by Brian Lumley
As soon as he reentered my study Crow saw that I was back to normal and grinned in a self-satisfied if nervous manner. By that time, shaken though I naturally was, I was already packing books and papers into a large case. My mazed mind, as if vacuum-cleaned, had been emptied of all enfeebling thoughts and ideas by my friend’s “White Magic”; or rather, by the “Science” of the Elder Gods!
It took me only the matter of a further half hour or so to complete my packing (I made certain to include a favorite fetish of mine, a rather odd and ornate pistol, once the property of the witch-hunting Baron Kant), lock the house up, and accompany Titus out to his Mercedes with my cases. Moments later we were on our way.
We made three stops on our way to Henley, the first of which was to allow us to get off hurried telegrams to Mother Quarry, McDonald, and Professor Peaslee, warning them in no uncertain manner to send off the parcel of eggs as soon as it arrived without first opening it, and hinting strongly of grave dangers should they delay even in the slightest. This of course had been made necessary by the death of Bentham; an explanation may be in order and I will give it later. The second stop was for lunch at Beaconfield, where we found a friendly pub and sat out in a small sunny garden to enjoy cold beer with chicken sandwiches. The third call was at an adequate library in Marlow, where Crow was obliged to become a member in order to borrow a number of anthropological works supplementary to those we already had with us.
By 3:30 P.M. we were aboard Seafree, my four-berth houseboat, and getting ourselves settled in. Where I had her moored, at a spot some distance out of Henley itself, the Thames is quite deep and Crow seemed satisfied that we were safe there for the moment from any physical manifestations of the burrowers. After we had made the place immediately livable and packed our stuff away, we were able to sit down and talk seriously of the fresh developments. The drive down to Henley, apart from our stops, had in the main been quiet; Crow dislikes being distracted while driving, and I had had time to sort out fresh points to raise and questions to ask during the journey.
Now I could learn the hows and whys of my friend’s earlier obscure exorcismal activities on my behalf at my house. Crow told me of the Black-Letter Text Necronomicon—notably the Kester Library copy in Salem, Massachusetts—which contains the following passage, incomplete in Feery’s notes but known to Titus Crow of old:
Men know him as the Dweller in Darkness, that brother of the Old Ones called Nyogtha, the Thing that should not be. He can be summoned to Earth’s surface through certain secret caverns and fissures, and sorcerers have seen him in Syria and below the Black Tower of Leng; from the Thang Grotto of Tartary he has come ravening to bring terror and destruction among the pavilions of the great Khan. Only by the Looped Cross, by the Vach-Viraj Incantation and by the Tikkoun Elixir may he be driven back to the nighted caverns of hidden foulness where he dwelleth.
Thus, as a protection against this Nyogtha, I could well understand the use of the Vach-Viraj Incantation—but against the burrowers … ? Crow explained that he had used the chant at my house because he believed all the Cthulhu Cycle Earth deities to be related, either physically or mentally, and that any charm having definite power against any one of them must be capable of at least some influence over the others. Indeed, the immediate effect of his—occult?—remedies had been to clear my place (not to mention my mind) of the influences exerted through dreams of Shudde-M’ell or his deputies; which was more really than Crow had expected. However, he also explained that he believed the chant and elixir to have no lasting strength except against Nyogtha—who or whatever he may be!—but he has never explained to me just what further “protections” there are about Blowne House. I suspect, though, that these are far superior to any signs, sigils, runes, or cantrips of which I am ever likely to become aware.
The next four days passed quickly at Henley, and were taken up mainly in making Seafree more livable and in long think-tank sessions between Crow and myself on our various problems. Had I not been around at that time to supply the obvious words of exoneration, I believe Crow might well have started to blame himself for Bentham’s death. I pointed out that knowing as little of the burrowers as we knew, which had been even less at the time Crow last wrote to the Northerner, his advice to Bentham in the matter had been expert. In fact, looking back on it, I was now surprised at the amount of time it had taken the Cthonians (the name Crow eventually settled on for the subterranean spawn) to seek Bentham out and deal with him! Harden is not all that far from Alston. Crow had insisted, however, that there had been a direct parallel—one which he had missed in what, according to him, had been tantamount to criminal neglect.
He referred of course to Paul Wendy-Smith’s disappearance—that vanishment which we now knew must be laid at the door, or burrow, of the Cthonians—following that of his uncle, and which had occurred after the discovery of their cigar-murdered infants by the Cthonians. It was all too apparent now that one did not need to be in actual possession of those crystal spheres to attract adults of the species. Having been in possession—even in close contact—seemed reason enough to provoke hideous retaliation; which explained, naturally, Crow’s haste in getting himself out of Blowne House and both of us out of London in the first place! Too (I had realized it immediately), this had been the elusive something flickering at the back of my mind that night before the Cthonians first “invaded” me; by token of which I knew that, if blame existed at all, I must hold myself equally to blame alongside Crow. The simple fact that Paul Wendy-Smith had never actually possessed the eggs, but that the Cthonians had nevertheless taken him, should have made itself apparent to both of us sooner.
And yet, even in my houseboat on the Thames, which Crow had at first proclaimed safe, over the last few days my erudite friend had grown ever the more nervous and far from happy regarding our continued well-being. The Cthonians could still find us, or so he seemed to believe, through dreams. In this, as in so many things, Crow proved to be absolutely correct.
Because of the possibility of our eventual discovery, we had early decided that our first task would be to see if we could find any positive counterspells (Crow referred to them as “devices”—I preferred to think in the old “magic” terms) against an attack. We could not, after all, remain on the houseboat indefinitely; in fact we had already taken to relaxing for an hour or so each evening in the bar of a pub not one hundred yards away down the river bank, well within sprinting distance of Seafree! In the furtherance of this project I had given over most of my time to correlating all the written knowledge at my disposal on the pentacle, the five-pointed Star of Power, whose design had been originated by the Great Elder Gods in the construction of their evil-imprisoning star-stones.
Now, to my mind it is not surprising that much is made of the pentacle or pentagram in so-called “cabalistic” works—the paperback junk which clutters so many modern bookstalls, supposedly culled from the great forbidden books—but quite apart from such references I found many disturbing tangential allusions in fairly contemporary verse, in literature, even in art. Admittedly, such works as contained these oblique or obscure references were generally by persons deeply attracted to things mysterious or macabre—mystics, mages, and usually (broadly speaking) persons gifted with rare imaginations and paradoxically outré insight—but nevertheless the “pentacle theme” seemed, at one time or another, to have captured the imaginations of an inordinately large number of these artistic people.
Gerhard Schrach, the Westphalian philosopher, has said: “It fascinates me … that such a perfect figure can be drawn with only five straight lines … five triangles, joined at their bases, where they form a pentagon … perfectly pentameral … powerful … and fascinating!” It was Schrach, too, in his Thinkers Ancient and Modern, who pointed out for me the Hittite practice of spreading the fingers of one hand before the face of an enemy or evil person and saying: “The Star upon thee, Dark One!”—which was recognized as a certain protection against the evil intentions of any person so confro
nted.
Other than Schrach and many other contemporary writers and philosophers, there were also a number of painters whose works, I knew, had from time to time featured the star motif: noticeably Chandler Davies in many of his designs for Grotesque before that magazine folded; particularly his full-page black and white “Stars and Faces,” so strangely disturbing and horrific that it was now in itself a valuable collector’s item. William Blake too, the painter, poet, and mystic, had not neglected the theme, and had used it strikingly in his “Portrait of a Flea”—in which the central horror is actually prisoned by five-pointed stars! And while I knew the point could be argued, still, remembering Blake’s stars, I found them disturbingly akin to my own mental picture of the star-stones of ancient Mnar.
On the other hand, in Edmund Pickman Derby’s book of nightmare lyrics, Azathoth and Other Horrors, there was one clearly blatant reference to the five-pointed star as a weapon against “Greater Gods by far,” whatever gods he alluded to; and such were the other many references to be discovered that I soon found myself interested in my task almost beyond the present requirement.
It was on the fourth night, while I was making notes of this sort and trying to find in them some sort of order or clue, that Titus dozed off. He had been working hard all that day—not physical work but intense mental concentration—and had actually fallen asleep over his copy of the Cthaat Aquadingen. I noticed the fact and smiled. It was good that he should get some rest; I was already fatigued myself, both physically and mentally, and Crow had been familiar with the problem far longer than I.
Shortly before midnight I too must have dozed off, for the first thing I knew was that someone was shouting.
It was Crow.
I came awake immediately from monstrous dreams (mercifully unremembered considering what was soon to come), to find my friend still asleep but locked in the throes of nightmare.
He was sitting in his chair, his head forward on his folded arms where they rested on the open Cthaat Aquadingen atop the small table at which he had been working. His whole body was jerking and twitching spasmodically and he was shouting snatches of incomprehensible occult jargon. I hastened from my chair to waken him.
“Eh? What?” he gasped as I shook him. “Look out, de Marigny—they’re here!” He jumped to his feet, shaking visibly, cold sweat glistening upon his face. “They … they’re … here?”
He sat down again, still trembling, and poured himself a glass of brandy. “My God! What a nightmare, Henri! They’ve managed to get through to me this time, all right—picked my brains clean, I imagine. They’ll know where we are now, for sure.”
“The Cthonians? It was … them?” I breathlessly asked.
“Oh, yes! Definitely. And they made no pretext, didn’t bother to hide their identity. I had the impression they were trying to tell me something—attempting to, well, bargain with me. Hah! That would be like making a pact with all the devils of hell! And yet there were tones of desperation, too, in the messages I received. Damned if I know what they could be frightened of. I simply had the feeling that we’re not alone in all this, that reinforcements are being rushed up to the front, as it were! Damned peculiar.”
“I don’t follow you, Titus,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re being a bit vague, you know.”
“Then I’d best tell you all my dream contained, Henri, and then we’ll see what you make of it,” he replied.
“First off, there were no pictures, no visual hallucinations—which, it could be argued, are what dreams are really made of—but merely … impressions! I was floating in a grayness, the colorless substance of the subconscious psyche, if you like, and these … impressions … kept coming to me. I knew it was the Cthonians—their thoughts, their mental sendings, are so very alien—but I couldn’t shut them out of my mind. They were telling me to stop interfering, to let sleeping dogs lie. What do you make of that?”
Before I could answer, even if I had an answer, he hurriedly continued:
“Then I got these fear-impressions I mentioned, a nameless dread of some obscure, ill-defined possibility with which I was somehow involved. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think it was intended that I should read these fear-impressions. I’m a fraction more psychic than these horrors are used to, I suspect—a fact well in our favor. But overall it was, I don’t know, as if they were trying to bribe me! ‘Get out while you can, Titus Crow, and we’ll leave you alone,’ sort of thing. ‘You don’t have our eggs anymore and so we’re willing to lose interest in you—provided you’ll leave us alone and not go meddling where you’re not wanted!”’
“Then we’re on the right track, Titus,” I broke in. “We’ve got them worried!”
He looked at me, more under control now, and slowly grinned. “It certainly seems so, de Marigny, but I wish to God I knew what it is they’re so worried about! Still, as you say, we must be on the right track. It’s good to know that, at least. I’d love to know, though, where Peaslee and the others fit in—”
“What’s that, Titus?” I asked. Again he had lost me.
“I’m sorry, Henri, of course you can’t follow me,” he quickly apologized. “You see, there were in these impressions references—don’t ask me to clarify—to Peaslee and certain others; like Bernard Jordan, the skipper of one of those seagoing drilling-rigs I was telling you about. He was a very lucky man, according to my cuttings. The lone survivor when his rig, Sea-Maid, went to the bottom off Hunterby Head. And there was mention of someone else, someone I’ve never even heard of before. Hmm,” he mused, frowning. “Now who on earth is David Winters? Anyway, I had the feeling that the Cthonians were far more afraid of these other chaps than they could ever be of me! I was warned, in effect, to keep away from these other people. Rather astonishing, really. After all, I’ve never met Professor Peaslee in the flesh, and I couldn’t even guess at where to begin looking for this Jordan chap. And as for David Winters, well …”
“You were screaming, Titus,” I told him, holding his shoulder. “You were shouting something or other which I couldn’t quite make out. Now what was that all about?”
“Ah! That would have been my denial, Henri. Of course, I refused their ultimatum. I tried to throw spells at them, particularly the Vach-Viraj Incantation, to get them out of my mind. But it didn’t work. En masse, their minds were too strong for such simple devices. They overcame them easily.”
“Ultimatum?” I questioned. “There were … threats?”
“Yes, and horrible threats,” he grimly answered. “They told me—that they would ‘show me their powers,’ in some sort of way or other, which was when you woke me up. Anyway, they’re not rid of me yet, not by a long shot, but we may have to move on from here. Three or four more days is about as much time as we can afford to stay, I should think, before moving on.”
“Yes,” I answered. “Well, frankly, I couldn’t move tonight at gunpoint. I’m dead on my feet. Let’s get some sleep, if they’ll let us, and make fresh plans tomorrow.”
For myself, I did get to sleep all right—I was quite “dead on my feet”—but I can’t speak for Titus Crow. I know that I seemed in my slumbers to hear his voice, low and muttering, and that it seemed a very long time before the echoes of the Vach-Viraj Incantation and certain other runes of elder spheres faded in the caves of my subconscious.
Strangely, by noon the next day we were better settled in our minds, as if the knowledge that the Cthonians had found something to fear in us had lifted momentarily the bleak veil of strange dread, nervous tension and mental fatigue that had been hanging over us.
It had not been difficult to reason out just why it had taken Shudde-M’ell’s nightmare brothers so long to discover our hideaway. Up until the previous night, Crow had been using the Vach-Viraj Incantation and the Tikkoun Elixir nightly, when, at last, he had run out of the latter. Evidently the liquid which compounded that strange and potent brew (I was later to learn just what it was) had had much to do with keeping the Cthonian dream-sendings and
-searchings at bay. Plainly, this late deficiency in our defenses had been sufficient to allow them to find our subconscious minds and thus discover our location.
Later it was to become plain why the knowledge that our whereabouts were known to the Cthonians did not panic us; why Crow’s dream, rather than startling us into headlong flight had served instead—after the initial shock—to calm us down.
As it was, we reasoned that if the burrowers did indeed intend to make an attack, well, they still had the water of the river to combat, and in any case they were unlikely to attempt anything in daylight hours. The obvious trick, if the Cthonians could manage it, would be to lure us from Seafree of an evening after dark, an eventuality against which we made precautionary plans. At last light each evening, until we left the houseboat for good, we would simply lock the cabin-cum-sleeper door (equipped with a stout padlock on the inside), and, since I seemed more susceptible to the dream-sendings of the Cthonians, Crow would keep the key. It now seems amazing to me that once again we both failed to see a parallel which, obvious as it should have been, proved us both totally at fault in our reasoning; simply that Paul Wendy-Smith had been taken in daylight, or dusk at the very latest! However, our plan, faulty as it was, meant that we would have to deny ourselves the occasional evening trip over to the Old Mill Inn.
Now, I don’t want to give the impression that we two were alcoholics—though we might have had very good reasons to become such—but Crow did like his brandy of a night, and I am not averse to a noggin myself. We had already stocked up with provisions for a fortnight, and so decided we had best do the same regarding liquid refreshments. With this in mind we decided on lunch at the Old Mill Inn, when we would also purchase a bottle or two.
Our timing was perfect, for we had no sooner seated ourselves in the smoke-room when the ex-Guardsman proprietor came over to our table. We had of course met him before, but on this occasion he introduced himself properly and Crow reciprocated on our behalf.