Worlds of Cthulhu
Edited by Robert M. Price
Copyright © 2015 by Fedogan and Bremer Publishing LLC
Fedogan and Bremer Publishing LLC
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Nampa, ID 83686-8909
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author, except for limited "fair use" in reviews and the like.
The individual stories are copyright by the authors, respectively, 2012, 2015. The work as a whole copyright Fedogan and Bremer Publishing 2012, 2015.
The original hardcover edition was printed by Thomson-Shore as 1500 Trade Edition copies and 100 slipcased, signed Limited Edition copies.
ISBN: 9781878252746
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Familiar Haunts
THERE ARE KINGS
Envy, the Gardens of Ynath, and the Sin of Cain
The Arcade
THE CHAOS BLADE
EVACUATION DAY
The Statement of Frank Elwood
THE TESTAMENT OF ALEXANDER FLETCHER
The Serpents of Tenoka
The Journal of Thomas Gedney
The Tower of Mormoroth
The Signal Station
Familiar Haunts
What, pray tell, is wrong with sequels? Just that they tend to be derivative, repetitive, and threaten the integrity of the original? Is that all that’s bothering you? I wouldn’t trouble your still-attached head with such worries, my friend!
A sequel is nothing but a particular kind of thought experiment, one that might turn out to be fun if you give it a chance. For one thing, whatever someone writes as a follow-up to the original, whether it’s the same author or a fan who writes it as a tribute, it need not retroactively contaminate the original tale. Don’t you see? It doesn’t ruin anything! The sequel presupposes and thus includes the original in its narrative universe, but the original does not include or presuppose the sequel! That is obvious enough, but some seem to think a sequel must control our reading of the original, since a sequel does indeed reinterpret the original—but only on its own horizon. It represents but one possible reading, rather like time travel fiction in which the future one visits turns out to be only one of several possible futures.
The point of a sequel is just to take a trip in the imagination back to familiar times and climes. It is plain that in August Derleth’s “The House on Curwen Street” author and readers alike are simply having fun reliving the original “The Shadow over Innsmouth.” It is not canonical in any sense. Reading Derleth’s story does not mean that the next time you read Lovecraft’s you are going to have to remind yourself of what happened subsequently in Derleth’s sequel. Has he hijacked the story for all future readers? No, of course not!
Once we’ve got that superficially plausible but actually ridiculous objection out of the way, wouldn’t you admit you were having at least a wee bit of fun traipsing around with Derleth through the familiar cobbled streets with bulging eyes peeping out at you from behind warped, shuttered windows? Naturally, you get much the same experience from simply waiting a while and rereading “The Shadow over Innsmouth” again. Agreed! I have long argued that rewriting Lovecraft stories by pastiching them is another way of rereading them. So be it!
Only the tales you are about to peruse here are not exactly pastiches. They do involve revisiting Lovecraftian locations. Some of them ask, “What might have happened next?” Others ask, “What else might have happened off stage during the action of the original story?” Even, “What other weird things might have happened in these places?” especially since HPL is always going on about previous witch-crazes in Arkham, common scandals in Dunwich, yearly festivals in Kingsport, etc.
And there are prequels: what on earth could have led to the situation described in this or that Lovecraft story? And, again, of course, none of the guesses thus offered are intended to control your reading of the original story next time you read it. That would be stupid. It’s just speculation, and to be enjoyed as such. Remember what Frank Miller answered a fan at a comics convention. The guy asked whether fans ought to take Batman: The Dark Knight Returns as canonical. Is that the future which Batman issues would now work toward? Miller replied, “It’s just a comic book! They’re just stories!”
Get ready, my friends, for a return voyage to Antarctica, Kingsport, Miskatonic University, the old Akeley farmstead, Yith, Egypt, Roman Britain, Hyperborea—and your worst nightmares!
Robert M. Price
Hierophant of the Horde
March 7, 2011
Richard Lupoff’s remarkable team, Abraham ben Zaccheus and John O’Leary, familiar-seeming characters you seem to think you remember from the pulps, yet fresh and new, especially in the sparkling humor, return here to battle the cosmic forces of evil anew. What strikes me most this time out is the sense that, as of a certain point in their journey from one geographical location to another, they have somehow swerved off into a zone of surreal dream, and from thence into nightmare. Over all depends an atmosphere of suspended natural law, of the reigning stillness between beats of the heart, something recalling Clark Ashton Smith or C.L. Moore. It is a great mastery.
THERE ARE KINGS
Richard A. Lupoff
Indeed, indeed there are kings. There are kings all over the world, you know. Some of them wear crowns and ermine robes, they sit on thrones and hold scepters when they’re at home in their palaces and when they travel about they ride in golden coaches.
I’ve seen pictures, indeed.
They sit in their palaces in Spain and Prussia and Rome and Rooshia. There’s the king of the Ottoman Empire, they call him a Sultan, and in India they call them Rogers and they have an emperor in China and another one in Japan. Oh, yes. I’ve seen pictures.
And there’s Edward Saxe-Coburg-Gotha the German libertine King of England sitting there in London and pretending to be King of Ireland. Let him think what he likes, the villain. Ireland has a king of her own, don’t you worry, and his time will come. Mayhap I’ll live to see an Irish king ruling from Dublin and mayhap I’ll be in my grave when he comes, but I have no doubt that he lives somewhere, and when the stars are right he will claim his throne and the Germans will haul their fat selves back to England where they belong.
I don’t know why the English want a German king anyway, but that’s their business. It is the Irish whose wants I care for, and the Irish want an Irish king!
Now Mr. Abraham ben Zaccheus, he’s another tale altogether. I give him the courtesy of calling him Mister because that’s his preference, but in my heart I know he’s a king. Mayhap he’s His Imperial and Apostolic Majesty, by the Grace of God, Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary and Bohemia, and a lot of other things, too, that he denies he is. I know that he is a Hebrew, and I know that Our Lord and Savior was the King of the Jews, by which I know is meant the Hebrews, and this gives me to wonder if King Abraham is not the King of the Jews in this, the blessed Twentieth Century, and he chooses to humble himself by pretending to be a plain Mister instead of an Imperial and Apostolic Majesty.
I would really not know.
But he says to me the other night not long after dinner, “John O’Leary,” he says, “John O’Leary, are you ready to take a little trip on the morrow?”
This is his way, is Abraham ben Zaccheus’s way. If he is a king he would simply command, would he not? and even if he is the plain citizen that he pretends to be, he is still my employer. He gives me room and board in his fine
little house upon Rooshian Hill and he pays me a handsome salary each week in silver and gold. He could simply say, “John, get yourself ready to leave in the morning,” but that is not his way.
So I says, “At your service, Your Majesty,” and he says, “Stop that, please, just call me Abraham,” and I says, “Whatever Your Majesty commands, Abraham.”
And I wink at my employer and he winks at me.
We’re sitting in his comfortable parlor. Abraham, a wider man than I and sporting as he does a spade-shaped beard and a comfortable corporation beneath his vest, is settled upon the horsehair couch. I, a taller man than he and somewhat narrower in the fundament, am at home in the easy chair. Between us on the polished low table is a bottle of fine dry sherry and a plate of sponge-cake, the latter baked by Abraham’s housekeeper Chang Chu-Mei, a plump and pleasant lady of the Chinee persuasion.
For reasons of his own, I am sure good and sufficient reasons, Abraham chose not to speak of where I was to go in the morning, nor of whether I was to proceed on my lonesome or with company. Instead, he delivered himself of a disquisition on the subject of gods and demons, of priests and saints, some of which I understood and some of which I did not, the all punctuated by regular refilling of our glasses from the golden store.
When the great clock which stood against the red-flocked wall of Abraham’s sitting room struck one he blinked and said to me, “John, I’ve talked too long and said too little. We need our rest. Get to your room and I shall get to mine, and we assemble for an early breakfast if you please.”
As I got to my feet he added, “Dress warmly in the morning, John O’Leary.”
And I said I would, as if one would dress any other way in the first days of January in this fine city of San Francisco.
I retired and slept the sleep of the somewhat innocent, in my dreams returning to Kilkee as I often do, to my friends Shane Galloway and Rogan Doherty and Seamus McCarthy and Malachy Teague, to Glenna Lynch who taught me a thing or two about her gender and to Maeve Corrigan whom I loved dearly until an Englishman’s horse kicked her in the head and we buried her behind St. Padraic’s Church so long ago.
And in the morning King Abraham’s housekeeper the estimable Chang Chu-Mei was ready for us with coffee and juice and eggs and sourdough bread toasted atop the woodstove. Abraham pulled a timepiece from the belly pocket of his vest and after consulting it said, “We’d best make haste, John, we’ve a long journey ahead of us this day.”
Chang Chu-Mei had packed a carpet bag for Abraham and a valise for myself. They stood beside the door and as we exited the house Abraham exchanged a few words with the housekeeper in her own tongue, which talent never ceases to amaze me. Many a hint has Abraham dropped into our chats about the places he has visited, be they the steppes of Rooshia or the high town of Lhasa in distant Tibet, but how old he is and how many lands he has seen I cannot tell you.
It was a journey indeed, by Mr. Halliday’s wondrous cable car to the pier, by ferry to the fine town of Oak-Land, and thence by the Central Pacific Railroad’s comfortable service eastward.
Abraham was not inclined to converse as our train made its way through delta and farmland. I whiled away the time reading one of the fine novels of Mr. William Westall which I had procured at a shop on Taylor Street in San Francisco. It was The Phantom City, a Volcanic Romance, and it served well to while away the hours. At the same time Abraham occupied himself with a heavy volume he had brought from his own library. I would tell you its name but it was one of those odd books the writing of which was in some alphabet we never learned in Kilkee. I think Abraham might have brought that book back from one of his adventures, written by some ancient hand long ago in the mountains of Tibet or in some pillared city in Araby.
After passing the city of Sacramento where Governor Henry Gage reigns in splendor, our train began its climb through the wondrous Sierras, a range of mountains as beautiful as any in the world. As we rose toward the town of Auburn the graceful pines that covered the slopes began to show signs of the winter’s snows.
The Central Pacific furnishes its trains with dining cars where they serve as fine a cuisine as any restaurant. I found myself wondering if the estimable Chang Chu-Mei had packed sandwiches for Abraham and myself, but to my great pleasure Abraham suggested that we hie ourselves to the dining car, where we put away a delightful repast of fresh trout and tiny potatoes, accompanied by an adequate bottle of local origin.
Night was falling when we debarked at the town of Truckee. A porter transferred Abraham’s carpet bag and my valise to the care of the Lake Tahoe Railway and Transportation Company, and after a shorter and less comfortable train ride we found ourselves transferring yet again, to a horse-drawn station wagon that carried us to the Tahoe Tavern. Ah, a lovely establishment that was, as if a giant had ordered built a rustic cabin for himself, only to change his mind and command that it be furnished with the luxury of a grand hotel.
Aye, and Abraham and I found ourselves shortly escorted to the great dining room of the establishment. Formally clad waiters took our order, and elegantly gowned ladies and nicely tailored gentlemen sat at tables surrounding ours. Imagine, imagine, a Hebrew and an Irishman dining off white linen and transparent china, surrounded by such aristocracy. This America is a wondrous land! The repast was splendid, a fillet of local piscines accompanied by a good wine, followed by a tasty nightcap in the saloon.
At one point during the meal I had discovered two ladies seated without companions at a nearby table watching Abraham and myself. They were gowned and hatted as would befit persons of quality, and I detected the younger of the two sending an appraising glance my way. I responded with a merry wink, and was rewarded with a charming blush.
Ah, there is no sight more charming than that of a lady in pleased repose, her hair on her pillow, spread about her face like a saint’s halo in a stained glass window.
Later I lay abed, the curtains pulled back and the night sky showing an array of splendor such as I could recall never having seen in my life. The stars were brilliant, the Milky Way seemed to flow across the heavens like a river of lights, and the reflected light of the moon peered just over the peak of a snow-covered mountain turning the snow-covered surrounding lawns and woods into an artist’s dream.
It was a sheer startlement to me when I felt my shoulder grasped by a strong hand. I had not realized that I had fallen asleep, but I looked up and recognized King Abraham leaning over me, his finger pressed to his lips to indicate the need for silence. I blinked and sat up, rubbing the slumber from my eyes. I whispered, “What is it, Abraham? What time is it?”
“Time for us to be about our work, John O’Leary. Climb into your warmest clothing, and be quick, please.”
In minutes we were outside the Tahoe Tavern. The moon had risen higher into the sky and its brilliant light reflecting off a fresh fall of snow made the world as bright as day, but a day to which the white earth and the black sky with its twinkling stars and glaring moon lent a weird unreality.
Once we were out of earshot of the Tavern, Abraham halted and fixed me with an earnest look. His eyes seemed larger and darker than ever I had seen them. “You’ve been a patient man, John O’Leary. You’ve surely wondered why we are here.”
“Indeed I have, Your Majesty.”
A hint of a suggestion of a grin whipped across his face but he made no mention of my addressing him by a title of royalty.
He said, “We’ve a walk ahead of us. I’ll tell you something of our purpose here as we proceed.”
He was a man of his word, was Abraham ben Zaccheus. We were both equipped with heavy boots. I wore two layers of warm stocking beneath my own, and I should have thought Abraham was similarly attired in the pedal department. We both wore heavy gloves and warm hats. The air was cold but so clean and dry after the night’s snowfall that it provided great stimulation and refreshment.
“There is a Chinee village not f
ar from here,” Abraham told me. “The Chinee arrived as laborers, imported to work on the railroads in California. But the workers were all male, and the authorities chose to exclude their women so as to prevent our state from being overwhelmed by a horde of yellow barbarians.”
“I did not know that.”
“Few do. And a small number of Chinee women have found one way or another to enter California. My housekeeper, Chang Chu-Mei, is one such. There are now thriving Chinee communities in this state. These people will not die.”
We passed beneath a tall tree at this point. A soft breeze swept snow off its branches and needles, and Abraham and I found ourselves beneath a new snowfall. We continued walking. Abraham continued his explanation.
“The village of which I spoke, however, remained entirely male. With the passing years some of its members have left for other communities. Those who stayed behind grew old and one by one went to their rewards. In due course there were only two men left in the village. They were brothers. One was a Buddhist priest. The other had been a chef and he continued to cook for the two of them. One of them was one hundred four years old; the other, one hundred two. Neither knew which was the older. Each insisted that it was he.”
We had emerged from beneath a stand of fir trees and halted on a snow-covered slope. Ahead I saw a pitiable collection of wooden shanties. Smoke arose from a stove-pipe that poked through a thin layer of snow atop one of them, a ramshackle structure that looked little more than a shed.
“A few days ago, one of the brothers died. The one who had cooked for them. I was summoned by the surviving brother. I asked you to accompany me, John O’Leary, for I need your support. You are strong, you have courage and your heart is pure.”
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