CHAPTER 8: THE HORROR FROM THE BLIZZARD.
"So that's what happened?" Chancellor Roberts said at last. "I wondered if it would be...," he lowered his voice and whispered, "B’gnu-Thun, the Soul-Chilling Ice-God that was written about in the Pnakotic Manuscripts?"
Professor Bamford looked up. Although he was no expert; that name didn't sound like anything coming from Inuktun, the language spoken around Labrador or the west coast of Greenland, or Yupik Innu from Alaska.
"B’gnu-Thun?" Bamford queried. "Who or what is B'gnu-Thun?"
"Working here, you must be aware of the legends, Andrew. How the Great Old Ones lived aeons before there were any people before coming to the young Earth from beyond the stars. These Great Old Ones are vanished now – deep inside the earth and under the sea; but their undead bodies told their secrets in dreams to the first men. Some of these men formed cults which have never died waiting for the time when the Great Old Ones will rise again and bring the Earth again beneath their rule."
"Yes, I've heard of these rumours but never gave them much credence. Anyway, before we do anything, Chancellor, shall we get young Jack to the infirmary?"
Chancellor Roberts nodded abstractedly, his mind elsewhere. "Yes, yes, of course." He picked up the desk phone and asked the switchboard to put him through to Dr. Waldron. Professor Bamford heard the Chancellor murmur something about a collapse; yes young Jack Tarleton.
A few minutes later, two white-clad medical students arrived with a stretcher. A quick examination showed that Tarleton was comatose but breathing easily and without any obvious injuries so the two medics carried him away.
"Thank you," said Chancellor Roberts politely to their backs as he closed the door behind them.
"Do we still have the statue that was brought back?" Professor Bamford asked, taking a sip of his drink.
"I should think so, Andrew," Chancellor Roberts said. "That object was the only thing of value brought back from that debacle."
"You know, I never saw any scientific papers written on it? Not even in our own in-house university publication," Professor Bamford commented.
"No. It's not been... comprehensively evaluated yet," Chancellor Roberts said.
Professor Bamford looked at his friend and colleague. "Not even after three years?"
"These things need time," Chancellor Roberts said, evasively.
"Would it be possible to see it?" Professor Bamford asked.
Taking his time, Chancellor Roberts poured out two more glasses of bourbon. "Soda?" he asked.
Professor Bamford shook his head. "You should know by now I don't take soda water. Why don't we take a look at this statue."
"If you insist, Andrew. But I must warn you, it is quite shocking."
Professor Bamford sipped his bourbon. "I'm a grown man, Chancellor. I think I can cope with looking at a sculpture. Even those Dadaist ones from Europe that they call modern art," he laughed.
Chancellor Roberts rang a bell and one of his undergraduates knocked. Professor Bamford recognised him as a man having an interest in occult matters. The Chancellor scribbled on a piece of notepaper, signed it before folding it and sealing it inside an envelope. "Take this to Dr. Armitage with my compliments and ask him to release this exhibit to my custody. It will be for only a few hours."
The man nodded and left. Chancellor Roberts turned the conversation onto other subjects – the political instability in Europe and Russia and then onto the chess club's prospects. It was hard going as both men's minds were on that strange sculpture. Eventually, the young man returned carrying a small padlocked wooden crate. He gently set it down.
"Here you are, sir." He fished a key from his pocket and laid it down on the crate. It gleamed yellow in the afternoon sunlight. "Will that be all?"
"Yes, Herbert, thank you."
The young man left but he looked disappointed not to be invited to stay for the box's opening.
"Are you sure?" Chancellor Roberts asked, waiting for his friend's nod. He crossed to the box, unlocked it and then opened the lid. He rummaged through the protective spills of paper, pulled out an oil cloth and unwrapped it.
Even though he was expecting something ugly, something eldritch and frightening, Professor Bamford stepped back from that hideous jade idol of an emaciated humanoid with its over-large, starving eyes that seemed to stare right through him. Its workmanship was definitely not of Inuit origin and it gave off an impression of extreme age.
"I..., I..., I hadn't expected that, Chancellor. It's quite horrible. And this is the only thing of value that was brought back from Baffin Island?"
"Yes. Apart from a few papers and rock samples, of course."
"It's a shame that abomination was brought back to civilisation," Professor Bamford said slowly. To put some space between him and that image, he crossed over to the window and looked out over the quadrangle. The October light had faded and the sky was covered by thick cumulonimbus. The clouds blocked the sunlight and the temperature was dropping. Those few students still out hurried along the paths.
"Looks like we're due an early snowfall, Chancellor," Professor Bamford mused. "Most unusual. It was so warm earlier in the day."
The Chancellor looked up from repacking the statue. "Unusual, yes. But it will be November tomorrow. Now, when I was a boy, we had some really severe winters. The late fall of 1866 will live long in my memory. We went tobogganing down Hangman's Hill. I fell off and cracked my head against a tree stump. My mother was furious..."
Professor Bamford nodded and said 'yes' or 'no' as appropriate. He looked out of the window as the first flakes sprinkled down. They were already sticking to the lawns and the slate roofs opposite. The slate was the same colour as the low-lying clouds. Professor Bamford shivered. He thought it might be best to take his students essays home with him rather than marking them here.
* * *
Night fell early. The campus fell silent, blanketed under the still falling snow. White fell on white. Snowflakes poured down from the sky and the oldest residents of Arkham compared it with the winter of 1866 which was exceptionally long and cold and the very oldest talked about what they had heard from their grandparents of the winter of 1814.
And still the snow fell, heavily and unceasingly.
The Horror From The Blizzard Page 13