To ask may we have leave
To ask may we have leave
To ask may we have leave
To sing.”
The chant was no longer in my head. I heard it: three male voices, singing in close harmony. I followed the direction of the singing, to the Kinecroft Big Stage, and my heart sank.
Like tall ships sailing into harbour, three horse skulls floated above the stilled mass of humanity in their sails of white shrouds, supported by spars of ancient wood.
“If we may not have leave,
Then listen to the song
That tells of our leaving
That tells of our leaving
That tells of our leaving
Tonight.”
The sky greyed; the sun became a tarnished silver disk that skulked behind thunderclouds. My head spun. I sank to my knees and my coughing turned to retching; vomiting. A thick growth squatted before me, grey and fungous; the myriad bright rubies of blood were eyes of scarlet that swivelled and faced me. It shuffled, oozing over the grass like a monstrous slug. I cried out and backed away, colliding with a young mother pushing a double-buggy. She sneered at me with browned teeth and orange skin, the Union Flag tattoo on her flabby forearm writhing, taking the form of a starfish with a three-lobed, burning eye. The pallid creatures in the twin-buggy stirred, throwing off their coverlets with limbs that divided and elongated, became a thrashing mass of tendrils.
I kicked the double-buggy over and heard mewling, more an alien cry of unsatisfied hunger than an infant’s pain and fear. The festival-goers’ faces were masks of inhumanity and hatred; spongy, bloated and pallid. Red pinpricks burst open upon the cheeks of one market trader, the same scarlet eyes that watched me from the vomited, bleeding fungal spawn behind me.
Cries for my arrest mingled with the hiss of steam and thud-thud-thud of traction engines. It wasn’t too late; I knew this was merely a trick of the poison spat from the desiccated brain of the Mari Lwyd; hallucinations, visions, to stop me reaching the dance act who would unwittingly recall those extra-terrestrial riders of the night mares.
Before me was a stall selling carved Green Man icons and didgeridoos added to the sense of alien invasion. Gargoyles and golems, serpents and demons, all hissed at me from their cold prison of stone, but felt more welcoming than the hostile humanity massing behind me. White powder fell from the skies and drifted over their distorted faces. It may have been snow; it may have been spores.
A wooden staff, carved from weathered oak into the semblance of a curved spinal column and surmounted with a horned demonic head, fell into my hands. I hefted it, swung it in an arc, smiling with satisfaction at the weight and the prospect of damage it would do to skulls. A monster to destroy monsters.
“If you've gone to bed too early
In a vengeful spirit,
Oh, get up again good–naturedly
Oh, get up again good–naturedly
Oh, get up again good–naturedly
Tonight.”
There was a sudden hush from the audience as I approached the Big Stage. The crowd parted to allow me to clamber up onto the apron.
The three horse skulls turned on their poles to face me, their shrouds billowing. The stage lights flashed and rotated, turning the three Mari Lwyds into a riot of scarlet and blue. My eyes streamed again, and the sapphire lights coalesced, formed above the unholy mares.
The Lloigor. The riders from beyond the stars.
I felt that same icy chill as last night. The sky was steel-grey, threaded with glittering lines of silver. The seasons in reverse; this unholy summoning was to take place in a summer festival via a midwinter tradition.
A town created by Welsh settlers, now to be re-invaded by monstrous beings from beyond prehistory, from beyond the stars, hiding behind the figures of Welsh folklore.
And me, the only Welshman in Wallingford, given knowledge, awareness of these creatures, by some strange act of chemistry between the spores of the horse-beast’s desiccated brain and my hayfever medication. The Lloigor could only walk the earth with hybrid beasts, which span the gulf of life and death; have the physical characteristics of the beasts of elder worlds.
I swung the demonic staff with a grin, aware of the blood pooling in the bared lips. It tasted good.
It felt good. The staff swept in a horizontal arc, cutting the lead Mari Lwyd down in a flurry of shrouds and shattering spars. I inverted my staff and brought the demon head crashing onto the downed Mari Lwyd. The skull cracked easily enough, the mandible cracking and the maxillary bone spitting out its wolf’s teeth and alien incisors, and the powder disgorging from the snout to reveal the cavity of a third eye. I fancied I saw a flare of scarlet in each of the orbs, flashing to create a single three-lobed, burning eye.
But there was something solid within. I frowned, wondering why this skull didn’t disgorge the spores of its ancient, withered brains. I brought the staff crashing down again, and again. The cry of horror from the crowd reminded me of my position: headlining the Wallingford Bunkfest!
My vision faltered once more, the scarlet curtains threatening to close over my stage completely. That was why I saw blood in the crevasses of the horse skull.
The second Mari Lwyd, then the third. Each told the same story. There was something muffled from the second one, something that almost sounded like a human whimper of pain. I shook my head and brought the staff upon it.
I looked up. The revolving stage lights had ceased, and the power supply was cut off. There was silence throughout the Kinecroft, and a parting in the storm clouds allowed a golden ray of sunshine – summer sunshine – to bathe me in a natural spotlight of glory. The sapphire mist and incandescent, kaleidoscopic clouds had gone.
I took a bow, and crossed the stage.
It may seem incredible to you that no one tried to stop me, when they were calling for my blood not ten minutes previously. I was no longer myself, buoyed with the sense of triumph and self-satisfaction. Of course I kept the demon staff with me, and perhaps that made them hesitate.
No. Even on the walk back to my shop, I passed stunned festival-goers. Security staff in hi-vis jackets froze, made no attempt to stop me, despite what they had witnessed. Walkie-talkie sets blared and hissed static, and police officers at the gate by the Coach and Horses shrank from my approach.
With each step my euphoria faded, for the streets of my hometown took on a strange hue. The scarlet curtains had drawn closed, yet I could see – even more clearly. My vision was more defined, hyper-real, as though the inner fire burning within had given me unique powers of sight. It was only the beginning. Soon, I would see beyond the mere three dimensions we’re limited to.
There was no pain in my chest or head, no short breath or wheezing from my lifelong hayfever. My limbs felt stronger, and I walked taller. It was only when I realised my limbs were taking me to the river that I realised my body was not moving off its own volition. There was a sense of anticipation, of a hunger that I couldn’t quantify, that was taking me to the ancient site that the creatures had tried to cross millennia before.
When I changed my destination I felt resistance, my body twisting and writhing uncontrollably, as though alien puppet masters pulled on the strings and forced me to dance to their tune.
Every step back to the bookshop was agony. I clutched the staff like an arthritic old man, jabbing the base into the ground with each step as though steering a path through arctic ice, fearful my step would fail at any moment. The howls of prehistoric ice storms filled my ears and took the rhythm of my visitation before.
My vision misted, became human again, and seeped in blood. I staggered into St Mary’s Lane, my staff now a blind man’s walking stick, tapping, tapping, feeling my way home.
It has been an hour since the events on the Kinecroft. I feel the urge to leave, to head for the river. The Lloigor tried a new tactic; they whispered soft promises of conquest, of my fellow man under my yoke forever. I’m not fooled – I know I’ll only be a slave mysel
f. Why deny what little humanity I have?
Now they promise me a new form, to leave my humanity behind, to become one such as them. It is that offer that has kept me to the keyboard, writing out this email, committed to my final task.
I’m glad I kept the old CRT monitor. It shows constantly what I saw in my shop door window, reminds me of what I am becoming. The fire within reflects clearly, flames lapping at the third eye in the centre of my forehead.
Cthulhu Cymraeg Page 15