We must have patrolled for three or four hours through that rugged no-man’s-land, ever alert for the slightest untoward noise, the merest flicker of movement. Often I heard what I thought was a weird whispering, only to realise it was the wind causing a scrap of vegetation to shiver. Similarly my eye was caught time and again by something darting across the periphery of my vision, which in the event proved to be nothing more sinister than a jackrabbit or a chipmunk. My forefinger remained perpetually on the trigger of the Winchester and I was quite prepared to shoot first should a mi-go rear its head, rather than wait for Nate to douse the thing with chloroform. Who knew if the anaesthetic would even work on such a creature and, if so, how rapidly? As far as I was concerned, a dead specimen was as good as a living one. Safer, certainly.
The sun was well past its zenith when Nate at last admitted defeat. Rumours of mi-go infestation hereabouts were, it seemed, greatly exaggerated. I was relieved as we began retracing our steps. Nate professed disappointment at the expedition’s outcome but remained upbeat, saying we might have better luck next time. For myself, while it would have been something to have “bagged” one of the queer fungal organisms, I could not honestly say I was sad that the expedition had proved fruitless. Lacking my friend’s intrepid streak, I found the failure bearable.
It was twilight when we arrived back at the river, only to discover that life aboard the Innsmouth Belle had taken a turn for the murderous.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Forbidden Places
A COMMOTION OF VOICES – ANGRY SHOUTING – REACHED our ears. No sooner had we climbed the gangplank than we found Junior and Charley at loggerheads on the stern deck, with Skipper Brenneman interposed between them, striving to keep them apart. The two younger crewmembers looked ready to tear out each other’s throats.
We swiftly ascertained the bone of contention. Put simply, Junior had killed Bessie. He insisted that it had been an accident. The cat had got underfoot and he had inadvertently trampled it to death. Charley maintained otherwise. He had been in the galley preparing supper when a piteous whimpering had reached his ears, followed by loud reverberant thumps upon the decking as of a booted foot descending repeatedly. Rushing out, he had come upon the cat’s bloodied remains just aft of the cabin structure. Junior was hunkered nearby, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked from exertion.
The big Negro shed hot tears as he spat out this indictment, while Junior glared at him with jeering defiance, chest puffed up. I myself had no doubt as to the latter’s culpability. It was just like him to strike at Charley through such a vicious, vindictive act.
Yet it was his word against Charley’s, and inevitably his father favoured him. The skipper ordered Charley to back down and said he would not tolerate such insubordination. If Junior claimed it was an accident, then it was an accident, and that was an end to it.
Charley begged to differ. He lunged forward, fist clenched to strike Junior. Such was his raw strength, it was all Nate and the skipper could do to restrain him. Eventually he calmed down and withdrew, hooded-eyed and muttering, to his cabin. At that point Junior exclaimed that the death of the cat was “no great loss”. The animal “weren’t proper” and should never have been allowed to exist in the first place. Pointing a forthright, accusatory finger at me, he said that I was up to no good in that laboratory of mine, messing around with Mother Nature and turning out freaks like a cat that thought it was a dog. All he, Junior, had done was fix a mistake. Not that he had done it on purpose, he hastened to add.
I felt a rage of my own mounting within me. It was born both of indignation on Charley’s behalf and of a sense of professional affront, for Junior had destroyed my handiwork – one of my greatest scientific successes – with as much consideration as if it were a child’s toy. Although I have never been one to engage in physical altercation, I found my hands balling into fists and was seized by the urge to take a swing at the first mate. His smug insouciance was hard to bear, and I reckoned that driving a punch into his nose would erase the expression very nicely. What prevented me from turning thought into reality was the fear that my pugilism would be inadequate to the task and that Junior’s retaliation, even though hampered by his leg, would be comprehensive.
The matter became moot anyway, since at that very moment we were hailed from the riverbank.
* * *
There were five of them, a group of Red Indians with bows and arrows who sought to come aboard, and the solemn politeness with which we were addressed by their spokesman – the largest and most imposing amongst them – seemed to brook no refusal. Nate deferred to Skipper Brenneman. The Belle was his boat and he should have say over who trod her decks. The skipper deflected the responsibility back onto Nate. It was Nate’s money that was financing the trip. The decision should be his.
Nate enquired of the Indians whether they came in peace, to which their spokesman’s reply was that if they came with hostile intent, we would all be dead by now. The remark amused his fellow tribesmen, and Nate belatedly and awkwardly answered their laughter with a laugh of his own. He beckoned the Indians aboard. At the same time, I saw him cast an eye towards the Winchester, which lay where I had set it down upon our return to the boat, leaning against the rail, not far from his reach. The skipper, meanwhile, surreptitiously drew the corner of a tarpaulin over the remains of Bessie.
The Indians having joined us on the Belle, their spokesman – whose English was excellent – wasted no time in making introductions. He was Amos Russell, known amongst his own people as Swift Brown Bear, and was sachem of the Pocasset, a subdivision of the Wampanoag tribe. He shook hands with all of us, his grip leathery and firm, and chose not to remark upon the fact that Junior reciprocated the amicable gesture with the utmost grudgingness and wiped his palm on the seat of his pants straight after. When the skipper asked him if they had come to trade – wampum for tobacco, perhaps – Russell shook his head and said that he merely wished to offer some advice.
The Wampanoag chief turned to Nate and me and, in a voice that was deep and husky, not unlike a growl, proceeded to inform us that we had strayed where we ought not to go. He and his companions had been out hunting when they happened upon us wandering through the woods from the direction of one of “the forbidden places”. They had followed us at a distance as we made our way back to the boat, and had elected to deliver this warning lest we should choose to make another journey to that same spot. We had been lucky not to run into something that might end our lives, and might not be so lucky a second time. There were certain sites where humans were not welcome, the haunts of “bad spirits” who were known to cause harm. The Wampanoag and all the other Indian nations in the region were at pains to shun these places, and we should too. The most sensible course of action we could take was to turn our boat around and head back downriver whence we came. Nothing in this corner of Massachusetts was safe for people like us, white men who were ignorant of the secret ways of the world and who blundered headlong into peril, foolishly believing that our science and our gunpowder would protect us.
As he uttered the word “gunpowder” Russell wafted a hand towards the Winchester dismissively. The rifle’s proximity had not escaped his attention but did not appear to concern him in the least. With some justification, he seemed to feel that he and his four comrades had little to fear from us. Aside from the Winchester we carried no arms, whereas the Indians had their bows and also tomahawks, lodged in their waistbands. They were, moreover, sinewy and lithe individuals. In their eyes even the weather-beaten, rugged old skipper must have looked foppish and sedate, and I doubt Charley, had he been present at this powwow, would have intimidated them, for all his great bulk.
Nate heard out the sachem with a marked show of respect, which I found surprising, my expectation being that he would have pooh-poohed him, if not scorned him outright. He told Russell that he appreciated the admonition and the philanthropic intent behind it, and that he would hereupon act accordingly. He then invited the Wampanoag braves to share a
drink with us. He had some single malt whiskey – “top-notch firewater” – and a glass or two would cement cordial relations between white man and redskin, a liquid peace pipe.
In hindsight I can see that this was not the magnanimous gesture it might appear. The problems Indians had with strong liquor were well known. With no natural tolerance for alcohol, they were as susceptible to its deleterious effects as they were to the ravages of smallpox and influenza. Nate must have known that, and I realise now that when Amos Russell hesitated in responding, it was because he discerned the calculated insult hidden within the offer. The sachem’s topaz eyes briefly took on a flinty aspect, as though he were gauging whether or not to inveigh against Nate. In the end, he played my friend at his own game, with all the mannered sophistication of a blue-blood socialite, regretfully declining the invitation.
No sooner had the Wampanoag braves departed, gliding soundlessly into the forest and out of sight, than Nate let out a bark of delight. “Hah! Did you hear him? Did you, Zach? Big chief Amos just told us what we needed to know.”
I professed myself puzzled. Surely Russell had said nothing other than that there was danger hereabouts, a fact of which we were not exactly unaware. And, I added, common sense dictated that we heed his words. I was not advocating going home, just that we should tread henceforth with greater caution.
Junior Brenneman chipped in, stating that when an “Injun” started spouting guff about bad spirits and suchlike, a white man ought to pay it no nevermind. That was his duty as a civilised being and a Christian. The skipper agreed, as did Nate, although the latter’s reasons for disregarding Russell’s warning were more specific, as he confided to me later that evening in private. The sachem had, it transpired, given away more than he meant to. “Nothing in this corner of Massachusetts is safe for people like you,” he had said, from which Nate inferred that there were more things out there like mi-go, stranger things, more wondrous things. His reading of the Necronomicon had suggested as much. Amos Russell had confirmed it. “The forbidden places,” Nate added. “Places plural. Zach, we may have struck out today, but I sincerely believe that further upriver lie a wealth of opportunities. There will be more expeditions and they will not all be wild goose chases.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A Realm of Twilight
IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING, THE INNSMOUTH BELLE PUT IN AT the riverbank several times so that Nate and I could explore the vicinity. Each time we returned with nothing to show for our efforts except sore feet. That is not to say that we found nothing. More than once we pursued a creature through those vast, trackless forests, only to discover, once we had it cornered, that it was a muskrat or a deer. Equally, there were occasions when we wound up on the trail of a beast that neither looked nor behaved like any normal animal. Even now, after all the other horrors I have endured, I cannot recall without a shudder the slithering thing that led us a merry dance through a sheer-sided valley, staying ever ahead of us, ever just out of sight, yet enticing us with an eerie chittering cry and leaving a glistening mucous spoor in its wake not unlike a snail’s. We never did catch up with it, or even lay eyes upon it, and somehow I do not regret that. Then there was the agile anthropoid with moth-like wings and glowing eyes, which inhabited the treetops and defied our every attempt to bring it down with the Winchester. It seemed to mock us from its high roost, answering our futile bullets by flinging pinecones at us as though they were Ketchum grenades. I also should note the loping, lupine mammal that led us to its den – a deep cave – into which Nate ventured some twenty paces while I prudently remained outside. He would have gone further were it not for the caterwaul of unearthly howls that arose from the cave’s nethermost depths and the strange acrid odour he reported smelling, eye-wateringly repellent in its intensity. I am still not sure whether what we encountered that day was not merely some rare, previously undocumented species of wolf; yet this would not account for the noises and reek from the cave, or for the bristling ridge of spikes that I glimpsed upon the creature’s back, reminiscent of a porcupine’s quills.
The Miskatonic was becoming narrower and shallower with every passing mile, and we had gone far beyond the point where a paddle steamer such as the Belle might reasonably be expected to travel. Her draught was fairly small, a shade under three feet, but even so her keel often scraped the riverbed, and Skipper Brenneman began to grumble about the likelihood of her being beached. Nate offered to lighten her by removing the majority of the animal cages from the hold and depositing them ashore. These were no longer required since I had worked my way through our entire stock of test subjects by then. The skipper affirmed that it might help, and so Nate, Charley and I offloaded all but the largest three cages. During this labour Charley remained morose and taciturn, as he had been since the death of Bessie. The spark was gone from his eyes. His big frame, once full to the brim with vigour, now seemed too large for him, like a many-roomed mansion with but a single occupant. It was an awful shame.
The Belle, riding ever so slightly higher in the water, chuntered onward. The removal of the cages brought us a reprieve but the skipper foresaw another problem that we would have to confront at some point in the near future, namely that if the river continued to narrow – and there was no reason to think it would not – then a time would come when the boat could not turn round. Assuming that the Miskatonic kept thinning at a consistent rate, then we had perhaps two days’ journey left, three at best. Nate asked if there might be wider patches upstream, where the current’s erosion through softer soil created pools, lagoons even. The skipper averred that his map of the river’s course was far from accurate but there was nothing on it to suggest the possibility.
Thus we now had a time limit imposed on us, a boundary past which we would be prohibited from going. I sensed in Nate a certain desperation setting in. So far the trip had been a waste of time, money and effort, at least for him. For me it had been productive, in as much as I had been able to hone and refine Intercranial Cognition Transference to a degree whereby performing the procedure had become second nature and I had a fund of expertise upon which to draw, every success and failure contributing to my knowledge and proficiency. I had no doubt that were I to take the next step and, as Nate had proposed, try to decant the omnireticulum of one human being into the omnireticulum of another, I could do it. The sole barrier inhibiting me was an ethical one; that and, of course, the practical difficulty of finding appropriate patients.
Nate resorted to the Necronomicon, scouring the book for clues. I overheard him in his cabin, leafing loudly through its pages and murmuring all the while. Unsurprisingly the word “R’luhlloig” passed his lips more than once. The Necronomicon, like some gazetteer of the uncanny, had promised Nate spoils, or so it seemed. Yet here we were, very near to journey’s end, and he had not managed to catch one example of anomalous fauna.
His frustration was palpable. A day passed, then another, and he stayed cooped up in his cabin, emerging only at mealtimes to eat in a desultory fashion and converse with the rest of us in monosyllables. I found it dispiriting to see him so low (to me, Nate Whateley was the embodiment of bullish optimism, a living hurricane who blasted all obstacles before him to flinders) but my encouraging comments fell on deaf ears.
A third day dawned, and even I, a novice when it came to fluvial navigation, could tell that the Miskatonic was now only just wide enough for the Belle to be able to make a full 180º rotation, with perhaps a yard to spare fore and aft. I enquired of the skipper if we might forge on regardless, accepting that when the time came we could head back downriver using reverse thrust until we reached a turning place. He just chuckled and said that paddle steamers were nigh on impossible to steer in reverse, sternwheelers in particular. She would be as manoeuvrable as a brick. “It’s naow or never, really, Mr Conroy,” he said. “The decision will have ter come from Mr Whateley, but any further and we run the risk of a-gettin’ ourselves stuck. An’ I shall be tellin’ him as much, when he finally shaows his face.”
Nate came out of his cabin a short while later, and miraculously, overnight, his demeanour had changed, being now as bright and resolute as I had ever seen it. He clapped his hands together briskly, saying that today was an auspicious day. He had it on good authority – and I did not need to enquire as to the source of that authority – that within a mile of this spot, we should find ourselves in a bountiful location. Skipper Brenneman allowed that a mile would probably not make much difference to the Belle’s fortunes. “But no more, mind. Not unless you’re willing to be harnessed up like a barge horse, Mr Whateley, and made to tow her back the way she came.”
Taking me to one side, Nate told me in a low voice that he and I would form an advance party, scouting out the lie of the land. If we found what he expected we would find, then we would need to come back mob-handed, four of us at least, if not all five, in order to secure it.
“It is no mean creature we are after here, Zach,” he said. “Be under no illusion. If I have interpreted the Necronomicon aright, we are closing in on the lair of one of the most terrifying apparitions ever to crawl across the face of the earth. Do you hear me? To take such a thing captive, though, would be the apex of my career. The papers I could write! I shall not have to write off this whole adventure as a loss after all. Rather, I am looking at an accomplishment beyond all reckoning.”
* * *
Maybe I was just tired. Maybe there were limits to how far my admiration of Nate could stretch. Somehow his excitement sounded forced to me, and I was not swept up by it as once I might have been. Perhaps the seeds of this disenchantment had been sown earlier, when I first happened upon him talking to the Necronomicon and was given cause to wonder about his sanity; now, they were putting forth shoots and flourishing.
The Cthulhu Casebooks--Sherlock Holmes and the Miskatonic Monstrosities Page 21