The Starry Wisdom

by D. M. Mitchell

  He opened his mouth and a loud trumpet sounded as a long grey trunk unravelled, impersonating his tongue, and spat a meaty splatter of blood at me. His arms dislocated further from his shoulders, grinding with gristle, and just hung by his sides as he mechanically rose to his feet. His dick and bollocks had been bitten off, and in their place, grafted into his skin, was a slobbering pighead; bleating like an electrocuted mastiff.

  I scrambled back through the shattered glass, tearing up my hands and lacerating my buttocks. Impaling my bleeding palms on the splintered glass door-frame, I dragged my pain-racked body through to the heavy front door, and fought with the lock.

  Hooves charged me from behind. I turned, terrified at what my ears purported. And my eyes at last saw Gleeson White for the Satanic demon that he was. His skin now all but flayed off; bleeding lakes. His eye-tusks directed at my chest as I...

  Well, actually, I have lied.

  I have lived my last dying hours a lie, to discourage the sad recurrence of their memory.

  The truth, my good friend, is an abysmal catalogue of insult piled high upon injury. The horrors I experienced as the roiling mass of mutated flesh and bone and terror fell towards me, as I struggled to extricate my leg from that whore’s greedy cunt, is too great a burden.

  You cannot imagine the pain, the artificially-prolonged humiliation I underwent in that fucking room.

  Nothing quite as heroic as a death struggle, I’m afraid.

  My constitution, you see, has never been that strong, and the effect of my panic regurgitated the vile symptoms of a recurring illness with which I am cursed. To tell the truth, the fucking thing fell right on top of me, breaking my rib-cage and snapping my spine. It devoured all the women but, for some insufferable reason, left me unscathed as I writhed in my agony. It also left Gleeson White’s dead body where it lay, and I had to suffer his rapid, nauseous decay for many hours.

  My lungs are now haemorrhaging regularly. Christ, I feel I may choke on these damn bloodclots at any minute.

  From below, the chiming of midnight sounds.

  Oh, the agony. How long must I stay here, incapacitated as I am, gulping my fate? Again, those ever-present, eerie sounds make me shudder.

  “Why am I here!?” I splutter.

  Someone appears at the door.

  “Foxhead!”

  The bent-over old man addresses me. I strain to make out who it is. Recognition.

  “Duke. Help me.”

  “Can’t do that, sir. More than my job’s worth.” He smiles apologetically as I again cough up a phlegm of bloody gristle.

  “Please. Help me,” I beg.

  He purses his parched lips. “Oh, I don’t know sir.”

  “Please. For pity’s sake.”

  “Battleships lost at sea...” he mutters.

  “What was that?” I cough restrainedly.

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “That. That thing. Battleships. What is that? I’ve heard that before.”

  “It’s an old sailor’s saying, sir.” He raises his snowy eyebrows. I urge him on with my eyes; pleading.

  “Well...” he begins, “Battleships lost at sea, sir, rarely surface.” He shrugs. And dutifully pulls the door closed.

  Locking it on my screaming, coughing, shouting, choking death.

  THE SONS OF MORMURUS

  John Beal

  He walked away from the imposing railway station, its glass-domed roof glinting in the dusty sunlight, crossing along the wharf toward the dark bulk of a steamer. Around him the bustle of life, shouting smells of sweat, arose in clouds of acidity. The fishermen, bare-fisted hauliers, lobster-pots, crates, tongue-loose foreigners and arching labourers busily ignored his presence. At the sign of the Cock and Bull he entered the dim recess leading to a court beyond. The smell of brine and blood, rendered flesh and maggot corrosion all turbulently clutched his nose. Sea air had been replaced by entombed vacancy; the smell of time to go. A man, triangle-legs, bent heavily out, tapering jigsaw arms thrust out from an insignificant body nodded at him, his triangular paper hat – a boys boat – almost falling from his head. Insect ooze had been sprayed upon the thickly encrusted windows – small orifices almost alive with shattered illusions.

  The butcher, hatcheting vast bloody carcass pieces, looked up from his work.

  “Y’ar bus’ness Y’ar?” Strange accent, mingled with blood and entrails. The Man frowned.

  “Y’ar be off th’ar’s b’eight!” The butcher continued with incontinent, belching vulgarity. “Th’ar’s bl’owt gone too.” The butcher mumbled.

  Stupefied the man stared at the butcher, arm swinging, cleaver shedding spray.

  “Tick-tock.” The butcher said.

  “I’m in search of the residence of a Mr Mormurus?” The name was asked dubiously, “Can you help by any chance?”

  The butcher sat abruptly on the wooden chopping block. His eyes searched the nearby windows, who’s dizzy surfaces reflected Roman crazed decay. Abruptly his head fell and he was asleep, sawing across bones and gurgling contented gore.

  Looking around the man observed no other person, he was unaware of when the bustling had ceased, but the black tarpaulin cracked in a void of silence now. He crossed over to its flapping mouth-like edge and reverently placed his hand upon it. Salt crystals scratched his fingers, and the smell of ginseng and sandalwood swept through his mind.

  Beneath the tarpaulin, enshrouded by its own shadow lay the partially dismembered remains of some vast oceanic leviathan. He stared unable to make it out. The head evidently was missing but there appeared to be five large globular eyes. The body, whose scales had been partially levered and sawn-off, was garishly green, white and black.

  A strange contortion of the twelve limbs gave the appearance of them all being on one side; whilst the belly, which had been cut, hung blackly open betraying entrails to the air. Inside the cavity strange air currents, perhaps from a huge swim-bladder made all the gore shudder constantly. It appeared to be alive, a hive of sickening activity, whirlpools of inky oozing flesh.

  “Wha’be y’ar doin’?” It was the familiar butchers voice, but it still made him jump.

  Turning he replied, “I’m looking for a Mr Mormurus?” But the courtyards cobbled floor was empty.

  He realised not just empty of people, but the meat, the smells, even he noticed quizzically the etched windows in the hovels and warehouses were fractured and shattered.

  He realised his ears were bleeding, the pain had been restrained in a subconscious blanket. Now suddenly he was aware of the glaring lights and stage prop sky. Weaving patterns criss-crossing the space between the buildings roofs, gave the impression of paths, walking between pebbles on an endless beach.

  “Can I help you?” The sweet, melodious voice brought his careering thoughts back earthward.

  Before him, in the dim shadow of the buildings he made out the form of a woman. She walked into the light and stunned him by her appearance. Her features were majestic, elegant even sublime, but the eyes which gazed quickly upon his visage held hidden secrets which could never be told. Her index finger was raised to her mouth in a sign of quietness. He felt himself lifted, abruptly looking down upon her head from above. A warehouse basement lift had risen beneath him. As he was about to appeal for help a shot rang out from below and the lady fell clutching the rapidly sprouting winged, red stain upon her chest. The white blouse fluttered as she came to rest gaping at the sky.

  He wondered, momentarily, if she too could see the lines across the sky. Then, abruptly he was back on the cobblestone level. Rushing toward the still form of the woman, suddenly everything went white.

  In the smoke hung room the sound of film slapping against a projector was the only noise. The screen blazed with light, which hung, bathing the dusty air in a gradually widening funnel. Fidgeting, foot-shuffles and the darkness.

  A pinpoint of light could be seen through the tiny projection room window.

  “That... was subject A. Note the name �
�� Mormurus, it features significantly.” The booming voice broke the rough silence, as the projector began to whirr and light hit the screen once more.

  In the harbour, seaweed clung tight-fast to the jetty wall, coating it in a green-slime which shone with each wave that deposited water. The tide was ebbing. Howler-monkey horns from pleasure boats filled the air, along with the briny sound of the sea, seagulls glaucous cries, and the general everyday hubbub of the quayside shops and arcades.

  It was vividly hot. The thin crescent of sand baked white, matched by the dazzling white buildings and shiny, reflecting windows.

  On the boat, The Mormurus, two individuals were finishing a conversation.

  “... the pumps going at all times, lower me one hundred feet, then stop and await my signal.” The man who was wearing a diving suit was saying. The heavy, brass coloured, metallic helmet was in place, but the small face hatch was wide-open.

  As the two men in attendance began to close this and tighten the nuts which would hold it in place, so too others began the pump and manned the hauling apparatus.

  An old hard-backed volume of unknown contents lay upon a half-opened hatch, and as the diver was lowered over the side, the pages flipped haphazardly in a strengthening breeze.

  Below, the gloom was etched into the water as a smear of floating non-descripts delineated the light.

  Seaweed and jellyfish floated by as the diver continued to descend. Then, with a sudden jolt the lead-filled boots hit home; momentarily buckling his knees. With great effort he walked along the deck of the wreck. Miraculously it remained almost perfectly upright and intact, wedged in the soft sand and rocks of the sea-floor. The hold had been opened when they had initially discovered the wreck, and now for the first time, the diver slowly descended into its dim interior. He was joined momentarily by a second who appeared to descend straight into its interior.

  Vast numbers of crates, metal wired containers were piled up and inside these by the light which filtered down they could see myriad objects. Coins of archaic value, mayan head glyphs, jet and jade objects, whose surfaces were gleaming in their saline preservative. The two divers pointed enthusiastically to each new discovery. Ivory; gold objects, a strange assortment amassed from the worlds continents, a curious treasure whose largest piece was trapped inside the inch-wide iron grid.

  The hall was splendid, a floor of marble checks, tall lamps, vaces and magnificent oil paintings, surrounded the gigantic stairs. Ascending centrally in alabaster white coolness, they split to travel sideways both left and right to enter side-passageways and balconies. On the left a figure stood, hands gripping the rail as she gazed intently downwards. She wore a deep violet negligee, which flowed upon her body, and tumbled on the floor. Over this a simple white dressing-gown covered her shoulders which in turn were covered by long white hair.

  She was calling to someone, at first inaudibly, but then with a sense of urgency her voice rose above that of the projector.

  “Philips?”

  Footsteps crossed the hall, as a tall stately man came into view. He was dressed in a black suit, with a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Expressionlessly he gazed upwards to meet that of the woman who was still leaning over the banister.

  “Ma’am?” He requested.

  “He’s left, won’t be back all day.” With this statement the butlers demeanour altered. Springing up the stairs, he rushed to her side.

  “Catherine, my love.” He managed to say as his hands grasped her and his lips crossed over her body feverishly. It was only moments before his apparel was dishevelled and hers was around her shoulders. He penetrated her from behind whilst she hung over the balcony, fingers flexing and unflexing upon its smooth ebony surface. As orgasm was reached and she bit down onto her bottom lip, the square patterned floor spun vertiginously. The height of orgasm seemed increased by the imminent possibility of plummeting to death. She gasped and raked the air, his firm arm around her waist, whilst he continued to thrust mercilessly.

  Darkness descended, not night, but the darkest depths of ocean. Free swimming in an impossible pressure-suit a diver observed the blackness around contrasting it with the bedazzled beam of the torch-light. Detritus falling from surface layers heavens high above shone like diamonds, like stars. Nothing, a blackness so vast it produced claustrophobia.

  Then the light struck a fish, and another, a shoal of deep-sea fish, dancing on the edge of the light, circling playfully. Their eyes the eyes of gaping, screaming blind-men.

  The second piece of film came to an abrupt ending, light flooded the screen. Early morning pain, as the viewers open-eyes seared at the phantom touch of light. The vampiric after-images died in slow-decay.

  “Money.” The tall black-suited man said emphatically. His short-cropped hair was halved by the projector light.

  “The name’s the same as before.” Answered a thin querulous voice from the front row of seats.

  No reply came, just the urgent whining of the projector as yet more images began to appear.

  A title appeared – “The Sons of Mormurus” in thickly angular red lettering. A gothic cathedral, beneath which in dim-lit, arched corridors small market stalls were occupied by people buying and selling. Candles, bottles of incense, tie-dyed T-shirts baring the marijuana leaf insignia, tapes, records, books and posters. The smell of fruit and vegetables, mingled with the smell of salt-water fish and butcher-apron blood.

  The heavy, heaving grumble of a bass guitar began almost subliminal – yet excruciatingly loud drumming billowed around. The smell of hydrochloric acid, of the burning gullet erupted – like a failed sense-o-rama everything was catered for. Words mumbled at ludicrous volume were spat forth by shadowy figures and shadows on walls. A girl’s panties snapped on tight. The halo around Venus was echoed in the charnel cathedral vaultings.

  Besides the volume and darkness, the light was unbearable, streaming in dustlets through porticoes. A figure tall, angular, stood beside a record stall. Short black hair, sanguine skin and sharp featured.

  The palm of the hand where lies a life line of dual composition suddenly flourished on screen. The watcher and actor gasped in unison. Following the dark-haired man, the music seemed hard, jarring, etching away thought. He thought he heard conversation around him, flying, floating above his head in sidereal dimensions – a vast chorus.

  “Mormurus,” came the word – from his own lips, from all around – from beneath the sea, from the skyless moon.

  Entering a shop he had the strange presence of peering through the unreal, seeing what lay beyond, a solidity which didn’t exist. A fluidity that escaped into gaseousness.

  “Follow me!” The man said, cutting through the drug-like surroundings with such clarity that they shuddered and appeared to waver before vanishing behind his back as they entered an antechamber via an unseen door. The shop walls which had been covered by air-hole boarding were represented two dimensionally by the wall no behind him, while before him stood three sold walls of rock. White nitrous powders descended from the ceiling in a constant stream of dust. The black-haired man appeared oblivious.

  “Walk this way.” He calmly stated as he entered the rock surface.

  The man followed, blinked and was outside the viewing room in the now barren car-park. The sun had retreated and a cold wind blew roughly through his clothing.

  There was something strange about his vision, he was seeing two images – seeing, living other things, a duality, a myriad of lives. Integrated insanity, as the moon shone down so did the sun.

  IN THE BLACK SUN HOTEL

  D.M. Mitchell

  The purple neon sign outside the window flickered and buzzed, setting my teeth on edge. I got up from the slinking bed, my sinuses aching, and crossed to Ihe window. The street below was empty and still – dreamlike. Opposite, the exposed girders of black warehouses seemed unreal, a facade – monochrome cardboard cut-outs. The orange sodium glow from the streetlights glinted on what little glass was left in the windows a
nd skylights – everything had the sepia tinge of old flesh.

  Marie must have left me while I'd slept. In the state of stupefied despair we were in when we arrived here, time had become meaningless. Events had, for the last few months, become devoid of value. We couldn't even be bothered to distinguish between night and day. We'd wheeled across the countryside trying to escape from something we couldn't even remember. Standing here by this window, it seemed so exaggeratedly futile that it was comical. Once, Marie and I had been lovers – now we stayed together from habit, bonded by degradation. Before falling asleep, we'd both taken large doses of heroin and slipped into our respective comas. I decided to get dressed and look for her.

  As I picked up some clothes from the chair by the heel, I found a well-oiled Colt Python and shoulder holster.

  The chambers were loaded. I tried to remember how I'd got hold of this thing, biiV couldn't focus my thoughts. Maybe Marie would bo able to remember. There was a photo of her in my jacket pocket, but I couldn't recall that getting there either. She looked so young in the picture... so young.

  I put the photo on the table and left the room.

  ln a small room on the next floor down, I found several tins of peaches in a cupboard. One of the tins was full of cockroaches. I killed them all before putting the empty container in a bin. The fact I was still eating convinced me I was still alive and not wandering in the bardoes of some post-mortem realm, but I felt devoid of the energy to philosophise loo much. The violet light was comforting. For want of anything else to occupy my time, I decided to search further. Since Marie had left me Ihere had been no daylight. I searched for a window and, rubbing the grime away, peered out. In a dismal, amber sky hung a black disc – immense and biblically imposing. I had the strange sensation that it was only inches away from my face and involuntarily plucked at it with my numb fingers. They touched the glass pane. The whole scene shimmered and rippled – waves of black magnetism pulsing inwards to Ihe black sun or outwards from it – I couldn't tell. Then, as I stared, there was an unpleasant wriggling motion and legs sprouted spider-like from Ihe ebony sphere. Stifling a cry I leaped away from the window. It took some lime for my hearlbeal to regulate itself. Once more I plunged into the corridors, gun in hand, sweating. If I wasn't dead, where was I ? Where was Marie ? Opening double doors I found myself in a well-lit corridor panelled with wood and glass. It took a lillle while for me to recognise my old school. The school where I'd spent so many miserable years vegetating between the second hand banalities of the education system, suffering sadistic indignities at the hands of brutish sadistic masters and even more bestial fellow pupils.