Episode 65

... from the Files of Hydrogen Guy

Saving the world on a regular basis, and surviving assassination attempts by a seemingly endless list of mutated and/or demented supervillains, one gets the reputation, deserved or not, of being pretty tough. I'll admit I've become a lot more sanguine about these things than the average person - I mean, this year alone I've fought off an alien invasion, gone to Hell for a lobster, wrestled with a centaur in Alaska, headed off a faerie war and stopped a thirty-storey robot from trashing the capital - but there are still those things that terrify me. They might seem like little things to other people, but they don't know the whole story.

I don't mean my well-known dislike of lobsters. That isn't fear, really, just a strong distaste based on past experience. I'm talking about how I cross the street to avoid pigeons, and how I've taken to avoiding Maple Ridge Square (where the things are thickest in the city) after dark, when I can help it. David is worse - he becomes nervous and close-lipped if he hears cooing outside the window, and sometimes panics when confronted by large flocks - but then, he saw things that I didn't.

It began a few weeks after the Zxanxi incident. After that strenuous series of events, we both felt we needed a break from costumed crime-fighting, and so threw ourselves into our other work. David absorbed himself in various experiments in the basement of the Maple Ridge Institute of High Energy Physics, while I began a new series of computations and worked on writing some papers I'd been putting off.

The start of September found us in London, where I presented a paper on some curious gamma ray effects observed in ferrous silicates under Mössbauer and hydrogen flux-beam spectroscopy. The details are fascinating but not important to the story. David was a co-author, and as we both found ourselves in need of a vacation, he attended as well.

We decided to spend a few days in the old metrop once the conference wrapped up. Being a world-renowned theoretical physicist and superhero doesn't pay as well as I sometimes make it out to, so rather than spring for a hotel, we were staying with my cousin Evan, who at the time had a place across the street from Regent's Park.

We spent the first day doing traditional tourist things - walking around gawking at buildings and statues, getting lost in the maze of side-streets, and making jokes about the chirality of British traffic, like --

Jim Evans
Okay, the driving on the left I'm getting used to. I've even figured out which way to look for traffic when I'm jay-walking. But what's still weirding me out is that the cars are backwards.

Marcolin
Uh huh.

Jim Evans
I keep looking at passing cars and thinking, "Oh my God, that woman's not even looking at the road!". And then I remember, no, she's on the passenger side.

Marcolin
Right.

Jim Evans
No, the left... The only vehicles in this city that don't look wrong are the motorcycles.

Marcolin
Actually, they're reversed too, you just can't tell.

*rimshot*

We agreed that whoever invented bitter was an unparalleled genius, and ordered two more.

For dinner that night, Evan booked us a table at a pizza restaurant in Soho that featured live jazz. The pizza was superb, even if it did include a very English interpretation of the word "ham"; the trio was a pleasant surprise, although the pianist/guitar player confirmed all my lurking suspicions about the English male borne of "Bobbins" and "Austin Powers".

We were just slipping into the cocktails between sets when my cousin brought up the Society.

Evan Evans
So tomorrow night, I'm hosting a meeting of my club. You two are more than welcome to sit in.

Jim Evans
Your club, eh? How terribly British.

Evan Evans
It's not like any of that Bertie Wooster stuff. More like the Elks or something, but more informal. Just a group of blokes who get together once a month to drink wine, eat a pile of rich food and talk a lot of garbage. It'll be great fun; and the joke is, you two'll be the only ones not named Evan Evans.

Jim Evans
You mean all the members have to be named Evan Evans?

Marcolin
Well at least you'll never need name tags.

Evan Evans
Oh, like that's a new one... Believe it or not, it's actually a world-wide deal - the Evan Evans Society, or Evans-squared as we like to call it. Only membership requirement is, you've got to've been born with the name. Married blokes like it, because it's a perfectly legitimate way to keep out the women.

Jim Evans
You mean there won't be any females there? Well, forget it, then.

Marcolin
Hey, if there are, you'll know their names. You'll look smooth.

Evan Evans
A belt sander couldn't make him look smooth. Look, it's a special one for me, since I'm moving up a level. After two or three bottles each, we'll put on robes and chant a bit, then resume drinking. It'll be a lark.

Jim Evans
Put on robes and chant?

Evan Evans
Right. The blokes who started it all back in, I don't know, the '20's or something, met as part of this little-known lodge of Freemasons. The Kentish Rite, they call it. As a matter of fact, I'm being initiated into the first level of the deeper mysteries. Trust me, you'll have a good laugh out of it.

David gave me a look that was easy to interpret. I went through a Masonic conspiracy phase a few years ago after reading "Focault's Pendulum" by Eco. For four months, I saw Rosicrucian plots everywhere. One night I got David, myself, and another friend tossed out of a club for chucking strawberries at a maitre d' who was the spitting image of the Comte de Sainte-Germain. Ah, youth... Anyway, I could see David knew I wasn't going to turn this down, and wouldn't try to stop me.

In retrospect, I wish he had.

Jim Evans
Sure, I'll sit in. If the Grand Masters or whatever don't mind.

Evan Evans
'Course not. Guests are always welcome.

Jim Evans
Dave?

Marcolin
Sure. Somebody needs to keep you away from the strawberries.

At that moment, the band started up again. We didn't mention it again for the rest of the night, which kept rolling along until about 4:30 the next morning.

The following day Evan needed to prepare for the evening's shindig, so after rising from the thick mists of slumber like a pair of the undead shortly before noon, David and I struck out into the City on our own. It was just as well, since professional courtesy required us to pay a visit to Grimsword. Although, as Dave pointed out, if he played true to archetype, you didn't visit Grimsword; he visited you.

We spent what was left of the morning sampling gourmet hot beverages in our usual style along Carnaby street. Grimmy didn't show - he had to know we were in town, nothing escapes him - so we gave it up and moved on. I wanted to visit 221B Baker St. and pay homage, while David was more keen on visiting one of the local Dungeons. We split up and agreed to meet at Nelson's Column at two-thirty.

That most famous address, which was now a museum devoted to the great detective who Sherlock Holmes, who had once lived there, was not far from Evan's place. The building itself was a fairly typical three-storey block of Victorian flats. As I stood in the entrance hall, looking up the 17 steps with two well-preserved gentlemen's hats on a hook just above my head, I felt the sort of thrill a baseball fan might feel walking onto the field at Yankee stadium. I stood perfectly still for several minutes, absorbing as much of the spirit of the place as I could.

At last I broke through the trance and headed up the stairs. As I approached the sitting room, I wondered what Holmes would have from my steps. "A man of about six foot two, roughly a hundred ninety pounds, with sore feet; active but not especially fit; of a retiring nature but frequently driven by circumstance to boldness." Holmes' and Watson's bedrooms and the famous sitting room were all admirably recreated, complete with many famous artifacts such as Watson's bag and service revolver, Holmes' pipes and slippers, the correspondence pinned to the mantelpiece with a knife. The upper floors held display cases featuring items relating to many of their famous cases, and some waxwork recreations of some characters involved.

I examined the whole thing carefully and reverently as I swam through Japanese tourists. At last I found myself alone, as I pored over an eerily life-like wax Moriarty. I was lost in a kind of half study, half reverie when a noise behind me indicated another presence. I glanced back, expecting to see the Japanese tourists had caught up with me again, but I saw no one. I was turning back to Moriarty, when I heard a grave whisper call the name of my alter-ego.

Startled, I turned. Behind me was a life-size wax diorama depicting the great detective in apocryphal deerstalker cap and tweed cloak, apprehending the villain of "Shoscombe Old Place"; but "Holmes" was looking directly at me. He dropped the wax figure's arm and stepped forward. His mouth twitched briefly in a sardonic smile as I gaped.

Jim Evans
Grimsword?

Grimsword
Welcome to London.

Jim Evans
You know, everyone else just accosts us in coffee shops.

Grimsword
I prefer not to be so public.

Jim Evans
So instead you dress up like Basil Rathbone. Very subtle. How are things?

Grimsword
I'm alive.

Jim Evans
Same old, same old?

Grimsword
Hmm.

So you try making small talk with Mr. Dark Champion of London.

Jim Evans
I'm afraid I left the Ruler of Elendil at home, so that sparring match I promised you will have to wait a bit. It's a devil of a time trying to get enchanted weapons through security these days, as I'm sure you know.

Grimsword
You don't plan on doing any "extracurricular" work while you're here.

Jim Evans
No. We're supposed to be taking some time off. Although, if you need our help --

Grimsword
I won't.

Jim Evans
Come on, I'm sure you can't be a one-man army all the time. You can ask.

Grimsword
That's not what I mean. This city is old; very old. And complicated in ways North Americans can't imagine. There are things you're not prepared for. This isn't a place for newcomers to just dive in.

Jim Evans
Captain Toronto gave us the same speech.

Grimsword
He's mistaking the Great Lakes for the Ocean... I'm not just being territorial. I'm concerned for your safety. And I don't want to have to rescue you two if you get in over your heads.

Jim Evans
Understood. All the same, you can call us if you need us.

Grimsword
Thanks for the offer. The same goes for you... although I'd be less than happy about it.

Jim Evans
Don't worry, I don't think I want you unhappy... I'm not eager to run into the ghost of Aeolus Scorch in some Camden back-alley or anything, either.

Grimsword
That's the not the worst you might find. One other thing...

Jim Evans
Hm?

Grimsword
I understand you'll be at the Evan Evans Society tonight.

Jim Evans
How in Einstein's name did you find that out? I thought that was between DB, me, and my cousin.

Grimsword
I keep track of the Society's movements. Your cousin telephoned the chapter head to let him know you'd be joining them.

Jim Evans
You have someone inside the Society? Why? Are they involved in organized crime?

Grimsword
No. I have other reasons. I brought it up because I wanted you to keep an eye out. If anything you don't like happens, get out of there. Don't ask any questions, don't try to investigate. Just go.

Jim Evans
You realise that if you wanted to peak my curiosity, you're going about it exactly the right way.

Grimsword
I'm serious. Consider this a Justice Council action under my command. Your mission is to stay uninvolved.

Jim Evans
Okay, don't get your chain mail in a bunch. Like I said, we're trying to have a vacation here, anyways.

Grimsword
Good.

He took a business card from inside the cloak and handed it to me.

Grimsword
If you need a place to stay, go to this woman. She'll know to expect you, at any hour.

I glanced at the card, then back at him, with a raised eyebrow.

Jim Evans
Mrs. Emmeline Hudson? ... If I didn't know better, I'd think you had a sense of humour.

The sounds of approaching footsteps signaled the return of the other tourists. Grimsword stepped back into place and resumed his pose in the diorama.

Grimsword
Enjoy the rest of your visit. If you like Chinese, try the Feng Shung on the other side of Regent's Park. Tell them you're a colleague of mine, you'll get your drinks on the house.

Jim Evans
Thanks...

A couple wandered into the room, and Grimsword resumed his guise of a wax figure. I moved on and looked at the rest of the house. In my way back out, I looked in on the waxworks again, and wasn't at all surprised to a genuine wax figure where Grimsword had been ten minutes previously. I examined my fellow tourists closely, but he was clearly long gone.

I arrived at Trafalgar a bit ahead of time and so loitered around for a bit, taking in the scenery. The square was awash with tourists and pigeons - I'd never seen any place so thick with either. After making a leisurely circuit and snapping a few obligatory pictures, I parked myself on the edge of a fountain and watched the wildlife. The tourists were milling around the square, chasing after their children, climbing on the various fountains and bits of statuary and taking pictures of one another.

But the thickest thing around, as I said, was the pigeons. Huge flocks of them, so that in some places the square seemed to be a solid mass of bobbing grey heads. Every so often something would spook them, and the flock would rise into the air like an angry rug, causing nearby humans to duck for cover; then they would settle back down someplace close by, and resume the business of waddling, pecking and cooing. A few brave souls were feeding them bags of seed or bread scraps, and were being so mobbed by pigeons that I was actually a bit worried for them. Things were frequently on the verge of getting violent, as the birds vied with each other and their human benefactors for ever greater shares of the dole. Even then, there was something sinister about them - a great mass of dirty grey, diseased, misshapen creatures with beaks, talons, and parasites, like some subtle reminder of nature's seamy side penetrating into man's domain. Rats with wings, indeed. Icky, to coin a phrase.

I spotted David and waved him over. We greeted one another with the usual bonhomie.

Jim Evans
Ahoy, face.

Marcolin
Hey, ugly.

Jim Evans
How were the Dungeons?

Marcolin
Brutal, inhumane, and exploitive. Exactly the stuff to give'em.

Jim Evans
Glad to hear it. Pick up any suitably medieval weapons in the gift shop?

Marcolin
Just a couple flails and a dagger. How was Baker street? I'm surprised you're not wearing a deerstalker.

Jim Evans
The museum was terrific. But my mind was otherwise occupied.

I gave him a run-down of my meeting with Grimsword. He seemed a bit put out.

Marcolin
Oh, sure. He goes and finds you but not me.

Jim Evans
I'm probably more predictable than you. Or the admission fare was lower, I don't know, that's not the point. The point is, he started chucking mysterious warnings around, as our acquantainces seem apt to do.

Marcolin
And I'm sure this is just feeding right into your old Rosicrucian paranoia.

Jim Evans
Well, admittedly so does the London bus schedule.

Marcolin
He was probably just trying to throw a scare into you, or having a joke. Or both. You said yourself he showed signs of a sense of humour, which is enough to make me think you've been inhaling glue... Hey, you've got a friend.

Jim Evans
Huh?

I looked over my shoulder to find a pigeon with a rather grotesque club foot perched almost immediately beside me on the fountain. It was bobbing its head and staring at me in a particularly stupid way and hobbling back and forth. Its head was white with a streak of black down one side, and the rest of its body was a deep grey with the occaisional patch of white. Aside from the lameness in its foot, the other arresting characteristic was its eyes - bright, almost flourescent red, as opposed to the yellow or orange of most of the other birds. I shooed it off and it made a sort of offended squawking noise as it flew off.

Jim Evans
Gross little things... let's take a stroll.

Marcolin
All right.

We wandered off in the direction of the Strand. I wondered aloud at the Victorian habit of slinging statues on top of enormous columns, so that you couldn't actually take a decent look at them. Maybe that was the idea - to compensate for a poor sculptor or unaesthetic subject. Dave contributed his opinion in the form of a raspberry, then after a moments reflection admitted that there might be something in that. Nelson was acknowledged to have been no beauty pageant contender, and the Duke of York, who was perched on another obelisk on the far side of Piccadilly, was after all a peer.

Marcolin
Maybe when we get back we should erect a column for that pigeon.

Jim Evans
Hah! Right. Let them poop on their own kind for a change... hullo!

A rack outside of a cigar shop caught my attention.

Marcolin
What?

Jim Evans
Look at these. Family crests for various British surnames. On fridge magnets! Ooh, I can't resist! Help me find Evans, I've always wondered if there was a family crest.

I spun the rack around, past the Smiths and the Wellingtons and so on, until I spotted the E's. I pulled out the Evans crest - a gold lion on a blue shield, surrounded by various gold and blue leaves. Another name not far away caught my eye.

Jim Evans
Hey, check this out!

I held up a crest with featuring a dog of some kind on a shield with a red and yellow stripe.

Marcolin
Ford!

Jim Evans
Cool, eh? I wonder how much these are... Hey, not bad. Think I'll get it and send it to him.

Marcolin
Nothing keeps the lines of communication open like random, crappy gifts.

Jim Evans
There's nothing crappy about fridge magnets... Hm, I guess they don't have Marcolin...

Marcolin
Hey, guess again.

He plucked one of the small plastic plaques off the rack and held it up.

Jim Evans
Son of a blaster... three arrows and a tree sloth rampant on crutches on a field of chartreuse. How appropriate. Are you going to get it?

He shook his head and stuck it back on the rack.

Marcolin
No. This remains a closely guarded secret.

Jim Evans
Fine, I'll buy it, then.

I grabbed it and took the three inside the shop. When I came out a moment later, I saw David peering up at the building we'd stopped at with a puzzled look on his face.

Jim Evans
What's up?

Marcolin
It's that pigeon again.

I followed his gaze. On a ledge one storey above street level, the strange-eyed pigeon with the club foot was hooting possessively and looking back at us.

Marcolin
It's followed us.

Jim Evans
Maybe it heard that crack about the column and took offense. It's just a pigeon, forget about it.

Marcolin
Right.

We strolled onwards in silence for a while, both of us consciously avoiding looking back. My mind moved on to other topics.

Jim Evans
You know, if this Evans-squared group is an international club like Evan says, it must be in an index or a registry somewhere. Maybe we should look it up, find out a bit more information.

Marcolin
Jim...

Jim Evans
Or at least do a Google search. Here, there's a net café up ahead --

Marcolin
You promised Grimsword that you wouldn't do any investigating.

Jim Evans
This isn't investigating, it's just, um,... I mean, investigating would be putting on false beards and interviewing some other members as reporters. Hey, that's not a bad idea...

Marcolin
Jim!

Jim Evans
All right, all right... let's stop here anyway, I want to check my email.

By the time we returned to Evan's flat around seven, he already had several people in the living room and was passing around hors d'ouevres. He pounced as we entered.

Evan Evans
There you are! I've been wondering where you'd got to, thought you might have gotten lost.

Jim Evans
We did, repeatedly. But we kept getting ourselves unlost.

Another Evan Evans
Rotten luck!

Marcolin
That depends on whether there's anything good to drink or not.

Evan Evans
Plenty. I'll set you up in a minute. Everyone, this is my cousin Jim from Canada, and his colleague David Marcolin. They're a couple of layabouts who play at being scientists from time to time. Chaps, this is about half the group, the rest'll be along soon. Starting over by the whiteboard, this is Long Evan, Doc Evan, Cab Evan, Post Evan, Pre Evan, and Rank Evan.

They were a varied mix of young and old. The ones named Doc and Pre seemed at least in their late fifties, and the one called Long looked younger than us by a few years.

Jim Evans
Hallo, all!

Marcolin
Greetings!

Post Evan
So what are we supposed to call them?

Rank Evan
S'pose we could break with tradition and actually call them by their first names.

Doc Evan
Scandalous. That would never do.

Jim Evans
Well, what about you all? What's the story behind the nicknames?

Evan Evans
Doc, why don't you go ahead and explain.

Doc Evan
Certainly. Well, all being named Evan Evans, of course we need another way to address one another. Shouting out "Hoi, Evan!" and answering back "Which one?" is only amusing for the first fifteen minutes if you are a new member or the last three drinks if you're an older member. And, seeing as many of our parents were singularly uncreative with middle names --

Jim Evans
Lucky you.

Doc Evan
-- we resort to nicknames. Many of them are professional. I, naturally, am a doctor - specifically an oncologist; Cab Evan drives a taxi; your cousin, whom we call Press Evan, of course, writes for the Telegraph; and rather more creatively, Rank Evan works for the Sanitation department --

Rank Evan
I work with their databases, I've never actually seen a sewer.

Doc Evan
-- and Post Evan is a mail carrier. And naturally, when his father, who also bears the name, joined the society, it was necessary to call him Pre Evan.

Marcolin
That's painful.

Pre Evan
I still have the scar.

Doc Evan
And then, others are descriptive - Long Evan, for instance, for his height and because we already had brokers called Stock Evan and Broke Evan.

Cab Evan
Well, it seems obvious to me, blokes. In order to reduce the confusion for us, they should be called Evan; and to reduce the confusion for them --

Doc Evan
Hardly something with which we need concern ourselves.

Cab Evan
-- we'll call them "Jim Evan" and "Dave Evan". But just for the night, you understand.

Marcolin
Ah --

Doc Evan
It seems equitable. After all, Jim Evan is halfway there as it is; and Mr. Marcolin will no doubt rejoice for the chance to bear such a noble name for an evening.

Jim Evans
No doubt. Dave, I've always said we were brothers under the skin.

Marcolin
Huzzah.

Doc Evan
Indeed! We should have a drink to seal the arrangement. Press Evan, see to stocking these chaps up.

The doorbell chimed.

Evan Evans
Ah, that'll probably be Old Evan. You two join in and help yourselves while I get the door.

Doc Evan
I'll come with you.

We attacked the bar, where I unearthed a decently opaque beer and Dave poured himself some kind of unpronounceable Scotch. We topped up the others for good measure while bantering back and forth, so that when my cousin and Doc returned with the new arrival, all were relaxing with full glasses.

The man that Evan referred to as Old Evan had an aura about him that preceeded him into the room by several minutes. I'd never seen anyone like him before. He looked ancient, it was difficult to tell how old he was but it he couldn't have been younger than seventy. He walked with a stick of brass and wood, and moved his right leg stiffly; and his shoulders were slightly hunched. He stood several inches shorter than I, but his presence made him seem gigantic. His gaze was beady and flitted from person to person as he spoke, and he always had a look like he knew a joke at someone's expense that nobody else knew.

The others rose to their feet as they entered, and they greeted each other warmly. My cousin directed the old gentleman towards David and me, and introduced us.

Evan Evans
Old Evan is our chapter head, and close to being a founding member.

Old Evan
Evan Sion Evans. Your servant, Dr. Marcolin,... and Dr. Evans...

Marcolin
It's good to meet you.

Jim Evans
A pleasure, sir.

Doc Evan
We were just in the process of re-christening our guests Jim Evan and Dave Evan with a suitable toast.

Old Evan
A splendid idea. I shall join you -- Press Evan, a rye and water, please... thank you. You may proceed, Doctor.

Doc Evan
To our newly christened babes - may you enjoy your new names with good cheer, though they might be, ah, Evanescent.

Old Evan P'toultru!

All P'toultru!

We drank.

Marcolin
I've never heard that toast before.

Old Evan smiled.

Old Evan
It's traditional within the Society. It is from an ancient language, and means - well, it is a beneficent wish.

Jim Evans
How lovely.

Evan Evans
All right, you three, less standing around, more sitting around. Rank, shove over there...

Old Evan
Ahh... that's better. So tell us, gentlemen, how are you enjoying London?

Marcolin
It's fascinating. It isn't what I expected.

Old Evan
It never is, never is. I find the Metropolis vulgar, myself, but my business requires me to live here. And you, Jim Evan? Have you been seeing the sights?

Jim Evan
This and that. Ah... Press Evan took us on a walking tour yesterday, and we've been wandering around ourselves a bit today.

Old Evan
Alone? Brave men. Not after dark, I hope?

Jim Evans
Well --

Old Evan
London can be a dangerous place.

Marcolin
We haven't felt particularly threatened. At least no more so than in Vancouver.

Old Evan
Ah, well perhaps we'll walk through Regent's Park after midnight, hm? As black a night as any lonely moor, gentlemen...

Cab Evan
Aw, he's tryin' to throw a scare into you. Come on, Old Evan.

Doc Evan
Our Senior Member likes playing the Mysterious Old Cripple.

Old Evan smiled craftily.

Old Evan
Perhaps I'm exaggerating. The constabulary are always very diligent, to the best of their abilities, and of course, the shadows hide their own defenders. Tell me, gentlemen, are you fans of those creatures commonly referred to as "superheroes"?

Cab Evan
[snorts] Har! Bunch of braggarts and blowhards, if you ask me...

Doc Evan
We weren't.

Post Evan
Come on, Cab. My Dad wouldn't be hear today if it weren't for the Brown Rat.

Pre Evan
It's true.

Old Evan
Gentlemen, let our guests express themselves.

Marcolin
[shrugs] They have their purpose.

Old Evan
For good or ill, yes, for good or ill... What about you, Jim Evan?

Jim Evans
Well, I've always had a bit of fascination with them, I guess.

Evan Evans
You know the bloke in Maple Ridge, don't you? Hydrogen Guy, isn't he called?

Marcolin
And Deuterium Boy.

Jim Evans
Yeah. I've met them several times, actually. Nice fellows.

Marcolin
Deuterium Boy especially.

Jim Evans
They're a couple of loons, of course. But I'm glad they're around.

Old Evan
Indeed, indeed. And what about our own most famous defender, the mighty Grimsword?

Jim Evans
I can't say I know much about him.

Rank Evan
Nobody does.

Long Evan
He's an enigma.

Cab Evan
I wouldn't care to meet him on a dark corner.

Old Evan
The Grimsword is indeed a shadowy presence within and without the Square Mile... Perhaps you shall meet him sometime on your visit, Jim Evan. Ha ha!

Jim Evans
That would be a treat.

Old Evan
I wonder what he would say to you? Or maybe you've met him already!

Jim Evans
Ah --

Old Evan
They say he is a master of disguise. He could be anyone...

Rank Evan
Press, did you put any water in Old Evan's drink or was it just straight rye?

Old Evan
Ha ha! I do go on, don't I? Don't mind me, my lads, I have a flair for the melodramatic. There's nothing like playing up the old "London mystery" for visitors. I get a great kick out of it.

Jim Evans
Don't worry about it. We always end all our sentences in "eh" when Americans are around.

Marcolin
And talk about hockey a lot, eh?

Old Evan
That reminds me of my father when I was a boy, back in Wales --

Just then the doorbell announced more arrivals, and Press Evan hurried off to urge drinks into their hands. As additional Evan Evanses swelled our ranks - by the time things were really swinging, there were eighteen of us - the entertainment devolved into Old Evan, Doc Evan and I trying to outdo one another with tales erudite, bizarre, and shaggily canine. And then David, as he usually does in these situations - he waits until I've gotten myself and the others properly wound up - topped the lot with a story about his late grandmother's priest, a Spanish-speaking ski-instructor and an alligator bag.

When we'd finally recovered enough to speak, Old Evan sighed genially and declared that it was time to get to business. Press, who was sitting next to me, elbowed me significantly in the ribs, nearly upsetting my glass of port, for which I responded by smacking him with a canapé. Before the situation escalated, however, he and most of the other Evans disappeared into the back room.

When they reappeared, David and I nearly had another laughing fit. The Society members had draped themselves in gray and white muu muu's and feathery capes. The Boxjamesque robes were embroidered in gold thread with various strange and vaguely arcane symbols and in various degrees of detail, signifying the advancement of the wearer in the Society's rites. Press Evan's robe was entirely white without adornment, and his head was covered by a simple cloth cap. Old Evan's outfit was the most ornate, and his elaborate hat seemed to represent some kind of taxidermic orgy of cockatiels. Instead of his stick, he was leaning on a brass staff topped with some kind of winged egg. He was carrying a lumpy cloth sack that made me extremely curious. We didn't have long to examine any of this, however, because almost immediately me, David, and the two other Evans who apparently weren't yet privy to the deeper mysteries were blindfolded. I protested enthusiastically, not wanting to miss what promised to be an utterly ridiculous ceremony, but we were told that the uninitiated could hear but not see the rites they would perform. We resigned ourselves to listening and attempting to drink while half-sloshed and blindfolded.

The initiates started moving furniture around and assuming their positions. Old Evan called my cousin to come stand next to him. There was the flick of a lighter, and I could smell burning incense. Although I could give you an exact chemical analysis, I have no idea what kind it was - it was a musky, wild sort of smell, almost rotten, what you might expect the nest of a long-dead eagle to smell like.

The ceremony began as the initiates began to hum - a low, bass rumble at first, which then rose to a steady drone of "AUUUUUUUUMMMMM". It grew for about a minute and a half, then abruptly cut off. Old Evan began speaking, his voice grave, in a language as strange to me as the incense - some kind of guttural Celtic with debased Latin cadence. I wondered if I was hearing the echoes of the ancient British tongue, spoken here before the Saxons started messing things up with their German dialects. Old Evan was laying out, speaking passionately as if to a congregation. Periodically there would be a clang or a clatter or some other noise indicating some ceremonial action being performed. The others would respond periodically, Kua! Kua! P'toultru! or some variation.

Evan's neighbours must think something peculiar about the noise, I thought.

Old Evan and my cousin entered a brief question and answer session. I heard something being placed on the coffee table that sounded heavy and a bit soft. Then there was a brief crunching and a squelching sound - it dawned on me that something organic was being carved into. I began to feel a bit of trepidation. The carving stopped with what sounded like a flourish, and then I heard my cousin declare "P'toultru cac mundas! Kua! Kua!" The others repeated this, and then there was the cacophonous ringing of a dozen or so hand-bells. The ringing continued, and the "AUUMM"ing started up again, interspersed with cries of Kua and P'toultru. It evolved into a kind of frenetic dirge, and then my memory grows hazy...

Next, my blindfold was off, and David and I were struggling to pull ourselves off the couch. The others were standing around, drinks in hand, congratulating my cousin on his initiation, and asking us amused tones what we thought of the crazy rigmarole. There was no sign of any of the ceremonial ware, or that anything other than hors d'ouevres had been dissected on the coffee table.

I found myself standing next to Old Evan, and he regarded me placidly.

Old Evan
Well, there's business done with. Back to the revels, eh?

Jim Evan
What, er, exactly happened?

Old Evan
Ah ah, Jim Evan, I can't spill the secrets of our Society's founders. It is the little absurdities that make a culture what it is, don't you think? Our rite may be a tad grotesque, but it would be a shame to lose it.

Jim Evan
I suppose you're right... we all have our little rituals and superstitions...

Old Evan
Of course, of course. As you mentioned earlier, there is your ice hockey -- a rite which makes ours seem utterly rational by comparison, ha ha... No, there is one more ritual we must oversee, and this time I insist that you and Dave Evan participate.

David and I eyed him warily.

Marcolin
Oh, yes?

Old Evan smiled and turned to Long Evan, who had assumed a station at Press's stereo. He grinned lopsidedly at us and hit "play". A bold, saucy Latin number erupted from the speakers.

Old Evan
Thank you, Long. Now, EVERYBODY MAMBO!

The mambo continued the next morning, in my head. I dragged myself out of bed just a few minutes ahead of Dave, and we convened wordlessly in the kitchen. Evan bounded in a half hour later.

Evan Evans
Good morning! Good morning!

Dave said nothing. I was the conversational half of the partnership.

Jim Evans
Blerg.

Evan Evans
My God, what a bash! That was absolutely the last word... You two feeling a bit ground down this morning?

Marcolin
Coffee.

Evan Evans
Forget it, I've got something better. Something my mum used to make for my uncles. Turn around, it's best that you don't watch me make this --

He dove into the pantry, and, before I managed to swing the large iron ball that had replaced my head around, I saw him measuring Worcester sauce into a cocktail shaker. A moment later he put a shot glass of dark, sinister liquid in front of each of us. Not being in the mood to argue, I drank it. It felt like a small shell had gone off in my mouth, but I'll admit that it wasn't long after swallowing the stuff that my head began to lighten and I felt the life returning to my limbs. Dave resumed blinking and sat up straight.

Marcolin
Hey, that's... effective!

Evan Evans
Already had a shot of myself earlier. Now I feel almost ready for the neighbours.

Jim Evans
Why, did they come around to complain?

Evan Evans
Trust me, we didn't make half the noise that Mrs. Winston's sewing circle does on their Sunday night booze-ups. No, it's not the Bohemian revels that are the issue, it's Mr. Pauling's cat. Apparently Conrad Blemish's schnauzer found fragments of it in the alley.

Marcolin
Lovely.

Evan Evans
Awful, isn't it? I just hope nobody looked in the window when we were doing the Secret Rites stuff, or they might start getting wild ideas about cults. Anyway, I'm just popping out to the store to restock supplies. Any requests?

Marcolin
Can you get Carffee in London?

Evan Evans
No, it's been banned as a controlled substance.

Marcolin
In that case, just get more of whatever was in this stuff.

He held up the empty shot glass. Evan nodded.

Evan Evans
Right. See you in a bit. Help yourselves to breakfast.

I made tea and we then puttered about with some grilled cheese sandwiches. Ah, the glamorous life of a world renowned theoretical physicist. We had planned to devote the day to the British Museum, specifically to the mummies and buddhas. We set off after Evan returned - he declined to come on the grounds that he was allergic to museums.

Roughly eight hours later, David and I were wearily riding the Central underground train from Tottenham Court Road to Oxford Circus. The Museum had deeply satisfied, as had its bookshop. However, it wasn't mummies and buddhas that I was dwelling on...

Jim Evans
Dave...

Marcolin
Yes, Jim.

Jim Evans
How much of last night's party do you remember?

Marcolin
I remember you climbing on the back of the sofa and declaring that you were Pope Boniface VIII.

Jim Evans
Yes, well -- before that. Specifically, about the Society's "secret rites".

His forehead wrinkled in uffish thought.

Marcolin
I remember the chanting... and they kept shouting that toast, "P'toultru"... but I think I must have blacked out towards the end of it. And then again after they'd started to mambo.

Jim Evans
Same here. But do you remember, after Evan -- Press -- did his bit, it sounded like they were cutting something...

Marcolin
Um... vaguely, maybe. I thought it was a ham. There was ham in the fridge this morning. Why? Oh, you're kidding. You think they sacrificed the neighbour's cat?

Jim Evans
Well...

Marcolin
You're nuts. You're over-associating again. Like that time you "deduced" that I was dating Callista Flockhart.

Jim Evans
Come on! We had blindfolds on there was no way to tell what Old Evan had in that bag or what they were hacking up! And didn't you notice there seemed to be some kind of bird theme throughout that whole ceremony? The capes, the staff, the "coo coo" chanting? If you were some kind of bird cult, wouldn't it make sense to sacrifice a cat?

Marcolin
Why would a group of guys who get together because they all have the same name be part of a bird cult?

Jim Evans
I don't know, it makes at least as much sense as your idea that they were slicing up a ceremonial ham.

Marcolin
There was no ham in the fridge yesterday, that's all I know. Here's Oxford Circus...

The train came to a halt and we stepped off into the Oxford Circus station. Our route back to Evan's place required that we transfer to the Bakerloo line to Baker Street station. As we headed for the other line, I caught a glimpse of two familiar faces. I grabbed David's arm.

Jim Evans
Hey, look, it's Cab Evan and Long Evan.

We watched as they hurried down the platform and then head down the exit marked for the Victoria line.

Marcolin
Huh.

Jim Evans
Come on, let's follow them.

Marcolin
What? Why?

Jim Evans
I want to know where they're going.

I took off after them. Dave glanced briefly after the crowd heading for Bakerloo, then came after me.

Marcolin
They're going to catch a train!

Jim Evans
In that case maybe I'll just say hi.

Marcolin
Do you think you're investigating? Gri -- you-know-who said, no investigating!

Jim Evans
Screw it, I want answers.

Marcolin
You won't find any answers on the Victoria line!

I gestured him to silence as we entered the passageway. We were in a pack of commuters, all heading for the same platform. Long and Cab were about ten people ahead of us. They didn't look back.

The London Underground is quite unlike anything I've seen outside the subterranean lairs of certain supervillains. The route from one platform to another is rarely just a straight line. You find yourself climbing up and down stairs and escalators - sometimes several stories worth - and trekking through twisting corridors, until you're not sure exactly where you are with respect to street level. In many cases, the stations themselves are a hundred to a hundred and fifty years old. There's a strange, half-medieval, half-urban atmosphere to them. It's like a real life game of Nethack.

We followed them down a flight of stairs and around several twists and turns. They made no unusual movements. As they stepped into a slightly wider passageway, they seemed to start moving faster. We kept pace with them, Deuterium Boy - I mean, David - still giving me these sideways glances of annoyance. Then as another narrow corridor met our wider one, and two streams of people converged, we lost them.

I stopped and peered back down the other corridor, as people pushed passed us and muttered. I was just about ready to give up and turn back when I noticed what looked like a service door a few feet back in the narrower corridor. I hopped over the rail separating opposing streams of travelers and headed for it.

When I reached the service door, I was initially disappointed. It was covered in the same uniform grime as the rest of the walls, and was sealed by an ancient padlock which looked like it hadn't seen a key since the Blitz.

Marcolin
Satisfied now?

I was about to admit defeat when I spotted the second seam.

It had been designed to blend in with the grouting on the tile walls, and the grime helped to conceal it. I felt around for a loose tile. I found it just above the proper door's lower hinge and pushed.

The second door, set within the first one, slid smoothly open. I ducked inside without looking to see what I was stepping into, and David followed. The hidden door sprang silently back into place. We were in a passageway that looked almost identical to the one we had just left, only dustier, emptier, and darker. Where we stood was almost pitch dark, there was just a faint glow coming from somewhere in front of us - a torch that Long and Cab had carried, no doubt.

I created a small globe of hydrogen from the ambient water vapour and set it alight. I saw David looking at me disgustedly.

Jim Evans
You hate it when I'm right, don't you?

Marcolin
Yeah, especially when you're doing something stupid.

Jim Evans
No turning back now. Come on. Walk quietly.

I turned down the flare and we hurried to keep sight of the retreating glow ahead. I wished I'd brought the Ruler of Elendil - if we got into trouble, we'd have to rely on our wits and native Elemental abilities to get back out. The passageway sloped gentle downwards, then curved around a corner. The tiling gave way to bare stone just past the corner. We could hear the sound of a train passing by slightly above and to our right. We caught sight of the two Evans² about a hundred feet ahead of us. They still seemed unaware they were being followed.

A strange smell tickled my atomically sensitive nose. It was vaguely familiar, I had smelled it just the day before in large quantities, but I couldn't quite place it. The stone corridor continued stretching straight ahead and down, and Long and Cab kept walking wordlessly ahead of us. Then without warning, they turned sharply to the right, and my heart dropped as I heard a heavy stone something grind into place. When we reached the spot they had turned, we could see that a carved capstone had been rolled into place behind them. The corridor came to a dead end a few meters past it.

I brightened the hydrogen flare a bit and peered at the capstone. It was circular and about seven feet in diameter, like a giant manhole cover. Most of the carvings were geometrical. A fringe of short parallel lines ran around the edge, and then a pair of concentric circles nearer the centre. Right in the center of the stone was carved some kind of animal. Or bird, rather. Or -- well, it was hard to tell. It looked a bit like a griffin, in that it was both bird-like and not a bird, but it was nothing I'd seen before. It seemed to have a lower body something like a squid - lots of tentacles. Only some of the tentacles weren't tentacles, but legs with talons. And the main body was of some plump bird outspread wings, and as the creature visited destruction on the landscape the artist had placed it in, it had a singularly stupid expression on its round little head...

That's when I identified the smell.

Marcolin
Greasy teats of Tiamat, it's some kind of monstrous --

Jim Evans
Pigeon! Do you smell pigeons?

He tested the air.

Marcolin
Yeah, now that you mention it, I do. But how can there be pigeons down here?

Jim Evans
Maybe we should get out of here --

We turned around just as we heard the cooing. I raised the flare. A few feet in front of us was a single pigeon, wandering seemingly aimlessly in little circles. It was mostly grey with a few splashes of white, and its head was white with a streak of black down one side, and one foot - its right - was deformed.

Marcolin
It's that pigeon from the square.

Jim Evans
The one that was following us... and heard us talking about my discussion with Grimsword.

The pigeon let out one long coo, and then, as its body began to swell and transform, the sound mutated into a low chuckle. The club-footed pigeon was gone; in its place stood Old Evan Sion Evans, leaning on his brass and wood stick, and blocking the passage back.

Old Evan
You should listen to the advice of the natives, Messrs. Evans and Marcolin. Both Grimsword and I warned you about the dangers of London, and yet you insist on straying into places in which you have no business.

Marcolin
Ah... would you believe that we're looking for the Bakerloo platform?

Old Evan
No.

Jim Evans
Okay!

I pitched the hydrogen flare at him and got ready to make a run for it. He waved his stick in front of his face, and the flame dispersed.

Old Evan
Ha ha ha, Mr. Evans... deflecting "magic missiles" and their variants are one of the simpler spells. You'll have to do better.

He pointed the cane at the door behind us, and the stone rolled aside. Pigeon-scented air gusted past us.

Old Evan
After you.

We didn't know the extent of his power, so we silently agreed to do as he said for now. If he was a warlock on the order of Griff Pedros Pedros Dumnoric or Savadini, we were in trouble. I had a hunch his powers were more limited, but it wasn't wise to take the chance.

We stepped through the door. The passageway here was lit by torches set in the wall, and the stone of the walls became rougher. Old Evan stepped through after us and the capstone rolled back into place. He took a torch from the wall and held it above his head.

Jim Evans
Nice place. Bad feng shui, but it does have a certain charm.

Old Evan
This cavern predates the trains above us by two hundred years. It is one of our great treasures. Walk forward, please, and watch your step.

I shrugged and started off. We went single file, David behind me, and Old Evan shuffling alhich to deal. You are very fortunate indeed, Mr. Evans. And very foolish. Mr. Marcolin, you have your work cut out for you.

Marcolin
You're telling me.

I could tell from his tone that Dave thought I'd over-extended myself. Maybe I had, but hopefully Old Evan would now be more disposed to talk. It turns out I was correct.

Old Evan
Well, Mr. Evans... if you've studied the Baubalieux Florilegium, you may have encountered the legends of Great P'toultru... unless you had an expurgated version?

Jim Evans
Ah.. as I say, my copy wasn't complete.

Old Evan
I'm not surprised. I understand that only Gauss's original version had those entries in tact, and that even those were partially destroyed by fearful readers.

Jim Evan
So tell me about this P'toultru of yours... some dark god that you fellows worship?

Old Evan
No, Mr. Evans. We are not worshippers, but acolytes. And the Great Fowl is no god, not in the usual sense... He slumbers beneath the City of London, which has been his prison since before the city began, since before weakling homonids came to this island. The Kentish Rite, banned by the Rosicrucian Illuminati for six hundred years, is the last echo of those who were left behind to guard Him. We acolytes wait and prepare for the day when the Great Fowl will awaken and spread wide His mighty wings, sundering the pestilent city above and ultimately pecking mankind from the planet like grubs from a rotten apple...

Jim Evans
That sounds so familiar.

Marcolin
Let it go... So are all the Evan Evanses in your Society acolytes?

Old Evan
No. Many serve the Great P'toultru without knowing that they do so. Only a few of the long time members, such as Doc and Cab, are willing servants of the Great Fowl. Your cousin, Mr. Evans, is so far ignorant of our true goals, although we have hopes that as he rises in the Rite he will eventually join us of his own free will. Now, gentlemen, you have a choice to make -- submit yourselves as servants to P'toultru, or become living sacrifices to the Brood of Darkness!

We were drawing near the end of the passageway. Ahead we could see where the leftmost wall of the passage stopped, and the path continued alongside a great pit. The noise I had taken to become a motor was much louder, and was coming from the pit ahead. A faint glow of daylight was coming from that direction, as well. We stepped out of the passage just as Old Evan finished his speech, and were instantly struck dumb with horror.

The noise was not a motor, but the cooing and warbling of thousands, millions of pigeons. The pit looked almost a full above-ground storey deep, and it was perhaps two hundred feet across. There was no ceiling; the cavern stretched hundreds of meters above us, like a sunken chimney, and was open to the sky above. Pigeons were flying up and down this vertical space unendingly, and the floor below was a seething grey mass of live birds. The stench was unbearable, and the noise...

I made some sort of half-coherent noise and sank to my knees. It obviously wasn't what Old Evan wanted to hear; I felt him shove me from behind, and I tumbled into the pit. I still had enough of my sanity to use my hydrogen powers to slow my descent, so that I landed softly on my hands and knees. I instantly sprang to my feet, hopelessly trying to avoid the pigeons. I saw David come tumbling after me, and he too managed to control his fall and save his life momentarily. Of Evan Sion Evans I could see no sign - he had transformed back into the deformed bird and vanished.

I struggled towards David as the birds began to attack. I fought the off in a panic. David and I reached one another halfway and clung on to each other. Through the chaotic storm of birds flying up around us, I glimpsed what I thought could be our salvation - at the far end of the pit was what looked like a large circular portal, maybe 100 feet across. Obviously there was no way I could ever move a stone door that size, but in my maddened state I thought it was our only hope. Clutching David by one arm I started dragging him across the pit, fending off the birds trying to attack my face with the other arm. I shut my eyes and moved blindly forward, towards that door.

Suddenly, David started to resist. He was thrashing about, as if trying with every ounce of strength to stop me from heading for the portal. Later I vaguely remembered a sound like him screaming. We struggled with one another, and then, somehow, I felt myself dissolving.

Then, darkness.

When I came to my senses, I was sitting in a jail cell, wearing nothing but an itchy police blanket. David was sitting nearby, similarly attired. Looking at my arms and legs, I saw they were covered by numerous scratches and punctures.

My cousin Evan bailed us out not long after - it was the day after our expedition in the Underground. Apparently a police officer had found us lying comatose and entirely naked in Piccadilly Square. When he succeeded in waking us up, we had been completely incoherent, raving about caves and pigeons and dark unspeakable evil. The bobby just nodded and bundled us into a police wagon. As I'd discovered, we were both covered in minor injuries, which the police were at a loss to explain. We were released with a very stern warning about controlled substances, but no charges were laid.

We returned to Evan's apartment, then immediately packed our things and left. We gave no explanation - partly because we didn't have much of one ourselves. I still had the card with Mrs. Hudson's address on it, and we went there. She was not, as it turned out, a dour Scottish housefrau, but a very nice woman near our age who ran a daycare. She was happy to let us stay with her as long as was necessary.

I tried to piece together what had happened in that cavern, but Dave was entirely unwilling to discuss it. The best I can do is this - for some reason, he wanted to prevent me from reaching the huge portal, and after failing to stop me physically, finally remembered his deuterium powers. He transformed himself into deuterium gas, and since we were locked together, I transformed into a cloud of hydrogen - we have this affect with another, and Helium Girl, that we can trigger each other's transformations by physical contact. In gas form, we left the cavern through the same exit the pigeons were using, the one straight up. How we ended up in Piccadilly, and why our clothes didn't re-materialise with us, I never figured out.

Why David took such a dislike to the portal I didn't find out until some days after we got back to Maple Ridge. He was unusually withdrawn and reticent during that time, until suddenly, the more public horror of world events seemed to shock him out of it. It was in the cozy darkness of Django Djava that he finally told me.

Deuterium Boy
You were dragging me through the flocks of attacking pigeons. You had your arm out and your eyes shut. But I was watching the portal... the pigeons were disturbed all over the pit, including by the portal. It opened.

Hydrogen Guy
It opened?

Deuterium Boy
Yeah. It split in the middle, and the two halves of the circle seemed to draw back. Behind it was a giant ring of orange, patterned like the capstone where we met Old Evan, with a glassy black circle in the centre.

Hydrogen Guy
It sounds like...

Deuterium Boy
Yeah.

He took a reassuring sip of caffeine and shuddered.

Deuterium Boy
It was an eye. The eye of an enormous pigeon.

[fade to black; roll credits]