Read Online The Kings of Eternity by Eric Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Brown
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flickering light of the fire, and after the initial uneasiness of our arrival, we fell into conversation as if we were old friends reunited.
Carnegie and I recounted our Cambridge days, while Vaughan spoke of his time at Oxford. I asked after Carnegie’s brother, Charles. As I thought, he was in India, working as a doctor.
“But,” said Carnegie, waving his glass - by this time we were all somewhat the worse for the grape - “You’ll be delighted to learn that he’ll be back next week. You’ll have to come over. What a reunion that will be!”
Vaughan regarded his glass. “If you don’t mind my asking, Carnegie, you mentioned on the phone-”
“There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow, my dear Vaughan.”
“You can’t even give us some hint?” I ventured.
He lowered his glass and leaned forward slightly, both palms flattened on the table to either side of his empty dessert bowl. “Gentlemen,” he said, regarding us in turn, “I rather think that, if I were to recount the reason for your presence here, you would in your current state of inebriation take me for a madman, and in the morning believe not a word of what you’d heard.”
“You are nothing if not intriguing,” Vaughan said, smiling.
Carnegie changed the subject. He stared at me with pop-eyes. “What do you think of the world, Langham?”
“The world?” I asked, surprised. “Well, that’s rather a big question after so much excellent claret.”
“I’ll be more precise. I mean, the modern world, society. Commerce, popular culture...” He waved, as if to encompass all the other aspects of the world he had omitted to mention.
“Well,” I began. “I think the great evil is the fact that popular culture is driven by commerce. People in power, with vested interests, are force-feeding a populace what they think it wants...”
Carnegie was nodding. “That’s why I like your novels, Langham. They seem not of this time. Your characters are paradigms for the universal aspects of the human psyche. Perhaps I’m not making myself clear...”
He refilled his glass, tipsily. I glanced across at Vaughan, who was smiling quietly to himself.
“And you, Vaughan,” Carnegie went on, “your visions... D’you know something, Vaughan? To be perfectly honest I’m sick and tired of the world I find myself inhabiting - I might even say, find myself imprisoned in. That’s why I find your visions so liberating. They speak to me of something beyond the mundane, the petty concerns of humankind.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get at,” Vaughan said. “I want to show the reader that there are more things in heaven...”
Carnegie reached across the table and gripped the cuff of Vaughan’s tweed jacket. “Do you really think so, my friend? Do you think that out there, or somewhere maybe in the future, there exist races and civilisations of which we with our puny intelligence can but dream?”
His eyes burned, and something about the intensity of his sentiment sent a shiver down my spine.
Vaughan smiled and filled his pipe. “Carnegie, I don’t just think there is more to the universe than we have ever imagined, I’m certain of it.”
Carnegie nodded. “Good man! Excellent.” He raised his glass. “To the mysterious universe,” he declared, “and all who live in it!”
We raised our glasses. “... to all who live in it,” we echoed.
“And tomorrow,” Carnegie went on, “I want to show you... something . Be prepared for a hike, my friends.”
This was his last coherent sentence, as shortly thereafter he slipped into unconsciousness. We eased him onto the chesterfield before the fire and retired to our respective rooms, I for my part intrigued by Carnegie’s singular pronouncement.
I passed a surprisingly peaceful night, troubled by dreams of neither Carla nor my father - but woke at eight with the realisation of my father’s illness pressing upon my consciousness. For a while, last night, inspired by drink, I had
Carnegie and I recounted our Cambridge days, while Vaughan spoke of his time at Oxford. I asked after Carnegie’s brother, Charles. As I thought, he was in India, working as a doctor.
“But,” said Carnegie, waving his glass - by this time we were all somewhat the worse for the grape - “You’ll be delighted to learn that he’ll be back next week. You’ll have to come over. What a reunion that will be!”
Vaughan regarded his glass. “If you don’t mind my asking, Carnegie, you mentioned on the phone-”
“There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow, my dear Vaughan.”
“You can’t even give us some hint?” I ventured.
He lowered his glass and leaned forward slightly, both palms flattened on the table to either side of his empty dessert bowl. “Gentlemen,” he said, regarding us in turn, “I rather think that, if I were to recount the reason for your presence here, you would in your current state of inebriation take me for a madman, and in the morning believe not a word of what you’d heard.”
“You are nothing if not intriguing,” Vaughan said, smiling.
Carnegie changed the subject. He stared at me with pop-eyes. “What do you think of the world, Langham?”
“The world?” I asked, surprised. “Well, that’s rather a big question after so much excellent claret.”
“I’ll be more precise. I mean, the modern world, society. Commerce, popular culture...” He waved, as if to encompass all the other aspects of the world he had omitted to mention.
“Well,” I began. “I think the great evil is the fact that popular culture is driven by commerce. People in power, with vested interests, are force-feeding a populace what they think it wants...”
Carnegie was nodding. “That’s why I like your novels, Langham. They seem not of this time. Your characters are paradigms for the universal aspects of the human psyche. Perhaps I’m not making myself clear...”
He refilled his glass, tipsily. I glanced across at Vaughan, who was smiling quietly to himself.
“And you, Vaughan,” Carnegie went on, “your visions... D’you know something, Vaughan? To be perfectly honest I’m sick and tired of the world I find myself inhabiting - I might even say, find myself imprisoned in. That’s why I find your visions so liberating. They speak to me of something beyond the mundane, the petty concerns of humankind.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get at,” Vaughan said. “I want to show the reader that there are more things in heaven...”
Carnegie reached across the table and gripped the cuff of Vaughan’s tweed jacket. “Do you really think so, my friend? Do you think that out there, or somewhere maybe in the future, there exist races and civilisations of which we with our puny intelligence can but dream?”
His eyes burned, and something about the intensity of his sentiment sent a shiver down my spine.
Vaughan smiled and filled his pipe. “Carnegie, I don’t just think there is more to the universe than we have ever imagined, I’m certain of it.”
Carnegie nodded. “Good man! Excellent.” He raised his glass. “To the mysterious universe,” he declared, “and all who live in it!”
We raised our glasses. “... to all who live in it,” we echoed.
“And tomorrow,” Carnegie went on, “I want to show you... something . Be prepared for a hike, my friends.”
This was his last coherent sentence, as shortly thereafter he slipped into unconsciousness. We eased him onto the chesterfield before the fire and retired to our respective rooms, I for my part intrigued by Carnegie’s singular pronouncement.
I passed a surprisingly peaceful night, troubled by dreams of neither Carla nor my father - but woke at eight with the realisation of my father’s illness pressing upon my consciousness. For a while, last night, inspired by drink, I had
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