Demogorgon

by Brian Lumley

  ‘At least it was a monastery many years ago. There’s just an old man there now – him and the thing he watches over.’

  What thing? Trace could kick himself for having failed to ask. There was a great deal he might have asked, and probably a lot more he should have listened to. He quickened his pace again, scowled at the pavement beneath his feet, ignored the shaded places in his haste and sweated profusely.

  Home before 4:00 P.M. he showered, put on his dressing-gown, returned to Kastrouni’s suitcase of books and documents …

  Demogorgon.

  When Trace had asked Kastrouni who his real father was, if not the young RAMC officer Greg Solomon, the Greek had said, ‘Demogorgon.’ Trace hadn’t understood this to be a genuine response to his question, just something on the tip of Kastrouni’s tongue, which had come out instead of an answer. But now he wondered. And what would that make Charlie Trace?

  A bastard, yes, but what else? Son of the son of the antichrist? Satan’s grandson? In which case, a right evil little bastard!

  What do you call a man who scratches himself at his mother’s wedding? Trace recalled an old, old joke. A lousy bastard! Ha, ha, ha! But it wasn’t amusing.

  He snorted, shrugged his shoulders irritatedly. Evil, him? Well he was no angel, that was for sure, but …

  He’d said that to Kastrouni, too: ‘I’m no angel.’ And the Greek had answered, enigmatically, ‘Indeed you are not.’

  Demogorgon.

  Morgan Selby had called Demogorgon Satan’s emissary. He was separate from the devil but was gifted with his potency and carried his seed. Trace frowned, shook his head at that. That would never do. To have someone else sow your wild oats for you. But if the Lord could send down an angel to do the job for him, why shouldn’t Satan send up a demon to –

  – Beyond Trace’s window, far away across the city, lightning flashed silently in a sky suddenly darkening.

  Trace gave an involuntary shudder – then shook himself. God, but it wouldn’t do to pry too deep into stuff like this! It was what nightmares were made of.

  And again: Demogorgon.

  He opened the clear-plastic envelope marked ‘Demogorgon & Associated …’ and separated the contents on the floor of his living-room. He threw down a cushion for his elbows, propped himself up and started to read.

  The first item was simply a browning page torn out of some book or other; probably a work on demonology, Trace thought. At its top, the page carried a paragraph on ‘Demodocus’, crossed through with a slash of ink. Then, heavily underlined, ‘Demogorgon’ as a heading, and the following text:

  ATTENDING the throne of Chaos and his consort, ‘sable-vested Night’, Satan found ‘Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name of ‘Demogorgon.’ Orcus was a strange and menacing giant of a monster. Ades? – Hades, of course! But what was Demogorgon?

  Naturally, Milton offers no explanation; but Statius in his Thebaid speaks of a ‘Most High One’, a god or power so dreadful that we are forbidden to even know he exists. The sinister speculation this very likely aroused was probably satisfied by a revelation in Lactantius (c.250 A.D.) that Statius’s ‘Most High One’ was Demogorgon. Later, it was believed by certain medieval thinkers that this was in actuality the name of Satan himself, ‘dreaded’ because to speak such a name aloud might cause a materialization of the actual elemental!

  On the other hand, H. J. Rose, Albert Wanke, Thomas Curle and other scholars are of the opinion that in fact Lactantius’s ‘Demogorgon’ should in fact have been ‘Demiurgus’, the Creator! ‘Somewhere along the line,’ Albert Wanke concluded, ‘there was probably an error in translation or transcription …’

  And then the heading, ‘Demophon’, ink-slashed through like ‘Demodocus’.

  Trace read the passage on Demogorgon through again. ‘Milton offers no explanation …’

  The poet, Milton?

  He put the loose page aside, picked up another. This was simply a sheet of A-4, but it confirmed Trace’s guess. For scrawled upon it in Kastrouni’s own hand:

  … when straight behold the throne Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread Wide on the wasteful deep; with him enthroned Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things, The consort of his reign; and by them stood Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name Of Demogorgon; Rumour next and Chance, And Tumult and Confusion all embroiled, And Discord with a thousand various mouths.

  … Chaos and Night, (the unformed darkness?); Rumour, Chance, Tumult and Confusion. And ‘Discord with a thousand various mouths.’ Bodeful things, all of them. And the demons or evil foci: Ades and Orcus – and the ‘dreaded name’ of Demogorgon.

  There was more: on a second sheet of A-4, information first on Orcus and Ades, then a long list of the names of demons, a veritable pandemonium or pantheon of hellish characters. Trace merely glanced at this last:

  Abbadon, Asmodeus, Astaroth; Balberith, Beelzebub, Belphegor; Carnivean, Carreau, Coskarna; Demogorgon (of course), Destus, Diabis … and so on, where Kastrouni had seemed to wish to group the demons in threes under each character of the alphabet. And at the end of this list a note:

  ‘By no means complete; Johan Weyer says that there are more than seven million demons, serving seventy-two princes of hell!’

  At that Trace was tempted to throw the lot out – everything: books, documents, manuscripts and all – with his rubbish; only Kastrouni’s own exclamation mark at the end of his note stopped him. Obviously the Greek, too, had seen that this endless listing of so-called ‘demons’ was to go from the sublime to the ridiculous. But for all that Trace remained scornful, still he was aware that his scepticism was gradually weakening. Kastrouni had, after all, feared for his life. And he was (after all) now dead – of a freak blast of lightning from the sky!

  Trace forced himself to go on. He would look at one more item before wrapping it all up for the day. And after that: suddenly he felt lucky. A visit to Cromwell’s Mint? On his own, this time, with a couple of hundred pounds in his pocket. Why not?

  He’d play big, chance his luck on two or three spins of the wheel, see how quickly he could double his money and then get out of the place.

  That decided, and bolstered by thoughts of what might prove to be an extremely enjoyable, profitable and even relaxing evening, he took up more photocopies from the ‘Demogorgon’ envelope. There were seven or eight much copied sheets in all, most of them concerning devilworship of one sort or another in various parts of the world; but one of them in particular caught Trace’s eye. It bore one of those passages which Kastrouni had thought important enough to ring about in ink, a page photocopied from something called Guazzo’s Compendium Maleficarum, written in 1608.

  Headed, ‘Of the Six Sorts of Demon’, the passage ringed about concerned itself with the second sort, of which Guazzo said:

  ‘The second is the aerial, because these dwell in the air around us. They can descend to hell, and, by forming bodies out of the air, can at times be visible to men. Very frequently, with God’s permission, they agitate the air and raise storms and tempests, and all this they conspire to do for the destruction of mankind.’

  With God’s permission? But of course, for in 1608 most God-fearing men seriously believed that everything was done ‘with God’s permission’. Else it were not allowed to be done in the first place …

  But at last Trace had had enough of it. He bundled all but the map of Karpathos, Kastrouni’s notebook, and one small Bible back into the battered suitcase, took it into his bedroom and shoved it under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought. For now, anyway.

  And then he started to get himself ready for an evening’s gambling. By the time he had given himself a leisurely shave and got dressed the evening had turned fine and a still hot sun dipped toward the west. The distant storm had quite dispersed itself, but by then Trace had forgotten that it had ever threatened …

  Trace was in the casino by 8:00 P.M., out by 10:00, home before 11:00 – cleaned out! He had put his faith in an old ‘system’ with which he�
��d once ‘cracked it’, but which this time cracked him. And ruefully he told himself for the millionth (the hundredth, anyway) time, there are no systems where roulette is concerned.

  He watched TV till closedown, went to bed and slept soundly. That surprised him, for he’d thought he was bound to dream; certainly there was enough on his mind. Or at least at the back of his mind. But (he’d told himself) what would be, would be, and no use worrying about it. And apparently he’d believed himself. So much for gullibility.

  Monday morning was mainly eaten up in a trip to a local travel agency: yes, there were a few empty seats on a flight from Gatwick to Rhodes this Wednesday; and yes, Trace was fortunate, a late cancellation had left a gap in bookings for rooms at Amoupi Beach on Karpathos. The place wasn’t so much a hotel as a taverna on the beach, with rooms. But all the more, well, Greek, for that. A very beautiful spot, yes. Self-catering was out, unfortunately, but the food at the taverna was quite exceptional. Homely but … exceptional. Was he interested in one week? It would be far cheaper (in the long run) if he went for two …

  Trace took one look at the brochures and booked for two weeks. From the look of the place – quite literally a beach with a taverna and what looked like a block of flats behind, and nothing else! – this really was a holiday which would save him money. For one thing, there wouldn’t be any casinos on Karpathos. In fact there wouldn’t be much of anything on Karpathos. But plenty of sun, sand and sea, for sure.

  And an old monastery … an old man … and the thing he guards.

  Leaving the travel agency with his ticket and as he kick-started his Triumph into life, he thought he recognized someone across the quiet road. When he glanced that way again, however, the figure – that of a man, tall and straight and immaculately dressed – had turned away to walk down a side-street. The ex-Guards officer? Unlikely. But then again, why not? He might live around here, for all Trace knew. He put the sighting out of his mind and rode home.

  At the flat he made a list of everywhere he’d been, everyone he’d spoken to or spent time with since last Wednesday. There were surprisingly few of the latter. Then he systematically called them on the phone and spoke to them, or left messages for them to contact him, and so began to put his alibi together. An alibi which was simply this: that he’d been out of the country, on holiday, since Wednesday last. No one gave him any problems over this: Charlie Trace was ‘all right’; he would return the favour some day. Some things he’d done, however, couldn’t be changed.

  For instance: the necklace he’d given to Jilly. Best simply to forget that along with Jilly herself. To try and get it back would only arouse her suspicions; and besides it would mean talking to her again, which he wasn’t up to; and anyway Jilly was just another girl, and there were millions of girls in London. Then there was Cromwell’s Mint.

  Trace had been to the casino twice since Wednesday and his name was in their book. But again, who was there to know he was a member? Why should anyone even want to know? In any case the place was miles away and unlikely to attract anyone of Cat Carter’s standing. No, it would be the Ritz for Carter, if he gambled at all.

  Last of all Trace went downstairs and had a cup of tea with the old girl who owned the house. Old enough to have been his mother, still he knew she fancied him enough to keep his rent low. But Trace had always managed to fend her off without causing offence. Now he cooked up a story about a girl he was trying to avoid, used it as a foundation for his alibi:

  ‘So you see, Betty,’ he finished, ‘I’m off out of the country for a couple of weeks. She has a couple of big brothers, you know? Big lads! But the way I reckon it two weeks should be enough. She’s a bit of a flighty piece, see? She’ll have forgotten me by then. Anyway, if anyone gets after me, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell them I’m away. In fact, you can tell them I’ve been away since, oh, the middle of last week? Do you think you could do that for me?’

  Betty Kettler was busty, brightly daubed, beginning to creak a bit but not nearly past it. And she was still trying. Arcing her eyebrows, she answered, ‘I would do most anything for you, Charlie my lad. Think no more of it.’ And she’d leaned forward over her cup of tea to let her housecoat fall open an inch or two.

  And on his way out (but not too hastily) Trace said, ‘Cheers, love,’ and handed her a bottle of Bell’s as a reminder.

  Following which there was nothing much else he could do. Best not to go out any more before Wednesday – or at least not until tomorrow, when he must deliver the goods. And between times …

  Suddenly he remembered his plan to get in touch with QARANC about his mother. He checked in Yellow Pages under ‘Army’, got in touch with London District Provost Company. The Chief Clerk there gave him the number of QARANC Records; he dialled and immediately got an answer; after a moment or two he was told: Yes, a Diana Trace had been a serving nurse until her discharge back in 1958. This had been voluntary on her part, following her confinement at the maternity ward in St Mary’s General Hospital, Portsmouth.

  Trace knew that his grandparents had been Portsmouth people, so that must be right. His mother had stayed with them after he was born. If they were alive now … but they weren’t. He contacted St Mary’s, asked his question. What he wanted to know was fairly detailed; he made the girl on enquiries write it down; he impressed her with the importance of his call. And in a little while:

  They would see what they could do; he must realize, of course, that it was a long time ago; could they ring him back? And could they please have his address?

  He gave the hospital the necessary details and rang off.

  After that he watched TV and waited for their call, but none came. It made for a very boring and frustrating evening and night. He slept poorly and was up at the crack of dawn. By 11:00 A.M. he had taken his loot down to the ‘used bookshop’ in the Holloway Road, where Joe Pelham hung a ‘Closed’ sign on the door, locked it, and escorted him through into a familiar back room. Out back, beyond grimy, almost opaque windows, an ancient van stood forlorn in cobwebs and shade under a lean-to in a high-walled yard, the locked gates of which closed out the street.

  And, ‘OK,’ said Pelham without preliminary, ‘let’s see it, then.’

  When Trace cleared a space and emptied his panniers onto the table, the squat, scruffy-looking fence gulped audibly and his eyes bugged. But then he grabbed Trace by the arm. “Ere, son, I recognize some of this stuff! It’s been through my ‘ands before, some of it ’as.’

  ‘Oh?’ Trace tried to remain noncommittal.

  ‘Yers. ’E’s bound to be in touch, yer know. I mean, ‘e knows I do a lot in the trade. We’ve ’ad business before, as I said.’

  Trace looked at him for a moment, began to shovel the stuff back into the panniers. ‘No sweat, Joe,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it somewhere else. I’d hate to involve an old friend in an iffy deal.’

  “Ang on, son, ’ang on!’ said Pelham at once.”Ell’s bells, I only said we’d done business, Carter and me. I didn’t say I liked the old bastard, now did I? Anyway, the lolly’s already in. Most of it will go direct to your number’ (Trace’s Swiss account) ‘as soon as we finish up ‘ere. And I’ve got a couple of thou cash for you.’

  Trace tipped the panniers out again, but slowly. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yers, course I am.’

  Pelham weighed the stuff up, got out Trace’s money. Trace knew the fence had already cleared a massive profit, but still he counted out and gave him back two hundred.

  ‘No need, old son,’ said Pelham, pocketing the cash anyway. ‘I’m sweet enough.’

  ‘It’s for being a pal,’ said Trace. ‘And to be honest, it’s for keeping mum and remembering that I’ve been out of the country since last Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh, yers? On ’oliday, are you?’ Pelham grinned. His grin quickly slipped from his face as he continued: ‘As for keeping mum – ‘ere’s me about to turn this lot into roughage, an’ you think I’m a good lad for keeping mum? If old man Carter were to fin
d out I’d seen ‘is stuff melted down ’e’d ‘ave my balls for castors! Jus’ you be sure you keep mum, my son!’

  ‘Too right!’ Trace agreed, and minutes later he was on his way back to his flat …

  That night before retiring Trace packed a case, arranged an early morning call on the telephone to get him out of bed, booked a taxi to Victoria for 6:30 A.M. It was going to be a bloody hour to be up and about, but –

  Tomorrow it would be the airport train from Victoria to Gatwick, and the 8:15 flight from Gatwick to Rhodes. On Thursday there would be a further flight – more a short hop, really – from Rhodes to Karpathos. And then …?

  Then we’ll have to wait and see, thought Charlie Trace as he drifted into sleep.

  Part III

  Chapter One

  Trace discovered that in fact Kastrouni had been right: he wasn’t much travelled. A couple of hovercraft trips to Calais and Boulogne hadn’t prepared him for this. The trouble lay, he knew inside (though he wasn’t about to admit it up front, not even to himself), in the fact that this was only the second time he’d ever flown. The first had been seven years ago, before he’d become a thief full-blown: a disastrous week in Hanover, Germany, with a pimply teenage pen-pal. But things had moved pretty fast in the seven years which lay between.

  For one thing, the sheer size of the aircraft surprised him; and the dawning realization that he was actually growing excited – like a kid with a new toy – only served to make him feel foolish and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, self-conscious. Yet big as the aircraft was where it stood in view of the departure lounge, still Trace had thought that the jet must be cramped; it seemed to him that an inordinately large number of people had been swallowed up in it ahead of him. But when he himself went aboard through the extending boarding tunnel (another new experience; what the hell had happened to those great, trundling steps?) the interior of the plane seemed more like a small cinema than something which very soon would be miles high in the sky, flying east at a speed in excess of five hundred miles per hour!