by James Palmer
I tried to ignore him, focusing instead on the fog-shrouded, nighttime streets of London that flew past as the truck moved toward some unknown destination. My job was a simple one: carry the mummy case into a house or other building and place it where the driver tells us. Then we get back in the lorrie and go back whence we came.
We carried out our duty without incident, carrying the strange sarcophagus into a derelict manor house with lavish appointments that looked as if it had not been entered in ages. A man armed with a .45 in a shoulder holster came to the door and let us in, while the driver instructed us on the proper placement of the case.
Our strange work finished, we climbed silently into the back of the lorrie and waited to be carried back to the subterranean apartments of the hell-fiend who was our lord and master.
The hour was late, being sometime after two o’clock in the morning, and on the way back I must have fallen asleep, for I began to have the most vivid of visions. These were more than dreams, more real even than the delusions I enjoyed beneath the shroud of hashish, opium or laudanum. There came with them the overwhelming feeling of deja vu, the sense that I was not seeing these incredible sights for the first time.
There too were sounds and smells. The dull roar of people shouting in an open marketplace, none of whom spoke English. The hot, musky scent of animals. The smell of meat cooking. The coppery tinge of human blood. This was like nothing I had ever experienced, a jumble of sounds, smells and images. And what images they were too! I have already alluded to them, but this was before I understood them, and to be watching a priest holding a wooden chalice filled with human blood ascending a zuggerat, muscled warriors hacking each other to death with bronze swords, and all seen as if I were one of the participants . . . it was enough to make anyone question their sanity, and I wondered if Lao Fang’s strange rejuvenating drought had found me too late to stave off the brain damage the opium and hashish had obviously caused.
I told no one of these visions, and kept to my grisly duties. What free time I had was for sleeping, which I could do instantly anywhere, and with sleep came more dream visions. After two weeks of this I was convinced that these were no ordinary dreams. I reasoned this was so because every vision was framed in some exotic locale long ago in time. I had never been a student of history, had never read more than the bare minimum required to complete my barely adequate schooling, and yet I saw things I had no personal knowledge of with frightening clarity. I watched in a hot room as a blacksmith stoked his forge to make a sword. I looked out through the eye holes of a leather hood as I hefted a great ax to lop off the head of a prisoner lashed to a darkened slab of wood. That was another thing. I wasn’t only a casual observer but a participant in what I was seeing. Whether onlooker or doer, I was part of the scene laid before me. Mostly I sat or stood helpless, frozen, while these bizarre, nightmarish scenes unfolded before me. And even in those where I acted, I felt as if I was trapped inside some monstrous machine as it carried out acts that in today’s age would be the utmost barbarism, but in some bygone epoch was necessary for survival.
Months went by in my Master’s grim service, and still the visions continued to haunt me. I tried to find some reason in it, some purpose, but the visions came and went in no order that I could fathom. One night I would be wrapped in a cloak of mammoth hide trudging across some glacial wasteland; the next I was pulling great blocks of stone while cruel masters looked down upon me and my fellow slaves, cracking their whips at our backs if our work slowed. Back and forth through time I moved, the only constant cruelty.
Then one day I had a glimpse of my current Master.
It was in what I could only surmise was ancient Babylon. He was officiating at some blasphemous ceremony honoring that loathsome frog entity of his, the demon god Yogul. I recognized it from the small altar in Lao Fang’s inner sanctum. This one looked brand new and much larger, it’s golden, highly polished surface glowed brightly in the torchlight that ringed the dim chamber. I was a supplicant here too, it seemed, wearing only a crimson robe and sitting on the floor.
Lao Fang looked different too. His Asian features were lessened somehow, the set of his eyes and the color of his skin making him look more Mediterranean or Middle Eastern. And yet somehow I knew it was him, though he was not known by the name Lao Fang in those long gone days, but something else I cannot now remember.
Next I was in some outdoor setting, standing atop a stone wall overlooking a circular pit, where men, women and children stood in loincloths and chains. To my left I could see my master the king sitting on a wooden dais, staring angrily into the pit. And there, to his right was Lao Fang, looking different still, but unmistakably him. He had a look of triumph on his dark features, and turned his head to say something to my king. My lord and master gave an order, and I, along with my fellow archers standing along the wall, drew back our bows and let our arrows fly into the pit. The screaming of the dying awoke me from my tortured slumber.
It was then that I began keeping a dream journal, cobbled together from scraps of paper, and I have finally pieced together the terrible history of Lao Fang. Night by night I have relived all the lives of our terrible, connected history, going back to the very dawn of recorded time. I shall attempt to summarize the fiend’s history here.
When the world was young, and Atlantis had yet to sink beneath the waves, a fantastic civilization was founded there. Beings from another star had landed here, bringing with them their strange technologies and their frog-god Yogul. Lao Fang was their priest, the terrible Hand of Yogul as he was called. These beings were not alone on Earth. Not only were there men, who were just beginning to scratch out the first feeble trappings of civilization, but rival beings the Atlanteans had been at war with for countless aeons. These beings settled Earth’s northern pole, which at this time was tropical and verdant. They called this region Lemuria. They were mostly peaceful men of science, and masters of matter. The Atlanteans still made war with them with their strange machines and unseen energies. Early man saw these workings and worshiped these beings as gods.
The Lemurians saw mankind’s potential, and wanted to help them develop it, while the Atlanteans saw us only as slaves and chattel to worship their terrible god Yogul. I was a slave to the Atlanteans for a time, and I vividly recall Lao Fang’s actions, though he wasn’t yet known by that name.
The Lemurians were losing their aeons-long battle with the Atlanteans. Despite their awesome technology, they could not halt the advancing ice which now moved inexorably toward the Northern pole, and many of them died from the frigid cold that encroached upon them. Unable to settle elsewhere on the Earth because of the Atlanteans, and unable to stay where they were, the Lemurians rebuilt their mighty space vessels and once again took to the stars. The Atlanteans reveled in this, and set themselves up as masters of Earth, seeking tribute from those civilizations who had climbed from the muck and were now becoming seats of power as well as threats to the superior Atlanteans.
Word of their god Yogul spread throughout the Earth, and was among the earliest deities worshiped, alongside Set and Bilal and Bast, and countless Others.
One day a mighty earthquake shook the world, sloshing the waters of the ocean as a man sloshes a bowl of water, and the ground and sea shook. The pillars of Atlantis fell, and as if this weren’t justice enough, the entire landmass upon which the city sat crumbled and sank into the ocean, never to be seen again.
But this was not the end. The Atlanteans had long ago not only mastered science and matter, but their own bodies as well. A few of them, including Lao Fang, took refuge in specially designed sarcophagi that allowed them to remain alive through uncounted aeons until conditions were right for their return. This is the foul mummy-case I was charged with hauling around and guarding. This is where my master sleeps to this very day, rejuvenating each night and maintaining his young form throughout the millennia. In this inanimate state the fiend slumbered on the bottom of the ocean for innumerable epochs, until some underwater eve
nt released his sarcophagus to the surface to begin his reign of madness anew.
I anguished over this terrible knowledge over many sleepless nights, and by day as I went about his grisly errands. One day a thought struck me. The monster has survived plagues and wars and pestilence. He caused more than his fair share of all of these, and yet he lives. While he sleeps, mountains shift and glaciers wax and wane; seas turn to desert; thousands of generations of men live and fight and die. But my master survives. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair to live in a universe where a creature such as Lao Fang can be allowed to persist.
My second thought was this: I alone survived with him. Not my myriad of bodies of course, but my consciousness. My soul had carried with it down through the ages of men the memory of Lao Fang. Somehow our past lives were intertwined so that we were destined to cross paths with one another, over and over again. And now that memory had been awakened in me somehow.
I alone of all men on Earth knew what Lao Fang truly was. He had been defeated before, but never permanently, because no one understood his true power. I alone could deliver the killing blow.
It was then that I knew what I had to do.
My tasks of late had become strangely more benign, and I spent much of my time delivering letters all over London, sliding them through mail slots, hiding them under flower pots, and even secreting them under loose floorboards. Then, every two weeks or so, with as much clockwork precision as anything in Lao Fang’s shadowy organization could attest to, I was assigned to move and guard his sarcophagus. Sometimes, empty, sometimes not, but always with the same care, always moving it to one safe house or another among Lao Fang’s holdings in London’s least reputable districts, the reek of the Thames forever assaulting my nostrils.
I wondered then if the authorities knew of Lao Fang and his activities, and speculated on whether or not it would be possible to get word to them somehow. This, I knew, was a very dangerous and remote possibility. The Master’s eyes were everywhere, and the chances of me being discovered were great. All of us were carefully watched. I knew this firsthand, having caught occasional glimpses of the person tasked with shadowing me as I went about my Master’s business.
After months of speculation and tedious planning, I had my window of opportunity and rushed into immediate action.
There was a house of ill repute ran by Lao Fang’s organization in the seedy Whitechapel district of London where, for the past several days, the Master’s mummy-case had been secreted in the basement. Resting on the hard packed earth floor, next to an old stone pillar, it waited for Lao Fang to return for his rejuvenation. As I discovered much later, the Master didn’t have need of it every night, but only once a week or so, and could go even longer if the situation called for it. When not in this strange coffin of his, I assumed he aged more or less as we all do, but he rarely went very long without the casket’s life-renewing powers.
One night during this time, I had an idle hour or two which I could spend as I pleased. I normally used this time for sleep, but I knew I could never truly rest until I had my comeuppance against this hellish fiend who ruled my life with an iron hand. I had to destroy my master, and slowly, my feverish brain began to devise a plan.
It was another month before I made my move. On a night when I once again had some idle time, I snuck away and went to the house in Whitechapel where my master’s coffin lay. Gliding along the empty nighttime streets, the full moon lighting my way, I thought of little save my plan. Finally I reached my destination and, stealing down into the basement, I found my master’s mummy-case. But it was not alone.
Leaning against one of the brick and mortar pillars that held the house aloft was Sahim, sitting on his little wooden stool, his fingers steepled, a devilish rictus of a grin stretched across his face.
He heard my approach and, turning on an electric torch, shone it my direction. “Who goes there?” He called into the darkness.
I smiled. This was exceedingly lucky, for the Master had only one guard this night.
I stepped into the circle of light made by the torch. “It’s me, Sahim. Ashley. The Master has need of you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sahim. “The Master sleeps there.” He motioned toward the mummy-case, and I saw then that some of the hieroglyphs and other markings were illuminated, as they were when the sarcophagus was doing its strange work of rejuvenation.
I knew then that my plan was sunk. I had meant to lure Sahim away on some strange errand ostensibly for our master so I could steal his mummy-case, not knowing that on this night Lao Fang rested inside it.
“What are you doing here? There’ll be hell to pay when our Master hears of this!”
I lunged for him then, grabbing Sahim by his throat and lifting him partially into the air. One of his feet kicked his little stool and sent it tumbling out of sight. He dropped his torch, which flickered off when it hit the ground. I squeezed tighter then, muffling Sahim’s cries. How many times had I done this in the name of my Master? How many people had I destroyed or helped destroy while carrying out Lao Fang’s orders? This would be so easy compared to those.
Using both hands now, I squeezed until Sahim moved no more, his throat thoroughly crushed. I let him fall in a heap upon the earthen floor. Now to see to my Master.
I did not know what to do at this point. I had planned on finding the sarcophagus empty and, filling it with rocks I was going to toss it into the Thames. Or, failing that, damaging it’s inner workings somehow so that my master could not rejuvenate.
I bent over the sarcophagus, eyeing its strange markings which were alive with an inner fire. I knew I could not hope to open it. The case locked and unlocked from within. I wondered how easy it would be to move on my own, and if said moving would stir the creature who slept inside.
I leaned over it, gripped both sides, and tugged. It budged. A little. Now I put all my effort into it, and caused the gruesome artifact to slide along the smooth earthen floor. The thing inside did not stir. With luck and time I knew I could get it up the rough hewn stone stairs and out of this makeshift crypt. Then I would secure a means of transport and dump this cursed thing into the Thames, ridding London and the world of Lao Fang forever.
With considerable effort I got the abominable casket over to the crumbling stone steps and, sliding half its length onto the first three steps, I got at the bottom of the fiend’s sarcophagus and shoved.
It seemed to slide quite easily. Encouraged by my sudden good fortune, I put all my strength into it, grunting as I guided the mummy-case’s bulk up and over each ancient step.
Sweating, my lower back straining, I finally reached the top of the narrow staircase. All that stood between Lao Fang’s cursed sarcophagus and the dark and reeking Thames was a few wooden doors and a hallway which was always unguarded at this late hour.
Or so I thought.
As I heaved the mummy-case up to the wooden door at the top of the stairs it opened. Standing there were three or four of Lao Fang’s officers in black hooded robes, glaring at me in the dim light pouring in from the hallway behind them.
“What is going on here?” One of them, a tall sturdy Italian whose name I couldn’t remember, said.
Flight was not an option, for there was no door in the basement I had just exited. I had to think quickly or I was dead.
“Speak, man!” the Italian demanded. “Where is the Mohammadan?
Suddenly I remembered Sahim, lying in a heap down there in the dark, his windpipe crushed by my own hands.
“Uh, he was conspiring against us,” I said. “He tried to kill the Master while he sleeps. I killed him--I think. I was bringing our Master to safety.” I gestured at the sarcophagus as if to demonstrate.
The hooded figures glanced at each other. “Help him with the Master,” said the Italian to one of the others. “Brother Reynaldo, go down and see about the Mohammadan.”
We went to work then, me shoving and the other man guiding the sarcophagus through the opening. When we were clear
, the one called Brother Reynaldo went down to check on the loathsome Salim.
In a moment he had returned. “The little thug is dead. Good riddance I say.”
“Aye,” said the others, nodding in agreement. Sahim was widely unliked, even among this group of scoundrels, blackguards and drug addicts.
“You have saved us some time and trouble, Brother,” said the Italian to me. “The Master will reward you handsomely when he wakes.”
I simply nodded in defeat. What was I to do now? My plan was foiled, and I had nearly been caught in my act of treason against my fiendish master.
“Brothers,” I said. “What is the meaning of these robes?”
The Italian smiled proudly. “You were not meant to be a part of this night, but I don’t think the Master would mind. Tonight our Master is resting up for something huge. We are to take him to Stonehenge. Will you help us?”
It was almost dawn when we reached the Salisbury Plain and Stonehenge. Slowly the plan was laid out before me. We were to pose as druids performing some ancient ritual at the site, hence the robes.
“When the Master wakes, he will attempt to bring the god Yogul into this world,” said Reynaldo. “It will be an awesome sight! Imagine, looking upon the face of our Master’s beloved god!”
A chill jolted through my body, but I said nothing, merely nodded. What terrible rite was I about to take part in now? All the centuries of murder and bloodshed, much of it carried out in my foul Master’s name. How could I go on like this? Was I destined--cursed--to live multiple lives under the servitude of the demon that called itself Lao Fang? Was this penance for some darker deed I carried out so long ago it is beyond even my ability to perceive it? Who had I wronged to be treated so? And in what dim age?
The Hindus speak of karma, of a wheel of fate turning evermore throughout eternity. My soul’s place on that wheel was that of a slave. But did it have to be that way? Can not man choose his destiny?