The House of Cthulhu
TOR BOOKS BY BRIAN LUMLEY
THE NECROSCOPE SERIES
Necroscope
The Last Aerie
Necroscope: Vamphyri!
Bloodwars
Necroscope: The Source
Necroscope: The Lost Years
Necroscope: Deadspeak
Necroscope: Resurgence
Necroscope: Deadspawn
Necroscope: Invaders
Blood Brothers
Necroscope: Defilers
Necroscope: Avengers
THE TITUS CROW SERIES
Titus Crow, Volume One: The Burrowers Beneath & The Transition of Titus Crow
Titus Crow, Volume Two: The Clock of Dreams & Spawn of the Winds
Titus Crow, Volume Three: In the Moons of Borea & Elysia
THE PSYCHOMECH TRILOGY
Psychomech
Psychosphere
Psychamok
OTHER NOVELS
Demogorgon
Maze of Worlds
The House of Doors
Khai of Khem
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Fruiting Bodies and Other Fungi
The Whisperer and Other Voices
Beneath the Moors and Darker Places
Harry Keogh: Necroscope and Other Weird Heroes!
The House of
Cthulhu
TALES OF THE PRIMAL LAND, VOLUME I
BRAIN LUMLEY
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed
in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE HOUSE OF CTHULHU: TALES OF THE PRIMAL LAND, VOLUME I
Copyright © 1991 by Brian Lumley
Introduction, “The Sorcerer’s Book,” “Lords of the Morass,” “The Wine of the Wizard,” copyright © 1984 by Brian Lumley for The House of Cthulhu, Weirdbook Press. “How Kank Thad Returned to Bhur-Esh,” copyright © 1977 by Ultimate Publishing Co., Inc., for Fantastic. “The House of Cthulhu,” copyright © 1973 by Stuart Schiff for Whispers No. 1. “Tharquest and the Lamia Orbiquita,” copyright © 1976 by Ultimate Publishing Co., Inc., for Fantastic. “Mylakhrion the Immortal,” from Fantasy Tales No. 1. “Cryptically Yours,” copyright © 1977 by Charles Melvin for Escape.“The Sorcerer’s Dream,” copyright © 1979 by Stuart Schiff for Whispers No. 13/14. “To Kill a Wizard!” copyright © 1988 by W. Paul Ganley for The Weirdbook Sampler. All stories collected in this edition, copyright © 1991 by Brian Lumley.
Originally published in 1991 by Headline Book Publishing PLC, London, England.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Map by Dave Kendall
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lumley, Brian.
The house of Cthulhu / Brian Lumley.
p. cm. — (Tales of the primal land; v. 1)
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-765-31073-2
EAN 978-0-765-31073-6
1. Cthulhu (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Monsters—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6062.U45H59 2005
823'.914—dc22
2005040580
First Tor Edition: September 2005
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FOR MALYGRIS
CONTENTS
Introduction
How Kank Thad Returned to Bhur-Esh
The Sorcerer’s Book
The House of Cthulhu
Tharquest and the Lamia Orbiquita
To Kill a Wizard!
Cryptically Yours
Mylakhrion the Immortal
Lords of the Morass
The Wine of the Wizard
The Sorcerer’s Dream
INTRODUCTION
Of Teh Atht, White Sorcerer of the Great Primal Continent of Theem’hdra, and of Sundry Matters Concerning an Age Forgotten Except in his Prehistoric Document, Legends of the Olden Runes.
by Brian Lumley [based on the original notes
of Thelred Gustau, whose introduction follows]:
LONG BEFORE ATLANTIS,before Uthmal and Mu, so distant in time past that a very great majority of today’s scientists might never be persuaded of its existence, there was in primal Theem’hdra an hitherto unknown, unguessed Age of Man. How long ago exactly? I could say that this mighty continent existed twenty millions of years ago, but that would be pure guesswork. Perhaps it was forty millions, a hundred . . . I do not know.
I only know that in 1963, while observing at comparatively close range the fantastic eruptions of Surtsey as that island rose up from the sea off Iceland, I fished aboard my boat a massive piece of volcanic flotsam whose fortunate recovery seemed destined to reshape the thinking of the entire anthropological world!
The thing was both astonishing and awesome. Astonishing in that, embedded in the mass of grey-white, foamlike rock, a ball of blue glass like an eye clearly showed through the wash of waves. Awesome in that this mass (whose glassy passenger was, even at first glance, quite obviously an artifact of some sort) had recently been ejected from the heart of a newborn volcano.
Once they had the thing on board, my men were quick to break away the still warm lava crusts about its large glass core, then to carefully carry that nucleus to my cabin. Grey droplets of sea water still clung to its surface, and the soapy scum of lava and volcanic dust obscured its true colour and . . . contents. But when I had cleaned it with a towel, then those of my crew with me gaped and gasped and for a moment the magic of Surtsey’s fiery birth was almost entirely forgotten.
For here was something that surely could not be! Locked in the bluish glass was a box of dull yellow metal in the shape of a nine inch cube. It had hasps and hinges and was covered with mystic symbols and the grimacing faces of krakens and dragons, hybrid dwarves and giants, serpents and demons and other night-things from all four corners of myth and legend. Without opening that box—indeed, before ever I stole my first glance at its interior and contents—I knew that it was ancient . . . but I could never have guessed that it predated the very dinosaurs, at least those sorrily defunct creatures whose bones decorate today’s museums. “But,” you are thinking, “the very earliest of men had not yet evolved, would not for ten millions of years after the dinosaurs had disappeared . . .” Oh? Well, I once thought so, too.
We put into port in Reykjavik and I took the glass ball with me to an hotel. It was solid, this sphere, and yet curiously light, made of glass unknown to modern science. After I had taken many photographs and shown the thing to a number of friends and colleagues—all evidence to support any claims I might later wish to make—then I sat down to determine a way to get at the golden box within.
Had the sphere been hollow, then a simple shattering of the glass might suffice, but it was not, and I had no wish to damage the box. In the end, nine frustrated days later in London, I procured a jeweller’s diamond-tipped drill and commenced what I thought must prove an almost intolerably long process of drilling. In this I was mistaken.
I had drilled no more than two holes into the sphere, each to within an inch or so of its box nucleus, when there began to flow from the second hole an oily blue substance that smoked on contact with the air. Patently in drilling the second hole fracti
onally deeper than the first, I had broken through to this previously invisible agent which must surround the golden box. It must, too, be under some pressure, for it bubbled up the drilled hole and bled thinly down the outside of the sphere—and wherever it flowed the glass melted away like butter!
So acrid were the fumes that rose up ever thicker, I was soon driven to desert the house and had to abide in ignorance the passing of whatever catalytic reaction was taking place within. When the smoke had cleared some minutes later, on rushing to my work table, there I saw the golden box lying in a few slivers of evaporating glass. Even these rounded ice-like chips I tried to save, washing them under cold water; but to no avail, the catalyst had an unbreakable hold on them. And so finally I turned my attention to the box . . .
How my fingers trembled when, having wiped down the work-bench top and removed the box to my study proper, I eased back the hasps and lifted the lid on hinges which were as well oiled as if attended to only yesterday! For a long moment I could only stand and stare, all atremble and breaking out in a sweat of fevered anticipation, but then I forced myself to a semblance of calmness and set about to take more photographs . . . and more yet as I lifted each item from the box to spread across the table.
There was a tiny silver whistle whose mouth was sealed with hardened wax; several small dark bottles of thick liquid, each marked in redly glowing hieroglyphs on a sort of leathery label; a magnifying glass in a square golden frame delicately filigreed with intriguing arabesques and inlaid at the corners with iridescent mother-of-pearl; a tiny skull, as of a monkey, but with only one eyesocket central in the forehead, all covered in gold leaf except for the eye, which was a ruby big as my small fingernail; a folded map of sorts on a type of parchment which began to disintegrate as soon as I attempted to spread it (mercifully, I was able to get a photograph, though not a good one, before the thing had completely crumbled away to a fine dust, and merciful too that this was the only item in the box to be wasted in this manner); a set of silver dividers in perfect working condition; a beautiful bamboo flute of exquisite workmanship, carved with miniature mountains and forests, and with seascapes where boats bore curiously rigged sails whose like are elsewhere unknown in all Man’s history; a lead pendant in the shape of a lizard devouring its own tail; the great, needle-sharp, curved ivory tooth of some beast of prey, with a hardwood handle set into its root end making of it a deadly dagger; and finally, beneath all of these lesser treasures, runebooks and scrolls and documents, all of fine skins no thicker than paper but lubricated in a way which left them supple after God-only-knows how vast a stretch of time.
Several loose leaves there were, too, finely hieroglyphed in figures completely new to me and almost certainly beyond the talents of any of today’s cryptographers or runic interpreters; and as I laid these carefully on my table a draught disturbed them, threatening to blow them onto the floor. I used the first thing to hand—the ancient glass in its square frame—to pin them down, and so accidentally stumbled across a most fantastic revelation.
Whoever had stocked this golden box and sealed it within its now completely disappeared shell, had not only wisely and deliberately protected it against its journey into future aeons but had also forseen certain of the difficulties its discoverer must eventually face. Beyond doubt he had been a scientist of sorts, this man, but this was surely much more than mere science!
My head swam dizzily and I clutched at the table’s edge, steadying myself. I blinked my eyes and looked again . . . then stared . . . And finally, rubbing furiously at my eyes, I shakily pulled up a chair and sat down to peer yet again, unbelievingly (or at least believing myself to be suffering the most astonishing delusions) at the hieroglyphs that now swam up large through the blue-tinged glass of the magnifier.
They were hieroglyphs no longer!
Now I could read those immemorial minuscules as easily as if I had written them myself, for now—or so it appeared through the impossible lens of the magnifier—they were in German, the language of my youth! Eagerly I read a page, two, three, unbelievingly copying the words down in scratchy English as I scanned them through that incredible glass, watching the blurred, alien and unknown characters and symbols writhing into clearly discernible words, phrases, sentences and paragraphs as I slowly slid the magnifier over them where they lay.
Then a tragedy. My hand was so a-shake, my eyes watering with the strain of staring at this continual, mesmerising metamorphosis, that I dropped the glass and gasped horrified as it cracked sharply against a corner of the golden box. Instantly a thin trickle of oily blue liquid seeped out from the interior of the lens—and need I relate what next took place? Less than twenty seconds later no trace remained of that miraculous lens, only its square golden frame and a rapidly dispersing mist of acrid smoke . . .
For a moment I despaired, cursing myself for a clumsy fool and almost crying out loud in my frustration; but then I snatched up my scribbled notes, three pages of them, and realised that all was not lost! In these few scraps of paper I had a key, one which would unlock the secrets of the manuscripts just as surely as any magical magnifier—but much more slowly. Oh, so very slowly.
For nine long years I have laboured—not only over my translations but also to gain recognition of an Age of Man predating prehistory!—but while I have successfully translated a good third of Teh Atht’s runebooks and manuscripts, I have failed dismally to impress any real authority with the enormity of the treasure I found in a lava bomb hurled from the throat of a volcano.
Perhaps if my find had been less spectacular . . . if I had told no one of the disappearing sphere and lens of glass . . . and certainly had I made no mention of the magnifier’s wondrous powers of translation, things might have been different. As it is: still I am irked considerably to be looked upon as “somewhat peculiar,” or as “quaintly eccentric,” and this despite my previous reputation and the fact that I have photographic evidence and friends who will vouchsafe the truth of what I say. My photographs must of course be “fakes,” and all of my good friends mere “dupes.”
And so what more can I say or do? Well, if I cannot tell the world of Theem’hdra, the Primal Continent at Earth’s Dawn, in the way it should be told—as by a scientist above the lowly japes and deceptions of which I stand accused—then I am obliged to tell of it in some other manner. If I cannot present Teh Atht’s words as statements of fact or at very least fragments of myth or fable from a time beyond time, then I must present them as modern fiction.
In this my good friend and collaborator Brian Lumley has been of tremendous assistance, colouring the legends as I unfold them and preparing them one by one for popular publication. If this was not Teh Atht’s purpose, that this tomorrow-world of ours know of his own dimly fabulous time, then I am at a loss to say what his purpose was. Surely he had some such in mind when, placing his treasures in the golden box, he sealed it in its glassy sphere, and taking whatever other precautions were necessary for its aeon-lasting protection he sent it winging down all the ages of time from dim and distant but no longer forgotten Theem’hdra!
Thelred Gustau
What shall we say of that continent at the dawn of time, in the first “civilised” Age of Man? Its inhabitants called it Theem’hdra, which is a name beyond translation; but how may we, looking back into the bottomless abyss of the past, name or classify a landmass which must, by now, have been above and below great oceans many times, returning in the main to its individual rocks and pebbles, and those in their cycle to finely sifted sands? Atlantis by comparison was yesterday . . .
We might perhaps think of Theem’hdra as Pangaea, but not the Pangaea visualised by today’s experts. And that is not to castigate or belittle in any way those authorities whose choice it has been to turn blind eyes upon Thelred Gustau’s work. No, I merely point out that their Pangaea, the “popular” Pangaea, was, in the grand scale of things, last week. In the same scale Theem’hdra was probably months ago.
And yet for me, as for Gustau, the Prim
al Continent no longer lies in the dim and fabulous past. Working as I have upon my colleague’s translations, preparing them for publication as modern “fictions,” I have grown to know Theem’hdra as I know my own England. It is a place to which I might journey simply by closing my eyes and sending my thoughts winging out on a mission of . . . race memory? I know the mammoth plains as well as I know the woods of my own childhood, the twisty alleys of Klühn as thoroughly as the steep streets of Durham City.
. . . Theem’hdra is of volcanic origin. Two volcanoes are mentioned in Teh Atht’s manuscripts, both active in his time, but we base our claim in respect of the continent’s origin mainly on what Thelred Gustau remembers of the map from his golden box; in that and in the photographs, however poor, which he managed to obtain before the parchment map disintegrated.
From Gustau’s reproduction it can be seen that central Theem’hdra is a vast inland sea, almost circular, of about five hundred miles in diameter and ringed by the Great Circle Mountains. South-west of this inner ocean and within the surrounding range lies a mighty volcano which is in fact a secondary cone, still quietly active and now and then disturbingly grumbly. Surely the throat of the original volcano is now the mighty inner sea itself, and the crater walls, eroded by the winds, rains and tremors of a young planet, are now those same Great Circle Mountains?
But what a volcano that must have been! A fire-spewing cauldron five hundred miles across: Krakatoa itself would be the merest squib by comparison! Thus, in what was probably the most violent of all primal convulsions, Theem’hdra was born. And as the ages ticked by there were men . . .
The House of Cthulhu: Tales of the Primal Land Vol. 1 Page 1
