The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington)

by Alan K Baker

  ‘You may rest assured that we’ll do everything in our power to meet this threat,’ said Blackwood, ‘and to neutralise it.’

  Castaigne nodded, and, with a wry glance at Sophia, said, ‘Well, at any rate you know where to find me.’

  He picked up his hat and cane from the table where he had dropped them, and while Blackwood waited in the sitting room, Sophia saw him to the door.

  When she returned, Blackwood asked her how she was feeling.

  ‘Much better, thank you, Thomas,’ she replied, but as she said this, Blackwood noted the fragility of her smile.

  ‘You need rest. I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Very well. What time shall we meet tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll call for you at ten.’

  In fact, Blackwood would have liked to stay a little longer to make absolutely sure that Sophia had fully recovered, but for him the evening was not yet over: there was something else he had to do before taking to his own bed.

  Outside, he hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Farringdon Street Station.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  Mr Exeter’s Dream

  ‘Someone was in Castaigne’s hotel room?’ said Charles Exeter.

  The man standing before him nodded. ‘Yes, sir. In the bathroom. We didn’t manage to see who it was.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’d locked themselves in. I picked the lock and was about to open the door, when…’

  ‘When what?’

  The man shrugged helplessly. ‘Something happened. There was a loud flapping and banging against the window. We knew it would attract attention, and we already had what we’d gone there for, so we left without seeing.’

  ‘Did either of you mention my name while you were there? Take care now! Don’t lie to me.’

  The man hesitated, and Exeter shook his head in disgust. ‘You goddamned idiot.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Exeter.’

  ‘Get out.’

  The man didn’t need to be told twice. He turned on his heels and fled the room and the apartment without a backward glance.

  Exeter stood up from the ornately-carved armchair and walked across the study to a table by the window, where he poured himself a large brandy and, sipping it contemplatively, looked out across the rooftops of Knightsbridge. Like many powerful, self-made men, he believed himself to be surrounded by fools and incompetents, the evidence being that he was the boss and they were not. The two cretins he had sent to Castaigne’s hotel were a case in point. And yet, he doubted that much damage had been done; whoever had been skulking in the occultist’s bathroom would, ultimately, be powerless against him and the being whose influence he could feel in his mind, even now.

  That awareness brought with it the thought that he also was a lackey… but he quickly banished it, for like many lackeys, he believed that he had the potential to become the equal of his superior.

  The strange sounds his men had heard were a different matter. They had evidently occurred at precisely the moment when they were about to open the bathroom door, which led Exeter to suspect that whoever had been hiding there had been aided by some supernatural agency.

  There was an additional coincidence which gave Exeter pause for thought. That pretty young thing from the Society for Psychical Research had come to see him that very afternoon… and a few hours later, his men had found that someone had beaten them to Castaigne’s hotel room. Was there a connection there?

  Coincidence? he asked himself as he drained the last of his brandy. Ain’t no such thing, Charlie boy.

  As he undressed and made ready for bed, Exeter felt the familiar apprehension rising in him, as if he were a phobic who was about to be confronted by the object of his terror. He had felt this way ever since the King in Yellow had first made contact with him, shortly after his arrival in England. He knew that the being was manipulating him, bending him to its will in mysterious and subtle ways, and he recalled the waves of unutterable terror which had flooded through him that first time, when he heard its voice echoing through his dreaming mind. He had known immediately that the voice was not part of his dream; it was real and belonged to something that seethed and brooded an unthinkable distance away in the depths of space.

  Part of Exeter’s mind recoiled from the influence of the King in Yellow, but there was another part which had grown intoxicated by the vast power of the entity and welcomed it. Of course, Exeter was not sure that the feeling was his own, and sometimes he suspected that it was merely another element of the creature’s control over him: a form of psychic venom which pacified his mind and made it yearn for further contact.

  As he lay back in bed and turned out the oil lamp on his bedside table, Exeter’s breath quickened momentarily, and then, just as swiftly, subsided. The muted sounds of the street outside likewise became misted by sleep and then vanished altogether from his awareness. He felt the first stirrings of a dream: disjointed images skittering like water on a hotplate, readying themselves to coalesce into a form of narrative… but the dream he might have had was stillborn, brushed aside by the thing which was now entering his mind.

 

  It was not a voice, but rather a breath of thought from across the Æther, an exhalation that carried with it the sense impressions of words.

  I am here, Exeter’s sleeping mind replied.

 

  I have done as you instructed. I have activated the Servitor.

 

  Yes, just as you said it would. Their energy is contained within it. Soon it will reach a sufficient level to bring the Anti-Prism to life. And then…

 

  How does the Anti-Prism work?

  Exeter sensed amusement from the thing in his mind as it replied,

  Forgive me.

 

  What will you do when you have come to Earth?

  replied the voice of the King in Yellow.

  Why should you reward me, when I have no choice but to obey you?

  There was amusement again as the voice replied,

  Nothing.

 

  Exeter felt a surge of power in his mind – or rather, a gathering of power, as of some predator preparing to strike at its prey. He tried to withdraw from it, but of course, there was nowhere to withdraw to. He recalled the days of his boyhood, when he and his friends would go out and shoot bullfrogs in the forests of Pennsylvania during the summer; he recalled the sense of power when he had one of the creatures in his sights, and he wondered whether the King in Yellow felt the same satisfaction in its utter control over his life and destiny.

  Sophia Harrington. Her name is Sophia Harrington.

 

  On Carcosa! How?

 

  The meddling wretch!

 

  But she cannot know its purpose, Exeter replied desperately. And besides, the knowled
ge will do her no good. I have invited her to inspect the Void Chamber…

 

  On the contrary, it’s the best way of getting her where I want her. Once she is in the Void Chamber, I’ll get rid of her – kill her… or maybe give her to the Servitor, more fuel for the Anti-Prism…

 

  And if they do, they will suffer the same fate. And in any event, the psychic energy in the Servitor is approaching the critical level. It will soon be sufficient to activate the Anti-Prism. The time of your advent on Earth is fast approaching.

  The voice in Exeter’s head was silent for some moments. Presently, the King in Yellow said,

  CHAPTER THREE:

  In the Chamber

  ‘I’m glad to see that you have fully recovered, Mr Goodman-Brown,’ said Blackwood, as the four-wheeler clattered through the mid-morning bustle towards Bond Street.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Blackwood,’ replied the psychometrist, who was sitting beside Sophia on the seat opposite. ‘I must admit I received a pretty severe shock on that train – quite the most intense I have ever experienced during a contact analysis, I must say – but I am indeed ship-shape once again.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  ‘And you, Lady Sophia,’ Goodman-Brown continued, turning to her. ‘Are you quite sure that you are up to this? It sounds like you had a most dreadful experience last night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite all right, I assure you,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Apart from a slight headache, of the kind which one experiences when one has had a little too much wine the previous evening, I feel surprisingly unscathed.’

  Goodman-Brown smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Blackwood, however, could tell that Sophia was lying. As soon as he had laid eyes on her that morning, he knew that she had been severely wounded by her experience. The delightful glitter had gone from her brown eyes, her features were drawn and pale, and there was a subtle yet peculiar cadence of anguish in her voice which Blackwood had not detected even when she had spoken to him of the greatest tragedy of her life, the death of her father.

  As to the depth and precise nature of his young companion’s psychic wounds, Blackwood found it difficult to speculate. He would have to pay close attention to her, and try to ascertain what, precisely, her encounter with the King in Yellow had done to her. That something in her had changed, he had no doubt, for as soon as she had opened the door to admit him to her apartment that morning, he had felt the amulet embedded in his chest begin to tingle faintly…

  ‘So… what are we looking for today?’ Goodman-Brown asked.

  ‘Any impressions you might be able to receive from the chamber which Exeter’s men have discovered,’ Blackwood replied. ‘Anything at all which might be of use, including, if possible, the location of the Anti-Prism.’

  ‘Ah, yes… the Anti-Prism. I wouldn’t have thought that such a fantastic object could exist. Do you have any idea as to how it works?’

  Blackwood shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, save that it utilises a combination of physics and Magick…’

  ‘What form of Magick?’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know that either, Walter,’ said Sophia. ‘All we know for certain is that it may be instrumental in facilitating the arrival on Earth of an unspeakable abomination from the depths of space.’

  Goodman-Brown paled a little at this. ‘I see… well, I shall certainly do my best.’

  ‘We can ask no more,’ said Blackwood. ‘Ah! Here we are.’

  The carriage came to a halt and they stepped down to the street. Several passersby gazed at Sophia in unabashed surprise when they saw her outfit, which consisted of a dark grey blouse and jacket, trousers and sturdy walking boots, and more than one couple fell to whispered conversation and frequent backward glances as they walked past. Sophia seemed not to notice the mild sensation she was causing as she donned a leather shoulder bag containing several items of equipment. Indeed, she saw no good reason why the practicality offered by trousers should be enjoyed exclusively by men, and had had several pairs made for investigations such as this, where ease of movement was of paramount importance.

  Both Blackwood and Goodman-Brown thought that she cut a very fine figure indeed, but, being unsure as to how to compliment her on her attire without appearing patronising or lacking in propriety, chose not to compliment her at all – which rather disappointed Sophia, especially with regard to Blackwood.

  They entered the ticketing hall and were met by the Stationmaster, a plump, smartly-suited man who introduced himself as Miles Hoagland and informed them that he had been told by Mr Exeter to expect them. ‘It’s a fair walk from here to the chamber, and not a particularly comfortable one,’ he said, glancing at Sophia. ‘The lady was, er, wise to… er… dress with such appropriateness.’

  Flattered, Sophia gave him a broad smile. ‘Why thank you, sir,’ she said, and, with a somewhat less appreciative glance at Blackwood, followed him across the ticketing hall.

  ‘Have you seen the chamber yourself, Mr Hoagland?’ asked Blackwood, as they descended a wide spiral staircase of echoing steel.

  ‘No, sir, I have not,’ he replied without looking back. ‘Nor would I want to, if some of the things I’ve heard are even half true.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Hoagland?’ asked Sophia, who was following immediately behind him.

  ‘The men who have been in there don’t like it, ma’am. They say there’s something horrible about the place – something unnatural. Some say they get a feeling of being watched by someone or something… they say the place should have been left alone, filled in as soon as it was found.’

  ‘Hardly a practical suggestion,’ said Blackwood.

  ‘Indeed not, but fear is hardly the province of rational or practical thought, and believe me, I’ve heard real fear in their voices when they talk about that place.’

  ‘What else do they say – apart from the business about feeling as if they’re being watched?’

  ‘All kinds of things. I take a drink with some of them now and then, at the Tapper’s Arms around the corner from here. And when they’ve had a few… well, it loosens their tongues. They talk about having terrible nightmares…’ Hoagland hesitated and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Go on, Mr Hoagland,’ said Blackwood.

  ‘I’m not sure I should, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you feel you are breaking a confidence?’ asked Sophia.

  Hoagland nodded. ‘Yes I do, ma’am… yes, that’s exactly it.’

  ‘But you must understand that we are here to help, to investigate the origin of the chamber, to find out what it means and how it relates to the wider disturbances on the Underground. It would be a great service to the city – to the Empire, indeed – to tell us everything you have been told.’

  They had reached the bottom of the staircase and had begun to make their way along a broad corridor faced with pristine white tiles and brightly lit with gas lamps. Their footfalls echoed back and forth along the corridor.

  Hoagland sighed. ‘Very well, ma’am. As I say, some of the lads have had terrible nightmares since the place was found: dreams of a strange and singular country, with more than one moon in the sky, and the stars shining black instead of white, if you can credit such a thing.’

  ‘Believe me, Mr Hoagland, I can,’ Sophia said.

  ‘And they tell of a lake full of clouds instead of water – but clouds which behave as if they were water… and strange cities on the edge of the lake. I’ve looked into their eyes, ma’am, I tell you I have… and I’ve seen fear there, fear the likes of which I’ve never seen in the eyes of a man, which can’t be dulled by drink the way normal fear can.’

  ‘Interesting,
’ said Goodman-Brown. ‘It would appear that there’s a strong psychic link between the chamber and Carcosa.’

  ‘Carcosa, sir?’ said Hoagland, glancing back at the psychometrist.

  ‘That’s the name of the world the men have glimpsed in their dreams,’ he replied.

  Hoagland raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean to say that the place really exists?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hoagland,’ said Blackwood. ‘It exists.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  They reached the end of the corridor and emerged onto the platform. Sophia was struck by the silence and desertion of the place; she was used to seeing the Underground thronging with people of all classes, but now it was as still and quiet as a mausoleum. It was rather unsettling to be in a place designed and built to be used by thousands of people, but in which no people were to be seen. It was only when the distant rumble of a train came to their ears from somewhere above that she remembered they were in a brand new section of the station, part of the new deep-level Tube line running from Bond Street to Westminster, which was yet to echo with the footfalls of passengers.

  Hoagland indicated the mouth of the tunnel to their right. ‘The chamber lies in that direction, about a mile or so. Mr Exeter has given me instructions that I am to accompany you.’ His tone suggested that he was anything but pleased with his assignment.

  ‘We appreciate it, Mr Hoagland,’ said Sophia. She approached the edge of the platform and looked down. ‘No tracks?’

  ‘No ma’am, not yet. The metals are not laid until the tunnels are completed… and I don’t anticipate that they will be laid here anytime soon.’