Beware The Beasts

by Vic Ghidalia

  One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the marketplace they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a head-dress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.

  There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sat playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.

  On the third morning of the wanderers' stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbings gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked disks. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.

  That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes' kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper's son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.

  So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awakened at dawn - behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marveled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the refusal of all cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.

  It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy comers.

  There was subsequently much talk amongst the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper's son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellant yard.

  And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat.

  AUGUST DERLETH

  Here, Daemos!

  Martin Webly was not the best choice for the parish at Millham, in the south country: a bustling, officious man of better than medium height, with a glint in his eye and determination apparent in the set of his jaw. The parish, however, had been spoiled almost into oblivion by the kindly ministrations of old Dr. Williamson, Webly's predecessor; that he had left finances in a deplorable state was not to be held against him, however much of a problem this might afford the new vicar. Indeed, there were certain people in the parish who held that a problem of this magnitude might be a good thing to help make smoother the edges of the Reverend Mr. Webly. Some regret was manifest.

  However, there he was, and there in Millham he meant to stay.

  He was not married, but he had a housekeeper, a gardener, and occasionally hired a chauffeur. He took complete possession of the vicarage, and within a fortnight conducted himself as if he had always lived there. Within that fortnight, too, the vicar had got himself thoroughly informed in regard to the financial problems of the parish. He was not pleased and said so in his next sermon; moreover, he said, "something must be done," speaking with such a positive air that several of his listeners were rudely jolted from their lethargic acceptance of the status quo. After due consideration of the enormity of the problem, coupled with a knowledge of the inability of the parish to raise funds, they settled back again to wait for the Reverend Mr. Webly's solution to the problem.

  They were kept waiting a scant ten days before the vicar announced his solution.

  He had come upon certain old papers, he said, which indicated that a treasure had been buried in the tomb of Nicholas Millham, posthumously knighted three centuries ago, and he proposed to investigate the tomb forthwith, beginning the second Monday following, and he preferred that his assistants should come from the parish.

  It was an unheard of and impossible solution. In the first place, everyone had been aware of this legend for a long time, and no one had ever done anything about it. Why not? demanded the vicar. Because of the belief in certain local legends, for one thing; because it was thought irreverent for another; because there was a reasonable doubt about the supposed treasure. Martin Webly was adamant; he thrust forth his jaw, beetled his eyes, and said that he would tolerate neither superstition nor any other nonsense, and the parish had better understand that from the start.

  On the following Sunday, old Sir Basil Hether, who was the local authority on everything from pottery to astronomy, was shown into the vicar's study. He was faintly apologetic, but rather more distant in his manner than apologetic.

  "I came to see you about the Millham tomb," he said.

  "We begin Monday week," said the vicar cheerfully.

  "So I heard. But of course, you can't do it, you can't open it, you know very well there's a curse on it."

  The Reverend Martin Webly fingered his jaw patiently and then took up some old papers which lay not far from his elbow on his desk. "Yes, yes," he said, a little scorn in his voice. "That curse. Let me see, I believe it's here somewhere - a copy of it, that
would be. Yes, here it is."

  Hether extended his hand for it and opened it slowly, carefully, with a certain respect for old things. He peered attentively at the script, "It seems properly clear," he said thoughtfully. "The Latin is easily translated, and you are warned that any disturbance of the tomb will give you grievous trouble."

  The Reverend Mr. Webly took the old paper back and looked at it with pursed lips and narrowed eyes out of which his skepticism showed plainly. "I'm glad you find it so clear. I fail in that. 'Who dares disturb this tomb releases unto death my companion and now his,'" he read. "That's a free translation, isn't it?"

  Hether nodded. "And clear enough, too, I should say."

  Webly made no comment. He put the paper down and crossed his hands on his paunch, eyeing the old man with ill-concealed impatience. "Nevertheless, Monday we begin work. I don't anticipate that it will take us very long. And if the men make any kind of trouble about this superstition, I'll take a hand myself."

  Hether brightened visibly. "That might not be so bad, then," he said reflectively. "As I understand the curse, it applies only to the disturber of the grave; so you are not really loosing any menace upon the parish."

  Webly ignored this thrust and asked about the legends which existed about Nicholas Millham. He had heard hints, of course, but few people wished to speak of the old man. What was there about him?

  Hether, however, had no inhibitions. He could say quite readily what there was about Sir Nicholas Millham. The old man had practised demonology, and there were any number of queer events which had been attributed to him in the absence of any other explanation. And then there was, of course, the matter of his death; he had apparently had some foreknowledge of that, and had had the tomb erected and the curse put on it just a week before he was killed in an accident.

  Webly had some difficulty restraining himself. He reminded his visitor that this was, after all, the twentieth century, not the dark ages. "But you've said nothing about Millham's companion to which he so cryptically alludes," he went on. "I presume he did have a companion - or is that presuming too much?"

  If Sir Basil Hether was aware of the vicar's sarcasm, he chose to overlook it. "Oh, yes, several. But his favorite was a large black dog, named Daemos, and the story goes that of dark nights the villagers could hear the old man's voice calling his dog - 'Here, Daemos! Here, Daemos!'"

  "What a queer name for a dog!"

  Hether rose to go. "Oh, not at all," he said benignly. "When you consider the root of it in the Greek, and its subsequent use in our own language: daimon to daemon or demon. I dare say Millham had a sense of humor."

  The Reverend Mr. Webly mentally reserved to include Sir Basil Hether among those destined to receive the benefit of his prayers and showed him out, unmindful of the old man's dubious mutterings and head shakings. The vicar was a practical man; he permitted Hether's "I really wouldn't do it! I wouldn't sanction it!" to pass from his mind even more swiftly than the old man passed from his sight down the lane to where his car stood waiting.

  On Monday week the work was begun, everyone exercising the utmost care, so that no damage might be done. The vicar told himself and his parishioners that he was not a vandal. Nevertheless, he had to import workmen from outside; without saying so in so many words, old Hether had given him to understand that he would have difficulty with local workmen, and he had been right. The vicar got outside help, preached a sermon on the evils of superstition, and devoted his attention to the matter of the Millham tomb. He was eager to discover now how great the treasure would be, and whether it would pay the parish's debt, which would please his superiors very much and make his own chances for advancement so much greater. He did not at the moment consider the possibility of his advancement to another plane.

  By Wednesday, the coffin was ready for its opening, and the vicar, true to his word, came from his study and opened it. He revealed Sir Nicholas Millham's remains, a small casket of jewels, and a thick mass of musty dust, which slithered like a cloud of fog over the edge of the coffin and vanished. One glance at the jewels was enough to convince the Reverend Mr. Webly that the parish's financial problem had been solved for the time being. He could not keep from returning to his study and telephoning old Hether to impart something of his triumph to him.

  Sir Basil was not enthusiastic. Indeed, he was curiously restrained, so that the vicar had the uncomfortable impression that he was talking to a listener who sat annoyingly waiting for the end of a story which had already patently ended.

  The vicar's triumph, however, was not to be dampened. He announced a special thanksgiving service for that evening, and preached a long sermon on the ways of Providence, despite the fact that the majority of his parishioners were not present. Old Hether was there, and several strangers, summoned no doubt by the unusual ringing of the bells, and curious about the whispered tales already making their way over the countryside about the vicar's find. The vicar had a few uneasy moments, until he could reassure himself that the jewels were safely locked up where no stranger was likely to find them; the only individual who might demand more information than he cared to impart to his parish was the tax collector for the Crown, and he was certainly not among those present.

  Being practical and methodical, the vicar made a conservative estimate of the treasure's worth, and reckoned that, with care, there might be a small fund left over after the parish debt had been paid. It was while he was doing this late that night in his study that the telephone rang and old Hether's voice came over the wire to inquire whether the vicar was still all right.

  "Of course, I'm all right. What do you mean?"

  "Forgive my curiosity," murmured Sir Basil. "I told you I was superstitious. By the way, if you should need me - my telephone is next to my bed."

  The vicar made short work of him; he was not kind. When he put down the telephone he was convinced that he had better plan to give an entire series of lectures upon the evil effects of superstition. If he had been irritated by the curious, stolid refusal of his parish workmen to assist at the opening of the tomb, he was even more disquieted and angered by the persistent stupidity of a man like old Hether, who ought to be about setting a good example rather than upholding the error of these country ways. The vicar, clearly, was from the city; he had come out of White-chapel, which was not a savory environment. Having seen a good deal of the rawer side of life, he had a natural tendency to be irate about those needless beliefs which always work to make the lot of a poor yokelry more difficult.

  When he put out the light and went to bed, the vicar's mind was occupied with sonorous and rather pompous lines deriding the folly of superstition.

  He was awakened in the night by what he thought at first was rain against the window pane; but, as he came more fully to his senses, he recognized it as a snuffling sound - the kind of sound an animal might make. At the same time he was conscious of a veritable bedlam in the village; it seemed to him that every dog in the countryside was barking furiously, madly, as if something frightened or angered them. He turned over on his side and listened intently; the snuffling sound was repeated.

  It was manifestly ridiculous that any kind of animal could be snuffling at his window. The vicar slept on the second floor, and the walls went straight down to the ground, with not even a vine up which something might crawl, much less the roof of a verandah. Yet, there it was, a peculiar, persistent snuffling, accompanied from time to time by an oddly muted whine or growl, and set all the time against that wild barking in the background. He got up at last, irritated, and went over to the window.

  The window looked out upon the lane and the corner streetlight. Almost the first thing he saw was a man standing there; he stood a little in the shadow, and yet his face was clearly visible - a long, dark, saturnine face, with dark pools for eyes, not exactly a young man, and yet not seeming old except in the curious parchment-like quality of his gaunt features. It was not someone the vicar knew.

  While he stood looking, the vicar observed that t
he stranger under the light was not alone; a large dog bounded out of the vicarage yard and came quietly to his side. It seemed to the vicar with a curious kind of thrill that man and dog both turned and looked for a moment intently at the window from which he peered outward before they turned and vanished in the dark direction of the churchyard.

  "What a strange thing!" murmured the vicar.

  He stood there a little longer and was conscious presently that the bedlam of barking had ceased. It did not occur to him that the barking had stopped in approximately the time it would have taken the watcher and his dog to reach the churchyard. In some respects, the vicar was unimaginative; if he had thought enough of old Hether to give him a ring on the telephone, he might have spared himself certain unpleasant experiences.