by Brian Lumley
“Why, it got so bad I could sense mutiny brewin’ and might even have led it myself; but then at last, from the lone survivor of a vessel we’d taken after one hell of a battle—taken, then sent to the bottom—Cap’n Jake heard a story that at once changed his nature and cheered him up no end. It was this:
“That on the selfsame outlaw island where we reckoned Will Moffat and Zhadia were hidin’ out, somethin’ was goin’ on which had gone on before but never with such enterprise. In a little-known jungle bolt-hole, a ramshackle place of no previous importance, treasure in the shape of jewels, doubloons, silver ingots, and pieces of eight were changin’ hands quick as cards could be dealt and dice rolled; rum was bein’ swilled like so much water, and high-priced women of all colours were available by the hour to whoever could afford ’em. Which mightn’t seem so extraordinary—at least, not on that island—if not for the fact that the description of the proprietors of this den of ill or iller repute, not to mention those of a certain large handful of its frequenters, rang bells galore!
“Aye, for it seemed more than likely that the latter were the Sea Witch’s half-dozen deserters, now gamblin’, whorin, or otherwise throwin’ away their by no means paltry take from Jake Johnson’s share-out after our last venture; for however mean he was in his captainin’, it would be an untruth to say Cap’n Jake was mean with the booty he could never have amassed without the brute force of his pirate crew. For which reason the Cap’n kept but two shares of a prize while his officers, includin’ myself, got one and a half, and each of the men got one. Ah, but divide fifty into fifty thousand . . . and it’s one hell of a share! Or, in this case, six shares.
“So then, the rise of this new seat of iniquity might well be explained by the big pay-outs to our half-dozen ship-jumpers, while naturally any rumoured superabundance of loot, liquor, and ladies of pleasure would have attracted well-heeled pirate scum from all quarters, until the den was its current centre of sinful activity. But the clincher where Cap’n Jake was concerned—the fact that guaranteed our return to the island in question—was as stated the description of the proprietors of this jungle hideaway. And I’ll wager you’ve already guessed it:
“That the one was a brawny lad in silk shirt and pants, a mere youth with a golden ring in one ear, a brace of pistols in his belt, wearin’ a chain of doubloons as a necklace, and rings of gold on each finger of his shrivelled hands . . . which looked like they’d been scarred by acid or burned in a fire. And Cap’n Jake remembered how Will Moffat had used to wear a gold ring in his ear; also, how the men who brought the sky-cloth aboard had been burned as by jellyfish stings. And then there was this:
“The description of a female proprietor who kept mainly to herself but would come out from time to time on a balcony overlookin’ the main gamin’ room, to stare down on all the gamblin’ and drinkin’ and revelry; a young woman with long, agile hands, long legs, the slender shape of a goddess, and eyes dark as the night. A rare beauty, aye—a seeming treasure in her own right—whose only fault would seem to be that she never smiled, and whose only dress was a scintillant golden wrap that she wore on one shoulder and down round her chest and hips in a spiral like them Indian women sometimes dress. And that dress, while it appeared to sit on her light as a feather, gleamed so like gold it was easily mistaken for the precious metal itself. And both the dress and the woman, they were so dazzlin’ to the eyes of every man who saw them that the balcony was guarded at the stairs and both ends by fat men out of Arabia, eunuchs who would use their scimitars to cut a man down as soon as look at him, if ever the woman’s allure tempted any such fool to try and attend her.
“It had to be Cap’n Jake’s Zhadia, of course—or rather, Will Moffat’s Zhadia—for who else could she possibly be? And as for her golden dress . . .
“Well, need I say more?”
That last was a question which, because Harry was vaguely aware that it required an answer, woke him up. Straightening up, from where he now found himself slumped to the right on the low flat perch of Billy’s marker, he shuddered and started, blinking his eyes and wondering what was happening here. In fact, just for a moment before he achieved almost full awareness, Harry couldn’t even have said where he was or what he was doing!
And as for that confounded droning—why, it could drive a man mad! Maybe it was driving him mad! But then:
Eh? What? said Billy, trying but failing to sound entirely surprised. Are you still with me, Necroscope? Or is my story so borin’ you were about to fall asleep on me?
Falling asleep on Billy? Had he been? Well if so he hadn’t realised it, and felt fairly sure that he’d taken in every word of the ex-pirate’s story so far! He had heard Billy’s question, hadn’t he? About Zhadia, and Billy not needing to say any more? Yes, certainly he had—and yet it was still as if he’d been in some kind of trance, like an iron filing trapped in the grip of a magnetic field . . . what, galvanised? Or maybe hypnotised? And even now he felt that his metaphysical mind was gyrating just a little outside its accustomed orbit, as if he’d had too much to drink; and he couldn’t be sure that the rest of him was working correctly either! And so:
“What?” said the Necroscope, as much to himself as to anyone else, still bewildered by his circumstances. And “Ouch!” as he straightened up and went to clasp his throbbing head . . . only to find his right hand clogged with damp soil where he’d pulled his fist from the grave dirt! That was why he had been toppling to the right: because for some utterly inexplicable reason he’d been thrusting his fingers deep into the earth, still damp from yesterday’s rain.
Ouch? Billy had meanwhile repeated him, still somewhat unconvincingly concerned. Are you hurt?
“Hurting? Yes I am!” said the Necroscope, nodding however carefully. “It’s my head . . . I think it’s coming apart from all this buzzing! What on earth . . . I mean what the hell is it, and why does it keep getting louder?”
Buzzin’? Billy repeated him, apparently puzzled. You mean that far-off dronin’ like the thrummin’ of taut riggin’? Yes, I hear it, too, though not so much that it bothers me. But surely it’s an effect of your powerful talents? So I assumed, anyway.
“What’s that you say? Far-off?” Harry was astonished. “You mean it sounds distant to you? Well not to me, Billy! More like it’s right on top of me!”
He sensed the other’s deadspeak shrug—no, he even felt it, because of the increased volume of whatever it was that had to be shaking not only him but surely the entire psychic aether—and in the next moment reeled from the abrupt, totally unexpected change as suddenly the dull hammer blows stopped falling on his temples . . . stopped instantly, cut off at the source, where-or whatever that was! And:
So maybe it was you causin’ it after all! said the ex-pirate. For now it’s gone, stopped almost as soon as you mentioned it. I mean no offence, Necroscope, but it seems to me that it’s all of your own doin’, all in that powerful mind of yours.
It could well be at that! Indeed, Harry felt that even if he or Billy Browen had been “whispering” during that last deadspeak session, still it would have sounded like they were bellowing! But on the other hand he’d also begun to associate these monotonous migraine-generating reverberations with proximity to Billy himself. And so, since the latter seemed to have reached a natural break in his weird narrative, the Necroscope decided that he, too, would take a break . . . from the now enigmatic Mr. Browen. Not that he wouldn’t be back, for whatever had gone on/was going on here, Harry now made a vow with himself to see it through, tracking it down to the last.
For which reason:
“Billy—” he said, wincing and screwing up his eyes, half-expecting the echoes of that single word to sound like so much thunder in his head, and sighing his relief when it didn’t, “I think maybe we should break off for an hour or so.” And with a glance at his wristwatch he went on: “It will soon be my lunch hour. I know a place where I can eat something and wash it down with half a beer and a couple of aspirins. So I’m afraid yo
u’ll have to excuse me now.”
And before the other could reply or query the Necroscope’s intentions, Harry got unsteadily to his feet, stepped forward a pace, then one more, or at least half a one—
—And was no longer there . . .
The small cafe only a few streets inland from Old Hartlepool’s harbour in that most hoary part of town, a place the Necroscope and his then girlfriend Brenda had visited from time to time on their long lovers’ walks, perhaps to eat a sandwich and drink a cup of vile coffee, was still there. Fortunately, a dilapidated chemist’s store stood just two shopfronts away, and there Harry bought a strip of aspirins before entering the cafe and seating himself at a small, grubby table.
Along with a cup of coffee, just as vile as he remembered, and a half-decent bacon sandwich, he took three of the tablets, and was pleased to note that his headache was fast receding. It was possible, however, that this was because Harry had shielded himself from the psychic aether by “switching off,” as it were, his macabre skills; which concerned him more than a little: the thought that the droning might now be a regular condition, immanent to his use of metaphysics.
This was something that Harry could put to the test immediately, and done with eating he did just that: opening his mind however tentatively to tune in on what he hoped would be familiar background emanations from a place beyond life. And for all that he was prepared to back off in a moment and let his unique mind snap shut, indeed those murmurings from the psychic aether were familiar and mostly free of the droning anomaly. Listening intently, Harry thought it possible he detected a far faltering thrumming . . . which quickly faded and soon died away entirely.
And now in its place—finding a path through the ethereal babble and background chatter—came something else: a “voice,” no longer quite so bold or boastful as before, which the Necroscope nevertheless recognised at once.
Harry? said the voice of that recent, now somewhat subdued acquaintance. Harry, if that’s you, and I’m sure it is, I think you should know you have a problem.
“Erik Haroldson?” said the Necroscope, getting to his feet and preparing to leave the cafe. “You’re one persistent drowned Viking, I’ll grant you that! So what’s up now?”
The fat proprietor, looming close where he collected empty cups and plates, paused and cocked his head on one side. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “Something else I can do for you?”
“Er, no,” Harry replied, as he mentally kicked himself. It wasn’t like him to make that kind of mistake, but right now his concentration appeared to be wandering. And erecting his mental shields, securing his mind, he explained: “No, I was just sort of talking to myself, that’s all.” And grinning apologetically, he shrugged it off as best possible.
“Hmm!” The other nodded and got on with his work, commenting: “Myself, I do it all the time. So we’d best watch it, you and me! They do say it’s the first sign!”
Leaving the cafe, Harry cut through narrow alleys between mainly neglected streets and walked to the harbour. It had been his intention to go straight back to the graveyard—he’d felt somehow drawn back there, and even anxious to return—but Erik Scarhelm Haroldson seemed to be offering him some kind of warning . . . or was that merely an inducement, bait to trap him into another fruitless conversation? Well, he would soon find out.
Arriving at the antique harbour’s weathered wall, the Necroscope finally relaxed his shields and used deadspeak to renew his contact with the long-dead reaver. However, since there was no other living soul within earshot or even in sight, he voiced his thoughts out loud, which had always seemed the simplest way to do it. “Did you mention a problem, Erik? What, with a garrulous ‘Varyargi’ bully, perhaps?”
Climbing up onto the broad wall and seating himself in the same spot he’d occupied yesterday, he looked out across ruffled water and waited for Erik’s response. Instead of which . . . what was that sudden, furious background babble all about?
And that’s the problem! declared Erik, barely able to make himself heard above the deadspeak interference. The Great Majority, as they’re wont to call themselves, or the teeming dead as they actually are. But tell me: can it be true that you haven’t noticed anything, well, odd about their behaviour, Necroscope?
Harry narrowed his eyes and mind both. Now that the Viking came to mention it, he had indeed noticed just such peculiarities: a certain reticence in those he’d spoken to other than the expirate; an aura of hushed expectancy from the dead lodged in the old cemetery, and also from them an unaccustomed evasion of contact, creating a generally uneasy silence in the parapsychological aether where Harry’s living warmth had always been most welcome.
It was simply—or maybe not so simply—this: that while for the time being the Great Majority didn’t expressly shun the Necroscope, neither did they particularly desire to acknowledge or accommodate his presence.
And there you have it, said Erik, who was privy to Harry’s powerful thoughts even over the anonymous deadspeak flak.
“And that’s it?” said Harry. “You believe I have a problem because sometimes even the dead appreciate a little privacy and prefer to keep themselves to themselves?” Which was sheer sophistry and fooled no one.
Hah! It’s a lot more than that and you know it! the Viking declared. And anyway I haven’t told you anything yet. And also, it’s hard to say why I should want to! You’re a very ungrateful man, Necroscope, and I’m tempted to keep what I know to myself!
“Then why don’t you?” Harry snapped, and at once relented. It wasn’t his way: to deal harshly or cruelly with the dead. Oh he believed in an eye for an eye, but Erik had done him no real harm and it now seemed that the Viking actually wanted to protect or at least to warn him of some perceived danger.
For which reason: “Look, I’m sorry,” said the Necroscope abruptly. “We got off to a bad start yesterday; I was feeling a bit low. As for you . . . well, let’s face it: deep-sunken as you are, you’re always a bit low! Er, that is to say your bones . . . I mean you, physically, or what’s left of you!” But then, realising how inept his words must sound, Harry bit his tongue.
The thick-skinned Viking, however, hadn’t noticed—or in any case chose to ignore—Harry’s gaffe, and said: Well then, perhaps we can be friends after all? Or if not friends, acquaintances at least?
“Of course, gladly!” said Harry relievedly. “So then, what else did you want to tell me? But quickly, Erik, if you please, for I’ve things to do, somewhere I must go.”
You’re eager to be off, then? (Which was said in a certainly, calculating undertone.)
At which that psychic babble once more rose up like a wall of sound, purposely contrived to block Harry and the Viking’s conversation. Astonished and angry, still the Necroscope remembered to switch to his “silent” deadspeak mode—before shouting into the psychic aether and demanding to know:
Now what the hell is all this? Exclude me if you wish, for whatever reason, and this Viking too, but don’t you go interfering in my business! If I’ve done something you don’t agree with, tell me about it by all means—that’s if or when you decide to talk to me again—but until then get off my back AND SHUT THE HELL UP!
Almost at once the clamour died down, and Erik Haroldson’s incorporeal voice was full of awe when he said: Now that’s more like it! Why, even my grumbling, grousing crew have fallen silent now!
The Necroscope calmed down, and reverting to common speech he said, “Now perhaps you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
I can only tell you what I myself have been told, said the other. And that was a long time ago. Then, after a short pause: Do you know—are you aware, Harry—what a hard lot the people of this coast really are? Well they are, and they have been forever and a day: long before my time and ever since.
Harry sighed impatiently; he really couldn’t see this getting him anywhere; now that the thrumming had stopped he wanted to hear the end of the ex-pirate’s story, and already he’d been away from the old graveyard
for quite some time. But finally he answered the Viking, saying: “I lived here, schooled here, came up with hard kids here. I know exactly how strong the people of this region are, and that they’re the salt of the earth—which includes those of them who are down in the earth! And incidentally, anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not so soft myself. But what of it? What’s this all about?”
In my time, said Erik, these were especially hard people—but then they were hard times. I know I’ve told how cowards ran from us; well sometimes they did, but not always. That time when they sank us in the harbour, they had been waiting for us; they wanted to make us pay for other raids we’d carried out; for our thieving, our burning, and our attacks on their women. And they did. Looking back, I suppose we deserved it. We were in our way pirates no less than your more recent varieties, except we were among the earliest of the breed; indeed the “Varyargi” were all of seven centuries earlier than the one that you’ve been spending time with! Yet just as we were dealt with by this country’s brave defenders—aye, even if they were common fisherman—so these more modern reavers were also dealt with . . . including, I fancy, the one in that old graveyard who relates his story from the earth beneath his marble bautastein—which is to say his marker. Aye, and it’s possible I know a thing or two about that marble slab, too.
The Necroscope’s gradually failing interest at once sprang back to life. “What? You mean Billy Browen? Billy and his blank marker?”
Was that his name? The teeming dead erected such a barrier I could only make out snatches of your conversation. But still, if I remember correctly these many years later, that was indeed his name as last I heard it mentioned.