Lair of Dreams

Dear Cornelius,



Jake is most intrigued by the discovery that these Diviners seem to emit much greater radiation than the average person, similar to the ghost readings we’ve gotten, and that Diviners have the capacity to disrupt electromagnetic fields. He speculates that these properties could be applied toward any number of advances, from medicine to industry to our nation’s defense. Dear Cornelius, believe me when I tell you that these discoveries are as exciting to our merry band of explorers as the sighting of this verdant land must have been to the earliest travelers to these shores. We stand on the precipice of a new world, a new America, and I am certain that Diviners are the key to her extraordinary future.

Fondly,

Will





At the bottom of the page, Will had drawn a sketch of an eye-and-lightning-bolt symbol.

“Hey! I think I may have found the name of our mysterious machine!” Mabel said, waving a piece of aged paper. “It’s called the Metaphysickometer.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Jericho said, coming to stand beside Mabel and read over her shoulder.

“Yes. Um. It is. Uh… anyway. Will refers to it in this letter,” Mabel said.



New Orleans, Louisiana

February 23, 1906



Dear Cornelius,



This evening, I attended a ritual led by Mama Thibault, sixty-two years of age, born in Haiti, now resident priestess of a voudon shop on Dumaine Street. Locals come to her for help with any number of complaints, from physical ailments to spells for true love or the lifting of imagined curses. A hospitable woman with twelve grandchildren to her name, all of whom dote upon her, Mama Thibault said she’d been able to speak to the dead since the age of twelve. “The dead do not frighten me. Takes the living to do that,” she claimed. After consulting with the lwas, and extracting a fee of five cents for her services, she allowed us to test Jake’s Metaphysickometer during her ritual. As she slipped into her spiritual trance, the needle jumped to forty, then fifty, indicating the increased electromagnetic activity we’ve come to associate with the presence of ghosts. Interestingly, Mama Thibault herself seemed also to vibrate at a slightly higher frequency, interfering with the operating of much of our machinery. Jake was baffled but intrigued by this finding. Margaret and Rotke have gathered samples.

I hope you are well. Spring shall come soon enough.

Fondly,

Will





Mabel patted the strange box of wires and gears and needles. “Well, hello there, Metaphysickometer! Pleased to meet you. Gee, an early Jake Marlowe invention! Might be valuable. I wonder why he never touts this one like he does everything else?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about his failures,” Jericho said, stepping over to examine the machine.

Mabel’s brows came together in a V. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

“I admire what he’s accomplished. I respect his achievements. But he’s not a man who thinks about the cost of those achievements.” Jericho paused. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Sure would be great if we could include a demonstration of this beauty in the exhibit. I wonder how you make it work.”

“Will’s letter said it measures some sort of ghostly electromagnetic radiation. So I suppose if there are no Diviners and no ghosts, you get a quiet machine.”

“Suppose. Of course, it’s been living in the cellar all these years. It might not work at all,” Mabel said, thumping the glass. The needle didn’t budge. “Oh! I found some photographs, too. Here. This one is of Mama Thibault. Let’s put her picture with her letter. Perhaps we can find other pictures and pair them all up. Did you find anything useful?”

“Um… here. This one was promising,” Jericho said, grabbing a letter from a stack he’d put aside.



St. Eloysius, Louisiana

June 21, 1906



Dear Cornelius,



I do not know whether or not the fires of hell actually exist, but I can tell you that, if so, the cotton fields of Louisiana on a hot summer’s day are good practice for those torments.



“Ha!” Mabel said. “The professor has a sense of humor. Or he did once. Sorry. Go on.”


Today we met with a young sharecropper, Guillaume “Big Bill” Johnson, who has the extraordinary ability to hasten a peaceful death for ailing animals. While we watched, he entwined his fingers in the mane of a horse with a broken leg. “Shhh, now. Don’t fuss, Clara. Be over soon,” he murmured sweetly. The horse trembled mightily for a count of three, and then she slipped into death as if going to sleep. The effort took the wind out of young Guillaume, too. Though barely nineteen, he stands well over six feet and possesses an intimidating strength but a gentle nature. He seemed rather enamored of Margaret and consented to a sample.

I do hope New York’s stifling heat hasn’t inconvenienced you much.

Fondly,

Will