The whispers started again.
It was like a knife to my brain. There was no way out of here and if I did nothing I was going to be continually tortured until my dying day. My time as the sentry had finally come. I had been allowed my tirade but now it was time to work. Yet what was I going to do? I had no musical or artistic talent and I knew I was not going to sing. The very thought of talking made my mouth dry. I had to decide.
Images flashed in my head then. First slow, then faster and faster. These visions were not from the window. I was aware it could not do that or it would have done it to me earlier. Up until now, it had only lured me with noise and the illusion of scent. This was different. I rubbed my temples but the images only increased. I needed a way to expel them, and before I knew what I was doing, I was writing on the pristine walls.
I wrote of a mute in Paris who had fought a similar fight. I wrote of a man who had killed the body of his friend due to an abomination residing within it. I wrote of an old man who managed to tacitly terrorize a small town near the sea. I even wrote a small bit about the Hounds, as I knew them now to be. I kept writing until the images faded a bit but I knew I was by no means finished. It was then that I realized the whispers were quiet. Not only was the room quiet, but so was my mind.
I knew now how the old man had his information, and wished I did not. Both hands were cramped, as I had used both to transcribe. Writing from my off-hand was not nearly as legible but that was not the point. I had been used, channeling the energy of whatever was feeding me into a form of reality. Retelling what had happened so that it was not forgotten and therefore not repeated. It was the finality of each ending that pushed back the cold. I staggered to the corner, looking at the marred surfaces of my cell. Only the wall with the window had been left unmarked.
No. No, no, no.
First, being trapped in this room; second, the chill of the room which frequently deepened to a bitter cold; third, the oppressive quiet; fourth, the insane whispers which preceded a nightmare trying to break through into the waking world; and finally, being used as a utensil to keep the dark denizens imprisoned. It was too much. Too much for one person. The old man could not have done this on his own, despite what he said. No, he had to have had help.
Which meant I was not meant to be alone but I was not about to wait for help. Who knew when it would come? No, I had to take action.
The fire was still under the drapes and I knew now what I had to do.
I fed the fire with the remains of the manuscript, coarse blankets from the bed, and broken wood from the furniture I used to try and break down the door. The flames greedily ate up the fuel and grew. The tips of the curtains smoldered and finally lit up. I watched with glee as the fiery fingers traced up the outer edges of the material, their blackened trail spreading towards the center of the covering. The speed of the spreading blaze was beautiful and I shouted with victory. Surely that would keep the things away.
It wasn't until the covering was almost entirely burnt that I saw the mistake. The void beyond no longer had a barrier. The room was now a beacon to its stygian depths. Movement in the murk increased and grew. As the last of the curtain fell away, the cold burst through like an icy tempest.
"No!" I screamed as the room froze around me. "It was supposed to work!"
I did not feel when the things got a hold of me, my body blessedly numb from the bone-chilling cold. My heart slowed even as my blood ran cold at seeing what was coming through the portal. They were being guided by the light provided by this lighthouse, permitted into my world through my rash destruction of the simple yet fragile seal.
I had failed.
They were here.
PART THE SECOND
BATTLEGROUND
*****
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
from “Ode to the West Wind”
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Sublime Architecture for the Proper Devotional Praise of Dagon
by
Shenoa Carroll-Bradd
Being the odd one out is hard, especially when the group you're excluded from is your own family. Family is supposed to be the one unbreakable bond, the unshakeable foundation. But, as I'm quickly learning as I study under Master Architect Ramsey, foundations are not everything. Sometimes the pillars that look the strongest actually carry the least weight. He's teaching me that strength comes from many different parts of a design, and that there are invisible supports in every room and, as I suspect, in every heart.
This was important to keep in mind as I watched my family change over the last year. Before the great and terrible water god took up residence in our harbor, my family was nice, normal...and honestly sorta boring. But the good kind of boring, where no one ever disappeared or died unexpectedly, or started growing gills and leaving wet patches on the furniture.
My mother used to pester me with questions about my studies at the architectural college, which I found annoying at the time. Now, she only asks if I'm sure it's worth all the time I spend studying and in class, and if I don't think I'd be better served by attending their nightly devotions to Dagon.
I keep telling her I can't, that I have too much homework to do, but that's not always true. I hate to see the look of disappointment in her increasingly bulbous eyes as she, my father, and little sister, Abby, don their hooded robes and walk to the cliff-side temple.
I went along to one of their nightly devotions, just to see what all the fuss was about, and to get my mom to finally stop asking. As we walked up to the cliff side, dozens of hooded figures left their homes as well, all headed in the same direction as us. Focused as I'd been on my studies, I hadn't realized the whole town were now followers of Dagon. My sense of not fitting in grew stronger, especially once we reached the temple.
Well, temple is a bit too grand a word for it. The meeting place was more like a deep cavern, carved out of the rock by wind, waves, and time. Pools of standing water pocked the floor, and crusty salt deposits made everything sharp to the touch. We all had to crowd together to listen to the priest, who stood in almost total darkness toward the back of the cave. His words battled to reach us over the chorus of pounding surf below. Those around me leaned forward, concentrating, straining to hear.
I don't remember a lot of what he said, something about dwellers in the deep, and ancient things biding their time, waiting for the right epoch to rise. I nodded along and murmured agreement whenever the crowd spoke as one, answering the call and repeat cadence of the priest's sermon. Most of my focus was spent inspecting the cavern floor and walls, and the low, jagged roof overhead. My mind squirmed with the possibilities, the sheer untapped potential of all that as-yet unworked stone. I found myself smiling, giddy with anticipation. A little hand squeezed mine, and I looked down to see Abby smiling back at me. I patted her hooded head.
This could work. I might not be able to offer my love and blind devotion to Dagon, as everyone else had, but I could be a part of their faith and serve in my own way.
Toward the end of his sermon, the priest called for any newcomers to step forth and be welcomed into the salty arms of the congregation. I didn't hesitate. I accepted my hooded robe, sipped politely from the holy goblet of sea foam, and was declared one of the deeply blessed.
My parents beamed, and my mother even cried, wiping her eyes before licking her fingertips clean.
After the service concluded, I approached the priest and told him of my wishes, laying out how precisely I intended to honor Dagon. At first, I feared he would be offended by my presumption, as I'd only been a member of the faith for twenty minutes. But, he seemed genuinely pleased by my initiative and gave my plans his blessing.
I left the architectural college and instead devoted my days to carving, chiseling, and planing the open cavern of the temple, then stayed to attend the services at night before returning home with my family. My hands blistered, then callused over, but I think I did my finest work in those months. I leveled out the floor and incorporated flowing rivers and the essences of waves, so that the sea water that found its way up into our temple could follow the carved channels back out. I shaped the walls to better carry the priest's words to the ever increasing audience of devoted, and worked the ceiling with scenes and shapes described in the sermons, filling the space above our heads with Dagon's inescapable presence.
Once I finished my work on the temple's main room, the priest showed me several narrow tunnels that branched out from the back of the cavern, where only he had been allowed before. I was flattered that he would show them to me, and knew my parents would be proud to learn of my rise in the temple. I began work on transforming the tunnels as I had the meeting room, incorporating drains and runnels into the floors, to prevent puddling and stagnation from the general moistness of Dagon's devoted.
The longer my family attended the nightly services, the paler they grew, and the more their eyes bulged. I remained the same, physically at least, while they and most of the village began to take on characteristics of the creatures who were blessed enough to share the deep ocean with Dagon. Delicate webs began to grow between my parents' fingers, and a shadowy arc appeared on Abby's thin neck, something I feared might be the precursor to gills.
I divulged this to no one, but I never truly devoted myself to Dagon, as everyone else had. The time I spent in the temple and the efforts I put forth in his name were all actually for my family. I did it for them, to make them proud, and so that we finally had something to share, some activity we could all partake in.
As I worked deeper and deeper in the tunnels, I began to hear an occasional voice rumbling up through my feet, as if traveling to my ears from some underground sea. The words never coalesced into something I could understand, but I felt power in them, and that's where I believe the nameless priest received his sermons.
As the temple expanded and became more comfortable and better suited to deliver the word, more and more devoted began attending, arriving from outlying villages to join our congregation. The sermons changed as our numbers grew, putting more and more emphasis on personal sacrifice, and how nothing we owned or loved truly belonged to us, but was a privilege extended by our watery lord.
I was blessed to work on chambers along the halls, some seemed simple, meant for storage, or perhaps as bunks for the devoted who traveled long distances to join us, and for the most part I was allowed to realize my own designs. But, the last chamber was dictated to me by the priest, with instructions that came directly from below. This room was designed with deep drains in the floor that lined up with natural fissures leading down to the ocean, and a large stone altar set in the middle. I did my best with it, pouring my love for my family through my hands and into the stone, but as I carved and shaped, I couldn't fight the terrible dread that rose like a fresh tide. I could not think of a scenario in which this room could be used for anything wholesome or good.
Perhaps, with hope and luck and a dash of naivete, I prayed to Dagon that it was meant as a birthing room, where the expectant mother might recline along the stone table and bring her child into the world, directly into the congregations' arms, and the drains would allow for easy and convenient clean up.
Not long after its completion, the blacksmith of our village was selected for a great honor. He was chosen to meet Dagon and become a direct servant of his, an honor so great most of us could not believe his luck. The priest led him back into the tunnels for his reward, and we returned to our village to celebrate his choosing and wish each other such fortunes in the future.
The smithy remained dark and silent after that.
The next chosen was an old baker, and then a mother of four, and then it was my father's turn for the honor. We all wept and drank our own tears, and my last glimpse of him remains clear in my mind. He was so happy, so proud, his fish-belly white face nearly glowed with joy at being selected.
We went home without him, of course, and as I tucked Abby into her perpetually damp bed that night, she squeezed my hand with her tiny, freshly webbed fingers. “I'm gonna be picked next,” she declared with an eager grin. “I know I am. 'Cause I love Dagon thiiiis much!” She spread her tiny white arms as far as they would go.
I kissed her slippery forehead and said good night.
A week after my father was chosen, I hovered in the temple's entry way, trying to work up the nerve to ask the priest about the odds of Dagon selecting my sister as a personal servant. She was small and easily distracted, prone to tantrums. Hardly good servant material for a great sunken god.
We were all gathering for the evening service when a group of strangers approached. A shrill call sounded from the ocean below, and the devoted funneled away into the tunnels like rats. All except for me. I lost track of my mother and Abby, and soon found myself alone in the empty temple.
The strangers appeared in the mouth of our temple cave, dishonoring it with their heavy armor and naked weapons. The largest one bore an ax, and he grabbed me by the front of my hooded robe. “Where is your priest?” he growled.
I am good with my hands, but not with my tongue. I've never been a skilled or speedy liar. I gestured behind me and squeaked out, “In the tunnels. Probably in the altar room, at the very end.”
“And are there any traps between here and there?”
I shook my head numbly. Traps? Why would I designed traps for my own people? My work was meant to improve their lives and ease their worship.
He grunted, and then shook me. “Good. Get out of here.” He released my robes and shoved me backwards.
I stumbled into the wall, clutching at the grooves of my own carvings in order to stay upright. “Please,” I panted. “Don't hurt them. Dagon's followers are good people. My people. They're all here in the temple, as well.”
The intruders glared.
I hurried on. “They're not bad, just misguided. They've had nothing to hang their hopes upon for too long. My sister and mother are among them. Please, show mercy.”
The big man with the ax, if not the leader of the band then certainly the loudest, stood up straighter and put on what I suspect was meant to be his noblest expression. “We are not unreasonable people. While the blight of this little cult must be purged, we promise not to harm anyone who surrenders or stays out of our way.”
My heart sank. I had seen the feverish light of devotion in the eyes of the followers, and witnessed their rapt attention when the priest delivered his sermons. They would not stand down once the threat to the temple became clear.
The band began to move past me, toward the tunnels I had fashioned with my own hands. Before they disappeared, the one at the end who clutched a heavy mace turned back to glare at me. “No funny business from you, understood? Don't set off any alarms or try to follow us in.”
I raised my hands and shook my head, mute.
The stocky man narrowed his eyes and held my gaze for a moment, as if he were trying to peer into my brain to detect any falsehood. Finally, he seemed satisfied that I wouldn't intervene, and disappeared into the tunnels with his fellows.
I let out a long, shaky breath and dropped my hands. “Don't fight them, Abby,” I whispered into the carved cavern. “Find a niche to duck into. Be a good girl and hide.” Thank Dagon I had designed the hallways with cutouts and alcoves, all the
perfect size to shield a small girl.
Screams, shouts, and the unmistakable sounds of fighting echoed up to me. I heard approaching footsteps, then the twang of a bowstring, and the sudden thump of a body hitting the stone floor. A pale, web-fingered hand flopped into view around the tunnel corner, and I watched, transfixed, as a turgid flow of blood seeped from the fallen worshiper. My carefully carved runnels caught the scarlet offering and diverted it away to a waiting drain, just as designed. The horrible clamor of battle continued, but I couldn't make my feet move. I just stood there, staring at the draining blood, and wishing my father could have seen the completion of my work, and how well my efforts served the devoted, even to their very ends. He might have been proud.
I backed up against the salt-shining wall and slid down until I was sitting. I pulled my knees up and began gnawing at a nail. If the interlopers failed, and the devoted cut them down, I knew there was no use going back to the village, or trying to run. They would find me and hold me accountable for my betrayal.
On the other (increasingly damp) hand, if the devoted were scattered and the temple undone, then I would wait until the vanquishers celebrated their victory and left. And then, by Dagon, I'd comb the bloody halls for whatever remained of my family.
The Ones Who Remember
by
Robert J. Krog
At night, I dream. I walk the wide world in the trail of the Old One.
In the day, I eat, and drive, and work, and smile the fake smile.
At night, I live the real.
The Idolaters of Cthulhu Page 8