr. Liu, nodded politely.

No questions.

No introductions.

One either came for dreams or conversation.

Ashcombe came for both.

Even before anyone spoke his name, I recognized him as a man who had once possessed refinement.

His coat had been expensive years earlier.

His boots had once shone.

His speech retained the careful precision of an educated man.

Yet his cuffs were frayed.

His beard untended.

His eyes...

His eyes darted constantly toward empty corners.

"There," he whispered.

No one looked.

"The little fellow with antlers."

A sailor barked with laughter.

"Oh, he's back, is he?"

"He has brought friends."

More laughter.

Ashcombe frowned.

"You laugh because they ignore you."

"They ignore us because they don't exist," another patron replied.

Ashcombe shook his head.

"They're shy."

It became my habit to listen.

Every night he told another impossible tale.

A lady woven entirely from cobwebs who crossed rooftops before rain.

A fish with human hands swimming beneath the Thames.

Tiny monks living inside church bells.

Cats that remembered previous owners stretching back centuries.

A procession of headless gentlemen who marched every Tuesday beneath London Bridge.

He described them with extraordinary detail.

Never contradictory.

Always utterly sincere.

His listeners mocked him.

I merely listened.

Weeks later I asked Mr. Liu who Ashcombe had once been.

The old proprietor polished a porcelain cup before answering.

"A teacher."

"Where?"

"A grammar school in Surrey."

"What happened?"

Mr. Liu considered the question.

"He struck a boy."

I waited.

"Or perhaps he did not."

That puzzled me.

Mr. Liu merely shrugged.

"Stories change."

The stories indeed changed depending upon who told them.

According to one sailor, Ashcombe had beaten a student to death.

According to another, he had accused respectable parents of devil worship.

One woman claimed he'd attempted to burn the school library because invisible creatures nested within books.

Another insisted he had seduced a governor's wife.

One drunken constable claimed Ashcombe had simply gone mad after his wife died.

No version agreed.

Even Ashcombe offered different accounts.

"I resigned."

Another evening:

"They dismissed me."

Later still:

"The school never existed."

He said each with equal conviction.

One rainy evening I finally asked him directly.

"Which is true?"

He studied me carefully.

"Does it matter?"

"I should think so."

He smiled sadly.

"It matters only to historians."

"And what are you?"

"A survivor."

He tapped his temple.

"My enemies live here now."

He pointed toward the darkness behind me.

"They've invited guests."

I turned instinctively.

Nothing.

He chuckled.

"They're quicker than you."

His tales became stranger.

He spoke of enormous beings standing between church spires, invisible because mankind had forgotten how to look upward properly.

He claimed Parliament was secretly advised by ravens wearing judges' wigs.

He insisted every clock in London was exactly four minutes wrong because Time itself limped after being wounded centuries ago.

His certainty never faltered.

That certainty unsettled me more than the stories themselves.

Madmen usually rambled.

Ashcombe lectured.

One February evening he invited me walking.

"They're gathering tonight."

"Who?"

"The Parliament of Shadows."

Despite myself, I followed.

The fog lay thick across the docks.

Ships groaned.

Chains clanked.

Somewhere distant, bells tolled.

Ashcombe strode confidently through twisting lanes.

"There."

He pointed toward an abandoned warehouse.

"What do you see?"

"A warehouse."

"No."

"I see bricks."

"No."

"A broken roof."

He sighed.

"They're standing all around us."

He described towering figures cloaked in feathers.

Children balancing upon their shoulders.

Blind horses with silver teeth.

A cathedral built from whale bones.

Everything precisely where I saw only mist.

I confess...

For one terrible instant...

I almost believed him.

The fog moved strangely.

Shapes seemed to breathe.

Then a laborer emerged carrying a lantern.

Everything returned to ordinary London.

Ashcombe looked disappointed.

"You nearly saw them."

"I saw fog."

"You wished to see fog."

Spring arrived reluctantly.

His health worsened.

He coughed constantly.

His hands shook even when untouched by opium.

Yet his stories grew richer.

Never repetitive.

Never uncertain.

He named creatures as though cataloguing natural history.

The Ink Widow.

The Button King.

The Mourning Choir.

The Coal Children.

The Gentle Collector.

Each possessed habits.

Histories.

Personalities.

He remembered every detail from previous tellings.

I began writing them down.

One evening I asked, "Have you considered writing these stories yourself?"

He laughed harder than I'd ever heard.

"My dear fellow."

He leaned close.

"They're not stories."

Months later I located the grammar school.

Or believed I had.

The headmaster received me stiffly.

"Edwin Ashcombe?"

Recognition darkened his face.

"I hoped that name had been forgotten."

"What happened?"

The headmaster hesitated.

"He suffered...delusions."

"What sort?"

"He insisted children were speaking with imaginary companions."

"Many children do."

"These companions gave examination answers."

I blinked.

"The highest marks."

The headmaster continued.

"Ashcombe claimed invisible tutors sat beside certain pupils."

I almost smiled.

"Surely no one believed him."

"No."

"What then?"

"He failed three boys."

"For cheating?"

"For accepting assistance from goblins."

Silence.

"He became...unwell."

"Were there drugs?"

"None."

"Violence?"

The headmaster frowned.

"No."

"But everyone says—"

"They say many things."

He produced a faded ledger.

Ashcombe's handwriting filled page after page.

Meticulous.

Elegant.

Beside attendance records lay tiny observations.

Blue gentleman observed near elm tree.

Library occupied by whispering woman again.

Boy conversed with fox wearing spectacles.

The entries spanned years.

Not days.

Years.

"You see?"

said the headmaster.

"He truly believed."

As I departed, an elderly caretaker stopped me.

"You knew Master Ashcombe?"

"Slightly."

"He weren't bad."

"No?"

"He was kind."

The old man scratched his chin.

"Always talking to empty air."

"But kind."

When I next visited the den, Ashcombe listened quietly while I described my journey.

"So."

He smiled.

"They told you I was insane."

"They said you believed impossible things."

"I do."

"You admit it?"

"Certainly."

He inhaled deeply.

"So did every prophet."

I rolled my eyes.

"There it is."

"The comparison?"

"The arrogance."

He laughed.

"No."

He looked genuinely amused.

"The assumption."

"What assumption?"

"That madness and truth cannot occupy the same chair."

That sentence remained with me.

Summer came.

Business at the docks flourished.

Steamships crowded the Thames.

The opium den grew busier.

Ashcombe grew thinner.

Sometimes he forgot my name.

Sometimes he called me "Thomas."

Sometimes "Doctor."

Once he insisted I had died years earlier.

Then apologized.

"They confuse me."

"Who?"

"The spectators."

His eyes wandered beyond my shoulder.

"They're crowding you tonight."

I noticed something curious.

Mr. Liu never mocked him.

Not once.

One quiet evening I asked why.

The proprietor stirred tea slowly.

"In China..."

He searched for English words.

"...some believe old minds hear different music."

"You believe him?"

"I believe..."

He smiled faintly.

"...he believes."

The distinction mattered.

Autumn brought colder winds.

Ashcombe began carrying a notebook.

Filled with sketches.

Impossible creatures.

Each exquisitely drawn.

An owl whose wings resembled cathedral windows.

A woman composed entirely of ivy.

A child with stars beneath transparent skin.

The artistry astonished me.

Had madness improved his hand?

Or had teaching once required such skill?

Then I discovered something disturbing.

One sketch depicted me.

Perfectly.

Standing beside...

someone else.

A little girl.

She wore Victorian mourning clothes.

Her eyes seemed strangely reflective.

"Who's she?"

Ashcombe looked surprised.

"You don't know?"

"No."

"She's always with you."

I laughed uneasily.

"I assure you she isn't."

He frowned.

"Perhaps she waits."

"For what?"

"You."

I avoided the den for nearly three weeks.

When I finally returned, Ashcombe appeared delighted.

"There you are."

"I've been busy."

"No."

He shook his head.

"You were frightened."

I could not deny it.

"I've stopped taking opium."

He announced this proudly.

"Good."

"They're louder now."

I stared.

"I thought the drug caused the visions."

"It muffled them."

Winter returned.

Ashcombe's cough worsened into blood.

Even the sailors ceased mocking him.

Death has a way of silencing ridicule.

One snowy evening he beckoned me close.

"They're leaving."

"Who?"

"All of them."

"The creatures?"

"Yes."

"Because you're dying?"

He smiled.

"No."

"They've grown tired of waiting."

He pressed his notebook into my hands.

"You'll need this."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

Three nights later...

Edwin Ashcombe died.

Quietly.

In his chair.

Mr. Liu closed his eyes.

The sailors removed their caps.

No one laughed.

His burial attracted only six mourners.

Myself included.

The minister described him as "a troubled soul."

No mention was made of invisible companions.

I inherited the notebook.

No relatives appeared.

No creditors either.

It seemed the world had already forgotten him.

Years passed.

I married.

Changed employment.

Moved west.

The notebook remained upon my shelf.

Occasionally I opened it.

Read a page.

Smiled sadly.

Then returned it.

A curiosity.

Nothing more.

Yet...

Odd things accumulated.

Very odd things.

Walking through Hyde Park one misty morning...

I distinctly heard laughter behind me.

A little girl.

When I turned...

No one.

Once I awoke convinced someone had whispered,

"Nearly time."

Cats occasionally stared over my shoulder.

Dogs refused certain streets.

Children sometimes waved at empty air.

Perfectly ordinary occurrences.

Surely.

I reached fifty.

Then sixty.

Old age invites imagination.

At least that is what physicians say.

Last Tuesday—

Yes.

Tuesday.

—I crossed London Bridge.

The fog rolled thick upon the Thames.

I paused.

Something...

Some instinct...

Made me glance downward.

There—

Just for a heartbeat—

I thought I saw figures marching beneath the arches.

Gentlemen.

Without heads.

Then a steamer's wake disturbed the reflection.

Nothing remained.

Coincidence.

Certainly.

Last month my granddaughter visited.

She is six.

Bright.

Cheerful.

Entirely innocent.

She wandered toward my bookshelf.

Removed Ashcombe's notebook.

Before I could stop her, she opened it.

"Oh!"

she exclaimed happily.

"You know the Button King!"

Cold settled into my bones.

"What did you say?"

She pointed.

"He's funny."

"Where?"

"There."

She indicated the illustration.

"The little man with all the buttons."

My throat tightened.

"Who told you about him?"

"No one."

She frowned.

"He visits sometimes."

Children imagine things.

We all know this.

Do we?

Yesterday I returned to Limehouse.

The old opium den had long since become a warehouse.

Mr. Liu had vanished into history.

The docks had changed.

Steam had yielded to steel.

London itself scarcely resembled the city Ashcombe described.

Yet the fog remained.

The same ancient yellow fog.

Standing where the cellar steps had once descended, I heard footsteps.

Not behind me.

Beside me.

Small footsteps.

Matching mine exactly.

I looked.

Nothing.

Of course.

Nothing.

As I walked away, I caught myself speaking aloud.

"You may as well come along."

No answer.

Yet somehow...

The silence felt companionable.

Now, as I write these recollections in my seventy-third year, physicians assure me my mind remains sound.

My children worry nevertheless.

They dislike finding me conversing with empty chairs.

I remind them conversation is healthier than loneliness.

They exchange worried glances.

Sometimes, late in the evening, I think of Edwin Ashcombe.

Poor, disgraced schoolmaster.

Mocked by sailors.

Pitied by strangers.

Dismissed by respectable society.

Perhaps he truly destroyed himself with opium.

Perhaps grief fractured his reason.

Perhaps his tales were merely elaborate hallucinations stitched together by loneliness and smoke.

That is undoubtedly the sensible conclusion.

It is certainly the one I recommend.

After all...

I have never seen the Parliament of Shadows.

Never spoken with the Button King.

Never met the little girl in mourning.

Never once watched feathered giants walking between church spires.

No.

Never.

Not once.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

Someone is knocking politely at my study door.

The curious thing is...

The servants insist they cannot hear it.