Johannes Cabal the Necromancer jc-1

by Jonathan L. Howard

  Something was bothering him. It was the idea of predictable hysteria. Hysteria verging on the rehearsed.

  Thinking back, he could have sworn several of the women were screaming “Rhubarb! Rhubarb!” And the abuse the men had shouted — there’d been a lot of fist shaking going on, but what had they actually said? Something like “Raffeln-huffeln-ranty-raa!” was it? “Grrulveln gnash raffer”?

  “You’re cogitating, old bean,” said Joey, mildly curious. “What’s amiss?”

  “I’m going back,” said Cabal determinedly.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “There’s something wrong here. Something fishy about that fair.”

  “You mean apart from their proprietor being in low Earth orbit?”

  “Yes, apart from that. I have a sixth sense that tells me when I’m being made a fool of.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that. ‘Clinical paranoia,’ I think it’s called.”

  “I have a sixth sense,” said Cabal as he gave Joey the look of a man who knows where to lay hands on a pneumatic drill and isn’t afraid to use it, “and it’s telling me somebody somewhere is trying to play me for a fool.” He turned on his heel and marched back towards the Butler fairground.

  It wasn’t there. There was barely a sign it ever had been. “I knew it!” Cabal strode across the abandoned site. “I knew it!”

  “Well, fancy,” said Joey, his great hands on his hips as he looked around with open-faced astonishment. “That’s quite a trick.”

  Cabal stopped and looked at Joey. The ogreish man was very convincing in his surprise, but when all was said and all was done, he was still a product of Hell, created from the very blood of Satan. How far could he be trusted? Even Bones, his major-domo, sprang from the same wellhead. Perhaps Horst was the only one he could really trust. Blood was thicker than water, after all. He had its relative density written down somewhere to prove it.

  Joey’s hand descended gently on his shoulder and drew him to one side. Half a second later, Billy Butler hit the ground where he’d been standing and made a crater four feet deep. “Thank you, Joey,” said Cabal.

  They looked into the hole at the mangled corpse. “At least we won’t have to bury him,” commented Joey. “I’ll just kick some earth in there on him, shall I?”

  “No,” said Cabal dryly.

  “Not deep enough? I’ll find a spade.”

  “Not deep enough. Not by a very long way.” He crossed his arms and looked down on the body with cold disdain. “How deep is Hell, anyway?”

  There was a long pause. Then Butler’s head creaked round a hundred and eighty degrees. “How did you guess?” he croaked through his twisted and broken windpipe.

  “A little too theatrical to be convincing. That is you, isn’t it, Ragtag?”

  “Ratuth,” said the corpse peevishly. The head twisted around again, popping and snapping as it went. Then it extended awkwardly, the vertebrae tearing a slot at the back of the jacket collar.

  Joey took a surprised step back. “Oh! I say …”

  The tear was soon joined by more and more as the thing that had once been Billy Butler erupted into a mess of hands, claws, and writhing thorned tentacles. Non-Euclidean angles sprang up vertically like the scaffolding for the Tower of Babel. At their head, a horse’s skull topped with a stylised Greek helmet was squeezed out from the gaps between realities. “General Slabuth to you, Johannes Cabal,” finished the demon, jaw clattering.

  “Whose brilliant idea was this?” asked Cabal.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This half-witted attempt to make me lose the wager. Whose idea was it?”

  “‘ Half-witted’ is a little harsh, I think.”

  “Whose,” repeated Cabal, firmly enunciating, “idea?”

  “Ah, sort of a committee thing, actually. You see — ”

  “Yours, then.”

  They looked at each other in silence for a moment. “Yes,” said Ratuth Slabuth finally.

  “And what does your master think of this?”

  “What? Cheating? He thinks it’s a frightfully good wheeze as a rule.”

  “Well, tell him it won’t do. No more interference or the whole deal’s off.”

  “Ah, you can’t back out as easily as all that.”

  “Why not? We didn’t sign anything. We didn’t even shake hands.”

  Slabuth managed to purse his lips despite not having any. “It’s not in the spirit of the thing.”

  Cabal laughed derisively. “No more interference, understand? Come along, Mr. Granite.” He turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the Cabal Carnival.

  Joey paused long enough to say, “Nice to meet you. Sorry, must rush,” and rushed.

  * * *

  Ratuth Slabuth watched them go. Then he ignored the earth beneath his feet and plunged into the fiery pit of Hell.

  He found Satan on his throne in the cavern of lava, reading a large-print edition of Wheatley’s The Satanist.

  “It’s a rum way to warn people off from worshipping me,” Satan commented, indicating the book. “It seems to be lots of fun, according to this. Still, I bet they all die horribly at the end. Oh well. Who wants to live forever?”

  “Most of them,” said General Slabuth.

  Satan slammed the book shut and it vanished. “So — how was it? Being human?”

  “Cramped. I’d really rather it were later than sooner before I do that again.”

  “And Cabal?”

  “Surprisingly slow to catch on. Still, I managed to wreck about a fifth of his carnival before the penny dropped.”

  “A fifth? Well done.”

  “He’ll recover, unfortunately. Especially with the help of that brother of his.”

  “Yes. Horst Cabal’s involvement was unexpected. Not to worry, it’s done what I wanted. We shan’t interfere further. At least, not for the time being.”

  There was a pause, during which Slabuth hovered awkwardly. Finally, he said, “Lord Satan. May I ask a question?”

  “Yes?”

  “This whole business has troubled me from the start. While I can see the potential gains to be made by letting Cabal run around doing his best to gather souls, I still don’t understand why you gave him the carnival to help him. From our past experiences, we know them to be powerful corruptors within fairly broad parameters. Giving one to Cabal is tantamount to conceding the wager from the beginning.”

  “And your question is?”

  “Might I ask what all this was in aid of?”

  Satan smiled sweetly. “No. You may not. Tactics are your concern, Ratuth Slabuth. The grand strategy is mine. You may go.”

  Slabuth started to say something, but thought better of it. Trying hard to avoid feeling menial, he went.

  Satan waited until he was alone. He glanced around briefly. If it were possible for the embodiment of sin to look guilty rather than pleased about it, he could definitely have been described as slightly ashamed. Satisfied that there was nobody about to observe his actions, Satan clicked his fingers. A dog-eared old school exercise book, the sort with squared paper, materialised in his hand. He opened it to a graph entitled, in his neat hand, “Cabal’s Performance.” The zigzagging line crossed the hundred-souls mark about a fortnight before the deadline. Satan weighed up the setbacks Cabal had suffered over the last few days, smiled, and erased the latter part of the line. Carefully, he put in a revised estimate: now it indicated a hundred souls with barely a day to spare.

  “There, Johannes,” said Satan. “That should put a little more excitement into your life.”

  POLICE BULLETIN (ISSUED 22/12/1 —): LAIDSTONE PRISON ESCAPEES

  Here follows a list of the escapees from Laidstone’s “E” Wing, the maximum-security section. All the escaped convicts were incarcerated for the most serious crimes, and all are to be approached with caution. Appendix A contains photographs and physical descriptions.

  * Aleister Gage Baker — “The Beast of Barnwick.” Believed largely harmless w
ithout his Beast costume, which remains in evidence.

  * Talbot Saint John Barnaby — “The Pub Poisoner.” Former landlord. All officers should avoid gratis refreshment at public houses until Barnaby is back in custody.

  * Leslie Coleridge — “The Part-Time Children’s Entertainer of Death.” Approach with caution. If Coleridge offers to make a sausage dog out of balloons, call for immediate assistance.

  * Thomas Nashton Cream — “The Incompetent Killer.” Attempted murders, one. Actual deaths, twenty-seven, all unintentional. Intended victim escaped unscathed.

  * Frederick Gallagher — “The Brides in the Inflammable Electrified Acid Bath Murderer.” Limited threat. Kills only for insurance money. Is prone to overplanning.

  * Henry George Hetherbridge — “The Cotton-Reel Killer.” Murdered his wife, uncle, solicitor, and grocer before questions were raised about the likelihood of four cotton-reel-related accidental deaths in a six-week period.

  * Gideon Gabriel Lucas — “The Bible Basher.” Only dangerous to individuals with the surname Bible.

  * Palmer Mallows — “The Soft-Shoe Strangler.” Officers are warned to beware any impromptu dancing.

  * Joseph Grant Osborne — “The Unnecessarily Rude Poisoner.” Of limited threat, but officers should take nothing he says personally.

  * Alvin Simpson — File missing. Assumed dangerous, probably.

  * Daniel Smike — “The Crying Death.” Officers should not refrain from using their truncheons while subduing Smike, no matter how tearful he becomes.

  * Oliver Tiller — “The Rhyming Killer.” Ex-army munitions officer with expertise in booby traps. While pursuing Tiller, officers should beware rakes by lakes, toads on roads, and hairs on the stairs. Esplanades are to be avoided entirely.

  CHAPTER 9

  in wich I go to the carnyval and see stuff

  Wat I did at the weakend

  by Timothy Chambers esq. VC and bar, bane of the treens.

  On saterday my mum and me went to the carnyval. It is caled the CABLE CARNYVAL as it is ownd by two men wat is both caled CABLE. This is becos they are brothers like Victor and me but unlike Victor and me they do not mind being seen togetha. Their was a big gate to stop you getting in unless you have payed but my mate Tony got in on thursday under the fense and he sa “I am like commando with the cat like stelth and can get into carnyvals, radar basis and submarine pens withowt nobody nowing.” Wich is a laff as he has the cat like stelth of a dead pig on rolla skates with a polise siren on its hed. Then he jumps arownd, going “Hut! Hut! Hut!” wich is not mi idea of qwiet either.

  So we go throo the big gate and my mum sa, “Now now timothy you must stay close to yore darling mama and not rush off chiz chiz chiz where have you gone?” For it is true, deer reader, I have cast off the shakles of maternal luv (uuurgh, pas the sik bag, matron) and flown off like a free bird. (Ha ha like a big fat gopping vulture ha ha, sa my brother victor who hav just red this over my shouldier. Like he would kno, he run skreaming from the interesting natural history progs on the telly, AND NOW WE SEE MOTHER NATURE RED IN TOOF AND CLAW nash, snarl, blood eveeriwhere, the dulcit tones of Victor sobbing in FEER in the kitchen. But I digres.)

  Last seene I was running through the carnyval, ta ran ta rah, mi inocent young brane being corrupted by side shows of feersome depravitty. FABULOSO! I see the GOST TRANE and run up to the skinnie bloke in front. “Hello mr can I go on yore gost trane pliss oh pliss oh pliss oh pliss” for I am not above the begging.

  “Well, ain’t you the enthusiastic one, huh, junior?” said Mr. Bones, looking down on the young boy jumping up and down in front of him. “Where’s your mom?”

  The boy looked abashed. “Over there,” he said eventually, and pointed at half the county.

  “Oh,” said Bones. “Right. Well, so long’s she know where you are, young fella, that’s fine. You want to go on the Ghost Train, hmm?”

  The boy nodded hard and fast enough to pull muscles in an older man.

  “Okay, but you got to understand, this is one spooky mother of a ride, y’hear? We get kids — oh, heck — twice your age goin’ in here, comin’ out like ooooooold men.” He illustrated “ooooooold” by going bowlegged and waggling his hands. “Why, I went in there with a fine head of hair. Now look!” He whipped off his brown derby to show a perfectly smooth skull. The boy laughed delightedly. “Oh, you can laugh now, but look what this ride gone and done to me. I’m only fifteen!”

  I think he is being ECONOMIKLE with the troof but no matter for the GOST TRANE do bekkon (mettaforikaly). Aktually, not that mettaforikaly for it hav a normous SKELLINGTON on top wich do the bekkonin wiv a big hand. Also a big grilla with a rock. But, no, quelle horruers, mes petites. For I have no MONI.

  “No cash, huh?” said Bones. “Weeeell…” He looked around with great drama and then ducked close to whisper, “I s’pose I could push the rules and let you in, yeah? But it’s our secret, right? No tellin’ your friends, ’cos I’ll have to say no to ’em. Okay?”

  The boy nodded, excited by the conspiracy.

  “H’okay, then,” said Bones. He stepped into the ticket booth and slapped out a piece of pasteboard. “Here y’go. One complimentary ticket, courtesy of the management.” The boy took it reverentially. Bones stepped sideways out of the booth and said sternly, “You got a ticket? I see you have.” He plucked it from the boy’s fingers, tore it neatly in two, and returned the stub. Then, brightening, he said, “All aboard the Ghost Train!” and waved him onto the first car.

  The driver were a SKELLINGTON too!!! The skinnie blok sa “This heres my frend, driver, so you must be show him a good time.” And the driver put downe his racing paper and sa, “OK Bones” wich is a bit ionic rilly. Then the skinnie blok go awa and the GOST TRANE starts up. The TRANE is a propa one with the smoke and steam and not like that rubish one at Butlers Fair wich was driven by a yoof spotier than my bro wich is saying somthing and no mistaik. He just sat there 4 ages talking to GURLS who ar less fussy than can be beleeved. This driver tho was a proper GOST TRANE driver cos he was DED and not just DED UGLI.

  So the TRANE pull awa from the platform and enter the TUNEL OF FEER! Wich i no cos it sa so over the topp.

  The train accelerated hard and shot into the tunnel like a ferret down a hole, smashing open the doors that kept the interior in gloom. Timothy had a momentary impression of the hideous grinning face painted across the doors changing its expression to one of worried anticipation just before impact, and could have sworn that he heard the doors say “Ouch” in concert amidst the loud buffet as they bounced off their end stops.

  “Ha-ha,” said the driver laconically to himself. The train swept around a corner and down a small hill that must surely take them lower than ground level, slowed to take a hard jink to the left, and then started to pick up speed. Timothy hadn’t been on many ghost trains in his short life, but this one was surely different. Even the way the train ran — heading off into doors to the right of the façade and therefore offering a widdershins ride as distinct from the common clockwise path — seemed calculated to unsettle. For several long seconds, nothing occurred. Then he became aware of a small grey area that, for a curious moment, he felt sure was a window. No, it was too irregular. Suddenly he realised that it was a large toy rabbit, perhaps four feet tall. It had definitely seen better days: one ear was lopsided halfway up its length, the fur was balding down to a hessian quality in places, and one of its button eyes dangled on its cheek by a loose thread.

  “THAT’S NOT SKARY AT ALL!” I said, unintimmidatted by the big bunny. “It is not terifying. It is a swiz and a cheat. I wuld ask for my monie back had I pade any. Wich I have not.”

  “I am the embodymunt of childhood feers, if you must kno,” sa the bunny. “I can see Im a bit early in yore case. Just give it 20 years and I will skare you something badd, laddy.”

  “I do not see how that is possible, my fine thredbear frend,” sa I “For I have never had a bunny as a toy and therfour cannot project
my Froydian traumas onto one. So yar, floppy ears.”

  It is then that I notise a tabel in the gloome behind him at wich sit other big toys. They are plaing CARDS and drinkking BEER. They call things like, “Betcha had a teddy bear though or a big toothy monkie called Mr. Nana or a comical squid …”

  A little voice from the shados sa, “… or Cromatty the Frendly Piebald Rat.” And all the other toys thro there glasses at it.

  “Shut up, Cromatty,” they sa, “Nobody ever hav a frendly piebald rat in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Shut up befor we biff you up agane.”

  The horor bunny heave a big sigh and sa, “I hav had just aboute enuff of this. I want some fresh air. Here,” he sa waving at the trane driver. “Stopp. I want a ride.” So we stopp and the horor bunny, whoose name is Yan, clime in and then we are off agane.

  Jan the Horror Bunny took delicate hold of the thread running from beside the site of his dangling eye and pulled gently, drawing the eye back into its correct place. “That’s better,” he said to Timothy. “It plays absolute hell with your stereoscopic vision having one eye wandering around like that. So, Master …?”

  “Timothy,” said Timothy in a small voice, although not as small as one might expect under the circumstances.

  “Master Timothy, are you enjoying the fair so far?”

  “It’s a bit… funny.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jan, leaning forward in his seat to peer into the darkness, “it’s a funny fair all right.”

  Suddenly thin figures, apparently made from outsize black pipe cleaners with broken spoons for heads, leapt out of nowhere and danced around, making gobbling noises. Timothy jumped a little. “Garn!” shouted Jan. “Get it out of it, you beatniks!” The figures capered out of sight, still gobbling. Jan turned to Timothy. “I mean, what are they meant to be? They’re just a mess. We’ve been on the go for months now, and we’ve never met anybody who had a morbid fear of surrealism. Dislike?” He seesawed a paw. “Maybe. Fear? Nah.”

  They trundled on in silence for a few more moments. Something indescribably phobic shuffled out and sat by the track, smoking a woodbine. “I am the thing that lives under your bed. Goorah, goorah.” This last delivered as the sort of noise a monster might make if it could get up a bit of enthusiasm.