Let that which follows here be recorded as the sole Confession and Last Living Testament of Stamford Moore; in the Year of our Lord, 1890
This is my firsthand Account of Tomas Marley. I leave it as a Record of my Great Folly and the Devil who wrought it, in the vain Hope there yet shall come a Soul with the Power and Will to attempt what I could not.
I made Acquaintance with Marley upon my Commission with the East India Company in its ill-fated colonization of the Emirates at Afghanistan. My first Impression of Tomas was that of a Tall, Broad-Shouldered native of Her Majesty's Empire; a Scholar of foreboding Presence and Gravity. Like me, Marley's Commission was that of Intermediary and Interpreter between the Company and its offshore Properties. Although he spoke seldom, there was some Quality in his manner that led all to listen when he did and sway to his Purpose. Arabic came to him as easily as did English, and many among us found it Curious that he shewed no Interest in turning his Talents for a higher Position; of which were Several. ``It is not the Authority but the Everyman who is remembered,'' I remember him fond of saying when queried thus - though at the time I did not understand its Meaning as I do now.
No, for Tomas the lure was never Riches; nor Titles, nor Power - although he did indeed accumulate those as a matter of course during our long Campaigns. For him the great Prize would always be the Stories: the ones told as Diversion from the monotony of our long Marches. These he would hearken to with an avid Manner almost predatory, be it to gossip of home affairs or folktales told by our Sikh sentries of the Middle East. These he loved in equal Measure, though the ones to hold a special Place in his Heart would always be his own.
Yes, his own - for another Eccentricity of Marley was that he told Stories; with Himself as the titular Character, flights of Fancy about his past Encounters that were unlikely to have any Basis in Truth. In some he portrayed Himself as a trickster Rogue; in others as Knight-Errant or Hero. We indulged him his Eccentricity, for it was Harmless at best and did provide welcome Distraction from the Troubles of the Road. It would be much later before I slowly came to Understand the true Nature of Marley and his Narratives.
The day that I first came close to doing so was hailed as a Miracle by our Convoy; those of our number lucky enough to survive the wretched Trek through the desert Dunes. One thing led quickly to another, and before we knew it our Navigator had succeeded in getting the entire Company lost. For all we knew, we marched in Circles; with no end to the Sand surrounding us all. It was Tomas who saved us; and in doing so aroused my Suspicion as to what he really was. Our canteens were running empty and I was resigned to our fate when he tapped `pon my shoulder to obtain my Attention:
``Oasis straight ahead; pass it on,''
While no Scholar nor learned Sage, enough Experience had I upon the Trail to discount this as sheer Impossibility. By then we had been walking for Hours, with only the Assurance that we would have to march for hours more before even the Hope of making any Headway could be conceived. Sun-touched was my Assessment, but I humoured his Request readily enough, whispering of the fabled Oasis to the Soldier behind me and bidding him pass it on.
From there, it spread. Oh, how it Spread! First as turgid whispers regarded with Cynicism, swift gaining purchase and swelling into a Tide of Hope! I heard the Message pass from one to another, each time growing in the Telling: first it was an Oasis. Then a grove of Dates surrounding a clear Spring; then a Watering-Hole for Game. With every recounting, the descriptions grew. I wondered how long the Convoy could keep this up; could find the extra Strength to continue onward fuelled by nothing besides Hearsay and Hope.
It was then that I saw it. The Grove of which our Company had spoken. The Salvation somehow set in motion by nothing more than collective Belief and a few words. Perhaps it was mass Hysteria that had afflicted us, or else some manner of Hallucination, but whatever it was it certainly satisfied our Illusions of Hunger and Thirst long enough to resume the Journey; this time towards our Destination.
``Stories change the world,'' was all Marley would tell me when I pressed him on the Issue. ``They live and breathe. Get enough people telling them; get enough of it stuck in the collective consciousness, and anything is possible - WE become possible,''
I was young in those days. Young and foolish; easily led astray by the Vistas before me and the Promises of Possibility. Had I not Seen with my own Eyes? So when the Offer came; as I Knew it Would, I accepted in Haste - wanting more than a Taste of this Power; seeking to use it for my own.
We broke with the Company; Tomas and I - for it had served its Purpose. Marley cared not a fig for Her Majesty's Empire; only for raw Folklore it provided to him. On these he feasted, like a Leech upon a Wound: every Tale; every Myth, incorporated into his own. In Afghanistan and Arabia it was Nasruddin who occupied his Interest - the sometimes cunning, sometimes foolish Effendi who made Buffoons of the general Populace. In Greece it was Aesop and his Fables, in Egypt the Bible. We never stayed in one place for very long.
Almighty help me; for I was his Apprentice, his Chronicler: Marley told his Tales, and I would transcribe them, setting quill to paper and making copies which we would scatter like Seeds in each Territory we visited. It was a time of Prosperity and Plenty for the pair of us; yet one that left me with a growing Unease. Tomas sought out the local Stories; re-imagined them, repurposed them, at times working his unusual Magic upon Consciousness and Contingency to make the unthinkable Real. As his Understudy was I able to tap a pale Imitation of this Power and exploit the Collective Consciousness for petty Gains and Profits: a horse-race rigged here; an Election influenced there...each time through the workings of Plot and Contrivance. We soon became People of Status and Repute, but like my Namesake, Tomas wanted more: Much, much more...
It was his Exploits in Whitechapel that finally awakened me to the kind of Fiend that Sir Tomas Marley really was. Power and Prestige he might have had, but these were always means to an end; one that he pursued at any Cost. No, it was Immortality that Sir Tomas truly craved; and he sought to obtain it through literary Device: by building himself into a Legend more Myth than Mortal, more Symbolism than Flesh - something that Time nor Being could not Erase. And as was often the case, Depravity favoured his Needs more than Charity or Benevolence ever could.
``People remember the bad, Stamford,'' was something he oft said to me. ``People remember the plagues; the monsters, the disasters. They make the headlines of all the newspapers. They seed the unconscious mind. To be immortal; truly immortal, we have to exploit these - have to become monster, if we are to live on in nightmares and whispers,''
And a Monster indeed was he; a Monster let loose upon Whitechapel in the Year of our Lord 1888 which no efforts of Scotland Yard could stay. Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride...all these and many more fell to Marley's depravities in his alias as the Whitechapel Murderer, better known as Jack the Ripper. He made certain his nightly Doings were never far from the collective Unconsciousness; sending taunting Letters to the Authorities and playing upon public Fears. It was then when I decided that I had Enough. No longer would I be his Chronicler. He would do so alone.
Marley did not take my Resignation kindly, nor did I expect him to. Harsh words were traded; which by now I had learnt to be wary of, recognizing them as Tools of Power and Substance. Indeed, my Circumstances quickly took a Turn for the Worse without the patronage of my generous Sponsor. With Marley as my Enemy I quickly fell out of Favour in the Court, losing both Station and Pension. I was lampooned by the Press, and my Words - once possessed of Power enough to shape the Colonies to my liking - becoming little more than Shadows of their former selves.
During that time, I made it a priority to Know my Enemy; to trace the Doings of Tomas Marley back to their sordid origins. I seek out the Tales, the Fables, the Legends. In so doing I recognize his mark through the annals of History; see familiar patterns across Eras and Continents: Jack the Ripper, Vlad the Impaler, Anansi, Reynard the Fox, Nasruddin, and countless more... these are ALL Tomas; indeed HAVE been Tomas at one point or other of his long, long life. And as long as people keep telling these legends, telling HIS stories, the thing that is Tomas Marley will never die!
At that point I despaired. But I know better now; am smarter now - Marley will regret sharing so much of his Knowledge with me. I write this Treatise in Newgate Prison, where I am to be Remanded for the Crimes of Libel and Profaneness of my Libertine Literature. Much as I am loathe to admit, Tomas was right: we do tend to memorialize the Bad rather than remember the Good, to raise up our Monsters and forget our Messiahs. If that is what it takes; if that is what our Collective Consciousness desires, then Monsters it will get: I have achieved quite a respectable Amount of Infamy already for daring to write of Copulation and Depravities in my Novels. Already they speak of a Motion to Ban my Published Works not just in London but all of Europe. When this happens the Copies that remain will be more desirable as a result of being Forbidden Fruit. They will be traded, read in Secret, Bought and Sold under the counter and Pirated to the Masses. My name will spread, will grow. Much like Marquis deSade, I will become a household Word for Depravity and Misconduct.
I anticipate it. Nay, welcome it!
Let Tomas Marley have his immortality. For I am working slowly upon my own. Stories may be HIS area of expertise, but sociology is mine. Murder, violence and bloodshed may be all very well for attracting Disgust and Sensationalism, but I know of something far better: Sex will draw my readers like moths to a flame. Like the hardy weed; sexual stories will take root and flourish no matter what the Context or Era. I will be Reviled and Scorned in Public, but in the private Domain be the door to a thousand Dreams, a million Fantasies. There I shall bide my Time, till one day our Paths cross again.
I must take his words to heart: become a monster to beat a monster. This time, he will never see me coming.
This time nobody goes home.
