The Lovecraft Squad: Dreaming Page 3

  I noted but few plants growing there, and saw no creatures, not even so much as a sea bird, but nevertheless the isle was full of voices. Strange cries echoed among the surrounding stones, and yet not like the voice of any man or beast that I have heard before. It filled me and my men with a great dread, so that I asked Master Moreby what they might be. He replyed that they were not the cries of man or beast but were caused by the exhalation of air through holes and clefts in the rock, and that these exhalations came from very deep caverns beneath the Island. I could scarce credit his observation, but held my peace.

  As we wound upwards, I began to see many curious signs and figures carved into the surrounding rocks. Again, in wonderment, I asked Moreby what these might be, and he told me that these were marks left by a very ancient people, but would not say aught further.

  At length we arrived at the summit of the isle, where upon a kind of platform of stone stood a black rock, smooth and polish’d, carved into a conical pillar with its topmost part level and with many strange devices inscribed upon it. Upon the topmost part of this black stone was a carven figure which struck me with much confusion and terror, for it was very like the image that I had glanced in Master Moreby’s great book. It was crouched upon a seat of alabaster, though it was composed of smooth stone of a dark green like the deep shade of a cypress tree. Its eyes were made of milk-white moon stones, and all manner of writhing serpents flowed from its hideous visage as if they were limbs. The skill and art of the limner had truly been put to the service of Hell itself on making that image.

  Master Moreby commanded that this monstrous object be taken down from its pinnacle and transported most reverently to the ship. My men professed the greatest reluctance to have anything to do with the removal of this Hellish and Heathen idol, but Moreby was insistent and I promised goodly measures of strong drink to those who would aid us in this endeavour. My men obeyed, but with a very ill grace.

  As the idol (as I may call it) was being taken down from its exalted post, I heard many murmurs and strange cries among those on our passage who had come up with us to this place. One of them, known to all as Mother Demdyke, a most pestilential ancient, lifted up her skirts and began to dance, cackling and keening as she did so. Few fouler spectacles have I ever beheld than that toothless crone capering on the summit of such a barren and accursed isle, but her other companions paid no heed.

  The idol was lowered into a kind of wooden chariot our carpenter had devised for transporting it to the ship. When this was done, we must perforce handle the black stone itself and this, being heavier and greater in size than the idol, excited more complaint, yet we succeeded. One thing I noted as it was being removed was that, at its base, the stones round about it were darkened by a reddish substance, as it might be blood. I remarked on this to Master Moreby, but he told me in a very sharp voice to attend to my appointed task.

  And so the thing was done, and those two stones were safely stowed aboard, but with much ado so that when it was done it was dawn of October 8th. At once Moreby commanded me to set a course, and gave me instructions as to which. I had no choice but to submit to his demands.

  October 8th. As the sun rose over the Island, we left our anchorage. It was a bright day with a fair wind and, as we came out into the open sea, I heard again those sounds that the Island gave out, like unto a mournful hollowing from its depths.

  Then a most strange and astounding event happened. We were about a league from the Island when I looked back upon it and it appeared to me to be smaller than was just. I kept my eye upon it and saw that the whole Island was sinking beneath the waves. The beach where we had feasted but one day previous was gone completely under the waves, but this was no mere tide, for the isle was sinking fast. The sea began to close over cliffs and crags whither but yesterday we had climbed with much labour. As the land sank a mist was borne upwards, like a steam from the clefts in the rocks, and it was coloured grey and green. Presently, we could see only the topmost spire of that mysterious congery of rocks; then with a final exhalation of green smoke and what sounded like a melancholy sigh, the whole sank beneath the waves, which bubbled a while and then were still. All that was left of it was a wreath of greenish fog which hung, like some foul garland, above the place where the Island had been, before it was dissolved by the winds.

  So astonished was I at this spectacle that for a full hour I could not speak, and issued commands to my men by gesture only. Yet I dared not ask Master Moreby what manner of place it was we had visited. I read once in an old book that there be certain mouths of Hell on this Earth such as at Hecla in Iceland, where the ghosts of dead men are familiarly seen, and sometimes talk with the living, and where lamentable screeches and howlings are continually heard, which strike a terror to the auditors; moreover, fiery chariots are commonly seen to bring in the souls of men in the likeness of crows, and devills ordinarily go in and out. This I truly believe was such a place. Yet, more like, it was not a mouth of Hell, but Hell itself that we had visited.

  October 20th. I am once more aboard the Speedwell and must depart for England on the next tide. We made land but three days after we had left the Island, our progress being free and swift, as if by a miracle. We dropped anchor some sixty miles south west of Cape Cod to which we were destined in Narragansett Bay. I was for sailing for Cape Cod to join the Mayflower, but Master Moreby prevented it, saying we had a safe anchorage above Rhode Island.

  It would appear that he knows the land, for after we had spent our first night in terra firma on Rhode Island, Master Moreby directed all those aboard that they should go across to make a settlement on the Providence River and sayd he would instruct them where to go. Moreover, he required myself and a party of my men to go with them, carrying the black stone into the country of the Pokanokets.

  I did protest most strenuously at this, saying I was not contracted for such a task, but he overbore me, for he had complete mastery over the people he had brought with him on the voyage and they outnumbered us, though they were a foul and filthy congregation of persons.

  Keeping the Providence River to our left, we moved upstream through dense woodland, my men carrying the black stone and Master Moreby’s people the fearful idol of the strange Island in a cabinet which my carpenter, Bates, had made. At every moment I expected that the savages of those lands should set upon us, so that our men carried swords and muskets in addition to the stone monolith. Presently, we came to a clearing. Moreby pointed through the trees to a hill-top and declared that this was where the black stone was to be laid. My men, exhausted, set down their burden, upon which Master Moreby most peremptorily commanded the men to take it up again, for, sayd he, ’twas but a short league to the summit. I told Master Moreby that we must rest and he turned upon me, his eyes ablaze with anger, when from the trees came men, such as I had never seen before. They were naked, savage, and painted all over with patterns and devices all in red and black, and their faces were marked with black and white to look like the skulls of the dead. These were the Pokanokets of whom I had heard tell. All but one, who seemed their king or commander, carried bows and arrows, and he, the king, wore a great cloak of feathers and carried a staff whose head was the head of a fish. His name, as I discovered, was Massakoit, a man with a fearful reputation. We prepared to defend ourselves, though we had little hope among so many.

  Striding forward, this Massakoit spake harsh words in his barbarous tongue, and his men made ready with their bows so as to kill us all. But Moreby seemed undaunted. He made a sign to Old Demdyke who, with others of her brood, uncovered the cabinet and brought out the idol. This they held aloft, uttering strange and hideous cries like to those of the Savage King.

  All at once Massakoit drew back in amazement, and all his men put down their weapons and abased themselves before the idol which was an object of reverence and fear to them. And they seemed to call it “Koothoolu” or some such, in their barbarous tongue. Then King Massakoit also abased himself, and Master Moreby spake to him in his own la
nguage.

  By nightfall, the Pokanokets had carried the black stone to the hill-top and set the idol upon it. Moreover, they had supplied all our folk with tents and bedding (of a sort) and plentiful supplies of food, so that that night, by the light of many fires, we feasted.

  As these celebrations were concluding, Master Moreby came to me. He told me that my task here was completed and that I and my men might return to my ship, unless I wanted to join him in his venture in the New World. “For,” sayd he, “from all you have seen and tasted, you are become, perforce, one of my Olde Fellowes.”

  I asked Moreby what were these “Olde Fellowes” of which he spake, and why were they so-called, to which he replyed that they were thus named for they were fellowes of the Olde Ones, and were their servants and ministers here on Earth, taking great powers thereby. Then I asked who were these “Olde Ones,” and he answered that they were Great Beings who came from the Starrie Vault of Heaven. To which I sayd that assuredly these Olde Ones were nothing but Demons and Boggarts, enemies of Almighty God, and I would have none of them. At this Master Moreby looked at me with much fury and amazement, but he spake not a word, and presently he went away into his tent. Some time later he came to ask me what I and my men intended to do. I told him that I intended, once I was assured of my just recompense, to make sail with all speed for England.

  Moreby then gave me a package of parchment, sealed with a great seal on which was the image of that accursed idol that they carried about. He instructed me that I was to deliver this budget to his cousin, Trismegistus Moreby, at his house near Bartonstone in the county of Morsetshire, and there I would receive full reward and remuneration for all that I and my men had done. But I sayd that this should not be, for I was to be payd in gold on completion of the voyage to the Americas. At this Moreby smiled and sayd that silver and gold had he none, but that what he had he gave me. He sayd that all my needs would be satisfied once I had delivered the parchment, which I was on no account to open, for it was sealed with a most mighty seal.

  Seeing that his people outnumbered mine and there was no help for it, I agreed with much reluctance, and the following morning I and my men left the encampment of these “Olde Fellowes.” But at our parting, Master Moreby stood before me, and, making a strange sign with his left hand, spake these words:

  “May the Olde Ones go with you.”

  To which I, in my great distemper, replyed: “A fart of my arse for your Old Ones!”

  Then I and my men departed and saw him no more. We followed our path down the Providence River and reached the ship in two days, and have furnished ourselves as far as we can with fresh water and provision for the voyage home.

  October 21st. We set sail on the morning tide for England. Winds are favourable, and we are like to make a rapid crossing.

  October 25th. Our voyage continues fair. This morning I found I could not contain my curiosity further. I went to my cabin and, by heating my poignard in a candle flame and putting it under the seal, endeavoured to open Master Moreby’s parchment package without breaking the sayd seal. In this I partly succeeded. When I opened up the parchment a thin fragment of linen fell out, so light that it caught the breeze, for my cabin window was open. It seemed to have some strange writing on it, and I sought to seize hold of it, but it flew out of the window and was lost in the waves beyond.

  The documents within the parcel were written either in some cypher or a strange and barbarous tongue, and there were many signs and sigils upon them which I did not know. One paper only was written in plain English and read as followes:

  My Deare Cousin,

  The bearer of this budget is one Captain Reynolds, a most pernicious knave, a shit breeches, and a filthy fellowe. See to it that he doth not leave your house alive.

  In Nomine Veterum Magnorum

  [in the name of the Great Old Ones]

  Your most humble and obdt kinsman

  T. Moreby, esq.

  This put me in so great a rage that my men feared for my sanity. I tore or burned all documents that were in the budget and cast them over the side. The last of these to sink was the parchment on which was set the great seal in red wax. It settled on the water and seemed for a while to grow, sending out great sprays or tendrils of red from its centre so that it incarnadined the foam on which it rested before being enfolded by the billows.

  It was a sight which filled all those who saw it with great amazement and terror.

  October 26th. Contrary winds. A strange fogg.

  After that, the log book of Captain Reynolds contains nothing but vague scratches and random, meaningless words. Only one last coherent sentence comes at the end of this document:

  What hope have we? We are lost.

  Attached to the log and the manuscript of Martha Edwards is a scrap of parchment on which the following has been written:

  Memorandum for Amos Motherby, Secretary to their Lordships of the Admiralty by Jas Hooke, Captain of His Majesty’s Ship, Centaur, December 20th 1620.

  At about eleven of the forenoon on December 14th in this Year of Grace 1620, we were sailing in an Easterly direction some ten miles SSW of the Isles of Scilly when we saw a black vessell about fifty feet in length, lying low in the water and seemingly adrift, its sails all flindered and awry. Coming within hailing distance, we bade the ship declare herself, but there being no replye, we came alongside her to board said vessell, which proved to be the Speedwell, last seen leaving Plymouth for the Americas some four months since.

  We boarded her to find the decks strewn with dead or dying men. These latter, being only three in number, we tried most earnestly to revive, but received little for our pains but outlandish babblings. They appeared, insofar as their feeble bodies could permit them to shew, to be in a state of mortall terror. Of what, I could not tell for sure, but they spoke of great monsters from the deep, of vanishing islands, and other such foolishness. Surely hunger and thirst had robbed them of their wits, for there was no sign of provision, nor any drop to drink.

  The ship itself was very low in the water, its hull leaking most grievously, and like to sink upon the instant. Nonetheless, I ventured below to enter the Captain’s cabin in the stern of the ship. There I found Captain Reynolds (as I later discovered his name to be) hanging from the central beam of the cabin, having most impiously taken his own life. I guessed that he had been dead some time, for the stink from his corpse was prodigious. Upon his table were some charts and documents, in addition to the ship’s log, which I took up before leaving that awful place of Death.

  I judged that the vessell was beyond redemption, so having removed those left alive, we fired our cannon into the side of the Black Ship (as I may call it), whereupon it sank rapidly beneath the waves. The three still living whom we had taken aboard the Centaur and tended with much care, notwithstanding our ministrations, all perished before we had made landfall.

  I beg your Lordships of the Admiralty to receive the documents herewith appended and to judge for yourselves—for I have not read them—what manner of fate befell the Speedwell. Or you may dispose of these documents in whatever manner pleases your Lordships.

  Jas Hooke, esq.

  The papers contained in this file are strictly confidential and have been deposited in the League’s “Restricted Access” section of the Library. They form part of the collection the late George Vilier, Consulting Professor of Ontography, which he bequeathed to the Miskatonic University on certain strict conditions. He died on the December 10th, 1959, in mysterious circumstances. The words “Olde Fellowes” are inscribed on the cover of this file, which I have not read or opened. It will be noted that shortly before his death, Professor Vilier had some dealings, not altogether cordial, with a group of men and women claiming to be members of the “Olde Fellowes.” This file is not to be opened or studied except by express permission of the Chief Librarian, in consultation with the bureau Director. Under no circumstances may they be handled by any person or persons without prior authorization. Any breach of thi
s directive will be subject to the maximum penalties under the law.

  —Helen Peaslee, PhD

  Chief Librarian

  Human Protection League

  Washington, D.C.

  ONE

  The Dreams in the White House

  HE STANDS ON THE balcony, his senses in complete disarray. He’s not sure where he is, or how he got here. Looking down, he sees he’s far above a white city of colossal towers and low, terraced monuments. The stone beneath his feet is cool but pulsating, like some massive, encrusted entity’s breathing. He’s barefoot, clad in the striped pajamas he wore to bed. He bends down to touch the surface; a prodding finger pulls up a small, pebble-sized piece of greenish, porous rock.

  As he rises, a locked-away part of his mind shouts that he must still be asleep, in his bedroom beside his wife, this is a dream . . . but he can see and feel and smell with such clarity. The night breeze carries a hint of chill too extreme for this place and time, a chill that whispers at the lethal non-space that sprawls between stars. With the freezing air comes a smell he can’t compare to anything else, unless it’s the nauseating stench of burning fuel in sea water that he experienced twenty years ago, during the war.

  He hears something, like a flute played by a lipless piper. There’s movement below, in the streets of the vast city. He can’t make out much—he’s too far above. But then all sensations coalesce into a single, imminent emotion.

  The emotion is terror. Something is coming.

  I

  Special Agent Frank Elwood Jr. pulled his hat down lower over his eyes as he tried to melt back into the shadows of the old building. He didn’t like lurking in this part of Arkham, especially not at midnight on a misty October evening. The rest of New England might have been reveling in the glorious fall colors of changing leaves and innocent Halloween decorations, but this town hadn’t known innocence in centuries. The walkie-talkie in one hand gave Elwood not quite as much comfort as the sawed-off shotgun he carried under his long coat . . . which is to say not much comfort at all.