The Dark Gateway

by John Burke

  Jonathan said curtly: “Go on.”

  “Long ago,” said Simon equably, “when the first civilised men, not so long born of the slime and chaos of the earth’s creation, made their first cities and put their years of barbarism behind them, establishing a precarious dominion over the still turbulent, shifting land and water, strange gods were shaped in the cold outer spaces. Out beyond the most distant stars, yet in their many-folded dimension close to everywhere in the ever-circling, ever-closed universe, wild spasms of immortality came into being and went seeking worlds that called to them, across space in search of what would assuage their thirst. They enmeshed Betelgeuse and wove their webs around Andromeda. They reached out for the loneliest stars on the edge of infinity, and hungered for the tiniest planet where sentient beings, with pride and hatred and lust blooming in their adventurous bodies, could play their part in feeding the gluttonous appetites of these all-pervading, groping gods.” He nodded. “For gods they were: they were in all places, and yet in no place.”

  “They devoured,” said Jonathan with an uncontrolled outburst of excitement. “They engulfed, devoured, and ravaged. Their dominion was absolute.”

  “And their priests were all-powerful,” said Simon. “You fancy yourself as a priest of the Atlantean gods, don’t you, little fellow? They held in their hands the destinies of all men. On their altars were decided all problems of statecraft, and the laws were made in their reeking temples when the sacrifice smoke was thick and dark.”

  “The fools let it slip. That must never happen again.”

  “It will require someone more skilled than yourself to avoid such a catastrophe.” Simon looked at Jonathan, and then at the others, but he did not see them: he was staring into a world far beyond, addressing himself to unresponsive space. “There was Atlantis, built on shifting sand but held miraculously stable by the arts of the Black Adepts. The blood flowed and cries rang through the temples as men and women died in agony…but the shapeless gods, encircling the world and yet living in human bodies when they so chose, permeating every soul, were satisfied, and the cities were held erect in triumph while still the land heaved and changed. Music, painting, and poetry flourished. Wild hymns were sung to the sky, and the sky itself responded. The earth was sweet and new, and the sensual gods projected themselves into human bodies, revelling in the joys of this fresh, sparkling morning of mankind and tasting all the pleasure that was to be tasted when the world was young. They destroyed when it gave them pleasure to destroy, and they devised rituals of torment for their own entertainment, often evolving the details while, in their human forms, they lay in a lovers’ embrace.”

  Jonathan’s eyes were shining. “There were gods in those days. The gods will come back, and the faithfully devoted few will be rewarded.”

  “They were vengeful gods,” said Simon. “Do you think they’ll be pleased to have the gate opened to them by a charlatan? Do you really think they will exalt you, Mr. Jonathan—will you be a high priest?”

  Frank stirred restlessly. He said: “Where are they—these beings—now? Or did they die when Atlantis was engulfed in a great flood, as I believe it was supposed to be?”

  “There is no death for such as these. There is defeat and there is banishment to the cold wastes beyond Lyomoria, but there is no death. They are waiting.

  “The priests became lax, and the gods became lazy, glutted with their own pleasures: that was the cause of their downfall. There was whispering in the courts, and plots to overthrow the priests began. The gods had come too close to the people who worshipped them, and did not understand the danger in which they walked. They thought revolt was out of the question. They relied on awe and fear, but the familiarity of having them mingling with the common crowd in the pursuit of animal pleasures drove out awe, and the plotting began. Slowly at first. If plans to lock the gods out of the fair, infinitely pleasurable world came to light, there were great orgies of sacrifice and punishment, but the plans came bubbling up again. The gods, it was murmured, were not all-powerful. They were immortal, incarnate spirits of evil, but they were not sacred beings; they could be attacked. There were men who said that all human beings should be treated with respect and intelligence, and that men should govern themselves instead of submitting to the dictates of wanton immortals and their arrogant priests. And in secret, slowly and with many reverses, young men trained for the battle that was to come. Ordinary weapons were useless. This was to be a spiritual conflict, as violent and destructive as the upheavals of the country about their cities. The White Adepts trained, evolving a magic that would defeat the very founders of Magic. It was a long task. All their work had to be done surreptitiously, with infinite care, for any slip at the last moment would ruin all that had gone before.

  “You don’t understand all this: I can see in your faces that it is too remote for you to grasp. But it was one of the decisive battles of the world, when it came. These men—and women—trained and worked in what was far worse than any enemy country in modern times. They sought to overthrow what they conceived to be an inexcusable tyranny, and for the work they succeeded in doing, even the most devoted adherents of the dark gods—even Jonathan, shall we say?—must feel admiration. It was so terrific a conflict that even today its fame has not altogether died. In garbled but recognisable versions, its memory is alive: some call it the battle of Moytura, others have no name for it, but associate it vaguely with the Christian stories of driving out devils, and those supposedly fanciful tales of driving out the old gods of the fields and trees; all myths of early Christian apostles driving out local spirits are merely variations on this much more ancient theme. And the Seal of Solomon—what is that but the symbolic expression of that last great curse that shattered the resistance of the gods, shattered many of them so that they were as though they had never been, and then drove them out and sealed the gateway? There they lie in Fomoria, or Lyomoria, or on the frozen plains of Yagrath…call it what you will.”

  “They’re gone, then,” said Denis inadequately.

  “They are ready to return,” countered Jonathan.

  Simon studied his fingernails. He was curiously like a cat playing coolly and in leisurely fashion with a mouse. “And you’re going to call them?”

  “I am,” said Jonathan. “Can you stop me?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know.”

  Nora cleared her throat. Even then, she had difficulty in speaking. At last she said: “Where do the books come into this? The books have something to do with it.”

  “They’re the pieces of the jigsaw,” said Simon.

  “Of which you lack an essential corner,” said Jonathan.

  Simon again inclined his head. He was unruffled.

  “The books,” he explained to his bewildered audience, “provide the only key to that gate. It was not to be expected that all the gods should be expelled in one great body. There were strays who escaped the great defeat—cowards who had not pitted themselves against the White Adepts at the final conflict, and a few cunning spirits who had hidden away in case of need. They could not hide for long: they were sought out and dissolved in light—exorcised, if you prefer the word—but not before they had hurriedly prepared and disseminated the records of their most sacred rites. These manuscripts were hidden and passed on to a small group of devotees who still lived and remained true to the old faith. The White Adepts could seek out their enemy adepts, but ordinary people who retained their old beliefs were harder to distinguish—they did not emit psychic radiations in the same way as the magic fraternity did. They kept quiet, and the books were handed on. But they were scattered. It was impossible for the different groups of secret worshippers to meet: they were not sure of one another’s whereabouts, and it would have been fatal to attempt to make any contact. There were several little cliques, each possessing valuable documents and arcane knowledge that was useless on its own, but that, fitted together by one who had studied and acquired the occult powers necessary to use the knowledge.…

 
“For centuries the search has gone on. Atlantis fell, and mankind relapsed into barbarism, but descendants of Atlantis who had escaped while there was yet time treasured the last remnants of their black civilisation. Now it was possible to make more open attempts to join up with one another. But there were oceans to be crossed, and new, unfamiliar land masses to be explored. Generations—centuries, even—before there was any hope. It has been easier in recent years: there is no great opposition offered to students of the Black Arts, who may disguise their interests under a thousand different names; the last vestiges of the early laws, aimed at stamping out those who would call back the dark gods, were destroyed when the witchcraft laws, puny and trifling as they were, were repealed. Since then, it has been comparatively easy for the Black Adepts to make progress—”

  “Not so very easy,” said Jonathan indignantly, as though his own brilliance were being impugned. “It was hard to trace the families who held the records—the descendants of the original Atlantean devotees—and when they were traced, they might have died out, or accidents had caused books to go astray. Sometimes the books could not be read because of the abstruseness of the almost forgotten language.”

  “But at least there was no need for secrecy,” Simon pursued. “There was no need for that crippling stealth that had held them back in the old days. They could not openly declare their intentions, but they could give their intentions another name, and by judicious advertising and propaganda hope that their fellows would realise the message that was being sent out and would get in touch with them. Across the wastes of the past, their families had handed down the secrets of the ancient lore, knowing that someday all the threads would be gathered together. When the old documents crumbled and the language of Atlantis was forgotten, new books were prepared. Great libraries of forbidden knowledge were amassed, new treatises were written—some of them flaunted in the face of the uncomprehending general public—and the training of adepts went on. There were persecutions and massacres, to be sure, but none of the later persecutors had the power of the White Adepts.”

  “What happened to the White Adepts, anyway?” demanded Frank.

  “They destroyed Atlantis,” said Jonathan venomously.

  “They destroyed Atlantis,” Simon agreed. “When the great upheaval shook the earth, and the flood waters rose, there were no dark gods to appeal to. The men of earth were alone, and although they fought with all the power they possessed, all the skill they had acquired through the long years, calling upon all the spiritual resources at their disposal, they were but mortal, and they could not maintain the equilibrium of Atlantis. Atlantis had been raised and upheld by evil. Certain warped bargains had been struck with black entities outside our normal space limits, and only by the blood of sacrifice and the strength drawn by adepts from hideous rites was the country made safe. There were natural laws, as it were: break them, as the rebellious White Adepts had broken them, and you had to take the consequences. A short spell of glorious freedom and social reform—and then the new Atlantis, the beautiful Lyonesse, was no more. Sustained by evil, it collapsed when the conditions of its existence were not fulfilled. Many escaped from the land, to South America, Egypt, and lands that have themselves ceased to exist. From that day to this, the scattered families of the old belief have been endeavouring to establish contact with one another. From the number that slunk away before the floods came, it would seem that they knew what would happen—indeed, it’s not unreasonable to suppose that they had a hand in the destruction. Possibly they knew enough to drown Atlantis.

  “The dark gods were not fools. They knew that after many centuries the human race would grow lax once more, and then it would be possible to open the gateway to let them back into their Eden. A chosen man, a member of one of the families of adepts, would, it was prophesied, someday come and destroy the seal, offering the body of a human being as the pathway that is necessary to establish contact between that world and this, and the gods would return.

  “Their influence has remained. When have the witches and warlocks ever been entirely stamped out?”

  “The alchemist and sorcerer,” said Jonathan, “the spirits that ride the wind…strange powers, the blessed communicants at the Walpurgisnacht Sabbath.…”

  “One could almost believe that the gods have reached out, stretching tentative fingers through the veil that separates them from us, and imbued their faithful adherents with some of their own craft. They have not been forgotten. Half-consciously, in some cases, men have advanced along the road leading to the gateway through which the gods were expelled.

  “And that gateway, as I discovered when I first opened your bookcase, is through the castle on the hill.”

  They had been expecting this, so that it came as no surprise. Nora began to surmise wildly what she and Frank had stepped into when they passed through the old arch in the castle. And why, if it was open, no one came through…and why, apparently, there had been no opposition to the black magicians when they sought to gather up the scattered documents—and how so many of the evil books came to be in this farmhouse.…

  She said: “How did all the books come to be here?”

  “And what happened to the White Adepts?” Frank repeated. “Did they leave no descendants?”

  “One at a time, please,” said Simon. “The books formed the library of one of the families I referred to. But there must have been a couple of unexpected deaths, and the knowledge was not handed on as it should have been. It was fortunate for the seekers that the library was not split up. By some freak of fortune it remained here. All trace of the place was lost until Mr. Jonathan here, who claims to be a member of the same family, found his way here by chance, or following up some hint he discovered in one of the books he himself possessed. A long chance, this discovery—but it has taken centuries for this one lucky chance to occur. The books here, as I discovered, make it clear that this is the place where the rites must be performed to recall the gods. The books which have been handed down to Mr. Jonathan tell how these rites must be performed. The place…and the ritual: how many generations have passed away into the dust while men have struggled to bring those two essential things together? The dark gods have waited a long time for your arrival, Mr. Jonathan. They have waited for the day when their black record could be forgotten, and when the world was ready for their return—and now, here you are, claiming to be the Black Adept who is spiritually fitted to open the gate and welcome home your lords and masters.”

  “I’m not just claiming to be an adept,” said Jonathan. “I’ve worked it all out…no possibility of mistake. The way these things came into my hands, now—coincidence, you think? This is destiny. I’m descended from the original families, I’ve mixed with the secret societies, I know all that must be done—”

  “Are you sure? Are you positive you’ve got it all under control?”

  Frank persisted: “What about the White Adepts?”

  “That’s what’s worrying Mr. Jonathan,” Simon smiled. “He doesn’t know. Nobody ever knows. What about the White Adepts? That has always been the question. When Atlantis died, so many of them were drowned, but they had great powers, despite their inability to prevent the catastrophe, and it is inconceivable that they should have passed away entirely. At one time and another, when the Black Adepts have flourished and shown signs of becoming powerful once more, there have been signs that the White Adepts were not absent. They have been baffling. Time and again they have suddenly, inexplicably appeared and thwarted Black Adepts who thought themselves on the verge of great discoveries. At crucial moments there have been strange setbacks. There has been a continuous, unrelenting struggle for the books—but the White Ones have never been so obvious as their enemies. No one can trace the reason for their appearances and disappearances. They have been a disturbing, unknown factor. One can never tell when they will make their influence felt—can one, Mr. Jonathan?”

  Jonathan scowled.

  “It has always been the main obstacle,” Simon went
on. “They are elusive spirits, these White Adepts. So far they have not let their enemies outwit them—”

  “This time they’ll be too late,” sneered Jonathan.

  “Is it any good my warning you what a risk you’re running? Not only the chance of encountering the White Ones, but the fact that you may experience some—er, difficulty—with those you are hoping to call up. You claim to be an adept, but I refuse to believe it—”

  “I—”

  “You’re meddling with something far too great for your puny talents. Knowledge of the commonplace magic of earth will not help you to handle these beings who come through the gate. Have you any conception of what you might loose on the world? Do you imagine that what you have gleaned from the books that have, by a strange chance, come into your possession, will enable you to control these restless immortals who have waited so long? Think, man, before it’s too late.”

  Jonathan grinned back at him. “I’m confident enough. No doubts at all. The gate is open.”

  “Before you go any further with the rite, tell me what it entails. Tell me what you’re going to perform, so that—”

  “Do you really think I would? Not me, youngster. This is what I’ve been working up to for years…fulfilment, this is. You can’t spoil it, and I don’t care who you are. It’s too late this time. What I’ve started can’t be halted now.”

  “Nor can it be continued,” said Simon, “without an assistant.”

  Mrs. Morris leaned forward to poke the fire. Her attention had been wandering; she accepted the fact that they—and, indeed, the whole world, by the sound of it—were in danger, but she could not grasp the details, and found consolation in making short, angry jabs with the poker through the bars of the grate. The coals shuffled and flame licked up. A smell of pitch arose from one lump that was emitting a thin, violent jet of grey smoke.

  Jonathan said: “Yes, I need an assistant. You’d better make up your minds who it’s to be. Willing or unwilling—I don’t mind.”