But she remembered what the world looked like, after the Great Appetite was done . . .
“I don’t know what to do,” Jorny said, covering his eyes with his hands.
Deede knew what to do. She reached for the box . . .
“Deede—don’t!” Jean’s voice.
“Deede, wait!” Lenny’s voice. “Look—we’re here—you can’t—”
Deede refused to look. In defiance, she stabbed her fingers don’t on the play button.
The sound that came out of the box was the joined booming of a thousand songs at once, the sort that Jorny would choose—a thousand songs of angst, rebellion, uncertainty, insistence, fury. Everything but a certain kind of surrender. They all had one note in common: a sound that was a refusal to be anything untrue.
One great thousand-faceted roaring white noise, black noise, every noise of the sonic spectrum . . . roaring. Roaring refusal—roaring defiance!
And the sphere-of-spheres withdrew into itself, dropping everything it touched in the two worlds connected by the temple, retreating to other planes, where it could find surcease from the amplified, crystalized sound of refusal to surrender to its dominance.
The temple shuddered, and the spiral grooves seemed to spin for a moment, like an old fashioned record—then the ceiling tumbled down and smashed the boombox. Came tumbling toward Jorny—
Deede pulled Jorny aside, at the last split-second, and the great ceiling stones tumbled down in the center of the room, leaving a crust of chamber, the edges . . . and a pile of stone that blocked off the hole into the other Skytown, and rose in a cluttered knob into the basement room above . . .
“You did it?” Jorny asked, coughing with dust.
”I had to. It couldn’t have been worse for anyone . . . ”
He nodded and they climbed, together, silently, through the dust cloud, and up into the basement room. They found their way to the stairways . . . where they found dozens of people, clothes soaked and skin wet with blood. They were weak—but most were alive, lying one to a step, up and up and up the stairs, feebly calling for help. Among them, they found Lenny and Jean and Jorny’s mother. They couldn’t remember where they’d been. No one could quite remember it.
Not all of them were alive. Koenig was there—crushed almost flat.
The elevators were no longer blocked, the security guards were gone—except the ones who were dead. The front doors were wide open. When the ambulances came, no one could completely explain where they’d been or what had happened to them. Some internal disaster was inferred, and explanations were generated. Deede’s father returned that night, summoned to deal with the emergency, and they moved out, to a hotel on the other side of town—the same one that Jorny and his mother were staying at. He asked remarkably few questions.
Lenny and Jean spent most of the second day away from the Skymall in the hospital, getting transfusions, getting tested—they seemed dazed, slowly coming back to themselves.
It was just three days later that Deede set out for Portland, to visit her cousin. “Just need to get away from this town, Dad,” she said. “Just for a few days. I want to go to Mom’s grave . . . ”
He simply nodded, and helped her pack—and he put her on a plane.
She had to go to the trail by the old quarry for three days before Johansen showed up. She’d let him see her go there, every night, but he’d been cautious. Still, since she was wearing as little as she could get away with, he couldn’t resist.
That night he followed her along the trail under the moonlight . . .
She went to the precipice, where her mother had taken her fatal plunge. She waited there for Johansen, humming a song to herself. No particular song—bits of many songs, really.
Johansen came up behind her, chuckling to himself.
She turned to face him, feeling like she was made of steel. “No one’s here—I’m sure you checked that out. And you can see I’m not wired. Not wearing enough to cover up a wire. You may as well say it. You killed her. You want to kill me.”
“Sure,” Johansen said. His hair was a jagged halo in the moonlight; his teeth seemed white in a face gone dark because the light was behind him. His eyes were two dark holes. “Why shouldn’t I kill the little slut as well as the mama slut?”
“I don’t think you can, though,” she said calmly. “You know what? I used to be afraid of you. But I’m not now. I’m not afraid anymore! You’re small time. I stopped what made you. I can stop you easily—you’re so very small, in comparison, Johansen, to the Great Appetite itself.”
“You’re babbling, kid.”
“Yeah? Then shut me up. If you can. I don’t think you can, you limp-dicked jerk.
You’re nothing!”
His face contorted at that, and he rushed her—and she moved easily aside, drawing the razor-sharp buck-knife she’d hidden in her belt, under her blouse in back. Then his ankle struck the fishing line she’d stretched, taut and down low between the roots, over the little peninsular jut of the cliff. And he stumbled and plunged, headlong, into the quarry, just as she’d known he would. She wouldn’t need the back-up knife, after all, she decided, pleased, as she watched him fall wailing into the shallow water, to break on the jagged rocks she’d arranged down there.
He lay face down in the shallow water on the rough-edged stones, struggling, calling hoarsely for help, his neck broken, unable to lift his head but a few inches . . . finally sagging down into the water. Drowning.
Smiling, she watched him die.
Then she stretched, and waved cheerfully at the moon. She cut the fishing wire, put it in her pocket, tossed the knife into the quarry, and, humming a thousand songs, trotted back along the trail to the street. When she got to the sidewalk, she called first her Dad, then Jorny on her cell phone, said she’d be coming back soon.
And then she caught a bus to the cemetery to have a talk with Mom.
Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which brought on the end—the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world—was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere.
“The Statement of Randolph Carter” · H.P. Lovecraft (1919)
• BRINGING HELENA BACK •
Sarah Monette
I was contemplating the fragments of an unidentified animal’s skull, late on a wet, windy Friday in March, when a voice said, “Booth? Is that you?”
My head jerked up; Augustus Blaine was leaning against my office door, as if his body were too heavy for him to support on his own any longer. I recognized him at once, although I had not seen him for ten years. He looked forty-two instead of thirty-two. I would have known his voice anywhere.
“My God, man,” he said, staring, “what happened to your hair?”
My hand went up involuntarily to touch it. My hair had gone white eight years previously, over a period of about four months. It was a trait of my mother’s family; all the Murchisons went white before they were twenty-five.
“Doesn’t matter,” Blaine said before I could do more than begin to stammer a reply. “I came here for help.”
He sounded exhausted, but his eyes were feverishly bright. Carefully, I set the skull fragments down on my desk, and said, “Come in. Please, er, sit down. I think . . . there’s a chair clear.”
He dragged the chair across to my desk and sat, a little warily. “All your bits of pot and bone,” he said, his voice somewhere between fondness and contempt. “Are you good at your job, Boothie?”
“People, er, seem to think so.”
“The thing is,” Blaine said, “the thing is that I think I need a spot of help.”
“Anything you need, Blaine. I . . . that is, you know that.”
He looked at me for a moment, his face stiff with suspicion like an African mask, and then he smiled. �
�By God, I think you mean that. All right, then. It’s this book.” He set his briefcase on his lap and opened it. The lid concealed the contents of the briefcase from me, but he closed it again swiftly, left-handed, and put it back on the floor. His right hand was holding the book.
It was a slender quarto, leather-bound and badly chipped. The title had once been on the spine, but someone had carefully burned it out. “You don’t want to know how much I paid for this,” Blaine said, with a grin on his face that I found frightening. “It’ll all be worth it, though. I’m sure. But the deuce of it is, Boothie, I can’t read it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s in some kind of cipher. I’ve been tearing my hair out over it for weeks, trying to crack the damn thing. And then I thought of my old friend, Kyle Murchison Booth.” He rolled the syllables of my name out of his mouth as if they were at once contemptible and marvelous. “This should be right up your alley, Boothie.”
“What, er . . . what’s the book about, Blaine?”
“Didn’t I say? I think there’s a way I can bring Helena back.”
I was so startled—as much aghast at his matter-of-fact manner as at what he had said—that I knocked the skull fragments off my desk.
Blaine and I had met as freshmen in college. Blaine had almost immediately decided and announced that we were going to be friends. To this day, I do not know why. The things we had in common—education, wealth, the sort of genealogy that passes in America for aristocratic—did not seem to me as if they could possibly bridge the gulf between us, the gulf I had always felt between myself and people like Blaine. The only theory I had was that I offered Blaine someone with whom to discuss topics other than athletic pursuits and alcohol. He could talk to me as he could talk to no one else in his world. He was my only friend—that says, I imagine, as much about me as anyone needs to know.
Blaine was interested in everything; it was part of the way he was put together—a relentless, bright-eyed interest in everything under the sun. The action of his mind often reminded me of a lighthouse light, revolving and revolving, sending its bright, piercing beam out into the darkness in every direction, never stopping on any one thing for long, but continuing to search. He was interested in chemistry and biology and physics; he was interested in history and archaeology and anthropology; he took classes in French, German, Russian, Greek, Latin, never more than a semester or two of any of them, the beam sweeping restlessly onward. He must have taken courses in every department on campus, and he could talk for hours, scintillatingly, compellingly, about any of them.
In this, as in so many other respects, I was Blaine’s opposite. Next to him I was a dull, ugly crow, without even the wit to hide myself in peacock feathers. I listened to Blaine for hours, but could find nothing of any interest to say myself. I stuck to my dry, safe work in history and archaeology, looking already toward the dim, dusty halls of the Samuel Mather Parrington Museum.
Blaine had always teased me about my love of puzzles: crosswords, acrostics, ciphers, anagrams. I solved them obsessively, as I solved the archival puzzles set by my professors; they were practice for what was to become my life’s work. I am sure that Blaine remembered timing me on the ciphers I found in books of logical puzzles; I am sure that the memory is why he sought me out, and therefore my freakish skill makes me responsible for his death.
I sometimes offer myself the false comfort that Helena was even more to blame than I. Helena Pryde was the sister of Blaine’s friend Tobias Pryde. Blaine met her because Tobias—good-natured, warmly gregarious, not very bright, one of the few of Blaine’s friends who did not treat me like some strange pet of Blaine’s—invited us both home with him for the spring vacation of our junior year. The Prydes’ house (“the House of Pryde” Blaine kept calling it and snickering at his own pun) was well-proportioned and handsome, beautifully situated in an oak grove. Mr. and Mrs. Pryde were people as imperceptive and generous as their son. Helena Pryde, Tobias’s younger sister, was a changeling.
She was tall and slender, with hair of an amazing dark, ruddy gold. Her hair was also unusually thick and heavy, and she habitually wore it loose, so that it hung like a cloak of fire past her hips. The effect was stunning, quite literally so; I heard Blaine’s breath hitch in at his first sight of her. I suppose she was pretty—at least, everyone seemed to think so—but her mouth was small and ungenerous, and her eyes were hard. Her voice was high-pitched and always rather breathless, and she lisped just slightly. The quality of her voice was childlike, innocent, and that was a deception worthy of the Serpent in Eden.
She flirted with Blaine from the moment they were introduced. Blaine—who had dated one girl after another for the three years I had known him, an endless parade of Elizabeths, Marys, Charlottes, and Julias—responded enthusiastically in kind, and before the week was half over, he was spending more time with Helena than with either Tobias or me.
I doubt Tobias even noticed, but I was aware of it—aware of the hard, predatory light in Helena’s eyes when she looked at Blaine, even more aware that his expression when he looked back at her showed that he did not see her as I did. He could not see her for what she was. Thursday at dinner, I overheard them discussing how they could meet again after this visit was over, and where and when. Friday morning, after a night spent staring sleeplessly into the darkness of my room, I had determined that I had to talk to Blaine, that it was my duty as his friend to try to make him see what sort of person Helena Pryde was.
I searched for Blaine all Friday morning, wandering in and out of the gracious, unobservant rooms of the House of Pryde. Finally, nearly at lunchtime, I thought I heard voices in the library. The Prydes’ library curved in an L-shape around two sides of the house; it was full of beautiful old books at which I doubt anyone in the family ever looked twice. They were dusted faithfully by the maids, however, and they were freely available for any guest who wished to browse. I already knew the library well, preferring its dim, serene coolness to the bright heat of the tennis court where Blaine and Tobias and Helena and a steady rotation of Helena’s friends played doubles in the afternoons.
I went into the library. The lights were off, and the room was full of the cool, dreamlike, underwater glow of sunlight through oak leaves.
“Blaine?” I called. “Are you in here?”
Someone said something in a muffled voice, and there was a burst of laughter.
“Blaine?” I said, advancing until I could see into the other half of the L. “Are you . . . ”
He was sitting on one of the enormous leather couches. His hair was ruffled and his tie askew. Possessively close beside him sat Helena Pryde, a little smirk on her ungenerous mouth. It took no special perspicacity to see what they had been doing. I felt my face heat.
But I had come this far. “Blaine, I, er, wanted to—”
“Go away, Boothie,” Blaine said.
The one mannerism of Blaine’s that I hated was that nickname, invented one night in our sophomore year when he was giddy with wine. I would not have minded so much if it had been a private nickname, although even then I thought it silly, but Blaine used it in front of other people. He did so partly to tease me, but partly to reassure his friends that he had more savoir-faire than to treat me as an equal.
I said, hating what I heard in my own voice, “Can we talk later?”
“When we get back to school, Boothie,” Blaine said. “Miss Pryde has just done me the honor of consenting to our betrothal.” At this they both started giggling, like schoolchildren at a smutty joke. “And I fancy I’m going to be rather occupied for the rest of our visit.”
“Darling Auggie,” said Miss Pryde fondly.
“ . . . All right, Blaine,” I said—there was nothing else I could say, no words of mine to which he would listen—and left. Just before I closed the library door, I heard them laughing again, and I knew they were laughing at me. Helena had won.
I saw the headlineS when she died, of course. Helena Pryde Blaine was a society dar
ling, always being photographed in fancy night clubs or at charity galas, her amazing hair flowing darkly, hypnotically, even in newsprint. Blaine went unremarked in the society pages, except very rarely as part of the entity “Mr. and Mrs. Augustus Blaine.” That absence alone told me that the marriage was not a happy one, and I had the dour satisfaction of having been right all along. For nine years, that was all I had; Blaine, obediently following the family tradition, was not the sort of lawyer whose clients made the papers.
But the death of Helena Pryde Blaine was a lurid scandal that not even the Blaines’ influence could cover up. She died of an overdose of cocaine, in the apartment of a man who was less than a husband but more than a friend. His name was Rutherford Chapin; I had gone to prep school with him and remembered him with loathing. The two of them, Rutherford Chapin and Helena Pryde Blaine, might have been made for each other, and I was only sorry, for Blaine’s sake, that she had not found Chapin first.
I sent Blaine a letter of condolence; I could not bring myself to attend the funeral or to send flowers. I was not sorry that she was dead. I hoped for a while—the stupid sort of fantasy that keeps one awake at night—that Blaine might answer me with a letter or even a visit, but I received nothing more than a “thank you for your sympathy” note, clearly written by one of Blaine’s sisters. Only the signature was his; I recognized it, despite the spiky scrawl into which his handwriting had degenerated. I continued stupidly to hope, but I did not hear anything from or about Blaine for another year, until the night when he appeared in my office at the museum with his abhorrent book.
It took me a long time to get the story out of him—not because he did not want to tell me, but because he had been living alone with his obsession for so long that he had developed his own private shorthand, and he kept forgetting that he was not talking to his reflection in the mirror. He was impatient when I asked questions—and that was very like the Blaine I remembered—but I did finally piece together a narrative of the past year.
New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird Page 34