– Good morning. Can you help me, please? he asked the librarian.
There was a pause before the librarian lifted his nose from his magazine. Over a pair of glasses, two yellow globes twitched:
– Of course. What can I do for you, Monsieur?
– I understand that you have archives concerning the riches of the world and I have heard that you possess an example of the Voyage of Don Ignacio de Arroyo. Would it be possible to consult it?
All is blurred inside my head ... A fog thicker than the London smog … the void … I remember almost nothing. Only images, of which others tell me nothing that helps. Scattered dots, with no lines between them.
It’s the interior chaos. I’m very afraid that I have a failing memory. Why am I in this bar and how could I have landed here?
Good God. I haven’t the faintest idea!
And these men who fix me with an evil eye … I must look awful to get such glances … What could have happened?
Wait … something’s coming back … his head tells me something … I have the impression that he knows me … and … and me him, also, apparently … he’s motioning to me with his hand … one could say that he’s inviting me to sit at his table ….
My name is Ignacio de Arroyo and if, in the evening of my life, I take up my pen to write these lines, it is to lighten my spirit of a most heavy burden. I have never spoken of any of these events and– as God is my witness, praise Him and His Blessed Mother– I adjure to tell the entire truth of that which I have seen during my journey in the New World. I was present; I have seen and heard all.
Everything began in the month of April, in the Year of Grace 1539. Some months before, I had taken a caravel from the port of Seville to traverse the Great Ocean in the hope of making a fortune. Mythical Peru attracted every lust. There, in a tavern in Lima, I met Don Santiago de López. Originally from Cádiz, the cadet member of a family of ruined nobility, this Andalusian gentleman sought to recruit men for his new expedition. Gold fascinated him and, to obtain this precious metal, Don Santiago de López was ready for anything. Like the rest of us, the Conquistadors of the New World. All of us dreamed of walking in the steps of Cortés , who put his hand on the fabulous treasures of opulent Tenochtitlan. We all wished to imitate Pizarro, who had captured the phenomenal riches of the Inca. So, when Don Santiago proposed to me that I become his second in discovering the legendary El Dorado, I accepted without hesitation.
I respond to his invitation and sit facing him. The man is a giant of two meters, of a strapping build. One could say an athlete or a rugby player, who must weigh ninety kilos. Next to him, I feel like a shrimp. With tan skin and blue eyes, he wears a grey suit, very sober. He smiles as if he’s known me a long time. We sit there for several moments, looking at each other. Without a word. And then, finally, it’s he who speaks. His voice is grave, calm and he articulates perfectly each syllable:
– I know that you have some big problems. I can help you. Meet me in two hours in the Main Library. Don’t be late.
He’s getting ready to leave me, already?
– Wait … wait … what’s your name?
– Call me ‘Bob’.
– Why all the mystery, Bob? Do you know some things about me? I ….
– Until then.
I can’t believe my eyes! This guy has some nerve! I take pains to join him and he’s already leaving! And then, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he tranquilly finishes his glass before standing and saluting me. I don’t stop him for further explanation. Everything is all so confused in my head.
I begin to remember pieces, but good God, this is complicated … since Bob the Giant left me, the memories rise to the surface like bubbles of air in water.
Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born on August 20, 1895 and died March 15, 1937 from cancer of the intestine. And me? I think I remember that I was born barely a century after him. On the other hand, I don’t believe that I’ve lived as long as the Magus of Providence.
Lovecraft … it’s bizarre that the guy had the word ‘love’ in his name, yet he was never a specialist on the subject … a failed marriage, a hermit’s life … It’s said that his best friends were his cats … strange ….
I’ve seen in his biography that in April 1917, Lovecraft enlisted in the National Guard of Rhode Island after the declaration of war by the United States on Germany. It was his mother, in reporting that he was in bad health, who succeeded in making him return. And if she had not succeeded? If she had failed in her attempt? Her son might have been able to depart for the European trenches. Might he have returned? If yes, what influence would this traumatic experience have had on the solitary man from Providence? Would he have become the legendary author that we know?
We were 24 conquistadors embarking on the quest to find El Dorado. We had all been doughty warriors for many years. We had fought on the fields of battle in Italy or against the Saracens. Under the conditions of our encomienda [commission], we had requisitioned 20 Indians who, aided by some mules, carried our rations and equipment. Two among them served to guide and interpret for us. Three horses were also on the voyage and our convoy also counted one cannon. Finally, our ranks harboured Brother Hernando, originally with me in Cáceres, who represented our Most Holy Church and had the mission of evangelizing any pagans that we would eventually encounter.
The entire baggage train set out on the road on April 14, in the Year of Grace 1539, heading northeast toward the dense and impenetrable forest. It was, according to Don Santiago de López, in this region yet unexplored that we would find El Dorado. Our captain had information from the Indians that he had encountered during previous expeditions. They had told him of a mythical city hidden in the depths of the forest and had indicated how to reach it.
At the hour of departure, Brother Hernando blessed all of our troop: “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Amen.” Then we started out on the road.
Lovecraft … Howard Phillips … this man has always fascinated me … It could be because I have read so many books that I have actually forgotten the titles … the myth of Cthulhu … a cosmogony complete, a universe entire … with forbidden books … the Necronomicon, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Book of Dzyan … Where does reality stop? Where does fiction begin? It’s like an old bit of parchment. After the death of my grandfather, I found it while going through his affairs … it was at the bottom of an old trunk, covered in dust … the text was written in Old Spanish … I tried very hard to translate it, but I quickly gave up … I have never been any good at languages … How was my grandfather able to procure the document? … That I don’t know … I know only that he dabbled with junk and antiquities ….
By following the Incan roads, we rapidly crossed the Andes and arrived on foot without encumbrance in dense forest. There, progress became much more problematical. The overpowering heat forced us to drop our armour and our coats of mail, even our faithful morions [helmets]. Because of the extreme heat, the powder in our arquebuses compacted and quickly became useless. Happily, we still had our arbalests and our swords. The latter were a great help in hacking a way through the abundant vegetation. The forest was not the only thing hostile to us: the mosquitoes made life disagreeable and the snakes could, at any moment, make us lose our lives. Sadly, this happened to one of our companions. The punishing conditions had wicked repercussions for the morale of our troop: the men complained often and, in two or three instances, the tension resulted in fights. Our beasts also suffered under the circumstances and they became a drag on our advance. They became so dispirited that we were forced to abandon them. We had to do the same with the cannon.
I just left that beknighted bar. Outside, it’s cold and the streets are deserted. Is it dusk or dawn? No idea.
I walk toward the Main Library. I must meet with Bob because I have the feeling that it is he who can give me the keys to leaving this infernal spiral … in any case, what do I have to lose?
I am completely lost ….
Like all the others, I profoundly hated this virgin forest, but, at the same time, she exerted a powerful fascination on me. The profusion of life particularly impressed me and, at night, I stopped often to listen to the birdsong, the buzzing of insects and the howling of monkeys. An original, inhabited paradise. Since we had left the Andean plateau, we had not encountered a living soul. No trace of indigenous people.
After six days on the march in this green hell, we finally found the river we were looking for. Snaking through the middle of the forest, the water’s course was at least twice as large as our Guadalquivir and its waters carried a sort of red mud. According to the information that Don Santiago had, it was necessary to continue for two days. For this purpose, we constructed with haste three great rafts that we immediately launched on the water. The prospect of gold increased our strength ten-fold.
We stayed for a while near the banks of the river, where the current was weakest, then advanced at a fast rate, faster than we had through the forest. On the second day, toward noon, in the winding of the river, we saw in the middle of the trees an immense megalith of stone, erected at the foot of the bank. It looked like one of the ancient menhirs found in certain countries of the Old Continent. Don Santiago ordered us to disembark at the foot of this colossal stone. As tall as five men, at least, this block possessed a surface perfectly smooth and polished. Judging this to be a pagan idol, Brother Hernando demanded in the name of our Most Holy Church that we throw it down, but Don Santiago firmly refused. It was necessary to save our strength. El Dorado was now very close by.
I have read somewhere that Lovecraft felt ill at ease in his time, that he would have preferred to live in the 18th century. A little like me … I would have lived in Antiquity, walking the streets of Imperial Rome or the Greece of Pericles … Ah! There is the entrance to the Main Library. I climb the steps … hop, here I am in the main lecture hall … Kids work at the study tables and there, at the end, I see Bob the Giant … I stand in front of him.
– Here I am. Am I late?
– Sit there and wait, he says, indicating the chair next to him.
– I’d like an explanation, at least. You can’t tell me why you had me come here? Whom are we waiting for?
– ‘Patience is the mother of all virtues.’
– Okay, but I’m a little bemused by all this mystery, and –
– Wait, look over there, he says, pointing to the entrance I have just entered through moments before.
– That man is your key.
A man wearing a macintosh advances down the center aisle. I notice immediately that he limps, that his right leg hurts him. He comes closer and I begin to see his face … more and more clearly … the oval face … the fine and regular features … the almond eyes with a glassy look … the skinny profile … the sallow skin … no … no … It’s not possible … this man … He just looked at me and I know him … This cannot be who I think it is … I swim in delirium … He is now some meters from me … There is no longer any possible doubt … It is indeed Howard Phillips Lovecraft … I am afraid.
– Good morning. Can you help me, please? he asks the librarian.
The other takes some time to respond then Lovecraft continues:
– I understand that you have archives concerning the riches of the world and I have heard that you possess an example of the Voyage of Don Ignacio de Arroyo. Would it be possible to consult it?
I feel as if a lance of brilliant light just pierced me through and through and searched my heart. I’m two fingers away from fainting. Everything around me pitches about, but bit by bit, I master myself. This Voyage of Don Ignacio de Arroyo … the trunk of my grandfather … I had thought to be in possession of the only copy of the manuscript and yet, here before my very eyes, the Master of Arkham asks to see the manuscript. The employee answers him with all the courtesy of the world:
– Monsieur, I’m very sorry. In fact, we did possess a copy of this rarest of manuscripts, but unhappily, last week, someone stole the document from us. It is an inestimable loss and I sincerely hope that we will once again lay our hands on it. Hmm … hmm … it’s too bad ….”
This is the moment. I must attempt something, try to enter into contact. As Bob the Giant said, Lovecraft is my key.
– If you might permit me, sir, I say. Mr. Howard Phillips Lovecraft, isn’t it?
He turns his head toward me. A shiver goes through me.
– How do you know my name, lad? I don’t know you.
– I’m one of your biggest fans. I’ve read all of your works. I recognized you and ….
– What? What are you talking about?
– I … I … Listen. This manuscript, as bizarre as it may sound to you, I have it at my house … I know that may seem incredible, but right now, everything’s topsy-turvy … My Spanish grandfather left it to me ... more or less … Let’s say I discovered it one of his old trunks after his death … would you like to have a glance at it?
His black and piercing eyes fix me with insistence. I get the nauseating impression that he is visiting my mind and searching my soul … An urge to vomit mounts … I continue:
– So, what do you say?
– Very well, lad. When can we go there?
– Right now, if you wish. You have only to follow me. But first, I’d like to ask you a question.
– Say what you wish.
– All right … What happened to your leg that you walk like that?
– A souvenir of war. In 1917, I left for France to fight the Germans. I knew the hell of the trenches: the assaults, the bombardments, the death, the mustard gas, the mud, the rats. In July 1918, in Champagne, during an enemy offensive, I took a piece of shrapnel in the knee. A dirty wound. The war was finished for me. I was even decorated … a beautiful bullshit!
The world is collapsing around me. I have the distinct impression that I just dove into the abyss of time. Should I believe what I just heard? If this man is truly Lovecraft and if what he just told me is true, I must frankly be turning into a lunatic. I have to cling to something. Quick, Bob the Giant! I turn toward him. But he’s not there. Disappeared! Vanished! I look around me. The librarian has also disappeared. No one is there. Not even a cat. The library is deserted, dark. I’m alone. Alone with He who whispers in the shadows.
The object of our quest was close by the megalith. The mythical city was located not far from the banks of the river, but the luxuriant vegetation prevented anyone from seeing it from the water. Once upon a time, this city must have been rich and powerful. Its walls were composed of blocks of cyclopean stone, more impressive than those I had seen at Cuzco, the Incan capital. There had been there gigantic palaces, temples with colossal walls and even a battlement that supported an observatory for studying the course of the stars. In times past, this metropolis must have been the capital of a prosperous empire. Who had been able to erect these monumental constructs? Who had lived in them? However, these questions remained unanswered because, unhappily, this city appeared to have been abandoned for an eternity and nature had taken back its rights, invading the place anew. In discovering this sad spectacle, I confess that I almost cried in vexation. By the Most Holy Cross, we had accomplished all these efforts to fall on the steps of ruins! What an injustice! Mad with rage, Don Santiago ordered us to dig in every nook and cranny of every room, every palace, every temple. He screamed loudly that t
hese accursed natives must have buried their treasure, or hidden it in a secret place. We searched with the energy of despair.
I must have been dreaming. If I ever tell anyone this story, it’ll be the psych hospital right then and there. Brace yourself! I’m there in my house in the company of Howard Phillips Lovecraft! My barracks, let’s say. It’s the only thing my parents left me. An old, dilapidated shack, located on the edge of the city park. The only good thing my parents owned before sinking into the shadow of madness … for good.
While I try to find my grandfather’s manuscript, the creator of the myth of Cthulhu, faithful to his reputation for erudition, is in the process of examining the books that line the dusty shelves of my library.
There it is, finally! I just put my hand on a piece of yellowing paper, lurking at the bottom of a drawer. I hesitate for a moment – is any of this real? I hand the object to my host, who automatically sits on my sofa and begins to scan the lines of the precious work. He speaks no word to me, captivated as he is by his reading. He seems jubilant before this bibliophile’s feast, but gradually, his features harden, shrivel. A glow of madness begins to agitate his look. Then he finally gets up, the manuscript in his hand, standing immobile in front of the window of my room. I call him, but he doesn’t answer me. Now, his face expresses dementia, eyes bulging, his face twisted into a rictus. And suddenly, the Mage of Providence begins to speak in a stentorian voice, ageless words, psalms that seem to go back to the beginning of time:
– Hxulu it bakal puk ti joggot belem! Râamma het palixli toatl!
All at once, I plunge into a bottomless spiral.
Did I lose consciousness? Am I trapped in a dream? All is black, invisible.
I smell a pestilential odour that spreads around me, that envelops and sickens me. I still can’t see, but other senses guide me. All at once, the window of my room breaks into a million pieces and from the outside, a Siberian wind blasts into my house. The cold air stings me. I feel my body stiffen. Then I hear a beating of wings, heavy and massive, entering my house. Footsteps echo on the floor. This thing that has entered … suddenly, a human cry rends the air, strident, unbearable. It is the scream of someone who is about to die. A cry that freezes my blood. A terrible crash follows. They fight. They shred a body; they dismember it; they grind it savagely amid deafening groans … Whoever makes these sounds isn’t human. What follows only lasts a moment … and then no more. The thing returns to the window. I hear again the sound of wings taking flight … silence … and this time, I slide completely into the shadows ….
Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time Page 33