The Burrowers Beneath

by Brian Lumley

  “Yes.” My friend nodded, obviously at a loss to decide what I was getting at.

  “It’s simply this,” I said. “How come these creatures aren’t prisoned, as their hideous brothers and cousins were in the mythology by the Elder Gods untold millions of years ago?”

  I had a point. Crow frowned, quickly moving out from his desk and crossing the room to take from a bookshelf his copy of Feery’s Notes on the Necronomicon.

  “This will do for now,” he said, “at least until I can get it fixed for you to check through the Necronomicon. itself at the British Museum. And this time we’ll have to fix it for you to read the whole book! It’s a dangerous task, though, Henri. I’ve read it myself, some time ago, and was obliged to forget most of what I learned—it was that or madness! In fact, I think we’d better limit your research to selected sections from Henrietta Montague’s translation. Are you willing to help me in this?”

  “Of course, Titus,” I answered. “Just pass on your orders. I’ll carry them out as best I can, you know that.”

  “Good, then that’s to be your special task in this,” he told me. “You can save me a lot of time by correlating and summing up the whole Cthulhu Cycle, with special reference to Shudde-M’ell in the mythology. I’ll list certain other books which I think might be helpful later. Right now, though, let’s see what Feery has to say on it.”

  We were hardly to know it at that time, but things were not to be in any way as Crow planned, for events yet to come would surely have confounded any plans he might have made. As it was, we could not know this, and so my haggard friend flipped the leaves of Feery’s often fanciful reconstruction of Alhazred’s dreadful book until he found the page he was looking for.

  “Here we are,” he eventually declared, “the passage entitled: ‘Ye Power in ye Five-Pointed Star.’” He settled himself in his chair and began to read:

  “Armor against Witches & Daemons, Against ye Deep Ones, ye Dools, ye Voormais, ye Tacho-Tacho, ye Mi-Go, ye Shoggaoths, ye Ghasts, ye Valusians, & all such Peoples & Beings that serve ye Great Olde Ones & ye Spawn of Them, lies within ye Five-Pointed Star carven of gray Stone from ancient Mnar; which is less strong against ye Great Olde Ones Themselves. Ye Possessor of ye Stone shall find himself able to command all Beings which creep, swim, crawl, walk, or fly even to ye Source from which there is no returning. In Yhe as in Great R’lyeh, in Y’ha-nthlei as in Yoth, in Yuggoth as in Zothique, in N’kai as in Naa-Hk & K’n-yan, in Carcosa as in G’harne, in ye twin Cities of Ib and Lh-yib, in Kadath in ye Cold Waste as at ye Lake of Hali, it shall have Power; yet even as Stars wane & grow cold, even as Suns die & ye Spaces between Stars grow more wide, so wanes ye Power of all things—of ye Five-Pointed Star-Stone as of ye Spells put upon ye Great Olde Ones by ye benign Elder Gods, & that Time shall come as once was a Time, when it shall be known:

  ‘That is not dead which can eternal lie,

  And with strange Aeons even Death may die.

  “‘In Carcosa as in G’harne,’” I repeated when Crow had done. “Well, there we seem to have it!”

  “Yes,” he answered dryly, frowning at the open book, “but I’m pretty sure that this is a different version from the one in the Museum copy of the Necronomicon. I wish to God Feery was still alive! I’ve often pondered his knowledge regarding the Necronomicon—to say nothing of many another rare book. Still—” he tapped with his fingernail on the page with the relevant passage—“there’s part of your answer at least.”

  “So it appears that Shudde-M’ell was prisoned at G’harne.” I frowned. “Which means that somehow he managed to escape! But how?”

  “That’s something we may never know, Henri, unless—” Crow’s eyes widened and his face went gray.

  “Yes, what is it, Titus?”

  “Well,” he slowly answered, “I have a lot of faith in Alhazred, even in Feery’s version. It’s a monstrous thought, I know, but nevertheless it’s just possible that the answer lies in what I’ve just read out: ‘ … so wanes ye Power of all things—of ye Five-Pointed Star-Stone as of ye Spells put—’”

  “Titus!” I cut him off. “What you’re saying is that the spells of the Elder Gods, the power of the pentacle is past—and if that’s true …”

  “I know,” he answered. “I know! It also means that Cthulhu and all the others must likewise be free to roam and kill and …”

  He shook himself, as if breaking free from some monstrous spider’s web, and managed a weak smile. “But no, that can’t be—no, we’d know about it if Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Yibb-Tstll, and all the others were free. We’d have known long ago. The whole world … .”

  “Then how do you explain—”

  “I make no attempt to explain anything, Henri,” he brusquely replied. “I can only hazard guesses. It looks to me as though some years ago, anything up to a century ago, the spells or star-stones—whichever applies in Shudde-M’ell’s case—were removed from G’harne by some means or other. Perhaps by accident, or there again, perhaps purposely … by persons in the power of the Great Old Ones!”

  “Maliciously or inadvertently—by ‘persons in the power of the Great Old Ones’—these I can understand,” I said, “but accidentally? How do you mean, Titus?”

  “Why! There are all kinds of natural accidents, Henri. Landslips, floods, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes—natural quakes, I mean-and any single one of them, occurring in the right place, could conceivably carry away the star-stones keeping one or more of these diverse horrors prisoned. This all provided, of course, that in Shudde-M’ ell’s case star-stones were the only prisoning devices!”

  Listening to the occultist my mind suddenly whirled. For a moment I actually felt sick. “Titus, wait! It’s … too fast for me … too fast!” I made a conscious effort to calm myself.

  “Look, Titus. My whole concept of things, everything, has turned upside down for me in one afternoon. I mean, I’ve always had this interest in the occult, the weird, the macabre, anything out of the ordinary, and at times it has been dangerous. Both of us, over the years, have experienced hideous dangers—but this! If I admit the existence of Shudde-M’ell—a lesser deity in a mythology which I believed could never exercise over me anything more than a passing interest—which now—” I glanced in loathing fascination at the box on the desk—“it seems I must admit, then I must also believe in the existence of all the other related horrors! Titus, until today the Cthulhu Cycle of myth, granted that I’ve looked pretty deeply at it, was quite simply myth; fascinating and even, yes, dangerous—but only in the way that all occult studies are dangerous! Now—”

  “Henri,” Crow cut in. “Henri, if you feel that this is something you can’t accept, the door is open. You’re not involved yet, and there’s nothing to stop you from keeping out of it. If you do decide, however, that you want to be in on this thing, then you’re welcome—but you should know now that it may well be more dangerous than anything you ever came up against before!”

  “It’s not that I’m afraid, Titus; don’t misunderstand,” I told him. “It’s simply the size of the concept! I know that there are extramundane occurrences, and I’ve had my share of experiences that can only be explained as ‘supernatural,’ but they have always been the exception. You are asking me to believe that the Cthulhu Cycle of myth is nothing less than prehistoric fact—which means in effect that the very foundations of our entire sphere of existence are built on alien magic! If such is the case then ‘occult’ is normal and Good grew out of Evil, as opposed to the doctrines of the Christian mythos!”

  “I refuse to be drawn into a theological argument, Henri,” he answered. “But that is my basic concept of things, yes. However, let’s get one or two points quite clear, my friend. In the first place, for ‘Magic’ read ‘Science.’”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Brainwashing, Henri! The Elder Gods knew that they could never hope to imprison beings as powerful as the deities of the Cthulhu Cycle behind merely physical bars. They made their prisons t
he minds of the Great Old Ones themselves—perhaps even their bodies! They implanted mental and genetic blocks into the psyches and beings of the forces of evil and all their minions, that at the sight of—or upon sensing the presence of—certain symbols, or upon hearing those symbols reproduced as sound, those forces of evil are held back, impotent! This explains why comparatively simple devices such as the Mnaran star-stones are effective, and why, in the event of such stones being removed from their prisoning locations, certain chants or written symbols may still cause the escaped powers to retreat.”

  For a moment this explanation mazed me even more than before, but then I suspiciously asked: “Titus, did you know all of this earlier, or is it just something you’ve freshly dreamed up?”

  “The theory has been my own personal opinion for quite a long while, Henri, and it explains so many hitherto ‘inexplicable’ things. I believe, too, that it is alluded to in a certain somewhat less than cryptic passage in the Cthaat Aquadingen. As you know, the book has a short chapter dedicated to ‘Contacting Cthulhu in Dreams’! Mercifully the actual devices required to perform this monstrously dangerous feat are given only in code—in practically impossible ciphers—and concern themselves in some unknown way with Nyarlathotep. Still, in the same chapter, the author makes a statement very relevant toward proving my own beliefs regarding the Elder Gods as scientists. I have a note here somewhere that I copied for easy reference.” He searched atop his littered desk.

  “Ah! Here it is. It has quite definite parallels with much that’s rather better known in the Cthulhu Cycle, and certainly seems to lend itself well to the more recent Christian mythos. Anyway, listen:

  ‘Ye Science as practiced by a Majority of ye Prime Ones was & is & always will be that of ye Path of Light, infinitely recognized throughout Time, Space & all ye Angles as beneficent to ye Great All’s Continuation. Certain of ye Gods, however, of a rebellious Nature, chose to disregard ye Dictums of ye Majority, & in ye constant Gloom of ye Dark Path renounced their immortal Freedom in Infinity & were banished to suitable Places in Space & Time. But even in Banishment ye Dark Gods railed against ye Prime Ones, so that those Followers of ye Light Path must needs shut them Outside of all Knowledge, imposing upon their Minds certain Strictures & ye fear of ye Light Path’s Ways, & impressing into their Bodies a Stigma defying Generation; that ye Sins of ye Fathers might be carried down through Eternity & visited upon ye Children & ye Children’s Children forever; or until a Time should come as was once, when all Barriers crumble, & ye Stars & Dwellers therein, & ye Spaces between ye Stars & Dwellers therein, & all Time & Angles & Dwellers therein be falsely guided into ye ultimate Night of ye Dark Path—until ye Great All close in & become One, & Azathoth come in His golden Glory, & Infinity begin again … .“’

  Crow paused at the end of his reading before saying, “There’s quite a bit that’s obviously not relevant, of course, but in the main I believe—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this when first I arrived today?” I cut him off.

  “You weren’t ready for it, my friend.” He grinned mirthlessly. “You’re hardly ready now!”

  I gave the matter some more thought. “Then what you’re really saying is that there is no such thing as the supernatural?”

  “Correct!”

  “But you’ve so often used the word, and recently, in its recognized context.”

  “Purely out of habit, Henri, and because your concept of existence still admits its use—will do for some time, as will my own—until we get used to the idea.”

  I mulled the matter over. “The magic of the Elder Gods was a sort of psychiatric science,” I mused. “You know, Titus, I can far easier face an alien concept than a supernatural one. Why! It all breaks down quite simply to this: that the combined forces of evil, the Great Old Ones, are nothing more than alien beings or forces against which it will be necessary to employ alien weapons.”

  “Well, yes, basically. We shall have to fight these things with the weapons left us by the Elder Gods. With chants and incantations—scientifically implanted mental and genetic blocks—with the power of the pentacle, but mainly with the knowledge that they are not supernatural but simply outside forces.”

  “But wait,” I still countered, “What of the, well, ‘supernatural’ occurrences, in all their various forms, which we’ve encountered in the past? Did they, too, spring from—”

  “Yes, Henri, I have to believe they did. All such occurrences have their roots in the olden science of the Elder Gods, in a time before time. Now, how do you say, de Marigny—are you with me or—?”

  “Yes,” I answered without further hesitation; and I stood up to firmly grasp his outstretched hand across his great desk.

  V

  Evil the Mind

  (From de Marigny’s Notebooks)

  I did not get away from Blowne House until very late that night, but at least I had an idea (for some reason still more than somewhat vague) of the task before me. Crow had not gone lightly on me, on the contrary, he had always been a hard taskmaster, but I knew that on this occasion he had taken by far the majority of the work upon his own shoulders. As it happened, I was never to commence work on that portion of the overall task appointed to me; it would be pointless therefore to set it down in detail.

  This aside, then, we had worked out a system, apparently foolproof in its simplicity, whereby Shudde-M’ell (or whichever of his brood led the English nests) would be given more than a hard time, indeed an impossible time, retrieving the four Harden eggs. Crow had written three letters to trusted friends of his. One to an ancient and extremely eccentric recluse living in Stornoway in the Hebrides; another to an old American correspondent with whom over the years he had exchanged many letters on matters of folklore, myth, and similarly obscure anthropological subjects, a man his senior by a number of years, the extremely erudite Wingate Peaslee, until recently Professor of Psychology at Miskatonic University in Massachusetts; and finally the third to a charlatan of a medium, known and endeared to him of old, one Mother Quarry of Marshfield near Bristol.

  The plot was this: without waiting for answers to the letters, we would send the eggs first to Professor Peaslee in America. Peaslee would of course receive his airmail letter fractionally earlier than the air-parcel containing the eggs. Titus had more than enough faith in his friend to be satisfied that his instructions would be followed to the letter. Those instructions were simply to send the eggs on within twenty-four hours to Rossiter McDonald in Stornoway. Similarly McDonald was instructed to send them on without too great a delay to Mother Quarry, and from that “talented” lady they would eventually come back to me. I say “back to me,” because I took the box with me, neatly parceled and ready to be posted, when I left Blowne House. I was to be instrumental in forging the first link in the postal chain. I also posted the letters on my way home.

  I had agreed completely with my knowledgeable friend that the eggs must be out of Blowne House that night—indeed I had insisted upon it—for they had been there long enough already, and Crow had obviously started to feel the strain of their presence. He had admitted to nervously starting at every slight creak of the floorboards, and for the first time since moving into his singular and oddly atmosphered bungalow dwelling he had started to jump at the groans of a certain vociferous tree in his garden.

  But knowing what he knew, and believing what he—no, what we—now believed, his nervousness was nothing if not natural. In fact, the presence of those eggs in his house above all else, quite apart from the fact that he had lately been grossly overworking, was responsible for the rapid deterioration of his general well-being since last I saw him. It would, I believed, not have taken very much more to start him on that same degenerative path taken by Sir Amery Wendy-Smith!

  It may be readily understood why I hardly slept a wink that night, but lay in bed in my gray-stone house tossing and turning and chewing over in my mind the bulk of the new concept I had been asked to accept. In fact I had accepted it, but its
details still needed thinking on, if only to clarify the overall picture and remove any remaining fuzz from its edges. Truth to tell, though, my mind did seem more than slightly foggy, as if I were suffering from some sort of hangover. But of course there was another, more immediate reason for my insomnia—the box with the lustrous spheres lay on a small table beside my bed!

  Restlessly pummeling my pillow (which I found myself doing every half hour or so), I turned things over in my mind a dozen times, looking for loopholes and finding none—neither in Crow’s immediate plot to stop the burrowers beneath from regaining possession of their eggs, nor in the premises of his incredible fears themselves—and yet I knew that there was something basically wrong! I knew it. The fault was there, submerged at the back of my mind, but would not rise to the surface.

  If only this brain-fog would lift. My mood of crushing depression had vanished, true, but now I had this godawful mental smog to wade through!

  Of course, I did not know Crow’s correspondents, his friends of old, personally; but he had tremendous faith in them, and especially in Peaslee. In his letter to the professor Crow had outlined his entire perception of the fantastic threat against Earth—hypothetically and yet strongly enough to hint of his personal involvement—and in my own opinion, putting myself in the position of a vastly intelligent man on receipt of such a letter, Crow had endangered his whole case. I had bluntly pointed out to him, after listening to a reading of the hastily scrawled letter, that Peaslee might see it as the ravings of a deranged mentality. As Crow himself had said: “I’m damned if I know whom I might confide in … .” But he had only chuckled at the suggestion, saying that he thought it unlikely, and that in any case, if only for past friendship’s sake, Peaslee would comply with his requirements regarding the box of eggs.