The Idolaters of Cthulhu

by H. David Blalock

  The unexpected was his nemesis. He had never really learned to deal with it. He had avoided it, usually by delaying doing anything until whatever problem had presented itself worked out on its own. The consequences had not always been what he would have liked, but they had never been intolerable.

  “Sra? Nurdana,” she said, beckoning him again.

  Jonathan glanced from her to the two men. Only now did it occur to him to wonder how he got there, whether he was a guest or a prisoner. The men didn't look intimidating, in fact they were smiling and encouraging him to follow the woman. Should he? Well, he thought, he wasn't going to find any answers in this cave. At last, he nodded to them and followed.

  The cave was situated just off a short stretch of beach, enclosed on both sides by old lava flows, their razor-sharp edges casting hard shadows in the moonlight. Jonathan glanced up at the sky. He must have been unconscious for hours, for the full moon was high, giving its ghostly light to the white beach sand, causing the shoreline to glow. The surf lapped phosphorescent at the sand, leaving dying emerald embers behind. It was beautiful.

  A plaintive piping began and he turned to find the woman holding a musical instrument of strange design to her lips. The melody was reminiscent of a child cooing to its mother, a soft and soothing sound that touched a chord deep in his psyche. It was almost hypnotic in its rhythm, a lullaby with overtones of a worshipful love, the love of a son or daughter for their parent.

  Silence settled almost before he knew it and he looked around to find himself alone on the beach. A splashing sound brought his attention to the rolling surf.

  What Jonathan Marion saw tumbling toward him from the dark night depths of the ocean, borne by too many legs to be natural, struck him with so much confusion and horror that his natural hesitance at the unexpected blossomed into a full-blown paralysis. The piping had called it, this he now knew, and it would not survive long outside the waves where its massive bulk would be upheld by its own buoyancy. It came on, slowly and inexorably, the wet sounds of its movement an obscene accompaniment to the writhing coils reaching toward him. If he ran now, if he could get his feet to move, he could probably outstrip its shambling gait.

  He must run! But, what if he ran and it caught him anyway? Was this perhaps some kind of test of manhood? Did the woman and her escort expect him to fight this monstrosity to prove himself? A thousand questions rattled through his brain, some sensible, most not, as he agonized and the thing pulled the last of its bulk from the surf.

  As he felt the first of the tentacles wrap around him, the old adage screamed in his mind one last time: “He who hesitates is lost.”

  PART THE THIRD

  THE COMING

  *****

  Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all;

  Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to the call!

  Fill fast, and fill full; 'gainst the goblet ne'er sin;

  Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost rim:--

  Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!

  Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his cares?

  Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares?

  Water sinks down below, in currents full slow;

  But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:--

  Welling up, till the brain overflow!

  As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul,

  Others golden, with music, revolve round the pole;

  So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines,

  Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac's Signs:--

  Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!

  Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment brings;

  It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant sings.

  Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows dim;

  Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded rim:--

  Fill up, every cup, to the brim!

  “Invocation”

  by Herman Melville

  1819-1891

  The Arms of the Gods

  by

  Jonathan Dubey

  Please understand. I've nothing against you. I truly believe that everything will be so much better, easier, if you simply understand my actions. It is important for you to know that I love you, though my actions may not seem to say so. Love does not come easily for me, it never has, but you deserve no less. Though you may not be receiving this tale by choice, you receive it nonetheless and therefore deserve all I can give you. And that is my love.

  I've never met my mother. She was gone from this world before I could open my eyes to look at her. It was at a party reopening the cannery in Kingsport under his name as opposed to his grandfather's. She, with child, should not have been out and so near. She died on the rocks, an accident causing my early entrance into this world. I felt her love on that day and only that day. I understand that I cannot possibly remember such a feeling at merely hours old, but I am certain that I do.

  My father birthed me there, probably would have dashed me on the rocks out of anger and grief if not for the other party goers. I believe his love died that day along with her because I never felt it. I know that he wanted a son, a suitable heir. I could never have been the daughter he wanted. Tutors and boarding schools would never have made me the woman he needed.

  He wanted me to marry as early as possible. I was little more than a girl when he began introducing me to other business men from his social circles, even married ones. It angered him that I refused to spend any time with any of them. I felt a pang of excitement when I introduced him to Tobias. He was an architecture student from the university near my finishing school in Arkham, only a few years my senior. My father said his speech and movement were more womanly than my own. He laughed when Tobias took ill and had to go back home out west. Tobias never finished the journey.

  After Tobias, Father introduced me to some of his factory workers and fishermen. He had become far less picky. Maybe it would have been easier to talk to one of them had I been granted time to mourn. I suppose it may have been possible that one of them was at least interesting.

  The rocks, however, interested me more. I spent my days on the shore outside the cannery. There was no sand, just jutting porous boulders, some of which the very ones that took my mother's love from me. I imagined which ones could have soaked up the bright red essence of her life. I thought that if I continued looking, examining each surface, I would know and maybe even feel her presence.

  I know that the townspeople talked. “The rich girl, keeps to herself. Whispers to stones on the shore.” I know that the factory workers watched, sometimes yelling profane things or making such offers. I ignored them. I continued looking, becoming ever more certain that I was looking for that which I would never find. If I could not find my mother's love, perhaps I could join it out there on the rocks for eternity.

  Fish canneries attract rats and all sorts of other pests that need to be dealt with. Poisons were never in short supply; easy to find, easy to conceal. My mother died on a moonless night, I would do the same. Rid the world and my father of my likeness. Maybe he wasn't too old to move on and, without me, he could possibly produce the heir for which he longed.

  It should have been treacherous walking but I knew the rocks so well. I didn't need to see, I could tell just by feel. It turns out that is exactly what I needed. I could feel it calling to me. My face was tepid, like the first sip of wine. That's how I knew I was close, I felt warmer as I neared. A spot that I must have walked over and searched ten times before called out to me like a rustle in my mind, just breathing at first, and then came whispers. I could not make out the words at first. Then I realized that it was not words at all, at least not words that I knew, but it sounded so familiar. I could feel heat emanating from the ground, first through my boots, and then with my hands as I dropped to my knees.

  I was elated to finally have that which I sought but I knew I was there for a purpose. The sudden burst of knowledge came forth to my mind. My
discovery and my purpose were linked. I no longer had a choice. It called to me, and I drank. I repeated the words as they were whispered to me from the rocks: gotha n'gha uln hupadgh shugg 'fhalma y'han.

  To say that I had no fear would be a bald-faced lie. Though there was no purpose to continue life, the unknown of death was utterly terrifying, and then suddenly it wasn't. I didn't realize that I was on my back until I felt as though the ground were opening beneath me. The heat arose, soothing my body from the cold air, and then came arms. I was so entranced that I thought them to be hers. Perhaps I was wrong, but perhaps there was a part of her love within. Arms without hands or joints the way we understand, like a creature from the Stygian depths of the sea. Moist but not wet, chilling but not cold. Not hot, but soothing. I felt love from the arms of the gods. I was home.

  The next thing I felt was warmth on my face, not like that of the love, but something far more sinister: the sun. I woke to the morning brightness stinging my eyes as they opened. The poison I had taken was not enough. My life was my own again and I couldn't have felt more cursed than for it to be so. When there is freedom in only death, life is a painted jail.

  I wandered home repeating the words over and over, “Gotha n'gha uln hupadgh shugg 'fhalma y'han.” It was not as though I wished to remember them. It was a compulsion.

  My father, preferring brandy to my company and asleep in his office chair, did not notice my arrival. I fell into sorrow for several days. I left the confines of my day bed only when absolutely necessary. Yet in that time, I found a modicum of happiness among the books and papers in his library, then hope, and finally a plan simple but elegant, all because of a scrap of paper fallen from a book. I thought of a way to bring my gods back to me and maybe even to us all.

  The book was of geology and I was surprised not to have seen it before. My father had no interest in such things and somehow I knew it belonged to my mother. My father never talked about her; what she looked like or her interests. At that moment, I knew she and I shared at least one. We had a common interest in the rocks, though for decidedly different reasons. I could see the book was one she treasured Many of the pages had worn or missing corners, notes written in her hand abounded in the thing, even a sketch or two.

  I read it cover to cover that very night. I felt close to my mother for the second time in as many months. When I finished the last page, a paper fell from the brittle pages, almost unnoticed. It was a note, signed with her name and written to a Professor Fred. Why so informal, I wondered? An old lover, perhaps? Did my father know? The body of it was short and strange. It stated simply: The New Moon. Then odd words written childishly in a language I could not understand. Until I realized that I knew the words, and knew them well: gotha n'gha uln hupadgh shugg 'fhalma y'han. My purpose became clear.

  I wanted everything to be as it was, so I waited a few more weeks until the next dark moon. During that time, I thought of that place every hour of every day. I walked there often, never to forget where it was. On the chosen night, I found it easily. I took some of my father's brandy to give me courage and to dull the pain. I had a small kitchen knife wrapped in my scarf.

  I lay on my back, feeling the warmth from below the hard rocks. I drank as much of the intoxicant as I could stomach. I unwrapped the knife, the tool that would become the weapon of my salvation, or so I thought. Bringing me near death must have been the way to call my gods to me.

  I held the blade to my throat but could push no further. The alcohol did not dull the pain as much as I'd hoped it would. Deep inside of my mind, I was nothing more than a coward. I bared my wrist and forearm, pressed the knife to my flesh, and had the same result. In anger, I grasped the edge in my fist, squeezed, and felt it cut in. I said the words, “Gotha n'gha uln hupadgh shugg 'fhalma y'han.”

  My blood found its way to the rocks after all. But it wasn't enough. Soon my tears joined it, diluting it. With one last hope, I lay on top of the mess. I begged my gods to come back for me, first as just a voice in my head and then aloud. My cries and subsequent screams disrupted the perfect quiet that once had matched the perfect darkness of the night. I was able to gather just enough of my sanity to leave before being discovered. I had failed, but was not all without hope. I had a new supposition. If the essence of life was not enough to bring them to me, then it had to be death. If I wanted my dark champions to come for me and stay with me, then life had to end on that site. Perhaps that life need not be mine.

  When I was a child, I was given a small bird to keep as a pet. I wanted it to keep me company but it didn't. I wanted it to be my friend but it wouldn't. It sang when I wanted quiet and was stoic when I wanted it to sing. I cried when it died.

  Finding another bird was not terribly difficult, plucking it from its cage – easy. Wrapping it in a small scarf and placing it into a basket was simple. It almost amazed me how negligent it was of its own mortality. The waiting was difficult but the act was simple. I destroyed its life with my hands and bled it onto the rocks. I said the words. Nothing. Too small maybe? Something larger? No, not enough. It had to be man.

  Speaking to my father was not something I wished to do often. He almost smiled when I told him I was ready. Ready to meet a man. Someone he would choose for me. I almost hoped he would stand from his chair, walk to me and place his lips upon my brow or even his hand upon my cheek. He did no such thing, of course.

  He did however, acquiesce to my request. Mr. Hemdale was a twice-widowed fleet captain of second generation Swedish descent. He had four children, mostly grown, away at school. I almost wanted to feel abominable but the excitement of bringing my gods to me over-shadowed any severe emotion. My father made arrangement for him to meet with me for an unaccompanied walk in the night air at such a time as suited me. And such a time I knew well, preordained as it were.

  I was however, stood up, and I left the house distraught, my weapon prepared but target changed. I had come closest to spending eternity in the rapture of their arms when it was my life to be ended. I made for the rocks, weeping upon hearing of my suitor's disinterest. A life would end that night in the darkness, of that I was sure. If I was to be successful, I would be with my true wooers. If not, I would be never the wiser in damnation. I was unaware of my pursuer.

  My vision was clouded by sorrow but I knew the way. I arrived and dropped to my knees, not tender about dirtying my prettiest dress. I drew my knife and felt the metal fueled by my own fearfulness against my neck. Then I heard my name. It was called out in the most familiar loathsome voice I knew. I detected my father's footfalls as he came closer, calling out to me. I lost my mind for a moment, almost dropping the knife. I thought he might be there to show concern, pity, or did I even dare to think… love. In my daze, I spread my free arm to welcome his embrace, the other holding the edge close into my bust-line.

  As soon as he found me, guided by my sobs, my mind's mask was lifted. His words scorned, his hands were not to embrace, but to grab. He meant to drag me back to my home, a home that was less a home to me than these very rocks upon where we stood. Scolding came from his lips. He asked how I dared drag him to this damnéd place of foul air and treacherous footing.

  I stepped back when he first reached out for me. He jolted forward and grasped my wrist. The squeeze of his hand made an impression I can still feel. He jerked me toward him and I lost footing, reaching out with the other arm. The blade met his breast. His last holler turned to a gargle before he fell silent. He stood a moment more and my vision cleared enough to look into his eyes. I hoped one last time to see love in them, but there was not. There was nothing at all, an empty hazel-rimmed abyss.

  “Gotha n'gha uln hupadgh shugg 'fhalma y'han.”

  His body fell, with mine atop. There was a death that night after all, one I did not see coming. I felt warmth beneath me. Between our bodies, the arms of my gods might have found me but they did not. His blood was the cause of the warmth. His life and anything he could ever have been from that day on soaked into the front of my dress.<
br />
  I recovered his coat, and the tool of his demise. I tore my dress to tatters rolling his body toward the tide to be carried away, I was certain. I removed my dress and replaced his coat over my undergarments. Some ghost of mercy tempted me to plant a kiss upon his brow before one final push sent him into the sea.

  The gods did not find me but I finally knew how they wished to do so. All the clues were before me. The life of a person had to not only be forfeited on that spot but they had to desire their end. Only then would the arms come and bring with them their dark passion.

  I closed the cannery. It was not the largest employer. The town economy only suffered a little. I was questioned by police inspectors but never really suspected. I was mildly amused when I found that the town cared for my father about as much as I had. He was universally disliked, as was I upon the closing of the cannery. The auctioneer I procured to sell off the machinery and supplies made a good deal of money, but not as much as I.

  Finding an architect was easy, with the Miskatonic University so close. Finding the right architect was difficult though, and I found myself very much missing my friend Tobias. I was able to hire a man who would design a house that should not be built in a place one should not be built. Wood and iron were salvaged from the cannery to create the structure on these rocks. “Too close to the water,” said some. “Just one good storm,” said others.

  The house is not very large but it is considered too large for a single resident. Others seem to say that it sits awfully high. There is no shortage of curiosity and curiosity begets rumor. Rumor occasionally brings gentlemen to my door.

  Thank you for coming to my home and thank you more for accepting my wine. I do hope that the haze from the added tincture is worn completely off by now. Know this if nothing else: my love for you grows stronger with each of my words that you hear.