Black Wings of Cthulhu 2

by S. T. Joshi

  1774 JAN’RY 9.

  ILL DREAMS LAST NIGHT OF UNDEFINED HORRORS—all complain of them. The blue-green Abyss beneath us—too many Monthes at sea. We lay at anchor all night, the Captain and Master not trusting to navigate amongst unknown shoals and Reefs in the dark. A guard was placed on deck against any possible Incursions by the Salvages, and indeed in the morn we found the Resolution ringed by canoos. Capt. Cook and Johann Forster spoke the nearest Canoo and were told they were there to protect us, tho’ from what they would not say.

  Preparations were made to procede Northward, but the Natives would no[t allow it], beseeching us to stay and injoy the Bounty of the Island, though to speak truly those benefits had been scanty Enou[gh]. Cook directed them to move away from the Ship but they would not and brandished their swords & spears. At last the Captain order’d a Cannon fired across their bows, which mighty sound astonisht these Salvages much but dissuaded them not one jot.

  Now the brutes paddled towards our ship and showed ev’ry Intention of boarding with consequent Murder & Pillage, but this time it was Captain Cook who would not have it and ordered the cannon loaded with grape[shot] and fired into the midst of them. The discharge made great slaughter amongst the warriors and sank 2 canoes, yet did they come on more Determin’d than ever, blood in their Eyes.

  Now it was to be seen that more Islanders, roused by the noise of the Battle, were issuing forth from the island in more canoos. In fact, it seemed the whole population of the Island must be upon the water, so Numerous were they, and armed at all aspects. Our crew was all armed as well and with the Cannon & swivel the Muskets bang’d and clatterd making an ungodly Din in the quiet morning air, yet the Natives came on again and again. Soon it was evident that we must slay All or be born under by their sheer Ferocity and numbers, and this the Capt. was loth to do, so ordered sails set and whilst the Guns kept the most Zealous of the attackers at bay, we made good our escape.

  Even as the wind freshened and bore us away to the North the Islanders tried to keep pace with us, paddling furiosly and all the time calling Tlulu Tlulu in Voices made rough by exertion. Now 3 of the Canoos spread Sail also, much like those tall triangular Sails imploy’d by the Indians [i.e., the Maori—Ed.], and bid fair to catch us up, the wind being in their Quarter. And upon these sails we could see an Image of their Great Squidd-God or Tlulu painted in some red pigment, terribel to look at. But for all their paint & Tattews & infernal shouts & armes the gunners made short work of them, spraying them with lethal loads of grape and round-shot & tearing their pretty Sails all to rags & filling their bilges with the Blood of the slain.

  In an hour we had left them behind and stood on at a fair pace, some 8 knotts under a cloudles Sky. With the fair weather & Sun and our escape from the islanders our mood should have been lighten’d, yet our Crew were still surly and recalcitrant. As we progressed thro’ the foaming Water I felt this choler spreading even to me, and I observ’d Mr Forster père more disputatious & ill-favoured than usual. Seaman Gillis is on the edge of Hysteria, and sadly his Mood conveys easily to the other seamen. Many now speak in Low Voices of the Squidds and their possible meaning. They do their chores faithfully but without the Alacrity of former days. There is nothing so plain as Mutinie, but it would be fair to say their hearts are not in their work. We saw few fish and no Birds at all on this day, altho’ an occasionall Squid of the ubiquitous megaptera species shot past us, ever South. And it was plain to me now that Bird and Beast alike had not been migrating to anything, but fleeing from Something. And we are ploughing thro’ the waves towards that Something.

  To night Gillis was clappt in irons and will be flogg’d upon the morrow. He had been becoming more erratick all day, and as Night fell he clamber’d into the shrouds, there to observe the squid beneath the Waters. He began yelling down that now he could see the Patterns intire, he had learnt the cipher of the Squids maculations and it told him we should arrive at our Destination in a day and a nights Time. With the Mens mood already wound to a high pitch the Boatswain called for Gillis to Come down out of there, be a good lad and shut it, but he would not, and finally the Mate and a couple Hands must needs climb the rigging as well and chase him even to the Topsail yards before securing him & returning him to the deck where he was restrain’d. My heart is mov’d to sadness and regret at the Poor man and his plight, yet he seems the most sanguine and Cheerfull of our company anticipating Great Things to come. That he is mad is without a doubt, but I am reminded of his colourblindness and that of the Islanders, and I now ask myself not What is it that they do not see, but What is it that they DO see?

  1774 JAN’RY 10.

  WIND CONSTANT, NEARLY A GALE OUT OF THE S.S.W. SUN and hotter, the Mood on deck sombre. Gillis brought up to Deck this morning, bound to the shrouds and given 12 lashes. Still he complaind none, and when the doctor applied salves to his Back, and a new sail was spread upon the mainmast, disclosing a gigantick Squidds head and tentacles he had painted in tar upon it, he laughed like to burst his Lungs. The Mate secreted him far below Decks, in hopes that his Laughter will not further annoy the crew, who are become surly for lack of Slepe. All complain of bad dreams, my self included, of the Depths of ocean & of Somthing rising to be seen, a great and awful Revelation. The text

  And the Sea gave up the Dead which were in it [Rev. 20:13]

  revolves in my mind again and again tho’ I try to silence it. There is no wholesome Distraction to put in its place, however, as the Crew are silent, the Forsters are silent, the Captain is silent, and the sea is become a wide and featureless Desertt devoid of Life of any kind. For even the strange squid have quit these Waters, responding to Who knows what Stimulus or warning. Yet our Captain has set his aquiline face and implacable Will towards the Unknown North, as resolute to discover what is undiscover’d as to go where he has been forbidden, tapu or no. The Wind seems to manifest his intent, pressing the sails until the Masts creak and groan in a most worrysome Manner. He is, indeed, the Captain of Resolution.

  As I write this in my berth before a Sleep which I dread, the only sound of Human activitie is the hoarse laugh of Gillis, secured deep in the Hold.

  1774 JAN’RY 11.

  IN THE LATITUDE OF 47 DEGRESS 9 MINUTES SOUTH, Longitude of 126 Degrees, 43 minutes West. Sun, hot, the wind dyed in the Night. The Sea the colour of Pewter, the sky a steely blue such as I have never seen—a vast Slate upon which anything may be written. V. early this morn awaked by a shout. As I lay in my berth wondering if it emanated from the Captain’s cabin or no, I heard the rapid thumping of bare Feet running upon the deck above my head, and soon divers Yells and Alarms. I rose quickly, glad to be free of the Gripe of unspeakable nightmares, and came up on Deck.

  All the Crew were awake and running hither and yon, many crowding along the bow rail and cat heads forward, staring Ahead. I joined them, close by Captain Cook himself. Like his Men, his Countenance was set & grim & intent upon the Sea before Us.

  There, several miles distant, the Ocean was heaving up in a wide Circle, a smooth, silvery shield betokening some titan Current upwelling from unguessed Depths. A Hand in the rigging guessed it to be 2 miles in diameter, and contrary to its evident dispersal of water we were being drawn towards It. Still we remaind unmoving, fascinated by this Irruption from a World beyond our most acute philosophies. This is What we have been drawn towards, the Captain said quietly at my side, This is What the Salveges tried to discourage us from reaching. And still we drifted towards It, and the only sound on that flat, immeasurable Plain was the gurgling of the uprising waters.

  We should have stayd thus and, God help us, have been caught by that unholy Current but that at that moment there was a Commotion aft. Gillis had contrived to escape his bounds, evade his Captors, & run pell mell up onto the Main Deck, calling and screaming in a most hideous Manner, Tlulu! Tlulu! So aghast were we at this apparition, his hair disheveld, his eyes distended, shirt in flying tatters behind him as he ran, that for a moment no one thought to restrain him. In th
at moment he grabbed up from beside one of the Canon two of the six-pound balls, careen’d to the rail and throwing his Hands holding the shot straight out before him, dove over and down to splash into the Sea. We watched as his body, still clutching the balls, legs kicking, faded and faded into the Green waters, faded, dwindled, and Gone.

  Then Consciousness returned to us as with a slap, and the Captain ordered the Boats over the side Immediately. Cables were strung betwixt Ship and boats, and the doughty Sailors manned their oars, bent their backs to the Task, and turned the Resolution about and away from that nightmare Fountain in the Middle of the sea. They rowed like men possess’d or reborn, reborn to Sense and Duty, and rowed us until the Upwelling had disappear’d back over the horizon. Then a clean, fresh Breeze arose from the N.W., the boats were pulled in and stowed, and the Captain directed us on a course as near due South as could be attain’d without nearing that Island of Evill People. He speaks now of returning to find the Southern Continent, for which even the most Profane among us praised God Almighty, officer and man.

  * * *

  THUS ENDS THE DISPUTED PORTION OF MARGATE Townshend’s manuscript. It should be noted that there is no Able Seaman Isaac Gillis on the ship’s list for the Resolution for the voyage of 1772–75 (nor for any of Cook’s voyages, for that matter), nor is there any island in the location Townshend indicates. However, papers may be recopied or revised during the long, quiet watches at sea (as we know Cook himself did in journal entries dealing with cannibalism); and the unknown island seems to have been an unstable formation of recent origin. Things that have risen may sink, and those that have sunk may rise again.

  * * *

  Casting Call

  DON WEBB

  Don Webb’s most recent book is Do the Weird Crime Serve the Weird Time (Wildside Press, 2011). He has been nominated for the Rhysling Award and the International Horror Guild Award and expects to be nominated for other awards he will not win. He teaches creative writing for UCLA Extension and has fifteen books and more than 400 short stories published. You can see him in the plutonium weapons documentary Plutonium Circus.

  * * *

  NIGHT GALLERY, ORIGINALLY TO BE CALLED ROD SERLING’S Wax Museum, ran on NBC from 1970 until 1973. Serling as host would introduce the segments with reference to one of Tom Wright’s paintings of macabre or surreal subjects. Wright had to produce almost a hundred paintings. In the first season he worked with oil on canvas; in later years he resorted to faster-drying acrylic on particleboard. Here’s a fact you won’t find elsewhere, my little cryptlings: several artists would show up at the studio each week with their own paintings (not understanding that NBC commissioned Tom Wright for each painting to match an existing script). Their horrorific art, they felt, could have inspired the writers for the glass teat. Some of it, I recall, was pretty dang horrorific.

  —Tycho Johansen, I Was Rod Serling’s Bodyguard

  (North Hollywood Books, 1983)

  FELIX RAMIREZ’S FIRST THOUGHT WHEN HE SAW IT WAS horrible. Not bad-taste/bad-art horrible. It might have been that. The colors were perhaps a little garish. The graveyard mold a little bit too much on the slate blue side. The ghoul’s doglike face seemed (to Felix) to be a little too elongated. Felix tried to think of the painter that did that, but Amedeo Modigliani’s name eluded him despite Art History 102 two years ago. But he certainly thought of Goya’s Saturn Devouring One of His Sons. The ghoul’s gore-smeared mouth, clamped down on the naked figure’s thigh, seems to have a leering grin. Felix watched Rod and the big dumb Dane look at the painting. Felix thought Rob would love it. Partially because the ghoul’s staring eyes looked more than a little like Richard Nixon’s and Rod, the “angry young man of Hollywood,” wanted to punish Nixon for the war. Felix wanted to walk over to Rod, wanted to introduce himself, but you didn’t just walk up to studio execs in NBC. Felix was waiting with the other cattle for a screen test. But he clearly heard Serling say something about “Pickman’s Model” and express some regret. The great man’s elevator came, and Rod and his bodyguard boarded.

  It was 1971 and big things were happening. Eighteen-year-olds could now vote as well as die for their country. We went to the moon twice. The World Trade Center was opened a few weeks ago and they’ve started building the Superdome in New Orleans. And Felix Ramirez had a plan. He is ready to be one of the first Chicano actors to make it big. Everything points to go. They’ve got that new show All in the Family. They axed Hee-Haw, Green Acres, Mayberry R.F.D., and The Beverly Hillbillies. The Lawrence Welk Show was replaced by The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour. What did you not see? Mexicans. Felix knew at some point, Mexicans were going to be interesting. So he had a plan: monsters, then villains, then heroes of his people, then finally the serious actor. He would do it for Momma. Momma had died the same week as Kennedy, so it wasn’t a big deal, not even to the nuns at school. Probably that November he had begun to hate the world.

  His cousin Guillermo had called him from Mexico City and told him to try out for Night Gallery. He figured it out; nobody will care if a monster eats enchiladas on its off-time. Then it is a clear step to villains, and then when Mexicans become commercial—there he would be.

  The trouble for the grand scheme is that Felix was not drawn to macabre (unlike Guillermo). He tried watching Karloff stumbling along in Frankenstein. He tried his best Romanian accent imitating Lugosi. He just wasn’t scary. But the painting leaning on the guard’s desk. That was scary.

  Felix had a “call back”—he was being considered for a ghoul. He would get the painting as a model. He almost ran to the guard’s desk. A bored African American guard reading a comic book, The Forever People. The painting was gone.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Felix.

  “Yeah.”

  “There was a painting here.”

  “Sure was.”

  “Do you know what happened to it?”

  The guard looked up. Felix saw that one of the superheroes was black, the other ones looked like hippies. It was a sign. We were in a new age.

  The guard said, “The artist came and got it. At least she told me she was the artist. Why?”

  He sounded a little worried; maybe he realized that he should have asked the “artist” for some ID. But on the other hand, who would want that monstrosity behind their couch?

  “I thought it looked really scary. I wanted to study it. For my next role.”

  “Oh, you’re an actor. Well, I will agree with you on the scary part. That thing gave me the willies. It had been against my desk for a week. At night I would turn it against the wall.” He gestured. “A lot of people leave stuff here. They think that Serling buys art for his show. The first season we wouldn’t let them leave it. He looks the stuff over now. I think he does that to annoy the network artist. He can be a dick sometimes.”

  “He ever buy any of it?”

  “He doesn’t even run the show. Laird runs it. Serling got tired of doing everything over at CBS.”

  “So what’s he looking for?”

  “He does his thing. I do my thing.” The guard began to pick up the comic book.

  Felix persisted. “I really want to meet that artist. Maybe she can help me out with makeup tips.”

  The guard reached into a trash can. “I had just filed her phone number.”

  He handed Felix half a torn envelope.

  She was Mexican. She was a maid. And one of her weirdo clients had the biggest collection of science fiction and horror shit in all the world. His home was in the fashionable Los Feliz section of Hollywood. Her name was Carlotta Rotos, and the first time Felix met her was on a driveway with a sign that said, “Hollyweird, Karloffonia.” Carlotta spoke to Felix rapidly in Spanish. She had invited him here because she didn’t want to meet him first at her tiny home. Her boss had encouraged her to try and get the painting on the show. He was a little weird.

  She was dark and very pretty and in an actual maid’s outfit.

  A super-energetic man introduced himself as Forrest J. Ack
erman. He asked Felix what he was interested in and Carlotta said, “Lovecraft.” Felix had no idea who Lovecraft was. Ackerman was ushering him into the house, the “Ackermansion.” At the doorway he pointed further up Los Feliz. There appeared to be a Mayan temple. “Frank Lloyd Wright’s ‘Maya House’—it was the exterior for House on Haunted Hill. That starred Vincent Price. Some people think I look like him. Lovecraft, eh? I’ve got a postcard from him.”

  Ackerman ran to an overstuffed desk. He couldn’t find it. Then he handed Felix a copy of Dracula. “Signed first. But that’s not so rare; there are five of those. Look at the next page.”

  It was covered in signatures from Bela Lugosi to Christopher Lee. Everyone that had been the Count.

  For the next two hours there were props from TV and movies and books, books, books. And magazines. And more magazines. At one point Ackerman had shown him a copy of Weird Tales. “This was my first magazine. I kept buying them. My mother actually told me that if I was not careful, by the time I was an adult I would have a hundred of them.” The crazy laugh that followed would have done any mad scientist proud. The “Unique Magazine” showed an Egyptian scene, a brown man and boy were coming over an outcropping toward a crude sphinx with pyramids in the background. “Imprisoned with the Pharaohs” by HOUDINI. Thrills! Mystery! Adventure!