The Book of Cthulhu 2

by Lockhart, Ross

  You laugh. You drag me from my corner to hear his tale and now you laugh just as we sailors did. You there, hold your tongue—and you, shut up and hear me well. You would not laugh had you seen the worms that clawed their way from QueeQueg’s belly, or the ungodly glow that led the ship into the beast’s waters, or the madness that took Pip as the boy began convulsing and speaking in tongues.

  You could not have laughed the night Ahab pulled me aside on deck and tapped the hollow-sounding horror of his leg. “Ye looked upon this,” he told me.

  “Yes sir,” I said, “and beg your pardon, have no desire to again.”

  “You looked,” croaked the mad cabin boy, Pip, hanging from the rigging above, “I looked, it looked, it looked, It looked…”

  “Ye were the only one, besides the boy, to not close your eyes to it,” said Ahab, pulling me closer. “Do ye know what it is?”

  “A peg leg carved from a whale’s bone, sir.”

  “No, Ishmael,” he said drawing up his trouser again. “It is my leg. All of it.” Those twisting angles were in my eye again, an impossible shape of horrifying white melded to the flesh of his knee like wet, diseased wood. It stung my eyes to look upon it, and in the moon’s glare it seemed to writhe in impossible directions as if the twisting point of it met not the deck, but plunged through to some other realm. Pip began screaming above and did not stop until the captain cloaked his leg once more. “It’s growing up my thigh, making more of me itself each day. Do ye think me mad now? Do ye know why I hunt a beast I know I’ll never kill?”

  “Why, Sir?”

  “I have a wife, Ishmael, and a son. A boy who loves singing and counting the stones he lines up on the porch steps. A boy with my voice and his mother’s sweet blue eyes. I will not tell ye their names for I will not let it hear me say them aloud. My life is over. I do this for them. I do not think we will ever succeed in killing the beast, but if I can slow it down for one moment, I will gladly throw my life into its jaws for them.”

  None of you are laughing now are you? I see I have your rapt attention, eyes to mine, mugs not quite meeting your lips.

  You could never find it in you to laugh again had you seen it the morning it rose from the waters to greet us. God almighty.

  The watch on the mast-head that cried, “There she breaches!” tore the eyes from his sockets even before he tumbled to the deck.

  “Aye, breach your last to the sun!” cried Ahab. “Thy hour and thy harpoon are at hand!” He turned to the whalers and shouted, “Down, down all of ye but one man at the fore! Look not upon the beast! The boats—stand by!”

  Ahab gripped my arm, “Ishmael, ye are my bowsman, for I know ye can cast your eyes at its horizon without going mad. Do not be tempted to look directly upon it!”

  It amazes me still that I had the fortitude to step into that whaleboat. The oarsmen pulled for their lives, knowing they had no life left, but they were blessedly turned away from the rising horror that only I, and the captain at his steering, could see with averted eyes. I cannot describe the wrinkles and scars that covered the monster’s forehead like hieroglyphics, tangled with the stumps of rusted harpoons. I focused on the green moss that grew across its dead-white flesh, pretending that I was racing toward moss-wet cliffs that did not have great claws rising from the depths. It must have been one of these claws that reached over us and tore the ship down into the sea with a terrible chorus of screams and breaking timber. I could not look. Ahab was already at my side, harpoon in hand, screaming to the men, “My God, stand by me now!”

  Stand by I could not, for the crashing wave of the monster rushing to meet us swamped me and my oarsmen overboard and into the milky churn. Ahab rode through it like a titan going forth to meet a god, buoyed up by the strength of his unnatural leg, his blessed spear gripped in his hands.

  “From hell’s heart I stab at thee!” Ahab cried and flung the harpoon from the sinking whaleboat. It flew true into the great god’s bottomless right eye, the only moment I glanced into those eyes. Those eyes knew me, and in that moment I knew I was forever marked.

  The beast flew forward with igniting velocity, wanting to swallow us with those eyes. The great tentacles reached to grasp us like a lover. Ahab gripped the harpoon line and heaved against it, twisting the spear in the great socket with a spray of black ichor. Something gave in the beast, some impossible nerve and the creature lashed backwards into the sea, dragging the harpoon line down with it. The loop of it caught Ahab around the neck and voicelessly he shot out of the boat before he even knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eyesplice in the rope’s final end flew out of the stark empty tub, and smiting the sea, disappeared into its depths.

  I do not know why that great man sacrificed himself for you, but no man here deserves his providence. You believe Ahab is mad. He is the Christ come to try and deliver us all, and there’s not enough blood in him to save us.

  None laugh now. None of you can laugh. My words have hooked into you like fishing lines, like the rope that dragged poor Ahab down into the depths. I see that when I tug that portion of my mind, I can make the cup roll lifelessly from your hands, make you twitch where you stand, the spit running from your chins. I too have something twisted and white that the great god gave to me but it is growing someplace deep in my skull.

  I hear it now. I know what it wants. I know I am no safer than you, but even as I hear the distant screams of Nantucket begin to roll in like the tide, and watch the flood of seawater fan beneath the door, that twisted white part of me knows that I will be the last to die in this world. It is my fate to tell the world its story and hold you fast with the harpoon of my voice. ’Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean roiled.

  Fool, I am your eulogist as it slouches toward us like some rough beast waiting to be born.

  Objects from the Gilman-Waite Collection

  Ann K Schwader

  It was the strange appearance of the gold and coral sculptures—their ethereal moon-white luster—that first drew Wayland’s eyes to the museum poster. Objects From the Gilman-Waite Collection, its formal script announced. Unique cultural art-forms of Pohnpei.

  The poster copy continued with a Scientific and Cultural Facilities District note, plus heartier thanks to the Manuxet Seafood Corporation for additional funds, but he was distracted by the sculptures themselves. Arranged on sea-green velvet with a tasteful scattering of shells, they still exuded a feeling he could only describe as otherworldly.

  Yet, at the same time, their design seemed oddly familiar. He felt certain he had never been to this museum before—nor to any other displaying Objects from this particular Collection. Gilman and Waite were equally mysterious. But Manuxet? Was that where his déjà vu came in?

  Wayland stepped closer to the poster, trying to decide. The museum lobby was almost deserted this afternoon. The desk attendant, a plain-faced older woman, sat silently at her terminal.

  Just as well. He had no other hope of amusement, stranded by business obligations in this glorified cow town he had never visited before and was not eager to see again. Purchasing admission, he headed for the elevator and was soon navigating a maze of display rooms on one of the upper floors, searching for the Objects that had so intrigued him.

  He finally located a small placard by one entryway: Gilman-Waite, with an even smaller notation forbidding photography. Wayland peered inside.

  Aside from low-wattage spotlights illuminating various cases and signage, the narrow room was almost dark. And, apparently, deserted. A faint labored hissing came from one corner. Approaching cautiously, he was relieved—and slightly ashamed—to discover a dehumidifier, the first he had noticed in this building.

  It too had a placard. This one warned how important it was not to turn the machine off, as excess humidity could endanger the Objects.

  Wayland snorted. This high desert climate had kept his throat miserably dry all day. Still, the air here did seem moister than it had elsewhere in the museum. The thick shadowy ca
rpet clung to his feet as he turned to read the nearest Object’s label.

  RITUAL(?) ARMLET. Circa 18?? C.E., gold with coral embellishment. Embellishment wasn’t the word he’d have chosen. This coral mimicked the exact shade of pallid flesh—down to delicate blue vein-shadows, running through it by some trick of the light. Partially encased by the strange whitish gold, it twisted and writhed through the armlet’s design. Rather than accenting the precious metal, the coral appeared enslaved—even tormented—by it.

  Wayland’s breath caught as he examined the goldwork more closely. What he had taken at first for arabesques now appeared as lithe, androgynous figures. The cast of their features disturbed him, though it took a few moments to see why. They echoed the armlet’s aquatic flora and fauna: bulging eyes and piscine faces, gill-slitted throats and shimmering suggestions of scales on shoulder and thigh. Spread fingers and toes revealed membranes as they wound through their strange environment, occupied in ways he did not care to consider.

  He began examining the armlet’s shape instead. It seemed intended for a woman, but its wearer would have to be oddly muscled indeed to carry it comfortably on her bicep.

  The strain and twist of muscles under slick cold skin, almost slipping from his grasp as she struggled…

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Wayland started. The young woman standing only a few feet from his elbow wore a docent’s badge. Its white plastic and her pale face bobbed in the dimness.

  “I was wondering about the provenance of this piece,” he said. “Even if the artist is unknown, shouldn’t there be a tribal group or something?”

  The wide dark eyes in that face stared at him, unblinking.

  “Assigning such a label would add little to your experience of these Objects. This exhibit’s intent is to help viewers appreciate them purely as art.”

  Eyes wider than human and darker than night ocean, boring into his soul…

  Something in the back of Wayland’s mind shuddered. “Purely as art,” he echoed, feeling another unwelcome twinge of déjà vu.

  Even if he let himself remember clearly what had happened that night, this couldn’t be her. It had been over fifteen years since that drunken, disastrous party back East. The townie girl one of his buddies had set him up with wouldn’t be a girl any more. She’d be nearly his age, and look older.

  The docent gave him a sympathetic glance. “Perhaps you missed the first placard by the door.”

  As she indicated it, he had an urge to bolt for the corridor, with its bright lights and desiccated air. If anything, the atmosphere here felt even moister than it had a few minutes ago. A faint whiff of decay rose from the carpet as he returned to read the sign he’d overlooked.

  Aside from another nice fat thank you to the Manuxet Seafood Corporation, it didn’t say much. There was even some question about these Objects being from Pohnpei, as they represented “a design tradition divergent from all documented native cultures of that region.” The ritual aspect of many of the Objects was speculative, though Wayland had no doubts. There was too much reverence in the postures of some of the armlet’s aquatic figures.

  The placard didn’t explain what was being reverenced.

  Reading on more carefully, Wayland learned that most of the Objects had been brought to America early in the nineteenth century by one O. Marsh, a New England trading captain. How they wound up in the Gilman-Waite Collection was not noted. Instead, the placard quoted several local art critics, some of them specialists in native art of the Pacific region. To a man—or woman—they praised the exhibit’s “vibrant energy” and “mythic overtones,” without specifying which myths.

  Wayland doubted they had a clue either. Turning away, he headed for one of the largest cases, gleaming under a spotlight in the center of the room. It held a single tall Object cushioned on green velvet.

  To his relief, this one had no coral. It appeared to be a highly baroque sculpture—or at least, it did until he read its label.

  RITUAL(?) TIARA OR HEADPIECE. Circa 18?? C.E., gold.

  Which is clearly impossible. The “gold” looked even paler and more lustrous than it had in the armlet, suggesting (at best) some odd precious-metal alloy.

  Odder still was the tiara’s shape. Though it did seem intended to be worn around something, that something could not be a human skull. The base was all wrong: more elliptical than round, with accommodations for odd bumps and hollows. It was also much too narrow even for a woman’s head—though the design suggested femininity.

  He looked closer, trying to figure out why.

  Cigarette smoke and liquor and beer, far too much beer, mingled with the tang of female sweat. With that shining, baby-silk curtain of hair, obscuring half her face as he pulled her down onto his lap. Even then, he’d felt her muscles resisting . ..

  Wayland swallowed hard. Where had that come from? Surely not from these intricately entwined aquatic motifs—though there was something suggestive in all that twining. Suggestive and malignant, as though the lightless, sightless couplings of deep ocean denizens had been frozen in gold forever, survivals of another eon.

  And where exactly had that eon passed? Like the Objects on the poster downstairs, this tiara reflected no familiar artistic tradition. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, but by whose standards? Another sensibility—another aesthetic entirely—had formed this piece.

  As if reading his thoughts, the docent reappeared at his elbow.

  “The ceremonial feeling of this Object is particularly strong, isn’t it?” Her voice was muted and liquid, tinged with some accent he hadn’t noticed before. “Let the design draw your eye upwards…engage with the flow of the piece. It makes all the difference.”

  Suppressing a cynical comment, Wayland tried it. At first, he didn’t notice much difference: the design did “flow” towards its delicate apex above the center of the wearer’s forehead, but…

  He gasped at a stab of nausea.

  What he had taken for several motifs intertwining at irregular intervals was actually one motif, or rather one entity. One grotesque entity. Its face was mercifully obscured by other design elements, but he could still trace the body as it twisted through what had first seemed a stylized undersea forest.

  He didn’t need the docent’s encouragement to know what he was really looking at.

  Taste of the ocean on her lips…deep night ocean…primal salts and darkness and undying secrets. All the beer and smoke in the world couldn’t wash it away. And when he’d brushed back that curtain of hair and looked into her eyes for the first and only time, he’d seen that she wasn’t young at all, no matter what her body said against his.

  Not a drunken, ignorant little townie he’d managed to steer into a convenient bedroom. Not an easy score. What stared back at him was ancient and cunning, inhuman…

  Wayland turned away. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he moved on to another Object, hoping the docent didn’t follow. The room was dank with shadows, but he could still see (imagine, only imagine) those faint lines on the skin of her throat, just above her collar.

  Like gills.

  Maybe I ought to leave right now, he thought as his feet propelled him through the clinging strands of carpet. The humidity or the lighting or something is getting to me.

  Then he stopped and drew a deep breath. Get a grip. These Objects gleaming faintly in their cases (had there been so many, earlier?) were on display as art. Not as triggers for unpleasant recollections, and certainly not as prods for a neglected conscience. He had come here to pass an afternoon admiring some bizarre bits of goldwork, period.

  Still, he avoided reading any more labels. The docent was right: if these were true art-forms, he shouldn’t need to. Their craftsmanship and design should speak for themselves.

  Faint gleam of gold around one skinny wrist as he pushed her backwards…as he grabbed both those wrists with one hand and pulled them over her head…

  He started bypassing Objects with coral in them. The material w
as too disturbing, triggering fragmentary memories as his eyes slid away. Wayland made himself pause before each of the other cases, though, trying to limit his observations to pure aesthetics.

  It wasn’t easy. The style of these pieces—mostly jewelry or small figurines—had a cumulative effect on the imagination. Engaging with the design flow of a single Object sent ice prickles down his spine. Watching that same flow twist and twine between Objects did something else entirely. He became aware how relentlessly aquatic it was, ebbing and pulsing in an ageless rhythm which was subtly wrong. Offbeat from any human rhythm, even that of his heart.

  “You’re beginning to feel it now, aren’t you?”

  Wayland flinched. The docent’s face, isolated by the general murkiness, floated near his left shoulder. She resembled a swimmer emerging from night water, her eyes bulging with exertion. Lips parted to breathe, revealing…

  …white white teeth, tinier and sharper and way too many more than any girl’s…laughing silently at him even as he did what he’d done in anger. What he would deny doing at all later, and later still make himself forget…

  “Yes.”

  The word emerged without volition. It too floated in the dark between them, confirming something hidden beyond language.

  Wayland stared past her at the next case. Staggered glass shelves held half a dozen small white-gold figurines. Any pattern here—of those shelves or of the Objects themselves—would have to be human, the work of some museum employee. Safe.

  That security lasted all of two seconds as he took in the details of the topmost statuette.

  Then he glanced away, dry-mouthed, for the exit.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  Damn. The docent was still there, goggling at him in the murk. She had remarkably ugly eyes: puglike or maybe froglike, with a flat, cold curiosity.

  “Just wondering what time it was getting to be,” he lied. “Seems like I’ve been here a while, and it’s a pretty intense experience.”