The Secrets of Dr. John Richard Taverner E-Book

Dion Fortune

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Death hounds, shape shifters, and vampires are among the patients treated by the Holmes-like Dr. Taverner and his assistant Dr. Rhodes in this work of supernatural fiction by acclaimed spiritualist and occult writer Dion Fortune. First published in 1926, the adventures of Dr. Taverner and Dr. Rhodes take readers across the marshy moonlit fields of nightfall, hunting spirits and keeping watch over souls. Suffering from vampirism? Being stalked by a death hound? Haunted by past life debts? Family under a suicidal curse? From across the countryside patients and their desperate families come to seek treatment for unconventional diseases from an unconventional doctor. His secret? Treating the diseases of the occult. Though Fortune wrote The Secrets of Doctor Taverner as her first novel, she maintained that all the events were based on true occurrences. Many believe Taverner to be Fortune's own spiritual teacher, Dr. Moriarty, and Rhodes to be based on Fortune herself. An essential and fun read for anyone interested in the Western Mystery Tradition, Dion Fortune, the melding of medicine and magic, or just good old-fashioned paranormal fiction.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Introduction by Dion Fortune

I Blood Lust

II The Return of the Ritual

III The Man Who Sought

IV The Soul That Would Not Be Born

V The Scented Poppies

VI The Death Hound

VII A Daughter of Pan

VIII The Subletting of the Mansion

IX Recalled

X The Sea Lure

XI The Power House

XII A Son of the Night

The Secrets of Dr. John Richard Taverner

Dion Fortune

First digital edition 2016 by Anna Ruggieri

Introduction

These stories may be looked at from two standpoints, and no doubt the standpoint the reader chooses will be dictated by personal taste and previous knowledge of the subject under discussion. They may be regarded as fiction, designed, like the conversation of the Fat Boy recorded in The Pickwick Papers, “to make your flesh creep,” or they may be considered to be what they actually are, studies in little-known aspects of psychology put in the form of fiction because, if published as a serious contribution to science, they would have no chance of a hearing. It may not unreasonably be asked what motive anyone could have for securing a hearing for such histories as are set forth in these tales, beyond the not unreasonable interest in the royalties that usually fall to the lot of those who cater for the popular taste in horrors; I would ask my readers, however, to credit me with another motive than the purely commercial. I was one of the earliest students of psychoanalysis in this country, and I found, in the course of my studies, that the ends of a number of threads were put into my hands, but that the threads disappeared into the darkness that surrounded the small circle of light thrown by exact scientific knowledge. It was in following these threads out into the darkness of the Unknown that I came upon the experiences and cases which, turned into fiction, are set down in these pages. I do not wish to imply by that, however, that these stories all happened exactly as set down, for such is not the case; they are, however, all founded on fact, and there is not a single incident herein contained which is pure imagination. That is to say, while no picture is an actual photograph, not one is an imaginary sketch; they are rather composite photographs, obtained by cutting out and piecing together innumerable snapshots of actual happenings, and the whole, far from being an arbitrary product of the imagination, is a serious study in the psychology of ultraconsciousness. I present these studies in super-normal pathology to the general reader because it has been my experience that such cases as I chronicle here are by no manner of means as uncommon as might be supposed, but, being unrecognized, pass unhelped. I have personally come across several instances of the Power House, some of which are well known to the members of the different coteries who are interested in these matters; “Blood-Lust” is literally true, and both these stories, far from being written up for the purposes of fiction, have been toned down to make them fit for print. “Dr. Taverner” will no doubt be recognized by some of my readers; his mysterious nursing home was an actual fact, and infinitely stranger than any fiction could possibly be. It is a curious thing that the picture of him drawn from fancy by the artist who illustrated these stories for the Royal Magazine is a recognizable likeness, although that artist had neither seen a photograph nor had a description of him. To “Dr. Taverner” I owe the greatest debt of my life; without “Dr. Taverner” there would have been no Dion Fortune,’ and to him I offer the tribute of these pages. —Dion Fortune, London.

I. Blood Lust

I. I have never been able to make up my mind whether Dr. Taverner should be the hero or the villain of these histories. That he was a man of the most selfless ideals could not be questioned, but in his methods of putting these ideals into practice he was absolutely unscrupulous. He did not evade the law, he merely ignored it, and though the exquisite tenderness with which he handled his cases was an education in itself, yet he would use that wonderful psychological method of his to break a soul to pieces, going to work as quietly and methodically and benevolently as if bent upon the cure of his patient. The manner of my meeting with this strange man was quite simple. After being gazetted out of the R.A.M.C. I went to a medical agency and inquired what posts were available. I said: “I have come out of the Army with my nerves shattered. I want some quiet place till I can pull myself together.” “So does everybody else,” said the clerk. He looked at me thoughtfully. “I wonder whether you would care to try a place we have had on our books for some time. We have sent several men down to it but none of them would stop.” He sent me round to one of the tributaries of Harley Street, and there I made the acquaintance of the man who, whether he was good or bad, I have always regarded as the greatest mind I ever met. Tall and thin, with a parchment-like countenance, he might have been any age from thirty-five to sixty-five. I have seen him look both ages within the hour. He lost no time in coming to the point. “I want a medical superintendent for my nursing home,” he told me. “I understand that you have specialized, as far as the Army permitted you to, in mental cases. I am afraid you will find my methods very different from the orthodox ones. However, as I sometimes succeed where others fail, I consider I am justified in continuing to experiment, which I think, Dr. Rhodes, is all any of my colleagues can claim to do.” The man’s cynical manner annoyed me, though I could not deny that mental treatment is not an exact science at the present moment. As if in answer to my thought he continued: “My chief interest lies in those regions of psychology which orthodox science has not as yet ventured to explore. If you will work with me you will see some queer things, but all I ask of you is, that you should keep an open mind and a shut mouth.” This I undertook to do, for, although I shrank instinctively from the man, yet there was about him such a curious attraction, such a sense of power and adventurous research, that I determined at least to give him the benefit of the doubt and see what it might lead to. His extraordinarily stimulating personality, which seemed to key my brain to concert pitch, made me feel that he might be a good tonic for a man who had lost his grip on life for the I time being. “Unless you have elaborate packing to do,” he said, “I can motor you down to my place. If you will walk over with me to the garage I will drive you round to your lodgings, pick up your things, and we shall get in before dark.” We drove at a pretty high speed down the Portsmouth road till we came to Thursley, and, then, to my surprise, my companion turned off to the right and took the big car by a cart track over the heather. “This is Thor’s Ley or field,” he said, as the blighted country unrolled before us. “The old worship is still kept up about here.” “The Catholic faith?” I inquired. “The Catholic faith, my dear sir, is an innovation. I was referring to the pagan worship. The peasants about here still retain bits of the old ritual; they think that it brings them luck, or some such superstition. They have no knowledge of its inner meaning.” He paused a moment, and then turned to me and said with extraordinary emphasis: “Have you ever thought what it would mean if a man who had the Knowledge could piece that ritual together?” I admitted I had not. I was frankly out of my depth, but he had certainly brought me to the most unchristian spot I had ever been in my life. His nursing home, however, was in delightful contrast to the wild and barren country that surrounded it. The garden was a mass of colour, and the house, old and rambling and covered with creepers, as charming within as without; it reminded me of the East, it reminded me of the Renaissance, and yet it had no style save that of warm rich colouring and comfort. I soon settled down to my job, which I found exceedingly interesting. As I have already said, Taverner’s work began where ordinary medicine ended, and I have under my care cases such as the ordinary doctor would have referred to the safe keeping of an asylum, as being nothing else but mad. Yet Taverner, by his peculiar methods of work, laid bare causes operating both within the soul and in the shadowy realm where the soul has its dwelling, that threw an entirely new light upon the problem, and often enabled him to rescue a man from the dark influences that were closing in upon him. The affair of the sheep-killing was an interesting example of his methods.