The Warlock In London

The conditions and the case!

       It is late eighteenth century and the world has endured more than a century of revolutions and wars. Europe is now enjoying an uneasy peace. The new industrial age is changing everything forever, creating vast, sprawling cities, which belch dark, poisonous fumes into the air.

          America is still recovering from a ruinous civil war. In africa, the Zulu has been defeated and Britain is at war with the Puny Boer. The menacing Russian Empire has crushed Turkey and threatened India, but has just seen the assasination of their Tsar, Alexander ll. France lies humiliated after their defeat at the hands of the prussians. India is trying to recover after a bloody mutiny against the british; meanwhile Japan rises slowly in the east.

             Britain stands like a colossus, dominating the world; its empire and influence are almost beyond measure. But other nations gaze jealously on Britain's power. A new century is fast approaching and it will take only a single spark to engulf the world in flames. Monstrous weapons have been developed, as the planet lurches into a new era devoid of tradditions and culture, but dominated by the machine

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   'Ofcourse, Mr Das, you can rest assured that we take these reports very seriously. I'll put one of my best reporters on it immediately.'

    I heard the bellowing voice of Gregory Mason, the editor of 'The Daily Reporter', and I knew exactly what to expect next.

    'Girondin! Get yourself in here!', Mason yelled and I, happily brushed aside a letter from Mrs Mare of Brightonshire, informing with some conviction that her children often play with pixies at the bottom of her garden. The expression on my face said it all, a mixture of boredom and disgust.

    'Sounds like another one for you, old boy', sneered Nicholas Allen, the newspaper's ace reporter. He was an ungainly man in his mid-thirties with a heavily waxed mouchtache. I had already learnt to keep things quiet; Allen had this unpleasant habit of muscling in, on any good story and grabbing it for himself. I ignored him completely and proceeded on.

     Now a bit about myself. I am William McGordon Girondin, a junior reporter at the humble 'The Daily Reporter'. I was born in Washington, during the divisive war between the north and the south. When i was, but, just two seasons old, my mother fled south, leaving me under the care of my father and sister. My mother was last heard of when she was captured by the union troops under the charge of being a confederate spy.

   Searching for her, we moved back to England. Shortly afterwards, my father and sister dissappeared mysteriously during an expedetion to India, leaving me to be cared by my Uncle John.

        And so I remained and found a job as a reporter, hoping to find a lead about my family in the media. Eventually, I gained a reputation for investigating the bizzare cases, strange sightings, flying saucers and what not.

       The door to Mason's office was open, and sitting infront of his desk was a tall, gaunt man dressed in black with a mufler round the neck like a cravat- An Indian.

          'Oh please Mr, err, Das, do explain your case to Mr Girondin', said Mason. Mason could be best described as somewhat corpulent, and his starched shirt often told about the last dinners he had enjoyed.

            Mr. Das turned hesitantly towards me and began.'I was explaining to Mr Mason that all of this began several months ago,' he started. 'I am a trader and i worship at a temple on Link lane. It has become an object of vicious attacks from local vigilantes.'

           'Surely this is a police matter? I dont see what I can do,' I responded.

          'What he hasnt told you, Girondin, is that there is a monster,' Mason interjected.'Its right up your alley, dont you see?'

            'Some warty green bigfoot with horns on its head no doubt,' I scoffed, turning to Das

           'No! no!' said Das, 'This giant is carrying people away in the night. Its a Rakshasa and the vigilantes have linked it to us.'

            'What exactly is this, err, rakaashaka?' Mason interrupted with completely broken syllables.

            'The Rakshasa,' I corrected, 'is a creature made from the body parts of the dead.'

          'Precisely!' replied Mr Das, 'I seem to be talking to the right man here. A Rakshasa is a creature of Indian legends and somehow the vigilantes believe we made the evil creature for some foul purpose.'

             'Right, yes, well I think Girondin is your man for the job,' smiled Mason, reluctantly shaking hands with Das and leading us away from the office.

               And so, I was left alone with this singularly queer man from the east and his weird tale balancing itself for reality in my head, when he...........

NEXT TIME- A story, A brawl, A temple and some new faces in the play-

                                                       A New Mystery 

~hope u enjoyed it guys.......this will be a long one ;)