The Shoggoth Concerto

by John Michael Greer

  “Okay,” Rosalie said then. “My brain’s full.” She got up, turned on the lights. “One more round of quesadillas, coming up.” She headed for the kitchen.

  “Where were you Monday night?” Donna asked Brecken. “You missed a good time.”

  “I had a date with Jay.” Brecken busied herself putting her textbook back into her tote bag, and tried to ignore Donna’s look.

  “I bet he made you cook dinner.”

  “I like to cook for people.”

  Donna rolled her eyes. “Breck, he’s just using you. You know that.”

  “That’s really unfair,” Brecken told her, reddening.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Brecken. “And it’s pretty rude of you to say that about Jay when he went out of his way to bring you into Rose and Thorn.”

  It had been the wrong thing to say, she knew that at once, and the sudden wince that crossed Donna’s face confirmed it. Donna fell silent, glowering. In the kitchen, the oven door groaned. A moment later Rosalie came back into the living room, glanced from one of them to the other, and said, “What’s gotten into you two?”

  “I was trying to talk to her about Jay,” said Donna.

  “Don’t go there,” Rosalie told her. “Just don’t.”

  “I know.” In a scornful tone: “Don’t get between Brecken and her strays.”

  “That’s really mean,” Brecken said, feeling stung.

  “Seriously, Breck,” Donna said then. “Think, will you? I mean, do you really want to introduce someone like Jay to your folks?”

  Brecken stood up, grabbed her tote bag. She heard her own voice, thin and brittle, as though it came from a distance. “My mom’s in prison,” she said, “and my dad’s been dead since I was five, so I won’t be asking them for advice. You know what? I didn’t ask you for advice either.” She turned sharply, headed for the door, remembered just before she got there that her hat and coat were sitting on the bed, veered over to the bedroom to get them.

  “Brecken—” Rosalie said in a pleading tone, coming toward her. Brecken shoved past her and bolted for the door.

  MOMENTS LATER BRECKEN STOOD on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, with the fog flowing around her. Her anger had guttered out, turning as it always did into shame. She managed to keep herself from bursting into tears, though it took an effort, and started along Church Street with no particular destination in mind. An old bitter memory circled in her mind. The other children in her elementary school, cruel as only children can be, liked to taunt her by calling her “broken Brecken;” she hated the gibe, but after a quarrel it inevitably came to mind. She always ended up feeling defective, a thing fit only to be flung aside.

  She had most of an hour and a half to spend before her flute lesson, and as she reached Central Square and she fought her way back to calmness, she thought of one way to help spend it. The second floor windows above the old Smithwich and Isaacs jewelry store shone out into the murk, and the door at the foot of the long narrow stair was still open. A moment of indecision passed, and then she was on her way up the stair and into Buzrael Books.

  For all she could tell, the proprietor hadn’t moved a muscle since she and Jay had left the store Monday night. He sat in the same old-fashioned wooden office chair, sorting through what looked for all the world like the same stack of leatherbound volumes with titles in strange scripts. He glanced up at her the moment she came in, though, and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Actually, yes,” she said. “I was wondering if you have any books on shoggoths.”

  He gave her a long look over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses, and then said, “That’s an unusual subject.” With a laugh that sounded like dry leaves crackling: “What do you have in mind? Care and feeding?”

  Taken aback, Brecken gave him a flustered look, then thought of something to say. “It—it’s for a paper. I’m taking a class on fantastic literature this semester.”

  “Ah,” said the proprietor with the glint of a smile. “Yes, I may have something for you. Just a moment, please.” He extracted himself from the chair, vanished into the depths of the bookstore. After a moment keys jingled, and door hinges let out a long shrill moan.

  Minutes passed. Brecken looked over the books scattered on the sales counter, sorted through the bin of fifty-cent cookbooks again, and then turned to the floor-to-ceiling rack of twentieth-century paperbacks on the wall facing the counter. Glancing over them, she spotted a cover image that made her draw in a sudden sharp breath: a scantily clad woman starting back in horror from a black iridescent blob with pale greenish eyes. The shoggoth looked quite a bit larger than the one she’d seen in her kitchenette the night before, but otherwise could have passed for a painting from life.

  The title of the book was Daydreams and Nightmares and the author was Philip Hastane. A glance at the table of contents showed “The Piper at the Gates of Hell” among the stories within. The book only cost a dollar, so she took it with her when she heard the hinges of the unseen door moan again, and the proprietor of the store came back to the counter carrying a stout hardcover in a faded dust jacket.

  An amused glance moved from the cover of the paperback to her face. “I see you have a good eye for shoggoths,” he said, and held out the hardback. “This may be what closer to what you’re looking for, though. Halpin Chalmers has quite a bit to say about shoggoths. There’s marginal notes and underlining, I’m sorry to say, but if all you need is a reading copy for your paper, why, this ought to do.”

  Brecken took the volume from him, opened it. The marginal notes were in blue ink, in a neat old-fashioned handwriting. A glance at the front cover confirmed the title and author—The Secret Watcher by Halpin Chalmers—and a second glance inside showed $5 penciled in on the flyleaf, which seemed absurdly cheap. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome.” He ducked back behind the counter, went to the cash register. “One thing, though. You mustn’t show this book to your boyfriend.”

  Brecken gave him an unfriendly look, but his gaze, unyielding, met hers above his glasses. “It wouldn’t be good for him, not at all. Do I have your promise?”

  Before she quite knew what she was doing, she’d given the promise, paid for the books, and headed back down the stairs into the darkening evening. At the bottom of the stairs, she shook herself, turned and looked back up at the brightly lit windows of Buzrael Books. The tense way Jay had smiled when he’d found the other book Monday evening came to mind, and she wondered uncomfortably if the old man was right.

  That got her thinking again of the photocopies she’d gotten that same night, and that started her mind chasing after scraps of melody. She started walking again up Meeker Street, as much from habit as anything else, and by the time the lights of Hancock Library came into sight through the fog she had an elegant little piano etude in E flat sketched out in her mind. A glance at her cell phone showed that she still had an hour before her lesson. She went into the library, sat down at the first table she could find, got out her notebook and started writing the etude.

  SHE WAS ALMOST LATE for her flute lesson, but “almost” was the operative word. Evelyn Dobshansky, a retired professor from the university, gave flute lessons in the living room of her home just east of campus; she answered Brecken’s knock as usual with a smile and a few words of greeting, and the two of them plunged into an hour of rigorous work on one of Bach’s flute sonatas, which did a good job of clearing away the last of Brecken’s wretched mood.

  On the walk back up Danforth Street, the salt breeze off the harbor blew cold and crisp, driving the fog away and leaving Brecken exhilarated, and her new etude played itself over and over again in her mind. The quarrel with Donna still stung, but music had worked its usual magic for her, and pushed the discomfort off to a distance where she didn’t have to feel it quite so acutely.

  When she finally let herself into her apartment, though, her first glance was toward the plate and bowl on the kitch
enette floor. Both were empty, as she’d expected, but that brought up a question for which she had no ready answers: with Aunt Mary’s zucchini bread gone, what was she going to feed the shoggoth?

  That she would feed it wasn’t in doubt. Her promise mattered, to be sure, but that wasn’t the only thing that did. The creature was obviously terrified, and the fact that it was hiding under her apartment suggested all too clearly that it had few other options. The difficulty remained that she had no idea what it could eat, no notion if there was anything on the subject in the strange book she’d just purchased, and no one she could ask—with the obvious exception.

  After minutes of indecision, and a long careful reading of Chalmers’ lexicon, she went to the kitchenette, knelt by the sink, and whistled ♪I wish to talk.♪ Then, guessing that moving further away would be less threatening to the shoggoth, she got up and backed away, sat on the floor beside the piano bench, reached for the lexicon, and waited.

  Minutes passed. Then, with a soft rustling noise, iridescent blackness swelled under the sink, flowed outwards. The shoggoth piped, ♪I thank you again for food and drink.♪

  It took Brecken a few moments of fumbling with the lexicon to find the proper response. ♪It is a little thing♪, she said. ♪But I don’t have—any more of the—♪ There was no word in Chalmers’ notes for “zucchini bread,” but it was simple enough to find words that would do. ♪—the thing I gave you. I want to know—what else you can eat.♪

  The shoggoth stared at her with eight eyes for more than a minute. ♪You gave me food and water,♪ it said slowly, ♪and you did not have to. You could have told those who wish to kill me where I hide, and you did not. Now you wish to know what I am able to eat. I do not understand.♪ In a low trembling whistle: ♪Today my name is Drowned In The Torrent.♪

  The thought that the shoggoth was hiding to save its life put a shudder of cold horror through Brecken, but the last sequence of notes pushed that aside for the moment, made her blink. ♪Was your name—something else yesterday?♪

  The creature seemed baffled. ♪I had no name yesterday. How can there be a name when there are none to hear it?♪

  Brecken took that in and tried to make sense of it, without much success. Other things demanded attention first, though. ♪You can—hide here—as long as you wish.♪

  In a sudden desperate wail of notes: ♪Why?♪

  ♪Because—I’ve been alone—and scared too.♪ And it was true: a cascade of wretched memories tumbled through her mind, bringing back times she’d had to hide from bullies at school, from her mother’s boyfriends and drunken rages. She thought of the way that her grandmother used to scoop her up in her arms and hold her, and blushed as she realized that, hideous as the shoggoth was, part of her wanted to do the same thing to it.

  The shoggoth in question regarded her in silence. Minutes passed. ♪I am grateful for what was given, but—but I would welcome more food,♪ it said finally, in a low piping tone.

  ♪You’re hungry,♪ Brecken guessed.

  Lower still: ♪Yes.♪

  ♪What can you eat?♪

  ♪If it was once alive it is food,♪ said the shoggoth. ♪But—but a soft thing would be welcome.♪ The way it piped the final word reminded Brecken of how desperate the creature had seemed the night before. She found herself wondering whether shoggoths found humans as terrifying as humans found shoggoths, and realized that she didn’t find this shoggoth terrifying at all. It was too obviously frightened to be frightening.

  ♪I can make something soft,♪ she told it. ♪But the place where you are is the place where I make food. May I come closer?♪

  ♪Yes.♪

  She got to her feet, moved with deliberate slowness into the kitchenette, watched the shoggoth slide warily to one side. Something soft, she thought. The cupboard wasn’t particularly well stocked just then, but it had several boxes of macaroni and cheese, and that would probably do. She decided to make a double batch, filled the biggest saucepan she had with hot water from the tap, got it heating on the stove.

  A glance back over her shoulder showed the shoggoth huddled in the far corner of the kitchen. ♪Is there fire in that?♪ it asked, staring at the electric stove.

  ♪Not really.♪ She considered the creature, ventured: ♪You don’t like fire.♪

  The answer came with an note of panic that startled Brecken. ♪No!♪

  While the water came to a boil, she went to the refrigerator, looked for soft things. A big bowl covered with plastic wrap turned out to contain a batch of vanilla pudding she’d made the previous Saturday and then managed to forget. That’ll do, she thought, and busied herself with the rest of the preparations for a dinner for two, aware all the while of the shoggoth’s transitory eyes watching every move she made.

  Finally she filled two bowls with mac and cheese, two more with pudding, and got out two spoons before she recalled that shoggoths probably didn’t use silverware. Two glasses of water completed the meal. Lacking a table, she set the dishes on the floor not far from where the shoggoth waited, sat on the carpet across from it, and whistled, ♪It’s ready.♪

  The shoggoth slid onto the carpet, approached the bowls and the glass, and gave her a wide-eyed look. She motioned at the food, then picked up her own bowl of mac and cheese and started eating. That was apparently the encouragement the shoggoth needed; a pseudopod flowed out, scooped up a little of the mac and cheese, enfolded it.

  ♪It is good,♪ it whistled.

  Brecken smiled and nodded, then realized that the shoggoth probably couldn’t interpret that, glanced at the lexicon, and whistled back, ♪I’m glad.♪

  ♪It is very good.♪ The shoggoth paused, and then slid forward and flowed into the bowl, engulfing the remaining mass of mac and cheese. When it flowed back, the bowl looked as though it had been washed. Brecken kept eating in her less efficient way, and the shoggoth watched her. After a time it said, ♪Can you only eat through that one place?♪

  Brecken had a mouth full of mac and cheese just then, so a few moments passed before she could whistle an answer. ♪Yes. We’re like that.♪

  ♪That is so strange,♪ said the shoggoth.

  She finished her mac and cheese and started on the pudding, and the shoggoth tasted its share with a pseudopod. ♪This also is very good,♪ it said, and engulfed the contents of its bowl.

  ♪There’s more if you want it,♪ said Brecken.

  ♪I am well fed,♪ it replied. ♪I thank you.♪ After a pause: ♪I will hide now.♪ It began to slide across the floor to the space under the sink, moving more slowly than before.

  ♪In the—♪ She couldn’t find a word in the lexicon for “morning” or “sunrise,” and had to improvise. ♪When light comes back I’ll make more food. I’ll speak to you.♪

  ♪I—I thank you,♪ it repeated, in piping tones that sounded dazed. It reached the gap in the flooring, slid through a little awkwardly and vanished. Brecken stared at the gap for a long while. It was only then that she realized that she hadn’t smelled the acrid scent at all.

  She dealt with her bafflement by washing the dishes. When those were finished, she went to the piano, sat down, played her new etude twice, then got out an eraser and changed a dozen notes that didn’t work. There were other things she ought to practice, she knew, and more work for other classes she ought to do. Once she was finished with the etude, though, she went to the futon, picked up her copy of The Secret Watcher, and opened it.

  A black and white photograph of Chalmers faced the title page: lean, hollow-cheeked, intent, the face of a medieval ascetic. The title page itself had a curious geometrical diagram on it, a pattern of circles linked by lines. She paged past the table of contents to the first chapter, “The Two Realities,” and read the quotation at the top:

  There are two realities, the terrestrial and the condition of fire.

  —William Butler Yeats

  The condition of fire, Brecken thought, tasting the phrase. The dizzying intensity she’d felt surge through her
as the bourrée finally came together felt like a condition of fire. Was that what Yeats had in mind? She filed the question, having no way to answer it.

  From its first lines, however, the chapter plunged into a complex argument laced with terms that Brecken didn’t know—the doels, the Alala, the Secret Watcher, the scarlet circles, the kingdom of Voor—and the neat handwritten notes down most of the margins simply added to the obscurity, with references to books and people she’d never heard of. Brecken was tired enough that none of it seemed to make any sense at all. She ground to a halt at something called the riddle of the Alala—“Find me the place where the light goes when it is put out, and find me the place where the water goes when the sun dries it up”—and sat there trying to parse that for a while, then rubbed her eyes and paged ahead to the end of the chapter. The last lines read:

  But the Alala pertains only to those beings who were part of the order of the cosmos from the beginning, those beings in whom curve and angle unite. There are other beings who were never part of that order, the creations of the created. Such are the shoggoths spoken of in a certain very ancient Arabic book, the formless ones that dwell in darkness, and such also are the dread beings that guard the threshold between curved and angular time, which will be considered later. Yet there is one greater than these: Nyogtha, The Thing That Should Not Be. Of him much will be said in a later chapter.

  That left Brecken completely at sea. She turned to the index, trying to find everything it had to say about shoggoths, but the words blurred together as she tried to make sense of them, and after a few minutes she closed the book, put it in the bottom drawer of her dresser so that Jay wouldn’t see it if he happened to come over, and went to bed.

  THE NEXT MORNING, AS the rising sun gilded the upper half of Hob’s Hill, she put her flute away after a solid hour of practice, got a double batch of oatmeal cooking, paged through the lexicon again, and whistled a greeting down toward the space under the sink. A few moments passed, faint sounds came from below, and then the shoggoth flowed up from the crawlspace and sat on the linoleum, considering her.