“Here you go. Make friends.”
Hrag huddles into a corner and covers himself in moldy straw. The watchmen throw a skinny, pale man into the cell, then a loaf of gray bread, a bowl and a pint of watered milk. The bowl hits the man in the face, the bread flies into the far corner and the milk covers his legs. Hrag's frown deepens. The man is injured. And he is between Hrag and the loaf of bread.
The man stirs and scurries to the nearest wall. He puts his back flat against it and his eyes swivel madly in his head, taking in the whole room. He spots his bread and shuffles sideways toward it, locking eyes with Hrag as he does so. They are the only people in the cell.
The man is pink-skinned, clearly a foreigner, with a beard like a red fox pelt. Hrag can see that his ankle has been injured deliberately. The achilles tendon has been cut, meaning that he has run from a Justice of the Peace. Or tried to.
The new arrival tears at the bread with uneven teeth. He makes short work of it, even by Hrag's standards. He swallows the rest of it painfully and grunts at Hrag.
“You?”
Hrag blinks in surprise. He tries to reply but only manages a fit of coughing. Eventually he chokes out a “what?”
“You!”
Hrag doesn't know what to say. He shrugs. The man gestures toward him with a sweeping hand, as if he was talking to many people.
“I don't understand.”
The man sighs. He points at his own chest. “Derek,” he says slowly.
“Hmmmm... You are Derek?”
The white man smiles. “Yes, yes. You?”
“Hrag.”
“Hrag?”
“Yes. Hrag.”
Derek nods. “Hrag. Good.”
*****
Soon, they will take Hrag out and kill him. Usually a crowd would gather for such an event but Hrag doubted that that would be the case this time, what with the plague. He doesn't know how he feels about that. There will be no youngsters perched on their fathers' shoulders learning the ways of sadism, as their fathers did before them. The watchmen will not have to hold back souvenir hunters to stop them from tearing him to pieces in impatience. The plague keeps them all at bay. No one gathers in numbers these days, for obvious reasons. But that won't be enough to postpone his execution. They will proceed with all the pomp and precision usually associated with judicial authorities in motion. The prescribed punishment will be carried out to the letter whether anyone is there to see it or not, Hrag is certain.
They will tie each limb with a separate rope, he is sure of that as well. He isn't sure what they will tie the other end to, however. Four horses? Possibly. But usually they only do that when the judge has specifically delivered a sentence of 'quartering', not 'dismemberment." So Hrag assumes he will be laid out like a starfish, or a disinterested prostitute, across a battered table or some other flat surface, and he will be chopped into little pieces with an axe or knife. The larger pieces, his head, hands, etcetera, will be put on display somewhere. As a warning to other people who would dare think of using witchcraft or maleficence or talking to demons or fairies or whatever it was that people believed in in that particular part of the realm. The rest will be taken by souvenir hunters. If they bother to come.
Hrag doesn't want that to happen.
“Hey,” says Derek. “Hey, hey you. Hrag, yes?”
They have been together for more than half a day. Probably. It is hard to tell, as there isn't any daylight. They haven't said a word to each other beyond their initial introductions. Hrag feels that he is being denied the solitude that he deserves on the eve of his death. “What?” he snaps.
Derek holds up his bowl.
“What do you want? Food? I don't have any food.”
“No. No food.” Derek shakes the bowl like a rattle.
“What? That? You want the name?”
Derek smiles and nods, perhaps in confirmation. It is the smile of a simpleton. Or the smile of a desperate man, far from home and eager to please. Hrag is struck with a moment of inspiration.
He picks up his own bowl, points at it, and says, “Grak.”
“Grak,” Derek copies. Hrag nods and smiles. “Grak,” Derek mutters again, trying to memorise the new word.
Hrag looks around for something else to name. He points at his own head. “Lo,” he says.
“Head?” Derek says, confused.
“No. Lo,” Hrag corrects him in a fatherly fashion.
Derek copies again, smiling uncertainly.
There is a minute whilst the foreigner pats his head and rattles his bowl, murmuring the new words to himself. Hrag nods encouragement. Then he adds another word to Derek's repertoire. He points to the door. “Nok.”
Derek copies him.
Hrag grabs his own big toe and says, “Tan.”
Derek copies.
Hrag waits a moment, allowing Derek time to memorise the new words. Then he says, “Derek, Derek, look at me,” kindly, as if he is speaking to a child.
Hrag holds his bowl up. Derek names it, smiling. Hrag touches his head. Derek says its name, still smiling. Hrag points at the door. Derek says the word, growing in confidence. Hrag grabs his big toe. Derek does his part.
Hrag repeats the process, smiling his encouragement. Derek laughs and says the words. They do it again and again, getting faster and faster. On the seventh time, the cell wall explodes and Hrag covers his eyes and presses his forehead against the floor in supplication. He is careful not to see Grak-Lo-Nok-Tan, for to look upon a godling is certain death. As certain as saying its name seven times. But he can smell it, a noxious stagnant salt-smell mixed with something he can't place. It isn't a smell that exists in this time or place and Hrag's nostril's are the only living mortal's to have tasted it.
When Hrag opens his eyes, Derek is gone, dragged off through some hole in time and space to ponder his transgression and be tormented forever.
But the cell wall is gone and Hrag can see starlight.
He crawls to the surface as the prison buzzes behind him like a freshly kicked wasp's nest. But Hrag is free, and rightly so. For he didn't bring the plague to the city. He, until recently, had never spoken the names of demons.
But if you're going to be punished, you may as well do the crime...
INTERMISSION
Sentry
by
Herika R. Raymer
A twinge of hope flickered as I heard the distant footfalls below, followed by the echo of a voice calling inside the empty building. Curiosity would overcome caution and the new arrival would explore the darkened interior of the derelict structure. Soon after, the door to this room on the second floor would open and my successor would arrive. I spared a moment to wonder who had been selected to take my place, what kind of personality was to take up the mantle of sentry, and how my replacement would fare once I was gone. The realization such things did not matter quickly pushed such fruitless distractions aside. There were more pressing matters.
The other seals were breaking. I did not question how I knew this. Most likely due to the increasing coldness invading the usually comfortable room. Glancing across the floor toward my charge, I felt the weight of my age settle upon me. This seal had been the focus of my life for an incredibly long time and, aside from myself, it was the only other occupant. Neither of us had left the room since I had taken up the mantle of sentry. Memory of what outside looked like was vague and distant. Listening as the footfalls got louder prompted my own curiosity to awaken and I wondered what had brought the newcomer. Myself, I had been drawn to the derelict lighthouse by some unseen reel. Having not left this room since the door closed, the memory of that experience had been almost forgotten. Yet now I revisited it, oddly comforted by the nostalgic recollection.
The lighthouse had stood like a forgotten beacon, the path leading to it mostly overgrown but not so much so to keep nosy wanderers from finding the place. Recalling the initial thrill I had experienced at seeing the lonely building pulled more memories from the dusty halls of my mind. Lightho
uses had been my passion when I was younger, perhaps because I came from a family of sailors. An impressionable youth reared at the knee of grizzled seamen. Each generation bragged at least one tale of a stormy night where their ship had b,een saved by the guiding light off the shores. To me, each beacon was a saving grace and, when able, I researched many of the hold houses. This one had been spoken of only in obscure references and its location only hinted at. In my enthusiasm, I managed to decipher the clues and discovered the partially hidden path to my goal. Little did I know my destiny would open its door to me, literally, and never let me go. Once chosen, there was no refusing the task assigned.
The assignment here had become increasingly vital of late, especially with the other seals failing. Some were only cracked but in their weakened state it would not take much to open them completely. After which the unspeakable would happen. This had to be prevented, but my strength was failing. I may not have known how much time passed as I kept my post, but my ignorance of the years passing had not gone unnoticed by my aging form. It was becoming more and more difficult to remain vigilant. I only hoped the change of the guard possessed the fortitude to fulfill this incredible responsibility.
A knock on the door pulled me from my reverie, prompting me to frown. My mind wandering was becoming more and more of a concern. It was not necessarily a terrible problem but when the temperature began to drop it was best to pay attention. Unfortunately, with it being consistently bitterly cold, it was getting harder to tell. Undoubtedly another reason why the replacement had been summoned.
I stood up from the solitary table, careful not to disturb the hand-written manuscript next to the simple plate, cutlery, and mug. Opening the door, a smile greeted the surprised gasp from the youngster on the other side. He looked me up and down, sizing me up. Without a mirror, I knew what he saw. My once tall frame was bent, the robust nature melted into a deceptively fragile frame, and what my family once joked to be my satyr-like features seemed to intimidate the young man. As I gestured an invitation, he hesitated. The cool of the room was trickling out, inviting him away from the humidity of outside. For a moment, I relished the sensation of the summer heat drifting in. It played along my skin, warming the fine film of cold as sunshine melts the crystalline dew from blades of grass. I could taste the sea as I heard the playful roll of the waters beyond. The urge to inhale the blend of aromas almost forgotten was immense, and I relished the last taste I would have of fresh air.
The youth cleared his throat.
My attention focused on him again, the temptation to leave the room immediately forgotten.
"How long you been here, man?"
The melody of a live voice tickled my ears and my smile erupted into a grin. I had forgotten how pleasant true human tones were. Goosebumps tickled my newly warmed skin with pleasure. It took a moment for me to answer, my own voice gruff from decades of silence. "Long enough," I finally said.
He looked beyond me and I could see the first hints of uncertainty and fear take seed. The blandness of the room was undoubtedly startling. Behind him, I could see the rest of the lighthouse was in terrible disrepair. Moldy floors crumbled wetly beneath the slightest weight; broken beams creaked as they continued to try to hold their burden; cracks lined the plaster, announcing their weakening due to weather; rays of sunlight poured through holes in the walls, between the floors above, and in the ceiling itself; and plants stubbornly invaded wherever possible. However, behind me the cell was immaculate. Walls were kept and sensibly met at solid corners; the wooden floor firm and stained against wear; the furniture consisting of a table, two chairs, a bed, a basin, and a bedpan were all immaculate, if unremarkable. It undoubtedly looked as though he was leaving one world for another.
In essence, he would be.
My grin shrank back to a smile, and in his eyes I could see my expression. Aside from the strange looking man with a gap-toothed grin, the wry look on my face gave hint to the secret I held. Good. It would pull at his curiosity and help him cross the threshold.
Sure the lure had been set, I moved away from the door. Knowing it would stay open until time, I returned to the table and began to divide the meal there on the two platters present. The delightful scent of freshly made food wafted to the young man and I played as though I did not hear the slight rumble of his stomach. As I poured mead into the two mugs, I heard his foot scrape along the floor. The first indication he was intrigued.
"What is this place?" he ventured
"A lighthouse."
"I know that, but it is not in any of the tour books or catalogues," he persisted. I glanced up when I heard a familiar passion spark. "I heard about this place in a ghost story and knew it was real." He entered as he warmed to his subject. "Everyone told me I was dreaming, that this place was a figment. An idea probably based on a real place. I knew better. It did not matter how much they tried to convince me I was wasting my time, I knew this place was real. Not a mirror of an established lighthouse, but a lighthouse itself."
At this last word he looked outside. I did not have to see his face to know it held wonder. He was seeing beyond the dilapidated state of the construction outside, instead seeing the grandeur of what once was.
"It took forever to find this place! News clippings from old dusty files kept on microfilm. Who uses microfilm anymore? Bizarre local yarns from coastal towns. Not the big ones, mind you, but the small fishing towns. They remember better."
He sat down as he reminisced about his quest. Wordlessly, I sat across from him, allowing him to vent. It was so nice to hear another living being. A welcome change from the quiet which had been my constant companion. The young man took the fork and began to fidget with it. The nervous action told me he was aware of the quiet in the room, even if just on the edge of his subconscious, and it troubled him. Beyond the door was the whisper of a slight breeze, the rustle of plants, and the occasional complaint of the crumbling building. In here, it was quiet.
"Okay, okay, I admit it. At first I wanted to find this place just to prove them wrong. All those dimwits who said I was crazy. I wanted to prove I wasn't. But, after a while, they no longer mattered. It was weird, really. Their derision did not bother me like it used to. I just wanted to find this place. To prove, if only to myself, that it was real."
The door eased a bit.
He poked at the food for a moment and then took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, the action keeping him from chattering. I watched as his eyes scanned the room. His attention was, of course, drawn to the two portals in this space. The first was, naturally, the door through which he had entered. The other was, unfortunately, the reason why he was here.
"You need to turn off the air conditioner, man."
I arched an eyebrow at him.
"It's so cold in here, frost is on that curtain," he used his eating utensil to point to the offending fabric.
I did not need to look to know he was speaking to the truth, about the frost at least. However, it was not an air conditioner which was causing the icy phenomenon. He would learn that soon enough.
Sooner than I thought.
The boy went still, his eyes never leaving the covered window, his immobility caused by the noise that issued from it. It was not the natural sounds he had left, but whispers. Uncanny murmurs emitted from behind the drape, their mutterings unintelligible at the moment but I knew it could grow if left unchecked.
As the boy sat spellbound, I retrieved the quill atop the stack of papers on the table. After I picked up the makeshift tablet, I began to write but said nothing. My reaction was so natural by now it was automatic. The whispers drifting from the window became unsettling. Something in the clamor was off. Wrong. Perhaps it was the cadence or something else indefinable. The sound never rose above a whisper as the I wrote and it eventually faded. Afterward, when it was quiet again, I placed the quill back atop my strange manuscript and looked to my guest.
He was staring at me, mute. His eyes cut from me to the window and back again. The question in
them was undeniable, but it was not time for answers yet. The door was only half closed.
I encouraged him to describe outside to me. The question seemed to take him off guard, but another look around seemed to convince him of my lack of extraneous contact and he indulged me. He bemoaned the state of the world. Abandoned shops; displaced families; empty homes; cities in disrepair; all which undoubtedly happened in the past and would again in the future but unfortunately the only topics of conversation he was armed with. It surprised me how little of the outside world had changed. Perhaps it was true life was doomed to run in cycles until the end.
Still, I listened as one starved. His voice was so different from the window, so alive and full of expression. Thrice more during his dialogue the window interrupted and each time I entreated my guest to pause as I wrote. My final deposition grew and, though I could see he was curious to know what it said, he was polite enough not to ask for something not offered. He would know soon enough. Still, I could tell my behavior bothered him. Why only write when the whispers began and stop when they faded? I could see him puzzling over my actions but he never moved from the chair. He finished his meal and kept his attention on the window. The newcomer never noticed the door closing each time the whispers stopped and was unaware when it finally shut with an audible click.
The youth turned to the door but did not seem to mind. Instead, he gave voice to the questions which had been burning in him since the murmurs began.
"What are you doing?" he began. "I mean, why can't we hear what is going on outside properly. Is it the curtains? If so, want me to open the window?"
"No!" I said forcibly.
He started at the vehemence of my response. "Why?"
“So, you are ready to listen,” I responded with some satisfaction.
“What do you mean?” he retorted.
“You have stopped talking, noticed something, and asked about it.”
The Idolaters of Cthulhu Page 6