Haunted Worlds

by Jeffrey Thomas

  Maxim and the Kalian, who had only given the name Nhil, had met at a nondescript little cafe, seated near the front window with a view of the street, which glistened with reflected neon and holographic light following a pummeling rainstorm, black clouds breaking open to let patches of sulfurous yellow sky glow through. Hovercars hissed past just above the pavement, trailing plumes of wet mist, while higher up helicars streamed along unseen navigation beams. Punktown’s massed towers, of every architectural style and substance, looked like a titanic wall that endeavored to hold back that dramatic broken sky, or whatever might emerge through it.

  The Kalian wore a traditional blue turban, and tunic and pants made from a metallic gold material. Maxim judged him to be in his early thirties, like himself. Nhil was handsome and clean-shaven, with the glossy gray skin and entirely black eyes that marked his race, which was otherwise very close to Maxim’s own. This couldn’t be said of most of the races that had immigrated to the city of Paxton, which was Punktown’s official name, only utilized in an official context.

  While Maxim sipped the coffee the Kalian had bought for him, Nhil said, “If you are familiar with the Garavito Museum, then you will know of the structure’s so-called Nautilus Chamber.”

  “Of course,” Maxim said. “I like it very much. The Garavitos had the building custom-designed for them. The Nautilus Chamber was one of Alfreda’s ideas. Well, almost everything that has to do with that place was her idea. Rafael was so smitten with her, he gave her carte blanche.”

  “He was a foolish old man,” Nhil said by way of agreement. “Like too many men, he allowed a woman to drag him around by the dick.”

  Maxim sipped his coffee again so he wouldn’t have to agree or disagree. He was well aware of the intensely patriarchal attitudes of the Kalian majority.

  “However,” Nhil continued, “in this case the man was a dull pig who couldn’t see beyond the money signs on his computer screen, while his wife was very much attuned—either through her artistic education or through her own sensitive intuition—with matters that extend beyond this physical realm of dust and blood. Matters of the cosmos.”

  “She was very interested in the artistic representation of religious thought,” Maxim conceded, if this was indeed what Nhil was referring to, “especially the spiritual beliefs of non-Earth races.”

  “Yes, Mr. Komaroff, her collection reflects this. I am particularly impressed with some of her artifacts related to obscure Tikkihotto cults, and the ancient machine-sculptures of the Coleopteroids. But I am most interested, of course, in a series of drawings that are displayed in the spiral courtyard she dubbed the Nautilus Chamber.”

  “Ah, yes,” Maxim said, and he could envision this exhibit in a general way, though he had forgotten the exact details of the series of framed ink drawings. “One of them was destroyed a few months ago. There should be nine.”

  “Eight,” Nhil corrected, “and yes, one of the drawings was ruined by a madwoman.”

  Maxim recalled that recent incident. A Kalian woman, apparently a member of a group of young radicals who were at odds with their world’s puritanical and oppressive attitudes, had snatched one of the drawings off the wall, torn the parchment out of its frame, and set it on fire right there on the steps that corkscrewed up the circular interior wall of the building’s central courtyard. In the process of this act of protest—having either spilled the accelerant on herself accidentally or in a conscious act of self-immolation—the radical had set herself on fire as well, and died before she reached a hospital.

  “They’re very old, I take it,” Maxim said, again not recalling the particulars.

  “Yes, over three hundred years old, and immensely valuable to my people historically. The series is called The Summoning of the Outsider, by an artist named Narik Guul, who illustrated many of our people’s most important texts, including an edition of the Fizala . It is scandalous that they were ever sold in the first place, to say nothing of the added ignominy of having ended up ultimately in the possession of a non-Kalian. Mrs. Garavito had exceptional taste, if little respect. If she had, she would have donated the drawings back to my people. In any case, at least by displaying the series publicly she kept the drawings accessible to any of my kind who cared to view and meditate upon them. Commune with them. To study them intently in sequence, giving a specific amount of time to each illustration in turn, all the while praying to oneself from the Fizala and ascending the spiral stairs just as one would a spiral chamber in one of our own temples on Kali—which I’m certain was the inspiration for Mrs. Garavito’s design—is a potent experience that can put us in touch with the dreaming mind of our deity.”

  “Ugghiutu,” Maxim said. He knew that much.

  “Yes—the Outsider,” Nhil said, as if reluctant to speak their mysterious demon-god’s actual name aloud. “He who seeded the superior, human races such as mine and yours throughout the worlds. He who created all souls, consumes all souls, and gives rebirth to those souls to consume them again, in the spiral without end.” Nhil’s obsidian eyes, like the wet street, glittered with reflected multicolored light.

  “It’s a terrible loss,” Maxim said, waiting to see how he himself factored into all this, and sensing that explanation was finally near.

  “Have you been to the exhibit since this great misfortune?”

  “Ah, no, I haven’t.”

  “Currently where the picture in question was mounted, there is only a photographic representation and a notice that explains what occurred. But a copy of the original cannot truly replace what was created by hand, pen stroke by pen stroke, by a true artist. An impersonal, unfeeling machine cannot capture the life force that was imparted to that image. Only another artist could attempt to restore such life force.”

  “Are you suggesting . . . ?”

  “Mr. Komaroff, my associates and I researched extensively until we found the artist we felt was best suited to create a reproduction of the destroyed artwork by hand, in the same medium and manner in which the original was created. We saw that you pride yourself on utilizing paint, charcoal, and the like—eschewing all the various technology-based techniques that the majority of contemporary artists favor. We were particularly struck by the intricacy of your pen and ink drawings.”

  “Well, I certainly do prefer the old methods. I like to get my hands dirty, so to speak. But I have to tell you, I have a very personal artistic vision. I’ve never copied another artist’s work before.”

  “What we’re asking is not for you to commit a forgery. Everyone knows the fate of the original. My associates and I have already contacted the museum and offered them a handcrafted original. They were intrigued and are willing to accept your piece if it proves to be as exceptional in quality as we promise. When it takes the place of the current reproduction, a new notice will accompany the drawing. It will clearly explain that you are the artist responsible for the reproduction.”

  Without willing it, Maxim raised his eyebrows. One of his artworks showcased in the Alfreda Cubillos-Garavito Museum? No new artwork had been added to the Garavito collection since Alfreda had lived in the former mansion herself. He found it hard to believe the museum could be convinced to accept a new piece, even to fill in for a ruined work. But then he realized that, with the photograph currently mounted, they had already done so. He wondered if Mrs. Garavito herself had given the final consent to this proposal.

  “You speak of associates,” he said.

  “We are a group, dwelling in this city, devoted to preserving the integrity of our faith.”

  “I see.” Fundamentalists, Maxim thought; but weren’t most Kalians? The key word being “most,” for were there no exceptions they wouldn’t be having this conversation. Being an atheist, Maxim rather sympathized with the reformed Kalians who sought to throw off the yoke of religion, but he wasn’t about to express his personal opinions with this man.

  Not that he feared violence from the Kalian; what he feared was alienating him and missing out on an extraor
dinary opportunity to have his artwork recognized—even if it would be in imitation of another man’s artwork. Since graduating from art school over a decade ago he had barely scratched out a living as an artist, and even then not from the sale of his own work but from designing company logos and restaurant menus, shop signs and labels for microbrews. All his high talk of “personal vision” aside, his work mostly languished in his humble apartment. He exhibited infrequently, sold his drawings and paintings rarely. He was lucky enough that this man and his friends had even managed to stumble upon examples of his work on the net. What doors this opportunity might open for him! But aside from his raised eyebrows, Maxim maintained a calm exterior, lest the Kalian take his excitement for desperation and offer him less compensation than he might otherwise.

  And that was indeed the next point in the conversation. Nhil informed him, “As we can well imagine the amount of labor that will be necessary to re-create the intricate detail of the original, we are prepared to offer you a fee of forty thousand munits for the drawing. Twenty thousand up front—right at this meeting of ours, in fact—as a show of good faith.”

  Forty thousand munits? It was more than he currently made in a year, by about ten thousand. Maxim stared at the man’s inky eyes, slack-faced, unable to speak for several beats, until finally he managed, “That’s quite acceptable.”

  “Very good, Mr. Komaroff; I am pleased, as will be my associates. Then there is only one further detail, which I don’t think will impede you in any way. Besides the fact that we need you to draw with a dip pen—”

  “Of course,” Maxim interrupted, “that’s what I use in my pen and ink work. Real nib pens.”

  “Wonderful. In addition to that, as I say, we would require you to use a certain type of ink that we will supply you. It is the very same formula that Narik Guul himself would have used when creating The Summoning of the Outsider .”

  Maxim spread his hands. “Certainly. If you can get that for me, that’s what I’ll work with.”

  “Wonderful,” Nhil repeated. “Then that shall be arranged. We will be eternally grateful to you, sir. For now, all that remains is the matter of the advance payment I mentioned.”

  “Very well then,” Maxim Komaroff said with false composure, as he avidly watched the Kalian shift aside the hem of his tunic and reach into the pouch he wore at his waist.

  3

  At seven the following morning, Maxim was woken by his apartment door being buzzed. How had his caller bypassed the building’s front door without being screened? Cursing under his breath, he slipped out of bed and checked the viewscreen to one side of the door. Out in the hallway stood a shortish, stocky Kalian man in a blue turban and metallic gold outfit, carrying a package in both hands. Maxim touched a key and his door slid open.

  Without a word, the Kalian smiled up at Maxim and extended the wrapped package.

  “Thank you,” the artist said, receiving it. He turned to place it on the end of his kitchenette’s counter. When he turned back to the doorway, he saw that the Kalian was already moving off down the hallway toward the elevators.

  Maxim tapped a key to get his morning coffee brewing, then took down a utility knife with a cutter beam from a kitchen cabinet and went about opening the package.

  In a nest of crumpled hardcopy newspapers was a small glass jar filled with ink as black as the distilled essence of space itself.

  4

  An underground parking area had been created to accommodate visitors to the former home of the Garavitos. While a mechanical arm on an overhead track took hold of Maxim’s vehicle and lifted it into an available slot, he strolled toward the elevators.

  As many times as he had visited this museum—and he knew all its pieces because the contents were never altered—he had to resist the urge to stop and admire this painting hanging above an opulent red velvet sofa, or that sculpture resting atop an antique Choom table, on his way to the central courtyard . . . or the Nautilus Chamber, as Alfreda had named it.

  Just before the entrance to the courtyard Maxim passed the museum’s gift shop, and he noticed that the man tending the counter was a Kalian, wearing that familiar blue head-wrapping best labeled a turban. He didn’t recall ever seeing a Kalian working in the museum previously. The young man met Maxim’s gaze and gave a small nod, almost like a secret gesture of acknowledgment. Perhaps it was only politeness, but Maxim had the odd sense that the man had been expecting him. He nodded back and kept on walking.

  The eight drawings that constituted The Summoning of the Outsider were just beyond. Of course, he could simply study the images on the net to get a feel for them—most especially the missing drawing—and he would indeed do that. But before he began, he felt he needed to see them in person again, in situ, to get himself in the proper mindset.

  The courtyard was enclosed within a large dome, rising above the rest of the building’s flat upper surfaces. From the outside the dome was an enamel white, with brown tiger stripes. The interior surface, however, was as glossy and iridescent as mother-of-pearl. At the center of the floor was a miniature tropical garden with a burbling fountain, surrounded by benches, at this early hour only occupied by one romantically whispering couple. A staircase spiraled around and around the dome’s inside wall, ever tighter, right on up to the very apex. As it coiled, the staircase grew narrower, its steps smaller, so that not even a child would be able to climb the last of them to the very top. This odd effect gave the illusion that the dome was vaster than it was. Maxim tilted his head back, staring up. The spiral seemed to turn, like the lazy outer edge of a whirlpool. A wave of vertigo, bordering on nausea, suddenly flushed through him, and he almost rocked back on his heels. This feeling had never come over him during previous visits. The sensation was that in the next moment he would fall upwards, plummet into the eye churning at the center of that spiral.

  “Spira Mirabilis,” said a voice just behind him.

  In whirling toward the voice, startled, Maxim nearly lost his balance. The man who had spoken appeared not to notice, as he pointed casually toward the concave ceiling. He was a tall, lean Kalian wearing a metallic blue turban, but instead of the common golden outfit he wore the severe black business suit of a museum security guard. Here, the guards doubled as knowledgeable guides. “Excuse me?” Maxim said.

  “The logarithmic spiral. One sees it in the shell of the chambered nautilus, of course, but also in the vortex of a hurricane, the swirl of a galaxy. Even the double helix of our DNA is a spiral. It is the ultimate organizing model of the universe, isn’t it, Mr. Komaroff? The essence of infinity.”

  “You know me?”

  At last the man lowered his head to face Maxim directly. “We were told to expect you, so that we wouldn’t grow alarmed at the attention you’ll be devoting to the drawings displayed above.”

  “I see. Did, ah, the museum hire you specifically to better watch over such an important Kalian exhibit?”

  The guard only smiled and extended an inviting arm toward the foot of the looping staircase. The motion caused the flap of his jacket to open enough to reveal the pistol worn in a holster against his side. “Take your time, Mr. Komaroff. Against general museum rules, you may even record images on any device you might have brought, if you wish. No one will disturb you, but I am here for you if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you,” Maxim muttered, turning away. He still felt unsettled, but now he didn’t know whether it was due to his bout with dizziness or to this sudden preponderance of Kalians.

  He mounted the first step, taking hold of the railing that thankfully ran along the outside of the staircase.

  Niches were spaced along the curving wall, containing sculptures both naturalistic and abstract, glazed vases, strange fossils, deformed or bejeweled animal skulls, other artifacts and natural curiosities. Between these narrow hollows were mounted in simple black frames, under sheets of glass, the eight pen-and-ink drawings by Narik Guul that in their entirety were called The Summoning of the Outsider . Only
a few steps up the staircase, Maxim came to the first in the series. It was surprisingly small, at a distance unassuming; merely nine-by-twelve inches.

  He had numerous times admired and been inspired by this drawing’s dense, obsessive detail, rendered entirely in black ink by the scratchy point of a dip pen. It portrayed a quartet of Kalian women, their long black hair shockingly unbound, not covered by turbans, wearing low-slung white skirts and white blouses that bared their midriffs. They were obviously dancing sinuously, sensually. This particular drawing, labeled No. 1, was entitled The Dance of Ugghiutu .

  Hanging in the sky above the dancers was a black disk like an eclipsed sun. A fringe of wavy rays like the multiple arms of a starfish ringed it, and at its center was a white spiral.

  “My God,” Maxim said under his breath, snapping his head around to look further up the wall toward the next in the spiraling arrangement of framed drawings. Of course . He recalled, because he had viewed these illustrations before, that the Kalians often represented their demon-god Ugghiutu—the great creator/destroyer—as a boiling black orb with a single red eye or a spiral, red or white, as its nucleus.

  He quickened his ascent to the next ink drawing.

  The subject of drawing No. 2 was again the four women, but this time they were not dancing. Instead, they were hanging by their necks, dead. The drop from the ropes had severed their spinal cords, but in addition their femoral arteries had been slashed. Black serpents of blood coiled down their legs, dripping into a crater-like pool directly beneath them.

  Maxim read the title of this piece. It was The Sacrifice of the Maidens .

  “I dreamed this,” he murmured.

  Well, why shouldn’t he dream about a series of technically brilliant drawings with such disturbing subject matter? But the question was, why would he dream of these pictures the night before Nhil had told him what his commission was to be? Yes, he had known he would be meeting with a Kalian the next day, but he hadn’t known that these drawings would be in any way involved. A coincidence, then? Given that he was an artist, was this half-remembered artwork simply what his subconscious had called up by way of association with the Kalians?