A Season In Carcosa

by Sr. (Editor) Joseph S. Pulver

  There’s something happening, he says, at last, after a hushed, one-sided conversation. In the city. I have to go.

  And a minute later, it’s just you and the bones again.

  ~*~

  Jutras is out of contact for most of the next day, which means he isn’t there for the undersea quake that rattles the island. Minor as tremors go, the epicentre’s out by the black smoker ring that keeps Carcosa’s shores so fertile, so teeming with fish and kelp-forests; closer to Carcosa City than Funeral Rock, thankfully, so the back-slop doesn’t do much more than submerge the causeway far faster and for far longer than expected. You didn’t even notice it yourself until you came out of the tent and found Ken and Judy on the horn with Jutras, yelling at him about being stuck on-site for the night until the causeway emerges again. Said prospect bothers you less than it should, but that could just be sheer exhaustion. Who knew watching mould grow could be so draining.

  What does bother you—silencing Ken and Judy as well—is what Jutras finally tells you, when he gets a word in edgewise: The quake brought in a mini-tsunami that cracked the hospital apart, shearing off the wall of the contagious ward. In the confusion, most massacre suspects cut and ran, disappearing into a sympathetic web of back-rooms, basements, cliff-caves and other assorted hidey-holes. Surprisingly few injuries amongst the military guards, and all from natural causes rather than any sort of hostile action, but all of you can read between the lines; the garrison is confused and demoralized from the bottom up, perhaps even fixing to cut and run, and the islanders themselves...well, they aren’t happy.

  They’ve heard what you’re doing here, Ringo tells you, after Jutras signs off. Putting the King back together—that’s why this happened. They want to stop you.

  Ken snorts. So these dudes in jail, what, called up a wave and surfed on out of there? C’mon, man. Army’ll pick ‘em up by tomorrow; this place ain’t big enough to hide in, not for long.

  You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about us.

  I know enough, man.

  No. Ringo shakes his head, visibly struggling to keep polite. It’s...not safe for you here, not now, any of you. You should go.

  Go where? you ask, waving Ken silent, while Judy hugs herself. Where should we go, Ringo?

  Without hesitation: Away, of course. And take me with you, when you do.

  ~*~

  Though you’re hardly a mycologist or saprophytologist by trade, anyone who works enough decomp learns to ID the key fungal players soon enough. The stuff that’s growing over “the King”’s bones still doesn’t match anything you recognize: Too tough, spreading too fast, especially without an identifiable nutrient-source. You take a moment to look up the region on your tablet, looking for a local flora-and-fauna rundown, and pause at Wikipedia’s disambiguation page for “Hyades”. There are four entries: the islands, the band, the Greek mythological figures, and a star cluster in the constellation Taurus.

  You look up in the dusk light, out across the lake. The “twin suns” sink towards the horizon in a blurry shimmer. A mirage, an illusion; the same thing that makes the suns look almost bluish-white, rather than red-gold. So Ringo says. You look back down to your tablet, and click on the entry for the star cluster. Thinking, as you do, about articles some of your geekier friends have sent to you, essays about such things as static wormholes, and equipotential space-time points; quantum tunneling, black branes and folded space, negative energy densities.

  The Hyades cluster is more than six hundred million years old, far older than most such stellar groups, a survivor of the aeons by orbiting far from galactic centre. At least twenty of its stars are A-type white giants, with seventeen or eighteen of them thought likely to be binary—double-star—systems. It appears in the Iliad on the shield that Hephaestus made for Achilles, and is named for the daughters of Atlas, who wept so hard over the death of their brother Hyas they eventually became the patron stars of rain.

  Twilight deepens, and your tablet’s glow increases in the growing dark. But your shadow grows sharp to one side, beyond what the tablet could illuminate, and you look up once more.

  Above the centre of the lake, where the volcano exploded centuries ago, lights glow in a scattered matrix of green, blue, gold and red, clear and cold. The darkness between them seems to outline shapes—structures, blocks, towers. They’re hard to look at, defying your eyes’ focus almost painfully. Can’t tell if the blur is distance, or atmosphere mirage, or the wake of motion too fast to follow. The blue-green, poisonous light of the setting suns behind it twists your stomach. You feel the whole thing pulling, physically, like a hook in the gut: some second force of gravity, pressing you towards the lake and the place you know isn’t there, can’t be there—

  —not because it isn’t real, but because it’s somewhere else. Some utter, alien elsewhere, so far away its light is older than your species.

  It’s that pull, that nausea and that disbelief, which keeps you from hearing the tumult until it’s too late. Distracted by Other Carcosa City’s spectacular appearance, you simply haven’t noticed the boats’ approach, silent and sure—pontooned sea-canoes, anchoring themselves at Funeral Rock’s base so their passengers can shinny up the handhold-pocked cliff and emerge through those cave-entrances you never even knew were there, almost under your feet.

  A burst of bullets, muzzle-flare in the night, and Ringo’s already up, hauling on your arm: Alice, come, come on, Alice—now now now, they’re here! Leave everything!

  But—Ken, Judy, Jesus, Ringo! What about...

  Too late, come on! We have to go—

  Across Hali, behind Other Carcosa City’s gleaming shoreline, you can just glimpse the “real” capitol going up in flames, a series of controlled explosions. Is one of those Jutras’ field-office, the garrison, the sea-plane that brought you here? Over near the grave, meanwhile, Ken’s scrabbling for his data, uploading frantically; one shot catches him in the shoulder, another in the upper back, sending him straight over the lip. You can hear him thrashing down below, desperately trying to cover himself in enough sand-muck to turn invisible. Ringo pulls you headlong while the attackers rush the camp, smashing and tearing, hurling equipment and evidence alike into the sea. Ripping up the tents, they riddle every prepped body-bag they uncover with yet more gunfire, as though they think something might be hiding in there.

  Good thing I moved him, you find yourself thinking. Good thing, good thing...

  Ringo drops to his knees, dragging you along with him; your knees jolt, painfully. In here, Alice, he says. Come on! This one goes out the opposite side—we can swim, they’ll never see us.

  Swim? Where the hell to?

  Other Carcosa City, of course; no one will expect it. Can’t you see them, beckoning?

  But: That’s just a bit too much crazy to stomach, even now. So here you pull back, wrenching yourself free, even as Ringo worms his way slickly down into the earth, gone in seconds—you’d never make it anyways, is what you tell yourself. The gap’s far too narrow, too twisting; you’d simply lodge fast, bruised and scraped and strained to breaking, to die crushed like a bug. You let him go instead, whispering Goodbye.

  Why? Judy yells from behind you, uselessly, drawing another burst. Why, why?

  Because some things are meant to stay buried, a voice replies, from deep inside.

  Then: Spotlights stab down out of the growing dusk, helicopter rotors roaring, as speakers filter what must be orders far past the point of comprehensibility. More gunfire strafes the camp, this time vertically; Judy’s head explodes outright, GSW damage simultaneously shock-hammering away one half of your body in a series of consecutive hits to forearm, shoulder, hip, thigh. The downdraft wraps you in already-torn tent-fabric like a plastic bag shroud, momentum rolling you straight into the scrub where you stowed “the King”’s reassembled body, so you sprawl almost nose to whatever it uses for a nose with it.

  No pain, simply shock, cold and huge enough to sharpen your observational skills to
inhuman levels. The not-fungus has finished its work. The creature’s skin is black everywhere but its pallid mask of a face, slick and soft, oily to the touch, almost warm; that’s your blood it’s soaking up, spongelike, as if every pore is a feeding orifice, swelling with the sacrifice.

  And its massive, horned head turns, yellow eyes cracking open. Locking upon yours.

  I am here, it tells you; look across the lake, where my city rises, and watch us beckon. You have done me great service, bringing me back into this world.

  Now: Be not afraid, lie still, lie quiet. Your long wait is over.

  Beyond the hovering ‘copter, those two suns sink down, white-blue turning red, filling Hali’s caldera with false lava. And when you slump over onto your back, looking up again by sheer default, you see stars: Soft black stars, almost indistinguishable, in a black, black sky.

  The King lays one scaly hand on your brow, lightly. Almost affectionately.

  I am coming, he promises, to take you home.

  Not Enough Hope

  By Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.

  {for a king sorely missed, KEW}

  Karl Edward Wagner. Writer. Editor. Dreamer. Due to be in search of another story.

  After this drink.

  “Or the next.”

  On his balcony in Dim Carcosa. “Some view.”

  Lifts the empty glass. He’s mildly surprised to see it’s not radiant—it has no mouth, no memories, it’s just a thing taking up space. Holds it a moment. Doesn’t change. Sets it back on the table.

  “Lot better last night. At least Elvis and Des Lewis had fun . . . Unless the anchovies got ‘em.”

  Laughs, ends with a fit of lungs clawing for another hit of air.

  Picks up the bottle.

  “Not as many dreams in this shit as I’d like, but.”

  “Playing with termites and euphoria again, I see.”

  Karl didn’t turn to look at Cassilda. Doesn’t want to see those eyes, or the long soft curves of her legs for that matter. Knows they want. Want the thing. Him. He’s too full of some other time, too tired to take his mask off again.

  “You do know the mall’s closed tonight?”

  “Yeah. Too late to make the trip.”

  “Maybe you’ll get to see de Vega to-morrow?”

  “Perhaps. Unless it snows. The Phoenix will not rise if it’s too cold.”

  “The Monster of Nature, here?” No smile.

  “No. At his place.” Afraid to turn and see her face, see a stranger, or the brocade of scars. Doesn’t want to reel in the complex inches of sorry, or face another bare goddamn. Too often these days, too much scherzo in her eyes, even the cyclones in the crematorium hadn’t brought them to a full stop yet.

  “Ever snowed here?”

  Cassilda circles how much she’d like to dance barefoot, just once, just for a few moments, in the snow. “No. Never.”

  “Thought so.”

  A cloud she dislikes returns to waltz with the moon. Exit balcony left.

  He doesn’t bother to turn and watch her leave. He’d see her sweet ass—probably swaying softly just for him, and it would be his turn to want.

  Maybe he should have stopped her. Called her back. Maybe sit and have a drink. Talk, even if some of it came out clumsy. Just spend a little time with her. But that would lead to the bedroom

  and the corset

  and the toys . . . and those memories . . .

  Her shoulders would be loaded with primal biology and his tongue would start counting riches. Then she’d ask the question—

  “Damnitall.”

  Looks up sees the little black cloud that haunts her. Nods a half-hearted thanks to it.

  Should be doing something with the new Kane story. Told Mr. Deathrealm he’d shoot it over by October. October’s not very far off—the birds were already gearing up for it. He knows Mark will understand if he’s a bit late this time. It’s just not right. Jack stealing a few moments or not, he’s a professional.

  Lot of things not right the last six aeons.

  Not right to-morrow. Not right last yesterday. Pills to help the Jack execute the staccato lonesome is how not right it is here tonight. Another cold Never at the end of a slow purple day . . .

  Never never comes in a brand new bottle.

  Never.

  A bird, he’s sure it’s a cathedral-deathbird, calls for sliver-starlight. Its stunted blast rattles him. Always does.

  “Light-haters and their isolato.” Wishes he had a gun. Looks at his lighter. “I know how to fix your ass.”

  The deathbird goes silent.

  “Damn ghoul.” Ought to just shoot all of them one of these nights.

  Back to his bottle. In peace. Not really, but he can’t choose, so he goes with what is there.

  Like he often does these days.

  Wished he’d walked across the food court last night, could have squeezed through the knots of loud kids and their daring colors, and a sat with Des and Elvis. Wasn’t in the mood for thin mall-pizza, but he could have had a taco or a burger and maybe a laugh. Laughing might not have hurt. And he always liked Des, jest and jaunt—purl two, knit two, a real master that cat. Never big on Elvis. Not that he was such a bad guy; he could be plenty warm and friendly, just couldn’t stand that stupid teddy bear ditty.

  “Should have gone over.” Waving hi was not very personable. “How hard would it have been to navigate thirty steps and talk for a few minutes?”

  Rubs an old blister. Two, three shots left in the bottle. Thinks about going inside for another bottle.

  Soul. Torn, tried and tired trouble in mind. Not interested in moving.

  Looks at his pen. It doesn’t seem to want to remember . . .

  Looks over the cloudwaves.

  All that aches. All the arpeggio decades of dandelion-sunlight corroded by cold . . . How many holes did I leave in that bar where the speakers rayed 1967?

  The hours. The places . . . All the pieces scattered with the dead bird wings on the ground under The Winter Tree.

  “All the Whiteness.”

  Phone on the table rings, hand doesn’t hesitate. Dylan, “Cabinet’s empty, Karl, and all the defective neon signs are creating confusion on Desolation Row. And surveillance shows Rum-Row is a mess a herd of alienists armed with restoration couldn’t fix.’

  “And Pulver’s stopped dancin’—Archer dulled him but good him with all that snicker-snack. Boy lost it to currents of high water and tears. Only thing he said, Betty Davis style was, ‘My hands are tied to this trance. They can’t be repaired.’ Ran his race. He was playing nothing but “Solid Air” all night long. Hour after hour, as if it was an unfinished symphony. If that don’t speak to it, I sure as hell don’t know what does.”

  “He’d always been in a lonely place. His galaxy was . . .’

  “Greyness and rain always barred him from the shore, Bob.”

  “He blamed Loki. It’s not just him; all the mysteries and conjectures have collapsed. Little things, every vein of syrup and any mercies they carried have fallen to dangerous. Nothing out there is moving. It’s all panic and grief in the custody of what the Boneclock assembled.” Bob’s mouthful stops on a dime.

  Karl hears him exhale quickly and take another drag. He’s glad he’s not here, enough grey-poison choking the sky, doesn’t need Bob’s romance with the cigarette-smokestack adding to it.

  “Brel’s out there with a string of fear-mongers at his heels, pushing a wheelbarrow full of antiquated robot parts up and down the block and I can’t dig up an amulet of Agamotto to cut through the damn haze. Front and behind, it’s all tombstone and cracks, Karl—not a single seat left on the Last Train.’

  “What was asleep is unmasked. This thing is not just passing through . . . Shit and damnation. Any wisdom for a weary Quixote you care to dole out? I’d sure be grateful.”

  “Yeah.” Bit of a light laugh in it. “High water everywhere, Darwin. Man can only take in so much, open another bottle of Jack. You ride it out, or you don’t
.”

  “Already rode the Eternity Line. Not exactly eager to get tied to that chain again.”

  “Christ, Bobby, you’re the one who said you dance with the partner they give you, or tough-shit, zip it and take a seat. Did you really think you could sit in Archer’s office and make it back out to some garden with cheery blue skies? Fucker’s worse than Loki. Didn’t you see that? Son-of-a-bitch might try to, but he doesn’t hide that subterranean weather very deep. You filled out the questionnaire, took his tests. All those rows of dark sky questions, you can’t resurrect clean and safely after those shadows.”

  “Oh.” Sounds like a crippled ship in a maelstrom of flotsam.

  “Have a drink. You’ll find what you find.’

  “Sorry, Bobby, got to dash. Cassilda’s wandering around with her demons tonight, any minute she’ll be back to handcuff me again. Try not to poke the grave.”

  “Can’t promise that, but I’ll lock all the windows.”

  “Make sure you have extra batteries for the flashlight too.”

  “Will.”

  Karl hangs up. Washes down two pills with a slug of Jack. Refills his glass.

  The whiteness falls . . . Live dies.

  Turns his head toward the cathedral expecting the deathbirds to cackle or offer up one of their evermores.

  Hangman must be at lunch. Fucker.

  Looks at his pen . . . and the glass. Drains it. Picks up his pen. The page is still white, blank. Karl glares at the pen, still waiting for energy to articulate its indigo into black marks. Old muscles call up old wounds. Instinct shoots the uninspired that was holding it back, Karl’s pen moves on the page.

  LOKI’S DISCOURSE

  The night of coal and ash burns. Takes the details from the bitter soldiery and the threads, their terms thinner and less active after the series of mishaps. Drawing alloys to bridge the riffs and putting down knives for a chance to spin fortune’s wheel, each hopes to find true.

  There was lightning and thunder.

  Lightning and thunder.

  There was Lightning and thunder. There was Lightning . . . It came and roared.

  Lightning and thunder.