by Marvin Kaye
“Our time was limited. Having established ourselves in an airy thatched house on piles that we were obliged to purchase outright from the owner, (for the natives possessed no concept of rental) we set to work.
“Our initial efforts met with little success. The lowland islanders, of the short, brown-skinned Malay stock, were peaceable and accommodating enough, voicing no objection to the foreign presence in their midst. Their habits were frugal, their lives industrious, their practices modest and agreeable enough, if unexceptional. Most of them were Mohammedans, and as such, unlikely to furnish the sort of anthropological arcana we had travelled so far to find.
“It was not long, however, before information of a more promising nature reached our ears. The pacific lowland farmers took a certain childlike delight in relating gruesome tales of the Dyaks, or hill Malays, who reputedly practiced magic, believed in ghosts, and preserved the heads of their enemies. Initially, I dismissed these accounts as fantastic exaggerations or fabrications, designed to awe gullible strangers. Sefton Talliard, however — whose knowledge of these people and their customs greatly exceeded my own — assured me otherwise. A number of the Dyak tribes, he maintained, cherished the belief that preservation of an enemy’s head enslaved the spirit of the dead man. The Dutch authorities have prohibited headhunting, yet the practice continues, and, to this day, the magic tribal ceremonies often witness ritual decapitations.
“None of our party, I fancy, harboured any great desire to witness a beheading, yet all of us burned to behold the secret rites that our hosts described. The desire sharpened when we learned of a certain peculiarly degenerate tribe, some of whose members reputedly possessed blue eyes, legacy of European forebears. These mongrelized Dyaks, whose tribal title translates as ‘the Faithful,’ were little more than savages, inhabiting caves in the upland forests, subsisting solely upon the game they hunted, the edibles their women gathered, and anything they could steal. Held in extreme terror and loathing by all neighboring tribes, by reason of their rapacity, their magical prowess, and their unbridled ferocity, the Faithful were said to worship the ghastly deity known as Ur-Allazoth, the Relentless, a demon-lord of bestial aspect and limitless appetite.
“I shall not weary you, Mr. Holmes, with an account of our investigative efforts. Suffice it to say, in the end we managed to engage the services of a Dyak guide, who, tempted by the prospect of munificent reward, undertook to lead us through the forests to the very site of the Faithful mysteries. This task he performed in greatest secrecy, upon a clear but moonless night — the dark of the moon coinciding, as it happened, with a tribal ceremony of considerable moment. Neither blandishments nor threats, however, induced our guide to conduct us beyond a point some quarter-mile distant from our goal, and thus we were obliged to cover the last several hundred yards of the trek unassisted. This furtive feat proved relatively undemanding, for the crimson glow of the ceremonial bonfires, and the swelling murmur of native voices drew us infallibly to our destination.
“Presently, the sound of music reached us — a thin, uncanny shrilling of daemonic flutes — notes so indefinably alien, so inexpressibly obscene, that my soul shrinks at the recollection. Then and there, in the red-litten forests of Sumatra, my heart misgave me, and I paused, trembling in every limb. Similarly hesitant and shaken was the young assistant professor, Zebulon Loftus. Such effeminacy awoke the ire of our leader, a man of assured and dauntlessly ambitious character. Talliard’s silent communications were eloquent, and presently, Loftus and I resumed progress.
“Minutes later, we reached the edge of a great clearing, and there we halted, cloaking our presence in the blackest of tropical shadows.
“How shall I describe the scene that we witnessed there, in that place?” Belknap’s hand tightened almost convulsively upon the dark plush of his pelisse. “Words may perhaps convey some inkling of the material reality, but never capture the sense of pervasive evil, the intimation of nameless horror informing the sultry atmosphere, the overpowering pressure of invisible, incalculably vast malignity impinging upon our fragile sphere. I will therefore confine myself to an unadorned statement of the facts.”
Holmes nodded gravely.
“The clearing before us,” the visitor continued, “was roughly circular in shape, its circumference edged with a pale of bamboo stakes, each stake topped with a human head, each head wreathed in clouds of long, black hair, that stirred and drifted with every passing breeze. The facial features, frozen in expressions of the ghastliest terror, were perfectly preserved. The jumping, flickering firelight lent those distorted visages a lifelike aspect dreadful to behold, and a host of staring eyes seemed almost to follow the leaping gyrations of the Faithful assembled there. Some several score had gathered, and it was obvious at a glance that we confronted a debased mongrel people, combining the worst attributes of the Malay and Negrito races, rendered all the more repugnant by the clear evidence of an unspeakably degraded European infusion. Never in my life have I beheld human beings whose repulsive external aspect spoke more clearly of the depravity festering within.
“The savages, wholly unclothed, shambled and capered to the wailing, unearthly music of those damnable flutes. As they danced, they sang, or chanted, in a tongue bearing no resemblance to the local Malay dialect, a tongue that I sensed had been old when the world was still young. The meaning entirely eluded me, yet often I caught the name Ur-Allazoth, and knew that they called upon their monstrous god. This deity, I had no doubt, found representation in the great statue looming at the center of the glade. Whose hand had fashioned so mind-searing an abomination I cannot pretend to guess, but surely the work lay far beyond the skill of the primitive Faithful, for the artistry was unimaginably hideous, yet masterly, bespeaking the twisted genius of a perverted Leonardo. The being darkly depicted in polished stone was alien beyond conception, beyond endurance. To gaze upon that impossible nightmare form was to experience some intimation of eternal diableries lurking without the realm of our perceptions, of eldritch foulness poisoning all the cosmos. The idol was squat, bloated, abhorrently misshapen, every contour an assault upon human vision. The four limbs were sinuous, attenuated, edged with spikes and tipped with suckers. The head was thoroughly beastlike, sharp-snouted, and razor-tusked, with protuberant eyes of some highly polished crystalline substance that reflected the firelight in shifting gleams of deepest crimson. A long, squamous tail wrapped itself thrice about the entire body of this execrable entity that was, though never of our world, oddly reminiscent in shape and character of an enormous rat.
“The image of Ur-Allazoth crouched atop a pedestal of black stone, incised with bands of curious glyphs, and inset with small plaques of wondrously carven, glinting matter. A broad ledge of great stone blocks encircled the pedestal, and this ledge supported a chopping block.
“I will not relate the sickening particulars of the ceremony that followed. The sacrifice of a dozen drugged and stuporous victims, the rolling heads and spurting blood, the abandoned gyrations of the Faithful, the wild ululation, the relentless shrilling of those infernal flutes, (a sound that will haunt me to my grave) and above all, the inexplicable sense of a huge, malign sentience pervading the atmosphere — I will leave it to your imagination to furnish the details. Imagination is apt to fall short of the dreadful reality, and perhaps that is all to the good. I will only note that I myself was faint and queasy before the rite was half completed. Abe Engle was swaying upon his feet, Tertius Crawley had turned his back on the scene, and poor young Loftus had collapsed in a swoon. Of the five of us, only Talliard remained composed, resolute, and fully attentive. The intermittent gleams of firelight, stabbing fitfully through the shadows, revealed our leader, jotting copious notes into the journal that he never traveled without. I must confess, Talliard’s utter coolness in the face of the horror we confronted at once impressed and revolted me.
“The ceremony concluded at last. The savages withdrew, bearing the bloodstained remnants of their revel. The fires burned on, their
ruddy light bathing empty glade, incarnadined block, staring heads, and unspeakable idol. Loftus recovered his senses and sat up slowly, gazing about with a stunned and vacant air. Engle drooped, Crawley fidgeted, while I stood dully longing to depart the accursed spot. Sefton Talliard, however, was unready to go. Casting a brief, searching glance right and left, our leader strode forward with an air of fearless resolution, never faltering before he reached the base of Ur-Allazoth’s image. There he halted, and, to my amazement, proceeded to sketch the statue in pen and ink, reproducing the murine lineaments with commendable accuracy.
“Pride forbade me to display cowardice. Mastering my own reluctance, I advanced to join Professor Talliard. Drawing paper and crayon from my pocket, I quickly took rubbings of several bands of glyphs. While I was thus engaged, Engle approached to record measurements, while Crawley occupied himself with a survey of preserved heads. Only poor Loftus remained inert, huddled on the ground at the edge of the clearing.
“Our respective tasks were soon completed. I could scarcely contain my eagerness to go, but Talliard would not budge before prying one of the small, carven plaques from the pedestal of the statue. His temerity shocked me, but there was no arguing with our autocrat, and I did not attempt it. He slipped the thin plaque between the pages of his journal, returned the book to his pocket, and then, to my unutterable relief, signalled a command to withdraw.
“We hastened from that spot, stumbling our way through the dark, back to the point where we had left our guide. The fellow was not there, and inwardly I cursed him for a deserter. Perhaps he had indeed fled, without collecting his recompense, or perhaps some darker fate befell him there. I cannot say, for we never looked upon his face again.
“I scarcely know how we found our way through that stygian forest to a friendly Dyak settlement. There we spent the night, a night of broken slumbers, filled with delirious dreams. In the morning, we commenced the three-day trek back to our lowland village, and our thatched dwelling perched on piles. This transition was accomplished without incident, yet throughout its entirety, I was unable to rid myself of a profound perturbation — a keen, nerve-racking sense that our progress was continually observed. There is no overemphasizing the power of this sensation — it was instinctual, elemental, and shared by us all.
“The feeling intensified throughout the ensuing days. Strive though I might to absorb myself in the task of deciphering the message of the glyphs, I could neither evade nor ignore that psychic oppression. Only the imminence of our withdrawal from the island of Sumatra lightened my mood.
“We had booked passage to Java aboard the cargo vessel Matilda Briggs. Two days prior to departure, tragedy befell us. Tertius Crawley was murdered. Our colleague’s headless corpse was discovered at dusk by young Loftus, whose own nervous reaction to the sight was immediate and intense.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, the isolated villages of Sumatra possess nothing corresponding to an American or British system of justice. Legal administration resides largely in the hands of local elders, and rarely are matters referred to the distant Dutch authorities. In this case, the village chieftain merely expressed his regret that the devilish magic of the Faithful had prevailed once again, together with his recommendation that the body be interred without delay, lest evil spirits seek the site of violent death. Crawley was buried at dawn. His head was never located.
“You may well imagine my sense of overwhelming relief, as I watched the coast of Sumatra recede, from the deck of the Matilda Briggs. The vessel was bound for Batavia, by way of the Strait of Malacca. I had hoped the sea voyage might serve to calm my unstrung nerves. On the second day, however, one of the crew discovered Abe Engle’s headless remains, crammed into a barrel deep in the hold. A thorough search of the ship revealed the presence of a stowaway, easily identifiable by his blue eyes as a member of the mongrel tribe of the Faithful. Interrogation proved useless, as the prisoner displayed comprehension of no tongue other than his own debased dialect, which poured from his lips in a venomous, continuous stream. He seemed entirely fearless, and the expression of malignity glaring from his pale eyes was shocking to behold.
“Presently tiring of incessant, unintelligible abuse, the captain ordered the suspect locked in a storage closet belowdecks. Confinement failed to quell the Dyak’s defiant spirit, and from that closet issued the sound of his voice, upraised in an unholy chanting audible throughout the ship.
“Engle was buried at sea. His head was never located. Throughout the obsequies, the malignant chants rising from below counterpointed the captain’s readings from the Psalms, and the blasphemous juxtaposition chilled the hearts of all listeners. The verbal outpouring had now assumed a character all too recognizable to the surviving members of our group — it was that same invocation to Ur-Allazoth we had heard in the upland forests upon the night of the Faithful’s vile ceremony. The passage of time could not damp the prisoner’s loquacity, and throughout the hours that followed, the chanting never ceased. More than one of the Matilda Briggs deck hands spoke of gagging the noisy Dyak, or even of slitting his throat, but no one attempted to act upon these threats. It is my belief that the sailors feared their captive, and understandably so.
“The ship sped southeast, toward Java. The voice of the prisoner never abated, and the sound cast a black and smothering pall over all on board, with the possible exception of Sefton Talliard, whose nerves seemed proof against any assault. On the night that we neared Batavia Bay, I retired early, and the last recollection I carried with me into slumber was the sound of the prisoner’s voice, infused with a certain new and curious note of exultation.
“I awakened at dawn to a clamorous uproar. Footsteps thundered overhead, an alarm clanged, men shouted wildly, shrieks of mortal terror tore the air, and through it all, I could still distinguish the hoarsened, malevolently triumphant voice of the captive Dyak, calling upon Ur-Allazoth.
“Rising from my berth, I made for the deck. Before I reached it, a violent impact rocked the Matilda Briggs. The shock threw me from the ladder, and I fell, striking my head violently upon the cabin floor. For a time, I knew nothing more.
“When I regained my senses, around mid-morning, it was to find myself lying, sick and sore, in the boat of the Matilda Briggs, together with Talliard, Loftus, and some half dozen sailors. Of the ship, and the rest of her crew, nothing was to be seen. That she had gone to the bottom of Batavia Bay was clear, but the circumstances of the wreck were impossible to ascertain. Talliard claimed ignorance, the sailors offered the most incoherently fantastic tales, and Zebulon Loftus, when pressed for an account, vented peal upon piercing peal of maniacal laughter. To my surprise, I found that the valise containing my personal belongings had been preserved, by Talliard, of all people. In response to my thanks, our leader merely responded that the rubbings I had taken from the pedestal of UrAllazoth’s image were worth saving.
“Batavia Bay is heavily travelled, and we were rescued in a matter of hours. The inquest that followed is a great blur in my mind. The official verdict was that the Matilda Briggs had struck a rock and sunk; a falsehood I made no attempt to challenge.
“We returned to Providence, where young Loftus, whose sanity was shattered, entered a mental hospital. The academic year at Brown commenced, and I returned to work, in every hope of resuming my former tranquil existence. For a while, it seemed I had done so. I so far regained my equilibrium that I dared confront the challenge of deciphering the message of Ur-Allazoth’s glyphs; while Talliard disclosed our findings to the world in lectures of dazzling brilliancy. Apparent normality reigned for some months, until December, when we received news that Zebulon Loftus had escaped incarceration. Two days later, his frozen, decapitated body was found in a meadow not half a mile from the hospital. His head was never located.
“Around this time,” Belknap could not repress a shudder, “I began once more to experience the peculiar sensation of being watched, that I thought I had left behind me in the East Indies. Often I thought to glimpse dar
k forms haunting the shadows as I made my way through the tortuous streets of Providence, and once I caught the baleful gleam of uncanny blue eyes tracking my progress. Confiding in Talliard, one icy winter night, I learned that he harboured fears identical to my own; and painfully acute those fears must have been, for that self contained, overweening individual to acknowledge them. Upon that occasion, he even spoke of flight, and suggested the possibility of finding refuge in London. At the time, I hardly expected him to resort to such measures. But two nights later, both Talliard’s office and my own were ransacked. The next day, Sefton Talliard disappeared.
“He was either dead, or fled to London. In the absence of a corpse, I suspected the latter. Within the fortnight, I’d powerful incentive to follow him. For some weeks past, my work with the glyphs had scarcely progressed. Many of the pictographs, though commonplace symbols in that backward area of the world, were arranged in sequences that seemed senseless and random as the ravings of a lunatic. At length it dawned upon me that the symbols composed a rebus, phonetically representing words in the Dutch language of the seventeenth century. Inexplicable that a solution so obvious should have eluded me for so long, but thereafter, as you may well imagine, my task was greatly simplified, and translation proceeded apace. Eventually, the following message resolved itself. Closing his eyes, Belknap repeated, from memory, “The hold of divine Ur-Allazoth looses not, and loses naught. Whosoever profanes His image, dividing or diminishing the sacred substance thereof, shall be pursued to the ends of the earth and beyond, even unto the shrieking, formless reaches beyond the stars. Nor shall pursuit abate, before the worldly waters ruled by the Relentless have closed upon that which is His.
