I am forced to watch. I would rather kill myself. Please, let me die. I did not want this.
[YOU CHOSE TO LISTEN. EVEN AS I DID. TRUST ME, I AM MERCIFUL IN MY CRUELTIES. THERE ARE FAR WORSE THINGS I COULD HAVE DONE TO YOU. NOW SEE FOR ME.]
The cars are like altars for the bodies of my neighbors, flesh splayed out on each of them like for sky burial, the bats swarming like worms out of the earth, eating and eating. One of them looks up at me, far away, laughing, seeing in me, I sense, some cousin. I am assisting in their death.
[YOU SEE THIS, THEN, THAT ASSISTING IN DEATH IS THE MOST NOBLE ACT A BEING IS CAPABLE OF UNDERTAKING. THAT KILLING IS THE WORK OF GOD, IN ALL FORMS, AND IN ALL TIMES. THOSE WHO KILL ARE REWARDED WITH THIS REMEMBRANCE: THAT ALL FLESH NEEDS MOST HANDSOMELY TO BE TRANSFORMED, AND IN OUR METAMORPHOSIS INTO THE FUTURE WE ARE CHANGED INTO THOSE THINGS WE MOST WANTED TO BE: MASTERS, AND MASTERS, AND MASTERS. FOR THE OLD ONES ARE HUMAN, OF COURSE. ALL THE UNIVERSE IS OF HUMAN CREATION. WE ARE MAKING OURSELVES]
Please, let me die.
[YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD. THIS IS YOUR AFTERLIFE]
I want to die.
[I KNOW]
What kind of horrible afterlife is this?
[YOU ARE A POLYP. MY TEACHINGS WILL NOURISH YOU. IN TIME, YOU WILL FLOWER.]
Please, let me die.
[THAT IS NO LONGER POSSIBLE]
My city is burning.
[SO ARE YOU]
What does this mean? Oh God . . .
[IT MEANS WE ARE GROWING CLOSER TO ONE ANOTHER. IT MEANS THAT THE WORK OF PEACE IS A VERY BLOODY WORK INDEED. THE MOST INTIMATE WORK THAT CAN BE IMAGINED, MORE INTIMATE THAN SURGERY OR SEXUAL INTERCOURSE IS THE WORK OF PEACE, BECAUSE IT HAPPENS IN THE MIND]
I’m dying. I’m floating over the city. Missiles are being fired . . .
[THE MISSILES ARE LITTLE ORGASMS]
A Holocaust.
[ONE OF MANY. HEAR THE MUSIC IN IT!]
Everyone is being murdered. The animals. The trees. They’re . . . changing. Into factories. They’re churning us up . . .
[HOLD MY HAND]
I am become a God. I’m going to throw up.
[ISN’T IT BEAUTIFUL?]
Who are you?
[MY NAME IS ROUNDERK. I HAVE BEEN WATCHING YOU FOR A VERY, VERY LONG TIME.]
Where are we going?
[INTO THE FUTURE. SINK WITH ME INTO THE EARTH:]
This ecstasy can know no earthly measurement! If you will digested you will know why you were made, why the fuel that is you was fashioned in the form that you are; die with me, and come with me into something different, more vast than the greatest desert, more horrible than the cruelest army, black midnight sorrows will form wine in your hands, to nourish you on your descent, into your other soul: winded like a camel on the end of its journey, flap your wings! Tell me the name of your children, and cry with me the beyond, your own name:
I am a crow!
[YOU ARE MORE THAN THAT]
Dreaming Of A Darker Tomorrow
by
Ben Stewart
It was, as ever, dark in Mordiga. Not even the weakest beam of light found its way to this deep, subterranean realm, but its residents had long since acclimatised to such Stygian conditions. Their eyes had developed to the point where they could pick out some details in the inky gloom but they relied more on their other senses to go about their lives. They felt their way along slime-covered walls with long, clawed fingers while their pointed ears were sharp enough to even make out the sounds of burrowing rodents a hundred yards away. And their noses twitched constantly, forever seeking out the scent of dead and decaying flesh that was their main source of sustenance.
So, despite the cloying, impenetrable darkness, the citizens of Mordiga went about their daily business without difficulty. Some wriggled through the rocky tunnels in search of food. Some dug out new burrows in which to accommodate their huge families, tearing at the soil with their bare hands driven by the lean, rope-like muscles of their deceptively frail-looking frames. And as always, the high priests of Mordiga consumed the bloated puffballs that grew in the deepest pits, screaming in ecstatic delirium as the poisonous spores filled their heads with prophecies and portents that they would scratch into the walls of their caves with sharp stones. The puffballs were a blessing from Az'Mentia, the demon-god of fungus, poisons, and the deep places who was the patron deity of Mordiga. Through his scared mushrooms, the priests were able to interpret and record his will in the Mordigan language of gouges and grooves, read with the fingers rather than the eyes in the manner of Braille. And so went the day to day life in Mordiga, if the word “day” may be applied to such a land of eternal night. Hunting and digging, with the howls of revelation echoing through the tunnels, and it had been just so for over a thousand years.
But this, it would seem, was not enough for little Unshul. Curled up miserably in the corner of her family's warren, Unshul gave a little sigh of self pity and hugged her prize possession tightly to her chest: an especially large dead rat which, at two feet long without the tail, was almost as big as her. She could hear the rattling snores of the rest of her family asleep in a communal heap over on the far side of the burrow. She could not see them as, being more than ten feet away, they were beyond even the remarkable eyes of a native Mordigan, but she could make out each individual's breathing noise without difficulty. Mother, Mother's Mother, Father's Mother and all seventeen of her siblings sounded unique to her sensitive ears. Unshul thought she could even make out a slight unevenness in Mother's Mother's breathing that might be indicative of illness or weakness. The thought that the ageing crone might soon die and provide the family with a rare source of fresh meat cheered Unshul slightly but it was only a brief moment of respite from her loneliness. At this time the entire brood was asleep in the burrow with the exception of Father, who was hunting and, of course, Unshul herself, who could not settle in her current state of ennui. She rubbed her rat's tail gently under her nose as she did when trying to drift off to sleep but even this familiar comfort did help her this time.
An hour or so later, Unshul was still awake and beginning to wonder if she would ever sleep again when a familiar scent reached her twitching nose. The scent was quickly followed by a soft padding sound that she would recognise anywhere and she knew Father had returned.
“Unshul, child, why do you not sleep with the family?” he hissed softly from somewhere in the darkness before her. The Mordigans always spoke quietly, as befits a race with such fine hearing. In fact the ancient laws stated that only the priests of Az'Mentia could raise their voices, and this they did with gusto as their mushroom-fuelled screaming could be heard throughout most of the city. Unshul stayed silent and still, hoping her father would assume she was in fact asleep and just carry her over to the family pile, but he was not easily fooled.
“Now, now, child. I know you are awake,” said the disembodied voice. “I can tell something troubles you. Come, tell Father what is on your mind and maybe you shall have a morsel to eat. Hunting was good today.”
Hesitating and unsure, Unshul hissed in reply. “I... I have been thinking, Father. I have been wondering if I will ever know a life beyond Mordiga. If I will ever know a life like our ancestors in the stories who lived above the dirt instead of below it.”
“Why would you wish such a life, child?” Father's voice now came from a different part of the cave and Unshul giggled. She couldn't fail to be impressed by his skill of moving so quietly that even her agile ears could not follow his steps. She knew he had performed this trick to cheer her and she appreciated the gesture.
“I hear the stories of the surface world, Father. It sounds so beautiful. We Mordigans lived there once, didn't we? And is it also true that the Meat up there is actually still alive and walking around?”
“Yes, both those stories are true. The Meat we hunt for in the earth is simply their dead, which they chose to bury in the ground for some reason.”
“But why do they hide their dead in the ground rather
than eating them?” asked Unshul, and Father chuckled softly.
“Because they are fools, my child. They fear the true ways of Az'Mentia. That is why they shunned us all those many years ago, why they forced us underground in their fear of us and the fungus god.”
Unshul hugged her dead rat tighter still. Visions of a wonderful world of walking, fresh Meat danced through her head.
“I should very much like to see the surface one day,” she muttered to herself.
“Foolish child,” chided Father, but without malice. “While the surface may be rich in food there is also something very deadly to us lurking there. This terrible and wrathful thing is known as the sun and it is a blazing eye that watches over the Meat. It would burn the skin from your bones if you dared to step into its gaze. Even when the sun sleeps, the Meat have created means of holding back any worthwhile darkness. Twinkling lights in their thousands that would sicken and pain you if you looked upon them. Sometimes when I am near the surface, I have stopped to smell the outside air and then I have seen these lights and I could not linger in their horrible glare.”
Unshul found the concept of light tricky to understand but still she listened dutifully to her Father's wisdom.
“So I will never see the surface, Father?”
Unshul could hear Father's footsteps padding closer and his raspy breathing and grave-dirt stench became a fraction clearer.
“Well, child... there are stories...” he said, leaving the words dangling temptingly.
“Stories, Father?”
“When the high priests of Az'Mentia consume the sacred puffballs of the fungus god, they often receive blessed visions from the holy spores. You can hear them now, screaming with delight that the creeping mould of Az'Mentia is eating away at their brains, can you not?”
“I know about the visions, Father,” said Unshul with the slightest vein of impatience. Father chucked again and continued.
“You know that they have the visions, little Unshul, but you do not know what the visions are or what they teach us. My Father's Father was a priest of the Mushroom Lord and one day he took me to the cave of the priests. I have read the prophecies with my own fingers. One day, you might do the same, perhaps if I am chosen by the portents to join that blessed order. Now, can you keep a secret, child?”
Unshul twisted her rat's tail around her delicate fingers nervously. “Yes, Father,” she finally managed to reply. Father went on in a whisper even quieter than before.
“The greatest of the Prophecies was laid down in the first days of Mordiga and concerns the day when the fungus god will return to the surface world and lead us, his favoured children, to our promised land. First, Az'Mentia will smite the surface world with the awesome power of his divine will. Az'Mentia will cause giant mushrooms to sprout in all of the surface realms, formed of the rage and hatred we Mordigans carry in our hearts for the wrongs done to our kind by the surface dwellers. The mighty fungi of spite will tower hundreds of feet high. Their terrible wrath will slay most of the Meat in an instant and oh-so many more will be choked dead by their poisonous spores. But some will live. Then, the mushrooms' spores will block out the hated sun and extinguish the lesser lights crafted by the Meat, leaving the surface world as dark as the lowest pits of Mordiga.”
Father moved close enough to Unshul that her sensitive eyes could make out the suggestion of his form. She saw the outline of his hunched back and long, bony but deceptively powerful arms. She could just about make out his short, squat legs and his filth-streaked hide. And if she strained her eyes to their limits, she could see the slightest hint of his snout-like mouth filled with cracked but still wickedly sharp teeth, twisted into a broad grin as he revelled in his tale.
“And when that day comes, little Unshul... when the fungus of Az'Mentia blocks out the sun... then the denizens of Mordiga will return to the surface from which we so were so cruelly banished. On that day, rather that scraping in the mud for their decaying scraps, we will the hunt the Meat as it still lives. Imagine it! Imagine the Meat squealing, stumbling in a darkness they cannot comprehend! We will taste of their flesh then, Unshul, and it will be fresh and wet and dripping with fear.”
Unshul scampered to her father and hugged his mud-encrusted legs. “Oh Father, is it really true?” she hissed.
“Of course it is, child. The priests have seen it and the priests have decreed it is inevitable. Az'Mentia will come, and there is nothing the Meat can do to stop it. In fact, they unwittingly bring their doom upon them with their every action, according to the wisdom of Az'Mentia.” Father gathered Unshul up in his long, thin, powerful arms. “And now child, you must sleep. Tell no one of the prophecy. I really should have not have told you of course, but I can't help but indulge my favourite daughter. Keep it to yourself and next time I hunt I shall find you a new rat. That one is starting to get a little bit too runny.”
Father carried Unshul over to the tangled mass of bodies that was the family heap and deftly placed a scrap of meat into her hand before he gently tucked her between two of her sisters for warmth. As Father climbed over the grunting, snoring pile to find Mother, Unshul examined the gift and saw that it was a finger, her favourite snack. She removed and discarded the cold metal ring that was still around it and devoured the crunchy treat happily. Burrowing down into the mass of bodies, Unshul rubbed her rat's worm-like tail under her nose again and ever so slowly drifted off to sleep. And as she slept she dreamed of the future and of the divine mushrooms of Az'Mentia heralding the rise of Mordiga. She dreamed of the Meat screaming in fear and of the taste of their warm, plentiful flesh.
Unshul dreamed of a darker tomorrow and was content.
Leap of Faith
by
Tyree Campbell
By the time Tara Duggan reached the age of twenty-eight, she had managed an accommodation with the voices inside her head. Unable to dispel them or to shut them out, she simply ignored them as best she could, as she might ignore a mild tinnitus or the faint background hiss of blood flowing through the capillaries in her inner ears. Relegated to the quantum fuzz of the Universe, the voices faded from her acknowledgement of them. Having thus silenced them, she got on with her life, an orphan of fisherfolk parents who lived in a shanty in a hamlet near the border between Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Or so she supposed.
That year, two events occurred to rearrange her assumptions. The first was an uncommonly powerful nor’eastern that blew upon the coastline from mid-Maine down to the New Jersey shoreline—a storm that should have utterly destroyed her shanty, assembled as it was of old gray wood and corrugated tin roofing, and yet did nothing of the sort. All around in the hamlet, dwellings collapsed and died, but Tara’s held together as though no storm at all had passed. After the storm dissipated, Tara resisted a brief urge to damage her own dwelling so that none of the other residents would think her singled out somehow, a notoriety she always sought to avoid. She merely wished to be left alone, supported by a small bequeathal from her parents, enough for her to get by on even during the hard times that were falling everywhere, now that the financial world in New York City had plummeted, taking the rest of the country with it.
The second event arrived on the heels of the first: a fish she had chanced to hook while casting from the short pier that served the inlet where the remains of the hamlet now stood in baleful and futile protest to the vagaries of the sea. It was a flatfish about the length of her forearm—a flounder, both eyes gaping up at her, accusing. It was large enough to serve her for two suppers, so she left off fishing and took it back to her shanty where she discovered that although the flounder had been out of the water for a good quarter of an hour, it was still very much alive.
She laid it out on a cutting board on a counter next to the sink and bashed its head with a wooden mallet. Still the fish continued to squirm and flop. She sliced off its head with a butcher knife without bringing a stop to the movements. Finally she inserted the point of the knife into the fish’s anus and opened up t
he body to remove the guts. At that point, the flounder ceased its struggles but the guts themselves landed with a dull clunk in the metal sink.
After a casual swipe at some loose strands of mouse-brown hair with the back of the hand holding the knife, she poked at the guts, now writhing like a small knot of thin snakes. Within seconds she located a hard lump in the mass and cut it free. The writhing stopped and the guts lay limp in a pile.
She stared down into the sink.
Moments passed before her vision was able to resolve the object into a ring. Of silver or of some silvery metal, it was large enough to fit a giant of a man, perhaps someone out of the Bible—
As the word passed through Tara’s thoughts, a sharp and intense pain struck her mind. Her knees buckled and she knelt on the floor, still holding the knife, her forehead pressed against the cupboard door below the sink. Breath left her; she gasped for air, fought to draw it into her, and eventually succeeded. One breath with each great effort. Her heart pounded.
The voices shouted at her. Do not allow yourself the thought of that word or that object ever again.
The Idolaters of Cthulhu Page 17