Evolution Expects

by Jonathan Green

  He did not have to wait long before the worm came that way, seeking to cross the river that lay between its hilltop lair and the drinking trough wherein was put the milk it supped upon daily. Seeing him, standing proud atop the rock, challenging its dominance, the worm fell upon the knight and the battle that ensued was as terrible as any had ever been.

  In its rage, the worm fell upon Sir John, encircling him within its crushing coils. But as the blades that studded his armour sliced deep into its unnatural flesh, and the Wear ran red with the monster’s blood, the severed pieces of its sinuous body dropped into the river and were carried away by the current before they could be reunited. Soon all that was left of the foul fiend was the monster’s hideous head, then that too went into the river.

  But the worm’s defeat had come at a price, a price that could only be paid in blood. The witch had demanded that on slaying the monster, the noble knight must then also kill the first thing he met thereafter, be it man or beast. And so he arranged that, should he prove victorious, he would sound his hunting horn, that his faithful hound might come to him, and that the witch’s bargain might be paid for with the dog’s blood.

  Climbing from the river, Sir John blew loud and hard upon his horn, but where Sir John had heeded well the witch’s words of warning, his father did not, and the old Lord of Lambton ran to congratulate his son before his hound could reach him. Unable to kill his own father, so Sir John cursed the Lambton line for nine generations to come, his heirs meeting violent and untimely ends for his folly.

  So all who would profane the Lord’s Day and go fishing on the Sabbath, be warned.

  “WHAT A WONDERFUL story!” Cassandra declared looking again at the dragon-like beast embroidered upon the tapestry before which they now stood and the spear-studded knight preparing to meet it in battle, with the river raging by, his sword raised high above his head. “Total nonsense, of course, but a wonderful story nonetheless.”

  “Oh no, madam,” the steward said, turning on her suddenly, “it is no story.”

  “Surely, you can’t believe it’s true?”

  “If it is but a story, then how do you explain this?” he asked, indicating the suit of armour mounted upon a plinth.

  The armour was certainly an unusual and remarkable heirloom. To Cassandra’s eyes it could well have dated from the time of the Crusades, but for one untypical characteristic. Protrusions like dagger blades or spear-tips had been added to the breastplate and vambraces.

  “Remarkable,” Sir George gasped.

  “It’s incredible!” his young companion declared. “It’s just like the suit described in the legend. Then this spectacular piece must have been absorbed into the legend,” she added under her breath.

  “Or it is the same suit of armour worn by Sir John when he fought the Lambton Worm, which I think you’ll find is more likely,” the steward said.

  “Remarkable,” Sir George breathed again.

  “The sword with which Sir John killed the worm used to adorn this wall also,” the steward said. “Legend has it that it was fashioned from star-metal.”

  “Used to?” Cassandra said.

  “Sir William, had it melted down and updated.” Was that a hint of disdain in the steward’s voice, at mention of his master’s disrespectful attitude towards the legendary sword.

  “Updated how?” Sir George said.

  “Sir William had it re-made as a pistol and its accompanying shot.”

  “Fascinating,” Sir George said.

  “And where did this come from?” Cassandra said.

  The steward stared at the object resting upon its velvet stand within the small glass display cabinet, and when he spoke again it sounded as if he was speaking from somewhere else, somewhere far away.

  “That is another interesting story. There is another tale attached to this crystal skull,” he said, his eyes sparkling with distant constellations.

  “I thought there might be.” Cassandra murmured.

  “It was brought back from the Land of the Berbers by Sir John, when he returned from the Crusades.”

  “Who made it?” Cassandra said, peering at it inquisitively. It appeared to have been carved from a single block of crystal. Looking closer still, she could see tiny fault lines within the crystal that almost gave the skull the appearance of having blood vessels running through it. The candlelight illuminating the object was trapped by the crystal and refracted so that a golden glow suffused the brain pan.

  “I-I don’t know,” the steward admitted, caught out, “but it is said that on stormy nights the skull can be heard to scream.”

  “Really?” said Sir George, completely caught up in the steward’s tales of dragon-slayers and screaming skulls from heathen lands.

  “Oh yes. It cries to be returned to the place whence it came.”

  A clock chimed as a liveried footman trotted up to the steward and, having bowed respectfully to Sir George and his dishevelled lady friend, whispered something in his ear. The steward turned to Sir George, the ingratiating smile back on his face.

  “I am sorry, Sir George, but time is pressing and I must ask that you come with me. I believe the guests are here now. It is time to join the gathering.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Very good. This way is it?”

  Cassandra went to link arms with the peer but, before she could, the steward stepped between them.

  “In the meantime, your companion will be shown to your bedchamber,” he said, fixing Cassandra with a withering stare. “This way please.”

  Cassandra knew better than to argue; there was no point in causing a scene here. As the steward led Sir George she followed the footman up a broad flight of marble stairs to an opulently furnished bedchamber. Cassandra marvelled at the splendour of the room’s decor and furnishings.

  She heard the click of the door closing behind her and then the scrape of the key in the lock and the bolt being thrown.

  The footman had locked her in. She was suddenly a prisoner of Lambton Hall.

  IV

  Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here

  CASSANDRA LISTENED AT the door for a moment, hearing the footman depart along the landing.

  Alone at last she removed her soaking dress, took off her ruined wig – glad to be rid of its damp sheep’s wool smell – and, loosening the laces at the back of her bodice, slipped out of her petticoats.

  She paused, taking a moment to inspect herself in the dressing table mirror.

  She pulled at the cloth of the shirt and trews she had been wearing underneath the dress, glad to be free of the constraints of the corset, and buttoned up the dark leather waistcoat her previous outfit had been hiding as well. And that was not all the layers of petticoats had been hiding.

  Strapped around her waist was a bandolier, holding a brace of pistols, the powder and shot to go with them, and a double-edged dagger. With the bandolier now over her shoulder, and having taken the time to load both pistols, Cassandra took a moment to tie her shoulder-length blonde hair into a ponytail, using a ribbon from the rain-ruined dress, and then she was ready.

  She turned towards the door.

  The sound of chanting coming from beyond the window of the bedchamber caused her to stop and turn from the door again. Dousing the single lamp she moved to the window. Standing to one side she pulled the curtain back a fraction and peeked out at the gardens.

  She saw a procession of figures in long scarlet robes bearing lit candles and torches, their faces hidden by golden cherubic masks, snaking its way through the grounds of Lambton. She counted twenty in all and, although the robes created a certain anonymity, she could tell that there were women as well as men among the group, several were of a considerable girth. Most corpulent of all was the figure that brought up the rear of the procession, the man waddling to keep up with the rest.

  The rain had long since stopped, but a blustery wind still blew through the formal gardens. It tugged now at the acolytes’ guttering torches, their flickering flames turning the shado
ws of the hedges and topiary into ghoulish phantoms.

  The procession made its way towards the black mound of a hill that rose up out of the darkness.

  As she watched, Cassandra listened carefully to the chanting. She could not discern the meaning of the words. Perhaps it was Latin or even a unique language invented by the cult.

  As the party proceeded further into the darkness, all that she could see of them as they made their way towards the wooded crag that overlooked the deep scar of the Wear valley, were the flickering pin-pricks of the lights they carried and all she could now hear was the sowing of the wind in the witch-fingered branches of the leafless trees.

  Cassandra turned back to the door, taking a set of metal tools from a pocket in her waistcoat.

  Moving as stealthily as a cat the young woman slipped through the house and soon found herself outside. The cold wind tugging at her ponytail, she set off after the scarlet-clad figures.

  Moving much more quickly than the cultists, Cassandra was soon climbing the path up the side of the hill after them, and had to slow her padding steps so as not to catch up with the wobbling figure bringing up the rear.

  She hung back, waiting half-way up the slope, and watched as the weird procession passed through the sculpted mouth of an ornate grotto in the side of the hill.

  The last of the figures disappeared into the hillside, their chanting voices softened, becoming a murmuring echo rising from the depths of the hill.

  With the coast clear, Cassandra set off after them, a burnt resin smell catching in her nostrils, the sweet taste of incense on her tongue. Her pulse quickening in anticipation, Cassandra passed beneath the arch of the cave mouth and entered what seemed like some mythical entrance to the underworld.

  The grotto itself was not large but from it a set of steps, roughly-hewn from the bedrock of the hill, descended deeper. With every cautious step she took, the voices of the cultist grew louder, only now the cave added its own unsettling acoustics to the polyphony.

  Following the curve of the steps, Cassandra suddenly found herself bathed with the light of a dozen torches, now placed in sconces carved from the limestone walls and the ruddy glow of smoking braziers that filled the air with billowing clouds of musky incense.

  The stump of a stalagmite provided Cassandra with a temporary shelter. From behind the rock she was able to see what was taking place within the bowl of the cavern beneath her.

  The chamber was almost circular and, in the very centre of the sandy floor, stood a well.

  The red-robed cultists surrounded the well, each standing several feet from its black mouth, apart from one. Standing at the edge of the pit, peering down into the darkness was the grotesquely large individual Cassandra had followed into the hill, still breathlessly intoning the same monotonous chant, over and over.

  Cassandra thought it likely that the man standing before the well was the man she had been sent to stop, the traitor Sir William Lambton.

  As the chanting continued, three figures stepped forward from the circle, each presenting what they carried in their hands to the leader of this bizarre rite. The magus accepted them: a brass gong, a golden beater and a silver knife. He laid each one upon the red cloth that had been laid out upon the smooth stone.

  When everything was in place, the magus raised his hands, and the volume of the chanting rose, the sound reverberating from the walls of the cavern until Cassandra could feel her nerve-endings vibrating in sympathy.

  As the repeated refrain reached the climax of its cycle, the golden-faced leader of the cult brought his hands together and, at that moment, the chanting stopped, the acoustics of the cavern singing the last syllable back into the chamber once, twice, three times, before it faded into silence.

  Cassandra held her breath.

  “Oh, conqueror worm,” the Lord of Lambton intoned, “we come before you as penitents, shriven of our sins, our pride and our ambition, that we might become vessels for your holy godhead, to be bearers of your divine essence.”

  Raising the gong he struck it with the golden beater, the assembled cult responding with shouts and claps.

  “Mighty worm, lord and master, divine agent of change. Come before us now, reveal yourself to us, that we might receive your blessing!”

  The magus took up the silver knife in his right hand and calmly drew it across the palm of his left, letting the blood running freely into the darkness of the well.

  There were more chants and whoops and cheers and then, at a signal from the cult’s leader, silence fell like a thunderclap within the chamber. An atmosphere of nervous expectation hung over the gathering, the near-forgotten sowing of the wind across the entrance to the grotto barely a distant reminder of the inclement autumn night beyond the sanctuary of the cave.

  And then Cassandra thought she heard something – a shuffling, scraping sound – rising from the well.

  “Our lord, He comes!” the magus gasped in ecstasy.

  Cassandra clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle her own gasp of horror as, eyes wide in abject terror, she saw something abominable emerge from the darkness of the well.

  As the cult began to chant and cry and moan in ecstatic delight at the coming of their god, Cassandra turned from the perverse spectacle and vomited onto the rocks beside her.

  V

  With Vilest Worms to Dwell

  THE BULBOUS DOME of the worm’s head swayed blindly from side to side, as if it was sniffing the air. It looked like a repulsive amalgam of worm, leech and maggot. Its rippling, segmented body was covered in a sheath of slime and its white flesh was mildly translucent. Writhing pseudopods, like caterpillar legs, started half way down what could be seen of its grotesque body; its mouth, large enough to engulf a human being whole, and rimmed with tiny cutting teeth. Its head, bigger than that of a horse, loomed atop a body that was almost as wide as the shaft of the well. Not all of the creature had yet emerged from the well either, and what Cassandra could already see of it had to be at least twelve feet in length.

  The worm’s mouth worked constantly, but it made no move to attack any of the awestruck penitents encircling the well. And although it had no obvious eyes, Cassandra fancied she could see sensory pits in the side of its head. Not only that, but she could clearly see a series of puckered slime-oozing orifices in its squishy white larva-flesh – she counted nine on each side – running from the side of its head and down along the upper part of its body.

  The worm’s hypnotic rippling dance suddenly stopped. It had found what it was looking for.

  The swollen head arched over the corpulent form of Sir William Lambton, the cherubic mask of the magus gazing up at the impossible creature, his eyes the only part of his face visible, stared at this abomination as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  “My lord!” he gasped and pulled off his mask.

  Cassandra could see the look of rapt delight on his jowly face, as well as the swollen goitre protruding obscenely from his neck, a mass of blue-veined fatty tissue.

  “Step forward,” Sir William said, tears of joy streaming from the corners of his eyes, “and abase yourselves before your lord and master.”

  What Cassandra saw next was almost too much for a sane mind to bear.

  The assembled penitents threw back their hoods and approached the well, as if sleep-walking or in an opium-addled daze, unable to take their eyes off the monstrosity swaying before the magus. Their robes fell open, revealing their nakedness – pot-bellied or bony, obese or ill-proportioned – apparently uncaring that everything was now there for all to see.

  Sir George Sackville was amongst them and Cassandra thought she recognised one or two of the others. But she would most definitely recognise them again after this; their horribly delighted expressions would be etched onto her memory for a long time to come.

  When they were all standing beside the well the creature began to sway again but now its movements were more violent, the bulb of its head reeling in all directions. Rather than perturb
them, this seemed to excite the cultists even more. The worm made not a sound as it convulsed but the cave rang to the orgasmic moans of the ecstatic penitents.

  And then the curious, sphincter-like holes in the creature’s neck opened, and a thick, vicious fluid oozed from each one, lubricating the orifices for what was to happen next.

  Cassandra felt her gorge rise again as small white heads, the size and shape of cave-grown mushrooms, emerged from the tubular vents in the side of the creature’s body. As the parent creature continued to convulse, its spawn – perfectly miniaturised versions of the mother worm – wriggled free.

  In response to this, the cultists opened their mouths wide. Necks craned back, jaws stretched open as far as possible, the seemingly intoxicated men and women moved to receive the writhing young. One by one eighteen small worms wriggled free of the orifices in the gigantic worm’s body to be swallowed whole by the eager cultists. Cassandra could even see the bulge of the creatures passing down the cultists’ rapacious throats.

  With the spawning complete, the gigantic worm slunk back down the well.

  Cassandra had seen enough. Her masters in Whitehall had wanted to learn more about the Disciples of Dionin, the cult Sir William Lambton had established here at his ancient family seat, but surely they could not have begun to imagine that the truth would be anything like this.

  Cassandra suspected that the danger this particular secret society posed the British Empire was like no other they had had to face before. The cult and its monstrous worm god had to be destroyed. But the nagging doubt remained at the back of her mind that she wasn’t going to be able to accomplish such a feat alone.

  Cassandra turned and began to scramble back up the rock-cut steps, heedless now for the need for stealth.

  Her mind still reeling at the soul-shredding horror of what she had just witnessed, her fingers found a shoe rather than the solid stone of the next step. Slowly she raised her head, taking in the scarlet robe, dumb realisation now unclouding her befuddled mind. Eighteen had received the worm god’s sacrament – the Lord of Lambton Hall had watched as they did so – but twenty had entered the hillside ahead of her.