Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  "Have patience," Murgocci said, after a few moments. "Your journey here will not go unrewarded."

  "You obviously know more than you're telling me."

  Murgocci chuckled softly. "It is true; my first experience with this apparition was over fifty years ago. I lived in Romania then, in a small place called Viziru, near the Brailu marshes at the mouth of the Danube. This was during World War II, and the long arm of the Third Reich had clawed its way into our town. The region is rich with oil. The war itself meant little to us, but for the German presence. One day I happened to encounter an officer of the Wehrmacht. He was very, very drunk, this man, and from the little German I understood, I gathered he was on the run from someone—or something. I thought perhaps he was a deserter; conditions for the German army were quite terrible in our country, so far from their main lines of supply. However, this man appeared frightened of something that had nothing to do with the war. I recall his name. It was Prinn. Gunther Prinn."

  Murgocci eyed Schell as if waiting for a sign that the name held some significance for him. When none came, the old man continued. "You are of German lineage, no? Perhaps a Von Schellenberg at one time? No? Of course, you are much too young to know anything of the war first-hand. Anyway, this man Prinn claimed to have seen a blazing 'wreath of clouds' while he was in the Transylvanian Alps; a light such as you saw tonight, one that pursued him, but was unseen by most others around him."

  "But you saw it."

  Murgocci nodded. "I saw it. It crept down from the mountains and along the earth, swallowing the darkness, and except for Oberleutnant Prinn and myself, no one else could claim to witness the event. It advanced to the edge of the nearby marshes, where it disappeared—much as it did tonight. And shortly thereafter, as if I must tell you, Gunther Prinn vanished from the face of the earth."

  "But of course."

  The old man chuckled. "And what do you suppose I should come to find in my possession but the man's diary." Murgocci’s eyes gleamed conspiratorially. "If the Wehrmacht ever knew I had availed myself of this officer's belongings before they declared him missing in action, I would have been shot. I could not read German at the time, and still I am not fluent. However, I had portions of the journal translated, and I can tell you that our man Prinn was possessed of some fascinating convictions."

  Schell leaned forward, his attention captured by the old man's story, but at the edge of his senses, something stirred, some little noise or movement, something that diverted his focus for a moment. Murgocci noted his distraction and a thoughtful frown creased his face.

  "This 'wreath', as he called it," Murgocci said softly, "had also appeared to him on at least one previous occasion. He believed it to be a 'shadow', brilliant as it might be, of something else, something moving about in realms ordinarily closed to us. He was in possession of certain arcane writings, some of which he named in his diary—many of which I have tracked down over the years. Such things have always been of interest to me, even before my encounter with Oberleutnant Prinn, for in my part of the world, history is rich with legends, and the underpinnings of society are very different than what you have in this country. There is a much deeper appreciation for antiquity, a faith in things beyond the mundane; even today, old traditions linger in every village—indeed, in every heart—that cannot be overcome by the forward rush of the world. Perhaps you understand what I am saying to you, eh?"

  "I think I do," Schell said quietly.

  "Herr Prinn's presence in Romania was not purely coincidence. He had requested his assignment there. His ancestors were no strangers to ancient mysteries; a number of them passed on writings of their experiences with forces that we would consider unknown, or unknowable. Those old stories no doubt stirred his curiosity."

  Again, something diverted Schell's attention from Murgocci’s story. A faint sound, he thought, a low rumble, seemingly coming from somewhere within the house. He glanced at the doorway through which they'd entered; beyond it, the hallway disappeared into complete darkness. He felt as if he sat within a bright, tiny sphere amid a lightless chasm which might or might not harbor something beyond his comprehension.

  He noticed that Murgocci craned his neck to peer past him, his eyes widening slightly, but otherwise inscrutable.

  "Something is different here," Schell said softly. "What's going on?"

  "Perhaps tonight one or both of us shall learn what became of Oberleutnant Prinn," Murgocci said. "I believe that the light is a message bearer; and tonight, the message has finally arrived."

  Schell felt a slight chill. Surely, the warm atmosphere of the room, the delicious tea, and Murgocci’s low, almost hypnotic voice had made him entirely too credulous of an old timer's appreciation for homegrown fantasy. But the light he'd seen could not be denied—despite his eyes being among the apparent few to witness it. And what was the sound in the house, the trace of movement he was sure he'd sensed only a few moments before?

  The old man rose from his seat, shuffled to the door, and peered into the dark hall. Unsure whether to rise and follow or wait for his host to seat himself again, Schell took a long swallow of his tea, finishing the cup. Murgocci stepped into the darkness. The floorboards groaned sorrowfully beneath his weight. As if in response, a very low, barely audible rumble shook the walls of the house, and this time Schell saw that the rack of teacups on the wall quivered noticeably with the sound.

  "A visitor indeed." Murgocci’s voice drifted from the darkness, seeming much farther away than he actually was.

  Now, Schell rose and went to the door, finding that the old man had become only a vague silhouette beyond the pool of light spilling from the kitchen door. "What is that?" Schell whispered after him. "You know what that is, don't you?"

  Murgocci turned, his face a pale gray oval in the darkness. "No. Not what. Nor why, specifically, it has come. But I have waited for it for many years. It is truly interesting that I am not to experience this moment alone. Your arrival is surely by design, not happenstance."

  "That's crazy," Schell said, shaking his head.

  He looked around the kitchen, finally remembering he'd wanted to call Karen—anyone—to come and take him home. He didn't see a telephone, and he didn't recall having passed one as Murgocci led him through the house. "Mr. Murgocci, do you have a phone?"

  No reply came from the darkened hall. Schell peered in the direction the old man had gone. No light, no trace of movement—other than a repetition of that faint, indeterminate stirring that seemed to come from somewhere within the house, but still far away.

  "Mr. Murgocci?"

  Nothing. Surely, the old man couldn't have already traveled beyond the range of Schell's voice. He stepped into the hall, keeping one hand on the wall for guidance. The light from the kitchen seemed weak and unsteady, incapable of penetrating the black barrier ahead of him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the void, and the wall he used for support fell into emptiness beneath his hand. He stood still. The air grew cold and his stomach rose to his throat, giving him the impression of having suddenly fallen into outer space. In a raspy voice, he called one more time: "Mr. Murgocci!"

  Silence. He looked back toward the kitchen, at the dim but comforting light he'd just left. No point in going back, he thought, intuition telling him that doing so would just postpone whatever discovery might await him. He shuffled further into the darkness, finding that his feet trod not upon the thick carpet he expected to find, but on a hard, unyielding surface that didn't echo his footsteps. The sweet smell of the kitchen was replaced by something tainted with salt and mildew, as if the ocean air had seeped in through the walls and stagnated.

  He had no cigarette lighter or matches to break the darkness. He thought there should be a door to the right, through which he hoped to be able to glimpse the lamp that illuminated the window he'd first seen from outside. As he went further, keeping his arms in front of him, his footsteps short and cautious, he encountered neither the furniture he anticipated, nor a hint of illumination anywhere
else in the house—or even through any un-shuttered windows on this level.

  Behind him, no glow from the kitchen remained. This was the darkness of the underground, of a place totally sealed from light and life. And in the silence, he again heard a slight rumbling sound from above and around him. A deep vibration shook the walls of the house. Realizing how futile the effort, he nonetheless called out again, "Mr. Murgocci!" And was rewarded by the silence he expected.

  Anxiety had given way to a claustrophobic terror now, a sensation of being enclosed in a small lightless bubble surrounded by tons of earth. A few more faltering steps led him to a spot so cold that he broke into gooseflesh and all the hair on his body rose to rigid attention. To consider what might be happening to him was the worst mistake he could possibly make at the moment; all he could do was keep moving, try to find light—and some way out of here.

  A step forward brought his hand in contact with a cool, unyielding surface. Grateful to find something—anything—that could help guide him, he traced his way along the wall, and his fingers touched a coarse, flat panel that felt like tree bark. He knew he could not be touching any wall within the old man's house; whatever this was, it seemed to be something that grew here, something that had replaced the whole interior of the aging building he'd entered only a short time ago.

  He arbitrarily chose to turn right, and felt his way along the now rough wall, praying with each step that he'd see a light in the distance, some sign that he was not completely lost and alone. He thought the vibrating sound seemed to be gradually increasing in volume, and while the idea of discovering its source filled him with a vague dread; it also gave him a direction, a sense of purpose. In his heart, he felt certain that if he stopped moving, the darkness would merely smother him with its infinite patience, waiting mockingly while he slowly died of thirst and starvation.

  And then, somewhere ahead, a faint glimmer of light; a dim suggestion of brilliance in some unfathomable distance, the silvery hue of the light he'd first seen creeping over the old mansion from his apartment window. The rumbling sound seemed louder in that direction, luring him onward, still chilling him with its unknown meaning.

  Suddenly, his hands no longer felt the coarse surface that had guided him. He reached out and encountered only emptiness, and for a moment, a stab of panic nearly sent him back the way he'd come, if only to regain the stabilizing presence of the wall. Something, either resolve or the deeper fear of being stranded forever in the darkness goaded him onward toward the small splotch of color in the black sea ahead. The volume of the vibration increased noticeably now, and he could only pray that, one way or the other, this terrible journey through the void was about to come to an end.

  As he proceeded, he struggled with each step, though the floor felt smooth and level whenever he stood still. The light now seemed to be above him, shining down from within a tall tower, and he walked an ascending spiral. Every step carried him in quantum bounds farther from the familiar world he'd left the moment he set foot in Murgocci’s house.

  Something lived here.

  Something resided in this labyrinth of solid night. Schell had come here because it had beckoned him—hadn’t it? Murgocci had told him as much; his presence here was by design, not by chance. What could possibly have drawn him here, wherever here was, and for what purpose?

  The darkness before him shattered, like a wall of onyx. The shards tumbled into space; and the vast panorama that opened before him nearly caused him to shudder and fall. Vertigo assailed him, for he now stood on a precipice above an endless expanse of luminous webbing, a blue-tinged pattern of spokes and spirals that stretched to a vanishing point in some unimaginable distance, within which cyclones of pale light whirled and gyrated like ethereal dancers on a blazing ballroom floor. The rumbling sound issued from somewhere out there, its source still unidentifiable, but plainly within the pattern.

  This, he knew had to be the source of what the old man had called the "shadow:" the light that had manifested itself to him, and to Murgocci, and to Gunther Prinn all those many years ago.

  "God damn, you're big," Schell muttered, somehow finding breath still in his lungs. Indeed, he felt he was gazing upon some organic galaxy that crawled through an infinite pit of darkness, empty of stars, empty of everything that should have occupied normal space. This thing—like a mandala, he thought—was the sole potentate in this realm of everything that should not exist.

  As he watched, something took form in the distant heart of the web, something that spun and roared and tore itself free from the clinging electric filaments that entrapped it. Schell saw an arrowhead-shaped object emerge from the pattern and slowly drift toward him. Surely, he thought, the web-thing that stretched away light-years into the distance could not possibly have actually noticed him. . .and called to him in some way? He felt so insignificant that the notion was ludicrous.

  He was beyond fear. Whatever this apparition was, he knew instinctively that it lay beyond the province of man's morality; whatever its intentions, it was not subject to any definition of "good" or "evil" he might impose upon it. It simply was, and it was coming.

  "You found it! By God, you have found it!" a familiar voice cried.

  Schell turned, and just behind him, features lit by the ghostly glow of the web, Murgocci stood gazing at him with a gleam of triumph in his old eyes. "It's you," Schell said, otherwise at a loss for words. "What in God's name is this?"

  "That, my boy is the question of a lifetime," Murgocci replied. "Or perhaps of several lifetimes. Can you feel it? The call?"

  Schell did feel it. He couldn’t have put into words exactly what it was, but he felt it straight through to some inner core—some essential central point of his being. He turned his gaze from the old man to the whirling void. The arrowhead had begun to glisten, as though its sides were liquid—or metal, polished to an impossible sheen. It was drawing nearer, and what had begun as a distant roar was fast becoming a pulsing cacophony of sound.

  He didn’t turn, but he sensed Murgocci stepping up beside him.

  "I don’t get the sensation I found anything," he said softly. "It found me."

  "It found the two of us, my boy, just as I knew it would – just as I dreamed. I’ve waited for this moment a very long time."

  Schell still didn’t turn, but he shook his head slowly.

  "If I hadn’t come, it would not be here."

  The arrowhead shaped light whirled once, like the needle of some great cosmic compass.

  "You’re wrong, my boy," Murgocci said. "It’s my time."

  Schell thought about arguing, and then the thought drifted away. The pettiness of the dispute rendered it meaningless. The glow from the drifting arrow increased in brilliance, and it floated nearer. As it came, the tip swung gently from side to side. It was a tentative motion…a seeking motion.

  Murgocci stepped forward. Schell saw the man from the corner of his eye, but ignored him. It didn’t matter. The arrow slipped to the side, swung back and hesitated, inches from Murgocci’s chest. The man took in a deep breath, leaned forward, and pressed into the growing illumination.

  "Yes," the old man cried. "Oh yes"

  The light grew brighter. It pulsed, receded slightly, and the pulsed again. It grew to a brilliant flash that eliminated the world. Murgocci stepped forward – Schell saw this as a dark silhouette against incredible brilliance. The motion lasted all of a second, and was swallowed.

  Murgocci screamed. The sound registered in Schell’s mind, but he had no concentration to spare. The brilliant blue-white light of the arrow shifted slowly. Starting at the tip, directly in front of where Murgocci had stood moments before, a brilliant crimson rippled out, following the outline of the arrow slowly. Schell watched in fascination as the outline rippled outward, rounded the contours of the arrow and joined on the far edges. The light shimmered pink, just for a moment, and then returned to its blue-white brilliance.

  A line of light shot out from the center of the arrow’s tip. Schell st
ood very still and gasped as something pierced his chest – his heart – and drew taught. He arched his back, but stood his ground. Images coursed down that glittering conduit. They filled his mind and blanked out all other thought. He felt the house beneath him, felt the mountain beneath that, and the ocean, licking at the base of the cliff. He felt the seemingly limitless expanse of the sky above him, and for the first time felt the weight of that – the immensity.

  He turned. A second strand of light shot out, and he gasped, staggering forward. It shot through his shoulder blade and into his chest. It felt like white hot barbs digging into his flesh, but he leaned into the pain and concentrated.

  What he saw was not the dark passageways of the house, or the road beyond. He didn’t see the waves crashing into the rocks below, but instead, an alien landscape spread out before him. On one level, he knew the two images were one and the same. He moved steadily forward, felt himself descending stairs he could not see and sensed walls that were nowhere to be seen. The stone foundation of the building called out to him, and he followed the inner pathways intuitively. He felt the swing of the pendulous, arrow-shaped entity at his back, but he had no time to think about it, or worry about it. He had a purpose.

  What must have been the stairs to the basement dropped away beneath his feet, and he followed them slowly, watching his footing. The dual sense of being in a house and in some place far removed from any earthly house in the same instant ate at his balance, and his sanity. Murgocci’s words returned to him, and he thought of other places, far away. He reached the base of the steps, and in that instant felt as though his feet touched the lower reaches of a German stronghold, and the pit of an African volcano. There were other places, other visions, but they would not come into focus, and the twin shards of ice shooting through him robbed him of his concentration.

  He brought his hands to his chest and felt something protruding on either side. They were like spikes, cold and painful to the touch. He gripped one in each hand and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and saw tall mountains in the distance. He saw a blood-red sky and a giant, glowing eye that saw everything and anything beneath it. He felt that gaze in the lines of force piercing his torso. He screamed and tore them free. In that moment, willing every bit of himself into the act, he dropped to his knees and drove the spikes into the ground, felt them strike and sink in deep, felt energy stream in and through him, and felt the power of that connection drive him up and back.