“Now there came those strange meetings on top of Sentinel Hill by those occultists of Brichester. They were up to something, to be sure; but their doing nothing serious the first time seemed to suggest some curious expectancy, and it was of course proved by that incredible effort to rob the crystal two nights ago. It was obvious that they wanted the crystal, but what we could not understand was why.
“I found the answer, as I told you, in the Kurkur Fragment. But before I tell you that, let me show you something else.”
He went to his desk and picked up a packet of about a dozen newspaper clippings, all from various London newspapers of the past few days.
He continued, as he handed them to me: “While you were at Oxford, Collins, I telephoned to London and asked to have recent issues of the Times, the Guardian, and the Daily Telegraph brought to me. (I was not fool enough to go myself and leave the crystal unguarded.) Read the articles: their significance is obvious enough.”
And it was. I read of curious deaths and disappearances in the Australian desert, in the heights of the Himalayas, and in the frozen wastes of Antarctica. I read of an uprising of dolphins in California; I read of the recommencement of human sacrifices in Manitoba; I read of unheard-of excitement amongst primitive tribes in the depths of the African desert, in Panama, in south France, in the Yucatan peninsula, in southern Louisiana, in Polynesia; I read of ships sighting bizarre objects in the Pacific Ocean, in the north Atlantic, in the Gulf of Mexico. It was incredible, the worse because I sensed what was causing it.
“All across the world,” Coler said, “these things have been happening, the incidents in New England and Tahiti were but a part of it. And I could not help but ask myself: why now? What ineffable forces were spurring those things to attack now? Meredith’s Kurkur Fragment told me.”
Again going to his desk, he took hold of a sheet of paper which I could see was Coler’s translation of part of the text. What I read was this:
…And the minions of Azathoth first moulded the Earth as a plaything of the gods, who might fashion upon it what they would—living travesties of the planet’s scarce-cooled crust to serve as ultimate signs of the mistake that is Life. But Cthulhu and the Deep Ones came to wrest the earth away, so that they could serve as the gods of the hoary denizens that shambled before there were men; and this pleased not the minions of Azathoth, who by a supreme jest entrapped the feeble god within the waters. Thence did the prehuman worshippers of Cthulhu fashion the Crystal of Zamalashtra from elements spawned on Yuggoth, burying within it the fire from Nyarlathotep. And when the stars are right, the fire will glow; and may this serve as a sign to the worshippers of Cthulhu to deliver the Crystal of Zamalashtra to their entombed god, whereupon he shall break through his shackles and crush the plaything of the gods called Earth…”
“Need I say more, Collins? need I say more?
“You know that Yuggoth is nothing but that recently discovered planet called Pluto. And you know, too, that the orbit of ‘Pluto’ has been calculated as roughly 248 years. Once every 248 years Yuggoth lines up perfectly so that ‘the stars are right’; now is it not obvious what has happened?
“I dug up the crystal in that exact 248th year!
“Think of what a phenomenal coincidence that was! What an unbelievable stroke of bad luck that I dug it up at the exact time when Cthulhu could be freed from his prison! The glowing confirmed it.
“But why, then, was Cthulhu not released aeons ago? Why has the earth not been crushed? What must have happened was that the crystal was lost before ‘the stars were right,’ and because of this Cthulhu and his minions could never completely escape their watery tombs! All they could do was to make random and ineffectual attacks on men, as the Johansen narrative and the Wilmarth manuscript prove. Without the crystal, it would all be futile…
“Yet the worshippers seem somehow to know when ‘the stars are right,’ and as a result their activities, and the activities of Cthulhu’s spawn, suddenly increase. This most recent attempt proves it; yet this time, because they knew that the crystal had now been rediscovered, their anxiety was a thousandfold greater: for the first time in millennia, they had a chance finally to annihilate the world! Why else did one of the worshippers try to rob the crystal in our very presence? Why else, when that failed, did they resort to physical violence? Why else did they so madly try to get back the crystal when we had taken it from them? Why else did those incidents occur all over the planet?
“Then, too, Collins, think of this: this is 1940; we know that this is the period when ‘the stars are right’; then 248 years ago, the stars must again have been right. And what is 248 years from this date? Is it not 1692, the time of the Salem witch trials? Is there any other explanation for the sudden activity of the witches? Then, as now, they knew it was time; but the crystal was lost, and they could do nothing about it. They had to be content at merely intensifying their rituals, to such an extent that they were caught and killed. But it was all useless: they could do nothing without the crystal.
“If it had not been for me, we would not have gone through what we have; yet think of our marvelous good fortune that Meredith dropped in our laps the very thing we needed to counteract all that had happened! There has never been a time when coincidence has been so devastating, when chance so entered into the composition of events, when sheer accident first threatened, then saved our lives.
“We need not worry about the Crystal of Zamalashtra for another 248 years: by now, the stars have surely moved their alignment, and the crystal has again become powerless. We shall both be dead before the proper time next comes: let us hope that no idiot stumbles upon the crystal as I did, or if someone does, that he has the sense to leave it in its place. I don’t see how we can ever escape the recurring doom of this crystal; and I don’t see how in time Cthulhu will not escape his prison. Uncontrolled curiosity has ever been our worst enemy.”
Jefferson Coler died thirty-six days later, having saved the world yet having left a legacy of eternal dread that seems destined eventually to overcome mankind. The preservation of this document is vital to the preservation of our race: if men cast doubts as to its veracity, then they will pay the consequences of their folly.
Really, it would be the most priceless irony.
NECROTIC KNOWLEDGE
BY DIRK W. MOSIG
“MAY I HELP YOU, SIR?”—THE LITTLE OLD MAN WITH THE gray beard leaned solicitously over the counter.
Rashd hesitated momentarily, then walked past him without uttering a sound. Moving toward one of the many tall shelves filled with musty volumes, he stared at them for a few seconds, and then wandered down one of the poorly lit aisles of Ye Olde Occulte Book-shoppe. He silently scanned row after row of the brittle, brownish and grayish spines, occasionally touching one of the mouldy books. Removing a tome lacking any visible lettering on the spine, he replaced it after discovering that the silverfish had not been merciful.
The little man sporting the beard that gave him an uncanny resemblance to Sigmund Freud shrugged, accustomed to being ignored by some of the rather unconventional types that frequented the ill-kept dump. With a grunt he returned to the copy of Anal Lovers he had picked up a few minutes ago to combat the early afternoon boredom. The heat was sweltering, and the tall and wiry stranger with the aquiline nose was the only customer—or potential customer—he had seen in the past two hours.
“Kitb… you have kitb… book… kitb-ul… nekrut?”
“What?” The dealer lifted his graying eyebrows.
“The book. Nekrut. Al-nekrutic. Nekrotico? Sati’ said you had kith, kitb-ul-majnn…”
The little man gasped, and his knuckles turned white as he grabbed the edge of the counter and leaned forward.
“Satih sent you? That bastard! Ibn-Sharmtah! Son of a bitch! You know…”
Rashd paled considerably, and his long fingers reached under his ill-fitting coat, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“No, no, I didn’t mean you! Satih… Sati’?…”�
�the smallish man pronounced the ‘ain’ sound only with great difficulty.
Rashd stared blankly for a moment, then insisted:
“Necrotic? Kitb-ul-majnn… kitb-ul-necrotic-ul-majnn?”
“All right, dammit!”—said the little Freud look-alike. “Wait a minute.” He walked nervously around the counter to the door of the shabby shop, pulled down the shades, and quickly flipped over the OPEN sign, securely fastening the door. Turning around, he rapidly walked past Rashd, who had observed the proceedings with a curious lack of interest.
“Come with me.”
The gaunt Arab followed him silently to the back of the shop.
“JACK DAVIS—PRIVATE—KEEP OUT” read the stained yellowish sign discernible on the padlocked door. The little man, apparently Jack Davis himself, reached inside his trouser pocket and produced an odd-looking key, while his customer pressed closer.
“Hold your horses”—he grunted while fumbling with the lock.
A gratifying “click” rewarded his efforts. Removing the padlock, he pushed the door open, reached for an invisible light switch inside the dark room beyond, and gestured to his unusual client to enter the smallish enclosure revealed by the single lightbulb.
As soon as Rashd penetrated the crowded room—all four walls were lined with ancient-looking books, and a large desk, covered with papers, occupied most of the remaining space—Jack Davis followed him, carefully closing the door and padlocking it from the inside.
A musty odor of rotting paper seemed to float thickly in the cramped quarters, mixed with other, more disturbing scents of decay, but Rashd didn’t seem to notice, nor did he object to the almost unbearable heat in the poorly ventilated room. Davis, on the other hand, perspired profusely as he slipped around the desk to drop his body on the single chair behind it.
“The Necrotic Book, huh? Do you have any idea what you are getting into?” The diminutive dealer seemed genuinely concerned.
“N’am… yes, yes, of course”—uttered his interlocutor, impatiently—“and I have the price—you give me the book…”
“Let’s see what you got, first.” Davis’s voice revealed a touch of irritation.
The tall cadaveric Arab quickly unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside, producing in rapid succession five elongated plastic bags, which he deposited carefully on the desk, facing the sweaty and now slightly agitated dealer.
“Here… hashish”—he said, matter-of-factly. “Pure… good quality… khirun… hashish of the best… wal-lh!”
Davis carefully opened each of the bags, touched with his index finger the darkish substance within, then the tip of his tongue.
“Yes, it seems to be all right—awfully good stuff—where the hell did you get it? Never mind. But are you really aware of what you are trying to buy with it? How about settling for some other book of equal value—look, I have here an original of the Book of Eibon, no less, and…”
Rashd snarled and his right hand darted out with incredible speed, fastening itself on Davis’s windpipe. Jack Davis’s mouth opened soundlessly, and for an instant he stared right into the cold eyes of death incarnated.
“Give me the nekrutic book!” The words of the Arab cut through the thick air like knives.
“O.K.”—Davis choked, struggling to free himself from the painful hold. “All right. Let me go, dammit! There—let me warn you, although I’m tempted not to… that Necrotic Book is too dangerous! I saw what it did to the guy who had it before. Gawd, I can’t even think about it without my stomach turning over. A fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy—and believe me, I have several! An end that was just not human—or perhaps all too human, but not like that… Damn, if the boss hadn’t insisted that I keep the blasted thing again, I would’ve…”
“Nekrutic KITB! Where?!” interrupted the Arab, his patience obviously exhausted.
“I don’t think you realize…” Jack Davis made a last, desperate effort. “The accursed book, scroll, or parchment—I’ve been spared actually seeing the damned thing—really has necrotic powers! Do you know what that means?…”
For the first time a faint smile appeared in the olivaceous face of Rashd Abdul Wahb Al-’Iraqui.
“Yes, I know—we know. Kitb of Thumarn Al-Miit-ui-Majnn has the power not of other books, not even of Kitb-ul-Azif. My master knows, too—him great collector of forbidden—he knows—he ’lim-ul-kitb! Yes, Thumarn… Tomeron?… found something other men and djinni have never found. Book necrotic can make flesh rot—rotting in life—like spider venom that my master study… Loxosceles… ah, laeta… necrotic toxin… must be careful when handling. We also very careful when dealing with necrotic kitb of Thumarn. See, we never touch, work from space away… ah, distance… very safe, see, and besides al-duktr… ah, al-master, master collector, he many other books—we protection of other books, no? We with many forbidden books, many powerful kitb, strong protection against… outside. Now, where is the book? Which is kitb?”
“You people are nuts! Stark-raving lunatics! I don’t see how you think you can…”
“KITB!” Rashd’s tone had changed again. A thin dagger appeared in his left hand. “Enough games, kfir! The book!” he demanded imperiously. “O.K., crap, it’s your life, and that of the nut who hired you! I tried to warn you… here… here…”
With quivering hands Davis removed four thick volumes from one of the musty shelves that covered the wall to his right, revealing a strangely sealed and decorated box behind. Pointing, he whispered:
“Here, take the damn box, take it… the book or whatever the damn hell it is, is in there…”
In an instant Rashd moved around the desk. His arms darted out and without hesitation greedily removed the closed box from its hidden niche, turning it around in the air while fingering the large wax seals and the thin greenish chain wrapped around it.
“Ah, seal of Ar-Rajm, as promised… but must open and check…”
Jack Davis jumped up, livid, and pointed a small bluish revolver that appeared to have materialized miraculously in his hand.
“The hell you are going to open that thing in here!”—he shrieked, his sweaty face contorted with a curious mixture of anger and fear. The gun pointed straight at Rashd’s head, as he continued, practically out of breath. “I told you I saw what happened to the last idiot who fooled around with that crazy thing, and I’m not about to take any chances with you opening that damn box while I’m around—you touch one of those seals again, and I swear I’ll blow your brains out—hell, I would be doing you a favor! Take the damn thing and get the hell out of here!”
Rashd’s features contorted into a grin, and he seemed to be strangely amused.
“Wal-lh! No need to threaten me, kfir! I’m going… I’m going! I’m sure you realize that if you have betrayed us and the book of Tomeron is not in the box you will die a death worse than… than… a thousand hells…wa la’nnat-ul-’alamn ’aleikum!”
The Arab burst into insane laughter, then pointed at the padlocked door:
“Open it!”
The agitated dealer hastened to the door, keeping his gun pointed at his visitor. Removing the padlock, he threw the door open in an instant, getting out of the way to allow his client to march past him. Rashd walked out of the bookshop without glancing back.
* * *
Carlo Corelli looked up from the newspaper spread out on his ornate desk, as the diminutive man with the gray beard was ushered into the office by one of his bodyguards.
“Hi, Jack, caro amico, how are you? Here, sit down, make yourself comfortable. Hey, did you see the paper this morning? Quite a mess, no?… Awful, the things that happen in this town, tsk, tsk.”
“Damn, Mr. Corelli, how can you take it all so calmly?” Davis seemed to be tied in knots.
“Oh, c’mon, Jack! You are not only getting old—you’re getting soft! I think those kooks were actually funny! Imagine, all the trouble they took… They get la cosa from you and place the crazy thing under a glass bowl, and use remote control a
nd mechanical arms to open the box from another room, for goodness sake, as if they expected the thing to go boom! Giuseppe got there later, posing as a reporter, and swears they had also drawn pentagrams, had a bunch of candles burning, and books on funny pedestals in front of their observation window. C’mon, Jack, loosen up! We have been together in this for quite some time…”
“Not in that kind of thing, Mr. Corelli. Junk is one thing, but this…”
“Aw, Jack, c’mon, can’t you see the humor of this whole situation?”—laughed the heavy-set man behind the luxurious desk, puffing at his cigar. “I can see the poor nuts… surrounded by all their occult garbage, reading from their useless books, that crazy Arab no doubt reciting the Necronomicon or some such crap! Ha! And no doubt encouraged because nothing happened when their instruments succeeded in opening the box, that lunatic collector, Dr. Carl Ericson, had the Iraqui creep read from the Arabic text of the Necrotic Book as soon as they got the thing open. Jeez, they even had three rats in cages around the book, as if the book could have affected them! The idiots never realized that the necrotic powers of the book composed by Tomeron, that renegade priest of the corpse-eating cult of Leng, do not act upon him who touches it, or on those around it! Hey, Jack, you look pale… I bet you yourself do not know how the thing acts!”
“Mr. Corelli, do you know what powers are behind that demon book? Do you understand what makes it work?”—the smaller man shuddered.
Acolytes of Cthulhu Page 43