“Here we are,” he said, stopping before a rusty brown door shod in barnacles. A young girl knelt by the threshold, kneading her breasts. She was nude, I saw, and so dirty that at first I’d thought her clothed. Christ, she was only a child.
“Stop doing that,” I told her. “Why must you do that?”
Rising from her knees, she hacked a wad of spit on my trousers and fled into the gloom.
Mausu searched my face for a reaction, but this whole situation was beyond me. This grotesque metal slum filled with pipes and depraved junkies left a lingering dread in the back of my throat. Blowing a sigh, Mausu patted my shoulder, smiled, and ushered me through the door.
~*~
The dealer sat on a throne of contorted men, their bodies lashed together and manipulated to form a solid, chair-like structure. They were still alive—and naked, their many phalluses dangling here and there like icicles on winter eaves. Loyal subjects genuflected at her feet, and above, a strange mirror, aimed up a shaft, reflected the sky, so that stars were visible inside the room. Most of the people—other than her—appeared dead or in some kind of trance. I shuddered as we approached the foul group.
She was tall and extremely attractive, with blond hair piled up around her shoulders. She wore a see-through fishnet nightgown, and smoked a slim cigarette. Her eyes, darkened by mascara, seemed to absorb my every move. Her height disturbed me, for she was nearly twelve feet tall.
Cowering behind Mausu, I traced the curves of her flesh, the swell of her bosom, the slenderness of her thighs. Her physique aroused me, yet similarly put me off. It was a strange feeling.
Mausu knelt before her, and I did the same.
“Greetings, Cutcheon,” he said. “Here is the bourgeois farmer I glimpsed in my dreams.”
“Yes, I see,” she said. “Does he wish to ingest the medicine?”
Mausu glanced at me. “He does.”
“So let it be done. I ask but a small fee, which must be paid in full by the prophet.” She pointed toward Mausu, and instantly his expression changed. He jumped to his feet, saying, “But I thought the bourgeois would be paying?” Hysteria had crept into his voice.
The dealer, Cutcheon, rose from her throne, casting an immense shadow over us. Sinewy limbs dangled off her body, and a wave of blond hair spilled down her back. She brought the cigarette to her lips, drawing deeply, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“No,” she said, scissor-walking toward Mausu. “It is you who lapses into dream this time. I am sorry.”
She hooked him around the neck and lifted him off the floor. His features distorted and his breathing grew rapid. I watched with mouth agape as a pair of dirt-encrusted vagrants carried him away screaming.
Cutcheon dismissed the rest of her subjects, and, sighing, reposed on her flesh-wrought throne. Now we were alone.
“Off your knees,” she said.
I did as I was told, glancing up, marveling at the realness of the stars on the ceiling. For a moment, I thought I was back in the country.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s amazing. Is it witchcraft?”
She laughed. “Nothing so romantic. It’s science, actually.”
I grunted, pretending to understand.
She twirled her cigarette between thumb and forefinger, making it disappear. “Would you like to know why Mausu was sent for you?”
“He said he dreamed of me.”
“Oh yes, he certainly did, but it was a dream I bestowed upon him. Do you know why?”
I didn’t.
“Because Arayana, your late wife, was my sister.”
This startled me, and I gaped at the looming blond titan. “She never mentioned you.”
“No, I don’t imagine she would have. After our mother died, she fled the City and I came down to the sewers. We’d had a bit of a fight, and she wanted nothing more to do with me. But that never stopped me from caring about her.”
I knew Arayana had been born in the City, that some strange incident lurked in her past, but she disliked talking about it, and I never pressed the subject. When we met, she was already well accustomed to farm life, and that was the reason I fell in love with her.
“I’m not sure I believe you,” I said.
“Of course you do. Why would I fabricate such a story? I knew she wanted to distance herself from City life . . . and from her family. And I respected her wishes. But now that she’s gone, well . . . I guess I’m regretful.”
“How’d you discover she was dead?”
“I dreamed it, naturally.”
A sense of dread came over me. If she’d dreamed Arayana’s death, had she also dreamed the unceremonious way I had disposed of her? Had she brought me beneath the City to take revenge?
“How did she die?” Cutcheon asked, as if reading my thoughts.
I fumbled with the words. “Uh, well, she was bitten by a poisonous toad, and there was nothing could be done about it, according to the doctor.”
“And where, then, is she buried?”
“Uh . . . on our land, of course. I carved a nice headstone and placed it at the foot of her grave.”
Cutcheon smiled. “That sounds nice. I suppose she would’ve wanted it that way. I hadn’t seen her in twenty years, you know. All that wasted time, and now she’s gone. It makes me sad, Trinth, so very sad.”
“You know my name?”
“I know only what I have dreamed. Did—” she gestured with a contemptuous hand “—that thing, Mausu, explain to you my profession?”
“He said you deal kreet. Is that true?”
“It sure is, do you wish to try? Mausu paid a hefty price, you shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
“I do want to try,” I said. “Normally, certainly not, but . . . I miss Arayana unbearably, and I just want to make it go away—all of it, all the pain, go away.”
She gave me a pouty grimace. “You poor, poor man. I promise to help you, Trinth. After everything you’ve done for my misguided, bourgeois-loving sister, it only seems fair. Come, Mr. Wolery, come unto my bosom.”
Opening her arms, she let the fishnet material drop from her torso. Naked flesh, pale as snow, glimmered in the starlight. Two symmetrical aureolas, larger than dinner plates, awaited my surrender, and, weeping, I knelt before the throne, resting my head upon her lap.
~*~
We made love in the darkness of the City sewers. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Cutcheon was an amazing creature of lust and libido. She towered above me, her thighs clamped around my waist, rocking back and forth like some mad demon. I watched, half stunned, as she covered me in her flesh, working and working, until both of us had climaxed.
At that moment, through the blur of my ecstasy, I glimpsed Arayana’s face . . . and she did not look pleased.
Afterward, we lay in each others arms, she cradling my head like a baby’s, and I found myself suckling on her breast. She called for her subjects, who staggered in and gave water to the man-wrought throne. I felt pleasant, but also guilty.
It seemed the time had come, for now Cutcheon unfolded a length of satin and produced a shiny array of utensils. Then she took out the kreet.
“I can’t help you ingest the medicine,” she said. “You must do it on your own.”
I looked into her eyes. “Mausu said I’d see the face of God. Is that true?”
She stroked my cheek. “Perhaps. There is no way to predict it. It’s like dreams: you never know which images will come.”
This made sense, and, uncurling from her arms, I stood. She emptied a mound of yellow rocks onto a square tin, and I accepted the long ribbed vegetable tube, turning it over in my hands. Cutcheon snapped her fingers, engendering an orange flame from her fingernail. As she held the flame beneath the tin, the rocks began to smoke.
“Breath,” she said, pushing my head down.
I brought the tube to my lips and inhaled. She chuckled, for this seemed to please her: my inexperience. I did the best I could, and soon I was eng
ulfed in gray clouds. The kreet had a bittersweet aftertaste, which left a filmy residue on my tongue. My chest expanded and my head thrummed. Toppling backwards, I leaned against her chest, sighing as her luxuriant blond mane fell over me. The world dropped away in a gust, and, closing my eyes, I let go.
Cutcheon laughed vengefully.
“What?” I said. “What is it? Why are you laughing like that?”
“Because, little bourgeois man, you lied to me and to yourself, and the price of dishonesty is death. And I, Cutcheon Vestevsky, hereby drain your life energy and consign your spirit to the void. Sleep now, bourgeois man, sleep. Let nothing wake you; let the face of God resemble your failures. Sleep . . .”
My eyelids began to close, and I felt myself slipping into darkness. I tried to move, but my limbs would not function. A shadow crept along the wall. Flesh tore away, bones extended, and I heard the sound of beating wings as I drifted off to sleep.
THE LUCKY MOUTH
by
Gerry Huntman
My name is Ping. It means ‘water plant’ but it also means ‘fair’, and that is because I have light skin much like a Westerner. Papa said that when I was born Ping was the obvious name for me. Granma also has pale skin and she says that my mother had it too. She says that that makes us special.
I am eleven years old but smarter than most kids. I know this, and they do too. They usually leave me alone. There are only four Chinese families here, and most people don’t take too kindly to foreigners. This was regardless of the fact that my family has lived in Arkham as well as Innsmouth for four generations. Granma says that we came from China when the sea trading and fishing was good and because we would be able to find the Lucky Mouth.
We all live in Fisheries Lane. That’s the one that runs off River Street near Garrison, which crosses the Miskatonic. The river is dark and murky like the town, but that is alright with me. My family is my life, and serving them is my duty. This also honors our ancestors. I sometimes think that my family is like the Miskatonic, slow moving, mysterious, and eternal. They both soothe me.
When I lie in bed next to Second Youngest Daughter and Oldest Daughter, and count my heartbeats with the breathing of my sisters, I sometimes notice the faint acrid smells of the town and river. I imagine creatures creeping up from the muddy waters, with heaving breaths, and scampering on River Street. I see them sniffing for food; fresh meat and blood, snarling with their bright white fangs. They bound around with their scaled legs into the town, looking for prey. I know that our ancestors protect us, along with the magical symbols inscribed on our doors. More importantly, we are defended by the Lucky Mouth.
Papa is a clever man and works hard to feed his family. He and Old Uncle and Middle Uncle run a laundry business, which still has the steam machine that was used over fifty years ago. Now they have a car, though, and it makes it easier to deliver the laundered clothes compared to the horse and carts. Papa also works with Oldest Son and Second Youngest Son repairing shoes, and he is the landlord of two rooms above our laundry and home. I am normally called Youngest Daughter.
When I sit quietly and listen to the chug-chugging of the steam engine that drives the hot water into our laundry as well as our heaters in winter, I have visions. This large machine made by my great grandfather, seems otherworldly to me. Like a huge animal, too fat to walk. Is it a coincidence that in the cellar immediately below there is the Lucky Mouth? I have decided that it is not the case. I think the steam engine is its belly.
The Lucky Mouth isn’t just our protector; it is also the source of our prosperity. That is why it is called lucky by some.
When I can I like to talk to the boarders. They don’t usually stay long, and are mostly students at Miskatonic University, in need of cheap room and board. The University is only a few blocks away from our home, between Church and College Streets. Some tenants don’t say much, not wanting to talk to the ‘yellers’, but others are real nice. Only a few months ago I got to talk to Winston Baker, from Connecticut, who was on what he called a ‘sabbata-something’. He was old, maybe in his late twenties, but nothing like my Granma, who is over a hundred. I liked him because he took the time to explain things to me. I always have a lot of questions, so this was enjoyable.
Mr. Baker told me he was at Miskatonic U because there was a library there that had books that no other library in the world had. He studied stuff he called ‘dark’ and didn’t say much more, except that it had to do with witches ‘and such’. I really liked him because he always listened to me. I love my Mama and Papa but they don’t sit down and look into my eyes, they don’t hear every word I say.
I remember a few days ago I was at the window to my bedroom, listening as best as I could to my neighbor’s radio through the adjoining wall; only a few people in Arkham have radios. I also heard Papa speaking with Mr. Baker down our corridor. They were having supper together.
Mr. Baker called Papa ‘Mr. Liu’, which sort of sounded funny to me, and asked if we had any family in Innsmouth. Papa replied that we did, and that his Granma had come from there. Papa was too polite to ask why Mr. Baker had asked that question, and so they started talking about everyday things like the weather and the new Model A Ford. Papa is always respectful to strangers, but I think he was worried by that question about Innsmouth. I could tell by the tone of his voice.
I started to think about why Mr. Baker may have asked this question and it seemed to me that it might be this place. This county. Even though most Arkham people don’t think we belong here, they would be surprised how much like them we are. The same goes for Innsmouth, and nearby Dunwich. Even when I was small and barely able to walk, I could sense something about the crumbling, creaking buildings, gabled roofs, and staring eyes through the dark and stained curtains. Innsmouth seems to have it the most, even though I have only visited the port town a few times. I remember, though, that it seemed at once frightening and welcoming—scary because the people were so strange looking, pale and somehow misshapen, and yet welcoming because it felt like home. Especially the smell and feel of the sea.
I think Mr. Baker was a smart man and he knew there were secrets in this county. It’s a shame he didn’t realize that you have to have been born here to understand them. There are many mysteries in Innsmouth to be found, but he didn’t realize that he lived two stories above the greatest secret of all, the Lucky Mouth.
~*~
Yesterday was the most important day of my life. Maybe I’m a young girl, but I feel somehow that I have grown up. I now know why most of my brothers and sisters have that look in their eyes, and seem so much a part of Arkham. I have joined them.
Granma always said that I knew the time would be right when I can see the Lucky Mouth. On special nights, when the planets and stars in the heavens were right, and when the tides and seasons were aligned in a special way, our family would open the cellar door and enter the shrine. That is, except for me, Youngest Son and Second Youngest Son. We were not ready yet.
I don’t know exactly why, except that my ancestors had decided that it was time for me, but I decided last night to visit the Lucky Mouth, which was one of the ceremonial nights. The smell of the river seemed stronger, and I could make out the scent of the sea in the air even though we were miles from Innsmouth. It was me who had changed, not the scents. I had grown. I looked out my window, and could see through a narrow frame at the end of the alley, the jagged teeth-like silhouettes of the town’s night-scape. I could feel the discomforted heartbeats of its citizens, the generations-old disquieting fear that only partially abated during the day. I could also sense the dark, murderous thoughts of some who let their humanity completely go; their insanity.
I wandered into the laundry room and saw the well-worn trap door that led to the shrine. I walked by it for all eleven years of my life but not once had descended its steps. I was nervous, and excited, at the same time.
It took a lot of effort to lift the door, as it was as big as me and was twice my weight. It was just as har
d to stop it from slamming backwards onto the floor when I managed to get it open. I didn’t want to disturb my family downstairs.
I carefully walked down the stone steps, well worn by decades of regular use by my kin. I heard some muttering below and I smelled a strange mix of incense and the pungent tones of the ancient river sediment. As I descended the muttering increased, as did the aroma of the burning amber-frankincense joss sticks. I neared the end of the stairs and found a narrow doorway, leading to a dimly lit chamber. The muttering transformed into old Mandarin chants, much of which I could barely understand. They were prayers, this was clear enough, and I assumed they were directed to the Lucky Mouth.
I gasped at the size of the chamber that I slipped into. It was circular, at least thirty yards in diameter, and at the far end of the room was a giant frieze of a large sea creature, with many tentacles curling from its head, and malevolent, ruby encrusted eyes. Its mouth was strangely human in shape, and it was closed—and spanned four feet. It was a horrifying looking creature and yet I was fascinated by it. I could only assume that it was the Lucky Mouth, because my family was all kneeling before it.
To my surprise, Oldest Son and Second Oldest Son climbed to their feet and pulled up Mr. Baker. I had not seen him before as he had been lying on the cold stone floor in front of my family. His hands were tied behind his back and he was a wretched sight. He had bruises and blood on his face, one eye was puffed; his clothes were wet and mucky. He was trembling but said nothing. They dragged him to within a few paces of the frieze and I realized that he was going to be made a sacrifice to our family god.
I don’t know why, but because I liked Mr. Baker I ran into the chamber, to the shock and surprise of most of my family. I intended to reveal myself, but this hasty action was not planned. Granma looked up at me and smiled, while Papa showed concern. I bowed before my elders and humbly asked if Mr. Baker could be spared. Again, there were some shocked faces among those who were there.
Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation Page 21