New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

  Some of the Old Ones have come wandering back. Apparently, the process that transformed the seniors is only temporary. There is a waiting list for the next ceremony, and if you leave and come back, then you are bumped to the bottom of the list. Mr. Jenkins arrived three days ago, having transformed back into a doddering old pervert in the middle of his granddaughter’s dance recital. You might have read about it in the supermarket tabloids. He’s outside now, looking through windows, wearing his favorite tattered bathrobe. Agatha and I laugh at him whenever we see him.

  Eunice comes by every so often, bringing bottles of Miska Tonic. She’s a lot nicer now that she’s in charge of the rest home and not bashing me upside the head. She’s tough, but fair. Always there with a kind word, or a wet washcloth when someone shits themselves. The tonic she brings is indeed good for the soul, and we can have as much as we want. Something inside the tonic keeps us going. I know I certainly feel younger after I have a bottle. Agatha doesn’t like it. She says she’d rather grow old the normal way. I don’t think I can blame her.

  I don’t know where I go from here. Where any of us go. We’re stuck here in Arkham, but it’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it. I had my time, and now I’m enjoying my golden years. Eunice mentioned a possible day trip to the Bingo hall on Friday. That sounds good. Agatha said she would sit by me, and maybe we can hold hands on the trip, like two giddy schoolchildren. I might win. I might not. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere. Tonight is craft night, and I really love craft night.

  THE CHALK CIRCLE

  P N Roberts

  I first met Charles Clutterbuck in the house where I boarded during my second year at Cambridge University.

  It had been the autumn of 1910 – the year of Halley’s Comet, the death of King Edward VII and the accession of his son George V to the throne – that I’d first set foot in Magdalen College. I had been shipped off at the insistence of my family despite my complete lack of academic prowess, my marked inability to concentrate on my studies, and an almost total absence of any desire to obtain further scholastic laurels. These far from inconsiderable impediments notwithstanding it was decided that I was to continue one of the many family traditions by becoming a Cambridge scholar. My entrance to that august seat of learning was thus secured by the twin ruses of my choosing to read the least patronised courses I could find which held even the vaguest of attractions for me – archaeology and anthropology – and being the scion of one of the richest families in England. Naturally my father had pulled all the strings he could to guarantee my access, just as he had throughout all of my life to that point, and, just as naturally, he had done so without even the slightest concern for any personal desires I may have had in the matter. I was expected simply to do my duty as had he, his father before him, his father before that, and so on presumably as far back as the conquest of England by William the Bastard of Normandy.

  My fresher year had been the usual whirl of social engagements, sexual encounters and physical exertions upon the rugby pitch (indeed on one notable occasion I had contrived to combine all three with a most striking undergraduate from Girton, this being in the days before that particular college became co-educational). As a result of my hedonistic excesses my minimal desire to obtain any academic qualifications at all – even an ordinary degree, yet alone a third – was comprehensively overshadowed by my avowed intent to continue indulging in every vice that would have mortified my parents had they but known the precise details of the education for which their money was paying.

  I understand that such behaviour is no longer typical of many of today’s students and all I can say is that is they who are the poorer for it: the younger generation has most certainly lost out.

  And so, in such a base manner, I squandered my first year at Cambridge and started my second.

  I had occasionally noted Charles haunting the hallowed halls of Magdalene on those few instances I had actually attended my lectures or tutorials, but had never shared so much as a single word with him and so was unaware that my new rooms were in the same lodging house as his own modest quarters. It was half-way through the Michaelmas term, on a bitterly cold winter afternoon to be precise, that I quite literally bumped into him on the stairs. I was belting pell-mell down the narrow staircase that rose through the core of the house, bounding three steps at a time with more energy than attention, when I slammed into him on the landing and sent the armload of books he carried cascading down the entire length of the narrow flight between the first and second floors. Despite the collision being entirely my fault it was he who apologised first and quite profusely – a trait which I have always found to be uniquely British – before accepting my shame-faced offer to help him bear his burden to its rightful destination. To be honest my curiosity had been piqued and I very much wanted to discover exactly who this relative stranger was and why, since we shared digs, I had not previously encountered him. I soon found that he lodged in the attic, a narrow and oddly configured room that lay directly above my own and which I had assumed was being used for storage. I also discovered that Charles’s great and abiding passion was for books.

  On entering his rooms I was struck by the sheer number of volumes that Charles already possessed. Books, papers and documents of all description were stacked high upon a stained, wooden writing desk, lending the battered table the appearance of a castle’s crenelated battlements. Many of the books lay open either face-up or down while others were locked together in literary embrace, each marking a page in its partner. All of the volumes seemed to be sprouting with new growth, so numerous were the slips of paper being used as impromptu bookmarks. The several chairs that also occupied the room had not escaped the consequences of Charles’ obsession, each bearing their own share of his mammoth collection of knowledge – for such it was – each close to buckling under the compressed weight of all that concentrated learning. I placed my own humble cargo where indicated, thereby obscuring one of the few remaining patches of carpet which still showed, and stood very still, deathly afraid of disturbing this delicate architecture of scholarship. While I gazed about me, more than slightly dumb-founded by the peculiarity of the surroundings, my host filled a small kettle from a rag-wrapped tap, set it on an ancient gas stove and enquired as to whether I took milk or sugar.

  “Just move them to the floor,” he gestured vaguely towards the bed which skulked furtively in the far corner of the room, its foot-board gently illuminated by the shaft of dusty sunlight from the room’s solitary window. As I moved the dozen or so books that shared the bed like lovers I glanced in passing at their covers and contents, discovering that they dealt with what I believe are called by some the occult sciences – if sciences they are – and were variously in French, German, Latin, Greek and other languages whose very alphabets were at that point unfamiliar to me. I later learned that Charles was a prodigious linguist, fluent in fifteen languages both living and dead, and that he assumed, purely from scholarly naiveté, that everyone else was as well.

  Placing the books among their fellows on the floor I saw represented about me the works of Crowley, Mathers, Blavatski and their peers as well as some less pedestrian works including – and I shudder even now to think of that slim, dreadful volume – Von Juntz’s “Unausprechlichen Kulten” in its English translation. “Nameless Cults”. Even before I learned more of that accursed book, a collection of writings and essays so revolting that no more than a handful of the original German copies had survived destruction at the hands of decent men, it disturbed me. The feel of its battered cover, indeed its mere proximity, filled me with a peculiar and unaccustomed sensation of nausea and unfocused disquiet. Weaving my way through Charles’ precarious towers of books, I placed that damnable collection of pages in the only space amidst the chaos of the desk, a gap in the disarray that held only a sheaf of hand-written notes and which seemed to serve as the rooms’ sole workspace.

  “May I take a peek?” I enquired of my host as I moved the loose papers to make room for Von Junt
z’s vile work.

  “Certainly,” he replied, thoroughly engrossed in the task of preparing two mugs of tea. “But I must warn you that they’re only some rough notes for my thesis. A trifle simplistic in places, really,” he shrugged apologetically.

  Returning to the bed I leafed through the flimsy sheets as I lounged comfortably amidst the chaos. For his part Charles – for we had by now introduced ourselves – handed me my mug of tea and lowered himself into the battered, leather armchair that squatted behind the desk, observing me as I read. I am not ashamed to say that the contents of those few sheets were virtually incomprehensible to me, not due to the mess of spider-fine notations that clustered between each line, nor to the strange mixture of languages used throughout which hinted at the numerous and divergent sources that had been used to compile the work. No, plainly put Charles’ work was of an incredible depth and complexity which, though tenuously related to my own studies, was as far advanced beyond my level of understanding as my own work was to that of the average three year old child. Standing to drop the sheaf of papers back on Charles’ desk, I told him so.

  “Nonsense,” he mumbled, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment, “you merely need to read the right books.” And then he laughed, a peculiarly high and musical laugh that was all the stranger when I tell you that it sprang from a man who was built like a good prop-forward if not the entire front-row. “I believe,” he chuckled, “that the traditional opening question when students meet is ‘What subject are you reading?’” When I told him, his grin, which had never entirely left his face, returned broader than ever. It transpired that his bachelor’s degree had been in Archaeology – although he had read Latin in tandem with it – and that he had graduated with a double first before commencing work on his doctorate.

  “Take my advice,” he leaned conspiratorially towards me. “When they post the vacancies on the field trips this summer, try for Egypt. There’s always a good dig going on out there and, with a little work, I guarantee your dissertation will score well. Jimmy has a real thing for Egypt.” ‘Jimmy’ was the pet-name we students had for the head of our course, Professor Simpkin, although I still don’t have the faintest idea why: I seem to recall that his Christian names were Alexander St. John.

  “Yes,” Charles repeated, sipping as delicately from his mug as if it were my mother’s bone-china. “Definitely Egypt. You’d be surprised what you’ll get from a little trip out there.”

  The rest of that evening was spent in quiet conversation on topics as varied as early Coptic script, Central American sun-worshipping cults and the best public house in his home town of Salisbury. By the time I made my excuses and retired to my own bed, my pace leaden from both physical and mental exhaustion, I felt that I had known him for my entire life.

  X

  The next term passed just as quickly as had that first evening and, while I still played hard on the rugger pitch, I also developed an equal passion for the lecture theatre. Charles’ enthusiasm for his subject was infectious, inspiring me to new heights of academe, heights that I had previously regarded as not merely inaccessible but also undesirable. I could only liken it to discovering a new sporting challenge, a new muscle to develop, a new purpose to supplant the merely physical contest of the playing fields. Peculiar as it is to recount with hindsight, the elation I felt when I scored a try or prevented the opposition from breaking through our lines became a pale sensation when compared to the thrill I started to enjoy exploring and conquering these new-found worlds. The desire to excel, to prove myself, became a reason to study more tangible than the vague promises of future qualifications and plaudits. I had a reason to polish up my Latin and Greek. Lost from memory as soon as they had been learned in the long-ago, dusty classrooms of my alma mater those two dead languages were needed now so that I might better understand the finer points of certain papers and documents. By the middle of the spring term I had sacrificed most of my social life so that I might better pursue my studies, not that I think my contemporaries objected too much: my conversation had become as intensely focused on my field as had the rest of my life. I spoke of kingdoms and countries long dead and buried as if they were my lost homeland, of people centuries forgotten and turned to dust as if they were my closest kith and kin.

  But you must see that it was easy to become so obsessed, so myopic, so monomaniacal. Charles had been singularly able to do what no teacher had done before and made learning a challenge rather than a chore. He had roused the sleeping giant of my interest and, while it was still sluggish, that leviathan had started to gain a certain irresistible momentum. To hear Charles speak on any subject was to be swept up in his rapture, carried by his enthusiasm, and I willingly journeyed with him.

  My grades, which had languished for more than a year in the lower reaches of the alphabet, became so improved that, once he had ruled out the possibility of my having cheated by administering a gruelling viva on one of my more exceptional papers, Professor Simpkin claimed my improvement to be the final and clinching proof of the existence of the divine. “It is nothing,” he declared, “short of miraculous. I am only sorry that the visitation was not witnessed and my lecture theatre thus declared a shrine.”

  Charles confined his own comments to just three words: “Not too bad.”

  By that June my improved coursework, combined with my scores on the end-of-year examinations, were more than enough to secure one of the coveted positions on the Egyptian dig, though I think that Charles was even more excited by the prospect of the expedition ahead than I.

  He had become so deeply immersed in his own research by that time that contact between us was becoming the exception rather than the norm and the strain of such protracted study was beginning to show on his face and in his mannerisms. On more than one occasion I had rushed up the thirteen steps that separated our rooms upon hearing sounds of violent activity only to find him in a trembling rage of frustration, swearing with both venom and fluency in several different languages. All he would say on the matter when calm enough to be challenged on the subject was that he was “so close”. Even my promise to bring him a curio back from Egypt seemed barely to register, though I was able to obtain from him a list of perhaps a dozen reputable establishments which he assured me were easily found and could be relied upon to sell genuine goods rather than the ubiquitous, touristy fakes.

  As we made our way to the porter’s lodge, the departure point at which we student pilgrims were to congregate before starting our journey, Charles informed me that rather than return to his family home for the summer he had elected instead to remain in Cambridge.

  “Less distracting, really,” he offered by way of an explanation. “There’s only so much a body can stand, a limit to the energy it can expend, and away from parental demands I can direct my efforts much more selfishly. Mama will be upset, of course, but she’d suffer ten times the hurt if I returned home only to secrete myself away in some dim and distant corner of the library. Papa will say he understands, but won’t. He can’t see the point in any activity if it doesn’t offer an immediate dividend.” It was the most he’d said at one go for weeks and, while at the time it seemed a perfectly mundane comment, looking back it feels like an attempt at self-justification. His need to complete his great work was so all-encompassing that no sooner had we arrived at my immediate destination and mumbled our mutual farewells – Charles assuring me that he would arrange for my room to be retained for the following year – than he rushed away, no doubt bound for that book-filled, attic room.

  X

  Egypt was... I don’t know how to adequately describe it. It was so totally alien to my naïve, Western sensibilities that, as a youth, it stunned me. Even as I sit here now, crushed by the oppressive weight of all the years I’ve seen, I still have vivid memories of those few, extraordinary weeks. Cairo and the dig exist in my memories most strongly as worlds of noise and smell.

  At the dig itself all of the colours seem to have been leached away by the unremitting pounding o
f that strong, African sun, leaving behind only the drab, khaki of ancient, bleached bones. The fine dust liberated by the toiling native workers hung in the air like a dry mist, clogging both nose and throat, scouring the eyes, impregnating the skin and insinuating itself into every crease and pore. After two minutes in that fiercely dry and unforgiving environment a man was so thoroughly coated with the fine powder that he took on the appearance of living rock, a shambling anthropoid shape created, golem-like, from the desiccated desert soil itself. Even the act of walking raised a sheen of sweat upon my skin, a peculiarly viscous almost oily fluid that served to glue my light, linen shirt to my back even as the searing air drew the moisture from the cloth. The air above the site was a haze of heat and fumes, an atmosphere filled with the chaotic sounds and sandalwood smell of bodies toiling and perspiring all day long. I can’t speak for the others but I know that I would have given a thousand guineas for a glass of iced water or a soft breeze, anything to take the edge off that life-sapping heat which kept me exhausted each day and yet left me sleepless each night. Truth be told I would have gladly paid a thousand guineas and thought it a bargain at twice the cost.

  Professor Simpkin, on the other hand, seemed transformed by the heat, energised by it to an almost vibrant life so at odds with the sedate manner in which he passed his days at Cambridge. He would spend the daylight hours rushing from point to point at the dig, conversing with the overseers in their own rapid-fire tongue and then, while exhaustion claimed even the hardiest among us, work late into the night on drawings, plans and maps from that and previous expeditions to the site. Each night the lamp within his tent turned the canvas walls into a flickering, golden beacon long after the last human eyes that could have seen it had fallen closed, victims to sleep.