Lord Hargraven passed by, watching me with each deliberate step. If I could tear one memory from my mind, it would be the look of utter despair he cast upon me. I saw it all there in his eyes—grief and remorse unmeasured, suffering and terror unrivaled—and I thought I saw his lips quiver with the words Forgive me as he continued on his slow, almost ritualistic march, like a coffin bearer, to the other end of the colonnade.
I sat shell-shocked and confounded, shivering in disbelief for five, ten, fifteen minutes, perhaps more—I could not say how long. I was unable to think or move. Stromany lay in my arms, and I found myself staring at the slowing pulse of the bloodied vein in his neck. He was still alive, but as I watched the gathering pool of his life force ebb like a slow river from the wound in his side, I knew I could not save him. I heard his breath, slow and gentle and shallow. I listened to the lulling rhythm and almost envied the peace of his passing.
Then came silence. The awful silence. If there was any sound from the beasts outside, I did not hear it.
I was alone.
All fear had gone. All need and purpose had melted from me, shed from my spirit like filthy skin. All that remained was exhaustion, a deep and moaning ache from every bone. And then I saw it through one of the arched windows. Still. Menacing. The Behemoth had returned, and it was watching me from the grounds. But the dark foreboding it projected earlier had gone, and I sensed something different radiating from it. Bitterness. Failure. Contempt. I knew not how its own plans to oppose the Innominatum had been thwarted. Perhaps it had succumbed to the lengthy attack from the beasts; perhaps its will had been crushed by the Innominatum. I no longer cared. My own will was spent. The heavy pulse within my head, like a lullaby dirge, closed my heavy eyelids, and with a heart knowing only the desolation of defeat, I drifted into brooding sleep.
Moon Box Segment Translation 27
The host will surrendered
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
27th September 1891
We attempted to open a different vial from the Moon Box today. The experience has unnerved us, to say the least. It is the first real demonstration of the supernatural that I have seen since our excavation of the City of the Innominatum began. We had already opened today’s vial, and it was no surprise to be rewarded with yet more words that mean absolutely nothing when translated. With frustration growing, we decided that if we opened all thirty-two of the vials and studied them together, the overall message may make more sense.
After removing one at random, Joseph returned it immediately. I waited and watched, and when I finally asked why he had not opened it as we had decided, he simply looked at me, confused, as if I had asked him to solve the most complex of riddles. I have seen this behavior before, when my elderly mother was afflicted with dementia. The simplest of tasks became unfathomable mysteries. And so it has been with Joseph from that moment. He has not yet recovered.
I will not speak of my own experience when I attempted the same. Though not impaired by the same ailment as Joseph’s, I almost wish I had been, for the thing that touched my mind when my fingers brushed the wrong vial will leave me cold for the rest of my days.
28
I woke suddenly with the strangest of sensations. My stomach growled with hunger, and the inexorable compulsion to yawn and stretch took command, but I was curiously refreshed, and for a moment I expected to see daylight through my bedroom window as I lay comfortably beneath soft sheets. Fiery light upon the colonnade reminded me it would not be so. My head still ached, but it was clear, and I could only assume that my body had extinguished the terrors of my mind so that it could attain the rest it so desperately needed. Perhaps it was the inevitability of death that had girded any sense of dread that lurked within, or perhaps it was simply shock, but I felt distanced from my ordeal. The memories of recent events, though livid in imagery, were devoid of poisonous emotion, as though my brain had recognized the need to shut it out against the paralysis it would cause me. I was left only with an analytical curiosity, a need to mechanically process the facts, and I started to understand how it was that soldiers, surgeons, and others of that ilk were able to perform the tasks set before them without succumbing to distress. Somehow these people had learned to switch off that part of their soul that would incapacitate them, and I had now stumbled upon that ability. But in doing so I felt a pang of conscience, for neither could I feel the sting of loss—that human capacity for empathy and compassion that drives one to provide aid for another to no personal profit. I considered those around me who had been lost, and in the time it took me to remember their faces and whisper their names under my breath, I knew I should take these moments of numb indifference as a merciful gift.
Stromany no longer lay in my arms. I considered the possibility that he had left me, but in my heart I knew he was dead; I had felt his passing as I drifted into sleep. He had been taken. One by one, Hargraven—or whatever had possessed him—had killed each of his guests. He had promised us salvation but in cruelty had taken from each of his victims the thing that was expected to contribute to that salvation. I stared at my hands and wondered at the red on my palms, at the stains of struggle on my clothing. Why had he put us through this? Why lure us to his home and feed us with hope, only to strip it from us piece by bloody piece? And then I remembered his note in the Moon Box.
Since the day he discovered it, Hargraven had wrestled with the Innominatum. Day by day it consumed his will, gradually bending his inclinations to its own. At times he had subdued the Nameless Beast’s influence, and during those periods of respite he had fought to free himself—to investigate his discoveries in hope of freedom; to seek aid from men of faith like Breswick, or men of science like myself; to warn us through his journal entries and notes and letters, but to no avail. I reasoned that Hargraven had found the means to vanquish the Innominatum and so wrote our invitations, but he was ultimately unable to hold on to his advantage. The Innominatum must have seen the plans in Hargraven’s mind and forced him to ruin them with his own hands. It was no wonder such pain filled his eyes. The poor man had the blood of the entire community on his hands. The Innominatum had fed Hargraven with the knowledge and instruction to transpose all of Dennington Cross—and possibly more—to its own realm. And the same may have been true of Old Man Tarky and his village.
Now, only I remained. It had been left for me to bring about the Nameless Beast’s demise and to learn how Hargraven’s five guests were intended to bring that about. But what was it about Breswick’s metaphorical verse that gave him hope of victory? I would not have any chance of success unless I could unravel this mystery. And there was also his mention of the Innominatum changing its agenda based upon Hargraven’s newfound fascination with spirituality. Though it is painfully obvious to me now, and perhaps even to you, reader, I could not understand how the pieces of the puzzle fitted together, and I doubted that I would have time to do so. Hargraven would be coming for me soon.
One seed of hope remained: the Innominatum’s spawn were fighting its control over them, and Tarky claimed the Behemoth was the key to victory. Perhaps its powers were greater than those of its siblings. I gazed up at the window opposite me but could see only the roaring fires. The beasts had retreated into the flames, fawning like zealots around an idol; they had no interest in the school, and now that the fighting had ceased, I wondered if a valuable opportunity had passed.
With a moan of fatigue, I struggled to my feet and crossed to the window, crunching on broken glass as I went. Upon reaching the stone frame, I caught sight of the huge creature lying in the grounds. It seemed to be asleep, but when it became aware of my presence, it lifted its head slowly and met my gaze. All projection of dark emotion had gone, and I realized then that it was mortally wounded. Lacerated by dozens of gashes, the thing was bleeding its coppery life into the grass. I crawled through the gap left by the smashed window, still numb to all sense of danger, and approached it. I do not know what possessed me. It was neither compas
sion nor gloating that I felt, only a vague instinct that I needed to get closer, a dreamy compulsion.
I stood over its devastated form and regarded it with cold indifference, not even flinching when it opened its jaws to gasp out its failing breath. I sensed it reaching into my mind, as if it wanted to pass on its final thoughts before it expired. Only then did I understand the part that it had played. Hate and resentment would fill its final hours. The Behemoth, though born of the unholy pyres and grown from the skeletal trees like all the others, was a rare spawn. It did not suffer the crude instincts of its siblings. Some of the Innominatum’s devious intellect had been passed on to it, and like its parent, it lusted for dominion. It wanted to kill its parent, but it lacked the courage. Until Hargraven came. Only then, when the Innominatum changed its agenda and saved five of the village’s population for some unknown cause, did it summon up the courage for rebellion. But in the end, it could not stand against its master. It fell to the attack of its siblings. Had it won, the outcome would have been no better for any of us. Its aspirations were not benevolent.
I stared at it, glad of its approaching expiry, and wondered how it could possibly have hoped to succeed. And I wondered the same of myself, too. How could I defeat this terrible power that had lived for an eternity and consumed so many lives? How did Hargraven think he would defeat it?
Without knowing how else to proceed, I decided to go ahead with the plan Stromany and I had first agreed upon: to attack the stamen that infested Hargraven’s shrine in the wine cellar. If I could not fathom Hargraven’s clues for salvation, at least I still had the chance of damaging the Innominatum and robbing it of the school as a trophy. I would burn it down, and myself with it.
I still had the Moon Box with me and decided to keep it. I reasoned that it may still have a part to play in the Innominatum’s demise, or it should at least burn alongside everything else in the shrine. I returned to the school and found some matches, a jerry can, and a lit candle. I did not need to summon the courage to do what needed to be done—my mind was still numb to the dangers ahead of me and to the horrors I had suffered. With no more emotion than an automaton configured to perform acts of menial labor, I set about my business.
I walked the length of the colonnade and continued on toward the cellar, hoping that this strange sense of detachment would continue for the duration, but I was not so fortunate. When I reached the bottom step and faced the darkness, a sickly, sinking feeling turned my stomach—the Innominatum warning me off, perhaps—and for the first time since I woke, I felt my fear returning. I hesitated, then stretched the candle out a little farther ahead, but it did little good; the way forward was visible for no more than ten paces before the dark swallowed the walls of the cellar.
I took another step forward, feeling a tightening in my throat, and I swallowed hard. Another step saw me to the open door of Hargraven’s shrine and the grotesque, metallic organ that festered within. Again I hesitated. Sweat crawled like a slimy animal down my back, and I knew for certain that my fearless state of mind had only been temporary. I closed my mouth, afraid that something might hear me, but was made painfully aware of my rapid breathing as the air rushed through my nose. My heart drummed in my chest, and my head returned the call with a hammering pain of its own. But I could not stop now—there was nothing else I could do.
I crept into the shrine but halted when something stirred in the fog. As in my first visit to Hargraven’s makeshift shrine, I saw the same skeletal shape revealed for the briefest of moments, and I almost gasped at seeing it. I could not tell if it knew I was there. The stamen, or whatever it was, still sat like a malignant tumor in the heart of the shrine, and its thick, segmented veins clung there, sunk into the walls, ceiling, and floor like rotten tree roots sucking the life from the school. Still breathing heavily, I dropped into a crouch beside it. I placed the Moon Box on the floor, set the candle carefully next to it, and slowly unscrewed the cap of the jerry can. I cringed at the scraping of rusty metal as the cap turned. It occurred to me that simply setting the organ on fire would not be enough. The metallic skin on its surface had to be broken so that the flesh underneath could be incinerated, but even then, uncertain whether our earlier efforts with the root in the grounds had been truly successful, I did not know if I could cause the stamen any real harm. But it was now or never.
I wiped sweat from my brow, smelling the blood on my hands as my perspiration smeared it, and glanced around looking for something with which to strike the stamen. Through the fog I could just make out a crucifix hung on the wall near the door. I stared at it for a long moment, considering what I was about to do. I feared that any aggression directed at the organ would rouse the creature that lurked in the fog, and I wondered if I would still have an opportunity to douse the stamen with petrol and set it alight. Even at the very thought of striking it, a part of me expected some monstrous thing to rush at me from the mist.
I set aside this morbid thought, placed the jerry can on the floor, and reached for the crucifix. My fingers grasped its base and, with great care to make as little noise as possible, I gently pulled at it to see how it was fixed there. It was held only by a single nail at its top and came away easily. I made firm my grip and faced my target. The seconds passed as I stared at it, knowing that the moment I swung it down hard to split the metallic crust, I should expect sudden consequences. I would have to act with haste and without vacillation. I would have to ignore any distraction, pour the petrol, light it, and flee the shrine without looking back.
I raised the crucifix above my head, paused to suppress any last-minute doubts, and used every last modicum of my strength to hammer it down into the center of the stamen. The cross rebounded from the surface without effect, but before I could concern myself about any lack of success, I tried again. This time, it penetrated the crust, and I felt it wedge underneath one of the metallic petals like an ice pick. I wrenched at it and a section of it peeled away like skin from a scalp. The stamen shuddered, but it did not howl, nor was there any reaction from whatever skulked in the mist. I lifted the jerry can and poured its contents into the opening and over the floor around it. The liquid splashed over the exposed flesh, and still there was no sign of retribution.
Though I knew I should set it ablaze and run, I stood petrified, listening to the steady drip of fuel splashing over the gravelly floor, anticipating these last few minutes as my last. I would die alone. I did not know if it would work, or if I could go through with it. I did not know if destroying this thing would do anything more than irritate the Innominatum like the sting of a wasp.
I stared into the impenetrable fog, and my hand trembled as I poised the candle flame a mere inch from the surface of the wet and quivering mass. My mind crept back to the moment when we first entered, and the same cold dread returned with renewed potency. I was reminded that I knew almost nothing about what I was up against. Could it have been Hargraven lurking in the mist?
One small movement of my hand would begin the inferno, but I felt a burning urge to wander into the mist. I waited and watched, but nothing stirred. I tilted the candle again and carefully weaved my way between the roots, deeper into the shrine, deeper into the fog. I do not know what I thought to accomplish by approaching other than satisfying my terrified curiosity, or perhaps buying a few more moments of life. Perhaps the will to move was not my own. I continued forward, saying nothing, holding my breath, shuddering with fear.
Moon Box Segment Translation 28
Till the tree pyres sprout
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
28th September 1891
One of the first things I will do when I return home is visit Haynes and offer my profuse apologies. His word should have been enough for me, and his uncharacteristic expression of anxiety upon translating the words in the antechamber should have been double confirmation, but I resisted. In my arrogant assumption that there could be no truth in the stories he revealed, I erred. I still do not know how much o
f it is an exaggeration, but I do know that Joseph’s condition has worsened today. He is still confused by the simplest tasks (I have to watch over him to make sure he does not injure himself), but in moments of lucidity, he rapidly deteriorates into terrified laughter until, tired and suddenly weeping, he sinks back into confusion. I cannot explain it. I know only that the timing was uncanny. I have tried to find a rational explanation, but I cannot help but be convinced by the very real fact that it happened the moment he attempted to open the vials of the Moon Box in an order contrary to design.
I too am afflicted. Though I loathe superstition, and know that the words it will provide are nonsense, the unnatural fear of not opening the vials in the correct order forces me to obey its summons, and I must open each vial on the allotted day.
29
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