Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Then came a different stink, and a yowl of gunfire, and whatever it was was gone, flipping back into the water like a fish released from a line.

  “Sir?” Agostino said, clinging to the ladder into the hold. “Sir, are you –”

  “Still breathing, yes.” Felluci whirled, panic lending him speed, and swung his blade down, chopping through more and more chains, conscious of the crawling water and the silvery glint that came with it. It was still out there, still swimming. What was it? What was it?

  Maybe the Cypriot would have known. Or Agostino’s apocryphal fisherman. Men waged war on the surface of the sea without giving thought to what watched from below. What was it? Men grabbed at his arms, babbling prayers and plea. He shrugged them off.

  “What was it?” he said, shouting. “Agostino! What was it?”

  “I ….” Agostino shook his head and awkwardly tried to reload his arquebus. “I didn’t see it!”

  “Damn your eyes; you did!” Felluci gestured with his sword. “Up! Up and swim, if you value your lives!” Agostino climbed quickly back up. The slaves crawled out of the hold after him.

  Felluci turned as he heard the sound of something sharp digging into wood. Claws? His heart sped up. He wasn’t frightened. Not really. He didn’t know what it was and a man like Felluci could not be afraid of the unknown.

  At least, that was what he told himself. It was getting harder and harder to hold to it as he stood in the rising water, amidst the floating dead, and tightened his grip on his notched sword.

  The chains clinked. Something crept among the bodies of the drowned. It was just beneath the surface. Like moonlight, only, not a reflection.

  He backed away, towards the ladder, sword extended. The fisherman’s bauble seemed to anchor him in place, making him move slowly. Then the smell again. Wet and clammy and foul.

  It rose slowly this time, as if it had all the time in the world. Pale eyes fixed on him and followed his progress as he tried to back up the ladder. It was more fish than anything, lacking the smooth dichotomy evident in the woodcuts of tritons, mermen and monkfish. It was ape, frog, fish, squid, and all things far and deep. Webbed paws reached for him.

  No. Not him.

  Felluci’s hand slapped against the bauble and he spun, scrambling the rest of the way up. The thing screamed and followed, not bothering with the ladder, just digging its claws into the wood and hauling itself up.

  On the deck, Felluci found himself face-to-face with a dozen Janissaries. One stepped forward, mustaches bristling as he leveled his arquebus and barked an order in Turkish.

  Agostino lay nearby, face slack, dazed by a blow to the skull. Several of the slaves were dead, the others huddled behind the Turks, already enslaved again after only a few moments of freedom.

  Felluci didn’t drop his sword. He didn’t dare. He turned and backed away, ignoring the Turks, as the great frog-shape of the thing heaved itself up out of the hold, dripping water. It screeched and the cry was answered from the water by a dozen eerily similar sounds. Arquebuses barked and foul smoke spread as a half-dozen bullets struck the creature and flung it down, oozing whatever passed for blood. It sprawled on the deck, long arms reaching towards the feet of the dead fisherman. It wheezed like a drowning fish.

  Had it come for him? Or for its due? He recalled the way it had looked at the bauble he wore, then tensed, waiting for the bullet that would do the same to him. Instead, the ship rocked. Dark shapes clambered aboard, pale-moon eyes gleaming out of silvery skulls. The Turks turned, some trying to reload, others drawing their curved swords. Then the things were upon them in a rush, croaking and screeching.

  Felluci wanted to laugh at the spectacle, but instead, he grabbed Agostino and hauled him out of the way, slicing his sword out at anything – man or beast – that got too close. Shouts of alarm came from the Turkish vessels pressing close as the men aboard got a look at what awaited them on the St. Elmo.

  “S-sir?” Agostino coughed. Felluci hunkered down beside him, trying to ignore the sounds of butchery rolling down the deck.

  “Can you swim?” he said harshly.

  “I ….” Agostino’s eyes focused on the golden icon hanging from Felluci’s belt. “Get rid of it!” he screeched, clawing for the thing.

  Cannons thundered then, cracking the ship in two. The Turkish response to things that disturbed them, swift and brutal. Agostino and Felluci were flung into the water. The latter lost sight of his manservant as he slipped beneath the waves.

  While he sank down into the black waters, he fumbled with the snaps and catches of his armour, stripping it from his body. His lungs began to burn, the weight dragging him down. Above, a distant orange haze marked the burning ruin of the ship, like the light at the end of a tunnel.

  A shape swam towards him and – for a brief, hopeful moment – he thought it was Agostino.

  It wasn’t.

  Webbed paws seized his face and held him close. Alien eyes stared into his. Black eyes, like marbles or perhaps the spaces between stars. They were eyes that had seen the golden offerings of generations of Greeks, of Persians, of Phoenicians and older, forgotten peoples, stretching back into dim mists. Eyes that had witnessed the beginning of some ancient covenant between Man and the sea, a covenant that could not be broken by something as ephemeral as warring empires.

  Felluci stared into those eyes and saw the whole of history unfold. He knew that the darkness was full of them, quicksilver shapes that swam back and forth, just out of the edge of his blurring vision. Hundreds, thousands.

  The masters of the far deep.

  Claws cut into his cheeks and it blinked, mouth tendrils flaring. He couldn’t breathe. He knew what he had to do. Agostino had been right. Black spots dancing in front of his eyes, he wrenched the golden icon off of his belt and let it sink.

  A scaly arm snapped out, catching it. Felluci was released and he shot to the surface as quickly as possible, his chest on fire. He surfaced with a gasp, reaching out to grip a chunk of scorched wood.

  Down below, the silver shapes circled, withdrawing deeper and deeper into the depths. Felluci watched them, half-waiting for a clawed hand to seize his ankle.

  Instead, it seized his shoulder. He screamed and turned, splashing. Agostino looked at him blearily.

  “Sir? Did you get rid of it? Do you live?”

  Felluci stared at him then looked around at the wrecked hulks that floated on the water, the ships that were still locked in combat for the fate of a world that was, perhaps, not even really theirs.

  And down below, what? Something brushed gently across his legs and he shuddered, not from the water but from a last, sudden knowledge.

  It hadn’t been a mercy. Merely a stay of execution. As long as Man crossed the sea, they would wait for their tithe.

  “Sir?” Agostino said again, as he clung to a floating powder barrel. Felluci looked at him then closed his eyes.

  “For now, Agostino. For now.”

  Joshua M. Reynolds is a freelance writer of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He has written a bit and some of it was even published. For money. By real people. His work has appeared in anthologies such as Cthulhu Unbound 2 and in periodicals such as Innsmouth Free Press. Feel free to stop by his blog, http://joshuamreynolds.blogspot.com, and cast aspersions on his character.

  The author speaks: I’ve always found the history of the Mediterranean fascinating, especially the all-too-frequent clashes between the (theoretically) allied Hapsburg Empires of Europe and the Ottoman Empire. And let’s not even get into the independent operators like the Barbary Pirates or the Knights of Malta (or, in the case of my story, “The Far Deep”, the Deep Ones!), who made life tough for everybody, regardless of faith or faction. The Battle of Lepanto, during which I set “The Far Deep”, was one of the last great naval battles of this period and one of the largest head-to-head conflicts between the faiths of Catholicism and Islam (and Cthulhuism, I suppose). In the end, that’s why I set the “The Far Deep” where and w
hen I did. At a point where faith and fury collide, it’s only natural that you’d find a few monsters.

  CITY OF WITCHES

  Regina Allen

  Hot metal whizzed past his ear. Warm air filled Iyapo’s aching lungs as he fled the white slaver. The shackles around his neck, hands and ankles fought his limbs, but he pushed against the stiff, unyielding metal that swelled his wrists so they resembled bloated wildebeests.

  “Catch him!” came the cries of men following his tracks.

  Birds, startled from the sound, shrieked alarm. The waving canopy sent brisk breezes to Iyapo’s strained muscles. Sweat ran down his temples, blinding him. He stumbled, lost his footing and rolled like a pebble until his body smashed against cool stone.

  Coarse sand stuck in his throat. Ignoring the pain, Iyapo jumped to his feet. He saw crumbled, decayed huts with malnourished trees, bent and twisted. They heralded a ruinous city of basalt, diseased with rot and tropical growth along crooked walls and cavernous windows.

  As a boy, Iyapo had remembered his father’s stories about ancient cities, cities of the afiti – the witches – where poor souls were taken and given to their gods.

  Gunshots interrupted his thoughts. Iyapo, a confused antelope, ran to and fro until he found two large worm-eaten wooden gates open just enough to allow him passage. His brain screamed Don’t enter! But fear of the alternative overruled and he slipped inside, just as a bullet nicked the hinge of the gate.

  The sand burned his calloused feet. He winced at the sharp pain stabbing his left temple. No songbirds or insects chorused; no flowers or festive colours paraded in windows or doorsteps. The round, whitewashed huts, with gaping doorways and two black sockets for windows, billowed the stench of decayed flesh into his nostrils. Iyapo flinched, covered his nose and made quick searches of the huts for a weapon – any weapon – he could use against the white men.

  Iyapo ventured deeper into the city. Hut after hut lay barren, save for bones and smashed skulls scattered on the floor. He didn’t want to think about how they had died, didn’t want to see in his mind’s eye the gruesome dinners held in this city. He just wanted to find a weapon and get out of there.

  In the distance, Iyapo saw a dark, towering structure, a termite hill above ant mounds. The sun shone brightly, but the structure absorbed light so it neither reflected nor bathed in the sun’s warmth. This must be a temple or great oba’s palace, Iyapo thought. If so, there should be a cache of weapons, and maybe a few gourds of water, stashed somewhere in the palace rooms. If there was any hope of defending himself, of getting out of here and somehow back home, his answers lay in whatever that structure held.

  As Iyapo neared, he noted the palace was composed of basalt like the city’s walls. An oba wouldn’t construct a basalt palace and one with corners. The roof should be round as well as the palace. This is an afiti’s palace, he realized. Yet, he hoped to find something to use as a weapon against the relentless white slavers and break the shackles from his limbs.

  A dark-grey current of smoke snaked from the structure’s mouth to slither under his feet. He suddenly felt lightheaded and couldn’t focus his vision. The current licked his feet until he felt a slight tug, as if it wanted to carry him forward, toward the palace. A feeler, Iyapo realized. It meant afiti still lived in the city. They knew he was here.

  Carefully, so as not to create ripples in the grey skein of smoke, Iyapo slipped out of the current. Any sudden movement in the smoke would alert afiti to his presence. More grey tendrils flowed from the palace in all directions, searching for more humans within its walls. Iyapo, worried that an afiti would swoop from the skies and spring from the dead huts, strode toward what he now knew to be an afiti temple.

  Gems flashed a kaleidoscope of colours that danced along the walls. Spears, javelins, swords – so much weaponry to choose from. Never had he seen such riches in his life! Many weapons he did not recognize. Many foreign headdresses adorned the place. One metal headdress caught his attention. Its faded plume waved like cotton burdened with shoots. There were many shields from the Ashanti, the Fullah and the Bambara. Others were strange. Faces of white men with short hair and crested helmets adorned metal shields. The shields were different shapes: some were round and had strange animals painted on them, while others were long and rectangular, painted red with gold trim. Perhaps these white tribes searched for the ancient city of Kultar.

  Kultar was a place of great knowledge, wisdom and riches. Griots told stories of the ancient city along an old caravan route that led to the Northern Kingdom where lions were revered and worshiped. Knowledge was a commodity, and Kultar and the Northern Kingdom exchanged ideas. The griots also told of Kultar’s demise when a traveler from the North brought with him an ancient scroll. The traveler read the scroll aloud to the citizens who, when they heard the words, tore out their hair, wailed and shredded their clothes. Over time, Kultar’s greatness faded; its wisdom dimmed as it decayed into depravity. Its inhabitants forgot the old ways and began to worship gods older than the known gods. The inhabitants soon developed a taste for human flesh. Many poor travelers ended up as cuts of meat in their markets. The Northern Kingdom cut off all ties and alerted other cities of Kultar’s evil. It was the Chezwe, Bringers of Knowledge, who drove them out, drove them away from the cities of men. In the forests, the swamps and caves, the remnants of Kultar worshiped their gods.

  Iyapo wondered if this was the ancient city Kultar.

  “Captain, William, his tracks lead to those ruins in front of us,” a tall, lanky man, with blond hair plastered to his neck, pointed toward the ancient city.

  Captain William Marsh appeared from the brush and let out a low whistle as he surveyed the city. Finding the Negro in the ruins complicated things. “I’ll cover this section of the city and you take that, John. We’ll meet toward the center where that black structure is,” the Captain said.

  John sighed. “All this for one Negro? Ain’t we got enough to take back?”

  William spat on the ground. “I never leave with half my cargo. It’s all or nothing.”

  John and William walked toward the city, rifles cocked and ready in case the Negro should ambush them. John blinked several times; his vision was out of focus. He felt dizzy, caught his breath because it felt as if he were pulled under water. The dark-grey smoke snaked through a set of gates to curl like a pet dog around his feet. He absently kicked at it, watched it dissipate, only to swiftly reform and continue its journey.

  “Hmm, William, see this smoke. Ain’t it strange?”

  William never looked down. “Just means he’s here. C’mon, we’ve got him now.”

  Though William scouted the city, John’s eyes locked on the tall black structure in the city’s center. There must be gold – more gold then he could ever amass in all his voyages to this cursed land for slaves. Besides, half the cargo died in the Middle Passage, so the risk of capturing all the black heathens couldn’t stem the overwhelming debt he’d accrued back in New Orleans. Being brother of the captain didn’t translate to instant wealth. It just meant he got scraps, was all, and he wanted more – much more.

  John strode, then ran, toward the temple involuntarily, yet anxious because he hoped to find treasure, treasure that would pay off his gambling debt, buy his own plantation and provide an easy life.

  Iyapo’s eyes drank in all the treasures so openly draped in and around the temple. He stepped closer to the altar; dried bloodstains and tufts of hair stuck at the rim. He didn’t want to think about the men, women and children offered upon that gruesome table. He needed a weapon, anything to defend himself against the whites and break the confining chains off his limbs.

  He heard the careless footsteps of someone running toward the temple. From the mound of gold and jewels, Iyapo snatched a purple robe and draped it over himself. He found a dark corner behind the altar and pressed his body against the wall until he blended with the shadows.

  John followed the trail of gold, silver and gems, stuffing what he coul
d into his boots and shirt. At the altar, he saw a large, golden shield. “Will, come look. You won’t believe –”

  He never finished his sentence. A bronze spear lodged in his abdomen. He dropped his rifle and collapsed.

  “John? John!” William, more cautious than his brother, stepped slowly toward the altar. The sun’s journey across the sky would end soon and what light the temple held, diminished. William looked down at the great wealth strewn about and knew it was a trap. Poor John lay dead somewhere inside. Stupid fool. The Negro was smart, had spirit. He’d break his spirit so thoroughly he’d have that Negro licking his boots before the end of the voyage. William cocked his rifle. He wasn’t going to be the Negro’s second casualty.

  An invisible hand dragged away the dead man’s body. Iyapo’s heart thundered. The blackness melted his silhouette into its fleshy folds. Who or what took the white man’s corpse?

  He heard a gun cock outside the temple. Iyapo’s eyes widened. Trembling, he clutched his spear tighter. A shot fired. The bullet hit its mark. A surge of burning metal ripped into Iyapo’s left shoulder followed by a river of pain that rushed down his side. He saw the barrel of the gun floating and, just as quickly as it appeared, the barrel disappeared. Shots shattered the silence, followed by a human cry. Animal and inhuman grunts drowned out the white man’s strangled cries.

  A cold finger traced down Iyapo’s spine as a monolithic figure filled the doorway, blocking all light. Cold talons snatched Iyapo’s spear. Lightheaded and feverish, Iyapo consigned himself to his fate. He stumbled to the floor and fainted.

  The creature fell upon him like a vulture on carrion.

  Iyapo awoke to find himself tied to a stake. The slaver beside him was also bound. The moon lurked in the shadows of the forest. Lit torches lined the huts and the temple’s entrance. A creature that resembled a black hyena loped toward the altar and dropped the dead man’s naked body onto the stone slab. Every bone in Iyapo’s body shook at the sight. The white man whimpered and cried. He glared at Iyapo with dread and hate.