by Brian Lumley
‘Stalemate!’ said Trace.
‘Exactly. He used that very word in his next and last communication. But he also warned that in the event of any pre-emptive action on my part in this respect, then that my death would follow close at heel, when of course he would have nothing to lose by it.’
And now Gokowski leaned back in his seat. ‘There you have it. Doubtless you’ll have some questions. Ask away …’
Trace was looking worried now. He sighed, shook his head as if to clear it, said: ‘A moment ago it was all beginning to ring true. Now? Suddenly nothing rings true. I don’t know enough, can’t put what I do know together. Things seem about to crystallize, then go back to being fuzzy. I think I’ve tried to take in too much too fast.’
Gokowski shrugged. ‘That is why I suggest you ask what questions you will, see if I can throw a little light on the shadowy areas.’
Trace nodded, sat up straighter. ‘Very well, First off, what did Khumeni want?’
‘Ultimately? The utter destruction of mankind. He wishes to reduce civilization to ashes, then for us to start again in ignorance and bestiality, in the worship of his father, Satan.’
‘But he’s only one person, one creature!’
‘So is President Reagan. So is the leader of the USSR. So is Mrs Thatcher, Colonel Gadafi, the Pope, the Ayatollah. So was Jesus.’
‘How will he set about it?’
‘He has set about it! Wars rage world-wide. They have waged throughout. It is easy to forget in the civilized or peaceful half of this world what is constantly happening in the other half. But it is true, Charlie: half of this world of ours is constantly at war! And this is an atomic age. Did you know that in America Khumeni controls certain nuclear interests? Well, now you know! He is “big” in many countries. Not here in the Greek islands. Not so much in England, where money still cannot buy everything, though that day, too, is coming. Not in Australia, which remains largely innocent. But elsewhere he is big. He is not heard of in Russia, but there they brew their own poisons, which keeps him content. He is in Japan, in Germany, in South Africa and Spain. He is enormous in France …’
Trace was beginning to feel very small. ‘Who works against him?’
‘I do. Kastrouni – did. You do, I hope. I have “a friend” still in Israel, who keeps a low profile, watches and waits. And there are others. Not many. We have tried to recruit, but – ’ He shrugged.
‘But?’
‘Well try it for yourself! Go back to London, rush out on the streets and yell: “The antichrist is here! You are all doomed, doomed unless you listen to me!’ And what do you suppose would happen?’
‘Nothing,’ Trace nodded. ‘I’ve seen them in Speaker’s Corner. The old “End is Nigh” gang. No one listens.’
‘That is correct,’ Gokowski agreed. ‘It is not so much that people are without faith – rather that they no longer fear. The supernatural isn’t real, Charlie. And what is not real cannot hurt. Ask anyone …’
Trace was silent, thoughtful for a long moment. Then:
‘This friend of yours in Israel. Would that be the same colleague who was working with you on the west shore of Galilee when Kastrouni came to see your father in Zippori?’
‘Why, yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Just something that’s on my mind. Can you tell me his name?’
‘Would that be wise? And is it important?’
‘Then let me tell you his name,’ said Trace. ‘It’s Halbstein, isn’t it?’ He saw from the other’s face that he was correct.
‘How do you know this?’ Gokowski wanted to know.
Trace shrugged, lied: ‘Oh, I think Kastrouni must have mentioned it, that’s all. It’s not really important.’
Then he, too, sat back. He felt like someone had just buried an axe in his chest – possibly in Gokowski’s chest, too – but he tried not to show it …
Part IV
Chapter One
Perhaps Gokowski suspected something, perhaps not. But from that moment forward as they talked it seemed to Trace that Gokowski’s attitude was that much more down to earth, as if suddenly it had dawned on him that his visitor was not quite so naive or ignorant as he had thought. In any case, when later Trace had left the monastery, his parting words to its sear, yellow-robed master were these:
‘Saul, don’t put too much faith in England being a country free of Khumeni’s taint. There’s plenty of the devil in England, believe me. And for that matter even Israel may not be entirely secure. In a war such as the one you are waging, the very closest of friends could be suspect – ’
That had been in the late afternoon, when the shadows had been growing toward evening. Then, wanting to get his machine back down to the foot of the cliffs before darkness set in, Trace had taken Gokowski’s men with him to manhandle the small motor-cycle between them. At the bottom he’d thanked them both and they had gone back up the path for the second machine. What they intended to do with that Trace couldn’t say. He supposed that eventually it would be returned to the workshop in Pighadia.
And as he sped back toward the island’s principal town in the fast-falling twilight – and back toward the girl he had almost fallen in love with, whom now he must consider an enemy – he mentally reviewed all that had passed between himself and Gokowski during the second half of their conversation. It had been mainly questions and answers, with Trace asking the questions:
‘Where did you bury the tablet? Somewhere in Israel?’
‘Oh, yes – but nowhere that Khumeni is ever likely to find it! Indeed, it’s best that only I know where – for now. But I will tell you this much: my house in Zippori was purchased by a “business consortium” in Haifa – since when it has undergone extensive rebuilding. Also, I am informed that its gardens were completely excavated before landscaping …’
And: ‘But how can the tablet do anyone any good buried?’
‘The actual stone is buried. Only the stone. And don’t think for a moment that it’s power stops there. No, for of course I copied its legend. Come with me and I’ll show you.’
Trace had been guided through the shell of the old building – through rooms which had no ceilings or roofs, and others which had been completely rebuilt – and finally down into cellars whose foundations were the solid rock itself. There, where the windows were cut from a cliff face and looked out over the Mediterranean, at last he was shown the room which served Gokowski as workroom, study and library. And it was at once apparent that his work for the last twenty years had been identical to that of Dimitrios Kastrouni.
For here were theological works from every religion on earth, back to back with pamphlets, books and treatises on every aspect of demonology and devil-worship. Here was Christ, Son of God, His life and works and very meaning delineated on paper and parchment, both in cyphers known to Trace and in others utterly beyond his ken; and here Satan similarly encapsulated, encoded. On the one hand day, and on the other night. Light side by side with darkness.
Gokowski had explained.
‘To understand one, you must know the other. God is the cleverer of the two, but His adversary is the wilier. Did you think the Orientals were clever at copying, Charlie? Then who can say – perhaps they are closer to Satan than we suspect? For certainly he is a master not only of duplicity but also of duplication. Let me explain:
‘God gave the world Jesus. Satan gave us Ab. The Lord gave us His ten commandments, and the devil gave us the first Chorazin tablet. Ah! – but when Ab’s witch-mother inscribed the first stone, some external or higher power – the power of God, of His will? – guided her also to inscribe the second. God gave His son supernatural skill, to call upon angels for their strength and counsel. And the devil gave Ab power to call up demons, chiefly Satan’s seedbearer, Demogorgon. Moses used plagues to blight Egypt and escape from the wiles of Pharaoh, and Ab and all the others since Ab have used those same plagues in the propitiation or spell-casting of their reincarnations.’
As he had said all of this,
Gokowski’s tone had gradually grown more doleful and his eyes had settled on Trace almost speculatively. Trace had felt his skin prickling, had sensed a hidden meaning. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Gokowski had looked away for a moment, saying: ‘There is a question you haven’t asked me. Oh, there are several I might have expected, but one in particular which you hold back. Possibly because you are afraid of the answer.’
‘My part in all this? Is that what you mean? You’re right, I do fear the answer – but that’s not why I haven’t asked it. The reason for that is simple: namely that I don’t intend to have a part in all this! I know Khumeni doesn’t want me dead, because I’m still alive. Therefore I’ll simply stay alive and continue to defy him.’
At that Gokowski’s eyes had hooded over but he had remained silent, waiting. Trace had felt himself being squeezed into a corner, had felt his anger rising. By saying nothing at all Gokowski had told him that it wasn’t that easy, that like it or not he did have a part to play. Which meant of course that he had to know what it was – now more than ever.
‘Go on, then,’ he had finally grated, ‘tell me. What does all of this have to do with me? What part can I possibly play in the devil’s plan for the destruction of mankind?’
‘Maybe a bigger part than you think, Charlie.’ Gokowski had gone to stand beside an ancient bureau of blackened wood, unlocking one of its drawers. He had taken out a single sheet of paper covered with lines of glyphic characters. Then he’d passed it to his guest, studying Trace’s face as he glanced at it then peered more closely. The paper was only paper, but it felt slimy, unpleasant to Trace’s fingers. He had let it fall to the bureau’s top, saying:
‘Is that it? That’s your transcription from the second tablet? I can’t even read it, let alone understand it!’ He curled his lip – in distaste? – and continued: ‘Anyway, it hardly explains my alleged part in all this.’
But by then Gokowski had also taken out an ugly, squat-bodied machine-pistol from the bureau, which he had cocked in a sharp action before pointing it directly at Trace’s chest. ‘Pick it up,’ he’d quietly ordered then. ‘The paper – pick it up!’
‘What the hell – ?’
‘Yes, what the hell,’ Gokowski had nodded as Trace once more took up the sheet of paper with the glyphs. But this time he had been more concerned with Gokowski’s weapon than the queasy feel of the paper. ‘Look at it,’ said Gokowski, ‘and listen – ’
Then he had commenced speaking in a harsh and guttural Arabic tongue, whose sounds were so alien that it seemed hardly likely a man’s throat could form them. That on the one hand, and yet on the other Trace felt each foreign word of it sear itself on the surface of his mind. It wasn’t painful, rather the deceptive tickle of the dentist’s pliers drawing a tooth from a thoroughly deadened jaw.
And moments after Gokowski had finished, still the two men had stood there, sweat rivering their faces. And finally: ‘It’s hot in here,’ Trace had said, wiping his brow. And again, carefully, he had put the sheet of paper down on the bureau.
Gokowski had seemed puzzled, but the gun did not waver in his hands. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps I should ensure here and now,’ he’d whispered then, ‘that you cannot play your part. For after all, there’s a slim chance even now that you are …
‘ … But you are not, no.’ And to Trace’s great relief Gokowski had made his weapon safe, returned it to the bureau.
‘Man, you’re crazy!’ Trace had mumbled then, trembling like a jelly where he had backed up against the stone wall. ‘If your hand had slipped on that trigger …’
‘If I had killed you,’ Gokowski had answered, himself trembling, ‘it would have been no slip, Charlie Trace. But no, we are agreed, you are innocent. Or let us say that you are not tainted. And so, since I must let you live - because I cannot in all conscience kill you – I’ll try to answer your question and tell you where you stand in all of this.
‘You have seen how Satan imitates Good to initiate Evil. Very well, then tell me this: how well do you know your Bible?’ He waved Trace to a bench where it looked out of the window across the sea far below, sat down close to him.
‘As well as most, I suppose,’ Trace had answered. ‘Oh, I can’t quote it chapter and verse, but I know the stories.’
‘And do you know the one about Abraham and Isaac in Genesis 22?’
‘The sacrifice? When Abraham would have given up his son as a burnt offering, in place of a lamb? I know it, yes. At the last moment God stepped in and stopped it. What has that to do with me?’
‘Nothing, except perhaps that there would seem to be certain parallels.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Each time Ab – or let us say Satan’s son, the antichrist - regenerates, three men are “sacrificed”, absorbed into him, to fuel him through the years until his next loathsome rebirth. There should have been three in 1936, but Kastrouni escaped it and Guigos took a donkey instead. Unlike Abraham, however, Guigos’s hand was not stayed. It never has been. The evil alternative leaves no room for mercy. The devil enjoys death. So does his emissary, Demogorgon. And so, of course, does the antichrist. That is to say, Khumeni, as he is now. In short, there’s to be a “sacrifice”, Charlie. Khumeni has three illegitimate sons. At his next and last re-incarnation in this cycle, he intends to absorb all three – just as Kastrouni saw Yakob Mhireni absorbed in 1936!’
At that Trace’s mouth had fallen open. ‘And he thinks I’m one of them?’
‘I would say he’s sure of it. And if I were that sure – that is to say, if I didn’t have evidence to the contrary – you would be dead, Charlie. And better dead, believe me! But you have convinced me that he is not your father, and so I see you as an ally. Just how you can be used is difficult to see at this stage, but – ’
‘Used?’ Trace had broken in. ‘I don’t intend to be used. I’ll go after Khumeni in my own way, not in any way you might dream up. Antichrist or not, I now believe that he’s the reason my mother is a madwoman. Also, I know he’s murdered two men, and that one of them literally gave up his life in order to bring me a warning. What’s more, I believe that he’s corrupted someone I … someone I liked a great deal. So just like you and Kastrouni before me, now I too want him dead.’
‘And just how do you propose to kill him?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d first have to find him, or let him find me. In fact I’m pretty sure he’s already found me.’
Gokowski had nodded. ‘A reasonable assumption.’
‘Yes, but listen to me anyway. You see, Saul, I’m my own man. I’m not yours, and I’m certainly not his. I thank you for your hospitality and for all you’ve told me, but from now on I’m on my own. That’s the way I like it. It’s how I work best. Questions? Oh, I’ve got a lot more questions. But I think I’ll ask them of someone else.’
At that Gokowski had stood up, shrugged, reached out to take and shake Trace’s hand unstintingly. ‘You’re a brave young man, Charlie. You’ve saved my life, and for that you have my thanks. As for the rest, I can only wish you luck.’
Trace might have left it at that but one last thing continued to bother him. ‘You said that Khumeni’s next reincarnation would be the last of the cycle. What did you mean? It’s the only question I have left, for you anyway, and I think it’s important.’
‘You may believe me that it is,’ Gokowski had told him, leading the way back up through the cellars to the upper levels. ‘You mentioned a list of dates in Kastrouni’s notebook,’ he continued, negotiating the ancient passageways with an old familiarity. ‘They started with “347 A.D. less 20,” ended with the date 1936. Is that right?’
Trace clearly remembered the list. He pictured it in his mind’s eye:
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘What of it?’
‘You didn’t understand it?’
‘Frankly, no.’
‘Ab lived for 347 years, but in his second life he was given twenty years less! That is to s
ay, he lived 327 years. In his third life –
But at last Trace had seen it. ‘– In his third life he lived only 302 years! He was losing five more years each time!’
‘Correct. As he ate up the centuries, so they also consumed him, and so his regenerations had to come faster and faster on a steadily accelerating scale. He came again in 1248 as Bodang the Mongol, and this time he lasted only 237 years.’
‘So that by the time he reached his eighth rebirth he had only 102 years to come – which took him to 1936!’ Trace had got the idea.
‘Right again,’ Gokowski had nodded. And how long, then, his current span? –
‘Less fifty-five,’ Trace had whispered then. ‘Only forty-seven years. Which means that – ’
‘It means that this is the year of his next regeneration. 1983, Charlie. When exactly we can’t say. Only Khumeni himself knows that. But this is certainly the year. And this will end the cycle. This time he absorbs flesh of his own , flesh! - which is to say, he sacrifices his own sons – to the will of Satan for his own continuation. And so it starts again. Another Ab, another antichrist, another 347 years of terror. Except …’
‘Yes?’
‘Except it will not last that long. Not this time. An atomic age, Charlie. And Satan the great mimic, eh?’
