Dark Seed

by Simon West-Bulford

  I decided it would be unwise to share these thoughts.

  “What should we do with the chaplain’s body?” Stromany asked. “We should not leave a holy man like that.”

  I thought about his tragic mutilation in the laboratory. The notion of gathering the body and then venturing outside to perform another burial was the furthest thing from my inclinations.

  “How did he die?” Beatrice asked quietly.

  Stromany and I said nothing, and I was grateful that Beatrice did not insist on an answer. Neither did Stromany repeat his question, and in the next few minutes of silence, I wanted nothing more than for that vision of Breswick’s corpse to be swept from my memory. It pains me to admit that I did not have the stomach to provide the man with the burial he deserved, but if there was anything that I learned from Breswick, it was to meet adversity with an equal measure of conviction and courage. I could not allow us to be overwhelmed with thoughts of defeat.

  “How are you holding up, Beatrice?” I said.

  She stared at me and said nothing.

  “We should not allow him, or any of the others, to have died for nothing,” I said. “We have the cans of petrol; we should use them.”

  “What’s the use?” said Beatrice. “We’re not going to get out of this alive.”

  I felt angry at that response. I wanted to agree, needed to wallow in self-pity, but I knew that I could not, and I did not see why Beatrice should be allowed this indulgence, even if her woes were deeper than mine.

  “Do you think Lucy would have said that?” I said. “That little girl witnessed the same atrocities as the ones we have seen here, and when I was weak, she pulled me through. She must have learned that from somewhere—was it from you, Beatrice? Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

  Beatrice eyed me with cold malice. “How dare you talk about her!”

  “You said you thought she might still be alive even when I believed it wasn’t so. Are you going to give up on her? Are you going to let those creatures win?”

  She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t.”

  “And you, George. You called yourself the strongman. Has the enemy sapped your strength already? Are you also going to admit defeat?”

  He raised his chin slightly. “I know what you are trying to do.”

  “Good, then you know I’m right. We can’t just sit here and wait to die. We have to go ahead with the plan.”

  “And then what?” said Beatrice. “We can’t fight those demons. We don’t have a chance.”

  “Why can’t we fight?” I said. “What do we gain by admitting defeat? If we just sit here, we’re going to die, but at least if we fight back we can face death with some dignity. Reverend Breswick would have expected nothing less. Please, Beatrice, we have to at least try.”

  She shook her head, and in my heart of hearts I felt the same futility. Worse still, I doubted that she had seen what I had seen. The village was gone. Utterly lost. It had been dragged from the earth into a realm of darkness from which I had not the slightest clue how we could escape. Even if—by some miracle—we were able to slay the hordes outside, we were still left without hope of return.

  I turned to Stromany. “George?”

  He chewed thoughtfully on his top lip, then offered me a single nod. “I will get the cans.”

  Moon Box Segment Translation 22

  Eat the burning, in death to rest

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  22nd September 1891

  This was supposed to be my last day here at the City of the Innominatum. With all zeal drained from me after Haynes’ confession and departure, I could no longer continue our investigation of the many ancient chambers. But that was before Joseph took the body from its casket. He wanted to examine the corpse before we left. One last examination. What he found in the casket opened up the floodgates of my passions once again, reinvigorating my determination to understand all that had happened in this strange city.

  What remarkable ingenuity! What diabolical imagination!

  It was a box, large enough to hold a human head, locked in a compartment underneath the lining of the casket, and when Joseph pulled it out I was immediately taken with it. The design on its surface is exquisite, the detail sublime. I have not lifted the lid yet. This most likely being our final discovery of significance before we leave this place, I want to relish the moment. I want to treasure each curve and line of the craftsmanship. At least, that is what I tell myself. There is a part of me that hears the voice of Haynes. If he were here, I know he would tell me to leave it be, and in my heart, I feel he may be correct.

  23

  Armed with jerry cans filled with fuel, a bottle of wine rigged as a makeshift grenade, two shovels, and a powerhouse of nervous energy, the three of us stepped out into the grounds. The pyres still burned fiercely, lighting our approach with flames that soared into the black sky, and the beasts stirred like tribal savages behind them. Beatrice watched them for increased signs of aggression while Stromany and I began digging a new hole.

  Even as we grunted with the effort of shifting the soil, it occurred to me that our plan would have more chance of succeeding if we were to try it on the stamen in the shrine. We would not be out in the open and it was far more likely that the organ was a sensitive part of the beast’s anatomy than the roots we were trying to uncover in the grounds. But the very thought of venturing into that area of the school was abhorrent. A hideous and foreboding presence infested the darkness of the cellar. We all felt it. It was as if the Innominatum had reached into our minds to find long-forgotten childhood terrors, stirring them at the cusp of recognition to prick the subconscious. We could not go down there. Dared not. I wondered if our minds were being toyed with and whether this was part of the same lulling manipulation that both Elizabeth and Breswick had experienced before they died. Beatrice had shown signs of this too, in the drawing room, and if I had been similarly afflicted, would I know it? But whatever the truth, we were here now, in the grounds, and we were committed to the plan.

  It did not take long to uncover a length of metallic root, and after emptying a can of petrol over the exposed segments, we placed the rest of the cans on top.

  “We’re ready,” I said. “How far can you throw that bottle accurately?”

  Stromany tested its weight in his hand. “Far enough.”

  Beatrice and I backed away toward the entrance of the school and opened the door, ready for a swift retreat. Stromany halted a few yards ahead of us and sized up the distance.

  “Ready, George?”

  He glanced at me and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then do it.”

  Stromany took several deep breaths, lit the cloth that we had stuffed into the neck of the bottle, drew back his arm, and launched the bottle at our target. At first I thought the flame was going to go out as it flew through the air, but it was still lit when it crashed into the jerry cans. We paused, our breath held as we waited for an explosion. There was a brief flare as the petrol on the spine ignited.

  “Get inside, quickly!” I shouted, and Stromany raced toward us.

  The creatures did nothing as the three of us rushed inside and slammed the door shut. Again we waited, desperately hoping to hear an explosion, but there was nothing audible.

  “Did it work?” Beatrice asked.

  We waited a few more seconds before Stromany tentatively opened the door. There was no explosion, but as the flames spread further, bright flashes told us the jerry cans were igniting one by one, and we watched, waiting to see how our enemy would react.

  “Is it enough?” Stromany asked.

  “I don’t know. Petrol can burn at around nine hundred degrees, but not all metal will melt at that temperature. Lead, tin, zinc should, but iron, nickel, some of the more robust metals . . . it’s doubtful. We don’t even know if that substance is metal. Unless we can—”

  “The demons are on the move,” said Beatrice, pointing.

  Se
veral shapes crawled out of the circumferential flames, and amongst the number came the Behemoth too, fearsome, vile, and considerably larger than its counterparts. We stood aghast, watching as it took the lead toward the disturbance. Backlit by the inferno, reared up on two powerful legs, its silhouette stood more than twenty feet high. Its great, heavy claws gouged deeply into the mud as it advanced, and as if it was uncomfortable with its bipedal stance, it stretched out its forelimbs and dropped to all fours. Though significantly larger, it had the appearance of a hornless rhinoceros wreathed with bands of milky-white muscle and shining coppery bone. I was scarcely able to speak as I watched it close in.

  It did not hurry, and when it reached the hole we had dug, it examined our handiwork. Some of its fellow beasts gathered around the damaged area, seemingly curious as they circled the flames, but the Behemoth stood stock-still, now observing us instead. I sensed that it had a greater intelligence than the others. The rippling heat and fiery light illuminated its countenance in devilish grandeur—ebony eyes full of hate, two vertical slits where the nose should be, and a grinning maw wide with teeth like rusty daggers, all framed by a charred layer of bone. The thing had no skin.

  As more of them closed in on the root, the howl with which we had become so familiar roared out its instruction, and the smaller beasts fell thrashing upon the flames, shrieking and roaring in an effort to extinguish them. Though I knew the beasts were immune to the heat, I was reminded of soldiers throwing themselves upon grenades in sacrifice. The Behemoth did not seem inclined to do the same. It appeared to be enraged by the howl and, in defiance, snatched at its kin like an elephant scattering jackals. It tossed them away from the fire, beating and crushing them as they fought to obey the siren call.

  Mesmerized, we held our hands to our ears as the carnage continued. Eventually the fire was extinguished, leaving only wispy fumes drifting in clouds around them. The surviving beasts loped back to the others waiting in the pyres, but the Behemoth lingered for several moments; it examined the root before lifting its head to observe us again. It tilted its neck like a dog trying to understand a command from its master, then returned slowly to its own pyre. Ruined husks of beasts killed by the Behemoth were all that remained around the root.

  Old Man Tarky was right. The Behemoth was opposed to the Innominatum. But why was it opposed? And was the enemy of our enemy truly our friend? Or was it simply an additional foe?

  “What do you think is going on?” Stromany said.

  “I think that howl means that Hargraven’s nemesis—the Innominatum—wanted to put our fire out, but the Behemoth was resisting. I think they’re all slaves to that thing in the shrine; it certainly seems to have some sort of influence over all of them, but I think some are better at resisting than others.”

  “Why are they fighting each other?” Beatrice asked.

  “I can’t say,” I said. “But that howl has been keeping those creatures away from us from the very start, perhaps before we even reached the school. For some reason, it seems to want us alive, but obviously its offspring doesn’t.” I peered out at the smoldering fumes from the root. “I think we should risk checking to see if we did any damage.”

  My companions agreed, and we tentatively made our way back to the root, ready to sprint back to the school if necessary. The beasts seemed disinclined to approach, and the Behemoth had gone.

  Waving aside the smoky clouds, I peered into the hole and felt a sudden sense of exaltation at our efforts. The root was not wholly destroyed, but much of the metallic substance had withered into a crispy transparent film revealing fleshy, pink innards. It looked like a raw wound, and I could see pulsing red veins within.

  “Hand me the shovel,” I told Stromany. “Beatrice, watch the beasts.”

  Stromany obliged, and after a quick glance at the hordes gathered behind the flames, I jabbed the sharp end of the shovel into the meat. The reaction was subtle, but upon penetration, the pulsing stopped momentarily and the flesh quivered. I pushed harder, cutting deep, and coppery fluid oozed out into the dirt.

  “I don’t think they liked that,” said Beatrice.

  I looked up and saw several of the creatures stop their movement to focus more intently on our activity.

  “We have a better target than this,” I said. “We should get back inside.”

  “You mean the thing in the wine cellar?” Stromany asked. “In Hargraven’s shrine?” I heard the tremor in his question and knew he was feeling the same as I. He desperately did not want to venture there.

  “Yes. I realize the last thing any of us wants to do is go down into that cellar, but I think the Innominatum is manipulating us. I think it’s vulnerable down there,” I said.

  “Even if you are right, is that wise?” said Stromany. “The noise it makes has been protecting us. If we stop it, the other demons will be free to kill us.”

  Stromany raised a good point, and even if the creatures didn’t take advantage of the situation, I could still not conceive of an escape from the grounds or the village, or from the darkness beyond. And what troubled me further was that I still could not fathom why the very creature that had spawned these beasts would be intent on protecting us.

  With a sigh, I nodded my agreement, though I still wondered if my fear of the cellar was influencing my decision. Then another thought came to me.

  “I know that neither of you is in favor of opening the Moon Box, but I urge you to reconsider. We need alternatives, and the box is our best hope for new information.”

  Stromany opened his mouth, I think to protest, but he said nothing.

  “We should get back inside,” Beatrice said, sounding confused. “I thought”—she squinted at Hargraven Manor—“I thought I heard my Lucy.”

  Moon Box Segment Translation 23

  Take forth the heat of slow fire

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  23rd September 1891

  We have called it the Moon Box. Joseph took a sample of the dark ink that was used to etch the tiny figures marked out on its surface, and he tells me it is blood. I have studied the markings for hours now and wonder if they have a connection to the vast fossilized plant that overtook the chamber. The design certainly follows a similar theme—roots and branches swirling in chaotic patterns on every side—but instead of leaves or fruit sprouting from its tips, there are beasts. Unholy-looking things festooned with tusk and claw, tentacle and hoof. I can think of no place that has creatures comparable to these.

  At the center of the lid is a single half-closed eye that makes me cold when I stare too long at it. It reminds me of the eye that was inscribed on the forehead of the corpse with which we found the box.

  Again, I have put off the moment when I lift the lid, writing this diary entry instead, but I shall delay no longer.

  24

  Before returning to the school, we risked a trip to the generator. With ten jerry cans remaining, I estimated there was sufficient fuel available to power the entire school for almost five full days if we needed to. But we would switch it on only as a last resort; the resulting noise might antagonize the beasts. We took two cans back to the school with us in case we agreed to face our fears and attempt to incinerate the stamen in the shrine.

  Despite our relief to be back in the relative calm of the drawing room, the bloody stains of carnage within Hargraven Manor reminded us once again that safety was by no means certain within the walls of the school, and we retrieved the Moon Box and set it upon the table with solemn disposition. We gathered around it much like nervous recipients of a last will and testament, and for all I knew, that was all it contained. I leaned over it, studying the carvings on its lid.

  The style of craftsmanship was unfamiliar. I was no expert in ancient civilizations, but I was educated to a standard that informed me I would not be alone in my ignorance, even within the academic establishments that claimed enlightenment of such things. I remembered when Hargraven first revealed the Moon Box to me and how I marv
eled at the skill required to carve such beautiful and miniscule patterns in the wood. I had not considered that the detail was anything more than intricate decoration, but even in the dim candlelight, I began to recognize the carvings as tiny pictograms.

  “Where do you suppose Hargraven might keep a magnifying glass?” I asked the others.

  I knew that Hargraven would most likely have one in the laboratory, but Beatrice immediately began to search the cabinets in the drawing room and was fortunate enough to find a drawer containing a collection of technical instruments. Among them was a small eyeglass.

  “Will this do?” she said.

  “Perfect.” I took it and began examining the lid while Stromany held a lamp over it.

  The imagery decorating the box was extraordinary in detail, so small as to make me question how human hands could have carved it with such precision. It was a network of vines sprouting buds that bore not fruit but all manner of living things ranging from what was recognizably a human, to forms of life that confounded reason: multi-limbed beasts sporting horns, wings, teeth, tendrils, mysterious organs, and other appendages I could not identify. All the creatures were in various positions of what could be worship or submission. The object of their obeisance was at the center—a single eye with a sleepy eyelid—the same as the eye engraved on the door in the cellar, and the same piercing vortex I saw in the abyss beyond the outskirts of the village. It evoked a cold sense of dread to behold it.

  The whole picture seemed to me some sort of evolutionary tree of life depicting a line of beasts hitherto undiscovered, except of course for the human form. Setting the eyeglass aside, I moved on to examine the mechanics of the box. It was secured by four metal brackets on each side. Slowly, I unclipped them and carefully lifted the lid, setting it beside the box. Inside was a grid of compartments, six wide by six long, except for what would have been the central four, which was a single, larger aperture lined with green felt. In the central compartment was a capped wooden tube. The rest of the squares in the grid were topped with brass caps, and I knew from Hargraven’s description that beneath each brass cap was a cigarette-sized cylinder that held a rolled-up sheet of paper. There were thirty-two of these containers in total, each of them sealed, supposedly designed to be opened only on the appropriate date. How this level of security was achieved escaped my understanding.