“That,” he said smugly, “and the island's past. The place earned its name. A wealthy merchant once owned Povaglia. He was a cruel man, an evil tyrant who tortured his servants and abused the people of this city. But he was a Cornaro, Adolfo Cornaro, a black noble of Venice. His uncle was Doge, and though he had no use for his nephew, he nevertheless tolerated his excesses. At some point, Cornaro acquired a unique artifact, one of great antiquity and inestimable value.”
“No doubt the same treasure you now seek.”
“Correct,” the man replied, though I sensed annoyance in his voice at the interruption. “They say the artifact had a peculiar effect on Cornaro. That he came to value it above all other things. Art, gold, jewels. Even more base pleasures like food or drink or women.
“One day, a peasant woman came to his home. A gypsy, likely, one who didn’t know of Cornaro’s cruelty. But she knew enough, more than she likely should have. She told him his treasure was not his own, that it remained in his possession only for a season, and then it must pass to another. She warned him ruin would come to him if he denied the artifact its destiny.
“Cornaro, never a patient man, was particularly and violently enraged at what he gauged the foolish ramblings of an old crone. He had her thrown from his house. Then he beat her until her face was broken and her body bloodied. The dogs did the rest.
“The stories do not say how long passed between the woman’s visit and when Cornaro made his choice. But surely the artifact desired to leave Cornaro, and he refused it that wish. A shadow fell over Venice. A darkness came from the east. It floated on ships. It hovered about the tradesmen that come and go from this place. It scurried about in the night, creeping from one house to the next. Soon it unleashed its full fury on the city. The Plague had returned to Europe, and Venice was to be its doorway.
“There was no reason to blame Cornaro, but people somehow knew the fault lay with him. The preternatural sixth sense can’t be explained. The Doge protected Cornaro from the rage of his people. That is, until his own wife fell to the Black Death. It was only their shared blood that prevented him from killing Cornaro then, but he chose a different fate.
“Do you know what they did with plague victims in those days? There were too many to bury. Far too many. So they dug a deep hole, a pit, and they tossed the bodies inside, whether the victim was fully dead or not. There was no such deep earth on Venice to cover the unnumbered dead, and so the Doge made the entire island of Povaglia a plague pit. Cornaro had brought the Plague, and now he would receive its victims as his eternal guests.”
The man leaned back in his chair, his story apparently finished. “What happened to him?” I asked.
“No one knows. No one ever returned from that cursed place. It has become an infamia, a no-man’s-land. The plague eventually subsided, but what became of the artifact is a mystery. I believe it remains on that island, and I want you to retrieve it for me.”
“And for my trouble, you will pay fifteen thousand pounds sterling?”
“Fifteen thousand for the artifact. A thousand for your troubles, whether you find anything or not.”
I looked blankly at the man, but in truth, I had barely contained my rising excitement since he had first mentioned the fifteen thousand pounds. It was a magnificent sum, enough to ensure I would never need to leave my Sarah behind again.
“I’ll do it,” I said finally, “but I want to see the money and have it kept by a reliable third party first.”
The man smiled. “Of course, Captain,” he said, extending his hand. Then, when I took it, “I have full faith both of us will look back on this day with the greatest of joy.”
March 22, 1867
The Book is mine. It shall go with me all my days, and none shall take it from me. We are in the Great Sea now. I ordered my men to sail with the tide. Our cargo was not complete, but no matter. I bear a far greater treasure than any I have ever beheld. That English bastard was a fool. Fifteen thousand pounds? A pittance. No, there is nothing in this world more valuable to me than this wonderful gift.
We arrived on the island shortly after midnight. Thick clouds and a moonless night covered our approach. We moved inland in darkness, only lighting our torches when we were sure we would not be seen from the city. The island was a ruin. It was clear to me no man had trod the paths we walked in years, if not decades. The streets were overgrown, the buildings covered in vines and vegetation, returning to the earth from whence they came.
We came to Cornaro’s villa. It was no great feat to find it. It sat on a small rise in the midst of the island, its proud walls and ornate construction a testament to what had been. There was a massive well in its center, a great hole in the earth, a circle of darkness. Tovar, one of my crewmen, threw his torch into the midst of that blackness. It did not fall as far as I had expected. It landed, not in the water, but in the midst of a great shimmering whiteness. It took me a moment to see that these were bones, the only mortal remains of an untold number who had spent their last moments here.
We advanced onward to the house. We found the front doors broken down, forced inwards, it seemed to me, by some great force. We walked into that great marble monstrosity. There were untold treasures there, most corrupted by time and the elements, but many still as beautiful and valuable as they had been when that place was more than a mausoleum. I did not condemn my men when they took what they found; whoever had once lived there had long forsaken that place.
We walked past the great stairwell to a pair of double doors in the rear of the mansion. It was obvious to us all this was the place we sought. A monstrous sight greeted our eyes. It was a mass of skeletons, piled upon one another in front of the door, as if in their last moments they had sought nothing more than entrance to the room beyond. My men set to work in the gruesome task of removing them, one by one, until finally the path was cleared to the doors.
To no one’s surprise, they did not open, but we were more prepared than the poor souls who had once assaulted that place. With axes we went to work, hacking away at the wooden barrier until finally it collapsed in a cloud of thick and overpowering dust.
When the dust cleared, my torch illuminated a great dining room. Sitting at the end of a long table, ‘neath an elegant and, no doubt, immeasurably valuable chandelier, was yet another skeleton. This one was different. His moth-eaten and half-rotted clothing was that of a noble. This could be none other than the Cornaro of which I had heard. The Englishman had been vague about the artifact I sought, but I knew I would find it here, with him.
I walked toward his remains, and as I did, I thought I heard a whisper, nay, a chorus of whispers. I did not stop. Rather, I felt myself drawn inexorably toward him. The whispers grew into words, and then they were not words, but a song. A song calling to me, calling my name, telling me to come to them. As my torch settled over that long-dissolved corpse, I saw beneath his bony hand a gold-speckled book. And then I knew.
It was the Book that sang, that called to me, that told me it was mine, that I should take it and make it my own. Its song was beautiful, intoxicating, illuminating. I grasped the Book. Even though its former owner was long dead, it felt as though he resisted me. No matter, the Book is mine now, and I shall never relinquish it.
March 25, 1867
The Book no longer sings. It no longer speaks to me, no longer calls my name, or serenades me in words I do not know but yet understand. I feel alone now, empty. The Book remains, but I feel I have offended it somehow, as if I have turned it against me. The words ended on the morning the ship left Venice. I was certain they would return, but the ship is three days out, and nothing.
Tovar disappeared today. His fate is unknown. No man saw him go overboard, and we have been in calm seas. The men murmur among themselves. They believe he has been taken. It is no matter to me. Tovar can be replaced. But I must hear the song again.
March 26, 1867
The Book never leaves my side. I read it, though I do not understand the import of its words. No
matter my passion, my dedication, the silence remains. Four more men were gone at first light. Their beds were empty. It was as if they simply woke up and walked off the ship. There was no struggle, no sign of violence. They were just gone. McCormick came to my stateroom today, at the men’s request. They believe the Book is to blame, that it must be destroyed. Fools. I value none of their lives above the Book, and I would gladly sacrifice any of them — or all of them — to keep it safe.
Later
I have locked myself in my stateroom. What is left of the men are outside, pounding away at the doors. They cannot hold long. It began at supper. The food had been prepared, and the men were eating. The air was heavy, the men nervous. I do not know what inspired McCormick. Perhaps it was my rebuff earlier or the presence of the Book beneath my hand. But in the midst of the meal he stood and pointed to me.
“We are cursed by that thing!” he screamed among vile slanders and hateful mutterings. “It must be cast overboard, as Jonah was of old. Only then will this evil leave us!”
It was then it happened. I smiled as it did, as it took him, as I saw the fear and the realization spread across his face. His body went rigid, his arms out to his side like Christ on His cross. One of the men shrieked as he was lifted bodily into the air, hovering some three feet above the deck. I stood, taking the Book in my hands. In the confusion, they did not even notice I had gone. The last thing I saw before the door closed behind me was McCormick’s body blinking out of existence.
There is a commotion outside, but one different than before. The men are no longer pounding at the door. Now they are screaming, but their screams seem to grow quieter with every passing second.
They are silent now, as silent as this book before me. I fancy they are all gone, that whatever has preyed upon the others has taken them, as well. But I am not alone. No, there is something beyond. Not the door, but my vision, beyond what I can see clearly. It is here now. It is with me. I can feel its cold hands — no, not hands — but something else, closing around me. But the Book is mine. I will not forsake it! I will not abandon it, not for any man, not for anything! It is mine. It is mine! It is
* * *
Captain Benjamin Butler’s journal ended there, in a scraggly black line that staggered down like a lightning bolt that crashes to the ground with a great fury, but then is extinguished. Thus his mortal days came to an end, but he never — not in life, at least — surrendered the Book. I looked over to the leather bag beside me, the bag in which the Book now rested. From it, as clear as the voice of a lover, I heard a song.
Chapter
34
The train moved quickly through the New England countryside, splitting with iron legs a world buried in snow. It was a beautiful day, sun-filled with clear skies. As the car rocked beneath me, I tried to distract myself from the low hum of that thing by watching the children play in the great white wilderness beyond.
I laughed to myself, a dark, humorless laugh. I had traveled north in shadow and snow, but now, in the stark sunlight, on a rare but glorious January day, I felt a fear and apprehension that replaced the excitement and anticipation of only a day previous. Every second, every heart beat, was as the footsteps of doom.
The Book sat beside me, not quietly (were it so!), and I felt its weight hang around my neck, like the famed albatross of old. I felt repulsed by it, overborne by it. I could not fathom what had happened to the cursed captain of the Lydia Lenore, how the Book had come to own him to the point he would sacrifice anything to prevent its loss. I fully understood why Captain Gray was so quick to turn it over to me. The Book was truly dualistic — a gift to some, a curse to others.
The train arrived at the station on time, at precisely the stroke of noon. I disembarked. No one else did. I stood alone on the platform. The sun shone down from directly above me, but it was a cold light that gave no heat. I walked across the station, the only sound that of my own footsteps. The silence of the snow was thick and unbending. A single carriage sat at the end of the street. I handed the man a couple of coins, and climbed inside.
As we rode through the city, I could sense the hand of fate upon me. Miskatonic University sat on a hill across the river, hovering like a thunderhead on the horizon. I wished for its approach more than ever, wanting nothing more than to relieve myself of the weight on my heart.
The carriage dropped me at Arkham Green. I took my bags and carried them to my room. As I entered, I saw a letter sitting on my writing desk. In the arching hand I knew well was written my name. I opened it and read:
Mr. Weston,
Whenever you return from your errand, please visit me with news of your journey. I shall be in my office at precisely five o’clock daily. May it be by the time you read this note, your journey — and your mission — will have reached a successful conclusion.
Dr. Atley Thayerson
I looked up at the large clock in the corner of the room. At that moment, it tolled one o’clock. Four hours. I felt almost desperate. A visit to Thayerson’s office proved fruitless. The door was locked, and the darkness within confirmed it was empty. As I walked back to my room, I felt a creeping fear that even at five o’clock, I would still find it so, as empty of life and as utterly silent as a tomb. Thayerson would never assume I would return so quickly, and it was quite possible his daily vigil would not yet have begun. I banished that thought from my mind, but though I tried, I could find no diversion to pass the hours. Instead, I sat at my desk, staring up wearily at the hands of the clock. Doubtless, no four hours, lest it was spent at the hands of the Inquisitor himself, has ever passed so slowly.
I would say I sat in silence, but such would be a lie. I did not speak, and the quiet of the fallen snow held sway beyond my door. Beside me, muffled though it might have been, that dark miracle continued. The low hum, the mysterious words in tongues unknown and unfathomed, played on. The clock struck four. Like something out of a fairy story, with every tick of the clock, the hand seemed to move more slowly, until I feared it might stop altogether.
At half past the hour, something changed. The singing grew louder, the voice more insistent. I knew then. Somehow I knew. I jumped from my chair and grabbed the leather bag. I veritably ran across Arkham Green. The song of the Book seemed to crescendo to some unholy climax.
A light was on in Thayerson’s office. I rapped on the door, more insistently perhaps than I had intended. There was a gruff command to enter from within. I opened the door and stepped across the threshold.
Thayerson looked up at me, and in his familiar face I saw surprise. His gaze went from mine down to the leather bag in my hand. Then something unexpected happened. The music — the Book’s song, once so persistent, once so siren-loud I thought it might drive the sanity from my mind, that Devil’s chorus — ceased. At least, it ceased for me. Thayerson’s eyes told a different story.
“Mr. Weston,” he all but whispered, “you have done well. Come!” he commanded, motioning to me.
I stepped forward, placing the leather bag on the desk. He watched as I undid the leather tongs, as the bag fell open, revealing the shimmering gold and crimson that lay beneath. Thayerson reached forward. But then, as if stopped by some invisible force, he looked up at me.
“Take it,” I said simply.
So he did, reaching down and clasping the Book in both hands, pulling it towards him as delicately as one might a child.
“You have done very well,” he repeated. Then, his countenance changed. “Were you followed?” he asked, almost acquisitively.
“No,” I replied. “I had no trouble at all.”
“How did you find it so quickly?”
“It was in the possession of a man who no longer wanted it. He gave it freely.”
“Yes, as all living men must,” Thayerson said. His answer revealed much.
“This will be the University’s greatest treasure,” he said, rubbing his hand across the cerise cover. “Not even the Necronomicon is more precious.”
I noted it, the
n, as it struck me as strange, the name of that other accursed tome crossed the threshold of his lips without the hesitation and fear that had marked its transit heretofore.
“You will be well rewarded for this, Mr. Weston,” he said, finally looking up at me. “Well rewarded indeed. I apologize I cannot spend more time with you today and hear more of your travels. Perhaps tomorrow. I had not intended your rapid return and made other arrangements. In fact,” he said, confirming my earlier suspicions, “I only stopped by the office for the briefest of moments. It is fortunate . . .” Then, he let the phrase drop. He and I both knew fortune had nothing to do with it.
“Yes, sir,” I said, pushing the moment of discomfort away. “Tomorrow, then.” I turned to go, but as I did, I stopped at the door. I turned back to Thayerson and said, “One thing, sir. Something unrelated.”
“Yes?” Thayerson replied with a hint of annoyance, looking up from the Book at me.
“The rumored incident here at Miskatonic. The one that supposedly happened several years ago with the dead professor. The one who was murdered by his colleague.”
“Yes?” Thayerson repeated blankly. “What of it?”
“Were you here then?”
“No,” Thayerson answered without hesitation. “That was a few years before I arrived.”
“Ah. Alright then,” I said haltingly. “’Til tomorrow, professor.”
Thayerson said nothing else. His eyes went back down to the Book before him. I stood in the doorway for a second, watching him. It was clear I was not wanted. I left him behind, the song that had once haunted my mind now echoing in his ears.
Chapter
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That Which Should Not Be Page 24
