Part 4
PROVIDENCE
My story might well have ended with my departure from Arkham, were it not for recent events that have made necessary this bridge of words, linking that time with this, 1923 with 1938. The waters spanned by that bridge may have seemed placid and shallow but in truth were full of deep whirlpools and sunken debris.
I was never quite able to stop wondering what happened to Herbert West. This was the centre of the spiral, the ultimate source of pain, the wound that refused to heal. In that cataclysmic week of July 1923, I discovered within myself the ‘resonant link’ created or identified by Quarrington. It was powerful and disturbing – a bond of love, both that which in Greek is called agape, the exaltation of friendship, and the fiery and volatile eros. Our separate fates had converged and become entangled for some purpose beyond my understanding. When I performed the ceremony of revivification in the secret chamber I felt, no, I knew that I was an instrument in the hand of another power. I had yielded myself to it for the sake of friendship and love, but when my work was done, I was allowed to fall back to earth while West flew away like the phoenix from its fiery nest, never looking back at the broken tool left behind.
In the years immediately following his disappearance, I had a recurring dream: I entered a room, sometimes the bedroom in which he died, sometimes a room I had never seen before, very bright, with a view of the distant sea. I went in and he turned toward me and held out his arms. I embraced him with joy, thinking, At last, at last! He threw back his head and smiled at me. As though for the first time, I saw his beautiful face transformed by passion. He closed his eyes, murmuring, “Kiss me, Charles.” But invariably, as I bent to place my mouth on his, I awoke. At first this dream came several times a year, leaving me, for a day or two, agitated but happy, restless and excited. As the years passed I experienced it less frequently, then not at all.
When the dream left me I thought, Now I have lost completely the secret glory of life. Now all that remains is to grow old. But all these years later, a few fragments of the old magic remain. Sometimes when I listen to music, or at the fall of an evening in spring, when the very air seems green and the mingled fragrances of growth and blooming steal into my window, I experience again a little of that ecstatic certainty.
Long ago, West explained to me that energy is stored in chemical bonds and that the breaking of those bonds releases it into the world. I wonder if something analogous happens with human experiences, with lives, with relationships. In the seething welter of human interactions, as friendships are formed and broken, as passions are felt and expressed, vast amounts of psychic energy must be released. Where does it go? How is it used? I do not know, but find a little comfort in the thought that some unknown force must control these dynamics, just as the known cycle of organic growth and decay drives physical life. Even as the rotting leaves in Michael O’Connor’s compost heaps sustained the flowers in my mother’s gardens, so perhaps the breaking of the bonds between Alma, Herbert and myself, the hidden turmoils of our lives, the energies released when body and spirit part, in some way served to sustain the eternal mystery. Or so I hope.
It began again a few weeks ago, with an engraved invitation in the mail:
Miskatonic University
Anniversary Reunion
1738-1938
All alumni, faculty and staff, present and former, are cordially invited to join in celebrating two hundred years. An opportunity to reunite with old friends and colleagues…
Something made me pause as I was about to put the invitation into the fire. Perhaps it was the familiar MU crest, perhaps the thought of old friends and colleagues striking a warm note in a life that has not been overly blessed with either. After some thought, I replied that I should be delighted to attend.
When I went to the bank to withdraw funds for my journey, on impulse I also obtained access to the small box of valuables I kept in the vault. I removed West’s emerald ring and put it on my finger. After I left Arkham, I had intended to show it to an expert in order to find out more about its ultimate origin. But something made me change my mind. The more I looked at it, the more I became convinced that it should be kept secret. I was afraid that its strangeness would be revealed as a cheap sham, or that it was a genuine rarity that would attract unwelcome attention to me. Above all, I felt in some obscure way that its time had not yet come, so I had put it away and forgotten it.
It was a shock to see how little Arkham had changed since 1924. As I entered the city centre I began to see differences – a few buildings gone or radically altered. But the city’s profile on the skyline was unchanged. At one and the same time I experienced a sense of homecoming and the strangeness of arrival in a place unknown. If I had come by train, the illusion would have been nearly perfect – almost I might have been my young self, newly arrived to take up my post at Miskatonic University Library in 1910.
The first day there was a speech by the President of the University, followed by a reception and a concert. By then I had already encountered a number of former colleagues. To my surprise, they greeted me with apparent eagerness. This confirmed that my last days at Miskatonic had been distorted by pain and anxiety. I was heartened by these encounters, but they were not the reason I had come to Arkham.
The following day I visited the Library. The old building was still there, but had acquired a few more architectural excrescences. Not only was the marriage of styles not a happy one, the new wings had spoiled the proportions of the college quadrangle, but I had to agree that the additional space gained thereby was welcome.
I was secretly glad to see that the Cataloguing Department still occupied its old quarters. The Department Head, a formidably well-educated young woman conversant with all the latest theories, showed me around my old haunts. I had not been away from my work long enough to lose the ability to talk shop, and did so with considerable enjoyment.
I debated with myself whether to visit the Necronomicon in its vault of steel. In the end I decided against it. Whatever role it had played in my life was finished. I had no desire to experience again the unsettling effect it had had on me many years before. The link that had been forged by its power had either dissolved forever long ago or still existed.
Instead, I wandered the streets of Arkham, indulging in memories. It was just after four in the afternoon when I set out. The day had been cool and bright but now fog was gathering on the river and seeping along the streets. I could see the taller buildings of the central area and the spires of several churches floating above the mist. There was a blueness in the air, a colour that spoke of clearness and yet imposed itself between my vision and the things I looked at. I remembered what I had seen from the window of West’s study the night before his death, and knew that this would be no ordinary stroll down memory lane. After a while I was no longer sure whether it was 1938 or 1923 or 1911 or some other year altogether.
From my old rooms on Peabody Street, I proceeded to French Hill, where Alma had lived, then along College. I felt that a throng of my old selves followed me – the Charles Milburn who had been West’s trusting assistant, the one who had been Alma Halsey’s lover, the guilt-ridden being who had wrestled with the dilemma of friendship with a murderer. I watched him kiss Alma with a hungry eagerness, gaze in distress at the death-struggles of Robert Leavitt, and read letters from France that contained more than he wanted to admit to himself.
As I was passing the mass of buildings that was St. Mary’s Hospital, I noticed a movement on the opposite side of the street. Three men, coming toward me. The third was rather the worse for drink, it seemed, and was being supported by his companions. Suddenly, one of them began to sing. The tune was that of the national anthem, but the words were different. I kept on my way, and they on theirs. I did not interfere with them, even if that were possible. I had no desire now to see John Hocks revivified, nor to join in the hunt for him afterwards.
Before I knew it, I was standing in front of West’s house on Boundary. It was still there, the
abyss of his death and the crucible from which he had been reborn. I almost expected it to glow with hidden fires. But it was only a house.
It had been smartened up with new paint and an elaborate brass knocker. There were two name plates on the wall beside the door: Law Office, one said. Donald R. Murray. The other said James Foster, M.D. I was about to turn away when someone emerged, a fellow of about forty, carrying a medical bag.
“Dr. Foster, I presume?” I asked.
“Yes. Is there something I can do for you? I’m just leaving for the day, but…”
“I’m revisiting old haunts here in Arkham, and I wonder if you could tell me anything about this house.”
“You used to live here?” There was a gleam of interest in his eye.
“No, but a friend of mine did – Dr. Herbert West. He died many years ago.”
“Herbert West,” he said. “I believe someone mentioned that name when I bought the place ten years ago. He died here, in the house, is that right?”
“Yes, in 1923. He lived on the second floor. You must like the house, though, since you’ve stayed here as long as you have.”
“It suits me. The offices are just what I need for my practice, and it’s handy to the hospital. And the rooms above bring in a little rent every month. Now, if it’s ghosts you’re looking for, you should talk to Murray, my tenant. I doubt if he would have seen anything, though. He’s a hard-headed young fellow.” He laughed, showing white teeth that gleamed in the dusk.
“Oh, I’m not thinking about ghosts,” I said. “Merely looking for old memories. Do you get much use from the cellar?”
“Hardly at all. There isn’t much to it, is there? Just that little storage room behind the furnace. But it suits me as it is. Now you must excuse me.”
He hurried off and was soon lost in the shadows. So the hidden rooms had not been discovered, either by Foster or whoever had owned the house before him. Possibly not by West’s brothers, either. I wondered again where he had spent the hours between my last sight of him and his departure. And where was he now? To these questions the gathering dusk gave no answer.
Where now, indeed? My hotel was on River Street. The logical route would be to follow Boundary Street northwards, but a small detour would take me to Hangman’s Hill. My pilgrimage would be incomplete without a visit to that place. I was growing tired but was determined to see the thing to its end.
In the graveyard I could just see the markers and one or two freshly made mounds. As far as I could tell, the place was much the same as it had been in 1911. I could not tell which grave was that of John Hocks.
I turned toward the wood that lay between me and the road. Among the trees I thought I saw figures moving. They manifested into discernable entities as I drew nearer. At first I could not imagine what they were, but then I knew. They were West’s mindless creatures, aimlessly wandering. Why here? I wondered. Had he brought their ashes here, not wanting, despite his disavowal of such fancies, to have them near his house? I tried to count them, but was unable to fix on any one long enough. They walked without purpose, without destination or awareness, of me or of one another. Two or three of them came near enough that I saw their faces. They were recognizably human, but as empty of expression as stones. Neither joy nor hatred, fear nor pain, could trouble them ever again. He had been right about that. So what was it about these beings that froze my heart? Was it that they were capable of movement, unlike other things entirely without mind? Yes, it was their incompleteness that made them travesties of human life. This perversion of the life force for his own purposes must surely have weighed heavily against him. But it was no longer for me to reckon that up. I had made my choice fifteen years before and could not change it now. Hardly knowing what I did, I began to say the Prayer for the Dead. I bent down and picked up a handful of earth, scattering it over the place where I had seen the wandering shapes. This was all I could do. I turned away and bent my steps toward the lights on River Street.
On my last day in Arkham I went to Christ Church Cemetery, even though I was fully aware that it was not my friend who lay in the grave marked with his name. There is something in human nature that demands a tangible monument, and this one was as good as any. If it wasn’t Herbert West who lay under that stone, it was certainly a good part of myself. For all I knew, West had no grave as yet, except the one within himself, and, in a strange way, the house on Boundary Street. But that was an empty grave.
I made my way to the Derby plot and found the stone. Grey granite, with his name and dates. The self-devouring serpent. ‘Life from Death.’ There were flowers on the grave – a few purple asters and some bronze-coloured chrysanthemums. Who had put them there?
I stood for a while, wondering. Then I heard steps behind me, and a voice.
“Still tending the shrine, I see, Charles.” I turned around and saw Alma Halsey.
Like me, she was middle-aged, in her early fifties, still slender, with an elegance that I did not remember. Her hair was more silver than blonde but her eyes seemed bluer by contrast, and had lost nothing of their clarity and sharpness.
“Alma,” I said, “you’re here after all.”
“I’ve been avoiding you, Charles,” she replied in her forthright way. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again, even though it’s been so long. Ironic that we should meet here, isn’t it?” She indicated the grave. “Wasn’t he a Christian, Herbert West? That looks more like a pagan symbol to me. I’m surprised it was allowed.”
“I had to do some serious negotiations to get permission to put the stone here. And no, it’s not exactly a Christian symbol, even though it stands for eternity. West wasn’t a Christian, not at all.”
“An atheist, I suppose?”
“An agnostic, I think. He didn’t deny the existence of God, in theory, but without direct experience consigned God to the unknowable. But did you come here to…? Those flowers…”
“I came to see my parents’ graves. But yes, I put those there. I thought I owed him an apology. You too, Charles.” She laughed, sounding embarrassed. “It was a shock to see you here, big as life. I nearly slunk away, but knew that would pretty well negate my noble intentions.”
I went closer to her. “Alma, all that is in the past. It doesn’t matter any more.”
“But it does. It does. Sometimes it seems to matter more than the present.”
I was surprised at her words and the sorrowful way in which she said them. She had always been the optimist, the forward-looking one who had jollied me out of gloomy thoughts.
“Not true. Look, I have my car here. Suppose we go and have dinner somewhere. It’s a little early, but the past needs to be diluted with the present. And some good food and wine.”
“All right, Charles.” She laughed. “Oh, I’m so glad you turned up!. I should have known better than to come here alone.” Already she seemed more cheerful.
In a restaurant on River Street (which may have been called Da Vinci’s once), I encouraged Alma to talk about herself as we waited for our meals to come. She had had an interesting life, moving from place to place, newspaper to newspaper.
“Finally I got sick of being rootless,” she said. “Now I teach in the School of Journalism at Columbia and do some freelancing. I have more time to think and lately I’ve been thinking a lot about you and our friendship, all those years ago.”
“And what have you concluded?” I asked, trying to inject some lightness into my tone. I was afraid she would fall again into the mood of melancholy I had seen at the cemetery.
“That I never did understand you. I thought I knew what was good for you, and when you seemed to think differently, I resented that. And there’s something I should have told you right from the start.”
“What, Alma?”
“The real reason I resented Herbert West. Years ago, when he was an undergraduate at Miskatonic, I audited some courses – math and biology. About 1906 or ’07, this would have been. West was in one of the biology classes. I couldn’t he
lp but notice him.”
I nodded. I knew what she meant.
“I guess I became infatuated with him,” Alma continued. “It was his intelligence, his style, his joy in argument, his beauty. I even wrote him a poem, a sonnet. It was meant to be a kind of intellectual tribute, but… I guess my emotions showed. I gave it to West in class one day.
“He read it and handed it back to me, very politely. ‘I must thank you for the compliment this represents, Miss Halsey, but I cannot accept it,’ he said. I asked why not, logically enough. He said, ‘I don’t want you to cherish any illusions about me. To me you are nothing more than an intellect. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’ Then he walked away. I was mortified. I thought he had insulted me. I quit the class and avoided him afterward, which was easy enough. When I heard he had entered the Med. School, I went out of my way to put him in a bad light to Papa every chance I got. I convinced myself he was a bad sort, and you have to admit he did himself no favours a lot of the time. But when I told you he wasn’t my type, I was telling the truth, because by then I had convinced myself of that.”
I thought for a moment. “I think you misunderstood him. He was trying to tell you something about himself, not insulting you.”
“Oh, and what might that have been?”
“Well, that he wasn’t interested in any sort of romantic involvement. But not because of anything specific, you understand. Not only you, any young woman would have gotten that sort of reaction, I think.”
“Hmm. I wondered about that, later. I thought he was just cold and stuck up, but you’re telling me he wasn’t attracted to women at all, is that right?”
“That’s it. He didn’t want to give you the wrong impression, but there’s no easy way to say something like that.”
“Hmm,” she said again, with a strange little smile. “Well, Charles, I must say I didn’t expect these insights from you. You certainly are a deep one.”
“Is that better than a Romantic? You and Herbert were always calling me that. You never married, then?”
“No. My life’s been too unsettled. I was always racing off somewhere. I have to admit there were times I was happy to have my work as an excuse.”
“Well, there you are. You made the choices that seemed best at the time.”
“And you? You’re still a bachelor? Why do I ask? It’s written all over you.”
I was not sure what she meant by that. I am rather proud of my ability to keep myself presentable. I decided that it must have been my air of self-sufficiency to which she referred.
“Yes, but unlike you I cannot plead an unsettled life. If anything, mine has been too settled. I suppose I’m just not the marrying type.”
She looked at me for a moment. “So while I was gallivanting around Europe after the War, you and West were still bosom buddies? I was jealous of him, you know, even when you and I were lovers. I somehow felt all along that his claim on you was greater than mine.”
I tried to give her part of the truth, at least. “At times, I suppose. But there were plenty of times when I hardly saw him for weeks on end. I suppose I became a little muddled about some things after you left.”
She shook her head. “What a pair we are. Or aren’t, rather. Charles, why didn’t we get married?”
“You were too busy trying not to conform. And I – well, I don’t know. Perhaps I just didn’t relish acquiring a mother-in-law.”
She laughed out loud. “Oh Charles! She was rather awful to you, that time I introduced you. Things were so different then, weren’t they? Sometimes I look back and wonder what I should have done differently. It’s as though I missed a turn somewhere. Do you ever feel that way?”
What could I say? Between us lay the gulf of lies I had created even when we were lovers and friends. I had never told her about my involvement with West’s experiments, or the dark roads down which I had followed him. As far as Alma Halsey was concerned, the grave on which she had placed her propitiatory flowers that day was indeed the final resting place of Herbert West.
I knew that if I wanted to reestablish any kind of relationship with her I would have to tell her the truth. But until I knew that West was indeed dead, dead for the second time, finally and forever, I was not at liberty to do that. I knew Alma – her sharp mind and talent for spotting patterns. Retired from journalism or not, she would not be able to resist the allure of the story. It was ironic – if there was anyone who might be able to help me find out what had happened to West, it was she. And I could not tell her. Despite the softening of her attitude toward him, I feared that for her the search would become a crusade to bring a criminal to belated justice. I could not permit this. Not after the agonies of my own choices. Not until I knew what he had done with the life I had helped restore to him. So I looked right into her blue eyes and said,
“Yes, I often feel that I’m an entirely different person from the one I was all those years ago. I remember things I said and did, and it’s like watching a stranger. I’ve felt that pretty strongly these past few days, walking around Arkham. You know, sometimes I think we need two chances to be young. One for practice, then a second one after we’ve learned a thing or two, so we can finally get it right.”
“So you feel that way too. I wonder if it’s another effect of growing older. We don’t get another chance, though. But it’s not too late, surely, to change things, even now?”
She looked so forlorn that I nearly wavered in my resolve. I nearly said, “Alma, I don’t know whether it’s too late or not. I won’t know that until I know what happened to him.” Instead, I took her hand and said, “Alma, it’s never too late, not while we are alive.”
I thought I saw a gleam of tears in her eyes, which she attempted to conceal by looking down at our joined hands on the table. She said, “That ring you’re wearing – it’s beautiful, but very odd. Where did you get it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I did mind, rather, but decided to tell her the truth. When it came to this ring, the truth at my disposal was limited. “From West, actually,” I said. “He left it to me in his will. His piano, his books and this ring. I think his mother gave it to him, but where she got it is anyone’s guess.”
“I see,” she said. “Or rather, I don’t, but it certainly is unusual. The funny thing is, I’m sure I’ve seen something rather like it before. Not a ring, but jewellery with similar patterns. I can’t remember where, exactly.” She looked closely at my face, and seemed about to ask me something else, but thought better of it.
We went on, then, to speak of other things. That, at least, had not changed. Alma and I had always been able to talk to one another. Except that last time in Arkham, of course.
As we prepared to leave the restaurant, she said, “Oh, before I forget – I have something for you – a letter from someone who must have lost touch with you when you moved from Arkham.”
“Oh really, now who could that be?”
“Just a minute. I have it in my bag. Yes, here it is. It’s from someone called Francis Dexter, in Providence.” She held out the letter to me.
I took it from her, and it was as though an enormous mechanism moved in the heart of the world and a door swung open that had been closed for fifteen years. I did not need to look at the handwriting on the envelope. My primary effort was directed to maintaining a neutral expression as I glanced at the letter and put it in my pocket. But my heart was beating so hard I was sure she could hear it. Francis Dexter, of Providence…
“Hmm, I wonder who that could be. The name isn’t familiar. How did you come by this, Alma?” I had to distract her. Would the supposed fact of his death withstand the quickness of her mind? We had met by the grave, with his full name inscribed on the stone before us.
“It was here in Arkham, two or three months ago. I was walking down College, past where you used to live, when who should come out of the house but Marcus Desmond. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he asked me in for a visit as though it had been just the week before. We talked fo
r a while, and then he asked if I ever saw you, because he had a letter for you. It had arrived a few weeks before. It was lucky he remembered it before it got buried in some heap of papers. I guess he must have had a forwarding address for you once, but probably lost it. You know Marcus. Anyway, I said I didn’t see much of you these days, living in New York and all, but he insisted I take it. ‘You get around more than I do, Alma,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll see Charles before long.’ Well, it occurred to me if I needed an excuse to look you up, this was as good a one as any, so I took it. And last week when I was getting ready for this trip I remembered it and brought it along. And here you are.”
By now we had come to the hotel where she was staying. “It’s been wonderful to see you again, Alma,” I said. “I hope we don’t lose touch again. We may not get a second chance to be young again, but I hope we may have a second chance at friendship. And the next time we see each other, I may have a story to tell you.” She looked at me questioningly, and seemed about to say something, but before she could, I kissed her cheek and said good night.
Then I went to my own room to read his letter.
Kingsport again. I drove out here before starting on my journey, so I could watch the sunrise and think about the future. I slept fitfully last night. I could not stop thinking, doubting, wondering, hoping. Finally, at four o’clock I gave up, packed my belongings and settled my bill with the sleepy fellow at the desk.
The morning mist is rising from a turquoise sea as smooth as glass, and on the far horizon a bank of purple clouds is edged with flame. The day is full of promise. I should have a pleasant drive south.
All of my night thoughts come down to a single question: who is Francis Dexter? Is he only Herbert West under a different name? I do not think so. Has he become, as Quarrington predicted, one who has power in his hands, yet subjects himself to a greater power? West acknowledged no powers greater than logic and mechanism. But as I read his letter, I thought I could hear echoes of the old prognosticator. Could it be that in the transformation from West to Dexter some other inheritance has been bestowed? Even his handwriting is different. I have read the letter so many times already that I have memorized parts of it, especially the last few paragraphs:
Certain things of which I am not now at liberty to speak have persuaded me that the resonant link between us is as valid a force now as it was in 1923 and before. You know what was achieved by that power years ago. I think that before I die my second death I will need to call upon it again.
In a way, that ultimate experiment we performed in 1923 went on for years, perhaps is still going on. I can say with perfect truth that I have been remade. Is Francis Dexter a better man than Herbert West? I think so, but the ultimate judgment is no longer mine.
Charles, I need your help once more. If you are thinking as you read this, Fifteen years of silence, then he has the audacity to ask for my help again, all I can say is: Yes it is so. Once again, the choice is yours.
Yesterday was warm and today it seems that we have slipped from spring to summer. There is a garden here, which has become Andre’s pride and joy. And mine too, in a different way. The early roses are beginning, Andre tells me, and the lilies promise well. Please come.
Yours in hope,
Francis Dexter.
I remind myself that I know nothing. Herbert West was not the most truthful of men. How can I tell whether or not this is also true of Francis Dexter? I cannot. There is no one with whom I can verify his statements. For all I know, Dexter may be an even more practiced deceiver than West. His eloquent, nearly hypnotic sentences tantalize and seduce with references to secrets I have been unable to share with anyone for fifteen years. I recognize this, but have let myself be tantalized, just the same.
As he says, the choice is mine. And ultimately, it must be made on the basis of belief rather than knowledge, just as in 1911, when I followed a fascinating stranger into the unknown. There is no need for further debate with myself. I have decided what I am going to do.
When I go home to Cambridge I will write down all my memories of those days. I want to get them straight, so that when I tell Alma this story I will have the truth in black and white. But now I am as free as I have ever been in my life.
First, I will go to Providence. The roses and lilies in his garden may have faded, but the year turns toward the good darkness and will turn to the light again. It is time to begin.
END
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The Friendship of Mortals Page 35
