The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook

by Byron Craft

  “Smart move, shit-for-brains,” said the Sergeant taking the offered joint. He tilted his head back like someone belting down a shot of booze and drew long and hard on the cigarette. The sucking noise he made sounded like air escaping from a punctured tire. At least half of that joint was drawn in on that one breath leaving a gray ash about three fingers in length hanging limply from the end.

  The interior of the bunker came into sharp focus. The curling puffs of cigarette smoke began to look like blue-white strands of fabric and the painted lettering on Sergeant Bloch’s corrugated C-ration carton looked embossed. I felt a little lightheaded. I was feeling the effects of that one toke.

  “Why you pissed off at me Sarge?”, asked Stash looking down at the floor.

  “You know Stash,” he replied looking down from his seat. Even though the box he sat on couldn’t have been more than a foot and a half higher than floor level I was certain he towered above us by several feet. “The only time you listen is when the order to take cover is issued. I said you were all heaps of shit. That means all of you girls here.” He made a sweeping motion with his left hand and the ash from the joint fell on his lap, rolled across his thigh and disappeared into his crotch.

  Rinaldi acting like someone who had heard it all before planted a phony smile on his face and yelled “Hey Sarge! How about you and me finding ourselves some old Vietnamese whore and bang the hell out of her all night?”

  “Drop dead,” the Sergeant grumbled. “All of you make me sick. Most Americans supported the war, until around sixty-eight or so. Now they’re saying it’s a worthless cause. Before then the men that were here believed in what they were doing. Now, all I get are terminal cases of acne that think they’re John Wayne or short timers like you. Hippies and Hell’s Angels.”

  Stash started to say “Outlaw” but was stopped short by an elbow in the ribs from Ike.

  “I got this Wop over here that made Corporal by accident and thinks me and him are in some kind of noncom brotherhood and an Oaky,” pointing to Reese, “from God knows where that just learned how to wear shoes.”

  Bloch was on a roll and I knew he wasn’t going to stop with Reese. His eyes glassed over and he stared down at me. For a moment I thought he was going to kill me. “College boy, it’s a wonder you are still around. You should have been dog food by now.” The muscles tightened in his neck. He leaned towards me. “Tell me Church, have you ever shot anything besides a rubber tree with that M-16 of yours?”

  I was terrified of Bloch. I didn’t answer. If I had I probably wouldn’t have been able to utter anything more than a squeak.

  “Come on Sarge, leave him alone,” pleaded Bill.

  Ignoring Bill he leaned even closer. His breath smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. “If it wasn’t for your hooch mate here you would have been dead meat a long time ago. For a college boy you don’t know jack shit. You don’t even know enough to come in out of the rain unless someone tells you to or your buddy Bill here drags your ass inside.” He leaned back and put his head against the wall of the bunker and stared at the ceiling. “Hell,” he said, “You didn’t even know enough to accept the rnoom.”

  “What’s rnoom?” I managed in a voice a bit too high.

  He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Fermented rice wine college boy. It is kept in an earthen jar and sipped through a bamboo straw. Faab was honoring you with his offer. To refuse is an insult. He is probably pissed off at us now and will stop the women in the village from whoring to us. You screwed up, college boy.”

  “Yeah, you screwed up,” Stash added with a chuckle glad to have the heat off of himself.

  Bloch fell silent and kept staring at the ceiling. I looked over to Bill and he shrugged his shoulders. The volume rose on the radio and the Jefferson Airplane sang “We should be together.” I quietly moved along the dirt floor and crawled out the low doorway. Bloch didn’t move. He didn’t seem to notice me. Crawling out of doors the hot afternoon sun singed my face and I heard Stash from the cool dark recess behind me giggle, “Tet eve.”

  I could still hear the Jefferson Airplane singing inside when Bill came out slapping loose dirt off his fatigues. “Are you all right”, he said.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said with a voice that cracked.

  “Look, don’t take all that shit seriously. He has been a little crazy ever since Purdy bought it a couple of months ago.”

  “I am just trying to stay alive, Bill.”

  “I know you are. We all are.”

  For a moment I thought I was going to lose it. Then I got a hold of what had been eating at me all those weeks and spit it out like a bad taste. “It has been hard,” I stammered. “It has always been rough but now it’s worse. I’ve only got two weeks to go here and I am more scared then when I first came. This has been a prison, a nightmare and now when I am so close to getting out I feel like something is going to happen.”

  “Like what, Faren?”

  “I don’t know. I guess some cruel joke played by some cruel god that lets things like that happen. Just string him along. Let him think he’s going home then napalm him the day before his discharge.”

  Bill laughed, “Hey, partner, you’re not alone in this. Everyone in the whole platoon feels the same way.”

  “Somehow,” I said, “I don’t find that comforting.”

  “Stick with me partner and we’ll laugh about this in the transport home.”

  “Thanks, Bill, I appreciate the help.”

  “Hey, I’ll tell ya what,” he said in a too cheery voice, “let’s blow this pop stand and go over to our hooch. I’ve still got a few belts left in that bottle of Ouzo and we’ll play gin rummy.”

  “No thanks partner” I said forcing a smile. “You go inside, I need to work this one out myself.”

  “Are you sure? Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” He turned and I watched him hunker down on all fours and crawl in through the small opening. The music on the radio was suddenly disrupted by the scratch of static as someone attempted to change channels. “Hey Reese,” yelled Bill. “Get your paws off of my radio. How many times do I have to tell you that they don’t play country western in these parts.”

  I laughed a little and then walked away from the bunker. I was going to go back to my hooch and lay down but for some reason I never headed in that direction. I am not completely sure why. Maybe it was what Sergeant Bloch said about the rnoom. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Whatever it was I set out on the path that led to the village.

  Dai Sut was not off limits to military personnel and visits to the village were fairly common. After passing the river and rounding the bend in the road I had expected to witness the usual sight of bare breasted women, clad in brightly colored skirts moving about the village and naked children playing outside their huts. That was not the case. The village was still. The only thing that remained unchanged since my last time there was Faab. He was still standing at the end of the path where I had left him two days before only this time with no rnoom in hand. Behind him were four other elderly Montagnards sitting cross-legged on the ground. They stood up the moment I approached.

  Faab smiled displaying his pointed black teeth and gestured with his left hand for me to follow. Not a word was uttered. They all turned at the same time as if on queue, reminding me of Monks on a silent vigil, and walked towards the village.

  “You were waiting for me!” I said out loud, but it fell on deaf ears or at least they pretended not to hear. I should have been scared but I wasn’t. Maybe that one hit on the joint back in the bunker had relieved more of my tension then I had realized. I think I was so amazed at discovering my reception party waiting for me that I had little time to think of anything else. I had taken about a dozen steps before I realized what I was doing. I was following them into Dai Sut.

  We walked through the village, I behind not really understanding why I chose to come along. Twice I felt like turning to run back to camp but as if my thoughts had been read the moment the u
rge to flee overtook me, the old medicine man would stop, turn and gaze at me with eyes wide and all considerations would leave me.

  We walked a good fifteen minutes and, while I imagined each thatched longhouse and hut we came upon to be our destination, we passed them all by without me having to alter our pace. Each time I anticipated the next hut and then the next to be our stop. Most of the villagers had taken refuge from either our passing or the tropical heat, although I occasionally spotted a few solitary figures by their huts or on the cliff oasis that surrounded the village. We appeared to be the only ones who braved the afternoon sun.

  As we went on, I became more and more aware of a power other than my own will guiding my steps. Still when I’d attempt to halt the ridiculous hike, an attraction to go on swept over me as inexorably as the desire for a narcotic.

  To my surprise we had walked through the entire village and terminated our journey at the southeast base of the Dalat Mountains. In front of me was the mouth of a cave. It was their Kroong. I was expected to enter the forbidden domain.

  I had seen it before through field glasses at a good distance. The Kroong was a place of worship used by the elders of the village. A small handful selected by sheer age and custom were permitted to enter its revered walls. All who lived the good life and saw ripe old age eventually found solace within the Kroong. Our company commander saw fit to respect their religious customs. Even with the wild rumors that circulated about it being a Chinese store house for weapons; our CO believed that repercussions could result from defiling their religious customs. Besides, the Montagnards were notorious enemies of the North Vietnamese. So a decision was made to make the Kroong off limits to servicemen, for the time being, while at the same time keeping it under careful surveillance.

  I froze at the entrance to the cave, held there by the orders set down by my superiors, coupled with a gnawing fear of the unknown. What was in store for me by the hands of these people? Did they plan to use me in a religious sacrifice? Had I really insulted them by not drinking the offered rice wine?

  I resisted all temptation and prompting to enter. The compelling stare of the old medicine man could not budge me. He recognized this after only one failed attempt and approached me, gently laying his hands on my shoulders. My anxiety melted away with his touch. I felt emotionally drained. I looked at the old man and if I would have had anything left within my empty shell I would have felt awe. Instead I allowed him to lead me within the cave.

  The blazing heat of the sun was halted by the dampness and darkness of the stone walls. The sweat on my brow turned icy cool and my head swam momentarily from the sudden drop in temperature. During the time it took to regain my senses we were well within the heart of the cavern.

  It was very large inside. Bare rock walls occasionally encrusted in spots with quartz crystals and rising from the floor in several areas were stalagmites, some fusing into columns with stalactites from above, giving the impression of pillars supporting the cavern ceiling.

  I was escorted to the deepest portion of the cave, so far in that the light from outside didn’t reach us. Sitting on stone, with their backs against a wall of smooth rock were four more old men from the village, all just as ancient as the rest, bringing the total to nine. At their feet a small fire was burning and amongst the glowing embers a clay pot rested. An acrid chemical odor lingered in the steam that rose from a boiling liquid inside and exited through a perfectly round hole that must have been chiseled through the stone ceiling. The hole was a little larger than a man is wide and the blue of the afternoon sky appeared rich and distant through it.

  Acknowledging a gesture, I sat down in front of the clay pot with the others facing me across the fire. There was a moment of silence, possibly in prayer or meditation, then the eldest mumbled a low, barely audible chant in his native tongue and tossed some fragments of tree bark into the boiling mixture. The same man scooped some of the liquid from the kettle with a large wooden spoon and after drinking from it passed it in turn to the others.

  The ladle was then filled again and passed to me. I refused to drink at first, Faab gestured that it was harmless and I gave in once again to those compelling eyes.

  I had noticed that the others only drank a very little amount of the mixture and I made sure to do the same. It wasn’t until later that I learned that the concoction consisted mainly of rnoom, a variety of large pinkish colored mushrooms that grow in the shadowy caves and crevices of the Dalat peaks and bark from the Belephegor tree.

  I forced a small mouthful of the awful tasting brew down and returned the spoon to the pot. There was an instant numbing sensation as the liquid slid down my throat immediately anesthetizing my insides.

  Faab drew a crude pentagon in the sand with a stick. He then pressed a small charm into my hand. It was the size of a quarter and made of a green stone. It had five points on it like the star he drew in the sand and the surface felt slick, soapy. The old man who had handled the passing of the spoon threw some green crystals on the coals and the flames shot up.

  With the cave brightly illuminated I could make out the wall behind the village elders in every detail. It had been painted into a mural of brightly colored hues and shades, spanning a good twelve feet in width, depicting a weird alien battle. I use the words “alien” and “battle” here because they seem the most appropriate to describe the curiously odd art form.

  The painting did not utilize much of the spectrum, but the colors that were employed were strikingly clear and vivid. Brilliant mixtures of deep blues and purples. The color green was the most predominate but red was not altogether lacking, as it was used occasionally to highlight small areas of conflict. The most striking oil from the unknown artist’s pallet was the vigorous use of black. Rich and hauntingly deep in its shade the ebony background struck out at the eye creating a three dimensional illusion. Another color was apparent also, but I don’t know what to call it; I am not sure if it was ever there or a trick played upon my eyes by the unusual brew.

  The color was either alien or unknown to me or continually at change because I was never able to identify it. Sometimes green, while at others yellow, then gray, then orange would be exorcised into an array of angry shades setting into motion the illusion of writhing movements.

  I was caught up in the perfect blend of artistry and color and decided that this Raphael of the underworld must have applied quartz minerals to his oils before they dried to achieve these effects.

  It had only been applied to the center of the work which appeared as a great tentacled thing surrounded by a siege of lights and queerly shaped flying orbs that appeared to press the monstrous form into the ground. While in the background outlined in the night sky was a large five-sided stone perched on edge next to a dark yawning aperture.

  I dragged my attention from the scene to my nine companions. They weren’t looking at the mural. They were sitting in line side by side, with their backs to the magnificent work, parted at the middle, situating themselves on either side of the fire as if to afford me a clear view. They became a part of the pictorial setting adding to the three dimensional quality. The floating orbs against the sea of black hovered over their individual heads. The tentacled thing in the painting with its oddly shaped head looked up towards the heavens and so were the Montagnards.

  I followed their gaze upward until my eyes came to rest upon the hole in the ceiling. The afternoon sun to my amazement had vanished and in its place was an evening sky filled with stars. I felt light, weightless, all sensations of legs and limbs had left me. I had the impression that I was caught up in a whirlpool, drawn in spirit, funneling into the void beyond the cavern ceiling. Outside a point of light grew steadily brighter until it became a rotating green sphere. The surface came into view just as quickly; ranges of mountains, emerald green oceans and flat lands, now and then broken up by lakes, valleys and rivers swelled up into my field of vision. What first appeared as mountains, upon getting closer, revealed them to be the buildings of a city so colossal
in its proportions that it spanned the entire globe terracing the tallest mountains, invisibly suspended across lakes and rivers, and bridging the gulfs of great oceans.

  The architecture was captivating, I was caught up in the marvel and I didn’t give a second thought to my existence, let alone “any whys or wherefores” to my trip through space. There was a numbing sensation, like when I drank that soupy mixture, but external. I was a disembodied bubble floating above the clouds of this alien world. I was dumbfounded by the pure creation of engineering genius that must have constructed so great a wonder.

  Then from out of the void came a blackness, so black that it eclipsed itself, a terrible dark clawing thing that slowly ate away at my fascination with searing blasts of fear. I believe it was behind me if there is such a thing as behind or front or even up or down in outer space. Actually there was no front or behind to me. There was no more me in any solid perceptible sense than there is in a puff of smoke or a slight breeze. None that I could be sure of at least. It came in a general direction, as I perceived it, from the rear, and invisible like myself I never saw it, just sensed the iciness of its existence and the blackness darker than the rest of the surrounding void. I also sensed that it had been watching me all the time. Rather than creeping up on me from out of the expanse, it just appeared as if it had opened a window in the ether directly behind me.

  Chaos and fear, followed by disorientation of the emerald planet, flooded in on me. The inkiness was beginning to envelope me strangling my senses. The giant city with its architectural marvels was no longer visible. Although still without body, I had the impression of suffocating. I was no longer in control of my own faculties.

  There was a flash of white. From out of the void came a hand...human, which grabbed hold of my spirit dragging me from the blackness and yanking me back through a vortex at a tremendous rate.

  My head swam and the old Montagnards tribesman sat once again before me within the cave. Faab’s hand was clutching my shoulder.