The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2)

by Zachary Rawlins

  “Thanks.”

  The waiter came to check on us. Jenny ordered by pointing, while Yael chatted familiarly with our waiter. I waved him off when he turned his attention to me.

  “No way I can eat. I’m sick as a dog, and I need to sleep, okay?”

  “In the name of efficiency, then,” Snowball suggested, rising slowly, pausing to stretch out stiff hindquarters, “perhaps we should divide our efforts? Your conversation requires privacy, Yael. Meanwhile, Preston has no interest in a meal, and I have something to show him.”

  “No.” Yael folded her arms, looking defiantly at the cat that even Holly Diem treated with reverence. “No more secrets.”

  “Of course,” Snowball responded smoothly, looking amused. “Dunwich will accompany us, to provide you with a report of events, and Mister Patches, my representative, will remain with the two of you. Our agreement stands, Yael Kaufman. The Cats of Ulthar remain your steadfast allies.”

  Yael blushed, and then rose halfway from her seat to offer a neat little miniature curtsey. I was suddenly certain that Yael had been to finishing school, as improbable as that seemed for a girl who wore a gas mask everywhere.

  “Thank you, Lord Snowball,” she said respectfully. “You are right, of course.”

  “Can I object?” I asked hopefully. “I want to go home. I need to check on April.”

  “She’s fine,” Yael snapped. “Sound asleep in Sumire’s bed. I checked before I left.”

  I always miss the good stuff.

  “…and for another, I’m going to die shortly.” No one seemed particularly moved by the revelation, except possibly for the cats, who looked intrigued, and maybe hungry. “I’m serious. I’m sick, exhausted, and my heads all fuzzy from that Azure sh…”

  I caught Yael’s glare just in time.

  “…stuff. I need to sleep.”

  “Do not worry, Preston Tauschen,” Snowball said, sounding very amused indeed. “Our business will be brief, and then we will escort you back to the Estates.”

  “Oh. Good.” I stood up, put on my jacket with numb fingers. My head sizzled and popped. “Die on my feet, then.”

  Yael and Jenny were already lost in conversation. In the midst of a procession of stray cats, I hit the streets of Sarnath, to discover that it was raining again.

  ***

  One thing I would like you to keep in mind: I do not accept the reality of the Cats of Ulthar. I’m not about to endorse the idea of talking cats, or their politics. I’m not one to argue with the evidence of my eyes and ears, though, even if I suspect it to be hallucinatory. As hallucinations go, after all, Lord Snowball of Ulthar was very polite.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s not far. We are nearly there.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Perceptive.”

  “Care to?”

  “Not in particular.”

  I sighed.

  “I’m tired, Snowball. Can we skip the games?”

  He looked disappointed.

  “Surely. I apologize. It is my nature, as lies are yours.”

  “No problem. So, destination?”

  “Within the Enchanted Forest,” Snowball said, walking with more difficulty and less grace than I remembered. “We are not far.”

  We were near the edge of the Empty District, walking along the concrete banks of the Skai. The water was pungent and brown with dirt from the hills, swollen by the persistent rain.

  “Tell me, Preston – what do you think of Yael Kaufman?”

  It was a good question, apparently, because Holly Diem and Jenny Frost had both been concerned over the same thing.

  “She’s okay. A little stuck up, too smart for her own good. Honest to a fault. The weird thing about that girl, though, is how everyone seems fascinated with her. You guys in Ulthar, everyone at Kadath, even Jenny Frost…”

  “The Outer Dark, as well.”

  “Why is that?”

  “That is not an easy question. Interest in Miss Kaufman is as universal as you suspect, but each party has individual motivations, from the high-minded to the base.”

  “Creepy. Where does Ulthar fall in that spectrum?”

  Snowball was quiet for a while. I don’t know if I was getting better reading cat expressions, or if it was the head full of buzzing wasps, but I thought he was formulating an answer. We crossed over the Skai on one of the old stone footbridges, into the Enchanted Forest. This side of the forest was primarily coniferous; the air fragrant with the odor of pine and the ground soft beneath a layer of decaying needles.

  “Have you ever heard the story of the Bodhisattva of Hell?”

  “No,” I said, smirking despite myself. “I didn’t take you for the religious type, Snowball.”

  “Cats are objects of worship, not subjects. We use the terminology as a shorthand, for describing things for which humans have no truly appropriate language.” Snowball looked as if he were slightly amused I didn’t know such a basic fact. “We see the invisible, Preston. We walk the night and look on the Outer Dark without fear. Nothing is real, and everything is permitted. We know your gods true names and natures. The same holds true for your devils.”

  “You have a pretty high opinion of yourselves.”

  “That is also true.”

  “Smartass cat. Finish the story.”

  “There are a number of ways to tell this story. One is that there was a bodhisattva, an enlightened human, who vowed to refuse ascension to Buddhahood as long as there was suffering in the universe – including the suffering of the guilty in hell. The bodhisattva refused Nirvana until the hells were empty and the residents forgiven, even the hell-beings who tormented the sinners. In service of the vow, the bodhisattva descended to hell, bringing mercy and compassion where there was none.”

  We passed a Moon Tree, fuzzy violet bark wrapped around a trunk two meters thick, crowned with a mass of intersecting branches that looked a great deal like roots. The branches were heavily laden with vaguely heart-shaped, waxen pods. The moonlight played disquietingly across the cloud of snaking branches, trembling like a thousand nervous fingers.

  I had been here before, with Holly, a few years earlier. This was the Enchanted Forest – once the site of a children’s amusement park, the ruins of which were still to be found rusting between the foreign and invasive trees. It was the largest green area in the city, and saw regular use from a community of hikers, young lovers, and deranged cultists.

  Sumire took April there for a picnic, once.

  The further we went into the Enchanted Forest, the thicker the copses of Moon Trees became. They rustled as we passed, despite the lack of wind, despite the absence of leaves, and the seedpods fell thickly in our wake with the clamor of colliding pots and pans.

  At the very least, they provided some cover from the rain.

  “Pretty story,” I grunted. “Don’t see the relevance.”

  Snowball shot me a knowing look.

  “Are you entirely certain that we do not presently reside in Hell, Mr. Tauschen?”

  I scooped up one of the seedpods as we walked and shook it, listening to the sharp rattle within, like metal on ceramic. The outside of the pod was smooth and even, as if coated in lacquer.

  “I don’t believe in that sort of thing, cat.”

  “Believe?” Snowball shook accumulated rainwater from his matted coat. “Nonsense. It is simply a story, man. Care to hear another version?”

  I tossed the seedpod back into the woods, but never heard it hit the ground.

  “I guess. We are close, right?”

  “Quite. This version isn’t quite as old – it was first told not long after it was decided that one god trumped many.” Snowball shook his ragged head, as if saddened by our folly. Involuntarily, I thought of the cat-headed deities of the ancient Egyptians, and wondered. “This singular god is too distant and busy to be bothered with the judgment of humanity as a whole – and is, apparently, in something of a hurry to put the whole pla
net to bed. Instead of weighing the actions of billions, he focuses his attention on thirty-six individuals, each of whom bare the weight of redeeming and justifying an entire species. They are called the Nistarim, because they are hidden from all but their god, and are themselves unaware of their particular responsibilities. Or they are called the Lamedvavnik, for their number and righteousness. They are cryptic queens and kings, covert royalty, bearing the weight of your entire race, and should even one of them falter or fall, their god will end the world.”

  Snowball’s pace slowed as the path became more rugged, and there was a slight hitch to his step. Dunwich tried to stick close to us and remain distant from me, an impossibility that left him in a state of perpetual motion.

  “I think I follow you,” I said, slowing so as not to overstrain the cat. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, though. Do you mean to suggest that Yael…?”

  “Not at all,” Snowball said, with a wheezing laugh. “Just an old cat telling even older stories. Would you care to hear one more, or have you had your fill of the vivid imaginations of men?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why indeed. This version is the oldest of all, from before the discovery of fire, when men cowered from the dark.” His gaze smoldered in a manner that recalled the young hunter he must have been. “According to legend, the universe is vast, but it has an end. That end is sentient. It is a remnant, a remainder of the true darkness that existed before everything. Call it the Outer Dark, Avici, or Azathoth; it makes no difference. If the Nameless City exists on the event horizon of doom, then it is what waits at the other side. It is the cruelest of the hells, or a gibbering idiot god, or an ongoing reversal of the Big Bang. And it hates us – it hates everything. It is intent on our violation and exploitation and unmaking – and everything it desires is inevitable. We are helpless in the face of this scale of horror; even the cats.”

  We approached a low stone bridge, carved from basalt sanded until it was smooth as glass. The canopy of Moon Trees was dense, the moon light filtering through the branches held an unusual radiance.

  “I’m not a fan of this story.”

  Snowball nodded.

  “Nor I. In a second-hand manner, I have become familiar with the tale of a boy who traded with the Outer Dark, and received a new shadow, and a mask, in return. Of course, his loss exceeded his gain, but that isn’t to say the deal was utterly one-sided. The patronage of the Outer Dark is unlimited, Preston. As is the cost. Keep that in mind, when it comes time to bargain.”

  He led me across the little bridge. The shallow culvert beneath was choked with pine needles and long strips of the velveteen bark of the Moon Trees, shed in the heat of the summer. The combination of cobblestones and frequent seed pods made for uncertain footing. A vague glow to the east hinted at a dawn not yet imminent.

  “You are frustratingly cryptic, Snowball. You hint around that maybe Yael is important, and then you suggest that nothing matters. Which is it?”

  “That remains to be seen. I simply thought you should be aware of the possibilities.” When a cat smiles, I’m not sure that it indicates happiness; nonetheless, smile is what Snowball did. “I would think it enough to know that the Cats of Ulthar consider her a worthy ally.”

  “Sure,” I said, with a curt shrug. “Assuming I knew fuck all about your motivations.”

  On the other side of the bridge, massive Moon Trees encircled a large open space, extending tens of meters into the night sky, densely crowned with leafless branches. The clearing was an expanse of dense, soft tufts of grass, dotted with outcrops of volcanic stone and clumps of anise-scented wildflowers. The meadow was lit by the gentle glow of hanging lanterns, filtered through colored glass to create a vast array of hues. A pavilion had been established in the center of the grassy expanse, and winding arcs of tents and caravans encircled it. I followed Snowball beneath a multicolored canopy and onto the carpet of bluegrass, breathing in the heady scents of exotic spices and drug fumes, fried food and burning incense. We followed a broad, informal promenade that meandered between the tents, between rows of vendors laying out their wares on tables and rugs.

  “What is this place?”

  “This is the Night Market. All things can be bought and sold here.” The stub of Snowball’s tail flicked from side to side as he promenaded, drawing stares and respectful whispers from the Market’s patrons. “It moves periodically, but has favored the Enchanted Forest of late. It is a convenient place for a meeting.”

  Beneath the canopy, the rain was gone and the night was warm and fragrant. The tables of the vendors were stocked with mysterious implements and dusty curiosities – whalebone and black pearl, powders of myrrh and juniper sap, orchid blossoms preserved in alcohol and amber, collections of tarnished mirrors and antiquated brass keys. One blue-haired vendor boasted of the potency of the balm she made from cactus fruit obtained in the Waste, purported to heal and reverse aging, while a vendor in the adjacent tent demonstrated a piano-like instrument carved from petrified wood to a pair of robed and malformed customers. The meadow was crowded with customers of varied and wild appearance and demeanor, as is the norm for the Nameless City.

  I could not see the moon, thanks to the canopy, and that was an inexpressible relief.

  I followed Snowball through the Night Market, politely ignoring the escort of alert looking cats that flanked us at a discreet distance, marveling at the stalls we passed and the wonders they contained.

  An old woman with hair the color of a smoker’s teeth dusted a pair of jars; one empty, the other appeared to contain a miniature sun, blinding through tinted glass. Deep in the shadows of a woolen tent, shirtless albino men labored over miniature forges, crafting delicate and obscure instruments, with hammer and tong and incredible skill. Another tent was stocked entirely with portraits, the eyes of each painting carefully tracking the passersby.

  My eyes lingered on a display of mirrors on a salvaged picnic table; each reflected back a scene that looked nothing like the Night Market. In the shadows between two tents, a boy in a headdress composed of bone and fish scale danced suggestively for the amusement of a coin-throwing crowd. In what looked like a barbershop, laughing men and women slouched in chromed high chairs while attendants attached them to variety of garishly colored I.V. bags. From within a tent made entirely of glossy pelts and animal skins, a woman with ochre skin and long snaking braids called out my assumed name with a voice that sounded like the call of an unfamiliar bird, offering to sell me tickets for a Black Train. On the metal grill of a food cart, blue-corn tortillas crisped in a bath of melted lard.

  A wizened man blended colored sand in fluted glass beakers; a crew of child beggars displayed bruises and emaciated stomachs; a stable rattled with the tramping hooves of creatures that looked a little like horses, and quite a bit more like alligators. A jovial man distributed sweets and milk tea to a group of veiled women, while a stocky woman with a tonsure tattooed glyphs from the pillars of Iram on the pockmarked back of a sailor.

  I wished vaguely for time to browse, but Snowball set a determined pace, nodding occasionally in response to offered greetings and bows. I felt certain that there was something of great import, to April and myself, if only I went looking for it, and was willing to pay the asking price – though the reason for my certainty was obscure.

  I lost track of the tents and vendors by the time we reached the promenade at the center of the market. The ground was covered with layers of dense blankets that absorbed the sound of my footsteps. At the heart of the promenade, on a low dais, a well-appointed pavilion had been furnished.

  A very unusual looking lady sat on the generously cushioned couch among hangings the colors of arctic water and eel grass, greeting Snowball and his retinue with a warm and amused voice that reminded me very much of her sister. At the edge of the pavilion, two hunched figures lingered, their large shapes distinctly nonhuman. On the table in front of the lady, a lantern was situated, unmistakably composed of a severed and hollow
ed head. A massive candle glowed within the empty cranium, swimming in tallow, lighting the skin from within like parchment.

  “Preston Tauschen and Dunwich are under my protection.” Snowball backed up the warning with a glare. “Remember that.”

  The lady’s laughter was like the trilling of an unfamiliar woodwind.

  “Of course, Lord Snowball.”

  The lady was beautiful; at least, what remained of her. Her torso was lithe, but shapely beneath an antiquated dress and an intimidating amount of lace. She wore her hair long and straight, with a center part. Three of her limbs were mechanical; composed of brass gears and silver wire, milled steel joints and liquid mercury balances, finely worked instrumentation and polished bone. The arm and both legs were just slightly too long, and swayed and clattered unnaturally. Her fingers belonged to a marble statue, strung together with wire and animal gut. There were scars around the rims of her weirdly round eyes, partially concealed with glossy makeup, and she never blinked. Neither eye matched; brown on the left, robin’s egg blue on the right.

  She caught me looking, and offered an indulgent smile.

  “A gift from my middle sister,” she said modestly. “She bargained with the Outer Dark for them, without thinking of what I might see, with eyes like that. I was never properly grateful. Or perhaps it isn’t my eyes that caught your interest?”

  I shook my head, my eyes glued to Sumire’s arm, affixed to a metal sleeve and mounted beneath the unfamiliar lady’s shoulder. She laughed and gestured with it gracefully.

  “The arm is lovely, is it not? I acquired it recently; I am very fond of it.”

  “That’s understandable.” I took what used to be Sumire’s hand gently, and did my best not to faint. “Nice to meet you, Madeleine Diem.”

  ***

  Tea parties were a shared affectation in the Diem family. Madeleine and Holly Diem might have been on uncertain terms, but they were also unmistakably sisters. Madeleine rang a tiny leaden bell and a troupe of poorly dressed servants with webbed fingers and inflamed complexions brought a large table to the center of the pavilion. It was swiftly covered with an eggshell white cloth, and then a dozen place settings were arranged, along with an equal number of shallow dishes for the cats. Madeleine ushered me to my chair – the only one on that side of the table, as my neighbors were all feline – and then took a seat directly across from me.