by Donald Tyson
Sending out his thoughts to the iron sphere, he threatened that he would make known to Rumius, the leader of the order, the possession of the young monk by the Cthulhu spawn unless it taught him the technique of exchanging minds between bodies. Its reluctance was so great, it could be felt as an itching upon the skin, but at last it agreed, perceiving no other way to retain its freedom to wander the monastery compound in the body of the monk.
Before seeking the magic itself, the traveler asked why, if the spawn could control the young monk, it has not used him to erase the pentacles that kept it bound within its iron cage. The answer came at once in the form of images. The monks set to tend to its infrequent needs always came in groups of three, never alone. At all other times the door to the lower chamber was locked, and neither the spawn nor Adrian had the skill to open it without violence, which would surely be detected before the stout door could be beaten down. The key was kept where it was impervious to theft. Also, the cold patience of the thing in the sphere was greater than the patience of a man, and it knew that any attempt at escape, if it failed, could not be attempted a second time. It was content to continue to gather information and await its opportunity.
The magic was a secret of the god Yug, a dweller in the lower caverns beneath the vaults of Zin who kept aloof from the affairs of the surface world, yet who held communion with Cthulhu in his dreams. What was known to Cthulhu was also known by his spawn, insofar as their more limited minds were able to understand it. The formula of mind exchange was a simple technique, within the capacity of the spawn or even a human being. It depended upon a knowledge of the name of the creature with which the counterchange of minds was made.
At once, as these thoughts were conveyed to his mind, the traveler realized that the spawn had been probing his memories for his name, and it was only because the creature was unsuccessful that the attempt to steal his body had failed. The monks addressed each other by name, but none of them knew the true name of the traveler. A false name would not serve the purposes of the formula, only the true given name.
It is only necessary for the man seeking to project his mind into the body of another to hold the image of that person clearly in his thoughts while uttering, either aloud or silently in the imagination, this formula of Yug in the language of the Old Ones: "Yug! N'ghah k’yun bth'gth ____ gllur ph’nglui ____ yzkaa!” In the initial space that has been left in the formula, the true name of the person is inserted; in the final space, the speaker of the formula voices his own true name. At once, the awareness of the speaker finds itself within the flesh of the person named, and the mind of that man or creature is placed in the speaker’s body, but unaware, as though in deep slumber. In the beginning the counterchange of minds cannot be sustained for more than the fifth part of an hour, but with each repetition of the magic it becomes easier to maintain, until at last a level of perfection is reached in which it is possible to make the transfer permanent.
In this way the formula may be used to attain a kind of immortality, as the mind moves from body to body, replacing flesh that is aged or diseased with flesh that is youthful and robust. It does not come without a price, for not all the power of a man is contained within his mind; some aspects of power also reside in the flesh itself, and when the flesh is discarded, this potency is lost. Care must be observed never to transfer permanently the mind into the body of a host who is weak of intellect or frail of will, as this may render future transfers with other human vessels impossible. Mark this well: the stronger can enter the weaker, but the weaker cannot enter the stronger. A mind that is uncommonly vacillating and frail cannot work the formula at all, even against a weaker mind, since its use requires a degree of power.
Those of strong will can use this formula of Yug with greater ease than men of normal concentration; those of weak will are more susceptible to its influence than men of potent mind. It is a spell of dominance, and can never be employed to enslave the strong to the weak. The transfer can only be made between two minds capable of reasoned thought—it will not place the mind of a man into the body of a beast, even for a brief duration, for the beast has no understanding, and its flesh is not a fit vessel for human intellect. However, two reasoning beings, be they ever so dissimilar in kind or appearance, can exchange their minds by the formula, provided that he who utters it is the stronger of will. If the difference between the two minds is not great, the formula can be resisted by the weaker mind, but if the difference is large, no resistance is possible.
In after days, it amused the traveler who had received the formula of Yug from the spawn to see the monster gazing at him through the eyes of the monk Adrian as they passed each other in the library, or upon the paths of the monastery compound. Neither acknowledged the presence of the other, or gave any sign of recognition, but the traveler fancied that he could discern a faint gleam of inhuman mirth in the depths of the monk’s eyes, as of one who shares a matter of portent with another that remains unsuspected by the crowd in the marketplace.
n the library of the magi is a scroll on papyrus which the monks have set aside as a thing of little value, so that it occupies a dark niche in the nethermost wall of books at the western end of the library. It is written in Aramaic, but the letters are Hebrew, and it may be that none of the scribes who examined it possessed the knowledge to translate its contents. The text itself is of limited interest, consisting as it does of a description of various holy springs and other sacred places of the infidels, most of them so completely decayed that they have ceased to exist and can no longer be located. It is not this primary text that gives the scroll its interest to the necromancer.
Near the foot of the scroll a gloss has been added in lettering so fine that it can only with difficulty be read by the light of an oil lamp. The gloss speaks of a well of renewal that restores the bodies of those who have suffered mutilation to wholeness, so that a man who has endured the loss of an arm from the stroke of a sword, or a woman who has lost a leg beneath the wheel of an ox cart, merely by drinking the water from this well is made entire in limb. Even a man who has had his virile member cut off by the knife of the torturer will be restored by this wondrous water, or so the nameless scribe who wrote this gloss attests.
This is a matter of interest to those who have sustained disfigurement or the severing of any portion of the flesh, for though many elixirs restore vitality, there is no other that returns the body of a man to its original state when it has been marred by violence. The virtue does not lie in the water of the well itself, but in a precious object that was concealed there many centuries ago during the captivity of the Hebrews at Babylon. What this object may be, the scribe does not reveal, and it is probable that he was himself ignorant of the nature of the wonder, which in some way transmits its healing force into the waters that surround it and permeate it.
Only this much is written, that the priests of Jerusalem divided this thing into parts and concealed it on their forced removal from their own city, and made it whole once again after their safe arrival in the land of the Babylonians. To insure the safety of their possession, they went from the city at night with this thing tied to the back of a camel, and lowered it into a deep well in the wasteland, far from any village or caravan road. The well was known to only a few men of the hills, and was never used, as its water was unfit to drink. Once the thing was set at the bottom of the well, writes the scribe, the water began to glow with golden light.
In great wonder, the priests sent down an empty vessel on a rope and drew up a quantity of the water to examine it. The glow persisted and was bright enough to illuminate the surrounding night so that they could see their own faces as they looked at each other. An elder priest with a crippled arm, which had been broken in a fall from a horse during the journey to Babylon, and had refused to heal, summoned the boldness of heart to taste the water, and reported to the others that it was pure and sweet. More wondrous still, his body and face began to shine, and in the space of a few minutes his shattered arm regained its natu
ral feeling and vigor, as the bones that were crooked became straight beneath the skin. All then sampled the water, and their scars were erased from their bodies. One who had gone deaf in his left ear was able to hear again. The youngest among them, who had lost a finger while a child, watched it regrow itself.
Having little time, and fearing that the light shining upward out of the well from the water would cause the discovery of the hiding place, the priests rolled large stones over the mouth of the well, and filled up their crevices with pebbles and sand, so that no more than a mound of stones remained and the light was veiled. As the sun rose above the hills to the east, they left the place behind them, their thoughts humbled and their lips murmuring prayers to their god.
The priests were attacked by bandits on the road leading back to the city of Babylon, and all but the youth was killed. He alone passed on the knowledge of the hiding place, which may be located by a weathered pillar that stands near the well having a crack through its center that divides it into two sides. The rising sun shines its light through this crack, and the spear of light falls across the mound of stones that conceals the well; and by no other means would the well be discovered, for the shallow valley in which it resides is littered with stones and low mounds of sand. The location of this valley is reported by the scribe to lie three days to the south and east of Babylon, at the meeting place of two hills known as the Breasts of the Goddess. Here ends the text of this most interesting gloss, which the copyists and librarians of the magi overlooked.
The traveler who has successfully ingratiated himself within the walls of the monastery of the Sons of Sirius, and who has at his leisure plucked the secrets of the monks from them as a farmer plucks his chickens, will sooner or later tire of simulating an idiot and a slave, and will choose to depart. This will be no difficult matter, for he is not a prisoner but a servant, with freedom to come and go by the gate of the monastery in order to purchase goods in the marketplace for his masters. Though they will supply him liberally with silver coins for this purpose, it is prudent to mark the location of the strongbox in which this money is kept so that he can increase his purse just before departing through the gate for the final time.
It is similarly to his advantage to gather up the rarer texts from the library containing teachings that may with future experiment and trial prove to be of use. The larger books are bound with brass or iron and are too massive to be easily transported, but smaller scrolls may be collected into a travel pack and slung over the shoulders for removal. Books that are not frequently consulted by the monks may be taken from the library and carried beyond the monastery walls for several days before their absence is noticed.
Although the loss of a few coins is of no importance to the monks, who possess great wealth and have no miserly tendencies in their natures, the loss of their rarer books, which are irreplaceable, will enrage them when it is discovered, and cause them to search both banks of the river for weeks in their efforts to restore them. The traveler is advised to move swiftly in the hours following his departure from the monastery, and to conceal his tracks by crossing the land upon naked rock and avoiding mud and sandy soil. Once set into motion, the magi cannot be placated, and will never tire in their efforts or turn from their determination until their purpose has been fulfilled.
nce the cleft pillar has been located in the valley of stones, it is a matter of small difficulty to find the mound that conceals the well. The stones on top of its mouth are broad and flat, of a weight that can be tipped up with effort by a single man, if he has a strong back, and rolled aside. They overlie each other like the scales of a fish, and in this way cover the opening. Though the glow of the water is not perceptible in daylight above the well, by leaning over its channel with the eyes shaded by the hands, and peering down, it can be discerned in the depths, and is seen to be of a golden color similar to polished brass.
The well is uncommonly deep, so much so that the traveler who has come without a considerable length of twine will find himself at a loss as to how to draw up the shining waters from its depths; a close examination of the interior sides of the well reveals a spiral series of notches cut into the stones to act as a stair, presumably to allow slaves access to its depths for the periodic cleaning of silt and debris. By descending from notch to notch, winding progress can be made from the top to the surface of the water. The traveler will find it necessary to lower his body into the water, since there is no place to stand, and the position of the stairs makes it impossible to release one hand and bend down to cup the water in the palm for drinking.
The depth of water is too great to stand upon the bottom. Floating up to the neck, and clinging to the rough stones at the side of the well, the water upon the skin feels strangely warm and causes a tingling sensation, as though the skin were pricked over its surface by a thousand needles. It is then a simple matter to duck the head and swallow some of the water. Alas! The story related by the anonymous scribe is no more than a fable, at least with respect to the curative powers of the well, for the traveler, upon feeling with his fingers those parts of his body that are maimed or scarred, will discover no change. The water has a bitter taste on the tongue, and becomes more sour and foul the longer it remains in the stomach, so that at last the traveler will be forced to vomit it up, for his body will not suffer it to remain within.
The regret of a seeker who has traveled far in search of this well, hoping to use its waters to erase from his body the mutilations of the torturer’s knife, can scarcely be imagined by those who are whole in limb and without disfigurement. To have hope of healing placed in the heart by the cruel fiction of the unknown scribe, and then to find it torn from the breast by the sour reality of the poisoned waters, is almost as painful as was the initial cutting away of the flesh. The traveler may almost be forgiven for crying out like a savage beast in his rage and frustration, and for cursing the faith of Jerusalem.
Having ventured so far, it would be foolish not to investigate the relic of the Hebrews for anything of value it might contain. Again, the traveler will suffer disappointment, for when he takes a breath and descends to the bottom of the well, he will discover that the glowing radiance emanates from a locked box that is too large for a single man to lift and too strongly made to be broken open. It is sheathed all over in thin gold, with golden rings set in its sides. By these rings it might be possible to raise the box with a length of strong rope and the aid of a donkey or camel, but the traveler will soon learn that he is not alone in the well, as his stirrings will awaken the thing that abides in its depths.
What it is no man can define, for its likeness is not to be found elsewhere upon the earth. In part composed of matter, and in part made up of light, it resembles a great eel with the face of a man, or an angel, yet its long tail is a curling flame. In swift turns and darts it quests upwards from beneath the box when its stability is disturbed, and its eyes burn with terrible purpose. Perhaps it is a thing of the mud and cold that dwelled in the well from earliest times, and perhaps it was transformed by the radiance of the relic, even as the poisonous waters were changed and made to glow. The blade of a knife passes through its body without apparent harm, and when grasped in the hands, its coiling length slides through the fingers, but there is a fatal strength in its shining sides, and the traveler is prudent to leave the well as quickly as haste allows, when he is able to disentangle himself from this strange guardian.
Once out of the water, he will be safe, for the creature does not emerge above the surface. It can be seen still circling beneath with impatient rage. After he climbs from the well, the traveler may wish to amuse himself by taking large stones and dropping them into its depths. It is unlikely that these will cause the creature any injury, as its body is protected by the water, but their strikes upon the surface will surely annoy it. This amusement is far too tiring and unsatisfying to long persist in, but it is some amelioration for the bitter disappointment of the failure of the golden water to heal the disfigurements of the body.
trange things are to be encountered on the long and hot journey to Damascus, greatest of all cities that is acclaimed by the sages as the center of the world. Its roads are roads of pilgrimage and of destiny. The apostle Paul is asserted in the texts of the Christians to have seen the radiance of God while making his way to the city from Jerusalem. The dangers on the desolate road from the east are great, and lights seen there are apt to have hellish import, for at night on its remote stretches it is haunted by bandits, wolves, and jinn of infernal fire that float upon the air and vanish with mocking laughter. In spite of these threats, life never ceases to flow along the road, even as blood flows in the veins of a living creature, for Damascus is the heart that pumps it.
A traveler of our own race making his way upon this road from the land of the Persians once crossed the path of the lover of his youth, conveyed along a more northerly route in a caravan of numerous retainers and armed guardians. Coming upon it, he marveled at its rich wagons and finely equipped mounted knights, whose ceremonial armor jingled and rang with the music of bells. He discovered that the caravan was his former lover’s bridal escort, for the woman was on her way to be wed to a prince at Constantinople. Her father, the king of Yemen, had recently expired due to a curious accident involving a falling stone, and her brother, newly risen to the throne and still uncertain of his power, had sought to forge an alliance by pledging her hand to an elderly ruler she had never seen in her years of life.