They all began speaking at once, their words hard to separate at the time and harder now to recall which one said what. They had a hypnotic rhythm to their speech, as if they’d practised this routine many times before. I found myself almost drifting off, but I remember being faintly unsettled by their words at the time. God, if I’d known what they meant, I’d have run screaming into the night and not stopped until I reached London.
“He’s no Duncan,” said one.
“No,” agreed another. “But greater in parts.”
“Lesser in most.”
“Will he suffice? Will his seed be fruitful in Magna Mater’s belly?”
“We’ll know when the Black Goat comes to Dunsinane.”
“When will that be, sister dear?”
“When the stars align and the words are spoken.”
“By the light of dead stars,” said the ancient crone behind me. “Corpses of those who lived when the universe was young watch over you, yet you see it not. Their hand is at your throat, yet you feel it not. He’s a bigger monster than any I’ve seen.”
“Not him, her!”
Imogen and I listened to their ravings with a growing sense of confusion. We’d guessed, given their reputation, that there’d be some strangeness to the meeting, but this was getting truly odd. These women didn’t seem like they had anything to do with the production of movies or plays, more like escapees from a nearby psychiatric facility. I glanced over at Imogen and saw a tightness to her jaw that usually signified someone losing their career. I took another drink, savouring its numbing heat and sat back, ready to watch the fireworks.
There were fireworks alright, but they didn’t come from Imogen.
IV.
I don’t remember much about the rest of that night. Or the following few days for that matter. I seem to remember taking lots of walks in the grounds of the hotel by myself, where I found an overgrown maze filled with statues that time and wind had weathered oddly, with textured curves and angles that ought to have been impossible to render in three dimensions. I went to touch one, but some instinct made me pull my hand back just before I made contact with the stone. I remember drinking more of the strange whisky from the bottle by the fire, a bottle that never seemed to diminish, no matter how blind drunk I got.
Despite the copious amounts of booze I drank, I never had so much as a sniff of a hangover. I woke from smoky dreams soaked in sweat, but curiously rested. I don’t think I’d ever felt as energised.
Imogen, on the other hand, was having a foul time. She spent most of her time feeling unwell or raging at her phone provider’s shitty service and cursing the lack of hotel wifi. What made it worse was that we hadn’t seen so much as a single member of staff to complain to since we’d arrived. Our room was always cleaned by the time we got back to it and our meals were always ready just when we felt hungry. Food was served in a wood-panelled dining room with a high-backed throne at the head of an enormous banqueting table. It looked so authentic, I wondered if it could be pressed into service as part of the set. Maybe it already was and we were simply poor players strutting upon a stage.
The rest of the cast and crew began drifting in over the next few days, and since I was playing the lead role, it would be me that set the tone for the production. On some sets it’s the director who does that, but once you meet Michael Duff you know straightaway he couldn’t lead a thirsty horse to water, let alone make it drink. He’s a journeyman director and he knows it. He’s quite happy to leave the motivational stuff to the kind of person who loves the spotlight. Which in this case, was me, and I was more than ready to lead this dance.
Like the hotel’s staff, the Whenschal Sisters hadn’t shown their faces since our first encounter by the hearth, but a handwritten note I found next to the strange whisky one evening promised we’d meet again before filming started. I still hadn’t seen a script, which was starting to worry Imogen some. The longer things went on, the harder it would be to get out of this deal if things went tits up.
I arranged a big get together for everyone on the Friday night, a chance to spend some of the production budget and get everyone better acquainted. The acting circles are a lot tighter than you’d imagine, and it’s always good to see what dynamics form early on. I sat at the head of the table, at the centre of everything so I could get a good view of the rest of the cast. I have an eye for spotting who’s going to be fucking who over the course of the production. Always ready with an appalling pun, Banky calls it my sexth sense. It might not seem like much of a talent, but it can save a great deal of heartache down the line when you know how things are playing out in the trailers after shooting has wrapped for the day.
The food arrived and it was as sumptuous a banquet as any king might have commanded. Like everything about Dunsinane House, the food felt like we’d jumped back centuries, and even the vegans didn’t complain when the hog-roast was brought out and carved by two extras with ruddy great claymores they lifted from the walls. The champagne and wine was flowing freely — a little too freely in some cases — and the atmosphere was decidedly convivial. I offered smiles and nods of the head as needed, a beneficent monarch dispensing favours with a glance. I was in my element.
Then Banky turned up and ruined it all.
V.
I hadn’t spoken to Banky since I’d called to tell him to get his arse to Scotland. It’s a cliché, but the man never had a deadline he didn’t miss or an appointment he wasn’t late for. He’d sit around in bloody Starbucks all day answering e-mails and “researching” without doing any damn writing at all. Then, whenever a deadline loomed, he’d panic like his head was on fire for the next few weeks, becoming functionally nocturnal and churning out just enough words to justify begging for another few weeks. Typical writer. He thinks that just because he can string a sentence together we all ought to fawn at his feet like he’s some kind of heroic, tortured artist. Well, let me tell you that on every set I’ve worked on, the writer’s place in the food chain is somewhere between the security guard at the gate and the man who takes my shoes off to be polished.
But this was late, even for him.
The night was in full swing. Everyone’s public appetites were sated and I’d pretty much guessed which couples were going to pair off. I’d just turned to whisper something to Imogen when the doors to the dining room burst open and I saw Banky. For a moment I thought his hair was actually on fire, then realised it was the hearth in the other room I was seeing. He held what looked like the script in his hand, waving it around like some desperate autograph hunter.
“You can’t do this, Mackenzie!” he yelled, rather killing the mood.
He shuffled into the banqueting hall, and I squirmed in my seat as I saw the state of him. He looked bad; bleary eyed and unshaven, which I’m led to believe is kind of the dress code for most writers. Nobody would make eye contact with him, which reminded me of how in Japan when some business type is disgraced, everyone physically moves away from them, like that person’s dishonour might pass to them. Everyone in the banqueting hall recognised a moment of career suicide when they saw it and turned away. The smiles grew a little more fixed, the jokes and bawdy anecdotes got a little louder. Everyone knew he was making a beeline for me, so conspicuously kept their gazes averted. Banky might as well have been invisible for all the attention anyone paid him.
“Shitting fuck,” I muttered. “The old man’s finally gone mad.”
“Let me handle this,” said Imogen.
I put a hand over hers.
“I’m sure I can handle Banky. He’s just drunk.”
She shrugged and raised her eyebrow before sipping her wine and settling back into her chair.
I got up as Banky almost threw himself at me, wild-eyed and frantic. Pages of the script fell around him as he gripped my arms. For a scrawny sort, he was stronger than he looked. I gently guided him towards the back of the hall where an impromptu bar had been set up with enough booze to get the entire House of Lords drunk thrice over
. I wanted to get him as much out of earshot as possible.
“Listen, old fellow,” I began. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Have you read this?” he said, holding out a crumpled handful of yellowed pages. “No, of course you haven’t, you never do.”
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t read it. It’s bloody Macbeth. I’ve played the role before, how different can it really be?”
“It’s not Macbeth,” hissed Banky, “Not like you know it. Not like anyone knows it. That’s why he rewrote it for the masses.”
“Who rewrote it?”
“The Bard, for fuck’s sake! Shakespeare!” screamed Banky. “He didn’t want anyone else to know what he knew. Clever bastard, but I know the rules, the structure. I know what he couldn’t help but slip into all his manuscripts — the magic, the monsters and the sorcerers. The poor sod probably didn’t even know he was doing it, but the words... The word... Once they’re in your brain they have to come out somehow. They have to come out or you’ll go mad! I’ve been going over them all since I read this one. Every play, every sonnet! I haven’t slept a wink.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This isn’t a script as you’ve ever seen it,” he said, again waving the crumpled pages under my nose. “It’s more like a... A... A way to rip aside the veil. A storm of the oldest words, a hurricane to strip away the blinkers we wear to keep us from going utterly mad at the sheer monstrous, uncaring void of the cosmos.”
I wondered if that hadn’t already happened to poor Banky, and only refrained from saying that by a herculean effort of will. I still didn’t really understand what he was talking about.
“I think you’re just exhausted, Banky,” I said, turning to pour him a stiff whisky. “Come on, let’s get you another drink, yes? Here, have a little nightcap, eh? That’ll settle you down.”
Banky nodded and took the drink, which reassured me that this situation wasn’t totally beyond saving.
“Now, come on, old fellow, what’s really got you all riled up?” I asked. “Is it the script? It can’t be that bad. If it’s a stinker, well, it’s not the end of the world, is it? Imogen can get me out of it. Remember how she got me out of that godawful Uwe Boll movie?”
Banky shook his head. “This isn’t a bad script. It’s a work of insane genius. It’s a work of absolute truth.”
That took me back.
“Then why can’t I do it?”
“Because some truths we’re not meant to know,” sobbed Banky, sliding to his knees and throwing his arms around my waist as he wept into my crotch. “Some truths are just too awful to face.”
“What kinds of truths?” I said, trying to pry him loose.
“The secret truths!” yelled Banky, but no-one paid any attention. “Weren’t you listening? The things behind the masks, the monsters upon whose flesh we crawl, believing it to be a world of solid rock! We don’t see it because we don’t want to, because we’d go mad if we admitted what we know in the darkest part of our souls. That this world was theirs and will be again!”
Act III: The Play’s The Thing
I.
Banky was finally ejected by some of the extras who’d be serving as assorted castle guards, but what he’d said — though it was utter gibberish and made not an iota of sense — had unsettled me enough that I didn’t feel able to return to the feasting. I apologised to everyone around the table and climbed the steps to my room as Imogen gathered up Banky’s pages and exhorted everyone to have another drink.
I climbed into bed without undressing and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Almost the instant my eyes closed I fell into the best, most vivid, most erotic dream I’d ever had. A real sheet-soiler if you know what I mean. Imogen and I hadn’t had sex since we’d arrived at the hotel. No sooner had we unpacked than the Red Oktober sailed into her nethers and she felt so sick that the very thought of fucking made her want to puke.
I tried not to let that bruise my ego.
I dreamed of the forest again. In my dream I was on my knees before a dense swathe of a thousand black-trunked trees with waving branches. Not the sexiest thing to dream about, I know, but each of those trees was like a beckoning invitation to something unimaginably forbidden. Have you ever done something just because it was so taboo that you just had to do it? Something so carnal that you didn’t even care if you were caught? Well, this was like that, times a thousand. And at the centre of this dense forest of desire was something vast and insatiable, an outline of something I wanted to fill, something that ached for me to spill my seed in its endlessly fertile womb. I was powerless to resist. I stood and wasn’t surprised to find I was naked. I took a step towards the forest, feeling wet caresses of glistening branches as they bent to brush my bare skin.
The trees parted before me, drawing me deeper into the woods. The ground was moist underfoot, soft and pliant like raw meat. Blood welled around my toes, and I felt bones crunch underfoot. Dreary pipe music drifted through the trees, filling the air with a song that drew the forest onwards.
Knowledge filled me with every step, whispered in the spaces between the mad piper’s notes. I was walking on the corpses of a vanished time, an epoch of life on this Earth that ended unknown billions of years ago, long before our species of upstart ape stole the world’s throne. How many civilisations had died before ours arose? How many species had claimed this insignificant blue globe as theirs before the inexorable forest had devoured them, only to shit them out again as something new in a stinking froth of rebirth? None could say, for whatever mark they once made on this world had been utterly erased.
An ache spread from my groin, a pressing need that I willed to keep inside me. My dick was like a divining rod, pointing the way onwards as I pushed deeper and deeper into this dark, dripping forest of extinction. The elephantine trunks of gargantuan-limbed trees loomed all around me, vast and organic, veined and undulating with deep, peristaltic motion. It looked like nests of worms threaded their trunks, wriggling and burrowing in an endless cycle of birth, death and renewal. The thought of worms infesting my flesh only made me more determined to reach the centre of the woods.
I climbed higher through the slow-moving leviathans, feeling the ache swell to encompass my entire body. Every aspect of this dream was revolting and hideous, but I saw beauty in it, a beauty I never expected to feel while walking on the corpses of failed civilisations. That ours would be next seemed certain, but at that point I didn’t care.
The sky grew radiant with a sickly yellow glow, and I emerged into the centre of the forest. Again I went to my knees. It wasn’t the sky that was alight, it was the being filling the sky. My eyes went wide and I felt the all too fragile pathways of my mind fray and shred at the sight of it. Cosmic and nebulous, a life-giving sun of mouths and eyes, a being of radiant splendour. Yet it was also a destroyer, a thing that cared not that its spawn extinguished that which had nourished its very creation.
Smoky tendrils reached down from the sun, coiling towards me like snakes as a soft chanting built from the forest. I’d seen no-one there to give voice to any sound. Were the trees singing to their goddess?
Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath!
The words were unintelligible, but their meaning was clear. Understanding burned into my brain like a scream. This wondrous being was the All-Mother. The Magna Mater and wife of the Not-to-Be-Named-One. From her infinite, bloated womb a new age would begin, wiping away the world we naively believed belonged to us. But the truth of it is that we were squatters only, vermin lodged in the cracks of their flesh like a parasitic infection. All the millennia we claimed dominion over the Earth was an eye blink to the world’s true masters.
The tendrils lifted me up gently. The frond-like limbs of the forest caressed me as I was borne towards the gaping maw of the hungry sun. I would die here, but I would be born anew, becoming the spark to bring life in the face of species doom. As endings go, this wasn’t a bad one, and I
laughed like a maniac as the sun swallowed me.
I woke with a sudden wrench at the sound of breaking glass. I blinked away the dreamsight of the woods and the memory of the undulant wetness of the sun’s interior. The sense of loss and frustration was almost unbearable. I felt the reality of the room and everything in it to be hideously frail and absurdly temporary. The solidity of everything I’d thought permanent and unchanging was now rendered horribly precarious, a house of cards that could be brought down by the trembling of a single atom. Air heaved in my lungs, harsh and toxic after the woods where every intake of breath was an act of destruction, every exhalation a joyous rebirth.
Grunting at the heaviness of my flesh, I rolled over to see Imogen kneeling by the hearth with her back to me. She was naked and her long hair hung low over her half-turned face. The fire had burned down to cherry red embers, and I could only see her silhouette in the dim glow. Torn shreds of paper surrounded her, the pages Banky had left behind before being ejected from the banqueting hall. The remains of the smashed whisky bottle glittered on the hearthstones around her. The peaty aroma of the fire filled the room; primal, damp earth and sulphurous fumes like the many long-vanished worlds upon which I’d walked. Something in the soft tremors of her movements unsettled me. Then I realised what it was; Imogen was crying. Droplets fell to the floor, a puddle made red by the firelight.
In all the years I’ve known my wife, I’ve never once seen her shed a tear. Not for orphaned kids, not for kicked puppies and not even the ending of Cinema Paradiso. So to see her weeping scared the shit out of me.
“Imogen? What’s the matter?” I asked when I finally found my voice.
She shook her head. The line of her jaw was so perfect, so delicate. I couldn’t see her eyes, but her cheeks were wet.
Shakespeare Vs Cthulhu Page 33