Of Pagan Gods and other tales

by Thomas James

  Excited by the prospect of a new discovery, I made plans to visit Sydney Myers, a scholar like myself, his specialty being that of cultural myths, and set about making myself presentable. After bathing and dressing, I headed for my kitchen to prepare a quick meal, but could not bear to leave the unusual tome unattended. Taking up the tome, I resumed my trek to the kitchen.

  While I ate a quick meal of porridge and tea, I found myself continuingly caressing the leather binding of the tome. Over and over, my fingers traced the embossed sigil. Staring at the tome, an odd thought occurred to me; the tome seemed to have gained a new thickness. Knowing that this could not in fact be true, I dismissed the thought from my mind and finished my morning meal. As it was still early, I returned to my study and continued the translation of the tome.

  At 9:00am, I grudgingly put aside the text and rang up Sydney. Not wanting to discuss the tome over the telephone, I arranged to meet him at his London flat, under the pretext of discussing Syrian historic culture.

  I drove into London, the sun shining brightly and the tome secured in my carryall on the seat beside me. Fortune was with me and I made excellent time, arriving at Sydney’s front door around noon. Gathering up the carryall, I exited the auto and hurried to the steps, when chills wracked my body. As the chills passed, the front door opened and Sydney, his cherubic face beaming, the sunlight glinting off his round spectacles, welcomed me heartily.

  Sydney ushered me into his flat and offered me afternoon tea. After we exchanged pleasantries, I began to steer the conversation towards my true intent for the visit. I explained to my long time friend that I was involved in a bit of research that involved the caliph al-Mansur.

  Sydney tapped his lips with a forefinger (a habit he had begun at university), excused himself and left the room. Several moments later, he returned with an armload of books and papers.

  The books and papers contained the usual information available to any historian: The Abbasid caliphate begun in 750 is firmly established by al-Mansur, 42, who succeeds his brother Abu-I-Abbas to begin a 21-year reign, and so on and so forth, but there was no mention of Hal-Il-Mau-Graby or his school of magicks. Sipping on my tea, I contemplated my next course of action.

  Sydney interrupted my thoughts, “I say old boy are you afraid that someone will jaunt off with your valise?”

  Confused, I looked down at my carryall. Only then did I realize that I the whole time we had had been searching through the information, I never relaxed my grip on the case. Releasing the case, I gave a nervous laugh and made a poor joke of the rough streets of London. Not wanting to discuss my hidden treasure unless necessary, I questioned Sydney further about al-Mansur.

  “I’m afraid my knowledge of the caliph is rather limited to what you have before you.” Reluctantly, I brought up the subject of the caliph destroying a school of magicks.

  My friend gave a slight chuckle. “You must be referring to Dom-Daniel.”

  “So you have heard of it?” I said with barely contained excitement.

  “Yes, I am an expert in cultural mythology after all.” Here Sydney paused, a quizzical look in his eyes. “Why would you, a historian, a dealer in facts, be interested in a mythical realm?”

  I now arrived at a dilemma. I needed the information that Sydney possessed, but I did not wish to expose my treasure. After an internal debate, I reached into the valise and withdrew the unknown tome. Again, a slight chill wracked my body, though from excitement or ague I knew not.

  Sydney’s eyes widened at the sight of the book and reached out to take hold of it. A bout of irrational jealously stirred within me as I handed the tome over. I stared hard at my longtime friend as he thumbed through the yellowed, though still supple pages, all the while resisting the urge to seize my treasured tome.

  After what seemed an eternity, Sydney finally spoke. “Where did you find such a remarkable book?”

  Not wanting to explain my illegal actions, I brushed aside the question, instead asking one of my won. “Do you recognize the strange language?”

  Sydney returned his gaze to the pages. “If I am not mistaken, the language is a variation of Cthlothian, most likely a Cysperion dialect. This is an incredible find. Do you have any idea who penned the tome?”

  I could see the flush of excitement on my friends face and the stirrings of jealousy began within me once more. Pushing down my irrational behavior, I told Sydney that I thought that the author might be Hal-Il-Mau-Graby. Sydney shook his head and opened the tome to the first page of text.

  Indicating the last paragraph of the passage, Sydney, in a stuttering pattern, translated the strange words: “I, Artiseas the blessed, say unto all seekers of destiny, herein lies the true knowledge of the elder gods as heard by the faithful. My travels through foreign lands, both known and unknown, fraught with pain and sacrifice require that I bequeath the blessings of the ancient ones unto them that follow.”

  Closing the book, Sydney smiled and removed his spectacles. “Artiseas was supposedly a Greek philosopher, poet, warrior and teacher of Homer. I say supposedly because he is regarded as more myth than man. It is said that he would travel to all the mythical lands: Mu, Emin, Lirth and Atlantis. They also said that Artiseas would disappear and reappear throughout history every 100 years. Some believe that the names of well-known magic users throughout history: St. Germain, Abramelin the mage, Merlin and such were in truth Artiseas. There is even some speculation that he went by the name Nostradamus.”

  Two things struck me; first, that Sydney would be able to help me decipher much of the tome and second, I was certain that the passage he had translated had not been there the first time I opened the tome. A puzzled look must have crossed my face, for my friend asked if all was well.

  Perhaps the pages had stuck together. I put the question of the text out of my mind; I needed to know about Dom-Daniel. Opening the tome to the etching of the door, I showed it to Sydney and inquired about the possibility of its existence.

  Sydney chortled and then coughed to hide the fact that he found my exuberance amusing. “Dear boy, the book while undoubtedly valuable is still nothing more than an ancient storyteller’s ramblings.”

  Seeing that I would not retract my question, Sydney donned his spectacles and examined the opened page. “If what I am reading is correct, then this doorway or rather daemon is the first guardian to the school.”

  Impatiently I told Sydney that I knew all of this already. “How would one get past such a daemon?”

  Sydney sighed, “My friend, do you honestly believe that Dom-Daniel truly exists?”

  When I did not answer, Sydney read the text again. “As I can see, the daemon is a ‘glare’ or a mirror daemon if you will. To pass, one would need to put the daemon to rest. If I translate this correctly, you would use the phrase ‘Somulus’.”

  Eagerly, I packed away the tome and thanked Sydney for his time. As I left his dwelling, Sydney stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “William, there are things in this world that should be left alone?”

  My smile was forced. “Sydney, I thought you did not believe in myths.”

  A sad look came upon his face. “The mind is a powerful instrument; it can cause people to see or hear things that are not there. Be careful.” I walked to my auto and waved at Sydney as I drove away.

  That was the last time I saw my friend…alive.

  III

  Arriving home, I secluded myself once again in my study. Seated at my desk, I eagerly perused the tome, seeking clues as to what might lie beyond the obsidian door. An hour of futile searching left me frustrated and depleted. A rumbling in my stomach reminded me that I had not eaten anything of substance since my morning meal. As it was nearly three in the afternoon, I thought an early supper would be on this occasion quite appropriate. Putting the tome aside, I rose and went to sate my hunger. I had gone no more than several steps, when my vision clouded draining the study of its color and my legs began to tremble. It was if my entire reserve of energy had fled my body, c
ausing me to rely on a nearby bookcase for support. It took all my resolve to remain erect.

  It was after the chills had passed and my strength returned, that I realized how famished I truly was. I hurried to the kitchen and prepared a meal of sausages, potatoes and greens, nibbling at some fruits as I did so. After a second helping, I ingested a large portion of kidney pudding. I admit that it was a rather larger meal than I was accustomed to eating, but I could not help myself. While clearing away the tableware, it dawned on me that I had left the tome unattended in the study. At once, I returned to the study, irrationally worried that the tome would not be there. Relief flooded through me as I spied the tome exactly where I had left it. Following this thought, came the notion that until this moment, the tome had not been out of my sight since coming into my possession.

  Several questions plagued my mind, as I poured myself an apricot brandy. Would I dream again of ‘Dom-Daniel’? Was it truly a place of substance or nothing more than a dream fragment? What lay beyond the ‘glare’? Seating myself behind the desk, I contemplated the enigma of the tome.

  As I flipped absently through the tome, a folded square of parchment fluttered to the floor. Retrieving the slip, I scrutinized the note, the handwriting cramped and erratic, declaiming the tome as a horror upon humanity. The note rambled on for the length of the parchment sheet, telling of nightmares, daemons and allusions to ancient gods and peoples. What astounded me more than the message itself was the name of the apparent author: Charles VI, King of France.

 

  Charles the sixth, more commonly referred to as ‘Charles the Mad’, had assumed the throne of France in the year 1380 at the age of 12. In the year 1392, a still young Charles succumbed to a fever and convulsions (the first of 44 fits and seizures), spiraling into madness. Historic records indicate that ‘Mad’ Charles was wont to sit upon his throne, mumbling continuously about an accursed tome of ancient lore.

  My mind raced with the possibilities. Surely, having found the slip of parchment in the unknown tome gave credence to the ramblings of a lunatic and yet being a man of facts, I could scarcely credit an inanimate object for driving a man insane. Although I did recall in my days at university, a seminar involving rare historic texts, that certain so-called forbidden writings were supposedly protected from the uninitiated by infusing the inks with poison. The poison, absorbed through the skin by contact, would afflict the transgressor with headaches, fevers and chills, and ultimately death.

  My eyes drifted towards the tome and I was seized by a moment of dread. Had I not lately experienced chills, nausea and weakness? Had I not experienced an odd dream and lost a full day and night? Did not these events coincide with my obtaining the unusual tome? Moreover, what of my strange compulsion to keep the tome close at hand?

  My pulse quickened and my fear began to overwhelm me. Taking several cleansing breaths (along with a large dose of brandy), I calmed myself and gathered my wits about me. My rationale returned I reread the startling claims of Charles. Truly, this message could be nothing more than the ranting of a disturbed mind. Surely the illness that haunted Charles the ‘Mad’ were of a natural affliction and not a supernatural one.

  Setting aside the dilemma of the mad king, I instead focused on several points he had raised. That he once possessed the tome could not be denied, nor could I argue against his claims of strange and disturbing dreams. Most intriguing (and looking back ominous) was Charles’ belief that his dreams had commenced to seep into the waking world. His comments on incoherent whisperings in his private chambers and throne room, sent shivers down my spine. Charles also posed the theory that the tome had connections to ancient forgotten gods, similar to those mention in the ‘Necronomicon’: Cthlulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Shudde-M’ell, and Ithaqua. He also believed that sub aqueous cities, with the odd names of R’leyeh and Y’ha-Nthlei, existed in the unreachable fathoms of the oceans.

  Weariness suffused my mind and I leaned back in the comfortable leather chair, allowing my tired eyes to close. Soon I was sound asleep and slipped into the world of dreams.

  I found myself once more confronting the obsidian door, the daemon a silent block of frozen night. Torchlight danced across its glassy reflective surface. As I approached the ‘glare’, the daemon stirred, its dark surface undulating, throbbing in synchronicity with my own pulse rate. I hesitated before this enigmatic denizen, studying the myriad forms trapped within the daemons dark embrace. The flickering shadows gave the frozen forms an eerie semblance of animation. Several minutes passed before I realized that I could discern the presence of the indistinct whisperings, the incessant mumblings striking a chord of fear and excitement within me. Suppressing a shudder, I composed myself and uttered the phrase, “Somulus”.

  A sigh like that of a thousand voices sounded throughout the alcove, as the daemon faded from view. Beyond lay an inky blackness so deep that at first I took it to be solid rock. Although I knew that I was asleep safe at home in my study, I tentatively reached out a trembling hand and meeting no resistance, allowed myself to relax… slightly.

  The whispering voices continued, somewhat increased in volume but not clarity. The darkness too thick (not to mention too frightening) for easy passage, I retrieved a torch from the corroded, iron, wall sconce and passed beneath the archway.

  Holding the flaming brand high, its feeble light pushing back a small area of shadows, I noticed that the flames did not consume the wood. Confident that I would not find myself suddenly plunged into absolute darkness; I followed the uneven path, all the while listening to the maddening sounds of incoherent whispers.

  Traveling along the labyrinthine tunnel, torchlight illuminating the lichen-encrusted walls, I thought of how much time was passing in the waking world. I had lost a full day and night on my last visit to this surreal dominion. Would I awaken to find much more time had elapsed? As I pondered this notion, I became aware that a tepid stale draft floated along the tunnel, causing the torch flame to dwindle, robbing me of the little light it provided. As the gloom around me deepened, I could see a blush of light beckoning me forward. Cautiously I advanced, my high-strung nerves dancing on edge.

  Drawing a deep breath, I stepped into a stalagmite-filled cavern, onto a natural rock bridge. Below me flowed a molten river of lava, the source of the light.

  Slowly I walked along the bridge, greeted by a sight that stole the very breath from my lungs. All around the cavern were enormous alcoves, each containing colossal stone statues. I wondered how these magnificent idols were placed in such precarious locations, for there did not appear to be any easy access to the lofty perches. However, why so many and why place them so far from the tunnel entrance, if they were meant to frighten people away?

  As these questions occupied my thoughts, I continued my trek across the rock-bridge. Near the bridge center, I halted as a great keening sound occurred, buffeting me from all sides. The piercing wail rose steadily in volume, causing me to drop the flaming brand and clasp my hands over my ears. I lurched and stumbled my way towards the far end, when a tremor ran through the rock bridge, upsetting my equilibrium, pitching me onto my hands and knees. The screeching ended as suddenly as it had begun. The sound of falling stone reached my ears as another tremor shook the foundation beneath me.

  Afraid that the bridge would soon collapse, I rose to my feet and froze. Feeling a presence behind me, I peered over my shoulder and nearly fainted. There, looming over me stood an enormous creature, its misshapen torso sat on thick, squat legs, huge stone wings protruded from its massive back, powerful arms ended in rocky, clawed hands, a thing out of legend…a gargoyle.

  Coal black eyes regarded me. Suddenly the creature let loose a roar of unsuppressed rage, a roar so loud and terrifying that had this been the waking world, I would most certainly have fouled my trousers. The scream motivated me and I raced for the far end of the bridge and the safety of the tunnel opening.

  A rush of air over my head alerted me to the closeness of the beast. The gargoyle landed he
avily upon the bridge before me, sending another shockwave through the stone. A swipe of a stone claw raked across my chest, sending me spinning towards the bridge edge. The gargoyle released another roar and advanced upon me, freezing the blood in my veins.

  Desperately I struggled to my feet. With a final lumbering step, a huge crack appeared beneath the feet of the beast. Mesmerized, I could only stare in horror as the crack widened and the section beneath my feet gave way. I screamed helplessly as I plunged towards the molten lava until…I awoke to strange surroundings.

  IV

  My gaze wandered about the room. Gone were the accruements of my study, replaced by the austere walls of a hospital room, its pale green paint chipped and peeling. Guessing that I had been brought to the local hospital (King George Memorial), I re-traced the events that led up to my awakening here, the twisting labyrinth, my terrifying ordeal with the gargoyle and my seemingly fatal plunge towards the river of lava. My thoughts were interrupted by a loud voice.

  “Ah, awake at last I see.”

  Startled, I sat up albeit, all too quickly as evident by the pounding headache and swimming vision. Returning to a reclining position, I closed my eyes and waited for the room to cease its nauseating rotation.

  “How are we feeling this morning Mr. Seaborn?”

  Slowly I opened my eyes and studied the man before me. Even without the clipboard, lab coat and the obligatory stethoscope draped about his neck, one would almost assuredly take him for a doctor. I informed the doctor of my dizziness and headache, my voice sounding raspy to my ears. Patiently (no pun intended), I waited as the doctor’s pen scratched across the clipboard. Finally, the doctor looked up from his jottings. He remarked that it was to be expected, as I had been unconscious for some time now.