The Dark Yule

by R. M. Callahan

  We’ve really done it this time! he whispered back to his taller friend, grasping the book tightly in both hands. I noticed, however, that he made no move to open it. The tall photographer took it back, with some impatience, and spread it out upon a nearby table, where he turned the thin, brittle pages with extraordinary care.

  The man returned at this moment, from a dark passageway that, presumably, led to the house’s interior. He held a candle in a brass dish, which he immediately blew out upon his return, and placed on the mantelpiece. The photographers both assumed guilty expressions; they might have been schoolboys caught filching candy bars. Yet the old man appeared to take no offense at their perusal of the ancient book. He merely wrote something upon his wax tablet, and showed it to them both.

  Of course, said the tall occultist at once, clearly relieved they were not being taken to task. Allow me to explain. We are devotees of the occult, and—

  And big fans, broke in the shorter one, of … And here followed a string of sounds I couldn’t understand—a name, presumably.

  We’ve studied all of his artistic works, the tall one continued, as well as his letters and other materials. He now produced a sheaf of old-looking papers, which the old man took. He gave them only a cursory examination before writing something else with his stylus.

  Yes, indeed, the tall one affirmed eagerly. He was a most accomplished member of your family.

  But his time at Arkham Asylum was what interested us most, his friend interjected once more. We’ve studied the case records, and read his account of the Dark Yule. We tried to replicate…

  Tried to improve upon, in fact, said the tall one proudly.

  Right, tried to improve upon, and, um, follow his footsteps, to come to ancient Kingsport, and…The round one paused to take a breath, and wrung his hands together in an oddly childlike fashion. To most humbly partake in the great Yuletide rituals of old.

  It is true, the tall one picked up the thread, that we are not your illustrious kin. However, we are devotees of the Great Old Ones, and—

  Here the old man made a violent gesture, cutting him off, and wrote something most emphatically upon the wax tablet. And it was at this point that I noticed something odd.

  “The old man’s wearing a mask,” I whispered to Dot, who sat just behind me, and could not see. “It’s quite a good mask, but that’s not his real face, or I’ll eat my litter box.”

  “I’d like to see that,” replied Dot dryly.

  “What’s behind the mask?” Cinnamon wanted to know.

  “How should I know? That’s the point of a mask!” I would have growled with irritation had we not needed to remain quiet. Sometimes Cinnamon seemed so promising—usually just before she said or did something particularly dim.

  Upon addressing her, however, I finally got a decent look at her mouth.

  “Is that the key?” I demanded. “The talisman, I mean?”

  “Yes,” she said. The dark lump of foul-smelling iron was, indeed, clenched between her jaws. I could just see its uneven, crusty ends poking out between her black lips on either side. “And it tastes awful,” she told me. “So you’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I said, somewhat hesitantly. “That was…very clever.”

  I’d just resigned myself to never deciphering Cinnamon’s odd character, when the scene changed. The clock chimed, causing all four of us to startle. When the last vibrations faded, and I dared peer again at the room, the old man and woman were donning full-length, hooded black cloaks. I was afforded only a brief glance at the old woman’s face, as she shakily lifted her cowl over her head, but that was enough to convince me that she, too, wore a cleverly-made, highly realistic mask.

  It was evident that, while I’d been conversing with my fellow cats, the humans had achieved some sort of accord. The old man reached into a carved chest in the corner, and lifted out two more black cloaks, which he handed to his eager visitors from the future. They cast the cloaks over themselves hastily, yanking the folds in a clumsy fashion that demonstrated how unaccustomed they were to such garments.

  As they struggled, the old man ushered the old woman toward the door. To exit, they had to pass close by the bench, closer than they’d come before. As soon as they did, I jerked my head back, nose scrunched, and licked my lips in distaste. It was they who were the source of the strange, foul smell of decay. I glanced at Dot, who stared at me wide-eyed, her own nose equally scrunched.

  “They’re not human,” I said very quietly.

  “Not anymore,” she agreed, licking her paw and passing it repeatedly over her nose.

  By the time our two modern occultists were properly arrayed, only the old man waited by the door. He was carrying a book under his arm—the same book, I believe, the tall occultist had been so eager to read. The old man picked a lit lantern off the table, and beckoned the two newcomers to follow him.

  “Come on, then!” said Libby, as soon as the door closed. He was the first out the window, but the rest of us were close behind. My paws had just touched the snow (though they still left no mark—I checked) as the old man’s swaying lantern rounded the corner.

  “We’d better not lose sight of them,” I said, moving purposefully down the street.

  “Spice,” said Dot behind me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Look at the windows.”

  At first I was confused, and looked to the window behind us, the slightly open one we’d just exited. Then I caught sight of Dot, her head tilted far back, her eyes fixed upon the overhanging upper stories of the close-built houses. I followed her gaze, and realized that the previously lit windows were now all dark.

  “Hmm,” I said. I slipped to the corner, and poked my head around. I could see the little hooded and cloaked procession moving up the street, toward the center of town; they were well-lit by the lantern the masked man carried. But as they passed each house, one by one, the lights in the upper stories were extinguished. In that fashion, they carried darkness with them all the way up the road, until the only glow left was their single candle, burning in its glass cage. Yet once the windows were black, it was possible to see other bobbing, flickering lights in the distance, winding their way through Kingsport’s many paths.

  “Well. This is odd,” I said.

  “What about this isn’t?” Libby complained, moving up beside me. His bat-like ears swiveled forward, then back. “And still no sound. Except for Neil and Rob, of course. Those two just can’t shut up, can they?”

  “Which one is Neil, and which one is Rob?” I wanted to know.

  “Does it matter?” Libby said in a sniffy way, and quick-trotted past me. I was beginning to see he’d taken the presence of two occultists in his house rather personally. I suppose I would have felt the same.

  To myself I resolved to call the tall one Rob, and the short one Neil. If I was wrong, who was to know?

  “What do we do?” Cinnamon was asking, as I pursued that somewhat trivial line of thought.

  “Follow them,” said Dot at once. “They’re the only ones who know how to get out of here.”

  “And we can finally figure out what they’re doing!” Cinnamon was hopeful.

  “Maybe they’re having a tea party,” I suggested.

  Dot glared at me. “Why do you always feel frivolous at the worst moments, Spice?”

  I frisked my tail and leapt after the photographers, racing down unmarked snow that glittered in the faint light of the stars. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and the snow smelled fresh after the stench of that room. My tail was fully puffed and quirked from side to side with a mind of its own.

  “Fey,” I admitted, forcing myself to slow to a mere trot. “Feeling fey, Spice. This is not a good sign.” Yet all the wise words couldn’t keep my blood from surging, making my ears ring.

  Was this an oracular sensation, predicting my imminent demise? I’d reacted to the vague sense of oncoming death in this fashion before. Or was it just the relief of finally approaching the trut
h of the Dark Yule, after long days of worry and speculation?

  “You’ve lost your mind,” Libby declared, breathing heavily, as he and the others caught up with me.

  “The lights are still going out,” Dot observed. Indeed, the cloaked foursome were about a block ahead, and we could watch the windows blacken as they passed.

  “Look,” said Cinnamon, but we’d all already seen several doors open. More robed and cowled figures stepped silently from their darkened houses, to join the lantern-lit procession. People didn’t emerge from every house—but they came from quite a few. Judging by the distant lights I could see twinkling their way up the hill, many others around town were doing the same.

  “They’re headed toward the old church,” said Dot, who apparently could navigate even centuries-earlier version of Kingsport with complete ease. “At the top of Central Hill.”

  We followed, with a caution that began to seem unnecessary. We left no tracks, and neither did they. We made no sound, and neither did they. But their numbers grew and grew as they proceeded through the winding streets of Kingsport—always uphill, always toward the center. In the end, all the lights of the town were extinguished, and only the bobbing, swaying, flaring lanterns cast their wild light upon the faceless figures that lifted them. We could only assume the two modern occultists remained within the crowd, walking beside that old man in his curiously life-like mask.

  The church was a black, spired shadow at the top of steep Central Hill. As the lanterns approached, they manufactured an artificial dawn: the white stone of the church was gradually lit from below, and slowly took on the golden tones of the approaching flames. It was a strange and beautiful sight, and even in our predicament, I was glad to watch it.

  Slowly, the church’s great red doors opened, and the cowled masses streamed in, taking their light with them, and leaving us with only the stars. Fortunately the doors were left standing wide, and none looked behind them as they passed between dark, worm-gnawed wooden pews. It was easy for us to slip inside the cold stone church, and to take a more circuitous route through the benches, always keeping the cloaks and lanterns in view. These formed a queue, and shuffled slowly toward the altar; the line grew shorter and shorter, but I couldn’t see where they were going. At last, by putting my paws upon the back of a pew and peering over its top, I could perceive the enormous trap-doors that gaped just before the pulpit, and how the silent crowd descended through this subterranean entrance.

  I huddled back down, and reported the proceedings to my fellow cats.

  “Where does it lead?” Libby wanted to know.

  “The crypt,” said Cinnamon, sounding oddly sure. I saw Dot cast her a sideways glance.

  The last lantern swayed and flickered down into the dark hole of the trap-doors. Like the red doors at the front of the church, the crowd did not bother to close these, but left them thrown wide open. Evidently, they felt no fear of discovery.

  “Maybe we should wait here,” Dot muttered, when they were gone. “They have to come back up sometime.”

  It was Cinnamon who demurred. “There are tunnels down there,” she said. “Miles of them. They may not come back this way at all.” She stalked forward, with her customary long-legged grace, to inspect the opening. “We’d better follow,” she said, and commenced her descent without hesitation.

  “How does she know?” Libby asked, but neither Dot nor I had answers—and at any rate, Cinnamon made a compelling case. Not to be outdone by the Savannah, I bounded over to the entrance, whereupon I promptly sneezed (quietly). That old reek of unknown decay was back, stronger than ever. Yet it didn’t come from the trapdoors’ old wooden stairwell, which, though it creaked beneath my testing paw, seemed quite sturdy enough.

  “Come on,” I told them, and followed after Cinnamon, ensuring that I kept to the side of the staircase, where there tended to be fewer squeaky sections.

  The staircase was short, but we cats had fallen well behind the human procession. By the time we’d regrouped at the bottom of the stairs, only a few lights bobbed ahead. Judging by the lanterns’ downward trajectory, and their sudden disappearance at floor level, the masses were once again descending through some sort of trapdoor. So where in the hell were they going now? How deep, exactly, did they intend to go?

  Though the stone crypt was the warmest location we’d visited so far—including that comfortless, cheerless home—it was also full of that puzzling stench of rot. Even with my pupils blown wide to accommodate the lack of light, I could still only vaguely glimpse a few alcoves along each wall, and what might have been an altar at the far end of the low-ceilinged room. Meanwhile, the glow emitted by the departing lanterns dimmed with alarming rapidity, as the cloaked ones moved even further into the bowels of the Earth. Therefore, we didn’t linger, but skulked rapidly in the direction of the last gleam of candlelight. In those faint rays we discovered a secret door in the crypt’s floor, which opened upon a steep, airless spiral staircase.

  Judging by the low-hanging tails and hunched shoulders of my friends, it was a path none of us wished to pursue. So why did my paw find the first stair, and then the second, and the third? Why did I find myself slinking downward in that dizzying spiral, hunting the fading glow cast by that sinister, silent parade? I meditated upon my own foolishness as I went—but I went.

  Down, down we creeped, always so far behind we could glimpse only a vague glow ahead, as weak as the first hint of sunrise—which hour was, in my considered opinion, altogether too distant. Where were we going? And for what purpose? My fey mood had quite died away. I recalled again how much I enjoyed living. And Morwen had just resumed her practice—and there was another baby on the way! It was a terrible time to die, I admitted to myself, no matter what brave face a feline might put on it. It would be tragically inconvenient to be slaughtered here, particularly if I didn’t at least uncover the mystery first.

  Dot apparently entertained similar thoughts. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she muttered. I glanced behind me and saw that, while she padded bravely on, all of her shaggy white fur stood well on end. In her fear, she resembled a squashed-face little white puffball. Not wishing to discourage her, I decided not to mention it.

  “But satisfaction brought him back,” said Libby, supplying the second, lesser-known half of the saying. He leapt down a few stairs to walk beside me, and I rubbed against him in a friendly way, proud of his bravery. He was shaking from head to toe, of course, but each trembling paw still found its way on the stairs. I wondered if he, too, thought of his humans at a time like this. More likely (being a tom), he was imagining the many, many litters he had yet to father.

  We soon discovered that Cinnamon had been correct about the extent of the tunnels. Side passages began to open up, long arched hallways leading from the endless staircase into who knew what black depths beyond. The first few were empty, or so I thought, until I (cursing my inattention) resolved to study the next one to See That Which Cannot Be Seen.

  Another arched entrance appeared on our left, and I boldly poked my head within—only to immediately confront a gleaming pair of yellow eyes! A nasty little face thrust itself toward me, barely visible in the stairwell’s darkness, and chittered in a language I could not understand. I stood my ground, hissing viciously at the creature, until it slashed at my nose with its terrifying paw; then I fled, descending several turns of the staircase in a few lengthy, heart-stopping leaps. The increasing brightness forced me to halt, lest I collide with the cloaked ones, and there I waited, trembling, for the slightly-less-hasty descent of my friends.

  “What happened?” Cinnamon wanted to know, her pupils grown enormous with curiosity.

  “It was a thing!” I said, very coherently. “A thing! With a face!”

  “What thing? What face?” Libby demanded, the hair on his spine rising with every word. “Should we run? Will it eat us?!”

  “No. No.” With an effort I sat, and forced myself to groom my shaking paw, somewhat quelling my own panic. “It wasn’t ve
ry big. We’re fine. Just…just don’t go near those side-tunnels.”

  Before Libby could further pelt me with questions, I got to my feet and continued on, though I kept much closer to the center of the stairwell than before. I had no desire to describe the thing I’d seen, which though the size of a rat, and furred like one, possessed an uncannily human face—and a paw that was too clearly a five-fingered hand.

  So preoccupied was I with the morbid memory of that unnatural thing, I nearly missed an important development: the staircase had, at long last, ended. Three steps more, and we would be standing on a stone floor—though that was all I could tell, peering around the sharp curve of the stairwell. What was more, the light had increased. At first I believed we’d veered too close to the procession; upon second inspection, it was evident that the source light was not the golden lanterns that we’d been following. The radiance ahead was distinctly green.

  With care I edged further down the stairwell, though trying to stay well within its shadow. Now I could perceive that our journey had ended in a vast, natural stone cavern. The green light was coming from my far left, and the cloaked citizens of old Kingsport had gathered there; from this vantage point at the base of the stairwell, only a few at the back were within my view.

  As for the rest of the cave, something queer covered its floor. For a baffled moment, I believed it was soft, white snow. Then I got a good whiff, and realized it was not snow, but a fluffy, hairy fungus of some sort, growing thickly on the eternally wet surface of the stone. There was more fungal matter on the walls and on the many stalactites, green in color and faintly luminescent; it hung in thick clumps like seaweed, or mistletoe. The flora all stank a great deal, yet neither fungus emitted the earthy stench that accompanied the cowled procession.