He Who Walks in Shadow

by Brett J. Talley

  I wish I could write here that in that train-car on the border of France we had some epiphany, that she broke down and forgave me, that I held her close and started to forgive myself.

  That is not what happened. Instead she stood without looking at me, turned, opened the door, and was gone.

  I gazed out the window of the train into the darkness beyond. I wished for a sign. I wished for something to come out of that eternal night, to tell me that my life had not been lived in vain, that the battles and the sacrifices and the unending quest to hold back another night—one far darker and truly endless—was well worth it. That I had, as the Apostle Paul of old once wrote, kept the faith and finished the course. That somewhere, somehow, a reward awaited me, one where Rachel and William would join me. And that in that day, they would say, “Well done, father. Well done, indeed.” Yet, I knew those were the vainest of all hopes.

  I didn’t know how much farther we had until Paris would break into view, but I was sure sleep would not come. So when there was a knock on my door, I was thankful for it, even if I had long since ceased to hope that Rachel might be waiting in the corridor. The door opened, and Henry entered.

  “Guillaume and Margot are growing restless. I think it’s time to tell them more about what we face.”

  “Have you seen Rachel?”

  Henry shook his head, with equal measures of pity and sadness. “No. She’s in her cabin, but I don’t think she’s coming out anytime soon. Did you talk to her?”

  I nodded.

  “And it didn’t go well.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “No. It did not.”

  I could not bear the silence that fell between us, and neither could Henry.

  “Be that as it may, our guests deserve answers. They’ve come a long way on faith alone.”

  “Bring them in then,” I said. Anything to break the monotony of that lonely ride. “And Henry, see if Rachel will come.”

  “She already knows the story.”

  “I know. Still.”

  Henry sighed, something I did not hear from him often. He nodded once, wearily, and left.

  When he returned, only Guillaume and Margot were with him. It was to be expected, I suppose.

  “I know you’re confused,” I said as they sat down. “I can appreciate that. I don’t know that I understand everything that’s going on here myself. But what I know, I’ll tell you now. Henry, can I have a piece of paper?”

  Henry reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small pad. He handed it to me, and a pen with it. I took them both and began to draw. It took me only a moment to finish. “Take a look at this.”

  I handed the pad to Guillaume. Drawn clearly, albeit crudely, was the image of a pyramid, an eye wreathed in fire where the pinnacle should be.

  “An unfinished pyramid,” I said, “crowned by a single eye, one locked in a pyramid unto itself, inscribed in a circle of flame. This is the Great Seal of the United States, my friends. Now, if you ask the average historian the provenance of such an enigmatic and esoteric emblem, he would likely tell you that it is a legacy of the nation’s Masonic roots. But he would be wrong. For this emblem is not part of Masonic lore. It has no basis in the teachings of that order. This is something far older, something far more important.”

  “The Eye of God,” Guillaume whispered.

  I smiled, more than a little pleased. “As perceptive as ever, my young friend.” Perhaps this Guillaume has a bright future with us. Someone, after all, would have to take up our cause. And I no longer believed it would be Rachel.

  “There is a group,” I said, “one whose age is unknown to me—for who can say how long they have existed?—who has made it their duty to protect the Oculus. They are called the Tzadikim Nistarim. The history you know is incomplete. In the long ago, this world was not like it is now. It was ruled by something else, something not made of the stuff of this earth. In a time before time, there existed great beings, what some would call gods. Scholars spend lifetimes arguing about where they came from, what drove them away. They can agree on only one thing—in every culture and every society there are prophesies of their return. Ragnarok, Armageddon, the Frashokereti, all share one common thread. The rise of great beasts, kings that have come to seek dominion over this world. And always, there is the harbinger, the messenger, the one who walks before. He is the herald of their coming. He goes by many names, but only one that he claims as his own—Nyarlathotep.

  “The order watches for his coming, for it is foretold that in that day, the one power that can stop him will also return.” I pointed again to the image on the paper.

  “How does it work?” Margot asked.

  “There is an incantation, one contained in certain rare books—the Necronomicon, the Incendium Maleficarum. When the Staff of Dzyan and the Oculus are combined and the words are read, then he who holds the staff need not fear the old gods. Nyarlathotep cannot stand against him.”

  “And what does this have to do with you?”

  “I had the Incendium Maleficarum. The man who captured me, Zann, believed that contained in the book was a way to use the staff, not to destroy Nyarlathotep, but to control him. Zann is no cultist. He doesn’t worship the Old Ones. Not in his heart. If you are unlucky enough to fall into his clutches, then he’ll bore you with endless speeches about building a better world or some other nonsense. I can speak to that from experience. But in the end, he simply wants the one thing he has never had—power.”

  “I’m glad we left him behind,” said Guillaume.

  “Not far enough I fear. He’s heard the rumors. The staff of Dzyan is said to be in France, buried in the catacombs beneath Paris. That is why those who would see Nyarlathotep restored have gone to that place. They want to find the staff. Find it, destroy it, neutralize it, whatever they must do. Without the staff, we are lost.”

  “And the Oculus,” Guillaume said, “where is it?”

  Henry glanced at me, and Guillaume saw in that look all he needed to answer the question. “You don’t know,” he said.

  “It could be in a thousand places. The last place we looked….”

  I trailed off. I didn’t want to go back there, back to the snows of Russia, Siberia, the Tunguska forest, even if only for a moment.

  “We didn’t find it, and there’s no guarantee we’ll find it this time. But we can’t worry about that now. Zann will go to France. He will do what he can to find the staff before the followers of Nyarlathotep. We just have to beat them all.”

  Chapter 20

  Diary of Rachel Jones

  July 25, 1933

  When I heard the knock on my cabin door, I told whoever it was to go away. I hoped it was Henry; if I heard my father’s voice from beyond that wood paneling, I’m not sure what I would have done. My reserves were weakening, my ability to hold things together falling rapidly away. But when the person did speak, it was not who I had expected. Not at all.

  “It’s Guillaume.”

  Guillaume. God. My father might have been better. I was a mess. A blubbering mess. And yet, although my first instinct was to send him away, I needed company. I needed a shoulder to cry on. My pillow simply wasn’t doing the job.

  “Hello?”

  “Just a second,” I said.

  I opened the door, and felt a physical pain when I saw his reaction to my sad state. His mouth fell open, and he looked me up and down like I was some visitor from Mars out of an H.G. Wells story. But then his eyes softened, and his face with it.

  “Can I come in?” he asked. I didn’t particularly like the pity in his voice, but I wanted it, nonetheless. I hated myself for that.

  “Of course. Sorry my room is such a mess,” I said, smoothing the blanket on the hard, unforgiving bed. The accommodations, though theoretically first class, left something to be desired.

  He sat down beside me and, to my utter surprise, took my hand.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. I stared at my fingers, clasped in his. His hands were
much bigger than I had realized, and they seemed to swallow mine whole. They were warm, and they were comforting, and at that moment, they were exactly what I needed.

  “Yes.” I said. “Of course, I am.”

  “I don’t know what happened, but from the little I heard, I can imagine. Your husband, he died?”

  I shuddered involuntarily, and Guillaume flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “forgive me. We don’t have to discuss it.”

  “No. No, I want to talk about it. His name was William. And yes, he died. It was a long time ago.”

  “But not so long that you’ve forgotten.”

  “I’ll never forget,” I said, looking up into his eyes, those sea-green eyes. I had heard others describe the look in another’s eyes as stormy. Never before had I understood that term. There was something about Guillaume. Something older than his years on this earth, something that spoke of wisdom and understanding beyond what he should have possessed. I wanted to tell him everything. And so…I did.

  It seemed to pour out of me. A decade of pain and loss and longing. But that was only the beginning. For my father had provided me more sorrow than most people were ever likely to know, more than I would have ever imagined.

  God, what a fool I must have seemed, baring my soul, my darkest thoughts, to this stranger, to this boy, a student far from home, wrapped up in a mad quest that was not his own and that he could barely begin to fathom. And yet I could not stop myself. Not until the last word was spoken. Not until there was nothing left to give.

  Finally, I fell silent. He didn’t speak either. Only the steady drone of the train rumbling through a darkened French countryside kept us company.

  Then he did something entirely unexpected.

  Guillaume leaned across the space between us and kissed me. I began to pull away, but his strong arms wrapped around my shoulders and would not let me escape. Not that I tried all that hard. I was feeling something I hadn’t thought possible again, things I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  It was electric. It was amazing. I had heard others speak about a “spark” between two people, but I had never felt it like that, not even with William. It was palpable, and if the cabin had been darkened, I think the fire between us would have provided enough light to read by.

  The kiss might have gone on forever had I not regained some semblance of composure, some semblance of myself. I pushed him away, and this time he let me.

  “But Margot…” I said.

  Guillaume blushed slightly, and then he smiled so sweetly at me that I almost felt guilty for asking.

  “Margot, she is a good friend, and a wonderful girl. But…” He gestured with his hand, palm up, and I understood.

  “She’s clearly taken with you. Taken completely.”

  He sighed, long and deep. “Yes. She is. But that I cannot help. In fact, I had told myself it wasn’t true for a very long time. But now, I suppose it can’t be denied.”

  “No,” I said. “No, it cannot.”

  “Look, there is nothing I can do about Margot, or how she feels. But I am not bound by that. She has been a dear friend to me when others were not to be found, and I treasure that more deeply than you can know. But still, there will always be a gulf between us. It’s different with you. When I saw you, the very first moment, I knew that we had met for a reason. I felt something, unlike anything I had ever felt before. It was fate that brought us together, no? Fate that led you to me so that I could help you find your father. And I won’t let anything, not even Margot, stand in the way of that.”

  He leaned forward and cupped my chin in his hand, lifting my lips to his. I did not fight him this time. I let him have me—all of me. And for the first time since William died, I felt like a woman again.

  Chapter 21

  Journal of Carter Weston

  October 24, 1926

  The legends regarding Nyarlathotep have always been of particular interest to me. It was his relationship to mankind that drew me, his antithesis to the Christ figure. For he was also a god who walked among men. But to destroy, not to save. Still, I found hope in that dependency, in that connection to humanity. If it were true that Nyarlathotep somehow needed men to accomplish whatever foul deeds he sought, then men could stand in the breech against him as well, even if we were always outnumbered by those who would do his bidding.

  I witnessed them and their perversity only a few years ago. I’d attended a conference on ancient Sumerian religious cults at the Louisiana State University, in the city of Baton Rouge. The conference itself was a waste of time and money, but I did not leave empty handed. Not in the slightest. For there was another at the conference, one who did not belong. And yet he was the most important attendee of them all.

  I met him in the bar of the Bellemont hotel. He wore a seersucker suit and white patent-leather shoes. But it wasn’t his clothes that drew me to him. It was the fact he was reading my second book, Witch-cults of the Ancient World. Still, I probably would have let him be, not wanting to draw attention to myself or waste either of our time. But it was not up to me, for he sought me out.

  “Dr. Weston,” he said, extending his hand. “I had hoped you’d turn up here. I am Detective John Dubois, up from New Orleans for the conference. Two Sazeracs,” he said to the bartender. The man nodded and went to work. Dubois had an easy smile and an innate charm, the kind that made you trust him immediately. I had a sudden feeling that he was very good at extracting confessions. The bartender returned with two glasses of a frothy white liquid I did not recognize.

  “To freedom.” He took a sip and then held a finger in the air. “I was hoping you would sign this,” he said, sliding the book in my direction. As I did, I asked him what would bring a New Orleans inspector of the police to such a conference.

  “Interesting you should ask, professor, for that reason sits before me.” Dubois must have seen a hesitancy flash in my eyes, because he put a hand on my arm and laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing you’ve done, professor. Nothing at all. In fact, it’s something I wanted to do for you.” It was then he began to relay to me the story of many of the strange things he had seen on the job in Orleans Parish. It seemed that one of the cults I had written about in my book—ancient, yes, but certainly not dead—had found its way to the Crescent City.

  “Fifteen years or so ago, when I was fresh on the force, we broke up one of their meetings out in the swamps, some thirty miles from the city. Middle of nowhere, kind of place that honest people don’t go if they can help it. Arrested a bunch of them, not that we could make the charges stick, even if we did believe that they were involved in some pretty nasty stuff. They left behind an artifact though, one I’m sure you are familiar with. The man in charge of my unit, Inspector Legrasse, spent the rest of his life trying to figure out just what he had.”

  I was indeed familiar with the artifact. Professor George Angell of Brown University was a dear friend of mine, and he had related to me the very same story that Dubois was now telling. Of how the inspector had discovered an eldritch and untraceable idol—a grotesque, ancient stone statuette—and he had sought scholarly advice on the object and the cult that possessed it, much as Dubois was now seeking from me.

  “I was under the impression, detective, that you had succeeded in driving the cultists out of the city.”

  Dubois shook his head and scoffed. “Were it so, professor. New Orleans is not the kind of place that one can purge of such things. Oh, they’ve gone underground all right, but they are still there. Waiting. That’s why I became so interested in your particular area of expertise,” he said, gesturing to my book. “Obsessed, my wife says. But when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, you come to believe that men, with the right motivation, are capable of just about anything. And as much as I’d like to believe it weren’t so, my eyes don’t lie to me.”

  “So they are active again, you say?”

  “They are. It took us a while to get a figure on it. They hide in plain sight, cover their tracks with vo
odoo and such. The voodoo is harmless enough. Ancestor worship, protective potions, that sort of thing. Mostly hocus-pocus and cheap tricks. But there’s one voodooeen who was different, one who had real power.”

  “Laveau.”

  He nodded once, throwing back the rest of his drink and ordering another with a nod at the bartender.

  “Been dead thirty years at least, but they say she still walks the streets of the Old Quarter, still peddles her wares and her witchcraft. Still preaches her black masses. Sounds crazy, I know. But probably not to you, and certainly not to me.”

  “And you think there’s more to this Laveau woman than voodoo?”

  Dubois leaned back against the bar. “Tell me, professor. What do you know of the Ashmodai?” A grin flashed across his face as a shudder roiled through me. “That’s what I thought.”

  The Ashmodai were, perhaps, the world’s first great religion. The fires of their worship had burned through Mesopotamia, down into Africa, and out into the Far East. Their adherents slaughtered men, women, and children by the thousands in Gaul and across the channel in ancient Britain, locking them in towering wooden figures formed in the shape of a man, before burning them to the ground. It is said that the empires of antiquity arose from the maddened cries of savaged peoples, inspired by desperate souls that begged for anyone to save them from the hordes of the Ashmodai. And while the Egyptians and Greeks and Babylonians struck heavy blows against the old faith, it wasn’t until the Roman Empire brought the sword and the cross to every known corner of the world that the flame of Asmodeus was extinguished.

  And yet, even now, whispers of their continued workings float across the winds of time, and who can say that they ever truly disappeared?

  “Surely,” I said, “you don’t believe that the Ashmodai have come to New Orleans?”