Charlotte stepped away from the door and with a gesture, bid him enter. He took a seat at the table. I took up a seat near the ashtray next to his right arm. As the Archetype, I have traits in common with each of my children, (To be more precise, they have traits in common with me, but let’s not muddy the waters at this late hour) and I’m fairly large for one of my kind. Spiders tend to make people nervous anyway, and as the Ur-Spider, my form is somewhat malleable, so I assumed a shape somewhat larger and hairier than was the norm for me, and caressed his hand to help him concentrate.
“She’s not poisonous, is she?” he asked Charlotte, drawing away as much as he could without leaving the seat.
“No,” she said.
“Good,” he said, and almost sagged with relief.
“She’s venomous. That’s much worse,” and the Pig Boy’s skin paled beneath what I now saw was a new haircut.
I have a certain, I’m loathe to call it cruelty, but a tendency towards the dramatic gesture when I feel it appropriate. This trait has caused me grief in the past, but I keep doing it, because, much like my fellow arachnid in the fable about crossing the river with the fox, it’s my nature. It is Charlotte’s too. So she gave him a smile that showed her teeth and said, “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Well,” he began, “I was thinking about what you said when we met. And I’m not always the smartest guy around. I usually let the Mast-, the Pig do my thinking for me.”
Charlotte nodded, and he went on. “But if something bothers me, I keep worrying at. I don’t really want to do it, but there’s nothing worse than the feeling of not doing it, dig?”
She nodded again. He looked athwart at me, “So, um, how did you two meet?”
“Oh, you know the story,” she said tartly. “Girl’s relaxing on her tuffet and enjoying a light snack, spider shows up, girl spills her snack and they bond when she’s scooping out some more curds and decide to form their very own Mod Squad.” She scowled. “Come on, Pig Boy! Focus! We don’t have a lot of time left!”
“Pig Boy?” He looked hurt. “Is that what you call me?” but she brushed the question aside with a “get-on-with it” gesture.
“Okay. So I was thinking about what you said and what the Pig had told me, and how they couldn’t both be true. I’m not that smart, but I think about the Game constantly. And given time and constant pressure, water can wear away stone. I thought about what you had each said, and your account seemed to match the facts better. But more than that, it was the version that I wanted to be true.”
Charlotte softened somewhat, and her smile was accompanied by that unconscious turn of her head that she does when she really means it.
The Pig Boy went on, “The Closing Wand isn’t going to get here in time. I heard the Pig gloating about it to the others. Your driver has transcended this realm, but his cargo has not and is still governed by its laws. The Pig has a lot of pull all over the place. Seeing the future lets him blackmail folks for things they haven’t even done yet, and he has thrown up enough obstacles to slow down even your man. His vision showed that the wand is going to roll in here at sunrise tomorrow, too late to facilitate the closing.”
Charlotte did not respond save with a tightening of her jaw. She was looking down at me and opening her mouth to say something when he added “So I thought it only fair to grab this before I came over,” and smiled as he lay what had to be the Opening Wand on the table.
“What if they threw an apocalypse and nobody came?” he asked as Charlotte threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Did we win?
The world didn’t end. Charlotte and the Pig Boy were married three weeks later. They served pork chops at the reception.
Josh says: Arachne is the weaver out of myth, transformed into a spider when she bested Athena in a contest. The driver in the Dodge Challenger is a reference to the 1971 movie Vanishing Point. The Trucker and his orangutan Pinky are nods to Clint Eastwood’s Every Which Way but Loose, Tsul ‘Kalu is a figure out of Cherokee legend similar to Bigfoot. Solomon is the biblical figure who had power over the spirits of the air. “If one imaginary thing exists, then all imaginary things must exist.” and “Mood rings, pet rocks, almonds, Cuban cigars and wombats,” are both references to Roger Zelazny’s book, If at Faust You Don’t Succeed. Van Owen is a reference to the character in Warren Zevon’s song, Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner. The Prescient Pig that is briefly mentioned, but never seen is a broad reference to Hen Wen from the Chronicles of Prydain, but primarily exists to set up the joke about Arachne writing messages in the webs outside his residence, which is a reference to Charlotte’s Web. The commercial with the crying Indian is a reference to the 1971 Keep America Beautiful ad campaign with Iron Eyes Cody. The Mod Squad refers to the television series that was popular in the 70s, “venomous” is what most people mean when they say “poisonous” (the distinctions have become blurred now, but properly speaking, a venomous animal will bite or sting you and inject you with the venom, whereas a poisonous animal will only poison you if you eat it) and Charlotte makes the distinction, and Arachne’s fellow arachnid in the fable about crossing the river with the fox references Aesop’s fable Scorpion and the Frog, which sometimes features a fox rather than a frog. Sitting on a tuffet and eating a snack refers to the nursery rhyme, Little Miss Muffet.
Josh Wanisko was born on a Night in the Lonesome October, on the Halloween of the full moon, but that’s just one of those meaningless coincidences that happens from time to time. He writes about the works of Roger Zelazny at his blog, Where There had been Darkness.
Story illustration by Leslie Herzfeld.
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My Least Immemorial Year
by Zach Shephard
If I’d been a few seconds later, he probably would have gotten away.
I got the rope wound around the stake in the ground one last time before the robed man burst out the back door of the rickety old house. I dug into the grass with all four paws, clamped my teeth tightly over my end of the line, and pulled it taught with all my strength.
When his feet hit the rope, I let go, knowing I wouldn’t be able to hold on without being yanked headfirst into the stake. I am just a twelve-pound fox, after all.
The trap was just tight enough to make the man stumble and fall. Before he could recover his footing, my master, Hetfield, emerged under the starlit September sky and pounced on our quarry.
Hetfield drew his knife and laid it against the fallen cultist’s throat. “One chance,” he said. “You have one chance to tell me what you’re doing in Weir.”
The cultist grinned, his teeth bloodied from the scuffle inside the house. “Come now, there’s no need to make threats—I’ll gladly tell you what your future holds.”
Hetfield pulled the knife away. I kept watch on the field surrounding the house, just in case.
“Spill,” Hetfield said.
The cultist did, with a great flourish in his voice that matched the madness in his eyes. Most of what he said didn’t really make sense to me at the time, being new to the Game as I was, but I listened anyway. He told us something about his Master, and the Awakening, and a guy named Nyarlathotep. When he was done with all his psychotic rambling, Hetfield asked him a question that apparently would have spilled one too many beans.
“Sorry,” the cultist said, “but I can’t divulge a thing about that little morsel. The Master would have my hide, if not report me directly to Nyarlathotep.”
Hetfield switched his knife to a downward grip and held it above the cultist. “How about this,” he said. “You answer me within the next five seconds, and I won’t—”
There was a sudden movement, and the next thing I knew, the knife was hilt-deep in the cultist’s chest. The robed man had reached up with both hands, grabbed Hetfield’s fist, and pulled the blade into himself.
The cultist’s lungs stopped rising, his eyes glazed over. Hetfield ran a hand through his hair and sigh
ed. “You heard all of that?”
I nodded.
“See what you can find out about it—particularly that bit regarding Nyarlathotep. I’ll track down Ada and see what she knows.”
Hetfield cleaned his knife and headed to the south. I cut across the field in a different direction, in search of a contact of my own.
Overhead, a dark shape swept across the stars and was gone.
Ada was sometimes known as the Tinker, though I’m not sure she realized anyone called her that. She’d built Tock, the clockwork mouse, who was the only friend I’d made since coming into town a few weeks ago. At least, I thought he was a friend. Apparently once the Game got started, that sort of label would get to be a little muddy.
In any case, the mouse had told me some useful things in the past, taking me under his wing (tail?) since I was new to all this. We’d shared information pretty freely, but that’s probably because it was still September; once things got underway the following month, our mouths might be a little tighter. Of course, that’s probably just the way he wanted my mouth, being that he always seemed a little worried I might eat him.
(As if I’d even want to bite down on a mouse full of greasy gears. Yuck.)
I caught up with Tock in the field behind Ada’s house. The Tinker’s lonely plot of land boasted an excellent view of the valley below: the grass down there seemed to roll on forever, interrupted only by the tiny stone fences of the nearby farm. It’s a shame Ada never looked up from her machines long enough to appreciate the beauty of her surroundings, but I guess we all had more important things on our plates those days.
Tock scurried onto an overturned, rusted metal box so that his eyes were at my level. His tail, stiff as a nail, twitched once for every second that passed.
“Evening, Fennick,” he said.
I gave him a nod. “Any news?”
“Some of the other players are starting to show up in town. This Game should be an interesting one.”
“Anything I need to know about them?”
“Not just yet. What about you? Heard anything of interest lately?”
“You have no idea. Up for a walk?”
“I’ve got nothing but time.”
The mouse with the clock-key in his back accompanied me into the valley. We weren’t going anywhere in particular, but I wanted to get away from the place where he and Ada lived—she was a player in the upcoming Game, which meant there was always a chance her house would be under surveillance. Best not to risk giving information to unwelcome ears.
“Nyarlathotep, huh?” Tock said. “Not sure I’ve heard the name before. I did know about the cultists in town, though.”
“Any idea what they’re up to?”
“Can’t say for sure. But I’d bet Wil would know something about this Nyarlathotep guy.”
“Wil?”
Tock gestured with his head. “Lives down that way. Guy’s a real pig, but he knows his stuff. I haven’t met his master, but apparently he’s a player too.”
“Do you think Wil would mind if we paid him a visit this late?”
Tock laughed. “If we’ve got a question only he can answer, he’ll be more than happy to prove how big his brain is.”
“Lead the way, then.”
Tock stopped. “Actually . . .”
“Yes?” I could already tell by the way he’d been walking what it was he wanted, but it was always more fun to make him ask.
“Before we set out, I’m going to need a quick energy boost. The legs are getting a little sluggish.”
“Not a problem.”
Using my mouth, I picked Tock up by the key sticking out of his back. I then sat on my hind legs and used my forepaws to twist his body, winding him up. He wasn’t very fond of the procedure (especially since it involved getting so close to a fox’s mouth), but it beat going into a clockwork coma.
With his newfound burst of energy, we continued into the valley. We were just approaching the farm when we heard the struggle.
Tock and I dodged behind a wheelbarrow and watched as two figures stumbled out of the farmhouse, one after the other. The first figure, retreating, unloaded both shots of his pepperbox into his lumbering assailant’s chest. The smell of gun smoke drifted our way as the larger figure shrugged off the bullet wounds and got hold of his prey. There was a terrified scream, quickly cut off by a snapping sound I wouldn’t mind forgetting. I flinched, and when I looked at the silhouettes again, it seemed like the fallen gunman’s head wasn’t facing the way it should have been.
“What just—”
“Shh!” Tock said. He moved next to me so my fur could quiet the ticking of his tail. We stayed low beneath the wheelbarrow and continued observing as a green glow overtook the combatants.
The light was emanating from the winner’s frame. We saw that he was a man wrapped entirely in strips of bandage, his face and skin hidden from view. He crouched over his prey, made a slow hand gesture, and mumbled a chant we couldn’t make out.
The cloud of light expanded toward the dead figure and seeped into his body. When it came back out a few moments later, it contained the wispy white form of a man. The trapped spirit’s mouth opened wide in a muted scream, its fists pounding against the emerald cloud like it was trying to escape a glass room.
The gaseous mass re-entered the killer’s body, spirit and all. The light faded, and the bandaged man was a silhouette against the night sky once again.
He shambled away and disappeared into the darkness. By the time we came out to check on the body, it had already shriveled up and disappeared, bones and all.
“Okay,” a shaken-up Tock said as he led me around back to the pig pen, “we don’t mention that to Wil.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m pretty sure that was his master that just died. I don’t know how he’d handle the news.”
“Won’t he find out soon enough on his own?”
“I think you’re overestimating how often Wil leaves his bed.”
We came upon the pig pen and slipped under the gate. There were two dusty wooden stalls, one of which contained a giant pink loaf of meat that made breathing look difficult.
Tock poked the hog’s belly with his nose. He waited, then poked it three more times before the sleeping giant finally stirred with a snort.
“Hm,” Wil mumbled, not yet opening his eyes, “yes, very good. Candied apples would be just fine, thank you. Mm.”
“Wake up, tubby.” Tock poked his nose into the hog’s soft underside again.
A great black eye peeled open. “Hm? Oh, yes. Hello, mouse. I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“This is Fennick. She’s got a question for you.”
“Questions, yes. Hm.” Wil smacked his lips a few times, which was the most movement he’d shown so far—he still hadn’t even raised his head off his straw bed. “I don’t suppose you’ve come bearing snacks, have you?”
“Sorry,” Tock said. “No pockets.”
“Yes, rather unfortunate, that. Now then, what is it you’d like to know, Ms. Fennick?”
“There are some cultists in town,” I said. “Their leader worships someone named Nyarlathotep. We were wondering if you—”
“Ah, yes,” Wil said, “the Great Messenger of the Old Ones. He Who Walks Among Us. Very nasty creature, from all I’ve heard. And you say he’s got a cult in the area?”
“They’re trying to summon the Old Ones. But I don’t think they’re a part of our Game, so I don’t see how—”
“Oh, silly fox. You’re new to this, are you? Very good then, allow me to explain. You see, once the Game starts, there will be Openers and Closers.”
“I already know the basics of—”
“The Openers, you see, will attempt to open—hence the name—a rift that will allow the Old Ones to return to our world on October the 31st, under the light of the full moon. The Closers are rather opposed to such an event, being convinced that the Old Ones would devour us all, or some such business. I’m certain yo
u already know which side your master is on—”
“Yes, and I also kno—”
“—but the trick is in discovering where everyone else’s loyalties lie. This delightful mouse-friend of yours, for example—can he be trusted once the Game starts? Perhaps you’re not even on the same side. Wouldn’t that be exciting!”
The hog kept on telling me things I already knew, but I didn’t try interrupting again. Tock and I just exchanged a bored look, and I started counting the ticks of his tail to pass the time.
“But you see,” Wil continued, “the players of our Game are gravely mistaken in thinking they are the only ones capable of summoning the Old Ones. A full moon on All Hallow’s Eve is a rare occurrence indeed, but it’s just one of many cosmic events capable of facilitating fantastic rituals.”
Finally, some new information. I urged Wil on, and he was glad to share his wisdom.
“Nyarlathotep is the messenger of the Old Ones, you see. If anyone can coordinate their summoning, it’s he and his worshipers. Of course, once word about this nonsense gets out to the players of the Game, that cult will run into quite a great resistance, I assure you.”
“But only from the Closers,” I said. I was careful to choose my words so that I wouldn’t divulge which side Hetfield and I were on—we were Closers, through and through, but no one needed to know that just yet.
“Hm, yes—you’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Wil asked. “But no, even the Openers would not wish to see the Old Ones summoned on another man’s watch. They want to be the ones to claim that special glory, and that means stopping this silly cult so that we can get on with our Game as planned.”
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 Page 58