He was old, and he was tired.
All the work that had been done, contracts forged and signed, agreements made, nights spent in suffering and pain and all the terrible agonies incumbent upon the One who was to return—would it all amount to nothing? A single Dreamer’s decision to withhold the Key...
Laban rubbed his eyes.
To die with it all not only unfinished, but with the weight of Rumor holding his casket down, in infamy, his name tarnished, his family ruined.
He would leave it all to Curwen, of course. Curwen who had stayed loyal no matter what absurdities dogged Laban’s every effort; Curwen Flowers, True Son of Yog Sothoth. He had no doubt in his mind that, if it could be done, even at this late hour, Curwen would find a way to do it.
There was a light knock at the library door behind him.
Laban took a breath, wincing slightly at a pain in his ribs. “Enter.”
The door opened. “Your afternoon tea, sir,” Miles said. “I’ll set it here for you. Is there anything else you require, sir?”
Laban did not turn around. He wanted to laugh, but such effort was beyond him at this point. Anything else he required?
“No, Miles, thank you. That will be all,” he said. He heard the door close quietly.
Outside, snow continued to fall, without any sign of stopping. Laban opened a drawer in the great old desk and extracted a sheet of yellowing paper.
My dear Curwen... he began.
Something terribly wrong about the whole affair. Things should have been taken care of by now. A demonic intercession? No issue. Extractions of the essences from a few local ladies when the stars were right? Fine.
Get a blasted key from a dying man? Impossible!
Curwen sat cross-legged on the floor before a makeshift altar in his room at the Old Court and began his usual procedure. The mirror before him, twin black candles in sticks shaped like satyrs to either side, began to vibrate and hum with the bijamantra of the Old Ones. The familiar sensation, as if his mind somehow sloped to one side, announced a perichoresis of dimensions.
And a mauve light, through the Cone, in the midst of infinity, poured forth from the mirror into the room.
Waves of Great Bliss flooded through him. Even at this stage, Curwen struggled somewhat to retain a speck of individual awareness as oceans of Reality in all its forms threatened to overwhelm it—not “him,” as he would have said in any other state of mind, only “it,” that creature rising up out of the infinitude, known as Curwen Flowers to the droves of mortal men.
For these fools of men and their woes care not thou at all...
The words of the Book—or one of them, at least. Again, the struggle...that was not a struggle. “It cannot be attained by effort.” The words of another Book—or was that a Man, perhaps?
And suddenly—silence. Ah, but there was the trick! The silence was a ruse. The Great Secret. The Abb´e Constant had conferred this Truth to Laban directly, after visiting him in Golem Creek. “You are a man of inconstant fortunes”—the usual vert langue made use of, the old rogue!—“but I will give you a Treasure priceless beyond measure: you are silent, you are not silent, you are not-not silent...”
Two negations of a negative. And Yog Sothoth is attained...
“The thing about dreams is their outlandish overlap,” Howard said at last. “One thing becomes another thing; indeed, it is that thing—both things at the same time! And yet, in consequence, neither.”
Curwen sipped his coffee. Howard gazed longingly at the pot of it sitting on the little round table between them, but couldn’t bring himself to indulge. Nothing worked inside him any longer; the consequences of any intermingling with the external world were now empirically—as they had always otherwise been—disastrous.
“What I have written of these things, Curwen, is thus no longer of consequence,” he said.
Curwen took another sip of coffee, this time anxiously. “You’re telling me that the Key no longer exists?” he said.
The hint of a smile played thinly over Howard’s features. “You want to know if something I imagined no longer exists?” he responded.
Curwen set down his cup and sighed. “Blast it all, Howard!” he said. “You brought us here! You made it so! If anyone can empathize with us, it is you.”
The smile faded. “I’m sorry,” Howard said, seeming genuinely apologetic. “Truly, I am. But Carter is gone. I cannot bring him back. I cannot write his name any longer.”
Curwen stood up from the table. A drizzling rain had begun outside. It would be a cold, wet walk back to the inn.
“Have you considered the Wine?” he asked, gazing out the little attic window.
Howard nodded. “Indeed I have,” he answered. “But I can assure you that it won’t do any good. Not now.”
All that work... Curwen thought to himself. And now—powerless in the face of our Creator—
“There is one way,” Howard said quietly.
Curwen breathed deeply and returned from the window. “We have no idea who or what it will engender,” he said. “Future, past? Gone and done with! ‘All are one in Him,’” Curwen quoted.
Howard pointed to a small stack of papers on a rickety wooden desk in the corner. “Take them,” he said. “The others have already received a portion. Enough if they’ve got the brains to unravel it. What I’ve given you is—” he coughed into one pale hand, his face reddening. After a pause, he continued, almost silently. “Enough.”
Curwen scooped up the small stack of pages from the desk and walked briskly to the door. He turned the door handle and opened it.
“This is good-bye, then,” he said. Behind him, there was no response.
Curwen stepped out of the room and closed the door.
Despite protestations, at Laban’s calm and unprovoked insistence, Miles departed alone for Cornwall a week later. It was Laban’s concern for the safety of the various items being sent along that finally convinced him, and the promise that Curwen was to return from Providence shortly, the latter with the ostensible aim of aiding Laban in his return journey, back home, back to Wales.
Miles had sensed the lies at the outset, of course, but what recourse did he have?
The house was in order, the necessary papers drawn up, leaving the estate in its entirety to Curwen, with instruction to send along sufficient means for Miles to retire and live out his days in some degree of comfort, after decades of loyal service.
In the quiet, in the cold, Laban dressed himself in ritual garments, speaking the words of consecration as he did so. A familiar sensation suddenly warmed him. Always, like an artist or musician, once clothed in ritual finery, Laban no longer felt the pains and vicissitudes of age upon him.
Laban spoke the combination of words that opened a hidden door into the sub-basement of his mansion and descended a set of stone steps into the Chamber. Fires sprang up at his command in sconces set into walls of dark granite. He hefted the small brazier to the right of the entrance, a fog of lignum aloes and frankincense and all necessary suffumigations spilling forth.
“I burn this in the Name and to the Honor of Yog Sothoth,” he spoke, and entered the Circle, one final time.
~~~
—was just as easy as we initially thought.
I stepped back out of the door brandishing the key, which looked nearly identical to the previous one, if a bit more tarnished. It also had a little tag tied to one end of it with thread, like you’d find at an antique store. “HPL/RC” was penned neatly on it in brownish ink.
“That was...” I trailed off. I noticed that my right eye felt tender to the touch.
“Super easy,” Julie said. “Yeah, no shit,” Steve added.
“Okay,” I said. “Not the worst thing in the world.”
“So,” Julie said. “I kind of expected something horrible to happen. Or something.” She took a cl
oser look at me. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Kind of expected something,” Steve said, walking ahead of us. “Like getting attacked, maybe. Or one of us dying.”
“I guess,” I said, touching my eye lightly again. “Let’s be thankful. That nothing happened. Right?”
We started back to the gate. The Revelry was in full swing. People were literally hanging out of windows and in the branches of trees, acting like complete animals. At one point, I could have sworn that I saw a girl that looked almost exactly like Molly in the midst of one crowd in the distance, wearing a glimmering tiara. Someone was fanning her with a huge swathe of peacock feathers.
I lost track of her when a troop of half-naked students swooped into our midst from out of nowhere, banging on drums and shouting and screaming like maniacs. I kept glancing at the key, and wondering. I recalled—well, I didn’t so much recall actually getting it. But then again, I kind of did.
I kept wanting to just forget about it and move on. Julie, and especially Steve, seemed unnaturally silent about it as well.
GREAT JOB! the thunder-voice rolled in as we approached the gate. Wow! Okay, I guess I underestimated you guys.
“Yeah, well,” I said.
“Yeah, dude!” Steve said, suddenly regaining his nerve. “You bet your ass you did.”
Ass officially handed over, it answered. “Damn straight,” Steve replied.
I suppose I owe you all a sincere apology, it said, with the distinct aura of a chuckle behind its “words.” But in lieu of that, how about I just let you go—back to that little prissy Roland’s “safe place.”
A huge wind kicked up, propelling us to the iron gate—
—and through, into the silence of the gas-lit street at the edge of the Place of Solace.
“Hell, yeah!” Steve exclaimed. “Objective one: accomplished. Killed that sonofabitch! Woo-hoo!” He skipped on ahead of me and Julie.
In the distance, partially illuminated once more by the wicked circle of the moon above, stood the pyramid of Laban Black, waiting, seeming preternaturally calm in the instantaneous and jarring silence.
I tried to shrug off the worry that gnawed at me.
“Getting nervous?” Julie asked.
I shrugged. “If by that you mean ‘still incredibly fucking nervous,’ then, yeah, I am.”
Getting to the pyramid: easy and fun. Getting into the pyramid? A motherfucker.
The lovely and intricate setup of the Place of Solace, with the rather awe-inspiring and beautiful edifice of Laban’s pyramid forming the backdrop and goal ahead of us, made the half-day trip through winding streets and shop corners, neighborhoods and sculpted forests, a much-needed source of relaxation. The steps leading up to the entrance of the pyramid, however, were nasty, brutish, and tall.
“Did he get giants to build these fucking stairs?” Steve asked as we performed the half-leaping maneuver necessary to get from one step up to the next.
I didn’t have the breath to answer him. Julie was winded after every third step or so. “You guys go on ahead,” she said at several points. In each case, our response was to sit down and take a breather.
The only good thing to come out of our forced inattention to the matter at hand was the view.
It was magnificent.
The billion details Laban had incorporated into the city were evident. At each observation made by either me or Steve, Julie simply nodded her head in acknowledgment.
Halfway up the pyramid we finally reached a landing and a heavy wooden door, in the center of which was an ornate lock in the shape of an imp’s face. Its mouth formed the keyhole.
We paused to rest. I noticed what appeared to be a coastline many leagues off in the distance.
“That kind of freaks me out,” Julie said.
“No shit,” Steve observed. “Think about it. Like when you go off-screen in a video game.”
“You just keep on going,” I said. “Forever.” “We still need to investigate this place!” Steve
insisted. “I wish we could have gotten permission from Roland to fuck some shit up.”
“Why do we need permission from Roland?” Julie said. “Oh, God. Did I just encourage you?”
“I don’t need encouragement,” Steve said. “Just liquor and ladies!”
“That would technically be encouragement,” I had to say.
“Then I guess I can’t live without encouragement!” Steve concluded.
“You’re right, though,” I said. “All this stuff... just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” Julie said. “Jackpot.”
“It’s weird, though,” I said. “I mean, I could hang out here the rest of my life. Probably wouldn’t ever find the end of all of this.” I waved a hand at the coastline. “But if I knew I couldn’t get back to Golem Creek at all, ever...”
“It’d be like prison,” Julie said.
Steve snorted. “Fuck that,” he said. “Do they have Johnny Walker Blue for breakfast in prison?”
“That’s not what I mean,” I said.
“Well, whatever you mean, I want you to know, right now, one thing,” Steve said.
“What’s that?” I asked
“You’re wrong,” he answered. “A jackpot’s a jackpot. Just like food to a starving person is still just food—but if they throw it away, and don’t eat it, then that person’s just a fucking idiot.”
Julie brightened up. “I think that was actual wisdom, Steve,” she said, chuckling.
“Fuck yeah it was,” he said.
I gazed back at the coastline, the ridge of mountainous structures against the horizon, the extraordinary wealth of the Place of Solace. I stood up and got out the key.
I noticed that I was, quite inadvertently, smiling.
I remembered this sensation: down, down, down, into darkness.
After unlocking the heavy wooden door with the key, I pushed it open, then extracted the key and peered inside. More stairs—this time leading down at a decently sloping angle to an indiscernible darkness. Lit torches appeared regularly on the walls to either side, but these only served to emphasize repetitive landings, and the closeness of the staircase seemed somewhat more oppressive given the sheer expansiveness we had admired mere moments before.
“After you,” Steve said, waving a hand in the direction of the staircase. I gave him a sarcastic grin, and entered.
We descended. I found myself dizzy and winded in short order.
Again, we took regular pauses. Occasionally, Steve or Julie would get up before me and take the lead; then one or the other of us would switch places.
When we had been descending for some time, I began to feel it: pressure.
“Do you guys feel that?” I asked.
“Like we’re in an airplane going down,” Julie said. “How much farther is it to—well, to whatever we’re supposed to find?”
“‘Not far now,’” Steve said. I heard him chuckling.
“Please no Papa Smurf references,” Julie said. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” Steve said. “You know, we probably should have thought to
bring a garbage can lid with us.”
“For what?” I asked. “A shield?”
“No, dude!” Steve said. “Stair-sledding! We’d basically already be there.”
“True enough,” Julie said. “Like the last time you did that. Remember? Maple Ridge?”
“Oh, yeah!” Steve said. “That was awesome!” “That was a broken wrist, sprained ankle, and
four stitches,” Julie reminded him.
“Like I said!” Steve responded.
“It’s a miracle,” I said. “Check it out!”
We had entered a large stone room, again lit with torches, at the bottom of the stairs. Three shimmering pools of what I can only describe as radiant blackness swam before us, apparently
three different exits from the room.
I groaned. “This is not what I need right now,” I said. “Portals?”
“Choose wisely, Indy!” Steve said.
“Cut the crap, Steve,” Julie said. “Seriously, how are we supposed to know which one to choose?” Steve had stepped up close to one of them.
“We’re in a room,” he said. “No windows...”
“Will you please stop quoting movies and help out!” Julie said.
“I am helping,” Steve said. “This is how I think.”
Julie made an exasperated noise. Then she noticed my obvious hesitation as I looked from one portal to the next repeatedly.
“You’re not thinking—” she started.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” I said. “And I hate the idea.”
“You want each of us to take a different one?” Steve said.
“I don’t want each of us to—” I said.
“Sure thing, dude,” Steve said. “See you on the other side!”
He stepped through the left-hand portal and disappeared.
“Ah!” Julie exclaimed. “What is wrong with him?”
“He kind of just made our decision for us,” I said.
“No,” Julie said. “We could both just follow him.”
“But is that the best idea?” I said. “What if that’s the path with the monster, or whatever?”
“I kind of don’t care,” Julie answered. “Don’t we have a better chance with three people?”
I shook my head. “Here?” I said. “I don’t think numbers has much to do with it.”
“Except that we have three portals,” she said. “Please don’t walk through a different one.”
I hesitated. “I think it’s our best bet, Julie,” I said. “You can follow me if you want. We’ll still increase our odds of figuring something out by taking a different path than Steve.”
I began to step through the middle portal. “Wait—” I heard, before blackness.
I awoke to the sound of William Shatner’s voice in Pete Jarry’s den.
He was sitting in another bean bag chair in front of the TV set, watching Star Trek and eating Cap’n Crunch. I noticed that it was the “all crunchberries” kind.
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