by Brian Lumley
Blinking my eyes and shaking my head, I looked again. There was something Roman or Grecian about it: with balconies, great esplanades, and sweeping stairways; and then there were temples and amphitheatres, and everywhere columns and fluted pedestals and statues. But while the statuary and the titan idols of the temples were those same krakens of R’lyeh, still the place appeared to my eyes much as I might have expected to find Atlantis, a city drowned in prehistory. With but one exception.
As old Mr. Bishop had pointed out to me, this was not a city of men sunken in some cataclysm of Earth, it was a city built beneath the sea in aeons lost to memory, built and inhabited by subaqueous beings—a city of the Deep Ones. And as such, Y’ha-Nthlei still lived!
“But what purpose do you have in I finally began, and paused uncertainly. “I mean—why are these models here?”
The old man smiled at me with that queer turning-up of the corners of his too-wide mouth. “Pardon?” he whispered. “Our purpose in having the models here? The answer is simple: the real R’lyeh lies in the depth of the Pacific many thousands of miles away, and Y’ha—Nthlei is far away across the Atlantic. We cannot have the real thing, and so—
“Sunken cities and lost races,” Semple abruptly, hurriedly cut in, “are a hobby of Mr. Bishop’s, John. A hobby which almost entirely absorbs him. But come, they’re serving lunch. You can come back in here later, if you wish.”
I stood up on legs which were unaccustomedly shaky, glancing down at Mr. Bishop where he remained seated. For a moment more he gazed up at me, then turned his eyes back to the models on the table. He reached out his hand and it trembled as it touched the skeletal frame of the third and last model, as yet incomplete, little more than miniature foundations. But as I began to turn away, I distinctly heard him whisper:
“Ah, yes, John Vollister, you may well wonder. But when Ahu-Y’hloa is finished out there in the sea, and when you yourself see her shining towers and temples and her myriad pillars, then
I would have turned back then to question him again, but Semple caught my shoulder and cautioned me with a finger to his lips. “The old man,” he explained when we were out of earshot, “is not quite right. It’s his age and his condition, you understand.”
“Listen, David,” I drew him to one side as we went back through a swing door into the dining-room. “There’s an awful lot I don’t understand here. A good many odd coincidences that don't quite seem to—”
“John!” came a girl's voice from behind me—a voice that sounded genuinely full of surprise and pleasure—driving all queries and doubts right out of my mind. “There, didn’t I say we'd meet again?”
I turned, and it was Sarah Bishop. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Semple make some sort of sign, a greeting perhaps, but I could sense that he was glad of Sarah's intrusion. “I’ll speak to you later, John,” he said as Sarah led me away to the table.
Seven or eight residents or club members were already seated, and I joined them, Sarah at my side, without formal introductions. Not wishing to seem gauche or ignorant, I none the less averted my eyes from them as best I could, but not before noting the fact that they all seemed cut in the same mould. Indeed, it was as if they were all members of the same family. With the exception of Sarah, Semple, and one or two others, all of them wore a peculiarly repellent, bulge-eyed, ichthyic look, as if they were younger versions of old Mr. Bishop.
I would have made conversation with Sarah, but we were no sooner seated than she struck up with a woman on her far side. I concentrated on an excellent prawn cocktail washed down with a glass of resinous yellow wine, then went on to the main course of boiled fish beautifully dressed. My own portion was excellently cooked, but I did little more than taste it. I had noticed that the others at the table, with the sole exception of Sarah, seemed to be enjoying portions which to all appearances were partly or wholly raw!
A queasy feeling which had been growing in the pit of my stomach since my arrival at the place—particularly since taking that glass of whisky in Semple’s room—seemed suddenly to come to a head. My extremities became unmanageable in a moment, and unable to grip knife or fork I let both fall clatteringly to the table. As I struggled to my feet, Sarah took my arm, her strange eyes full of concern, her mouth framing a question I could not hear. The room tilted and swam before me, and a roaring filled my head. I was conscious of bulging eyes staring curiously and fixedly at me where I swayed, my hands gripping the back of my chair in that gloomy and ominous room.
Later I was to remember thinking that this was the way I had felt as a small boy following a debilitating illness, when I had been prone to fainting spells—and also that whatever else happened I must not faint here, not in this strange place of strange people. Then my vision blurred over completely and in my whirling mind’s eye I saw submarine visions of R’lyeh and Y’ha-Nthlei, and of finny shapes that swam in the shrouding weeds—and knew where I had seen those cities before: in my dreams on the first night after receiving the New England conch!
Finally, as I swayed and fell backwards into waiting arms, I saw again a mental picture of those sailing ships of old, the brig Hetty and the barque Sumatra Queen. The ships, yes, and the brass plaque beneath their case—which proudly described them as being “Vessels of the Marsh Line, out of Innsmouth!”
Then, for a while, I knew no more …
III: Tide of Terror
I doubt if I could ever convey the wonderful feeling of relief that flooded over me upon awakening safe and sound in my own bed, after a period of unconsciousness full of indeterminate but extremely frightening dreams and nightmares. There was a dull ache at the back of my skull, and my vision was still blurred, but I knew my own room.
I was not alone: Sarah was with me. I heard her sharp intake of breath and sensed her movements as I began to move my limbs beneath the sheets. How I knew it was her I can’t recall; perhaps her perfume, but something made me certain of her identity. Then, against a glow of late afternoon that penetrated the drawn curtains of my room, I saw her outlined as a silhouette. She was doing something … pulling on her sweater, I thought. I couldn’t be sure. Things were still very hazy.
I closed my eyes against the sudden light, and a moment later felt her cool hand on my brow. Finally recovering my senses and orientation, I asked:
“What happened? I feel such a damned fool!” I opened my eyes again and her face swam into perspective. She wore a worried look, which gradually relaxed as I tried to smile at her.
“The doctor said it must have been something you ate,” she said. “Probably the prawns. The reaction was so very quick! He said you'd probably been letting yourself go lately—not bothering greatly with yourself—that you were run down and in a state of nervous exhaustion.”
“Doctor?” I half propped myself up.
“One of the club members. He gave you a shot, said it would keep you asleep for a few hours. I have some pills for you, too. Here.” She took a glass of water from my bedside table and popped two yellow tablets on to my tongue. I swallowed them without thinking, then washed my mouth with water.
“They should put you down for a few hours more,” she added with satisfaction.
“Now wait a minute!” I protested too late. “I have things to do, and—”
“You have nothing to do that won’t wait,” she said.
“But how did I get back here—and who put me to bed?” Suddenly I was conscious of my nakedness.
“David Semple drove you back here and I followed behind on my scooter. But you have to stop worrying, John. Everything is all right, now.”
“But—”
“No buts! You rest now and I’ll go into the village for some food. Did you know your icebox is almost empty? Later I’ll make us a meal.”
Feeling a warm numbness creeping slowly up my body and wondering at the swift efficacy of the tablets, I let my head fall back on to the pillows and closed my eyes. Before sleeping, I turned on my side and was surprised to find a hollow beside me in the so
ftness of my mattress, as if someone had lain there recently. The hollow was still warm and it smelled of a heady, musty perfume …
The next time I opened my eyes it was to find the room in darkness. Through a gap in partly—drawn curtains, stars showed in a clear night sky. I had been awakened by the clatter of crockery from the kitchen downstairs. Good as her word, Sarah was back and at work.
My headache had disappeared, and sleeping seemed to have done me good. Considering that my day had been extraordinary, and that my health had so recently been in jeopardy, I felt remarkably well. None the less, I stayed right where I was, relaxing as the sweet smell of frying chicken came drifting upstairs to me. There was the sharp tang of coffee, too, and it seemed unlikely that I would be left alone much longer.
Very well. Now was my chance to think things out. In the space of the last few days, event had piled upon event thick and fast, and I had had little enough time to assimilate all of the details. It had all been very bewildering, and in retrospect unreal. Perhaps Sarah’s ‘doctor’ had been right and I had let myself become run down, which might in turn explain why I was hallucinating or imagining the most peculiar things. Yet the strangeness had not been confined merely to the last few days, for the beginning of it all could be traced back to the arrival of the New England shell. The ‘Innsmouth’ conch …
Yes, it had started with that peculiar left-handed conch from unknown deeps; with that, and with my equally unknown benefactor, one William P. Marsh. And it had been a Marsh, too—an ‘Innsmouth’ Marsh—who had owned that line of sailing vessels back in the early 19th Century. Coincidence, of course. After all, what’s in a name?
… Marsh had sent me the conch, out of no apparent motive other than admiration for certain of my writings; I had been unable to trace the thing; it was to all intents and purposes a ‘new’ specimen. Ian Carling had seemed as much excited about it as I was, which to me had been ample proof of the thing’s unique status. And yet it had been described in a book as old as the hills, and its picture had been drawn for that book God only knows how many years ago! I thought of the book.
The Cthaat Aquadingen: a strange title, I wondered what it meant. ‘Aqua’ must surely be ‘water’, and ‘dingen’ was German for ‘things’. Something about water-things? A passage from the book flashed suddenly before my mind’s eye:
“… the snail itself is as a delicacy to the tainted palates of the Deep Ones.”
Just a few words, but for some as yet unfathomed reason they had angered David Semple inordinately. And how did the rest of it go?…
“Yet they crop the slug with care, for under their direction vast colonies of the creatures layer the pearly and subaqueous houses and temples of their cities!”
Their cities. Cities like R’lyeh and Y’ha-Nthlei, perhaps? I thought of the model I had seen of many-columned Y’ha-Nthlei—of the pearly, nacrous patina that glowed over its shrines, statues, and kraken-adorned columns—and my mind conjured up the vision of armies of conches and their snail inhabitants crawling over naked stone, building up a glistening surface of nacre to ‘beautify’ the houses of the Deep Ones.
And who in hell were the Deep Ones, anyway? Some secret society or other? Deep Ones: somehow the words had a familiar ring to them, but in what connection? R’lyeh—Y’ha-Nthlei Deep Ones—Ahu-Y’hloa? What on earth was it all about, and how had I managed to get myself caught up in it?
Sarah’s footsteps on the stairs put an abrupt end to my cogitations. She entered through the open door—a silhouette bearing a tray—moved over to the bed, and put the tray on my bedside table.
“I’m awake,” I told her, sitting up. “And I’m feeling pretty good.”
“Fine!” she answered. “Are you hungry?”
“For a bite of chicken and a mug of coffee? Yes, I am. What time is it?”
“Almost midnight. You began to stir about half an hour ago, so I got your meal going. I’ve eaten already. But I'll enjoy watching you. You don’t mind?” She switched on the bedside lamp. The lamp had a red shade, and in its warm glow there was that about Sarah Bishop which fascinated me. Suddenly I remembered something, and secretly reached out my hand beneath the sheets to where the hollow had been—that warm, musty-smelling hollow. But it was no longer there. I had either destroyed it in my sleep, or … or it had not been there in the first place. Just a part of some forgotten dream.
While I ate, Sarah sat in a wicker chair and hugged her knees, watching me attentively and yet, paradoxically, in a strangely lazy manner. I could feel her eyes on me, but her half—pensive attentions caused me no great concern. I was very much at my ease with her, as I had felt with no other woman since losing my wife. As I finished eating, she said:
“Your pyjamas are under the pillow; dressing-gown behind the door. I’ll go wash up, and you can stretch your legs. Then I suppose you’ll want to talk.”
“There are things I’d like to ask you, Sarah, yes. But shouldn’t you be getting back to your father? It’s not that I’m ungrateful, but I'm sure he’ll be worried about you.”
“He’s in London—and in any case, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” She smiled. “Or is it that your English roses all turn into pumpkins when the clock strikes twelve? I can leave whenever I want to, or whenever you want me to. My 98cc carriage is right outside!”
“If I had neighbours,” I told her, “you’d ruin my reputation—if I had a reputation!” Then I shrugged and added: “All right, I’ll dress and then we’ll talk.”
She stood up and took my tray. Leaving the room, she looked back over her shoulder and asked: “Five minutes?”
I nodded, and she closed the door behind her.
I dressed in my pyjamas and gown, splashed some water on my face in the bathroom, and generally tidied myself up. Then I went through into my study and put on the light. Something was missing.
The shell…
Damn and blast! Following my fainting fit, the New England conch had been left in Semple’s room at the boat club. Angry at myself, I promised that I would pick it up at the first opportunity. Then, noticing that however good I felt my legs were still a bit shaky, I opened the French windows and went out on to the balcony. I aerated my lungs and looked out upon a calm night. A few minutes later, hearing Sarah mounting the stairs once more, I went back into the study and called out to let her know where I was.
She walked in, dressed as I had first seen her, and came straight over to me. She took my hands in hers. “Are you sure you feel all right? I may tell you, you had me worried at the club.”
“My right arm stings a bit,” I answered, rubbing at the dull ache that I felt between elbow and shoulder. “Other than that I seem to be OK.”
“Don’t rub it,” she admonished. “That’s where the doctor stuck his needle in you.”
“Oh!” I frowned. “Well, it seems I'm indebted to this doctor of yours, whoever he is. Nervous exhaustion, you say? Strange—but I suppose he must be right.”
“You were just a bit overwrought, that’s all. Perhaps it was simply that you were in strange company, and that—”
“Strange company!” I rudely cut her off. “You can certainly say that again!”
For a moment she looked hurt, and I quickly apologized. “I'm sorry. I meant no offence. But there’s a certain feeling about that place you’re staying at, and I noticed a few things that didn’t really seem, well, normal.”
She frowned and half turned away; then having obviously reached some decision or other, faced me once more. “All right, John Vollister, I’ll tell you what it’s all about, but first you must promise me that it will go no further.” She saw the questioning look forming on my face and quickly added: “Oh, don’t concern yourself. There’s nothing criminal about it.”
“Well, then,” I laughed, “that settles it. I've always loved a mystery. Come on, tell me all about it.”
We seated ourselves in easy chairs before the open French windows, cool but comfortable in the almost unnoticea
ble breeze off the sea, watching for a while as the moon silvered a path from the horizon to the beach. The night was very calm.
“Do you have any idea,” Sarah began with a question, “how much water there is in the world?”
“It covers sixty per cent or more of the Earth’s surface,” I answered.
“No, no, no!” she said. “That's like looking at an apple and counting the drops of dew on its skin. It doesn’t tell you how much juice there is inside.”
“Or how many worms,” I added.
For a moment she favoured me with that strange look of hers, half—searching, half—wondering, before continuing:
“Very well, let’s look at it your way: mathematically. The Earth's surface is almost two hundred million square miles, of which one hundred and twenty million are water and another twenty million glacial ice. Agreed?”
I nodded. “Knowing very little about it, I’ll just have to accept your figures. You seem to know your subject well enough.”
“And so I ought to,” she answered, “for I’ve studied little else for the last three years. You'll see why soon enough.”
I shrugged, settled back, gazed out over the sea, and listened to her, wondering in the back of my mind what it was about her that so attracted me.
“So far we’ve only looked at the surface,” she went on, “but what about under the sea? The Altacama Trench in the East Pacific is over two thousand miles long. You could drown all the British Isles in the trench at least five times without raising a ripple on the surface. Similarly, you could take Everest, turn it upside down, and sink it in the Marianas Deep—and its base would still be two miles underwater! Do you begin to see what I’m getting at?”