I protested that I would take no such blasphemous oath.
“I believe you, Hosiah, but are you prepared for the consequences? I have sailed for Captain Marsh for many years and feel I know him as well as any man. You saw to what lengths he was willing to go to force the native warrior to talk? Believe me, he will display little more compunction to keep you from talking. Would you like to remain behind on this here island? Perhaps to end up as another sacrifice to those creatures?”
I shuddered and shook my head.
“Then we both will take whatever oath is demanded of us and keep our mouths shut. There’s no shame in it as it will be a vow made under duress. Our real problem will be in trying to find a way to thwart the Captain should he decide to work directly with those sea-creatures himself. Aye, he would do that if it meant cutting out the middle man and increasing his profits. Already, when I left him, he was working on the chief to show him how to call up the monsters.”
I asked him how we could do such a thing; who would believe such a wild tale back in Innsmouth?
“I have an idea about that too,” he said. “Most folks here are tainted by the fish-blood except for Walakea’s immediate family. He had to preserve it in order to keep open the possibility of inter-marrying with the daughters of neighboring chiefs. But there’s one other person that is not tainted…”
“The shaman!” I said.
“Aye, there must be a reason why he has managed to hold on to his humanity while everyone else has succumbed. We’ll go and see him.” At that, he rose and began making his way back to the first village. I followed him, not knowing what else to do. In truth, I did not even know if I believed all that he had recounted to me. It was all so utterly fantastic, completely incredible! And yet, I had seen and wondered at the queer look of the villagers, the meaning of the disgusting carvings on the golden ornaments and the fetid inspiration of the tiny idols. In my mind they added up to irrefutable evidence of Eliot’s story. In addition, a strange disquiet had been building in me ever since our arrival in these distant waters and I was loath to remain blissful of any threat to myself or the Queen.
It did not take long to locate the shaman’s hut. It stood alone a good ways off in the surrounding forest and one smelled it long before seeing it. The remains of dismembered animals lay all about the site and drying and rotting fish hung from the structure’s outer walls. We called out and received a reply from within the hut. Eliot led the way inside and I followed, vainly holding my breath against the overpowering stench. The shaman himself was one of the ugliest humans I had ever seen, but even then he seemed more pleasant looking than the tainted creatures his brethren had become. His hair was a tangled, dirty mass and his skin was smeared in fish oil. He was naked but for a loin clout about his hips. As he squatted to the side of the hut, I noticed one thing immediately, there was no sign of the island’s gold nor any aquatic idols. Eliot spoke to him and must have received a positive reply because he bade me sit. I sat cross-legged as far away from the old man as I could as Eliot sat alongside me but a little ahead. He leaned forward and asked the shaman a question. The following is the translation he gave me of his conversation with the witch man, who barked a sort of laugh before he spoke.
“He says he knew we would come around to see him sooner or later. That any normal men, even sickly looking white men, would be repulsed by what had happened to his people and be compelled to seek out their own kind. He is laughing at his own joke, and I cannot say as I blame him. We white men always think ourselves the superior of other races and now we can see just how closely related we really are to them. Our differences amount to nothing compared to the gulf between us and those ‘Deep Ones’ as he calls them. Aye, he has a name for those creatures whose likenesses I saw carved on that island. He says everything Walakea told me is true and I gather he and the chief are not on friendly terms. It seems when the Deep Ones began mating with the Kanakys’, his forbears held out and kept their line pure. Seems the shaman here, is jealous of the Deep Ones. Ever since making their unholy bargain with the creatures, the villagers have had little need for his services. They get all they want from the Deep Ones. These days, he ekes out a living by working a few cures for bellyache and infection. I asked him if there is anything the Deep Ones fear and he said something about how do I figure he and his father and his grandfather were able to remain pure blooded all these years? The Deep Ones fear only two things he says: someone or something called Clooloo I think, and a certain kind of symbol of things called the Old Ones.”
By this time, I was a bit confused, no doubt the result of a mixture of Eliot’s inadequate translation and the shaman’s ignorance. Who were these Deep Ones and Clooloo? They seemed nothing less than the embodiment of the Biblical fish god, Dagon. There was a pause in the conversation as the shaman reached into his loin clout and pulled out a small stone. He showed it to us by the fading light of afternoon and I could see the simple markings of a what looked like a crooked cross on its face. Quickly, he returned it to its place and resumed speaking.
“He says he can tell that we are still having a difficult time believing his story, but that perhaps he can offer us more proof.” The shaman stood and preceded us out of the hut. The sun was well down on the horizon when we started up a path different than the one we had followed earlier. As we walked, it grew darker and soon I could hear the sound of the surf in the darkness. We came upon a rock-strewn beach. The shaman bade us be silent on pain of our lives, and showed us to a spot laden with concealing underbrush. A hundred yards or so in front of us, the beach was well lit with many torches and Walakea stood there with a great many of his people. The light of the torches flickered over the incoming waves and in the distance, I could make out the dim outline of the island of the Deep Ones. Suddenly, Eliot took my arm in an almost-painful grasp and hissed a warning. He inclined his chin toward the crowd on the beach and, for a moment, I did not see what he was attempting to point out to me. Then it was my turn to stiffen as I saw Captain Marsh step out from behind one of the warriors and take a place beside Walakea. The shaman nudged us and indicated we look out to sea.
At first, I thought he meant for us to observe the island in the distance then, as my eyes adjusted to the weak torchlight, I saw that there was something else out in the water between us and the island. It was a jagged log or something that thrust itself a good six feet from the surface of the water. There was an irregularity upon it that I suddenly saw move.
“It is that native prisoner the Captain gave to Walakea yesterday,” whispered Eliot in my ear. “They got him tied to that log. They intend the poor creature to drown in the incoming tide.”
Unfamiliar stars began to twinkle overhead and a dull glow was all that was left of the setting sun in the west. All was silent except for the lapping waves when Walakea began intoning a guttural prayer. Soon, his followers began to join in. There was a disturbance on the surface of the water a little distance from the bound native. I tried to focus my eyes upon it, but failed to see what was happening in detail. I thank God to this day that I was not successful! Slowly, the disturbance grew in violence until the captive seized his struggles in momentary confusion. Then the movement halted and all was calm once more. I had turned a moment to ask about the phenomenon of Eliot when a blood-curdling scream pierced the gathering gloom. My head shot around in a flash as I could see the captive struggling mightily against his bonds, to no effect. All the time his screams continued, melding with the droning chant of the group on shore. Then, if possible, the man’s screams became even more shrill as his body seemed to stiffen. I saw something break the surface of the water around the native’s legs. It slid slowly upward, its hide glistening wetly in the torchlight. I watched transfixed as the thing inched its way ever higher, now to the man’s thighs, now his waist. It seemed in that concealing gloom that it was a giant slug as its movement suggested an arching and contracting to help pull its bulk along.
The screams continued until they seemed to become a
part of the universe, a natural noise like that of the wind or the surf. Then the gelatinous mass seemed to begin to tug, to drag its massive weight downward. The native’s bonds snapped with a sound that was clearly heard even over his screams as his body began to slide downward into the water. By then, his mind must have been completely emptied of rational thought by the horror that had hold of him. I gulped heavily and breathed, I think, for the first time since the screams began. Another snap and the native, one arm flailing, slid beneath the waves as his screams bubbled into silence. The only evidence of the horrid scene was a shiny slick left upon the upright log. Dimly, I heard the chanting die out and the crowd turn back toward the village. I do not know how long it was before I was shaken by Eliot and pulled back along that path to the shaman’s hut, but I remember watching the first mate working frantically through the rest of the night with the shaman’s inadequate tools to reproduce the Old Ones’ signs on a few smooth stones. The shaman’s ironic chuckling, tinged with not a bit of madness, shall remain with me the rest of my days.
As expected, the Captain demanded an oath of silence from the crew. His explanation, appealing to their greed, was smooth to be sure but Eliot and I refused to participate in the compact. I simply shook my head but Eliot uttered his defiance aloud, barely able to control his voice which shook slightly. Behind him, I could see the ague-like trembling his hands had acquired that night, when we witnessed the thing rise from the sea. For myself, I demonstrated no outward signs of trauma, but I knew they were there nonetheless. Shock perhaps had internalized them to emerge in due time.
Thus the long voyage progressed until, early one morning, just after two bells, the cry most dreaded by seamen echoed below decks: “All hands on deck!” Immediately, Eliot and I joined the rush to the top, spilling outdoors into harsh moonlight and a placid sea. We were far southward by then, in the currents that skirt the Pole. The captain was on deck, smothered in his cold weather gear and pointing out to port.
I moved to the rail with the rest of the men and looked in the direction the captain was pointing. At first I saw nothing in the gloom, then a sound of disturbed water broke the silence and one of the men shouted and pointed too. Instantly, every head turned. There was activity in the water about half a league out, a small whirlpool of swirling water that indicated something of immense bulk had recently submerged. We all leaned just a little bit more forward then, as whatever the thing was breached the surface once more. It slid wetly toward the southward and I could see immense ridges or rings that segmented its length as though it were a gigantic serpent or worm. I stiffened and recoiled at the sight, my hand immediately seeking the comforting shape of the stone in my pocket as I recognized the contours of the monstrous thing worshipped by the damned Kanakys. In the meantime, immediately upon catching sight of the creature, the entire crew reeled back as one, some crying out to the Lord, others cursing, but all deeply frightened.
“It’s just like in the Book o’ Jonah!” someone cried out, echoing my own racing thoughts. I looked about for the kindred soul and imagine my surprise to find that it was none other than Captain Marsh himself! Amazed, I listened as he harangued the crew, controlling their panic, with Biblical allusions and assurances of the Lord’s mercy until his true intentions revealed themselves. “The thing’s only lookin’ fer sustenance,” the captain said. “There cain’t be much food for a creature so big hereabouts. But still, something had to bring it up from the deep. Someone among you must have aroused its wrath through sin and unbelief.” With that, his eyes fell squarely upon mine and in a flash, I saw the captain’s evil plan. He himself had called up the thing using the idolatrous methods of the Kanaky islanders and then making the suggestion of offering the creature a sacrifice when he knew the crew were already resentful of Eliot and I. Perhaps the Lord was yet with me that night however; how else to explain the timeliness of my next words in that situation?
“But Cap’n Marsh,” I said, not unmindful of the irony of trading scriptural quips with old Limb of Satan himself, “don’t forget that Scripture says each seafarer called upon his God, and I will call on Jehovah, even as Jonah did! And thus let it be known who is God!”
Then, something even more amazing and terrifying than the nearby sea beast followed: lightning crackled amid a cloudless sky and the stone in my pocket became almost too hot to hold. I bit my lip and continued to grasp it firmly as the sea off the port side was churned into a gleaming froth in the throes of the maddened beast. At last, the monster seemed to disappear and the sea returned to normal and the crew, their resentment for Eliot and I temporarily forgotten in the relief of the moment, dispersed amid fearful mutterings. Eliot and I remained behind, the comforting feel of the Old Ones’ Sign still warm in my hand. The look he gave me indicated he too had resorted to the protection of the stone and I was on the verge of voicing my guilt at our reliance on such idolatrous and pagan objects over that of the true God when I noticed the form of the captain where he still stood at the rail. His eyes burned hatefully into mine and I knew for certain my life aboard the Queen was not worth a penny. Muttering, Captain Marsh turned and retired to his cabin, leaving Eliot and I to ruminate upon the strange protections obviously afforded by the star shaped stones in our possession.
How we endured the interminable agony of the long voyage around Cape Horn is more than I can explain here. Where once the sea had beckoned me with its gentle swell and even violent temper, now it struck me with ineluctable fear and loathing. It’s boundless reaches filled me with terror and, although there were no further attempts by the captain to rid himself of Eliot and I, we took to spending as much time as we could below decks. At last though, the shores of home hove into view and the Sumatra Queen arrived at Innsmouth again.
But even back among the civilized haunts of men, I could not find peace. Almost as soon as we arrived, Captain Marsh began his damnable crusade to convert the citizenry of Innsmouth in the ways of the Kanaky religion. Even I had to admire the old seaman’s canny arguments; such casuistry would have impressed even the most wily Jesuit. For some, he promised riches from gods who rewarded their worshippers with items they could use such as gold and silver and, for others, he used the insidious and tempting arguments first promulgated by Thomas Paine and Ethan Allen. Each man had his weakness and Marsh had no compunction in exploiting it. He debated the local clergy, sometimes pointing out their hypocrisy and other times demanding of the congregation why they allowed themselves to be led by these men, why could they not think for themselves? Compelled to witness against such unscrupulous tactics, Eliot and I spoke out at every opportunity. In the public rooms, in the churches, and on the street corners we spoke to whoever would listen, but it was difficult to combat a man who could pass out bits of gold. In increasing numbers and regularity, men began to meet in cellars and basements and then in homes and halls to participate in the new rites of worship. Whom Marsh could not convert, he bought with gold, thus he was able to drive from the town first the clergy and then those citizens and elected officials who refused to follow the new belief. At last, there was no more Eliot and I could do and it was decided that I would journey to Boston and seek help from State or Federal officials who might at least act upon Innsmouth’s official corruption.
It was with great trepidation that I deserted my companion, but it was felt to be necessary by the both of us that I did. In Boston, I met with resistance to my imprecations. It was out of their jurisdiction, it was none of their affair, there was no evidence they said. I spent days wandering the cobbled streets searching for anyone who might listen to my tale, but no one did. Suspecting that Marsh’s gold had arrived there before me, I considered moving on to Washington, but by then I was growing fretful of Eliot’s lack of communication. Finally, some weeks after my arrival in the state capital, I gave up and began my return journey to Innsmouth.
It was on my final night on the road, after I had arranged for a room in Arkham, that I had the dream. In it, I found myself on a vast field of ice
and snow. Before me, in the misty distance, rose a range of snow covered mountains and at my back was a great empty ship held fast in the ice. Snowflakes fluttered in the cold air, and suddenly there was the strangest shape I had ever seen standing erect before me. It was cone-shaped and somewhat taller than a man, and its plastic makeup seemed undisturbed by the weather. But the strangeness of the event was not borne out of my encountering it in those frigid climes but rather, the shape of what I presumed to be its head. For that member was shaped much like the Old Ones’ Sign that I clutched in my pocket. Could this creature actually be an Old One? Then I saw it twist about at its mid-section as if it intended to indicate some point to the side. I looked, and beheld the figure of my friend, Eliot, as he lay in the snow, his cold body partially buried in the drifting stuff. Now, at last, a shiver passed along my body as the meaning of the scene bore itself upon me.
Upon awakening, I tried to convince myself of the essential meaninglessness of dreams, but however I tried, I could not shake off the feeling that it had been a kind of premonition or warning. It was not an hour later, as I had breakfast in the tavern below my room, that I learned the sad fate of my friend.
A local resident, enjoying a pint of rum at the inn, overheard me say that I was bound for Innsmouth and asked me what I might know about a lynching that occurred there not two days before. It was from him that I learned Matt Eliot was dead. It seemed that the affair began with a simple theft when Marsh had goaded the town prankster, a boy named Zadok Allen, to steal the strange stone Eliot always kept on his person. I did not say so to my informant, but the theft of the Old Ones’ Sign would have left Eliot unprotected, as Marsh surely knew. It was after that, said the man, that Marsh accused Eliot of all kinds of foul deeds, whipping the town’s residents into a self-righteous frenzy that resulted in his being lynched.
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 12