Through Dark Angles: Works Inspired by H. P. Lovecraft

by Don Webb

  “Thank you. I could drop them off to you, or if you come by Brewed Awakening I’d treat you to coffee and danish and my dad’s story.”

  “That’s in North Haven, right? I loved the pun.”

  “We’re on the 300 block on Washington. I know the street is named after the general, but for Dad’s sake, pretend it’s named after Washington Irving. Drop by any afternoon. This would be a big deal to Dad—being part of real scholarship. You know he was the first in his family to go to college; he didn’t get to finish, the recession, so it would have meant so much.”

  Thus works fate.

  Nathan stopped by Brewed Awakening next Tuesday afternoon. It had been an especially cold fall, snow mixed with fallen leaves, and the black squirrels of the Yale campus had gone into hibernation. Nathan had a strong oversized mocha and a diamond shaped piece of Brewed Awakenings’ “Choclava.” Max Bowen handed him a large brown envelope of yellowed typescript.

  “These were before the era of the personal computer. I remember how proud Dad was of his Selectric II. I remember watching him type and that little typeball thing spin and make the letters.”

  “So you father was in Yale or UConn?” asked Nathan.

  “He was a Yalie. It was his senior project. He had tracked down some Indian legend, a Lenape legend of the ‘Sleepers,’ which Irving had heard during his time in the Catskills. He later used the story in ‘Rip Van Winkle.’”

  “Wow. I have been looking at Irving’s sources for a couple of years and I had never heard of it; that is exactly what I am doing my dissertation on. If I can follow your father’s research he’ll be more than a footnote. I can’t think you enough—if it pans out, I mean. But I have to level with you, there are pretty strong links showing that Irving took his story from the German folktale of Peter Klaus or the Christian legend of the Sleepers of Ephesus.”

  “Oh, it will pan out. Dad was methodical. He left no stone unturned.”

  “So economics made him leave school?”

  “There was a downturn in the early seventies. Dad’s family used to own a restaurant just a couple of blocks from here—Tom’s Grinders. It went out of business, Granddad had a stroke, Dad started working as a short-order cook.”

  “If it’s not personal, what happened to him?”

  “Lung cancer. Dad could never wean himself from the cancer sticks.”

  “I’m sorry. What was your father’s name?”

  “Just like me, Max Bowen.”

  The packet contained the beginning of a research paper, a spiral notebook that seemed to have served as Bowen’s journal, and four or five Xeroxed articles or excerpts from books.

  The first article was about Lenape legends. It was from the 1923 American Indian Culture and Research Journal, “The Concept of ‘Real People’ in Unmai Folk-Stories” by Clifford Johnstone. Dr. Johnstone had collected verbal folklore from a “southern” Lenape (or, as the English had called them, a “Delaware”). He had asked his informant if the term “Leni Lenape” or “Real People” expressed anything more than xenophobia. The informant claimed that there were nonhuman races living in the hollow hills of the Lenapehoking. These dwarfs—Johnstone had used the unfortunate term “Leprechauns”—were to be avoided. One bought them off by leaving dressed deer carcasses in the spring and the “Three Sisters”—corn, squash, and beans—in the fall. These creatures had the ability to steal human souls and use them for prolonged periods in some sort of sorcerous endeavor. Their victims lay in a deathlike sleep for decades and were often buried alive. They were given the name Pagwadjininì, which Dr. Johnstone translated as “Sleepers.” Apparently these guys were not exactly human in shape, but could pass for humans if spotted at a great enough distance.

  The second Xerox was from Of Evill Sorceries Done in New-England of Daemons in No Humane Shape, some sort of Puritan Satan-scare book by one Rev. Ward Phillips. This lesser Cotton Mather devoted a few lines to an unfortunate Edward Phillips, who traded with the Dutch settlers in New York. Apparently Mr. Phillips had the bad luck of visiting the community of Indian Head in the heart of the “Kaatskille” Mountains. Traveling through the woods on St. Bridget’s Day, he heard several strange sounds like unto thunder, despite the clearness of the day. He tied his horse to a tree and set off on foot to seek after this mystery. He came into a shallow depression where a group of little men or imps were playing some sort of game in and around a stone circle. Thinking that he had encountered a hitherto undiscovered tribe of Indians and having an eye to exclusive trading with this group, he ran back to his horse and gathered a sack of trade goods—beads and other gimcracks that were alluring to the native eye. He hailed the small men, whom he noticed were exceedingly pale of skin and possessed of full beards. These savages expressed great wonder at meeting a white man; they had not heard of the coming of the white race to their land. They offered to introduce him to their “Satan,” who lived inside the hill. Phillips declined this offer. One of their women, somewhat taller than the little men, came out of the earth and proceeded to milk herself from one of her breasts. The milk, which looked like wine, was gathered into a hollowed deer horn and offered to Phillips. Revolted by what he had seen, he ran away, much to the merriment of the imps. As his horse galloped away, he again heard thunder and believed the very ground to shake.

  Nathan was beside himself. If these sources checked out, he would earn an entire chapter in Irving studies. The next article proved disturbing because it removed these ideas from legend and folklore and put them in the context of lunatic tabloid journalism. It was from the National Enquirer, December 12, 1966:

  A REAL LIFE RIP VAN WINKLE??

  Albany, N.Y.—Twenty-five years ago Mr. Stanislaw Kandinsky left his Indian Head, N.Y., home to spend a weekend in the forest. Mr. Kandinsky was due to report for induction in the U.S. Army. He told his friends that he wanted to spend a weekend in prayer and getting right with God before going to fight Nazis. But he was never seen again. He showed up at the door of his old family home this week claiming to have been taken to Heaven by strange light-skinned aliens. They had saved him from certain death in Europe and had only returned him recently. He is being held for observation at the medical school of the State University of New York. So far he has issued no statements about the saucer that had abducted him, nor the location of “Heaven.” We will watch this story carefully.

  Max Bowen may have been caught up in the pseudo-scholarship of the early seventies. Erich Van Däniken and Carlos Castañeda were making mint by rehashing old legends of one sort or another with enough pseudo-anthropology thrown in to appeal to a gullible public. Bowen couldn’t have meant to include the Enquirer snippet unless ironically. Nathan was tired and went to bed.

  Nathan worked as a TA in the morning helping freshmen attack English 101. He turned to the notebook that afternoon. Something had clearly fried Max Bowen’s brain, but 1969 was a year that young American brains were fried as often as Kentucky chicken.

  Jan 15

  Dropped six hundred mikes with Connie. There was an older dude at her place, I thought he might have been an archaeologist. His trip was time. Connie and Tom were talking about time in dreams. Dream time seems really long some nights, like time dilates on some trips. This guy said that more primeval people understood this better than we do. There were ways to experience years in a night. I thought he meant drumming because I have been reading about shamanic drumming as part of the Rip Van Winkle story. What if someone had some kind of trippy experience with the Delawares and told Irving? He said sound was a big part of it, but I couldn’t follow much of his story. Then Tom turned on the TV and we all sat around watching the war, and we kind of forgot about this guy. Later I remembered, but he was gone.

  Jan 17

  Ran into Connie. I am almost over the fact that she doesn’t love me. I asked her about the guy at her house. She doesn’t know him well. Turns out he is an archaeologist, who had done digs in the Caatskills. He had helped chart some colonial Dutch farmhouses and some Del
aware/Lenape stuff too. She had met him at a poetry reading at the Blue Moon Room. They had snuck out back and shared a joint in December at the “Reading you were too busy to go to.” I apologized for that like the thirtieth time. I asked if I could meet the guy. Which was the wrong thing to say, because I got lectured again about how overly interested I am in my own projects and nothing else.

  Jan 20

  Got some good stuff on Lenape legends. Now if I can just find anything that suggested that Irving might have heard any of them. I can make a pretty good circumstantial case, but Dr. Evans warns me that is not quite scholarship. I ran into the archaeologist on campus; he says that he is familiar with the Lenape “Little People.” He wanted to know how serious I was and could I handle “really heavy shit.” I indicated that I was as serious as I could be. In reality, unless I can tie the Lenape stuff directly to Irving, I can’t use any more stuff on the Indian side of the equation. We got Nixon today. Goodbye, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?

  Jan 28

  I am freaking out about the oil spill near Santa Barbara. Shit, we’ve got to wise up about this planet. I spent a long time talking with Dr. Perault The man is either a really important scholar or bugfuck crazy. He claims that the Little People are real, and that he has encountered their “remains” in a dig. He said he gave the “evidence” to Yale and that it was hushed up by the government. I asked him if they were an American Pygmy, and he said that he doubted they were genus homo. So I called him out on it—if you had found anything like that you would be calling a press conference, not making a gift to Yale. He got really mad and told me to meet him later. He came by Dad’s place. Dad gave him coffee thinking that he was one of my professors. He had this tiny hatchet with him, an “artifact.” It was really small, but it could have been a child’s toy. I asked how did he know this wasn’t a toy, and was his specialty American Indians anyhow. He said I should go home and think about how serious I was, because he could lay proof on me, heavy proof, but that I would leave my life behind. I called Connie to talk to her, to try and find out anything about Dr. Perault, but she was out and Tom was tripping. Tom began talking about UFOs. He asked me what would I do if one landed right in front of me and asked me if I wanted to go with them. Would I go? Just go like that? I’ve been thinking about that. For a long time I was thrilled to be the first Bowen to finish school, and not any school but YALE! But after I broke up with Connie all I do is watch the news every night. I see guys my age being blown up in Vietnam. Yet the next day I see professors playing campus politics with a straight face as if what they were doing were real. What kind of shit is that? And everyday Dad makes grinders for the Yalies who laugh at him, and every night he curses them while rubbing his aching hands, and his biggest revenge on them is that his only-begotten son IS one of them. And I look at how the blacks are treated and Kennedy. I think I would say yes to the little green men. I think that I would fly away. I think I’ll see whatever “heavy shit” Dr. Perault can lay on me.

  Jan 29

  I asked around at school. Perault was on the faculty until 1963. He flaked out after the Kennedy assassination, claimed to have found some earth-shaking revelation, but wound up screwing his TA. His male TA. I don’t know if this guy just wants to get into my pants or really knows something and can’t get any attention because he’s a faggot. I am still game, but I am going to be stone cold sober.

  Jan 30

  I can’t believe it—the Beatles did a free live concert on the roof of Apple Records! The fuzz busted it, of course. This will be something people will talk about for years. Can you imagine, you’re walking down the street and there are the Beatles. The Russians have one rocket ship in orbit now and it is believed that they will launch another one soon to dock with the first. The Beatles and the moon race! Dr. Perault told me that the heavy shit was about this quickening of human history, too. Do you think the world could change any faster? But Perault says that’s a side effect of this stuff the Indians were exchanging with. He laughed and said that it was all about how to tell time. “How to tell Time to serve you!” he said. He told me to meet him in front of the library at six-thirty tomorrow morning. We are going to the dig site where he found the little tomahawk. He said that he had found the ruins of their ball game. I guess it is midget-sized. He probably did find something amazing like a race of American pygmies and then went crazy. His find seems full of cosmic significance as if he’s on a permanent LSD trip. But I figure I am grounded enough to take advantage of his find. I might be a big man in American letters. Not just the first Bowen to go to college, but someone that rewrote the book on Amerindian studies. It will be cool, but not as cool as the Beatles.

  After reading the journal Nathan called Max Jr. It was after ten at night. Max answered. He had clearly already gone to bed, his voice was all dreamy.

  “So what happened?”

  “What happened is that Dad never came back.”

  “So where are you in this story? I don’t see any notes about ‘my baby son, Max’?”

  “Little Max was conveniently with Grandpa. I was a senior year of high school mistake. Nothing could screw with Big Max’s college career.”

  “So what do you feel now?”

  “For a long time I was angry. I didn’t get to go to college, I busted my butt, slinging hash. Then in my thirties, I got scared. I dreamed of him with little not-quite-men. I know it’s stupid. I wanted you to tell me it’s stupid.”

  “What do you want now?”

  “I want you to go with me to the dig site on February 1. St. Bridget’s Day.”

  “You know that’s a stupid date. It wouldn’t be a Delaware holiday.”

  “I know the whole thing is stupid. But it’s what I want.”

  Nathan thought about the good place he was in. Eight weeks from now. At worst it would be a story. At best an adventure, more of an adventure even than leaving central Texas and coming to Yale. Besides, unlike a drugged-out undergraduate in 1969, he had nothing to lose by going. He was twenty-seven and the world was his oyster.

  “Sure, I’ll go. I mean, what the fuck?”

  It was a four-and-half-hour drive mainly up 90 and 91. Billboards suggested the many tourist traps of the Catskills like the Shawangunk Wine Trail. There was no real country in New England compared to Texas. As Nathan rode in Max’s van, there was never a moment that you didn’t see another car. The roads were covered in gray and black slush; the van smelled of grinders. After they had left New Haven, there had been little to say for the next two hours. Heck, you can drive from Doublesign to Dallas in two hours.

  “How did you locate the dig?”

  “Perault published. It was small and dry and preliminary and only suggested an unknown tribal group that might have lingered on until colonial times. I am not real smart, and shit, I hired a graduate student in anthropology to track it down.”

  “You been there?”

  “Once in midsummer. There’s some standing stones. Nine of them. But I don’t think it was Washington Irving’s nine pins.”

  “You know I played that as a kid. A lot of Germans settled in central Texas; there are some really old nine-pin bowling halls near Doubleisgn and Flapjack.”

  “There’s really a town called Flapjack?”

  “Honest Injun.”

  “We’re getting close. I’ve got to watch the road. This isn’t exactly GPS-supported.”

  Less than mile later Max pulled the van off onto some snow-covered gravel. “We walk now.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to bring them some deer?” asked Nathan. Max just stared at him. It was two o’clock. It was three degrees above freezing and the sky was pile of dirty gray blankets. The air smelled of smoke and ammonia and tar. The leafless trees seemed to have never had leaves at all. Nathan could not believe this could ever be a place of scenic beauty. He regretted coming. What could he do—make some pictures of rocks with his phone? Max just headed off into the woods. Well, with his phone he couldn’t get lost. Just cold and wet. He
trudged after Max, the shallow snow chilling his loafers. Nathan could barely make out a trail through the woods. It twisted and turned and sometimes he found himself bumping against a tree as though the logic of the trail was nonhuman. Maybe deer used this. Max stayed ahead of him because the trail was narrow. Nathan began to feel a little scared; for some reason he wanted to see Max’s face. After only a few twists into the forest, Nathan noticed how different New England woods were from the Lost Pines forest near his hometown in Texas. They exuded silence. He couldn’t hear the road at all, even though they must be within fifty yards or so. No birds chirped, but he attributed that to the coldness of the spring. Nathan could tell the general path led downward.

  “Don’t worry,” said Max. “Soon we can walk two abreast after we pass beyond the ridge.” They walked over a small black berm of gneiss that stood like a black iceberg in the snow. On the other side Nathan could easily tell they were entering a valley. Max’s face glowed with sweat. Looking at his fleece-lined denim jacket, Nathan realized that it bulged at the right shoulder. Max was carrying a handgun. Nathan wondered if Max meant to shoot him. They had not encountered barbed wire yet; these woods were not like Texas.

  “Is this public land?” asked Nathan.

  Max answered, “You probably won’t believe me, but this section simply doesn’t show up on maps. I had the devil of a time finding it the first time.”

  “What did you do the first time?”

  “I looked at the rocks. I spent the night. I don’t know, I was hoping Dad’s ghost would show up.”

  Max walked faster. Nathan tried to find his cool voice, the neutral tone he used as TA. “So what do you think happened to your father?”

  “You know. He slept. That which is not dead . . . he dreamed.”

  “‘What dreams may come,’ eh?” asked Nathan. He didn’t know what to say; he had never spent any time with a bona fide crazy person.

  “Just like Dr. Perualt said. Dreams in which time is accelerated. The sleeper spends a few years in sleep in regard to the outside world, but lives tens, hundreds of years.”