We walked quickly to the cabin. None of us wanted to stay any longer than necessary. I grabbed the handle. The door didn’t move. I gave it a shove. Nothing.
“Let me, Captain,” Stone said. He heaved the small axe he carried down at the door’s latch. The wood splintered, and the latch broke. Then, with a push of his hand, the door was open. Light streamed inside.
“Sweet Jesus!”
Stone stumbled backwards. Were it not for the sheer shock, I probably would have fallen to the floor. There was nothing particularly strange about the room. Like the rest of the ship, nothing was out of order, nothing was where it shouldn’t be. It was so normal, in fact, that across a great wooden desk sat the captain.
I could tell, even though he was sitting, he was tall, six feet by the look of him. He wore a sailor’s great coat — blue with large brass buttons. He was clean-shaven but for a large tuft of hair on his chin. His eyes were open, and in them I saw a mixture of defiance, determination, and hate. But there was also fear there. Great, unanswered fear. For what must have seemed an eternity to my men I stared across that short distance at him. Stared until I realized, although he looked as if he might speak to us at any moment, he was dead. Undeniably dead. Irretrievably dead.
I took a step inside. One step, a cautious step. Then another. Moving more slowly than I ever had across such a space, I stepped sideways around the desk. Almost to my surprise, the captain’s eyes didn’t follow me. I looked down at him. His skin was still pink, and I had a feeling that if I touched him, he would still be warm too. And then something overcame me, and I couldn’t help but reach my hand out to his. His hand was warm, but it was something else, as well. Slimy, oily. Coated in something.
I almost ran at that point. But my eyes were drawn to the object in front of him. It was his log, sitting open. The pen was still in his hand. Beneath his other hand was a leather tome, the same dark crimson book you see before you today. And then, for the first time in a long time, I heard something.
It started out as a whisper. Not one, but many. A chorus. A song. It was a tongue I didn’t know, but I understood it, nonetheless.
“Take the Book. Seize it and make it your own.”
So I did. I don’t know why I listened. In truth, I couldn’t resist. I pulled out the leather bag I had carried from our ship. I removed the Book carefully from the captain’s grasp. His hand seemed to cling to it, even in death. I also took the captain’s log. I walked gingerly from the room, but I never turned my back on the captain. His eyes seemed to follow me, and it was with great relief that I stepped back into the sunlight.
“Let’s go,” I said.
* * *
As we walked to the side of the ship, I had the sinking feeling the yawl would be gone, but it was there just as we left it. We climbed in one at a time, with Stone taking his position at the oars. With every stroke, we were moving by small steps closer and closer to safety. Stone was a strong man, and he always put all of his effort into whatever job he had been given, but I could see he was giving it something extra now.
I sat there, trying my best to keep my eyes on the Kadath in the distance. As a light breeze blew through my hair, I found my eyes drawn back to the ghost ship behind. In fact, it must have taken at least three stokes of the oars before I noticed that breeze, the breeze that had been absent for the past two days, the breeze that now began to blow with more purpose. I looked up at Stone. He had stopped rowing, a dazed look on his face. But only for a moment.
Now he pulled ferociously, as the breeze turned into a wind and the wind into a gale. The clouds came from nowhere, filling the sky with black mountains. The waves crashed over the side of the little yawl, but we never were in danger of swamping. A strange thing, as the waves were as violent as I had seen in any storm. Drake, bless his soul, had lowered anchor and furled the sail while we were away, apparently due to some preternatural sense that the wind was coming. Blessed was that moment when my feet were once again on the relatively solid foundation of the ship. Drake was waiting.
“Looks like you made it back just in time,” he said. “Find anything worth finding?”
“Nothing. A dead captain and untouched cargo,” I yelled over the now howling wind.
“What of the crew?”
“Gone. I brought back a couple books. One of them is the captain’s log. Perhaps we can learn something from that.”
At that instant, Drake went as white as a winter squall.
“Mary, Mother of God,” he said, crossing himself. “She’s coming around.”
I spun on my feet and stared back across the now rolling sea. Sure enough, the ship was turning.
“The wind must have caught her just right,” I stuttered. But I didn’t really believe it. For a moment we both stood there, staring, the men doing the same. Then something snapped, and I was back.
“Raise the anchor,” I commanded. “Stone, unfurl the sail! To the wheel, Drake! Bring us round to port side!”
The men forgot what they saw. There was the organized chaos and controlled confusion that better becomes a ship, with men running here and there, yelling and cursing at each other. The wind was ferocious, and it was dangerous to go to full sail at that moment, but the ship bearing down upon us had to be avoided. I ran and took the wheel from Drake.
“She’s turning to match us, sir!” he yelled above the wind and now the rain. I looked at that ship, growing larger every second. Sure enough, she had turned into us and was, once again, on a collision course. I spun the wheel hard in my hand until it stuck, the rudder full to starboard. The ship jumped to the side, turning hard against the waves and the wind. Once again, the ship matched us. It was now close enough I could see it fully. Nothing had changed on the deck, nothing except the wheel which now was attended.
The captain stood there, as impossible as it was. Though every fiber of my rational mind screamed out “No!” my brain could not deny what my eyes saw. He stood astride the wheel like the Colossus of Rhodes, his hair matted down around his face, his great coat caught up in the wind, streaming behind him like the cape of some Hell-spawned warlock. His eyes were alight with the Devil’s passion, his mouth open in a roaring cackle.
The ship was upon us. In a moment, it would split us in half. But then it happened. The ropes that held the rigging began to snap. The wooden masts cracked. There was a horrible roar as the ship broke in half. Then, not five feet from us, the middle of the ship exploded. The bowsprit jutted up straight into the sky, like a finger pointing up to God. Both sides of the now split-in-half ship sank, straight down, as an iron drops into the sea. The last thing I saw of that cursed ship was the captain, his dead eyes filled with anger and hate as he slipped below the surface of the deep.
In an instant, the clouds cleared and the sun shone again. The wind no longer howled, the sea no longer roared back in response. The wind that blew was a good wind, the kind you prayed for on sea trips. I looked at Drake and his eyes reflected the thought in mine. We never spoke of it again.
* * *
The next morning, Drake brought me his map. He spread it out on the table and said, “We were in the doldrums for a day and a half with another half day of good wind. This was our last position before the storm. This is our position now.” He pointed at a freshly drawn circle on the map. It was precisely the distance one would expect to travel in two days.
Chapter
32
Carter Weston:
The Captain sat across from me, his cigar burning a fiery circle into the night. He picked up the bottle of brandy and refilled my glass.
“I read the Captain’s journal,” he said. “I won’t trouble you with its details but I will say this, I always knew you would come. And I promised myself on that day, I would give you this book.” He pointed down at the crimson tome before him. “Even though, in my sailing days, I never left port without it.”
“You kept the Book with you?” I said, somewhat surprised. The Captain chuckled.
“That Book
made my fortune. It built this house. I never lost a ship. Never was late. In fact, I always made the best possible time. That Book, my friend, will never be destroyed. It can’t be. And the one thing I knew for sure was no ship of mine would ever run into trouble as long as it was with me.”
“Then why give it to me?”
The Captain’s eyes went dark, his smile faded.
“The Book seeks its owner. It calls you now. Don’t you hear it?”
In the moment of silence that followed, my blood slowed. I shuddered. There was a tinkling, and the air grew denser. A humming buzz. Then words. Words of an unknown tongue. And then I heard them. I felt them in my bones. I imbibed them, breathed them in and let them fill me up. They all said one thing, “Take what is yours!”
“The Book is filled with contradictions. It is as ancient as days, but it appears to the reader to be newly printed. The work is entirely evil, but the man who seeks the Book, even though he does so for power and to do diabolical deeds,” the Captain whispered, “will not find it. The Book takes its own path. Which is why it is strange you came here to find it, and now it is yours. But maybe not so strange. Alas, only you know your purpose.”
He pushed the Book to me.
“The Book is yours. But remember this, my friend. This gift I give is also a curse. The Book is yours only as long as it wants to be yours. It will seek another. When it does, you must make a choice. To give, or to keep. You will make that choice for your own reasons, but know whatever path you choose will be the damnation of someone. Whether you or all of mankind, only time will tell.”
With that, he snuffed out what remained of his cigar.
“I take my leave of you now. You may stay here as long as you like, but I have purchased a ticket for you on tomorrow’s ten o’clock train. When you wake, I shall be gone. May the God you serve bless you and keep you.”
I took his hand and then watched as he strode out of the door. For a moment I was alone, but I didn’t feel it. There was another there, as well. It sat on the Captain’s desk, bound in crimson skin.
Part VI
Chapter
33
I awoke the next morning to the sun beaming through the great window on the eastern side of the bedroom. I looked over to find my bags were gone — packed already no doubt — and a fresh change of clothes was lying across a table. While the Captain had invited me to stay, it was evident my welcome was worn out.
When I reached the foyer, my bags were waiting for me. So was Andrew.
“Captain Gray sends his regrets, but he had business in town. The carriage will take you to the train. Also, the Captain left you this.”
He handed me a small leather book, held closed by a matching leather tie. There was a note, as well. As I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the train station, I removed the stationary from its envelope. Inked upon it in strong, looping handwriting was written,
Mr. Weston,
No doubt Andrew has delivered my regrets for not seeing you off properly. In any event, I apologize. I leave you with this book and some words of advice. The leather book is, as will become readily apparent, the captain’s log from the Lydia Lenore.
In it, you will no doubt see much you do not understand — charting, nautical terms, the daily flotsam and jetsam of the master of a ship. But a captain’s log is much more than that. It is also a journal, the official history of a ship’s journey. I suggest you read it, taking the lessons you will need now that you are the master of the Book.
One last thing. When the darkness is at its worst, when it creeps upon you like a hunter in the night, remember — it will always fear the light.
‘Til the winds blow us together again.
Jonathan Gray
I returned the letter to its envelope, placing both in my jacket pocket. I took the little leather book in my hands and undid the binding. It creaked as it opened, the old and tattered paper threatening to disintegrate in my hands. I read the first page. Printed in highly stylized calligraphy were the words, “Captain’s Log.” Written below that was a name, Benjamin Butler. But before I could read any more, the carriage had arrived at the station.
Ten minutes later, I was seated in my cabin. The train was not to embark for another hour, but rather than mull about the station, I determined my time was better spent learning what secrets were held in the log I now possessed. I opened it. Much of it was nautical information I will omit here. But in the rest was quite a tale, and I felt myself transported back thirty years to the beginning of a journey that was doomed before it even had a start.
March 15, 1867
Today, we hoisted anchor in Cherbourg, a cargo of French wine and cheeses destined for Venice. The men are in good spirits, and this voyage should be both fairly short and reasonably easy. The men are anxious to return to New York, and I, for one, join them in their desires. I posted a letter to Sarah before we set off. No doubt we may arrive before it does. But I miss her so, and I feel closer to her in the writing. Her absence weighs upon me, and though I love the sea, I find each voyage to be more difficult than the last. Perhaps one day, I shall finally secure our future and retire to her arms.
March 17, 1867
This morning we passed through the Strait of Gibraltar, that narrow ribbon of water dividing Christendom from the Muslim hordes of Africa. Whenever I see that peak, that magnificent rock rising from the dark blue sea against an equally cerulean sky, like a pyramid built by God Himself, I think of Sarah. How she dreams of joining me at sea! But I would never put her in danger, so I paint a picture for her with my words. Now that we are safely in the Great Sea, the voyage to Venice should be quick and uneventful.
March 20, 1867
We have arrived in Venice. The unloading went smoothly and a good price was had for the cargo. Many of my men have never seen the canalled jewel of the Mediterranean. Our cargo of silk and spices will not be prepared for transport for another three days, and as such, I have released my sailors to the pleasures of the city. I pray God I have not erred. For my part, I intend to spend these days visiting the great churches that seem to rise from the golden waters. Ah, if only Sarah were with me.
March 21, 1867
Today was most unusual. I spent the morning in the Piazza San Marco visiting the magnificent basilica built therein. Afterward, I let the day slip away, wandering the canals of this unique polis, letting them take me where they would. There was a little cafe on an inner canal I stopped at for a sandwich and a glass of Prosecco. There was a man there, a middle-aged gentleman. He had the most interesting cane. It caught my view immediately. I have spent my life at sea, and I must admit, in another setting, it would have greatly disturbed me. It was a magnificent beast, one I doubt has ever truly plied the depths of the ocean. Only, perhaps, in the darkest dreams of man.
There was a time when the unknown mists beyond man’s knowing were marked, “There be dragons.” It was of this beast they spoke. The Leviathan. The Kracken. A tentacled thing, but with the face of a man. No, not a man. Something worse. An angel and demon in one. Whence he found such a thing, I do not know. It was only after staring at that staff for an unknown span of time that I glanced up to see the man was looking at me as well. He rose from his seat and walked to where I reclined.
“May I join you, sir?” he asked. He was an Englishman, and I gestured to the seat beside me. “Enjoying the afternoon, are we?”
The man was perfectly pleasant, and I knew there was no reason for my rising sense of misgiving. But there was something about him, and no matter how I tried, I could not strip the image of that cane from my mind.
“So,” he began, and I knew now to the point we would go. “You are a sea captain, correct?”
“I am,” I said.
“Ah, the sea. A very dangerous place to work. Any man who makes it his life must be very brave.”
“It is a profession like any other. There are dangers, but no more than those of many other jobs.”
“Please, Captain . . .
?”
“Butler.”
“Ah, yes. Butler.” He spun his cane in his hand and looked up at me under hooded eyes. “Captain Butler, I have a proposal for you.”
“Well, sir, I am afraid I will have to refuse it. My men and I are scheduled to leave this city in two days.”
“It will take no longer than a night, Captain Butler. And for your services, I am prepared to pay fifteen thousand pounds sterling.”
The man’s eyes showed he reveled in the silence that followed and the look that no doubt spread across my face. It was an absurd amount.
“I don’t know what you are driving at,” I finally replied. “But whatever it is cannot be legitimate.”
He chuckled lightly. “It is perfectly legitimate, Captain Butler. It is illegal, that is true, but only for reasons of this city’s peculiar superstitions. The same superstitions that prevent me from procuring assistance from any of the local boat captains. I had determined I would need approach a foreigner, and when I saw your ship dock, I knew you were my man.”
“What exactly are you proposing?” I asked, intrigued by the offer, if not the details.
“There is an island off the grand canal. It is small, innocuous. Nothing one would notice if he were unawares. It is but a dot on local maps — those maps that still include it, I should say — bearing not even an appellation. But the island has a name and a history. It was known, when it was known, as Povaglia. The people here have another name for it — Isola Della Morte, the Island of Death. Not particularly original, but accurate nevertheless.”
“I suppose that is why no one will accept your offer.”
That Which Should Not Be Page 23
