by Brian Lumley
“Haven't you heard a single word I’ve said, John Vollister? Who do you think taught the early Phoenicians the art of extracting purple dye from the murex shell? The Deep Ones, of course! Yes, certainly they are one and the same, Dagon and Oannes: the Dagon of the Deep Ones and the Oannes of the Phoenicians. Why, it was their connection with the Mediterranean Deep Ones that brought about the rise of the Phoenicians in the first place, and it was the destruction of their temples to Dagon and the defection of his worshippers from the faith that brought them down.”
Along with Dagon (who was to the Deep Ones “the Power, the Guide”), there was Hydra, apparently a female, Dagon’s mate or wife, and a great list of lesser gods and elementals of one sort or another, including the Hounds of Tindalos, Nyogtha, Cthugha, Bugg-Shash, Yibb-Tstll, and Zhar, all of them holding places of significance and power in the overall myth cycle. Their servitors were many, and covered a wide range of mythological creatures as fantastic and more so than our own dragons, unicorns, nymphs, and satyrs. Indeed, they had their own Great Satyr, Shub-Niggurath, “the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young”, to whom I could only liken the better known Pan of more popular legends.
Much was made of certain of these beings in the books, Semple told me, though rarely with any degree of accuracy, truth, or sympathy, for the authors of such works had almost universally chosen to set themselves against the principals of the mythos. Such misinterpretations were invariably the fault of bigoted, misguided, and self-centred Man, who never could see much past the end of his own nose; and since most of the books were several centuries old, this had been even more true at the time of their writing. Why, in those dark centuries of witch-hunts and trials, where every ancient crone or pseudo-chemist was seen to be a witch or diabolist of one sort or another, it must surely be a foregone conclusion that the Cthulhu Cycle and its devotees—however little or much had actually been known about them—would be written off as demons or the agents of “dark forces”.
In point of fact, however, the truth was entirely the opposite, for with very few exceptions—chief among them Hastur, Cthulhu’s half-brother, prisoned in the Lake of Hali in Carcosa—the deities of the mythology were benign beings who looked with kindly eyes upon the works of those who worshipped them. When the stars were right and Great Cthulhu rose up again from the waves and came forth from his R'lyehan sepulchre, then would his followers reap the benefits of his almighty glory! As for those who opposed, scorned, or denied him … it were better for them had they never existed.
In so many words Semple contradicted himself, with offers of glorious fulfilment on the one hand and threats of monstrous dooms on the other. I made no attempt to query the ambiguity, but let him get on with it.
The real villains of the mythology (he continued) were the so—called “Elder Gods”, whose place was in Orion. In a vastly remote epoch, the Great Old Ones had rebelled against the tyranny and oppressive laws of the Elder Gods and had fled down the spaces between the stars to the Solar System. The Elder Gods gave chase and, when they caught up with the interstellar rebels, imprisoned them wherever they found them. Cthulhu they bound with spells in his house in R'lyeh and sank it down into the Pacific; Ithaqua the Wind-Walker was prisoned on a world called Borea in a strange parallel dimension (from which he later broke free, only to find that the Elder Gods had robbed him of his previous freedom and that he was now condemned to wander for ever in the bitterly cold and frozen places of the universe); Yog-Sothoth and Yibb-Tstll were banished to chaotic continua beyond any knowable design of nature, and so forth.
But as slowly and surely as the stars wheel in the heavens and the aeons creep by, so Cthulhu’s devotees—not only Deep Ones but, amongst certain backward peoples, human cults and covens also—were ever at work, patiently and persistently bent upon releasing their master from his immemorial prison, for the Deep Ones believed that Cthulhu was not dead but merely sleeping, and that in his long sleep the Great Old One sent out telepathic dreams from R’lyeh to guide his worshippers and show them the way to effect his release. Abdul Alhazred had known this when he wrote his enigmatic couplet:
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.
This, then, was the prime purpose of the Deep Ones: to spread the word of their god—however slowly, stealthily—and eventually to raise him up again to a glorious resurrection, so that he might once more rule the Earth as he had in aeons past before the evil Elder Gods had thrown him down.
In toto, the Cthulhu Mythology was an utterly fascinating thing, and despite my captivity and periods of enforced study it intrigued me enormously. Semple seemed pleased on the one hand when I told him of my interest, but on the other disappointed that I could not bring myself to accept the mythos as anything other than purely mythical.
“And yet you now accept everything else,” he said at the end of this latest session. “You accept the Deep Ones, their submarine cities, even the shoggoths. Why not the Great Old Ones? It was our hope that you would find it possible to embrace the cult of Cthulhu without further persuasion.”
“Persuasion?” I looked at him sharply. “I don’t know what you mean. Of course I accept the Deep Ones—yes, and shoggoths, too—for after all I’ve seen living examples of both. But Cthulhu? Why is it so necessary that I ‘embrace’ your god to become your ambassador? I assume that what Sarah told me was true: that ultimately I am to be an ambassador of sorts, between the Deep Ones and my own people?”
“Your own people?” For a moment he looked startled, then quickly composed himself. “Ah, yes, she told you that, didn’t she …?”
“Well?”
“It should not be long now, John Vollister, before you begin to understand your future functions more clearly. To say any more now would be superfluous. In any case, it will all become clear without explanation. You'll see.”
“But surely,” I began to protest, “you can tell me more than—”
“Not now, John,” he stopped me. “Another week, and then we shall begin to see what we shall see.” And with that he quickly left.
I did not see Semple again for at least a week, but it was a week full of changes. For one thing, I was rapidly regaining my strength, mainly due to the fact that for the past five or six days I had not been taking the pills Semple gave me when each of his visits was at an end. I would place them under my tongue and pretend to wash them down with water, then get rid of them as soon as I was left alone.
I suspected that my food was drugged, too, but however distasteful that half—raw mulch of fish invariably was, still I could not go without sustenance. And, truth to tell, despite the fact that the food was raw, I was eating ravenously. This was wholly due (I told myself) to the fact that I was now being given less and less as the days went by, almost as if my captors were intent upon starving me.
Also, I was seeing much less of Sarah now, and when she did visit me there was something different in the way she looked at me. I would find her holding my hands and examining them minutely, or staring at my face as if seeking something in my eyes, something hidden there which she expected to find if only she looked deeply enough. Too, she would pretend to kiss me, but as she did so I would feel her fingers gently massaging the sides of my neck. It was as if she knew that I had developed a nagging sore throat and that the swollen glands of my boyhood had returned to trouble me again.
Then, on the ninth day, after Sargent had been in with fresh blankets and clean sheets (my linen had to be changed regularly due to the damp atmosphere of the tank), he returned with—of all things—a bucket of young, live mackerel! These he released into the water in the sunken area of the tank, telling me that they would live for two days … after which they would be no good for eating. And from then on there was no more food.
I slept, started awake from my now recurrent nightmare of pursuit through submarine caves of coral, nervously paced the confines of the tank for hours on end without receiving a single visitor, the
n kneeled to peer into the shallow water of the sunken area. The mackerel were there, their movement sluggish now, and my hunger was increasing with each passing moment.
Later I slept again—and awoke wondering what would be the difference between the taste and texture of fish fresh from the water and the uncooked food which until recently I had been receiving. One thing was certain: I must not starve myself, for then I would never be able to find the strength necessary to effect my escape.
My escape, yes, for that one thought was now uppermost in my mind: to get out of here and bring the existence of these creatures—of the Deep Ones—to the attention of the authorities. It could well be that eventually a time would come when Man and Deep One might meet on terms of mutual trust, friendship, and benefit, but not while groups such as this were capable of crimes against the person such as I had suffered. The sooner I got out of here the better, but to achieve that end I would have to be strong enough to tackle at least one of my captors. Which led me to the question: which one?
I couldn't picture Sarah or the doctor coming to see me without having someone close at hand to call upon if needs be; which left only Sargent or Semple. The former, while seeming somewhat retarded and slow, had impressed me as capable of great strength. But Semple was slim and small-framed; it would have to be him. As for when I would make my attempt … It might be one more day or ten before my chance came, and meanwhile … meanwhile I was hungry.
I hardly intend to go into the details of the meal I then made, when I had to strip off my clothes and go into the water after the mackerel. But I did eat, and after the first tentative taste, the first bite, I felt no further nausea but attacked the food with relish. For all said and done, that is all it was: food, sustenance; and my stomach welcomed it without the slightest qualm. Obviously, I was a harder man than I had previously suspected.
By the time I was done with eating, I was dry, and as I put on my clothes I found myself wondering why I had not felt the cold. It must surely be cold in the tank; indeed, I remembered feeling cold during my first few days of consciousness. And yet, while my throat was still very sore and my neck glands bothered me continuously, I now felt quite warm and comfortable. I was given no more time to think the matter out, however, for as I finished dressing there came the clatter of approaching feet and the sounds of a struggle growing louder outside my door.
The scuffling and kicking sounds, accompanied by grunts and thuds, moved past the tank and I heard the banging of a metal door being thrown open. Then, coming to me clearly, I heard the harsh sounds of voices raised in anger—and another voice almost shrill with fear. There were several heavy thumps against the wall of the tank, followed by a cry of pain, and finally I heard the metal door slammed shut and barred. Then, along with a string of low curses uttered in vicious and guttural tones, there came again the sound of feet, retreating this time, and at length silence.
It was only then that I thought to hammer on my own door and demand to know what was going on, which I would have done had not sounds of low moaning coming from close at hand checked me. I put my ear to the metal wall and listened. Yes, on the other side of that steel panel someone was hurt and groaning in his pain. A second prisoner? But whoever he was, how could I possibly help him?
In sudden desperation I cast about with my eyes until they lighted upon a small recessed ventilation grille which was fitted in the wall at a height of about eight feet. I had noticed it before, but had given it no great consideration. Only nine inches square, even if I had managed to remove the grille my case would not be improved any. Now, though, if I stood on my chair, I should at least be able to see into the adjacent tank.
I pulled the chair over to the wall and climbed up on to it, stretching myself to peer through the metal lattice of the grille. There on the narrow ledge of the recess, on my side of the grille, lay a small screwdriver, a little rusty but still serviceable. It must have been left there by a workman when the tanks were built. Making a mental note of this potential weapon, I looked beyond it through the grille and into the tank on the other side. This second tank, too, had a light which had been left on. I could see that the place was a duplicate of my own cell and that it appeared to be empty—
—Or was it? If I raised myself a few inches higher I should be able to look down through a fairly steep angle and … yes!
There on the floor, spread wide apart, I could see the lower half of a pair of trousers with projecting feet, one of which had lost its shoe. The feet moved jerkily even as I watched. A moment more and there came another groan as the feet tensed for a second or two before falling slack. The groaning stopped abruptly. Whoever he was, my colleague in the adjacent tank had passed out.
Either that, or he was dead …
For what must have been all of two hours I sat on my bed, my ear to the metal wall behind which lay the sleeping or dead stranger. Every so often I would climb on to my chair and peer through the grille, and at last I thought to take up the rusty screwdriver and begin working on the four screws which held the grille in place.
I managed to loosen three of the screws (no mean feat with a blade which was far too small for the task), but the fourth and last screw would not move. I felt like hammering at the stubborn screw with the hard plastic body of the screwdriver, but feared that the noise would bring someone to investigate. In the end I gave it up, placed the tool back on its ledge, got down, and dropped the three successfully removed screws into the water in the sunken area of the tank.
As I was doing this I noticed that the remaining three or four fish barely were moving, all of them on or close to the surface. I was poising my hand over the water, preparing to pluck out a fish as it swam slowly by, when there came a low, painful cough followed by a recurrence of the groaning. Immediately I stood up, climbed on to my chair, and peered through the grille.
I was in time to see the pair of feet withdrawn, to hear more groans and an uncertain fumbling at the metal wall, and then at last the stranger staggered into view with one hand held up to the side of his head. He was of medium build, blond with short-cropped hair, in his early forties at a guess. He moved over to the door, turned to scan the interior of the tank with pain-slitted eyes, then returned his attention to the door and lifted a fist as if to bang upon its metal oval.
“Don’t!” I called out, keeping my voice low. “You’ll only bring them back down on us.”
“Wha—?” he started, spinning about to scan the interior of the tank once more. His face was bruised and bloodied, and as I tapped quietly on the grille with the screwdriver, so it seemed that his eyes met mine where I peered at him.
“Who—?” he began again, moving to stand uncertainly beneath the grille and squinting up at me. Perhaps he could make out the outline of my face, or at least my eyes through the bars of the grille. I studied his face for a moment, then breathed more easily at the discovery that it showed none of the now-familiar stigmata.
“I’m a prisoner, like yourself,” I told him. “A prisoner of these … these madmen!”
“Madmen?” he laughed low and bitterly, then groaned and held his head, staggering slightly. “Possibly they are mad. I don’t know. But men?” He slowly shook his head.
“What do you know of them?” I eagerly asked as he sat down carefully on the metal floor, lowering his head to hold it in his hands. “Why have they brought you here?”
He looked up again, sharply, and I thought I saw suspicion in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked. “One of them, trying to find out just how much I know?”
“Vollister,” I told him. “My name is John Vollister, and I assure you I am not—”
“John Vollister?” he cut in. “The marine biologist? Yes, that would be right enough. I remember reading somewhere that you lived out this way.”
“Yes,” I answered, “that’s me, but I don’t work a great deal these days. I live a few miles down the coast—or at least I did until I walked into this. But who are you that you know my name?”
“
Oh, I know your name, all right. I’ve read your stuff—all of it. I’ve been reading everything I can find on the sea and its creatures for years now. My name’s Belton—Jeremy Belton.”
In my turn I recognized his name immediately. “Belton the journalist? Wasn’t there something about you in the news quite recently? Something about ‘sensational revelations’ or some such? A ‘cosmic threat’ of some sort or other? I don’t pay too much attention to the dailies. But what’s brought you to this?”
“What brings me here?” Again he laughed his bitter laugh. “Well, Mr. Vollister, if I may borrow a phrase from you, I also ‘walked into it’. As neat a trap as ever was laid.”
“A trap?”
He nodded. “I was contacted by ‘a friend’ who told me he had definite proof of the existence of Deep Ones right here in England. A meeting was arranged at a quiet pub in London. There were drinks—which must have been drugged—and …”
“And they brought you here.”
Again he nodded. “I woke up in a moving car and managed to catch sight of a signpost in Newquay. That told me where I was. And I feigned unconsciousness while they were carrying me down here from the car. So I’m at a place on the beach somewhere in Cornwall, right? I tried to make a run for it as they were bringing me into the building, but—” he shrugged, then thumped the metal floor with his clenched fist. “What a damned fool I am!”
“Shh!” I cautioned him, then asked: “But why have they done this to you?”
“Those ‘sensational revelations’ you mentioned. You know what it was all about? No, of course you don't. No one knows, for I’ve kept it close to my chest for the last five years.”
“I think I do know,” I answered. “You were going to reveal them to the world—the Deep Ones, I mean.”
His eyes widened momentarily in surprise. “You're catching on,” he said. “Yes, I had been promised a spot on television, a little space in the newspapers … if my story was hot enough. You see, I still have a lot of contacts from my days as a newshound. If I said I had something big, then they knew it was pretty big! But our friends got wind of it, and—”