Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

by Stephen Jones

  Constant looked at the problem. “This stone, that stone, that stone,” he said, pointing out loose outcrops around the lip of the hole. “They will come away.”

  Charlie was about to make fun of the German boy, but held back. Like Leech, he sensed that the kid knew what he was talking about.

  “I study engineering,” Constant said. “I thought I might build houses.”

  “Have to tear down before you can build up,” said Charlie.

  Constant and Squeaky wrestled with rocks, wrenching them loose, working faults into cracks. Ouisch slipped into the hole, to be out of the way.

  Charlie didn’t turn a hand to the work. He was here in a supervisory capacity.

  Eventually the stones were rolled away.

  “Strange, that is,” said Constant as sun shone into the hole. “Those could be steps.”

  There were indeed stairs in the hole.

  Constant, of course, had brought a battery flashlight. He shone it into the hole. Ouisch sat on a wet step.

  The stairs were old, pre-human.

  Charlie tapped Squeaky, pushed her a little. She eased herself into the hole, plopping down next to Ouisch.

  “You light the way,” he told Constant. “The girls will scout ahead. Reconnaissance.”

  “Nothing down there but water,” said Junior. “Been there a long time.”

  “Maybe no people. But big blind fish.”

  The Family crowd descended the stairs, their light swallowed by the hole.

  Leech and Junior lingered topside.

  Charlie looked up. “You comin’ along, Mr. Fish?”

  Leech nodded. “It’s all right,” he told Junior. “We’ll be safe in the dark.”

  * * *

  Inside the mountain, everything was cold and wet. Natural tunnels had been shaped by intelligent (if webbed) hands at some point. The roofs were too low even for the girls to walk comfortably, but scarred patches of rock showed where paths had been cut, and the floor was smoothed by use. Sewer-like runnel-gutters trickled with fresh water. Somehow, no one liked to drink the stuff—though the others must all have a desert thirst.

  They started to find carved designs on the rocks. At first, childish wavy lines with stylised fish swimming.

  Charlie was excited by the nearness of the sea.

  They could hear it, roaring below. Junior felt the pull of the water.

  Leech heard the voices in the roar.

  Like a bloodhound, Junior led them through triune junctions, down forking stairways, past stalactite-speared cave-dwellings, deeper into the three-dimensional maze inside the mountain.

  “We’re going to free the waters,” said Charlie. “Let the deluge wash down onto the city. This mountain is like a big dam. It can be blown.”

  The mountain was more like a stopper jammed onto a bottle. Charlie was right about pressure building up. Leech felt it in his inner ears, his eyes, his teeth. Squeaky had a nosebleed. The air was thick, wet with vapour. Marble-like balls of water gathered on the rock roof and fell on them, splattering on clothes like liquid bullets. In a sense, they were already underwater.

  It would take more than dynamite to loose the flood; indeed, it would take more than physics. However, Charlie was not too far off the mark in imagining what could be done by loosening a few key rocks. There was the San Andreas fault to play with. Constant would know which rocks to take out of the puzzle. A little directed spiritual energy, some sacrifices, and the Coast of California could shear away like a slice of pie. Then the stopper would be off, and the seas would rise, waking up the gill-people, the mer-folk, the squidface fellows. A decisive turn and a world war would be lost, by the straights, the over-thirties, the cops and docs and pols, the Man. Charlie and Chocko could stage their last war games, and the sea-birds would cheer tekeli-li tekeli-li...

  Leech saw it all, like a coming attraction. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to pay to see that movie.

  Maybe on a re-run triple feature with drastically reduced admission, slipped in between Night of the Living Dead and Planet of the Apes.

  Seriously, Hello Dolly! spoke to him more on his level.

  “The Earth is hollow,” said Charlie. “The Nazis knew that.”

  Constant winced at mention of Nazis. Too many Gestapo jokes had made him sensitive.

  “Inside, there are the big primal forces, water and fire. They’re here for us, space kiddettes. For the Family. This is where the Helter Skelter comes down.”

  The tunnel opened up into a cathedral.

  They were on an upper level of a tiered array of galleries and balconies. Natural rock and blocky construction all seemed to have melted like wax, encrusted with salty matter. Stalactites hung in spiky curtains, stalagmites raised like obscene columns.

  Below, black waters glistened.

  Constant played feeble torchlight over the interior of the vast space.

  “Far out, man,” said Ouisch.

  “Beautiful,” said Junior.

  There was an echo, like the wind in a pipe organ.

  Greens and browns mingled in curtains of icy rock, colours unseen for centuries.

  “Here’s your story,” said Constant.

  He pointed the torch at a wall covered in an intricate carving. A sequence of images—an underground comic!—showed the mountain opening up, the desert fractured by a jagged crack, a populated flood gushing forth, a city swept into the sea. There was a face on the mountain, grinning in triumph—Charlie, with a swastika on his forehead, his beard and hair tangled like seaweed.

  “So, is that your happy ending?” Leech asked.

  For once, Charlie was struck dumb. Until now he had been riffing, a yarning jailbird puffing up his crimes and exploits, spinning sci-fi stories and channelling nonsense from the void. To keep himself amused as he marked off the days of his sentence.

  “Man,” he said, “it’s all true.”

  This face proved it.

  “This is the future. Helter Skelter.”

  Looking closer at the mural, the city wasn’t exactly Los Angeles, but an Aztec-Atlantean analogue. Among the drowning humans were fishier bipeds. There were step-pyramids and Studebaker dealerships, temples of sacrifice and motion picture studios.

  “It’s one future,” said Leech. “A possible, maybe probable future.”

  “And you’ve brought me to it, man. I knew you were the real deal!”

  The phrase came back in an echo, “real deal... real deal”.

  “The real deal? Very perceptive. This is where we make the real deal, Charles. This is where we take the money or open the box, this is make-your-mind-up-time.”

  Charlie’s elation was cut with puzzlement.

  “I’ve dropped that tab,” announced Ouisch.

  Junior looked around. “Where? Let’s see if we can pick it up.”

  Charlie took Constant’s torch and shone it at Leech.

  “You don’t blink.”

  “No.”

  Charlie stuck the torch under his chin, demon-masking his features. He tried to snarl like his million-year-old carved portrait.

  “But I’m the Man, now. The Man of the Mountain.”

  “I don’t dispute that.”

  “The Old Lady has told me how it works,” said Charlie, pointing to his head. “You think I don’t get it, but I do. We’ve been stashing ordinance. The kraut’s a demolition expert. He’ll see where to place the charges. Bring this place down and let the waters out. I know that’s not enough. This is an imaginary mountain as much as it is a physical one. That’s why they’ve been filming crappy Westerns all over it for so long. This is a place of stories. And it has to be opened in the mind, has to be cracked on another plane. I’ve been working on the rituals. My album, that’s one. And the blood sacrifices, the offerings of the pigs.”

  “I can’t wait to off my first pig,” said Ouisch, cutely wrinkling her nose.

  “I’m going to be so freakin’ famous.”

  “Famous ain’t all that,” put in Junior. “You
think bein’ famous will make things work out right, but it doesn’t at all. Screws you up more, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t, Mummy Man,” spat Charlie. “You had your shot, dragged your leg through the tombs...”

  Squeaky began to sing, softly.

  “We shall over-whelm, we shall over-whe-e-elm, we shall overwhelm some day-ay-ay...”

  Charlie laughed.

  “It’s the end of their world. No more goddamn’ movies. You know how much I hate the movies? The lies in the movies. Now, I get to wipe Hollywood off the map. Hell, I get to wipe the map off the map. I’ll burn those old Spanish charts when we get back to the Ranch. No more call for them.”

  Constant was the only one paying attention to Leech. Smart boy.

  “It’ll be so simple,” said Charlie. “So pure. All the pigs get offed. Me and Chocko do the last dance. I defeat the clowns, lay them down forever. Then we start all over. Get it right this time.”

  “Simple,” said Leech. “Yes, that’s the word.”

  “This happened before, right? With the Old Lady’s people. The menfish. Then we came along, the menmen, and fouled it up again, played exactly the same tune. Not this time. This time, there’s the Gospel According to Charlie.”

  “Hooray and Hallelujah,” sang Ouisch, “you got it comin’ to ya...”

  The drip of water echoed enormously, like the ticking of a great clock.

  “I do believe our interests part the ways here,” said Leech. “You yearn for simplicity, like these children. You hate the movies, the storybooks, but you want cartoons, you want a big finish and a new episode next week. Wipe it all away and get back to the garden. It’s easy because you don’t have to think about it.”

  He hadn’t lost Charlie, but he was scaring the man. Good.

  “I like complexity,” said Leech, relishing the echo. “I love it. There are so many more opportunities, so many more arrangements to be made. What I want is a rolling apocalypse, a transformation, a thousand victories a day, a spreading of interests, a permanent revolution. My natural habitat is civilisation. Your ultimate deluge might be amusing for a moment, but it’d pass. Even you’d get bored with children sitting around adoring you.”

  “You think?”

  “I know, Charles.”

  Charlie looked at the faces of Ouisch and Squeaky, American girls, unquestioningly loyal, endlessly tiresome.

  “No, Mr. Fish,” he said, indicating the mural. “This is what I want. This is what I want to do.”

  “I brought you here. I showed you this.”

  “I know. You’re part of the story too, aren’t you? If the Mummy Man is the One Who Will Open the Earth, you’re the Mysterious Guide.”

  “I’m not so mysterious.”

  “You’re a part of this, you don’t have a choice.”

  Charlie was excited but wheedling, persuasive but panicky. Having seen his preferred future, he was worried about losing it. Whenever the torch was away from the mural, he itched lest it should change in the dark.

  “I promise you this, Charles, you will be famous.”

  Charlie thumped his chest. “Damn right. Good goddamn right!”

  “But you might want to give this up. Write off this scripted Armageddon as just another fish story. You know, the one that got away. It was this big. I have other plans for the end of this century. And beyond. Have you ever noticed how it’s only Gods who keep threatening to end the world? Father issues, if you ask me. Others, those of my party, promise things will continue as they are. Everyone gets what they deserve. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet because what you give is what you get.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I’m not there.”

  Squeaky and Ouisch were searching the mural, trying to find themselves in the crowded picture.

  Charlie’s eyes shone, ferocious.

  “Our deal was to bring you here,” said Leech, “to this sea. To this place of revelation. Our business is concluded. The service you requested has been done.”

  Junior raised a modest flipper, acknowledging his part.

  “Yeah,” said Charlie, distracted, flicking fingers at Junior, “muchas grassy-asses.”

  “You have recompensed our friend for his part in this expedition, by ensuring that his employers finish their shoot unimpeded. That deal is done and everyone is square. Now, let’s talk about getting out of the mountain.”

  Charlie bit back a grin, surprised.

  “What are you prepared to offer for that?”

  “Don’t be stupid, man,” said Charlie. “We just go back on ourselves.”

  “Are you so confident? We took a great many turns and twists. Smooth rock and running water. We left no signs. Some of us might have a mind to sit by the sea for a spell, make some rods and go fishing.”

  “Good idea, George,” said Junior. “Catch a marlin, I bet. Plenty good eating.”

  Charlie’s eyes widened.

  After a day or so, the torch batteries would die. He might wander blindly for months, years, down here, hopelessly lost, buried alive. Back at the Ranch, he’d not be missed much; Tex, or one of the others, maybe one of the girls, could be the new Head of the Family, and would perhaps do things better all round. The girls would be no use to him, in the end. Squeaky and Ouisch couldn’t guide him out of this fish city, and he couldn’t live off them for more than a few weeks. Charlie saw the story of the Lost Voyager as vividly as he had the Drowning of Los Angeles. It ended not with a huge face carved on a mountain and feared, but with forgotten bones, lying forever in wet darkness.

  “I join you in fishing, I think,” said Constant.

  Charlie had lost Constant on the mountain. Later, Leech would formalise a deal with the boy. He had an ability to put things together or take them apart. Charlie had been depending on that. He should have taken the trouble to offer Constant something of equal value to retain his services.

  “No, no, this can’t be right.”

  “You show Charlie the way out, meanie,” said Ouisch, shoving Junior.

  “If you know what’s good for you,” said Squeaky.

  “One word and you’re out of here safe, Charles,” said Leech. “But abandon the deluge. I want Los Angeles where it is. I want civilisation just where it is. I have plans, you dig?”

  “You’re scarin’ me, man,” said Charlie, nervy, strained, near tears.

  Leech smiled. He knew he showed more teeth than seemed possible.

  “Yes,” he said, the last sound hissing in echo around the cavern. “I know.”

  Minutes passed. Junior hummed a happy tune, accompanied by musical echoes from the stalactites.

  Leech looked at Charlie, out-staring his Satan glare, trumping his ace.

  At last, in a tiny voice, Charlie said, “Take me home.”

  Leech was magnanimous. “But of course, Charles. Trust me, this way will suit you better. Pursue your interests, wage your war against the dream factory, and you will be remembered. Everyone will know your name.”

  “Yeah, man, whatever. Let’s get going.”

  “Creighton,” said Leech. “It’s night up top. The moon is full. Do you think you can lead us to the moonlight?”

  “Sure thing, George. I’m the Wolf Man, ahhh-woooooo!”

  * * *

  Janice Marsh had died while they were under the mountain. Her room stank and bad water sloshed on the carpets. The tarpaulin served as her shroud.

  Leech hated to let her down, but she’d had too little to bring to the table. She had been a coelacanth, a living fossil.

  Charlie announced that he was abandoning the search for the Subterranean Sea of California, that there were other paths to Helter Skelter. After all, was it not written that when you get to the bottom you start again at the top. He told his Family that his album would change the world when he got it together with Dennis, and he sang them a song about how the pigs would suffer.

  Inside, Charlie was terrified. That would make him more dangerous.

  But not as dangerous as Derek
Leech.

  * * *

  Before he left the Ranch, in a requisitioned buggy with Constant at the wheel, Leech sat a while with Junior.

  “You’ve contributed more than you know,” he told Junior. “I don’t often do this, but I feel you’re owed. So, no deals, no contracts, just an offer. A no-strings offer. It will set things square between us. What do you want? What can I do for you?”

  Leech had noticed how hoarse Junior’s speech was, gruffer even than you’d expect after years of chilli and booze. His father had died of throat cancer, a silent movie star bereft of his voice. The same poison was just touching the son, extending tiny filaments of death around his larynx. If asked, Leech could call them off, take away the disease.

  Or he could fix up a big budget star vehicle at Metro, a Lifetime Achievement Academy Award, a final marriage to Ava Gardner, a top-ten record with the Monkees, a hit TV series...

  Junior thought a while, then hugged Leech.

  “You’ve already done it, George. You’ve already granted my wish. You call me by my name. By my Mom’s name. Not by his, not by ‘Junior’. They had to starve me into taking it. That’s all I ever wanted. My own name.”

  It was so simple. Leech respected that; those who asked only for a little respect, a little place of their own—they should get what they deserve, as much as those who came greedily to the feast, hoping for all you can eat.

  “Goodbye, Creighton,” he said.

  Leech walked away from a happy man.

  TAKE ME TO THE RIVER

  by PAUL McAULEY

  THE FIRST AND probably last Bristol Free Festival hadn’t drawn anything like the numbers its blithely optimistic organisers had predicted, but even so, the crowd was four or five times as big as any Martin Feather had ever faced. Martin had been brought in as a last-minute replacement after the regular keyboard player in Sea Change, the semi-professional group headlining the bill, had broken his arm in a five-a-side football match. Last night’s run-through had gone okay, but now, in the mouth of the beast, Martin was beginning to get the jitters. The rest of the band were happy to hang out backstage, passing around a fat spliff, drinking free beer, and bullshitting with a mini-skirted reporter from the Bristol Evening Post, but Martin was too wound-up to stay still, and after his third visit to the smelly Port-A-Loo he wandered around to the front of the stage to check out the action.