Cthulhu Cymraeg

by Probert, John Llewellyn

  He mulled this over for a moment. “Okay,” he sighed, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so. But you promise you’ll be back?”

  “I promise. Just take it easy. Everything will be fine.”

  Those were to be the last words I would ever say to him.

  The sun was low in the sky when I left. I had been in Jason’s house much longer than I’d realised. It would be night soon. No wonder he was so frightened when he saw I was leaving. I drove home and sat in solitude with the lights off, sipping whisky, wondering what to do next. I tried not to think about my brother, who would be going through his own private hell right then. I knew I should have stayed with him, to expose his delusions for what they were or just to provide a shoulder to lean on. Yet, though I am ashamed to admit it, I had been repulsed by him, as if I feared his mental illness was a disease I would contract if I remained around him much longer.

  More than anything, though, I felt helpless. I did not know who Jason’s GP was and wondered if I should talk to my own, to see what he could suggest. But that would all take time and my brother needed urgent help, before he could cause himself serious harm.

  Urgent help. The words pierced my brain like a knife. My brother needed urgent help and there I was, miles away, drinking.

  I got up and poured the whisky down the sink, angry with myself. I should never have left Jason on his own. I had been selfish, so concerned about my feelings that I had lost sight of his suffering. I could picture him now, alone and afraid, sitting in the garden, cigarette in hand as if the smoke could somehow ward off evil.

  Then I was struck by a terrible sense that something was wrong, a premonition magnitudes stronger than any I had felt before. My head whirled as I ran out into the hallway and grabbed my car keys from where I had left them on the stairs. Please God, I thought, don’t let him do anything stupid. I wasn’t conscious of driving, only of the horrific images that filled my mind, of Jason holding a knife to his wrist or his jugular, the blade slicing deep, conjuring blood…

  I raced along the Mumbles road, not caring about speeding or being over the limit, Jason’s safety much more important to me than my licence. I could only pray I was not too late. But then from a distance I saw the carousel of red and blue lights outside his home and I knew beyond doubt that my brother was dead.

  My recollection of what happened afterwards is like a series of snapshots, each capturing individual moments that, when laid out in sequence, tell a story in essence if not in detail.

  Police cars parked in the street. Blue and white tape sealing off the area around my brother’s house. Neighbours, wearing curious and concerned expressions, talking in muted tones as they congregated outside the cordon. A policeman in uniform ordering me to stay the other side of the tape, grabbing hold of me when I ignored him. More cops running at me when I broke free and charged towards the house. A glimpse of a large ragged stain on the front window, dripping red in the flashing light. The grass rushing up to meet me when I was wrestled to the ground. And playing over these snapshots, like a soundtrack taped in hell, is the hoarse banshee wailing of my screams.

  The newspaper reports merely hinted at the truth. The official police statement only confirmed that my brother had died from multiple wounds. Neighbours raised the alarm after hearing prolonged agonised shrieking from Jason’s house several hours after I left. What the police did not, and never would, reveal was that he had literally been torn apart and that the doors and windows had all been locked from the inside.

  Most of his body was gone. What little of it remained had been scattered around the living room, the walls, floor and window drenched in his blood. The police family liaison officer later admitted to me it was the most savagely violent case the investigating team had ever encountered, and the missing body parts had left them baffled.

  But not me. I knew what had happened. In our world, we stand at the top of the food chain. However, in the twisted parallel dimension Jason had glimpsed, much bigger predators had evolved. His peripheral glimpses had been of that realm’s equivalent of mice, only larger and more vicious.

  And where there were mice there were cats…

  He had shown himself, drawn attention to himself, made himself prey. That was why so much of his body was missing.

  I kept my silence, knowing I would be dismissed as a lunatic in the same way as I had dismissed Jason. How I wished now, with the benefit of hindsight, that I had believed him at the time, not when it was too late, for me as well as for him.

  Shortly after his death I began to catch glimpses of darting phantoms from the corner of my eye. This morning I woke from a troubled sleep, in which I dreamt I heard a distant roaring from the direction of the bay, to find blood on the sheets and scratches on my arms. I am terrified but I know not to repeat the mistakes that Jason made.

  To draw as little attention to myself as possible I have remained indoors, largely confining myself to my study. There I have written this account so that others will know the truth of my brother’s death. Whether they believe is another matter.

  It will be dark soon. Time to save this file and shut down the computer. I will update my story tomorrow, if I survive the night.

  STRANGER CROSSINGS

  Adrian Chamberlin

  It surely is no accident that the old Welsh name for England is “Logres”, which translates as “The Lost Lands”. And the creatures that came tonight…their name is so similar to that word for England. The lands were not lost to the English, but abandoned.

  Perhaps there’s truth in the rumour of the Welsh being survivors of a lost landmass in the Atlantic – all myths have a seed of truth in them. A spore, if you will, that lies dormant, waiting for the right moment – or even sheer chance – to allow it sustenance.

  Some seeds take root; grow into wood and stone, just as the river crossing here did. This town has seen such sights – William the Conqueror crossed here on his way to be crowned King; Matilda skated under the very arches on the frozen Thames on her escape from Oxford and King Stephen; Stephen used the bridge to lay siege to Wallingford itself, and then five hundred years later another civil war, another king crossed it… battles and bloodshed, pursuits and crossings. But always human. Until now. Now, we came full circle: I witnessed strange pursuits and even stranger crossings.

  Forgive any indulgences on my part. This is my last communication to humanity, so I want to leave something that proves I’m not a monster. I’m sure armchair psychologists reading the events of tonight in tomorrow’s papers will gloat over my alcoholism and depression, my misanthropy, say that is proof that I was heading for a major psychotic episode. A bizarre combination of hayfever medication, antidepressants, and the ancient fungal spores tipped an already unbalanced mind into meltdown. I hope this will redress the balance.

  We were about to succumb to the monsters the people who founded Wallingford thought they had vanquished. But who will believe me? They call me a murderer. The sirens of the emergency services have replaced the sounds of folk music and merriment of Wallingford’s Bunkfest.

  They’re finally coming for me, but I have no intention of being taken into custody. For the spores of the Lloigor have taken root within me. My actions on the Kinecroft were not enough. I only banished the steeds, not the riders.

  The petrol has soaked the books in my shop and filled the musty air with the smell of incipient holocaust, but still it won’t banish the stench of the fungal spores. Every breath I take, every exhalation, is a reminder of what has been unleashed, and only fire will destroy it.

  Was it only six hours ago that the August sunlight died and the shadow descended over my shop? The seeds of destruction transported from Wales by new horsepower.

  I looked up through the opened door and sighed, recognising the unmarked white Luton van and its chubby driver. His window was down and I could just make out his face through the fog of tobacco smoke.

  “Hey Taffy! What’s occurring?”

  Oh for God’s sake. I took another swi
g of wine and groaned at the thought of rubbish he’d collected from his most recent house clearance assignment. Nick Glass had parked his Luton directly opposite my shop, only just missing the stack of bargain paperbacks I’d stacked. He swaggered in, his work shirt and combat trousers stained with sweat, stubbing his rollup on the porch as an afterthought.

  I couldn’t smell the usual stink of smoke on him, obtained from being cooped up for endless hours clanging off Marlboros in the cab. For once, I was thankful for my hayfever.

  I saved my spreadsheet on the hard drive and pushed the keyboard drawer in. “Just because I was born in Cardiff doesn’t make me Welsh. You, Mister Proud-To-Be-Born-In-England, are more Welsh than I am.”

  “Shut it, Taffy. I grew up in Wallingford. You don’t get more English than that.”

  “Wallingford’s a Welsh town,” I replied with a grin. “You were born here, so that makes you Welsh.” I never tired of this; when Nick wound me up about my Cardiff birth and launched into the “boyo”, “isn’t it”, and “there’s lovely” remarks I would take great pride in telling him about the South Oxfordshire market town’s Welsh origins.

  Is Wallingford Welsh? It was once known as “Wealhinga-ford” which some believe to be the name of an Anglo-Saxon leader – “ingas” means “people of”, so Wallingford means “Wealh’s people’s ford”. But other readings explain “Wealh” as the name of a group of early settlers from Wales, and that “Wealh’s Ford” mean’s “river crossing of the Welsh folk”. And tonight’s events have proven this to be the case.

  “Started early, have you?” He pointed to my half-empty bottle of Merlot and peered over my shoulder. He shook his head, and I knew he’d seen the other bottle. Empty.

  “So would you if you had to put up with all that shit out there.” I jerked a finger at the window, now blocked by a dirty white van so he couldn’t see the Morris Dancers cavorting in the Market Place. But we could hear them, and the sounds of their sticks banging together. “Arseholes. Wish they’d hit each other with those sticks.”

  “Wallingford’s very own Bernard Black. No chance of any municipal pride or supporting the local community? Bunkfest could be another Glastonbury if it gets any bigger.”

  “Fine words from England’s very own Nessa.” I squirted two bursts of Beconase into my nostrils and sniffed, wincing at the chemical odour. I sneezed. “What do you want, anyway?”

  “Need a favour.” Nick scratched the stubble on his three chins. “The Luton’s in for service and me missus won’t let me store nothing in the gaff. Can I store the stuff in your back room? There’ll be a score in it for ya.”

  I took my time refilling the wine glass. “Depends what you’ve got.”

  “Treasures from your country, Taffy. Llantrisant, to be exact.”

  I looked up. “Llantrisant?”

  “Yeah. Bloke wanted his dead gran’s cottage cleared quickly, wants to get it on the market.”

  “I see.” Unexpected windfall from a relative he cared nothing for. Clear the house of all the personal effects in time for the estate agent to make a valuation. Quick sale of the property, not interested in whatever junk the old dear had stashed away in the attic. Nick sees this all the time in his line of work.

  Some of the stories he told me used to break my heart. House clearances are nothing more than rubbish emptying with the occasional treasure hunt. But what is junk to one person is another’s treasure – photos of passed away spouses, 1970s exercise books of children’s schoolwork, from kids who’ve grown up and not bothered to visit the parents until the will is read out, china ornaments of cats and dogs, and cheap framed pictures of what looks like kitsch art but reflected someone’s character, taste…personality.

  And all thrown away, without even the courtesy of inspection from the heirs. Nick wondered why it always angered me so much. I couldn’t help it; I remember all too well the petty squabbles of my Cardiff aunties and uncles fighting over the estate of my mum, not caring a bit for her when she was alive, not even bothering to visit her in the hospice when cancer riddled her. But as soon as she’d gone, they didn’t so much crawl as erupt out of the woodwork.

  Times were hard for Nick. The days of making a killing on eBay and the local antique shops are long gone; the inheritors aren’t stupid, and neither are the executors. In the last few years Nick scraped pennies by selling the rarer deleted DVDs and vintage toys, but hadn’t realised books are the real treasure. As much as Nick takes the piss out of me, we both know his business would’ve sunk if it wasn’t for my eye for a rare tome or object d’art.

  Nick wiped more sweat from his neck as the roller shutter clattered up its runners. He squinted at the noonday sun as if it was full of maggots. “Plenty o’ books for you to wank yerself silly over, Taffy. Hardbacks, gold lettering on the side.”

  I winced. “Please don’t tell me they’re Readers’ Digest.”

  He grinned at that. “Nah, these look good, but I’ll let you sort ‘em out.”

  “After I get some fungicide,” I sighed, eyeing the damp cardboard boxes with distaste. The sun beat down on the wagon, and the smells of badly-stored paper filled my nostrils. Mouldy. Musty. Unsellable. “Okay, what else?”

  He took another drag, but didn’t move. “Something that’s rare as rocking-horse shit. Look for yerself.”

  The cartons weren’t as badly damaged as I feared; they remained in one piece when I dragged them away from the bulkhead, but the fungoid smell was overpowering. Slick puddles of brown slime left trails on the Luton’s floor. I held my breath.

  Behind were a collection of broken dining chairs and an old camphorwood chest. The chest was adorned with Oriental figures, pagodas and bamboo trees, but heavily chipped and scraped. The metal hinge was missing. I slid the chest to one side, wincing at the cracking and splintering sound it made.

  The blankets were old and threadbare, more used as packing material than bedding. I inspected the twine holding the rolls together and reached for my penknife. The bonds parted easily – too easily, stressed by the bulk they restrained – and the horse leapt at me.

  It was like a hobby-horse – one of those old pieces of Victorian childhood, with a small wheel at the base and a carved horse’s mane running up the pole. This was larger, the ash pole standing six feet high. The head was a standard, flat two-dimensional carving, with gaudy colouring and eyes created with that unsettling paintwork you see on dolls and nursery paintings of animals from this period.

  What really surprised me was what Nick said next. “That’s not the real head, mate. Check the camphorwood chest.”

  The sight of the horse’s skull was initially alarming – Nick liked pulling rabbits out the hat, so to speak, and wanted to see me jump – but I don’t think he’d expected the effect it truly had on me.

  It was the skull that was the source of that musty, damp-stone aroma; the scent of ancient churches – or perhaps older sites of worship. The bone was ancient, without a doubt, but it had been…well, maintained is the only word I can think of. I rubbed my fingers after lifting the topmost section from the chest and saw traces of whitewash under my nails. The teeth – all intact, none missing – gleamed an unnatural white that could only have come from regular brushing. Even the eye sockets, starved of sight for untold centuries, lacked darkness.

  And it was huge. The camphorwood chest was about two foot square – the skull only just fit within. I lifted the skull carefully, surprised by its lightness. I hadn’t expected the mandible to be attached to the upper case – turns out it was wired by the back molars – and the jaws of the dead beast gaped in welcome. The teeth gleamed.

  “A real monster, eh?”

  An understatement. This thing could’ve dwarfed a shire horse.

  The off-white sheets it had been packed in were coarse and smelled of museum displays. The bone certainly wasn’t recent, but it made the accompanying paraphernalia of bells and ribbons seem positively recent. I inhaled, breathing in the aroma of ancient ritual and distant
tradition. I imagined the wearer of this equine apparatus, garlanded with the small brass bells and green ribbons, dancing a jig as it advanced upon the stone cottages of the Welsh villages, seeking sanctuary before the Old Year died…

  Nick checked his watch while I came back to the present. I shook my head, dispersing the after-images of the horse skull’s eye sockets burned upon my retinas. They remained when I turned to Nick, superimposed upon his own eyes. I saw Death where he stood.

  “Can’t you smell it…Jesus. Whassup with ya?”

  I blinked. “What d’you mean?”

  “Your eyes, man. They look like you’ve been rubbing chilli powder in them.”

  I felt no discomfort, but my vision was blurred. “Pollen count’s high today.” Like I was going to tell him exactly what time this morning I had started drinking.

  Or maybe it was spores from the mould. Spores…I closed my eyes and resisted the urge to rub my knuckles into them. The bliss of a false relief from the hayfever would last mere seconds before the barbed wire agony set in. I sneezed again and cursed myself for forgetting to pack the Opticrom eye drops. Just bear it, I told myself. At least summer wouldn’t be for much longer.

  “I’m surprised that Llantrisant bloke didn’t keep it,” I said as we carried the camphorwood chest through to the back room. “It’s a heritage piece, the Mari Lwyd.”

  “The what?”

  The Mari Lwyd – the Grey Mare. A Welsh Christmas tradition, one I thought had died out completely. I explained to Nick the role of this hobby-horse – how it headed up a party of Yuletide revellers who sing riddling songs to obtain entrance to houses, and if the occupants are unable to cap the rhymes the Mari Lwyd enters and must be fed. Nothing sinister, just a weird version of Christmas carolling. It was peculiar to the valleys of South Wales, but I grew up in the slums of inner-city Cardiff, and my childhood home had never been visited by the Grey Mare.

  “Why a horse?” Despite his slouched pose, there was a gleam of interest in his eyes.