This Way to the End Times: Classic Tales of the Apocalypse

by Robert Silverberg

He faced her in surprise. “What are you saying?”

  “That horrible thing in there—”

  “It is but the diseased effort of an elder artist.”

  “It lives.”

  “How is this!”

  “It lives!” she babbled. “It looked at me, then turned and looked at you. And it moved—and then I pulled you away . . .”

  Guyal shrugged off her hand; in stark disbelief he faced through the doorway.

  “Ahhhh . . .” breathed Guyal.

  The face had changed. The torpor had evaporated; the glaze had departed the eyes. The mouth squirmed; a hiss of escaping gas sounded. The mouth opened; a great gray tongue lolled forth. And from this tongue darted a tendril slimed with mucus. It terminated in a grasping hand, which groped for Guyal’s ankle. He jumped aside; the hand missed its clutch, the tendril coiled.

  Guyal, in an extremity, with his bowels clenched by sick fear, sprang back into the gallery. The hand seized Shierl, grasped her ankle. The eyes glistened; and now the flabby tongue swelled another wen, sprouted a new member. . . . Shierl stumbled, fell limp, her eyes staring, foam at her lips. Guyal, shouting in a voice he could not hear, shouting high and crazy, ran forward slashing with his dagger. He cut at the gray wrist, but his knife sprang away as if the steel itself were horrified. His gorge at his teeth, he seized the tendril; with a mighty effort he broke it against his knee.

  The face winced, the tendril jerked back. Guyal leapt forward, dragged Shierl into the gallery, lifted her, carried her back, out of reach.

  Through the doorway now, Guyal glared in hate and fear. The mouth had closed; it sneered disappointment and frustrated lust. And now Guyal saw a strange thing: from the dank nostril oozed a wisp of white which swirled, writhed, formed a tall thing in a white robe—a thing with a drawn face and eyes like holes in a skull. Whimpering and mewing in distaste for the light, it wavered forward into the gallery, moving with curious little pauses and hesitancies.

  Guyal stood still. Fear had exceeded its power; fear no longer had meaning. A brain could react only to the maximum of its intensity; how could this thing harm him now? He would smash it with his hands, beat it into sighing fog.

  “Hold, hold, hold!” came a new voice. “Hold, hold, hold. My charms and tokens, an ill day for Thorsingol. . . . But then, avaunt, you ghost, back to the orifice, back and avaunt, avaunt, I say! Go, else I loose the actinics; trespass is not allowed, by supreme command from the Lycurgat; aye, the Lycurgat of Thorsingol. Avaunt, so then.”

  The ghost wavered, paused, staring in fell passivity at the old man who had hobbled into the gallery.

  Back to the snoring face wandered the ghost, and let itself be sucked up into the nostril.

  The face rumbled behind its lips, then opened the great gray gape and belched a white fiery lick that was like flame but not flame. It sheeted, flapped at the old man, who moved not an inch. From a rod fixed high on the door frame came a whirling disk of golden sparks. It cut and dismembered the white sheet, destroyed it back to the mouth of the face, whence now issued a black bar. This bar edged into the whirling disk and absorbed the sparks. There was an instant of dead silence.

  Then the old man crowed, “Ah, you evil episode; you seek to interrupt my tenure. But no, there is no validity in your purpose; my clever baton holds your unnatural sorcery in abeyance; you are as naught; why do you not disengage and retreat into Jeldred?”

  The rumble behind the large lips continued. The mouth opened wide: a gray viscous cavern was so displayed. The eyes glittered in titanic emotion. The mouth yelled, a roaring wave of violence, a sound to buffet the head and drive shock like a nail into the mind.

  The baton sprayed a mist of silver. The sound curved and centralized and sucked into the metal fog; the sound was captured and consumed; it was never heard. The fog balled, lengthened to an arrow, plunged with intense speed at the nose, and buried itself in the pulp. There was a heavy sound, an explosion; the face seethed in pain and the nose was a blasted clutter of shredded gray plasms. They waved like starfish arms and grew together once more, and now the nose was pointed like a cone.

  The old man said, “You are captious today, my demoniac visitant—a vicious trait. You would disturb poor old Kerlin in his duties? So. You are ingenuous and neglectful. So ho. Baton,” and he turned and peered at the rod, “you have tasted that sound? Spew out a fitting penalty, smear the odious face with your infallible retort.”

  A flat sound, a black flail which curled, slapped the air and smote home to the face. A glowing weal sprang into being. The face sighed and the eyes twisted up into their folds of greenish tissue.

  Kerlin the Curator laughed, a shrill yammer on a single tone. He stopped short and the laugh vanished as if it had never begun. He turned to Guyal and Shierl, who stood pressed together in the door frame.

  “How now, how now? You are after the gong; the study hours are long ended. Why do you linger?” He shook a stern finger. “The Museum is not the site for roguery; this I admonish. So now be off, home to Thorsingol; be more prompt the next time; you disturb the established order. . . .” He paused and threw a fretful glance over his shoulder. “The day has gone ill; the Nocturnal Key-keeper is inexcusably late. . . . Surely I have waited an hour on the sluggard; the Lycurgat shall be so informed. I would be home to couch and hearth; here is ill use for old Kerlin, thus to detain him for the careless retard of the night-watch. . . . And, further, the encroachment of you two laggards; away now, and be off; out into the twilight!” And he advanced, making directive motions with his hands.

  Guyal said, “My lord Curator, I must speak words with you.”

  The old man halted, peered. “Eh? What now? At the end of a long day’s effort? No, no, you are out of order; regulation must be observed. Attend my audiarium at the fourth circuit tomorrow morning; then we shall hear you. So go now, go.”

  Guyal fell back nonplussed. Shierl fell on her knees. “Sir Curator, we beg you for help; we have no place to go.”

  Kerlin the Curator looked at her blankly. “No place to go! What folly you utter! Go to your domicile, or to the Pubescentarium, or to the Temple, or to the Outward Inn. Forsooth, Thorsingol is free with lodging; the Museum is no casual tavern.”

  “My lord,” cried Guyal desperately, “will you hear me? We speak from emergency.”

  “Say on then.”

  “Some malignancy has bewitched your brain. Will you credit this?”

  “Ah, indeed?” ruminated the Curator.

  “There is no Thorsingol. There is naught but dark waste. Your city is an eon gone.”

  The Curator smiled benevolently. “Ah, sad. . . . A sad case. So it is with these younger minds. The frantic drive of life is the Prime Unhinger.” He shook his head. “My duty is clear. Tired bones, you must wait your well-deserved rest. Fatigue—begone; duty and simple humanity make demands; here is madness to be countered and cleared. And in any event the Nocturnal Key-keeper is not here to relieve me of my tedium.” He beckoned. “Come.”

  Hesitantly Guyal and Shierl followed him. He opened one of his doors, passed through muttering and expostulating with doubt and watchfulness. Guyal and Shierl came after.

  The room was cubical, floored with dull black stuff, walled with myriad golden knobs on all sides. A hooded chair occupied the center of the room, and beside it was a chest-high lectern whose face displayed a number of toggles and knurled wheels.

  “This is the Curator’s own Chair of Knowledge,” explained Kerlin. “As such it will, upon proper adjustment, impose the Pattern of Hynomeneural Clarity. So—I demand the correct sometsyndic arrangement—” he manipulated the manuals “—and now, if you will compose yourself, I will repair your hallucination. It is beyond my normal call of duty, but I am humane and would not be spoken of as mean or unwilling.”

  Guyal inquired anxiously, “Lord Curator, this Chair of Clarity, how will it affect me?”

  Kerlin the Curator said grandly, “The fibers of your brain are twisted, snarled, frayed, and s
o make contact with unintentional areas. By the marvellous craft of our modern cere-brologists, this hood will compose your synapses with the correct readings from the library—those of normality, you must understand—and so repair the skein, and make you once more a whole man.”

  “Once I sit in the chair,” Guyal inquired, “what will you do?”

  “Merely close this contact, engage this arm, throw in this toggle—then you daze. In thirty seconds, this bulb glows, signaling the success and completion of the treatment. Then I reverse the manipulation, and you arise a creature of renewed sanity.”

  Guyal looked at Shierl. “Did you hear and comprehend?”

  “Yes, Guyal,” in a small voice.

  “Remember.” Then to the Curator: “Marvellous. But how must I sit?”

  “Merely relax in the seat. Then I pull the hood slightly forward, to shield the eyes from distraction.”

  Guyal leaned forward, peered gingerly into the hood. “I fear I do not understand.”

  The Curator hopped forward impatiently. “It is an act of the utmost facility. Like this.” He sat in the chair.

  “And how will the hood be applied?”

  “In this wise.” Kerlin seized a handle, pulled the shield over his face.

  “Quick,” said Guyal to Shierl. She sprang to the lectern; Kerlin the Curator made a motion to release the hood; Guyal seized the spindly frame, held it. Shierl flung the switches; the Curator relaxed, sighed.

  Shierl gazed at Guyal, dark eyes wide and liquid as the great water-flamerian of South Almery. “Is he—dead?”

  “I hope not.”

  They gazed uncertainly at the relaxed form. Seconds passed.

  A clanging noise sounded from afar—a crush, a wrench, an exultant bellow, lesser halloos of wild triumph.

  Guyal rushed to the door. Prancing, wavering, sidling into the gallery came a multitude of ghosts; through the open door behind, Guyal could see the great head. It was shoving out, pushing into the room. Great ears appeared, part of a bull-neck, wreathed with purple wattles. The wall cracked, sagged, crumbled. A great hand thrust through, a forearm . . .

  Shierl screamed. Guyal, pale and quivering, slammed the door in the face of the nearest ghost. It seeped in around the jamb, slowly, wisp by wisp.

  Guyal sprang to the lectern. The bulb showed dullness. Guyal’s hands twitched along the controls. “Only Kerlin’s awareness controls the magic of the baton,” he panted. “So much is clear.” He stared into the bulb with agonized urgency. “Glow, bulb, glow . . .”

  By the door the ghost seeped and billowed.

  “Glow, bulb, glow . . .”

  The bulb glowed. With a sharp cry Guyal returned the switches to neutrality, jumped down, flung up the hood.

  Kerlin the Curator sat looking at him.

  Behind, the ghost formed itself—a tall white thing in white robes, and the dark eye-holes stared like outlets into non-imagination.

  Kerlin the Curator sat looking.

  The ghost moved under the robes. A hand like a bird’s foot appeared, holding a clod of dingy matter. The ghost cast the matter to the floor; it exploded into a puff of black dust. The motes of the cloud grew, became a myriad of wriggling insects. With one accord they darted across the floor, growing as they spread, and became scuttling creatures with monkey-heads.

  Kerlin the Curator moved. “Baton,” he said. He held up his hand. It held his baton. The baton spat an orange gout—red dust. It puffed before the rushing horde and each mote became a red scorpion. So ensued a ferocious battle; and little shrieks and chittering sounds rose from the floor.

  The monkey-headed things were killed, routed. The ghost sighed, moved his claw-hand once more. But the baton spat forth a ray of purest light and the ghost sloughed into nothingness.

  “Kerlin!” cried Guyal. “The demon is breaking into the gallery.”

  Kerlin flung open the door, stepped forth.

  “Baton,” said Kerlin, “perform thy utmost intent.”

  The demon said, “No, Kerlin, hold the magic; I thought you dazed. Now I retreat.”

  With a vast quaking and heaving he pulled back until once more only his face showed through the hole.

  “Baton,” said Kerlin, “be you on guard.”

  The baton disappeared from his hand.

  Kerlin turned and faced Guyal and Shierl.

  “There is need for many words, for now I die. I die, and the Museum shall lie alone. So let us speak quickly, quickly, quickly . . .”

  Kerlin moved with feeble steps to a portal which snapped aside as he approached. Guyal and Shierl, speculating on the probable trends of Kerlin’s disposition, stood hesitantly to the rear.

  “Come, come,” said Kerlin in sharp impatience. “My strength flags, I die. You have been my death.”

  Guyal moved slowly forward, with Shierl half a pace behind. Suitable response to the accusation escaped him; words seemed without conviction.

  Kerlin surveyed them with a thin grin. “Halt your misgivings and hasten; the necessities to be accomplished in the time available thereto make the task like trying to write the Tomes of Kae in a minim of ink. I wane; my pulsing comes in shallow tides, my sight flickers . . .”

  He waved a despairing hand, then, turning, led them into the inner chamber, where he slumped into a great chair. With many uneasy glances at the door, Guyal and Shierl settled upon a padded couch.

  Kerlin jeered in a feeble voice, “You fear the white phantasms? Poh, they are pent from the gallery by the baton, which contains their every effort. Only when I am smitten out of mind—or dead—will the baton cease its function. You must know,” he added with somewhat more vigor, “that the energies and dynamics do not channel from my brain but from the central potentium of the Museum, which is perpetual; I merely direct and order the rod.”

  “But this demon—who or what is he? Why does he come to look through the walls?”

  Kerlin’s face settled into a bleak mask. “He is Blikdak, Ruler-Divinity of the demon-world Jeldred. He wrenched the hole intent on gulfing the knowledge of the Museum into his mind, but I forestalled him; so he sits waiting in the hole till I die. Then he will glut himself with erudition to the great disadvantage of men.”

  “Why cannot this demon be exhorted hence and the hole abolished?”

  Kerlin the Curator shook his head. “The fires and furious powers I control are not valid in the air of the demon-world, where substance and form are of different entity. So far as you see him, he has brought his environment with him; so far he is safe. When he ventures further into the Museum, the power of Earth dissolves the Jeldred mode; then may I spray him with prismatic fervor from the potentium. . . . But stay, enough of Blikdak for the nonce; tell me, who are you, why are you ventured here, and what is the news of Thorsingol?”

  Guyal said in a halting voice, “Thorsingol is passed beyond memory. There is naught above but arid tundra and the old town of the Saponids. I am of the southland; I have coursed many leagues so that I might speak to you and fill my mind with knowledge. This girl Shierl is of the Saponids, and victim of an ancient custom which sends beauty into the Museum at the behest of Blikdak’s ghosts.”

  “Ah,” breathed Kerlin, “have I been so aimless? I recall these youthful shapes which Blikdak employed to relieve the tedium of his vigil. . . . They flit down my memory like may-flies along a panel of glass . . . I put them aside as creatures of his own conception, postulated by his own imagery . . .”

  Shierl shrugged in bewilderment. “But why? What use to him are human creatures?”

  Kerlin said dully, “Girl, you are all charm and freshness; the monstrous urges of the demon-lord Blikdak are past your conceiving. These youths of both sexes are his play, on whom he practices various junctures, joinings, coiti, perversions, sadisms, nauseas, antics and at last struggles to the death. Then he sends forth a ghost demanding further youth and beauty.”

  Shierl whispered, “This was to have been I . . .”

  Guyal said in puzzlement, �
��I cannot understand. Such acts, in my understanding, are the characteristic derangements of humanity. They are anthropoid by the very nature of the functioning sacs, glands and organs. Since Blikdak is a demon . . .”

  “Consider him!” spoke Kerlin. “His lineaments, his apparatus. He is nothing else but anthropoid, and such is his origin, together with all the demons, frits and winged glowing-eyed creatures that infest latter-day Earth. Blikdak, like the others, is from the mind of man. The sweaty condensation, the stench and vileness, the cloacal humors, the brutal delights, the rapes and sodomies, the scatophiliac whims, the manifold tittering lubricities that have drained through humanity formed a vast tumor; so Blikdak assumed his being, so now this is he. You have seen how he molds his being, so he performs his enjoyments. But of Blikdak, enough. I die, I die!” He sank into the chair with heaving chest.

  “See me! My eyes vary and waver. My breath is shallow as a bird’s, my bones are the pith of an old vine. I have lived beyond knowledge; in my madness I knew no passage of time. Where there is no knowledge there are no somatic consequences. Now I remember the years and centuries, the millennia, the epochs—they are like quick glimpses through a shutter. So, curing my madness, you have killed me.”

  Shierl blinked, drew back. “But when you die? What then? Blikdak . . .”

  Guyal asked, “In the Museum of Man is there no knowledge of the exorcisms necessary to dissolve this demon? He is clearly our first antagonist, our immediacy.”

  “Blikdak must be eradicated,” said Kerlin. “Then will I die in ease; then must you assume the care of the Museum.” He licked his white lips. “An ancient principle specifies that, in order to destroy a substance, the nature of the substance must be determined. In short, before Blikdak may be dissolved, we must discover his elemental nature.” And his eyes moved glassily to Guyal.

  “Your pronouncement is sound beyond argument,” admitted Guyal, “but how may this be accomplished? Blikdak will never allow such an investigation.”

  “No; there must be subterfuge, some instrumentality . . .”

  “The ghosts are part of Blikdak’s stuff?”