REVEALED! Phill Evans’ stunning cover for the Lovecraftian Dieselpunk tale, “City of Reflections!”
Read the excerpt below ..
Venice, he had always thought, was a city of reflections. Facades, basilicas, domes and towers – all pondering their appearance in the waters into which they would one day sink. If you wish to know what is above, then look below.
He turned away from the view across the canal, tightening his collar against the February chill. His gloved hands reached up to adjust the white bautta mask beneath his tricorn hat, smoothed the silk hood and the full-length cloak he wore. He stepped onto the bridge to cross to his destination.
As he walked up the steps slick with vapours from the mist, his path was illuminated by the fireworks in the South, the great pyrotechnic display in Piazza San Marco that marked the 1937 Carnevale di Venezia. He wove his way carefully through the drunken revellers that swept past him up and down the bridge. Arlecchino, Zanni and Pulcinella waved to him with bottles of wine. Casanovas strutted with cloaks covered in vermillion stars and trimmed with fleur-de-lys. Women with the faces of foxes, cats and birds beneath elaborate feathered head-dresses screeched with laughter, clutching at his arm, offering him their mouths. He walked on.
He stepped off the bridge and noticed a figure advancing from the shadows to his right. Its face was a cruel, horned mask, a long curved beak in place of a nose and mouth: the face of the Dottor della Peste – the Plague Doctor. In ancient times, the physicians of Venice wore such a mask for protection, the beak stuffed with cotton wool and herbs to guard against pestilence.
The Plague Doctor stared at the other man silently from the two round, milky white eye-holes above the beak, a black cartwheel hat upon its head, one gloved hand upon a black and gold cane. He made a certain ritual gesture with the fingers of his left hand. The Plague Doctor nodded slowly in recognition, and then retreated into the fog.
His silent, masked figure drifted through the mist, past the mobs of revelers in similar disguise, nobles and commoners together in anonymous riot. From the Rio Terra Leonardo he turned down a side street into a labyrinth of ruinous alleyways, passing beneath pots hung from wrought iron balconies, past rude shuttered casements set in decaying brick. The revelers grew fewer and the sounds of hilarity grew faint. This was the older part of Venice – where the ancient, sombre domain of the shadows of history was seldom disturbed.
In time he came to a marble and terracotta arch flanked by two grotesquely carved heads; this was his destination –the Calle degli Spiriti. He passed under the arch into a tiny enclosed square, at its centre an ancient well with a pointed shield carved on its side. To his right was the residence he sought. He stepped forward and lifted the brass handle, striking firmly four times upon the rugged oak door.
The face of the man who opened it did not look like the typical Pantalone. He had keen eyes set in a round, bucolic face that regarded his visitor with a knowing smile. He wore the earth-coloured pants and cardigan of the artisan, badged with stains where nameless fluids had splashed against them.
“Sir Andrew Boyd,” declared Professor Danilov. “Do come inside.”
“Are you so sure I’m Sir Andrew, under this mask?”
Danilov smiled an unflattering, lop-sided smile. “I’ve been watching you since you arrived in Venice, Sir Andrew. I have sensed your approach. In fact, the only reason you are able to step over this threshold now is that I have invited you here, and have relaxed the . . . special . . . defenses around this house.”
“Yes, I was informed that you were rather on the cautious side.”
In the warmth of the parlor, Sir Andrew lifted off his mask and showed Danilov his face for the first time. With the Professor’s help, he peeled off his mantle and floor-length cloak, and stepped through into the front room.
The room glowed warmly with brown and buttery yellow hues, lit by the gently crackling logs in the fireplace. Oriental rugs lay on the darkwood floor, tall candles flickered on the tables in front of the curtained windows. Reflections of the smoky light played upon the glass bowls atop the shelves, the gold leaf gilding the fireplace, the burnished copper of the curiously shaped scientific instruments along the back wall.
“I have no servants here,” Danilov explained, crossing to the dresser and removing a decanter and glasses. “I cannot take any chances.”
“Your concern for security is legendary, Professor. As are the unusual nature of your ideas.”
“I prefer the word . . . innovative.” Danilov handed a glass of brandy to Sir Andrew, then stood to attention, and raised his glass. “Heil Hitler.”
Sir Andrew returned the salute. “Heil Hitler.”
The brandy went down like liquid fire laced with unknown herbs. Danilov smacked his lips and turned towards a shelf where a collection of records sat under a lace-edged cloth, to protect them from dust.
“You’re not going to treat me to Wagner, Herr Professor?”
“You needn’t worry about that. Under the circumstances, I thought Holst was more appropriate. The Planet Suite.” He held up the record sleeve and beamed his lop-sided smile again. “Saturn.”
“As you wish.”
Sir Andrew sat down on the overstuffed sofa while Danilov busied himself with applying the needle to the thick, heavy plastic. “But I was wondering,” he continued, “why you chose to live so close to the Jewish Ghetto, of all places.”
“As a continuous reminder. To remind me of the past. To remind me of the future we are working towards.” Danilov straightened, his eyes shining. “Did you know that it was the Venetians who gave the world the word ‘ghetto’? It comes from the Italian word for ‘casting’. The area was home to a foundry in olden times.”
“Foundry, is it?” Sir Andrew contemplated his empty glass. “Well, there shall certainly be some ‘hammering’ before the end of the decade, I can assure you of that. But that’s not what I came here to discuss, Herr Professor.”
“Yes, yes.” Danilov shuffled over to refill the seated man’s glass. “You British, always so stiff until you get the business out of the way, isn’t that so? Well, then.”
Danilov settled back upon an armchair opposite his guest, waving a hand to the serene and deliberate strings of ‘Saturn’. “You are aware, Sir Andrew, that the Fuhrer is deeply impressed with the theories of Aisner and his predecessors, Bender and Cyrus Teed.”
“The British Union of Fascists is certainly aware of Aisner’s crackpot theories, but doesn’t share them.”
“An inside-out planet,” Danilov mused. “Instead of living on the outside surface of a globe floating through space, we are living on the inside surface of a vast bubble in a universe of rock. The sun is a fiery stone, and the stars are ice crystals floating in a gaseous cloud. There is a black counter-sun, which explains the onset of night. Ingenious, is it not?”
“You or Aisner are both entitled to believe whatever you wish, but only when facts are lacking. What we are looking for, sir, is something that will help the British Fascists when we rise up and join our European brothers in arms.”
“I know. Rest assured, I do not share Aisner’s views. Far from it. What I have discovered is far more interesting.”
As the music grew to its rhythmic, martial peak, Danilov stood and smiled for a moment, his hand moving in gentle harmony with the ebb and flow to the strings. Draining the last of his brandy, he removed the needle from the hissing plastic and turned towards the staircase. “Well, shall we?”
The story can be bought here – or you can wait for the entire collection, Volume 2 of “Tales From Beyond Tomorrow”, coming out at the end of 2017!