Beneath the Moors and Darker Places

by Brian Lumley

  He ducked through the canvas door flap into the enclosed area containing Hamilton’s relics, returning a few seconds later with a bronze miniature the size of his hand and wrist. The thing looked vaguely like an elongated, eyeless squid. It also looked—despite the absence of anything even remotely mundane in its appearance— utterly evil! Anderson handed the object reverently to the ex-professor, saying: “What do you make of that?” Having chosen the thing at random from the anomalies in his dead brother’s collection, he hoped it really was of “genuine antiquarian interest.”

  His choice had been a wise one. Henley peered at the miniature, and slowly his expression changed. He examined the thing minutely, then said: “It is the burrower beneath, Shudde-M’ell, or one of his brood. A very good likeness, and ancient beyond words. Made of bronze, yet quite obviously it predates the Bronze Age!” His voice was suddenly soft. “Where did you get it?”

  “You are interested, then?” Tharpe smiled, incapable of either admitting or denying the statements of the other.

  “Of course I’m interested.” Henley eagerly nodded, a bit too eagerly, Tharpe thought. “I... I did indeed do you a great injustice. This thing is very interesting! Do you have ... more?”

  “All in good time.” Tharpe held up his hands, holding himself in check, waiting until the time was ripe to frame his own all-important question. “First, who are you? You understand that my— possessions—are not for idle scrutiny, that—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” the little man cut him off. “My name is Hiram Henley. I am—at least I was—Professor of Archaeology and Ethnology at Meldham University. I have recently given up my position there in order to carry out private research. I came here out of curiosity, I admit; a friend gave me one of your tickets with its peculiar invitation ... I wasn’t really expecting much, but—”

  “But now you’ve seen something that you would never have believed possible in a place like this. Is that it?”

  “Indeed it is. And you? Who are you?”

  “Tharpe is my name, Anderson Tharpe, proprietor of this”— he waved his hand deprecatingly—”establishment.”

  “Very well, Mr. Tharpe,” Henley said. “It’s my good fortune to meet a man whose intelligence in my own chosen field patently must match my own—whose possessions include items such as this.” He held up the heavy bronze piece and peered at it again for a moment. “Now, will you show me—the rest?”

  “A glimpse, only a glimpse,” Tharpe told him, aware now that Henley was hooked. “Then perhaps we can trade?”

  “I have nothing with which to trade. In what way do you mean?”

  “Nothing to trade? Perhaps not,” Tharpe answered, holding the canvas door open so that his visitor might step into the enclosed space beyond, “but then again . . . How are you on ancient tongues and languages?”

  “Languages were always my—” The ex-professor started to answer, stepping into the private place. Then he paused, his eyes widening as he gazed about at the contents of the place. “Were always my—” Again he paused, reaching out his hands before him and moving forward, touching the ugly idol unbelievingly, moving quickly to the carved tablets, staring as if hypnotized at the smaller figurines and totems. Finally he turned a flushed face to Tharpe. His look was hard to define: partly awed, partly—accusing?

  “I didn’t steal them, I assure you,” Tharpe quickly said.

  “No, of course not,” Henley answered, “but... you have the treasures of the aeons here!”

  Now the tall showman could hold himself no longer. “Languages,” he pressed. “You say you have an understanding of tongues? Can you translate from the ancient to the modern?”

  “Yes, most things, providing—”

  “How would you like to own all you see here?” Tharpe cut him off again.

  Henley reached out suddenly palsied hands to take Tharpe by the forearms. “You’re ... joking?”

  “No.” Tharpe shook his head, lying convincingly. “I’m not joking. There is something of the utmost importance to my own line of—research. I need a translation of a fragment of ancient writing. Rather, I need the original pronunciation. If you can solve this one problem for me, all this can be yours. You can be ... part of it.”

  “What is this fragment?” the little man cried. “Where is it?”

  “Come with me.”

  “But—” Henley turned away from Tharpe, his gloved hands again reaching for those morbid items out of the aeons.

  “No, no.” Tharpe took his arm. “Later—you’ll have all the time you need. Now there is this problem of mine. But later, tonight, we’ll come back in here, and all this can be yours...”

  The ex-professor voluntarily followed Tharpe out of the tent to his caravan, and there he was shown the handwritten Necronomicon with its cryptic “key.”

  “Well,” Tharpe demanded, barely concealing his agitation. “Can you read it as it was written? Can you pronounce it in its original form?”

  “I’ll need a little time,” the balding man mused, “and privacy. “But I think... I’ll take a copy of this with me, and as soon as I have the answer—”

  “When? How long?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Good. I’ll wait for you. It should be quiet here by then. It’s Halloween and the fairground is open until late, but they’ll all be that much more tired...” Tharpe suddenly realized that he was thinking out loud and quickly glanced at his visitor. The little man peered at him strangely through his tiny specs, very strangely, Tharpe thought.

  “The people here are—superstitious,” he explained. “It wouldn’t be wise to advertise our interest in these ancient matters. They’re ignorant and I’ve had trouble with them before. They don’t like some of the things I’ve got.”

  “I understand,” Henley answered. “I’ll go now and work through the evening. With luck it won’t take too long. Tonight— shall we say after midnight?—I’ll be back.” He quickly made a copy of the characters in the old book, then stood up. Tharpe saw him out of the caravan with an assumed, gravely thoughtful air, thanking him before watching him walk off in the direction of the exit, but then he laughed out loud and slapped his thigh, quickly seeking out one of the odd-job boys from the stratojet thrill ride.

  An hour later—to the amazement of his fellow showmen, for the crowd was thickening rapidly as the afternoon went by—Anderson Tharpe closed the Tomb of the Great Old Ones and retired to his caravan. He wanted to practice himself in the operation of the tape recorder which he had paid the odd-jobber to buy for him in Bathley.

  This final phase of his plan was simple; necessarily so, for of course he in no way intended to honour his bargain with Henley. He did intend to have the little man read out his pronunciation of the “key,” and to record that pronunciation in perfect fidelity—but from then on ...

  If the pronunciation were imperfect, then of course the “bargain” would be unfulfilled and the ex-professor would escape with his life and nothing more, but if the invocation worked ... ? Why, then the professor simply could not be allowed to walk away and talk about what he had seen. No, it would be necessary for him to disappear into the green light. Hamilton would have called it a “sacrifice to Cthulhu.”

  And yet there had been something about the little man that disturbed Anderson; something about his peering eyes and his eagerness to fall in with the plans of the gaunt showman. Tharpe thought of his dream of a few days past, then of those other nightmares he had known, and shuddered; and again he pondered the possibility that there had been more than met the eye in his mad brother’s assertions. But what odds? Science or sorcery, it made no difference; the end result would be the same. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Things were at last looking up for Anderson Tharpe ...

  At midnight the crowd began to thin out. Watching the people move off into the chill night, Anderson was glad it had started to rain again, for their festive Halloween mood might have kept them in the fairground longer, and the bright lights would have glar
ed and the music played late into the night. Only an hour later all was quiet, with only the sporadic patter of rain on machines and tents and painted roofs to disturb the night. The last wetly gleaming light had blinked out and the weary folk of the fairground were in their beds. That was when Anderson heard the furtive rapping at his caravan door, and he was agreeably surprised that the ever-watchful dogs had not heralded his night-visitor’s arrival. Possibly it was too early for them yet to distinguish between comers and goers.

  As soon as he was inside, Henley saw the question written on Tharpe’s face. He nodded in answer: “Yes, yes, I have it. It appears to be a summons of some sort, a cry to vast and immeasurable ancient powers. Wait, I’ll read it for you—”

  “No, no—not here!” Tharpe silenced him before he could commence. “I have a tape recorder in the tent.”

  Without a word the little man followed Tharpe through the dark and into the private enclosure containing those centuried relics which so plainly fascinated him. There Tharpe illumined the inner tent with a single dim light bulb; then, switching on his tape recorder, he told the ex-professor that he was now ready to hear the invocation. And yet now Henley paused, turning to face Tharpe and gravely peering at him from where he stood by the horrible octopoid idol.

  “Are you—sure?” the little man asked. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” His voice was dry, calm.

  “Eh?” Anderson questioned nervously, terrible suspicions suddenly forming in his mind. “Of course I’m sure—and what do you mean, ‘do this?’ Do what?”

  Henley shook his head sadly. “Your brother was foolish not to see that you would cause trouble sooner or later!”

  Tharpe’s eyes opened wide and his jaw fell slack. “Police!” he finally croaked. “You’re from the police!”

  “No such thing,” the little man calmly answered. “I am what I told you I was—and something more than that—and to prove it . . .”

  The sounds Henley uttered then formed an exact and fluent duplication of those Tharpe had heard once before, and shocked as he was that this frail outsider knew far too much about his affairs, still Tharpe thrilled as the inhuman echoes died and there formed in the semicircle of grim tablets an expanding, glowing greenness that sent out writhing beams of ghostly luminescence. Quickly the tall man gathered his wits. Policeman or none, Hiram Henley had to be done away with. This had been the plan in any case, once the little man—whoever he was—had done his work and was no longer required. And he had done his work well. The invocation was recorded; Anderson could call up the destroying green light any time he so desired. Perhaps Henley had been a former colleague of Hamilton’s, and somehow he had come to learn of the younger Tharpe’s demise? Or was he only guessing! Still, it made no difference now.

  Henley had turned his back on Anderson, lifting up his arms to the hideous idol greenly illumined in the light of the pulsating witchfire. But as the showman slipped his brother’s knife from his pocket, so the little man turned again to face him, smiling strangely and showing no discernible fear at the sight of the knife. Then his smile faded and again he sadly shook his head. His lips formed the words, “No, no, my friend,” but Anderson Tharpe heard nothing; once more, as it had done before, the green light had cancelled all sound within its radius.

  Suddenly Tharpe was very much afraid, but still he knew what he must do. Despite the fact that the inner tent was far more chill even than the time of the year warranted, sweat glistened greenly on Anderson’s brow as he moved forward in a threatening crouch, the knife raised and reflecting emerald shafts of evilly writhing light. He lifted the knife higher still as he closed with the motionless figure of the little man—and then Hiram Henley moved!

  Anderson saw what the ex-professor had done and his lips drew back in a silent, involuntary animal snarl of the utmost horror and fear. He almost dropped the knife, frozen now in mid-stroke, as Henley’s black gloves fell to the floor and the thick white worms twined and twisted hypnotically where his fingers ought to have been!

  Then—more out of nightmare dread and loathing than any sort of rational purpose, for Anderson knew now that the ex-professor was nothing less than a Priest of Cthulhu—he carried on with his interrupted stroke and his knife flashed down. Henley tried to deflect the blow with a monstrously altered hand, his face contorting and a shriek forming silently on his lips as one of the wormish appendages was severed and fell twitching to the sawdust. He flailed his injured hand and white ichor splashed Tharpe’s face and eyes.

  Blindly the frantic showman struck again and again, gibbering mindlessly and noiselessly as he clawed at his face with his free hand, trying to wipe away the filthy white juice of Henley’s injured hybrid member. But the blows were wild and Hiram Henley had stepped to one side.

  More frantically yet, insanely, Tharpe slashed at the greenly pulsating air all about him, stumbling closer to the core of radiance. Then his knife struck something that gave like rotting flesh beneath the blow, and finally, in a short-lived revival of confidence, he opened stinging eyes to see what he had hit.

  Something coiled out of the green core, something long and tapering, greyly mottled and slimy! Something that stank of deep ocean and submarine weeds! It was a tentacle—a face-tentacle, Tharpe knew—twitching spasmodically, even as the hand of a disturbed dreamer might twitch.

  Tharpe struck again, a reflex action, and watched his blade bite through the tentacle unhindered, as if through mud—and then saw that trembling member solidifying again where the blade had sliced! His knife fell from a palsied hand then, and Tharpe screamed a last, desperate, silent scream as the tentacle moved more purposefully!

  The now completely sentient member wrapped its tip about Tharpe’s throat, constricting and jerking him forward effortlessly into the green core. And as he went the last things he saw were the eyes in the vast face, the hellish eyes that opened briefly, saw and recognized him for what he was—a sacrifice to Cthulhu!

  Quickly then, as the green light began its withdrawal and sound slowly returned to the tent, Hiram Henley put on his gloves. Ignoring as best he could the pain his injury gave him, he spoke these words:

  Oh, Great Cthulhu, dreaming in R’lyeh,

  Thy priest offers up this sacrifice,

  That Thy coming be soon,

  And that of Thy kindred dreamers.

  I am Thy priest and adore Thee...

  And as the core grew smaller yet, he toppled the evil idol into its green center, following this act by throwing in the tablets and all those other items of fabled antiquity until the inner tent was quite empty. He would have kept all these things if he dared, but his orders—those orders he received in dreams from R’lyeh—would not allow it. When a priest had been found to replace Hamilton Tharpe, then Great Cthulhu would find a way to return those rudimentary pillars of His temple!

  Finally, Henley switched off the single dim light and watched the green core as it shrank to a tiny point of intense brightness before winking out. Only the smell of deep ocean remained, and a damp circle in the dark where the sawdust floor was queerly marked and slimy....

  ~ * ~

  Some little time later the folk of the fairground were awakened by the clamour of a fire engine as it sped to the blaze on the border of the circling tents, sideshows, and caravans. Both Tharpe’s caravan and The Tomb of the Great Old Ones were burning fiercely.

  Nothing was saved, and in their frantic toiling to help the firemen the nomads of the funfair failed to note that their dogs again crouched timid and whimpering beneath the nighted caravans. They found it strange later, though, when they heard how the police had failed to discover anything of Anderson Tharpe’s remains.

  The gap that the destruction of the one-time freak house had left was soon filled, for “Madame Zala,” as if summoned back by the grim work of the mysterious fire, returned with her horse and caravan within the week. She is still with Hodgson’s Funfair, but she will never speak of the Tharpes. At certain times of the year well known to anyone with
even the remotest schooling in the occult, she is sometimes seen crossing herself with an obscure and pagan sign. . . .

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  ~ * ~

  BENEATH

  THE MOORS

  I

  DISCOVERIES IN CONVALESCENCE

  [From the Notebooks of Professor Ewart Masters]

  Following the car accident that nearly killed me, causing what seemed at first rather severe brain damage and leaving me almost completely incapacitated for four months, I decided to spend my convalescence in a return to the interests of earlier years, to take up once more my studies of the ancient things of the world, the civilizations and cities of Earth’s youth. The decision to do no actual work was taken as a necessity. One cannot lecture when at any second his memory is liable to fail, his very lucidity depart to leave him a mazed and mumbling wreck.

  That was the early condition in which my accident had left me; barely capable of concentrating for more than five minutes at a stretch; prone to lapsing at the drop of a hat into shady worlds filled with half-formed visions of dimly remembered scenes and incomprehensible snatches of unrecognized conversations. Shady worlds which were, in effect, spontaneous daydreams, leftovers from my days of total unconsciousness and my secondary phase of semiamnesia—guaranteed, if ever they should occur in public, to make Professor Ewart Masters a figure of ridicule. In such a condition lecturing was out, as was for that matter anything requiring more than a minimum of concentration.