My head swam, and the walls of the hold melted and ran. The firebrand in my hand seemed to recede into a great distance, until it was little more than a pinpoint of light in a blanket of darkness and I was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness.
A tide took me, a swell that lifted and transported me, faster than thought, to the green twilight of ocean depths far distant.
I realised I was not alone. We floated, mere shadows now, scores – nay, tens of scores of us – in that cold silent sea. I was aware that other sailors were nearby, but I had no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below us, cyclopean ruins shone dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumbled in a non-Euclidean geometry that confused the eye and brooked no close inspection. And something deep in those ruins knew we were there.
We dreamed, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulfed the stars, of blackness where there was nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.
We were at peace.
A flaring pain jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning skin, but took several seconds to note that it was my own hand that had seared. The coxswain, stout man that he is, had broken the hold on me by touching his firebrand to my skin.
I had no time to thank him, for the beast had encroached closer to me while I dreamed and even now, threatened to engulf me.
Once again I held the firebrand ahead of me and, with the aid of the coxswain, I held the beast at bay, struggling to keep its grip from settling on my mind. Indeed, if the barrel of pitch had not been brought, I might have succumbed.
Burning the pitch enabled the recapture of the beast to proceed more rapidly. The heat from the flames threatened to set fire to the deck of the hold itself, but I refused to allow the men to put it out until we had driven the beast back into the casket.
I have ensured that the box is sealed completely and it is now stored at the furthermost end of the hold. All I can do is keep the crew as far away from it as is possible on this small vessel.
That, and hope that in our dreams, we do not fall again under its spell.
But it is hard. For every time I close my eyes, I dream of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while my slumbering god dreams, I dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.
In dreams, I am at peace.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 17th August 1535.
Captain Santoro’s journal has at least given me a place to start. I already knew that strapado would not be an option for this particular miscreant. Nor would I be able to utilise the rack or the maiden. But fire would be more than sufficient for my purposes. It took little work to prepare the cell for Inquisition, as matters are already set up amply for the ordeal. I ensured that the lead casket was placed inside concentric circles of oil, such that they could be lit immediately in the event of an attempt to escape. I also had a brazier full of coals at hand to my right side and three needle-pokers burning white-hot in a small oven to my left.
Even before I opened the casket, I felt the tickle in my mind, but I pushed it away. My God is stronger than any heathen devil. I mouthed the Pater Noster as I lifted the lid.
Once again, the black ooze surged and the tickle in my mind turned into an insistent probing. Memories rose unbidden in my thoughts: of summer days in warm meadows, of lessons learned in cold monastery halls, of penance paid for sins.
I was under questioning.
That I could not allow. I am master of this inquisition. Several wet mouths opened in the black ooze. Using a pair of pliers, I plucked a hot coal from the brazier and, as another mouth formed, I let the coal drop inside.
The grip on my mind released immediately, replaced by a formless scream, which quickly became a chant that echoed around the cell. I knew the words. I had read them in the Captain’s journal.
Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.
A long tendril reached from the lead box, coming towards me. I took a poker from the oven and, with one smooth strike, thrust it through the black material. The ooze retreated, shrinking back as far into the corner of the lead casket as it could get.
I leaned forward, a fresh poker in my hand.
“Are you guilty?” I asked, and stabbed down hard.
The Inquisition proper has begun.
From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 17th July 1535.
Will this nightmare never end?
The beast, despite its incarceration, has steadily increased its hold on us since we forced it back into the casket. We cannot allow ourselves to sleep, for when we do, we are trapped in its spell, lost in the dream somewhere above the cyclopean ruins.
In truth, the dream is seductive, even more so than drinking endless flagons of wine or constant inhalation of the weed that the natives smoke in the New World. Three of the crew have succumbed, falling into a deep slumber from which they cannot be awakened. They breathe and their eyes are open, but I cannot get them to eat and they are already close to starving. I fear they will be long lost afore we reach port.
Some days, I almost feel like joining them. I am kept awake by a suffusion made from a roasted bean, a drink we discovered among the native tribes where we landed in the New World.
Would that were all we discovered.
Some of the crew have reported that the beast is also reaching into their minds during waking hours. Many of them have had the same compulsion – to go down into the hold and open the casket, releasing the thing to roam the decks. No one has yet given in to the demands, but it is another reason to make for port with all speed.
I know not how much longer we can hold.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535.
It has taken more than a week, and sorely tested the Inquisitor General’s patience, but finally, after I have burned away more than nine-tenths of its matter, it has weakened. I have found that the mind-grip works both ways. If I concentrate hard, I can catch glimpses of what the beast is thinking and feel its fear.
I have put it to the inquisition, and it has answered me.
As shocking as it seems, the beast has no conception of our Lord. Indeed, it seems never to have encountered a single Christian, despite the fact that it is possibly the oldest living thing on the face of the earth. That revelation came as something of a shock to me. The creature has memories going back to a time when ice covered the face of the earth. Its first encounter with Man shows a savage race clothed in furs, with only rudimentary speech, and I am at a loss to know how such a thing can be reconciled from what I know from my study of the biblical texts. I must seek guidance from the Inquisitor General, for my thoughts are troubled and dark.
This beast I have under my ministrations is devious and subtle. It works constantly at me, testing my belief with scenes of lust and debauchery: maidens in states of undress displaying themselves wantonly for my pleasure, hot blood flowing to feed my growth. I have to see these things, and endure, for in the seeing, I also learn more about the beast’s drives and passions, which are mightily strong.
I had almost come to believe that this might be the most ancient of evils, the Great Deceiver himself. But the thing has memories even older than the time of ice, memories of a time when it was but a servant of something vast and strange ... memories of a creator that I do not recognise as being anything resembling my Lord. I am at a loss to know what to think of this new information and must question the beast further.
I have learned one other thing. The creators gave it a name, a moniker by which it recognises itself. It is known as Shoggoth.
From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 14th August 1535.
We will make port on the morrow. It matters little, for the dream is with us now in every waking hour and no distance from the beast will make any difference. It has passed on to us so completely that w
e will never be free from it. Nor would we wish anything other. Indeed, I am not the only one who has found himself standing over the lead casket, just to be closer to the blessed, drifting peace it offers.
There is no pain in the dream, no fear, no hunger, just the sweet forever of the dead god beneath.
I have talked to the crew. We will do our duty and take our captive to the castle. But we will no longer work for the Church after this task is done. I intend to set sail again as soon as night falls. There is a spot in the South Seas where a dead god lies dreaming.
We will find him and join him there.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535.
I wish now that I had read Santoro’s journal a mere hour sooner, for then I might have been able to prevent the Santa Angelo slipping out of port under cover of night and I might have been able to question the crew as to the nature of the malady that so sore afflicted them.
For I, too, have been dreaming.
I am not alone. We float, mere shadows, scores – nay, tens of scores of us – in a cold, silent sea. I am aware that others are near to me, but I have no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below me, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection.
And something deep in those ruins knows I am there.
But it is of no matter. The beast is now in my thrall and its secrets shall be mine before the day is out. They will have to be, for I fear I have been lax in my inquisitions. Even as I have been burning my will into the beast’s flesh, so it has been leaving its mark on me. This morning, at my ablutions, I discovered a fleck of blackness betwixt thumb and finger that no amount of scraping will shift. It has now covered most of my left hand, forcing me to wear a glove lest it is discovered. For, if the Inquisitor General were to find out I am tainted, my questioning would be brought to an abrupt end and that I cannot allow.
The beast will reveal its secrets.
I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.
By order of the Inquisitor General, 28th August 1535.
It is our command, on this day of our Lord the twenty and eighth of August, that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported shall be taken to the place of the Auto de-fé and burned at the stake, alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.
It is further commanded that, if the Santa Angelo is found in Spanish waters, it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands, and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.
Any persons found spreading the sedition of the Dreaming God shall be subjected to the full force of the Inquisition.
Let this be the end of the matter.
The Lord wills it.
William Meikle is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series, among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland, with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters, he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace, so please check him out at williammeikle.com.
The author speaks: I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of the Spanish Inquisition and Man’s inhumanity to Man in the name of religion. I’ve been searching for awhile for the right concept to introduce them into a story, and when I had a dream about Conquistadors finding something in a temple in the jungle, something with questions of its own, I just had to write it.
THE FAR DEEP
Joshua Reynolds
It was the Year of Our Lord 1571 and John of Austria was dancing a galliard on the gun platform of the Real. Men crowded the decks of the vessels – Italian, Spanish and corsair alike – that made up the Grand Fleet of the Holy League to watch as their admiral succumbed to youthful enthusiasm for the coming battle.
On the far flank, aboard the Maltese galley St. Elmo, Francisco Felluci, Knight Hospitaller, late of Venice, said, “He is dancing.” His much-battered, ornate armour creaked in sympathy with the rigging overhead as he turned to glance at his man-at-arms, Agostino. “Dancing.”
“Who?” Agostino was a bulky Sicilian, with one good eye and a cleft cheek, through which yellow teeth were visible. He rubbed absently at the crude patch that covered the memory of the Turkish bullet that had taken his eye at the battle of St. Elmo.
Felluci had been there as well, in those mad final hours, locked sword-to-sword with the Janissaries pouring over the walls, until a bullet had shattered his ribs and sent him into the water. It was Agostino who had helped him swim to safety after stripping him of his armor, beneath the thunder of Turkish guns.
“The Austrian whelp, who else?” Felluci said, sighing. “This is a farce.”
“I thought it was a fleet,” Agostino said. Felluci fixed him with a glare, but the one-eyed man took no notice.
“A farce,” Felluci said again, teeth bared. “Why are we even here?”
“To sink the ambitions of the Turk?” Agostino said innocently.
“Ha!” Felluci tore off his peaked helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Stop that, or I’ll put you down with the galley slaves.”
Agostino shuddered. “I’d rather kiss the Sultan’s rear.”
“Hrm,” Felluci said, replacing his helmet. “You might get the opportunity, at that. This is going to be bad.”
“They always are.” Agostino hefted his arquebus and sighted down the barrel. “Still, no call to mope. God will provide.”
“Whose God? Ours or theirs?”
“Does it matter?” Agostino shrugged. “Religion is a cloak. Wear it, or another, as you see fit, sir.”
“Blasphemy,” Felluci murmured, staring out at the coastline of Lepanto. The Sicilian was right, of course. Many was the Knight who had been a Janissary, or vice-versa. One master or another, one god or the next, when it came down to the sword-edge, it seemed to matter not at all. He sighed again and set a boot on the rail. Resting his forearms across his knee, he turned from the spectacle of a Christian admiral dancing like a madman and towards the approaching fleet of the House of Osman.
The great emerald banner of Islam, shot through with golden thread, flapped in the sun over the red-hulled ship carrying the admiral of the Turkish fleet. A low thudding, as deep as the ocean’s heart, rang out, accompanied by the blaring cacophony of zornas and cymbals from the ships of the enemy fleet. Distant figures clad in extraordinary colours stalked the decks of the swift-moving galleys surging forth from Lepanto, calling out the twenty-nine thousand names of God and shouting verses from the Koran.
On the vessels of the Holy League, it was much the same. The sky-blue banner blessed by the Pope, himself, was unfurled from the mast of the Real. Men roared imprecations in Spanish and Italian, and trumpets warred with the drums of the timekeepers. The sun caught the polished breastplates and helmets of the troops, creating a blinding sheen of brightness that threatened the eyes of any who looked too closely.
One fleet coming to challenge the other’s control of the Middle Sea and the center of the world. It was a sight to stir the blood.
Felluci, who preferred his blood unstirred and safely in his veins, made a sound of disgust. “Farce,” he said again.
“You said that about St. Elmo, as well,” someone said. Felluci winced and turned as Henri Argustier, the commander of the galley, strode towards them. “And look how that turned out.”
“A bloody massacre?” Felluci said. Argustier, a stern French knight with a disapproving countenance, frowned.
“A God-sent triumph,” he corrected.
“St. Elmo fell,” Felluci said. “If that’s your idea of triumph, I’d hate to see a defeat.”
“Your cynicism verges on defeatism, Venetian,” Argustier said, emphasizing the last word. “But then, your people never had the sto
mach for battle, did they?”
“I prefer to eat tastier fare,” Felluci said. “Did you strike the slaves’ shackles?”
Argustier snorted, showing what he thought of that idea. The general order to free all slaves of Christian bent was being tacitly ignored by several commanders – including Argustier, apparently. Felluci frowned.
“We were ordered–”
“The Austrian can spit, for all I care,” the French knight said. “We serve only the Order.”
“And the Pope,” Agostino said quietly. Argustier shot him a withering glare, but nodded brusquely.
“And the Holy Father. Of course.”
“Amen,” Felluci said. He drew his sword. “I’ll go free them, then.” Slavery – whether the victim was Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or pagan – was a fact of life in the Middle Sea. Galleys needed crews and volunteers were in short supply. Felluci found the entire concept detestable, but was far too practical to protest openly. He had no slaves of his own, not even before he’d lost his estates to the Doge’s whim. And after he’d joined the Order, he’d kept that practice. Agostino was his only servant and one servant like Agostino was often one too many.
“You’ll do nothing but man your post,” Argustier barked. “The last thing we need is galley revolt. They’ll stay chained until I say otherwise. And that fisherman we took earlier, as well.”
“Of course,” Felluci said, after a moment, glancing at the mast. The fisherman was a Cypriot Greek, small and wiry. He looked more tired than frightened, even tied to the mast as he was. A number of fishing boats had been taken by the fleet, both to prevent any possible warning to the Turks and to learn what could be known about the disposition of the enemy fleet.
So far, any useful information had been less than forthcoming. The Greek was unlettered, unkempt and pig-ignorant. He knew next to nothing, save that the Turk was there and the Holy League was here and the fishermen on this section of coast were trying to be anywhere other than in-between them.
Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time Page 16