by Byron Craft
“My name is Francisco,” he answered back imitating a rabid dog waiting for the opportunity to tear my throat out. His voice sounded foreign, with an accent I couldn’t place.
“Ok, Frances empty your pockets onto the top of that desk,” I directed.
“Why,” he growled.
“Because we’re the guys with the guns.”
“Isn’t Frances a girl’s name, Detective?” asked Bell taunting the suspect.
“I believe you are correct, Officer,” I parried. “Seems appropriate though.”
“I'm gonna kill the whole lot of you!” roared Francisco.
“Hold the phone,” I shouted. “Isn’t it a crime to threaten an officer of the law, Mister Bell?”
“I do believe you are right, Detective. We could lock him up for a long time.”
“And think of all those fishies rotting on the docks while you’re behind bars,” I couldn’t help myself. It was easy to see that Francisco was fuming. “I'll tell ya what Frances. Let's get this over with toot sweet. I'm not going to beat around the bush, and you don't give me the bum steer. I'm going to play a name association game with you, and you tell me what's the first thing that pops into your pointy head. The name is Ian Woodhead.”
“Don’t know him,” he growled once again.
“Now I thought we’re not going to tell each other lies. We know you know Ian, so fess up. I’ll give you another chance to come clean. The name is Ian Woodhead. Decent looking fella, brown hair, works for the government, has been following you for eons.”
“Don’t know him,” the growl became a snarl.
I kept Francisco at a good distance from my gun barrel and examined the stuff from his pockets that were spread across the desktop. Loose change, a fifty-dollar bill, I hadn’t seen one of those in ages, an address book, which I pocketed and two strange objects. One was a large coin or medallion. It had an embossing on the surface that looked like one of those octopuses he sold. On the edge of the coin were two metal prongs close together. The other object was a short dagger with a hilt that resembled writhing snakes. Holding them both up I bellowed louder than one of his growls, “Tell me about these?”
“I am a Tanist!” he proclaimed, “and they are family heirlooms,” his voice rumbled along the word “heirlooms” trailing off slowly.
“Tanist huh? What are you, a fellow lodge member in a tall mans’ club?”
"I am the heir to a patrilineal dynasty," he countered still growling.
“Oh royalty, forgive me if I don’t bow. I pocketed the two objects as well. Sayter started to make a mad dog rush for me but came face to face with two-gun barrels, mine and Bell’s.
Francisco Sayter was probably not aware that his growl was worse than my bite. Our interrogation was getting us nowhere. A dead end. I would have to resort to other tactics. I turned back and looked at the stuff atop the desk. I wondered if Charlie Chan could make heads or tails out of the contents of his pockets.
***
He had left the World-Eater behind gnashing its fangs. Each talon on the World-Eater's enormous paws blossomed into a dozen razor sharp claws, and each claw fanned out with multiple three-pronged horny barbs. So, if a dream traveler was within its grasp, the unfortunate explorer would be engulfed in a chainmail of cutting blades and piercing spikes.
Skirting the monster's grasp, almost without incident, Ian traveled on. He looked down at the bare skin on his left arm and observed a tearing of the flesh on his forearm. Blood welled up from the fresh wound evidently caused by a close brush with one of the creature's barbs. He smiled, and the wound instantly healed leaving no trace of a scar. After all, a master traveler that can successfully manipulate the time and space of Dreamland should, without much effort, be able to heal a phantom wound.
For Ian, there were more things in life than death. Perhaps it was the harmonic vibrations of voice, or information contained in words or both, that he had not learned yet. Even though he was an experienced traveler of dreams, there was still so much he did not know. At best, he was only able to project vague images of himself to the policeman, nothing tangible in a sense.
Randolph Carter was an old dreamer whom Ian Woodhead knew in the waking world, but when he died, he became a permanent resident of Dreamland. Carter knew the pitfalls of Dreamland all too well. Ian observed a skull suspended in the blackness that was floating behind him. It was one of the World-Eater's minions sent to follow. He needed the wisdom of Randolph Carter, his mentor's advice, better mapping, to navigate the vast alternate dimensions. Concentrating, he conjured up a door. A beautifully carved rosewood door appeared adorned with winged beauties soaring through an abyss. Before he could knock, even before contemplating knocking, someone peered out. He looked at Ian through an opening only as wide as the chain restraining the door would allow. It was Carter.
Thick velvet curtains were drawn, and the darkness of the room became barely mitigated by a brass lantern in the center of a table. It cast a low, flickering light over the room. Carter had let Ian in hurriedly and slammed the door leaving the stalking skull swimming in blackness minus its quarry.
When last seen, Ian recalled, his mentor had aged perceptibly, but standing before him was a young Randolph Carter. He was wearing tan slacks, brown shoes with spats and a bright green sports jacket. “You look great, Randolph,” he said not doing a good job of concealing his surprise at his old friend’s attire.
“What did you expect,” answered Carter smiling, “a high-priest, wearing a silken robe and a turban.”
The chamber Ian found himself in resembled a rich man’s library, but there were no books perched on the row upon row of shelves. “A library with no books?” he asked, amazed by his surroundings.
“What does a Dream Dominant need with bound tomes when all knowledge is at his beck and call?” Carter answered almost rhetorically, his voice a soft whisper. “Someday mankind will elevate to a higher being, and he will be able to reach into the clouds finding answers to all questions ever asked.”
“That is why I am here. I am in trouble. It is life or death.”
“It always is,” he spoke softly.
“Mine is hanging by a thread,” he answered slowly creeping up on his request.
“Dreamlands,” replied Carter, “are a dimension where thought becomes a reality. Leave that body of yours, permanently, and you can enter everything via your dreams.”
“I can’t old friend,” Ian answered solemnly, “I have unfinished business in the real world.” Truth telling was the only possible solution to Ian Woodhead’s dilemma. And so, it unfolded that he disclosed his predicament.
Randolph Carter listened attentively to his tale. “I cannot fall away from here into the human world,” he announced. “I am now only spirit. I am unable to wade into the deep pools of the night that inhabit your physical prison. And, of course, I am powerless to unlock that iron door, letting in the rays of the sun. I can, however, help you to reach your friend.”
“I have tried all that you taught me in the past, but I have only been capable of projecting a faint image of myself. Can you really help me to make contact?”
“Really?” he chuckled, “is just a word, it is a derivation of ‘reality.’ Helping you to reach out to your friend, the policeman, is simply a little island of grand ideas. Come with me he directed.”
Ian followed Carter; he pulled back one of the velvet curtains exposing a blank wall of plaster and stone. Instantly a door appeared where there was none before. “Exploring the multiple dimensions of Dreamland,” Carter instructed, “is more like exploring the series of caverns in your prison, finding that at the end of each there is an entrance into another deeper cavity where the formations are suggestive and where the walls lead further into the depths. Except in Dreamland you enter into further realms and in your case, present company excluded, the caves are not inhabited.”
“There are new dangers in this dimension?” Ian was almost afraid to ask.
“You're adept at trav
eling within your little solar system of dreams. There are endless spaces, contiguous to our own, some coexisting with it, that numerous beings inhabit. All the creations of myth and fantasy, all the familiar spirits that sorcerers have evoked, are resident in these worlds.”
Carter opened the door, and Ian leaned in. A winding stairway led upwards. “The way to upper Dreamlands?” he asked.
“This projection I have conjured has saved me in the Dreamlands many times. It is not only a means of subterfuge and escape, it is the way to a galaxy of dreams, an endless galaxy. Once at the top you will be able to project yourself along the molecules of thought. Climb, climb and you will see,” his voice rose higher as if to accent the ascension.
Ian stepped cautiously and ascended the stairway; winding upwards he could make out a great trap-door overhead. He took one step at a time, higher and higher. Carter’s voice called up to him, “Steer clear of the plateau of Leng with its inhuman treacheries.” He climbed to the top, he placed a hand on the trap-door. Randolph Carter still stood at the bottom of the stairs, but his voice boomed as if it had been amplified by a loud speaker, “Always keep to the light! Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, who is the emissary of the Other Gods dwells in the blackness of space!”
Ian threw back the hatch. A glorious vision of stars on a field of black was on his left, and on his right, a golden aurora of light beckoned him to be part of it. Below a vast tableland stretched towards the horizon. He could see movement below, the area was populated by Pan-like beings; it had to be the Plateau of Leng. A great power of understanding greeted his senses. Abilities he had never had before became his. He became filled with giddy exhilaration. A massive pair of silver wings sprung from beneath his shoulder blades. Ian smiled and flew towards the light.
***
The Arkham Museum of Antiquities was in the center of town just a short jaunt from Miskatonic University. Bell and I drove along Church Street towards the museum. “Why are we going to the museum,” he asked.
“A wild hunch. Need to find an expert in there that might be able to identify the knife and that bobble I took off Sayter. It seemed important to him, and it might furnish a clue to Ian Woodhead’s whereabouts.” That was when I slammed on the breaks. No sooner had I mentioned his name than Ian was standing in the middle of the road. My eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. I don’t believe I dozed off, but I might have been in that state halfway between the waking world and a siesta. I am certain he wasn’t there before. One moment the street was free of any traffic or pedestrians and the next he was just standing there. The car skidded sideways and came to a halt. I was lucky that there weren’t any other autos close behind or we would have caused one helluva accident.
“Oh my God, what is it, Detective!” hollered Bell as he bounced off the dashboard.
“Don’t you see him?” I answered, reluctant to mention Ian’s name. As if thinking it became a talisman, he abruptly disappeared.
“There’s no one there, Sir,” Bell pointed out, “not a soul in sight.”
He was right, of course. What was the matter with me? I stared at the empty road ahead. Was Ian dead and was he haunting me? When we first met, almost two years ago, I busted his beak with a right cross. Maybe he was exacting revenge from the hereafter. That was nonsense. I’ve seen a lot of screwy and scary things in my twenty-years on the force that have altered my view of life, but one thing I did not believe in was ghosts. Besides, Ian got even for the busted schnoz by conking me, a good one, on the noggin. We even laughed about it later, over a few drinks.
I got out of the Model A. A handful of onlookers gawked at me. “You drive,” I ordered. Bell got out, and we changed places. I’m sure he wanted to press me further about my vision, but he kept his trap shut and dutifully got behind the wheel. I took shotgun. The part that had me rattled was the visage of Ian Woodhead. As cracked as it sounds, he stood in the middle of Church Street, as plain as day, sporting a huge pair of silver wings. I knew Ian well, and he was no angel.
***
The Arkham Museum of Antiquities is more like a carnival freak show than a place of higher learning although a few of academia’s learned souls work in the joint. Amongst its assortment of odds and ends are fragments of a meteorite discovered on Nahum Gardner's farm surrounded by an iron cage so tourists can’t touch them. An eerie oil painting of Joseph Curwen from the estate of Charles Dexter Ward that is as weird as the history that surrounds it. An assorted collection of fossils from the Cambrian age that showed signs of the use of tools to carve the specimens up for food. Unidentifiable prehistoric plants or animals from the same period (no one yet has been able to classify the organisms) all from the 1931 Lake Expedition to Antarctica. Beyond row after row of African, Polynesian, and Asian idols rested the major attraction of the exhibit within a massive glass jar. Floating in formaldehyde was one of Wilbur Whateley’s partially decomposed tentacles. I was on hand that evening, years ago, when his semi-human corpse, slowly melted before our eyes. If it hadn't been for the quick thinking of one of Miskatonic’s professors, dowsing the last remaining appendage with the preservative, there never would have been any evidence that he ever existed.
Rounding a corner Bell and I came upon the museums latest acquisition, a nine-foot tall sculpture by Richard Upton Pickman, a horrific giant with a roughly human shape and red eyes. At the base of the thing was a large brass plaque that read, “Ithaqua, a Great Old One.” Eyeing the statue, jotting down notes on a clipboard was a middle-aged woman with gold pince-nez. Her looks were such that she'd be safe in a battleship full of sailors. “We are looking for assistance,” I offered. “We would like to talk to someone knowledgeable about an antique knife and medallion.”
“That would be Otto Meldinger’s department she answered without looking up from her notes. “Otto,” she called raising her voice.
“Yes, Elspeth,” answered a little guy peering around a heavily laden bookshelf. He was an immoderate character, well into his sixties, with a bald head and small, darting eyes that seemed to be on the lookout for any fragment of knowledge that he never knew before.
“These gentlemen need to talk to you about some artifacts,” still not looking up from her clipboard.
We walked over to the other side of the aisle. Mr. Meldinger had been seated at a small desk, the kind used by kids in grade school. It made him look shorter than he was, but he was still short. He had been reading a leather-bound book, setting it down he asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen.”
“Arkham Constabulary,” I answered, not flashing my badge, I figured that Officer Bell’s uniform was a dead giveaway. “We are looking for information on . . .” I stopped in the middle of what I was saying. About to produce the knife and medallion from my trench coat pocket, I halted when I noticed ones identical to the artifacts in my possession. Within an arm’s reach of Meldinger was a table-high marble pedestal atop which was a small glass case with an old snake enwrapped dagger and an embossed octopus ornament. I plunged my left hand into my pocket to check that my two pieces, in question, were still there, that nobody had snitched them. Sure enough, they hadn’t grown limbs and crawled away. “We would like to know the origin and purpose of these two pieces?” I asked pointing to the glass case, still a little dumbfounded. Bell became silent, satisfied I guess, to let me do the talking, and I decided it was best not to produce my doppelgangers.
“I am sorry,” he replied, “but the origin or source of the two artifacts are presently unknown, I am afraid. However, I have a fairly good theory to their function.”
“That might be helpful, shoot.”
He tendered a grim smile over my use of the word “shoot.” Otto rose from his chair, he stared at the two items in the case and up at me. “My field is Archaeology,” he professed. “I am an antiquarian by profession. I study material remains from pre-human and human pasts using many of the tools from our meager library. These remains can be any objects that were modified, or used. Portable remains, of course, are usuall
y called artifacts. If you were studying, let us say, Stonehenge there probably will not be any ancient manuscripts to tell you how a culture used the feature. However, my little area of expertise, allows me to study, question and hopefully solve the mystery of similar relics without having to leave the Arkham Museum of Antiquities."
“How nice for you, but what can you tell me about these two thingamajigs?”
Elspeth, in pince-nez, walked up and leaned against the bookcase. Otto gave her a warm smile and then looked at me cross-eyed. “You can keep this out of the public?”
“Just between us kids, Otto.”
“Otto will be publishing a paper on the very subject soon,” interrupted Elspeth, her cold disposition changing to a warm persona when directed towards Meldinger. “It is very original, and until the time that his paper is made known he doesn’t want any competing hypotheses to appropriate any of his work.”
“Gotcha! So, it’s dog eat dog even in the world of Archaeology, Prof. Don’t worry, your secret will be safe with us,” I assured him.
He took a deep breath, “I believe that they are relics, in the truest sense, and not artifacts per se. You see I studied them closely, under a microscope, for a long time, and I am certain that they are part of a greater whole.”
“A greater whole?” I was hoping that this wouldn’t take all day.
“Go ahead Otto, don’t be reluctant, tell the detective what he needs to know,” she urged.
“But Elspeth,” he whined. “I haven’t finished collating all of the runic symbols.”
“Look, Otto, I haven’t been forthcoming with you either,” I confessed. “The info you have may help us with a missing person case.”
“Oh, my!” he exclaimed in a whisper. “I had no idea. I am almost finished with my deciphering. That is what I was working on when you arrived. Just a little more time and I will divulge all my information to you. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?”