The Idolaters of Cthulhu

by H. David Blalock

  A lump had coalesced inside her, on the verge now of escape. The ache steadied, a hard agony the made her breath come in harsh, shallow rasps. Haugh, haugh, haugh. She leaned back, arms braced behind her. One hand slipped and she almost sprawled onto the grass, catching herself at the last instant as she cried out in fear.

  Whatever was inside her was slithering to get out.

  There is nothing to fear, Tara. The pain will pass.

  The rain began to abate. Water still streamed from her hair and down her face to cascade from her nose and chin. She drew her knees up and curled her body forward and pushed, screaming with the effort.

  At first she saw a tentacle emerge from her, gray and writhing, the tip of it tapping the grass until it reached her left ankle. After curling around the ankle, it seemed to anchor itself there. Another tentacle spilled from her and secured itself around her right ankle.

  The pain, the writhing, the rain, and the world, all felt to Tara as if they had come to a stop. Even time stuttered in its count.

  The tentacles tightened, contracted...pulled. She felt a slippery mass move from inside her belly to the birth canal, to the opening...

  Oh, God... she thought cried screamed.

  ...and with a great gush, the mass spilled onto the grass between her legs.

  Gray and pink and blue it was, and about the size of a newborn babe, a shapeless thing that quickly began to resolve itself into a discernable shape. More tentacles appeared, these shorter than the first two. They clutched at air, at rain, at her legs, at the grass, without attaching themselves—as if the mass itself had not yet acquired control of them.

  Just like, Tara thought, the arms and legs of a newborn babe.

  The ache subsided, faded, vanished.

  The wall of rain began to glow, like silver.

  The mass had a mouth, which opened to emit a cry like that of a mortally-wounded hawk. Its eyes opened, hollows with the eyeballs deep within, colorless in the silver rain.

  As if from deep within a well, the eyes gradually focused on her, while the mass continued to cry.

  Arms and legs took shape. She saw now that the smaller tentacles themselves attached to the bottom of the chin. The two larger ones, that had emerged from her first, now seemed to retract into the shoulders of the mass, where they began to form rudimentary wings.

  Satan, or an angel?

  It did not matter. The mass...the child, was hers.

  Hers and...

  She held up the silver ring in the silver rain. Its image was that of the child. And perhaps that of its father.

  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.

  “Cthulhu?” Tara said to the child. “Is that your father’s name?”

  The hollow eyes looked back at her.

  Tara got to her knees and reached down and picked up the child. It accepted her embrace without protest. She drew it to her—though it was naked, she saw nothing to indicate its gender—and pressed its head against her shoulder while she soothed it with murmurs. The hawk-cries diminished, the child fell silent.

  Bring him to me.

  She heard the beating of wings. She felt the pounding of hooves. The ocean tugged at her insistently.

  “Who are you?” whispered Tara.

  The child is born. I am awake.

  “But...”

  The voices came forth. Fhglyn wylgl Cthulhu R’lyeh zlgy mg’fhlna. And she understood. Cthulhu was awake and waiting in R’lyeh. The spheres, the buildings of slimed stone, they were R’yleh. Not Really.

  Clarity struck Tara like a mallet. Cthulhu, the child’s father, awaited him—no, them—in R’lyeh.

  She stood up, holding onto the child. The beating wings and pounding hooves drew near, like the rush of a train. Louder and louder, like the rush of great waves onto shore. The sounds enveloped her. Hands grasped her, and cast her aboard a body. Wings beat harder as the body rose into the air. Hooves stopped pounding. Her ears ached; air burst from them, relieving that ache.

  In wonder, Tara peered through the silver rain to examine the creature that carried her aloft. It looked to her like the child might look when it was grown. The pink was gone but the gray and blue and some green remained. But what manner of creature was it?

  An Old One, Tara. One of my servants.

  She freed a hand to wipe the water from her face. “The child...?”

  His name is Luthchu. In the fullness of time he will be my heir.

  “Wait.”

  The wings stopped. The creature poised in the air. Far below rolled the Atlantic Ocean. Tara felt a wave of dizziness that vanished as quickly as it broke upon her shores.

  What do you wish, Tara?

  “This is my child as well. You must not take him from me.”

  Luthchu will not be taken from you. Instead, you are to be brought to R’yleh. Such is my command.

  Tara licked her lips and tasted fresh water. “Where...?”

  She saw with utter clarity the location—at the bottom of the ocean, on the other side of the world. She shook her head. “I cannot swim very well,” she argued. “I cannot breathe in your city.”

  I will enable you. I have that power and much more. The Old Ways are not lost. They are dormant, in me and in the other Old Ones. Now that I am awake, I shall reclaim what is mine.

  Tara hesitated, not certain she wanted to know the answer to her question. “And what is that?” she tried.

  It is my wish that you be at my side, Tara.

  “To...to bear more...children?”

  Do you wish this life I offer you?

  Do I? she thought.

  She held Luthchu away from her to examine him. His mouth curled in what other might regard as a sneer, but to her it was endearing. A tentacle wrapped itself round her neck and drew him back to her, so that his head was pressed against the side of her neck. The mouth sucked at her, as if he were attaching himself. She felt enormous love.

  “Tell me what is to happen, Cthulhu,” she said.

  Thath Gathath, the Old One who now bears you, will fly to a point south of what you know as Greenland. There he will dive into the ocean, through the Earth, and arrive at the antipodes where R’lyeh awaits. Where I await you and my...our child.

  Tara recoiled. “No, that is not possible. That cannot be done. I would not survive such a journey. Luthchu would not survive. Your servant—.”

  A violent roar shook her. Even Thath Gathath trembled with it. Yet, no anger was conveyed, only a terrible disappointment.

  The ring protects you, Tara. As long as it remains on your finger, you are protected from all physical eventualities, even unto passing through the Earth and breathing under water.

  The wings resumed their beating, and Thath Gathath his journey in accordance with the commands given him. Tara issued no objection. Instead, she asked, “How do I know what you tell me is so?”

  There was no response. Even her voices had fallen mute. She felt abandoned.

  Yet she was still being carried aloft.

  What did it all mean? Did it matter, what it all meant? Not the power that might accrue to her by virtue of her position at Cthulhu’s side. Not whatever wealth it might gain her. Or knowledge. No.

  She had given birth. She had a child to nurture. What matter where?

  She laughed softly to herself. “Well, it might matter where if I fail to survive the journey.”

  What was possible?

  She looked at her child, at Luthchu. If he was possible, anything might be.

  There was but one way to find out what was possible. Do, or die.

  She slapped Thath Gathath on the back, dug her heels into his sides, and yelled, “Let’s go.”

  Casual Blasphemies

  by

  Harding McFadden

  for Naomi, Eleanor, and Iris

  1.

  When my father banged on the door to our bedroom, croaking about the time left until worship began, I rolled my eyes. My little brother, Einer, leapt to his feet, and quic
kly dressed. The usual somber grays. We were an orthodox family, after all, and he was still young enough to worship my father. It was left to me to see him for what he was...

  The bed slats creaked under me as I swung my feet over onto the hard, damp floor. I had heard tell from travelers that there were places in the world where the air was dry, the sky blue. Never here, however. Innsmouth was always cold, always damp, always decaying.

  “Hurry,” Einer barked at me. Three years my junior, and already taking the leading role. It was little wonder why father liked him best.

  Silently, slowly, I dressed, a perfect fun-house mirror of my smaller sibling. The coat was thread-worn, and growing tight. My father's before me, it would one day belong to my brother. It was just the way things were.

  The gold and fishes had all but dried up years ago, back when home was a place of plenty. Now, we were a shunned place, only ever visited accidentally. The bus still ran every day or so, bringing in strangers on their way to Arkham, or long lost cousins, just starting to find their place in the world. Why come here at all, I wondered? Why not go some place that still had wind left in its sails?

  The floors settled loudly as we stepped on them, morosely making our way from the cramped second floor bedroom we shared, down into the equally cramped living room. Father was there, of course, green to the gills more and more every day. Mother was beside him, her dress various shades of gray, and voluminous enough to hide all of her from view. Behind her heavy veil, I knew that she stared at us with her black, unblinking eyes.

  Standing meekly behind my mother was my sister, tall and regal, and barely a year older than me. I would not look at her too closely. I knew what my parents had planned for us.

  “Time to go,” father croaked, leaning heavily on his walking stick. In the air above us, I could hear the heavy footsteps of my grandmother in the attic. Stalking, heaving, ready to return to the sea.

  2.

  We walked along the cobbled streets, not quite shoulder to shoulder. Our neighbors walked beside us. We had all the appearance of a parade. A dull, drab, lackluster parade. We were silent, each of us, on our long march to the Temple. I was never sure if this silence was reverent, or terrified. Perhaps both?

  The streets were as full as they ever were, yet no sound could be heard above the push and pull of the dank breeze, or the rhythmic crashing of the waves just out of sight. Somewhere out there was the Reef; below it was something altogether different.

  The Temple of the Esoteric Order of Dagon had seen better days. Its once proud facades were now as dull and unfortunately noisome as the rest of town. There was no bell being rung from its high, rickety belfry. There was no priest waiting for his congregation upon the top step. There was only the open front doors and the darkness that waited beyond.

  The pews were always in danger of falling to dust, and that somber morning was no exception. We all sat gingerly, awaiting the day when the wood beneath us would go, when the moldering rock of the walls and the sickly thatch of the roof would crash down upon us and snuff out the Truth from New England. We needn’t have worried. There were gods watching out for us, and I doubt that they would let such a thing happen to their true believers.

  When Father Whipple took his place upon the dais, the already silent room became quieter still. He placed the Arab's book before him. He was as old as Creation, it always seemed to me. His hair white and so thin as to be wispy. His frame was gaunt and green, his eyes black, intense, and unblinking. His robes were the same black, their collars an arterial red. Upon his breast, in the same proud red, was the Elder Sign of his station. He opened his mouth to speak. The room was pregnant with expectation.

  His webbed hands reverently placed upon The Book, he looked into the souls of each of us. His neck was thick and quivery. His wide, thin lips parted. “In the beginning,” he spoke, his voice deep and dark. “There was nothing. Only the chaotic void, an infinity of bleak nothingness. At the dark heart of chaos, He roiled.

  “For aeons, He thrashed and churned, making waves in the great aether, until, in a fit of lunatic inspiration, he birthed all things. It has been said that all of creation is but His dream, brought on by His countless drummers and horn players, and that should He wake, all of this around us would blink from existence, like a half-remembered dream.

  “I am a simple man. We all are. We can only guess at the plans of the gods. I do not know if the dream came first, or the dreamer. I can only know what it is that is around us.

  “What I see around me are true believers. Followers of the only true gods. Worshipers of Great Cthulhu, in his sunken palace at R’lyeh. Believers in the sanctity of the old ways.”

  As slyly as possible, I looked at my father, where he sat at the head of our pew. He did not blink as Father Whipple said these words, though he should have. The midnight before, I had seen my father for who he was. He may have been many things, but he was no true believer…

  3.

  The moon had looked yellow as my father and I had left our home. We trudged through the midnight streets with all of the other men of age. We were all about the Holy Work. The Temple, and what was stored there, were waiting for us.

  It was my first time joining my father for the Rites, the first full moon to fall after my coming of age. For months, I had been given the talks, told of the secret ways, the ways in which our Order did their part to smooth the coming of out patron god. When the night finally arrived, I was nervous, almost giddy. It must have showed.

  “Calm yourself, boy,” my father told me. His words were always solid, brooking no argument. He was man of the house, leader of those beneath him, even if he was just another nothing in the eyes of the community.

  “Yes, father.”

  There were no lights lit in the windows of the Temple. Only the inky, sticky blackness of night. Half a step inside the Temple, and the man before me vanished as though he had never been there in the first place. With a steadying breath, I followed, prepared to do my bit.

  The stairs to the cellar were hidden from plain view by a heavy tapestry depicting the fall of man. Hidden in the heavy red and black clouds above the fleeing first man and woman were the eyes and face of my Lord.

  The robes that were given to me were as old as our faith, foul smelling, reeking of intent and legacy. I put them on proudly, reverently. To borrow a phrase from the non-believers: today, I was a man.

  The winding stairs behind the tapestry were two men wide, burrowing into the earth for better than two hundred steps. They were black and unlit. It marvels me every time I descend or ascend them that no one falls upon them.

  The great room at the end of the flight was cavernous. Upon first glimpsing it, my breath caught in my throat. The walls and ceiling were far enough away to avail me of the echoes of those mulling about. They were of the most polished stone that I have ever seen, carvings of the history of the gods delicately inlaid. The exact center of the great room was a circle of red wood, periodically interspersed with steel drains.

  The raised table in the center of the wooden circle was five-sided. The man tied upon it was trying to scream for all he was worth, but to no avail. His mouth had been sewn shut. I recognized him from town. Isle Phillips. He looked to each of us in turn as we approached the table. His eyes rested upon me for the longest. I saw hope there, then confusion, and finally disgust. He was crying openly. I pitied him his lack of composure. This would not have been happening to him if he had been true in his faith.

  At the head of the table, Father Whipple stood, knife in hand, the Book resting before him. We stood in a closed circle around them as Whipple read from one of the sacred passages, raising his knife as he called upon those whom he served. The knife held firmly above his head, he stopped suddenly and listened, as though some invisible force were speaking to him.

  Abruptly, he looked at me, and held out the knife. The others muttered as I moved around them, taking the knife, and with it, Whipple’s position. I knew the honor that was being bestowed u
pon me and I accepted it as humbly as I was able.

  I raised the blade above my head and repeated after Father Whipple as he read from the Book. My eyes toward the dark-hidden ceiling, I prayed and chanted with the rest of them, my body breaking out in gooseflesh as the rapturous frenzy overcame me.

  “Take this unbeliever,” I shouted. “To smooth the way for your glorious arriving! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”

  “Cthulhu fhtagn!” the others joined me.

  As I brought the knife down, I looked flutteringly across at my father. Where I thought I should see pride, I was astonished to see averted eyes. He would not look. He would not partake. I could see in an instant that his faith was only so much sham.

  I have been told that there comes a time in every man's life when he looks upon his father and sees not a mountain, but merely a little boy pretending at being a man. The shame I felt at that moment burned me to my core.

  I hated him.

  I wanted to kill him.

  4.

  “Let us pray,” Father Whipple continued. My father lowered his head, and closed his eyes. My mother did much the same, as did my brother, and my sister, whose eyes lingered on mine for a longer moment than I felt comfortable with. She knew what we were expected to do as well, and in her eyes I could see a dawning acceptance. When the time came, she would be ready to keep the bloodline going with me. Time alone will tell if I will be able to follow through, myself.

  “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” Whipple concluded. We repeated his words phrase for phrase, even those for whom these words were difficult. It was with pride that we praised our slumbering Lord. At least for most of us.

  Silently, we left the Temple as a whole. Whipple was nowhere to be seen, having left for his private rooms as soon as the service was concluded. He would be nowhere to be seen until the following morning, when we would go through the same ceremony again.