Beneath the Moors and Darker Places [SSC]

by Brian Lumley

  “To Him, yes!” Möhrsen exulted, thrusting his hook nose closer to the rock-cut carvings and holding up the candles the better to illuminate them. “To Cthulhu of the tentacled face, and to all his lesser brethren.”

  Without another word, more angry than he could ever remember being, Harry reached out and bunched up the front of the old man’s coat in his clenched fist. He shook Möhrsen like a bundle of moth-eaten rags, cursing and threatening him in a manner which later he could scarcely recall.

  “God!” he finally shouted. “It’s a damn shame the Turks didn’t raze this whole nest of evil right down to the ground! You... you can lead the way out of here right now, at once, or I swear I’ll break your neck where you stand!”

  “If I drop the candles,” Möhrsen answered, his voice like black gas bubbles breaking the surface of a swamp, “we will be in complete darkness!”

  “No, please!” Julia cried. “Just take us out of here …”

  “If you value your dirty skin,” Harry added, “you’ll keep a good grip on those candles!”

  Möhrsen’s eyes blazed sulphurous yellow in the candlelight and he leered hideously. Harry turned him about, gripped the back of his grimy neck, and thrust him ahead, out of the blasphemous temple. With Julia stumbling in the rear, they made their way to a flight of steps that led up into daylight, emerging some twenty-five yards from the main entrance.

  They came out through tangled cobwebs into low decaying vines and shrubbery that almost hid their exit. Julia gave one long shudder, as if shaking off a nightmare, and then hastened to the car. Not once did she look back.

  Harry released Möhrsen who stood glaring at him, shielding his yellow eyes against the weak light. They confronted each other in this fashion for a few moments, until Harry turned his back on the little man to follow Julia to the car. It was then that Möhrsen whispered:

  “Do not forget: I did not force you to do anything. I did not make you touch anything. You came here of your own free will.”

  When Harry turned to throw a few final harsh words at him, the old man was already disappearing down into the bowels of the ruins.

  ~ * ~

  In the car as they drove along the track through the sparsely clad trees to the road, Julia was very quiet. At last she said: “That was quite horrible. I didn’t know such people existed.”

  “Nor did I,” Harry answered.

  “I feel filthy,” she continued. “I need a bath. What on earth did that creature want with us?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I think he must be insane.”

  “Harry, let’s not go straight back to the inn. Just drive around for a while.” She rolled down her window, breathing deeply of the fresh air that flooded in before lying back in the seat and closing her eyes. He looked at her, thinking: “God!—but you’re certainly showing your age now, my sweet” ... but he couldn’t really blame her.

  ~ * ~

  There were two or three tiny villages within a few miles of Szolyhaza, centres of peasant life compared to which Szolyhaza was a veritable capital. These were mainly farming communities, some of which were quite picturesque. Nightfall was still several hours away and the rain had moved on, leaving a freshness in the air and a beautiful warm glow over the hills, so that they felt inclined to park the car by the roadside and enjoy a drink at a tiny Gasthaus.

  Sitting there by a wide window that overlooked the street, while Julia composed herself and recovered from her ordeal, Harry noticed several posters on the wall of the building opposite. He had seen similar posters in Szolyhaza, and his knowledge of the language was just sufficient for him to realize that the event in question— whatever that might be—was taking place tonight. He determined, out of sheer curiosity, to question Herr Debrec about it when they returned to the inn. After all, there could hardly be very much of importance happening in an area so out of the way. It had already been decided that nothing should be said about their visit to the ruins, the exceedingly unpleasant hour spent in the doubtful company of Herr Möhrsen.

  ~ * ~

  Twilight was settling over the village when they got back. Julia, complaining of a splitting headache, bathed and went straight to her bed. Harry, on the other hand, felt strangely restless, full of physical and mental energy. When Julia asked him to fetch her a glass of water and a sleeping pill, he dissolved two pills, thus ensuring that she would remain undisturbed for the night. When she was asleep he tidied himself up and went down to the bar.

  After a few drinks he buttonholed Herr Debrec and questioned him about the posters; what was happening tonight? Debrec told him that this was to be the first of three nights of celebration. It was the local shooting carnival, the equivalent of the German Schützenfest, when prizes would be presented to the district’s best rifle shots.

  There would be sideshows and thrilling rides on machines specially brought in from the cities, members of the various shooting teams would be dressed all in hunter’s green, beer and wine would flow like water, and there would be good things to eat—oh, and all the usual trappings of a festival. This evening’s main attraction was to be a masked ball, held in a great barn on the outskirts of a neighbouring village. It would be the beginning of many a fine romance. If the Herr wished to attend the festivities, Debrec could give him directions ... ?

  Harry declined the offer and ordered another drink. It was odd the effect the brandy was having on him tonight: he was not giddy— it took a fair amount to do that—but there seemed to be a peculiar excitement in him. He felt much the same as when, in the old days, he’d pursued gay young debutantes in the Swiss resorts or on the Riviera.

  Half an hour and two drinks later he checked that Julia was fast asleep, obtained directions to the Schützenfest, told Herr Debrec that his wife was on no account to be disturbed, and drove away from the inn in fairly high spirits. The odds, he knew, were all against him, but it would be good fun and there could be no possible comeback; after all, they were leaving for Budapest in the morning, and what the eye didn’t see the heart wouldn’t grieve over. He began to wish that his command of the language went a little further than “good evening” and “another brandy, please.” Still, there had been plenty of times in the past when language hadn’t mattered at all, when talking would have been a positive hindrance.

  In no time at all he reached his destination, and at first glance he was disappointed. Set in the fields beside a hamlet, the site of the festivities was noisy and garishly lit, in many ways reminiscent of the country fairgrounds of England. All very well for teenage couples, but rather gauche for a civilized, sophisticated adult. Nevertheless, that peculiar tingling with which Harry’s every fibre seemed imbued had not lessened, seemed indeed heightened by the whirling machines and gaudy, gypsyish caravans and sideshows, and so he parked the car and threaded his way through the swiftly gathering crowd.

  Hung with bunting and festooned with balloons like giant ethereal multihued grapes, the great barn stood open to the night. Inside, a costumed band tuned up while masked singles and couples in handsome attire gathered, preparing to dance and flirt the night away. Framed for a moment in the huge open door, frozen by the camera of his mind, Harry saw among the crowd the figure of a girl—a figure of truly animal magnetism—dressed almost incongruously in peasant’s costume.

  For a second masked eyes met his own and fixed upon them across a space of only a few yards, and then she was gone. But the angle of her neck as she had looked at him, the dark unblinking eyes behind her mask, the fleeting, knowing smile on her lips before she turned away—all of these things had spoken volumes.

  That weird feeling, the tingling that Harry felt, suddenly suffused his whole being. His head reeled and his mouth went dry; he had consciously to fight the excitement rising from within; following which he headed dizzily for the nearest wine tent, gratefully to slake his thirst. Then, bolstered by the wine, heart beating fractionally faster than usual, he entered the cavernous barn and casually cast about for the girl whose image stil
l adorned his mind’s eye.

  But his assumed air of casual interest quickly dissipated as his eyes swept the vast barn without sighting their target, until he was about to step forward and go among the tables in pursuit of his quarry. At that point a hand touched his arm, a heady perfume reached him, and a voice said: “There is an empty table on the balcony. Would you like to sit?”

  Her voice was not at all cultured, but her English was very good; and while certainly there was an element of peasant in her, well, there was much more than that. Deciding to savour her sensuous good looks later when they were seated, he barely glanced at her but took her hand and proceeded across the floor of the barn. They climbed wooden stairs to an open balcony set with tables and cane chairs. On the way he spoke to a waiter and ordered a bottle of wine, a plate of dainties.

  They sat at their tiny table overlooking the dance floor, toying with their glasses and pretending to be interested in completely irrelevant matters. He spoke of London, of skiing in Switzerland, the beach at Cannes. She mentioned the mountains, the markets of Budapest, the bloody history of the country, particularly of this region. He was offhand about his jet-setting, not becoming ostentatious; she picked her words carefully, rarely erring in pronunciation. He took in little of what she said and guessed that she wasn’t hearing him. But their eyes—at first rather fleetingly—soon became locked; their hands seemed to meet almost involuntarily atop the table.

  Beneath the table Harry stretched out a leg towards hers, felt something cold and hairy arching against his calf as might a cat. A cat, yes, it must be one of the local cats, fresh in from mousing in the evening fields. He edged the thing to one side with his foot. . . but she was already on her feet, smiling, holding out a hand to him.

  They danced, and he discovered gypsy in her, and strangeness, and magic. She bought him a red mask and positioned it over his face with fingers that were cool and sure. The wine began to go down that much faster ...

  ~ * ~

  It came almost as a surprise to Harry to find himself in the car, in the front passenger seat, with the girl driving beside him. They were just pulling away from the bright lights of the Schützenfest, but he did not remember leaving the great barn. He felt more than a little drunk—with pleasure as much as with wine.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, not finding it remarkable that he did not already know. Only the sound of the question seemed strange to him, as if a stranger had spoken the words.

  “Cassilda,” she replied.

  “A nice name,” he told her awkwardly. “Unusual.”

  “I was named after a distant... relative.”

  After a pause he asked: “Where are we going, Cassilda?”

  “Is it important?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t go to Szolyhaza—” he began to explain.

  She shrugged, “My ... home, then.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Not far, but—”

  “But?”

  She slowed the car, brought it to a halt. She was a shadowy silhouette beside him, her perfume washing him in warm waves. “On second thoughts, perhaps I had better take you straight back to your hotel—and leave you there.”

  “No, I wouldn’t hear of it,” he spoke quickly, seeing his hopes for the night crumbling about him, sobered by the thought that she could so very easily slip out of his life. The early hours of the morning would be time enough for slipping away—and he would be doing it, not the girl. “You’d have to walk home, for one thing, for I’m afraid I couldn’t let you take the car...” To himself he added: And I know that taxis aren’t to be found locally.

  “Listen,” he continued when she made no reply, “you just drive yourself home. I’ll take the car from there back to my hotel.”

  “But you do not seem steady enough to drive.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll make me a cup of coffee?” It was a terribly juvenile gambit, but he was gratified to see her smiling behind her mask.

  Then, just as quickly as the smile had come, it fell away to be replaced by a frown he could sense rather than detect in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “But you must not see where I live.”

  “Why on earth not.”

  “It is not... a rich dwelling.”

  “I don’t care much for palaces.”

  “I don’t want you to be able to find your way back to me afterward. This can be for one night only...”

  Now this, Harry thought to himself, is more like it! He felt his throat going dry again. “Cassilda, it can’t possibly be for more than one night,” he gruffly answered. “Tomorrow I leave for Budapest.”

  “Then surely it is better that—”

  “Blindfold me!”

  “What?”

  “Then I won’t be able to see where you live. If you blindfold me I’ll see nothing except... your room.” He reached across and slipped his hand inside her silk blouse, caressing a breast.

  She reached over and stroked his neck, then pulled gently away. She nodded knowingly in the darkness: “Yes, perhaps we had better blindfold you, if you insist upon handling everything that takes your fancy!”

  She tucked a black silk handkerchief gently down behind his mask, enveloping him in darkness. Exposed and compromised as she did this, she made no immediate effort to extricate herself as he fondled her breasts through the silk of her blouse. Finally, breathing the words into his face, she asked:

  “Can you not wait?”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “Then I shall make it easier.” She took his hands away from her body, sat back in her seat, slipped the car into gear and pulled away. Harry sat in total darkness, hot and flushed and full of lust.

  ~ * ~

  “We are there,” she announced, rousing him from some peculiar torpor. He was aware only of silence and darkness. He felt just a trifle queasy and told himself that it must be the effect of being driven blindfolded over poor roads. Had he been asleep? What a fool he was making of himself!

  “No,” she said as he groped for the door handle. “Let’s just sit here for a moment or two. Open a bottle, I’m thirsty.”

  “Bottle? Oh, yes!” Harry suddenly remembered the two bottles of wine they had brought with them from the Schützenfest. He reached into the back seat and found one of them. “But we have no glasses. And why should we drink here when it would be so much more comfortable inside?”

  She laughed briefly. “Harry, I’m a little nervous…”

  Of course! French courage!—or was it Dutch? What odds? If a sip or two would help her get into the right frame of mind, why not? Silently he blessed the manufacturers of screw-top bottles and twisted the cap free. She took the wine from him, and he heard the swishing of liquid. Her perfume seemed so much stronger, heady as the scent of poppies. And yet beneath it he sensed ... something tainted?

  She returned the bottle to him and he lifted it to parched lips, taking a long deep draft. His head immediately swam, and he felt a joyous urge to break into wild laughter. Instead, discovering himself the victim of so strange a compulsion, he gave a little grunt of surprise.

  When he passed the bottle back to her, he let his hand fall to her breast once more—and gasped at the touch of naked flesh, round and swelling! She had opened her blouse to him—or she had removed it altogether! With trembling fingers he reached for his mask and the handkerchief tucked behind it.

  “No!” she said, and he heard the slither of silk. “There, I’m covered again. Here, finish the bottle and then get out of the car. I’ll lead you ...”

  “Cassilda,” he slurred her name. “Let’s stop this little game now and—”

  “You may not take off the blindfold until we are in my room, when we both stand naked.” He was startled by the sudden coarseness of her voice—the lust he could now plainly detect—and he was also fired by it. He jerked violently when she took hold of him with a slender hand, working her fingers expertly, briefly, causing him to gabble some inarticulate inanity.

  Momentarily paralysed
with nerve-tingling pleasure and shock, when finally he thought to reach for her she was gone. He heard the whisper of her dress and the click of the car door as she closed it behind her.

  Opening his own door he almost fell out, but her hand on his shoulder steadied him. “The other bottle,” she reminded him.

  Clumsily he found the wine, then stumbled as he turned from the car. She took his free hand, whispering: “Ssh! Quiet!” and gave a low guttural giggle.

  Blind, he stumbled after her across a hard, faintly familiar surface. Something brushed against his leg, cold, furry, and damp. The fronds of a bushy plant, he suspected.

  “Lower your head,” she commanded. “Carefully down the steps. This way. Almost there ...”

  “Cassilda,” he said, holding tightly to her hand. “I’m dizzy.”

  “The wine!” she laughed.