The Chalice of Immortality by Erica Kirov Page B

spell, and they found themselves standing in what once had been a library. There was no furniture, but Nick saw the bookshelves climbing the walls and assumed they once had been filled with the books of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
    He walked over to a musty shelf and started writing his name in the dust. Suddenly, his mind flashed.
    â€œWhat is it, Nick?” Isabella asked.
    He whispered, “I’m having a vision.”
    ***
    Undershaw Estate, Surrey, England, March 1, 1925
    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sat at his heavy wooden desk, working on another of his Professor Challenger stories. He enjoyed the jack-of-all-trades professor character he had created. Professor Challenger was so different from his most famous character, Sherlock Holmes. Professor Challenger had a huge head—enormous! And he was bushy-headed, fierce-looking, like a beast! He roared when he talked, bellowing like a braying donkey. No, he was not as urbane as Sherlock Holmes, but Professor Challenger was fast becoming Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s favorite creation.
    Doyle leaned back in his chair and twirled his handlebar mustache contentedly. He smiled to himself. He was pleased with his writing. He looked down at his manuscript, which he was working on in longhand, writing with his favorite fountain pen.
    Periodically, he sipped from a golden chalice on his desk. One day, he had poured water into the chalice and drunk it. He had felt a near-explosion of ideas in his mind, some energizing effect. So he drank more water from it. And after he drank from it, he found he never tired. His mind bubbled with ideas.
    He heard a knock on his study door. “Enter.”
    Harry Houdini strode into the room in black pants and a black coat, his wiry hair looking, as usual, like he had been hanging upside down during one of his escape tricks. “Arthur, I need to speak with you. Your houseman showed me in.” Houdini’s eyes traveled to the chalice.
    â€œWhat is it you wish to speak to me about? More of your doubts and condemnation of spiritualism? More of your sneering obstinacy about the world of magic?”
    â€œFriend…I do not condemn. I only wish to save you pain and sorrow—more sorrow than you already have. Spiritualism—it is not real. You place your hope in falsehoods.”
    â€œNo. It is you who are wrong. I am hoping my Professor Challenger will help people to realize there is more to the world than meets the eye. The spirit world exists, Harry, my chap. It exists.”
    Harry Houdini looked at his friend sadly. “Tell me, do these beliefs have more to do with that chalice from which you drink or the loss of your son? Or the dreams and disappointments of a writer? Are you not the creator of Detective Sherlock Holmes? Can you not deduce in the way he did? Can you not use the powers of reason to see that you are mistaken?”
    â€œI am perfectly reasonable.”
    â€œNo, you are not. You sip from that chalice and slip further and further into the realm of spirits.”
    â€œYou are talking stuff and nonsense.”
    â€œNo!” Houdini’s eyes darkened. “You forget—I was there that night.”
    â€œWhat night?”
    â€œThe one night when I came to believe in this spirit world you are so taken with. We were warned about that chalice. You were warned. I was warned. Do you remember the words of Madame Bogdanovich?”
    Now it was Doyle’s turn to become irate. His cheeks flushed. “I know nothing of what you speak.”
    â€œShe said, ‘Beware, my friend. Beware. A goblet may come into your hands. Protect it at all costs, but fear it! Fear its hold on you!’”
    â€œThis chalice has no hold on me!”
    â€œWhen was the last time you wrote without sipping from it? When?”
    â€œI do not wish to say.”
    â€œI’ve done some investigating, Arthur. I know how you came to possess this chalice.”
    â€œThe parties involved were sworn to