The Burrowers Beneath

by Brian Lumley

  “Ah! So you are Mr. Crow! Well, that saves me a walk down to the houseboat.”

  “Oh?” Crow’s interest picked up. “Did you want to see me, then? Do sit down, Mr. Selby. Will you join us in a drink?”

  The huge proprietor thanked us, went over to the bar and poured himself a half-pint from a bottle, then returned with his glass and sat down. “Yes,” he began, “I had a telephone call for you this morning—very garbled and hard to understand—from someone who was checking on your being here. Told me you’d be using the houseboat Seafree. I said I wasn’t sure of your names, but that there were two gentlemen on the houseboat.”

  “Did he say who he was?” Puzzled as to who might know of our whereabouts, I got the question in before Crow. I could see that my friend was equally at a loss.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered me. “I wrote his name down on a scrap of paper. Here we are.” He dug into his waistcoat pocket. “Said he’d drop in on you this evening—if you were still here. The conversation was a bit confused, but I gathered he was calling from a booth somewhere nearby. Anything wrong, sir?”

  Titus had taken the slip of paper and read it. His already tired face, at a stroke, had gone deathly white. His hand shook violently as he passed me the slip. I took it from him and smoothed it down on the tabletop.

  I took a sip at my drink—and then choked on it as the meaning of what was scrawled on the paper finally drove home!

  It was, as Selby had said, simply a name:

  Amery Wendy-Smith!

  VII

  Not from His Charnel Clay

  (From de Marigny’s Notebooks)

  All afternoon and until 10:30 that night—earlier on deck, later in the light of a paraffin-lamp in the cabin—Crow and I talked in awed whispers on the fantastic vistas opened by the totally unpredictable “message” we had received at the inn.

  It made no difference that all day long the sun had blazed roaringly down on the river from the glorious June sky, or that small river-craft had been purring upstream and down by the dozen while lovers walked on the green banks and waved to us at our mooring. For us the physical warmth of the summer sun had been chilled by the fearful knowledge of that horror which lurked deep beneath England’s unique green; and though the songs of the birds and the laughter of the couples had been loud enough, we had talked, as I have said, in hushed whispers.

  For Crow had made no bones of his firm belief that Sir Amery was indeed dead, and that therefore this latest … manifestation … was nothing less than another gambit of the Cthonians. Had there been a third player in our game—that is, someone who like Crow and myself knew of the dreadful activities of the burrowers beneath—then we might have been able to lay the blame for this latest shock at that person’s feet; but there was no one. In any case, the telephone call would have been a pretty gruesome leg-pull.

  And of course Crow was absolutely right in his assertion. He had to be. The unknown caller could not possibly be Sir Amery Wendy-Smith; I knew that as soon as I was able to give the matter a little reasonable thought. Why, Sir Amery had been anything but a young man back in 1937. Now? He would be well on his way toward his centenary! Few men live so long, and fewer still manage to live and hide themselves away, for no apparent reason, for over a third of their century!

  No, I was as sure as Titus Crow that this was simply another ruse of the Cthonians. How they had pulled it off was another matter. Crow had pondered the possibility (very briefly), that his closest neighbor, an ecclesiastical doctor who lived maybe a quarter mile or so from Blowne House, might have been responsible for the stunning “message”; for apparently he had given the good reverend our forwarding address prior to leaving Blowne House. He had also asked this same gentleman to accept transferred telephone calls for him, which had been agreed, but had warned him to divulge our whereabouts only to bona fide persons. It seemed that the doctor had assisted him on a number of ticklish occasions before. But this time not even that worthy had known of Crow’s reason for rushing off to Henley, and he had probably never even heard of Sir Amery Wendy-Smith. In fact, no one knew of our reason for being at Henley—except, since last night, the Cthonians themselves!

  And yet, what could the burrowers possibly hope to gain from so transparent a ploy? This was a question I had put to my friend, to which he had answered:

  “Well, Henri, I think we’d better ask ‘how’ before we ask ‘why’—I like to see the whole picture whenever it’s possible. I’ve been giving it some thought, though, and it seems to me that our phantom telephone caller must be a person ‘under the influence’ of the Cthonians. I imagine they must have such—assistants, a point we’d best look out for in the future. We’ve been thinking in terms of horror and hideous death at the hands—the tentacles—of monstrous subterranean beings, but we can just as easily die from gunshot wounds! Now then, taking all that into account, we can ask ourselves why did the Cthonians use so transparent a ploy, as you had it, and I believe I know the answer.”

  For once I foresaw his conclusion: “I think I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. We’ve both stated over the last few days that we think we’re pretty safe here on the houseboat, though you have had your doubts. Now, just suppose that They think so too; that They can’t touch us physically while we’re here. Why, the obvious solution would be to get us out of here, scare us into abandoning the boat and taking to dry land!”

  “Right,” he answered. “And this impossible telephone call serves as a second persuasion, to follow up the warning dream the Cthonians sent me last night. Go on, de Marigny.”

  “Well, that’s it!” I cried. “That’s all there is to it. Following your dreams, this message—which we know must have its origin with the Cthonians—was simply to give their warning substance; to let us know that we’re far from safe here, and that our best bet is to—”

  “To get the hell out of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “That we stay right where we are!”

  “Yes,” he answered, “and that’s exactly what we’re going to do! It begins to look more and more to me as though we’re as safe here as we can be. As you say, this makes the second Cthonian attempt to get us away from the river—which is, I agree, a damn good reason for us to stay put! So, for the time being at least, we’ll stay. We have at least two weapons against them: the river and the Vach-Viraj Incantation.” He frowned thoughtfully. “We should have more of the Tikkoun Elixir shortly, by the way, if the Reverend Harry Townley keeps his promise. Townley’s the neighbor I told you about. He said he’d send me on a supply; and he’s never let me down before.”

  “The Reverend Townley?” I frowned. “The Tikkoun Elixir … ?”

  The answer slotted itself neatly into place in my mind. “You mean that the elixir is—”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered, nodding his head, surprise showing on his face. “Hadn’t I mentioned it before?” He tossed me the empty vial, the contents of which had been used so well. “Oh, yes! Holy Water, what else? We know already of Shudde-M’ell’s hatred of water, so naturally water which carries in addition a blessing—well, it’s potent against many a horror beside the Cthonians, believe me!”

  “And how about the Looped Cross?” I asked, remembering the three forces potent against Nyogtha as delineated in the Necronomicon. “Does the Crux Ansata indeed have similar powers?”

  “I believe so, yes, to a degree. I had meant to mention it to you earlier, last night when you were working on the star-stone theme. What do you have, Henri, if you break the loop at the top of the Crux Ansata?”

  I pictured the image his words conjured in my mind—then snapped my fingers. “Why! A symbol with five extremities, a crude representation of the Elder Sign, the prisoning star of the Cthulhu Cycle of myth!”

  “Indeed, and the looped Tau Cross in Olden Khem was also a symbol of power—and a great symbol of generation! It was the Ankh, Henri! The very w
ord means ‘soul’ or ‘life’—a protection of life and soul. Oh, yes, I should certainly believe that the Crux Ansata has power.” He grinned wanly. “I rather think, though, from your question, that your powers of observation can’t be all that they used to be.”

  “Eh? How do you mean?” I asked suspiciously, a trifle daunted.

  “Why, if you look, you’ll see!” he replied. “On our first day here I nailed a tiny silver Crux Ansata to the door!”

  For a moment, despite our situation and the seriousness of our conversation, I believed Crow was having me on. I had noticed no such thing. I got up quickly and crossed to the cabin door, opening it to peer at its contours in the glow of the deck- and cabin-lights. Sure enough, Crow’s Looped Cross was there, at the very top of the door.

  I had just turned back into the cabin, an exclamation of admiration on my lips, when the smell hit me. I say “hit” me, and in truth the cliché is quite void of exaggeration, for a positively vile stench was issuing from somewhere behind me on the midnight-black bank of the river.

  There came footfalls … .

  Crow must have smelled it, too, and perhaps he heard the soft sounds from the quiet river bank. I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he jerked to his feet, his face pale in the flaring light, and then I concentrated on the darkness outside. I crouched there in the door, peering with bulging, fearful eyes into the shadows beyond the railed gangway.

  Something moved there, a shape; and a low, clotted cough sounded—which was followed by a guttural, barely human voice!

  “Ah, I see you’re not … glug … expecting me, my friend! Didn’t you get my message, then?”

  I fell back as this reeking, awfully shadowed figure swayed up the gangplank. “Please turn down the light, sir,” the clotted voice continued, “and for God’s sake … glug … have no fear of me. All will be explained.”

  “Who—?” I gulped, my voice barely audible. “What—?”

  “Sir Amery Wendy-Smith—or at least his mind—at your service, sir. And would you be Titus Crow. or are you … glug … Henri-Laurent de Marigny?”

  I fell back even more as the man-shaped, stinking black shadow stepped slowly closer, and then Crow’s arm swept me aside and back into the cabin as he took my place at the door. In his hand he held my pistol, which had once belonged to Baron Kant.

  “Stop right there!” he called out harshly, brokenly, to the black figure, now more than halfway up the gangplank. “You can’t be Wendy-Smith—he’s dead!”

  “My body, sir—the body I used to have—is dead, yes … glug … but my mind lives on; at least for a little while longer! I sense that you are Titus Crow. Now, please turn down the deck-light … glug … and the lamp in the cabin, and let me in to talk to you.”

  “This gun,” Crow countered, his voice shaking, “fires silver bullets. I don’t know what you are, but I believe I can destroy you!”

  “My dear … glug … sir, I have prayed for destruction!” The figure took another lurching step forward. “But before you … glug … attempt to grant me any such merciful release, at least let me tell you what I was sent to tell—let me deliver Their warning! And in any case, neither your gun, nor the Crux Ansata there on the door, not even your elixirs or … glug … chants can immobilize this body. It is the stuff of which Cthulhu himself is made, or very close to it! Now …” The clotted, almost slopping voice grew more articulate, speeding up in some sort of hideous hysteria: “For God’s sake, will you let me deliver the message I was sent to deliver?”

  “Crow,” I nervously blurted, my hand trembling on his shoulder, “what is it? What in hell is it?”

  Instead of answering me, he leaned out of the door to turn down the wick of the lamp we had hung near the head of the gangplank. He left the very smallest flame glowing there in the dark. The shadow became an inky namelessness swaying almost rhythmically on the gangplank.

  “Titus!” I gasped, almost rigid with dread. “By all that’s holy—are you trying to get us killed?”

  “Not a bit of it, Henri,” he whispered, his shaky voice belying its message, “but I want to hear what this—Thing—has to say. Do as you’re bid. Turn down the lamp!”

  “What?” I backed away from his figure framed in the doorway, almost willing to believe that the strain of the last few days had been too much for him.

  “Please!” the guttural voice of the vile-smelling thing on the gangplank came again as its owner took another lurching step forward. “Please, there is little enough time as it is. They won’t let … glug … this body hold together much longer!”

  At that Crow turned, thrusting me aside and hurrying to the paraffin-lamp to dim its hissing glare. This done, he placed a chair near the door and stepped back as the stars in the night sky were blotted out by the bulk of the nameless speaker when it appeared in the doorway. Stumblingly, it half sat, half fell into the chair. There was a quite audible squelching sound as its contours molded to the wooden frame.

  By this time I had backed up to the bunks. Crow had perched himself on the small desk, feet firmly on the floor. He looked very brave in the dim, flickering light, but I preferred to believe he sat there because his legs were no longer capable of holding him up! Not a bad idea. I sat down abruptly on a lower bunk.

  “Here,” my friend whispered, “you’d better have this if you’re so nervous. But don’t use it—not unless you have to!” He tossed Kant’s pistol over to me.

  “Please listen.” The nodding blackness on the chair spoke again, its stench wafting all about the cabin in thick gusts, blown by the warm breeze from the open door. “I have been sent by Them, by the horrors beneath, to deliver a message … glug … and to let you see what hell is like! They have sent me to—”

  “Do you mean Shudde-M’ell?” Crow cut in, his voice a trifle stronger.

  “Indeed.” The horror nodded. “At least, his brothers, his children.”

  “What are you?” I found myself asking, hypnotized, “You’re not a … man!”

  “I was a man.” The shape in the chair seemed to sob, its lumpy outline moving in the flickering shadows. “I was Sir Amery Wendy-Smith. Now I am only his mind, his brain. But you must listen! It is only Their power that holds me together—and even They … glug … cannot keep this shape solid much longer!”

  “Go on,” Crow said quietly, and I was astonished to discover a strange—compassion?—in his voice.

  “This, then, is Their message. I am Their messenger and I bear witness to the truth of what They have to say. It is this: if you leave well enough alone, as of now, They will let you go in peace. They will bother you no more, neither in dreams nor in your waking moments. They will lift all … enchantments … glug … from your minds. If you persist—then in the end They will take you, and will do with you what They have done with me!”

  “And what was that?” I asked in awed tones, still trembling violently, peering at the horror in the chair.

  For while the voice of—Wendy-Smith?—had been speaking, I had allowed myself the luxury of simultaneous concentration, taking in all that was said but thinking equally clearly on other matters, and now I found myself straining to see the thing in the chair more clearly.

  It looked as though our visitor was clad in a large black overcoat, turned up about his neck, and it looked, too, as if he must have something covering his head—which perhaps accounted for the clotted, distorted quality of his voice—for I had caught not a glimpse of any whiteness to suggest a face there atop the oddly lumpy body. My mind, I discovered, allowed freely to ponder other things, had trembled on the verge of a mental chasm; the mad observations of Abdul Alhazred in his Necronomicon as reported by Joachim Feery: “ … Till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of Earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it … .”

  I hastily brought my wandering mind back under control.

  The thing in the chair—which allegedly had been a man—was answering my question, telling what it was that th
e Cthonians had done to him, what they would do to Crow and me if we refused to do as they ordered.

  “They … glug …” the clotted voice gobbled, “They destroyed my body—but kept my brain alive! They housed my mind in a living envelope of Their manufacture; a shapeless, immobile mass of filth; but with veins and … glug … capillaries, and a heart of sorts—with all the machinery needed to keep a human mind alive! Don’t ask me how They … glug-glug … did it. But They’ve had practice, over the centuries.”

  “Go on,” Crow prompted when the horror that housed Wendy-Smith’s mind paused. “Why did they keep your brain alive?”

  “So that They could … glug … milk it, drain off its knowledge bit by bit. I was known as a learned man, gentlemen. I … glug-glug … had knowledge of all sorts of things. Knowledge which They wanted. And my knowledge was immediately to hand. They didn’t have to … glug … employ dreams to get what They wanted.”

  “Knowledge?” I prompted, steadier now. “What sort of knowledge? What did they want to know?”

  “ … Glug … locations. The locations of mines—especially inoperative mines—like those at Harden and Greetham. Drilling operations, like the Yorkshire Moors Project and the North Sea search for gas and oil. Details of city and town populations … glug … of scientific progress in atomics, and—”

  “Atomics?” Crow again cut in. “Why atomics? And another thing … Harden has only become inoperative since your … transition. And in your day there was no North Sea search in progress; nor was there a Yorkshire Moors Project. You’re lying!”

  “No, no … glug … I mention these things because they are the modern counterparts of details They wanted at that time. I have only learned of these later developments through Their minds. They are in constant contact. Even now … .”

  “And atomics?” Crow repeated, apparently satisfied for the moment with the initial answer.