He looked up to ask the woman that very question, but she was gone.
On the long bus trip to In Salah, Peel threw the vial into the uncaring sands. Quickly it disappeared from his sight, and more importantly, his reach.
David Conyers is a science fiction and horror writer from Adelaide, South Australia. He edited the anthologies _Extreme Planets_, _Cthulhu Unbound 3_, _Undead & Unbound_ and _Cthulhu's Dark Cults_, is a reviewer and interviewer with _Albedo One_, and has won the Australian Horror Writers Associations' Fiction Award twice. Some have said he is Australia's most prolific Cthulhu Mythos author with his stories appearing in over two dozen anthologies and with contributions to a dozen gaming books for the popular _Call of Cthulhu Role-Playing Game_. "The Masked Messenger" is one in a series of short stories featuring Major Harrison Peel, whose further adventures can be found _The Spiraling Worm_ (Chaosium), _The Eye of Infinity_ (Perilous Press) and _Cthulhu Unbound 3_ (Permuted Press). He is working on one and maybe two new collections of Peel stories. http://www.david-conyers.com/
John Goodrich is so manly that Wilum Pugmire once called him a crybaby. He has been writing Cthulhu Mythos stories for eight years, and a few people have noticed. The products of his warped mind and word processor appear in Arkham Tales, Cthulhu Unbound, Dead but Dreaming 2, Cthulhu’s Dark Cults, Urban Cthulhu, and the NEHW’s Epitaphs. Sample his madness and comic-book obsession at qusoor.com.
Story illustration by Adam Baker.
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Cthulhu Does Stuff is a monthly comic strip by Ronnie Tucker and Maxwell Patterson. Visit their website, Max and Ronnie do comics.
Maxwell Patterson is a freelance writer, available for parties, corporate events and Bat Mitzvahs. You can contact him at [email protected].
Ronnie Tucker is an artist who plies his wares (eww, gross!) at http://ronnietucker.co.uk/. You can contact him at: [email protected].
Echoes from Cthulhu’s Crypt
by Robert M. Price
As of this writing, a Wizard of Oz remake is about to hit the big screen. Has it ever occurred to you that “The Dunwich Horror” might be understood as rewriting of The Wizard of Oz? Consider the parallels. The Dorothy Gale analogue (though I wouldn’t suggest getting a Judy Garland look-alike to play him) would be Dr. Henry Armitage. It is he who will set out on an enchanted journey to the Emerald City of Dunwich. He is prompted to that mission by his encounter with Wilbur Whateley who seems a veritable monster but is actually quite easily overcome, as it happens, by Dr. Armitage’s guard dog in the University Library. Let me suggest, in pompous scholarly tones, that the watchdog is Lovecraft’s version of Toto, while Wilbur Whateley (note the double “W” in the name) is the counterpart of the Wicked Witch of the East, killed as soon as we see her, felled by the falling Gale farmhouse, the carrying away of which by the tornado echoes the eventual destruction of the Whateley farmhouse by what appears to be an invisible hurricane. The real Dunwich Horror of the title is Wilbur’s fraternal twin, and it corresponds to the Wicked Witch of the West, who of course looks exactly like Lovecraft in drag (don’t expect me to believe you’ve never noticed!). She, and the Twin, pass out of the world in similarly anticlimactic ways, one doused with simple water, the other spritzed with an atomizer. And if we need an analog to Glenda the White Witch, it must surely be albino Wiccan Lavinia Whateley.
Henry Armitage, like Dorothy, is accompanied on his trip to the fabled city by two allies, fellow faculty Rice and Morgan, and then, in effect, they pick up a third savant, the local lore-master, Zebulon Whateley. Together, these men are Lovecraft’s version of the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodsman (Rice even has a rifle to match the Woodsman’s axe), and the Cowardly Lion. The frightened but feisty Dunwich villagers are perfect Munchkins. The winding rural roads lined with domed hills and populated with eerie, unnatural-seeming trees are mirrored by the Yellow Brick Road and enchanted apple trees who pitch their fruit at passersby. The powerful, talismanic ruby slippers, so coveted by the Witch of the West, correspond to the Necronomicon. The Witch and Wilbur alike perish in pursuit of these grails.
The psychopomp whippoorwills of “The Dunwich Horror,” conveying dead souls to their terrible fate, match up with the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys (though Lovecraft’s Night-Gaunts would be an even better match—too bad they’re not in this story!). The Great Oz himself is none other than Yog-Sothoth, looming above mere mortals in his thunder-croaking firmament. He turns out to be a mere showman cringing behind a curtain, and it is his disappointing human persona, Professor Marvel, whom we may match with Wizard Whateley. As Stan Sargent has noted, Old Whateley must have been the physical stand-in for Yog-Sothoth during the impregnation of Lavinia Whateley. Again, a disappointing old geezer is all you get when you’ve been promised a god!
Have I convinced you yet? Somehow I didn’t think so.
Robert M. Price is an American theologian and writer. He teaches philosophy and religion at the Johnnie Colemon Theological Seminary, is professor of biblical criticism at the Center for Inquiry Institute, and the author of a number of books on theology and the historicity of Jesus, including Deconstructing Jesus (2000), The Reason Driven Life (2006), Jesus is Dead (2007), Inerrant the Wind: The Evangelical Crisis in Biblical Authority (2009), The Case Against the Case for Christ (2010), and The Amazing Colossal Apostle: The Search for the Historical Paul (2012).
A former Baptist minister, he was the editor of the Journal of Higher Criticism from 1994 until it ceased publication in 2003, and has written extensively about the Cthulhu Mythos, a "shared universe" created by the writer H. P. Lovecraft.
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The Strange Tale of Samuel Winchester
by Andrew Nicolle and Samantha Henderson
"I'm here to see M. Gaston Maspero," I told the guard.
He looked dubious, and glanced at his similarly turbaned, similarly armed companion.
“I assure you, it is a matter of import,” I said, handing him that morning's missive.
He examined it, motioned me to sit at one of the benches arranged against the marbled walls, and departed to confirm my appointment.
The remaining guard watched over me, wary and agitated. I was certain that his restless fidgeting would cause his firearm to discharge. Apparently the gravity of the situation--whatever it could be--was more serious than I imagined.
For the hundredth time I wondered what Maspero wanted with me. It was hardly likely that he wanted, at this early hour, to discuss one of the dozen or so monographs I’d published in the last decade upon the hieroglyphs of the Pyramid Texts, or the proto-language of Kush. Or my work with E. A. Wallis Budge on his translation of the Papyrus of Ani--more popularly known as the Egyptian Book of the Dead.
But . . . there was the matter of the Fotheringham Dig.
I met Clive Fotheringham at Cambridge during my student years. Some time later he visited me at my family estate in Australia, and I was able to show him some fascinating Aboriginal cave paintings. We subsequently corresponded, and when he heard I was in Egypt he very kindly offered me the limited hospitality of his latest dig. Of course, I had accepted with alacrity, as word had reached me of the intriguing finds he had already made at the current season's site.
Fotheringham had secured the right to excavate in a dry gulch just west of the Valley of the Kings -- an unpromising spot, it seemed at first, away from the rich caches of the pharaohs. But he had been uncovering wonderful artifacts, objects rarely seen in tombs, imported or captured from countries the Ancient Egyptians encountered. It was also an older site, I had heard, than those currently being excavated, and most exciting to me, they had found chest upon chest of scrolls and other documents.
Clive welcomed me to begin with, giving me the run of the site. I assisted his crew in their labors for some days, and was looking forward to studying the documents they'd discovered.
But I awoke one day to find that the demeanor in the camp had changed considerably --
why, I knew not. Clive was cold towards me, his assistants all but rude, and the native laborers hired from a local village avoided me entirely, standing at a distance and making surreptitious signs against the evil eye. Uncomfortable and disappointed, I made my excuses and returned to Cairo and the comforts of Shepherds' Hotel.
That morning Maspero's message arrived.
A gaunt, rat-faced Frenchman interrupted my ruminations.
“I am so very sorry,” he said. “Monsieur Maspero has been detained elsewhere today. I am one of his colleagues, Louis Montet. Please, follow me.”
Before I could utter a word in response, he turned and strode away.
I followed Monsieur Montet through corridors and down stairs into the basement of the building. He ushered me into a small office situated near one of the many storage rooms.
Wasting no time, he directed my attention to a fragile wooden box on the floor next to the table. Although worn, the box was in far too good condition to have been crafted in the time of the Pharaohs. If pressed to estimate its age, I would’ve said it was no more than fifty years of age. There were a number of queer symbols carved into the lid that I could not decipher.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
"At the Fotheringham Dig, of course." He frowned. “Were you not there? When Monsieur Maspero received word that you had been present at the site, he sent for you immediately.”
“Yes. Yes, I was there.” I said. “What do you have in the box?”
“You would know better than I, Monsieur,” he said with a sardonic smile.
He carefully removed the lid from the box, revealing the artifact contained within.
I sprang to my feet, toppling my chair.
M. Montet stared at me, amazed. He had the grace to recoil when I glared at him.
I growled at the Frenchman. “What game are you playing, you and Maspero?”
As mentioned, I had the privilege of working with Wallace Budge during his translation of the Ani Papyrus. Say what you may about Budge's scholarly shortcomings -- and I admit there are many -- his translation paved the way for subsequent Egyptologists. I cannot claim credit, nor do I desire acknowledgement for my small part in Budge’s accomplishment. I am a private man, and the adulation of hoi polloi is never something I desired. Respect of other scholars in the field and access to digs is all I ask, and happily my small private fortune liberates me from the necessity of earning a living.
And my translation of the Papyrus was based on an earlier version, one that predated the Pyramid Texts, even the Coffin Texts. One that had made its way, fragmentally to such far flung places as South Africa, or Tibet, or my own beloved Australia. Naturally I kept this information from Budge, and from anyone else in the field. Such knowledge was not intended for the general public.
My private translation of the Papyrus, my only copy, was safe in Sydney, locked in my private study.
How was it possible, then, that a second copy, bound in gold and decorated with strange, uncouth symbols, with my own name on the cover, should be in this ersatz-pharonic coffin, save that a monstrous practical joke was being played on me?
It was inconceivable that such a man as Maspero, or my late hosts on the dig, should be part of this. But what else was I to think?
I turned on the bewildered Montet.
“Well, sir,” I demanded. “What is the meaning of this?”
He shrugged. “We were hoping you could tell us, Monsieur.”
“Did you not just say the box was found at the site of the Fotheringham Dig? Why was I not informed then?”
M. Montet spoke carefully. “There were other artifacts. No doubt M. Fotheringham thought the shock would be too great for you.”
I struggled to maintain my composure. M. Montet probably was not aware of my status as a decorated veteran of the Boer War. And the Boer was a most brutal conflagration of which I am reticent to discuss, especially with a Frenchman.
My leg is burning.
Halfway up my left thigh, on the inside, a poisoned coal glows white-hot, and heat and dull needles flow in waves up and down my body.
When they move me, it feels like my bones are glass, shattered inside my skin. I try to run away inside myself, but the pain chases me up and down the passages of my mind, my body.
A blur of blue sky, and Dingane's face hovers above me. Black as pure, virgin coal, not this coal that burns me and becomes ash, as my leg becomes ash, as my blood boils away and my veins become ash.
Somebody touches my forehead. Somebody is arguing. Their jumbled words twist, angry and serrated.
No -- that is the poison.
Montet's voice came from a long way away. "Monsieur?"
I forced myself to focus.
“I am not so easily shocked as you may think. What are these other artifacts?”
He paled visibly, and a shudder twisted his slight frame.
From his pocket he removed several photographs, placing them in a neat pile on the table. The first and second showed the queer carvings in the lid of the box, and the bound volume bearing my name.
The rest, though . . . the rest chilled my very marrow.
I remained silent, pondering the implications of this frightful discovery.
My leg is burning, but that fades quickly.
There is heat, and weight. Warm weight. Something heavy and sticky covers my face; I am embedded in it.
I can't breathe. But I don't have to breathe; I never have before.
For a long time, I sleep.
I dream about fields covered in stubby bush, and sheep grazing, and waterholes, and trees with long, ribbonlike leaves...
Men on horseback, and ash-grey men with lines painted on their bodies, spears in their hands, and a ship . . .
The feel of a hot rifle, greasy in your hands, and the tarry smell of it, and eating roasted meat by a campfire, and a flicker in the bush, a green flash at my thigh . . . boomslang . . .
I must focus. “You were right to summon me here. I presume Monsieur Maspero is at the site now?”
“He is. I received word via telegram that you are welcome to join him, if you so choose.”
Again, I grimly considered the sepulchral scene in the photograph: the withered, yet curiously preserved corpse slouched against the wall of its tomb, its left hand gripping a bejeweled dagger held outstretched over the carved wooden box; the curious carvings on the walls, stygian horrors rendered in frenzied strokes; the tattered remnants of an Australian mounted rifleman’s uniform hanging about the corpse’s lean frame; the face, oh especially the face, for I recognized it well.
For, you see, the face is one I have glimpsed many a time in my own bathroom mirror.
That face, frozen in a rictus of terror, was my own.
I can hear Dingane's voice, hoarse with chanting. The pain in my leg has faded to a fierce itch.
All of me itches, beneath a crust of dirt and sweat.
Now I have to breathe, and I can't through the thick mass of stringy, stickyness that presses me down. Desperate, I tear at it, burrowing through stinking corruption. And then -- air, so sweet, and light. The mass gives me up reluctantly, as if it would feast on me slowly.
I stagger away as far as I can before collapsing, breathing raggedly. I blink to clear my eyes and look from where I emerged.
Under hot African skies, a pile of oozing flesh, here and there black with flies. Underneath it's dull pink. I recognize a leg, marbled in softened fat. There a shoulder, with the bone melting through.
A rotting pile of skinned oxen.
I look away, and see a tall black man standing near me, holding a short stabbing spear. He looks familiar.
He beckons me away and I follow.
We arrived at the site of the Fotheringham dig late afternoon. I stepped down from the motor carriage, grateful to have arrived in one piece, for M. Montet's handling of the infernal contraption had left much to be desired.
While we unloaded the box and the book within, M. Maspero emerged from
his white canvas tent and hurried toward us. The cruel desert winds were blowing, and M. Maspero was clearly anxious to return to his tent.
He ushered us inside, and closed the entrance flap. The wind whistled through the gaps in the canvas, but it was still a good deal quieter inside than out.
"I am glad you decided to come," he said, his forehead creased with concern.
I merely nodded, not entirely sure that I had made the decision at all. My faculties had seemed greatly impaired after M. Montet had shown me the photographs of the tomb and its unfortunate inhabitant, and I felt passive, almost sleepy. I hoped that what had seemed utterly mysterious back in Cairo would in fact turn out to have a simple explanation.
"I can tell you now, Monsieur, it was quite a nasty shock for us, as I imagine it was for you, too. I could barely credit what I was seeing. I had to ask M. Fotheringham several times if you were still living, and he assured me that you were."
"Has Clive regained his composure?" I asked. "He made it clear that I was no longer welcome here, for reasons that quite frankly mystified me at the time."
He clapped me on the back. "Oui, Monsieur. In fact, he suggested we invite you back here to help us with the investigation. Come, we shall inspect the tomb, and you can discuss matters further with him. He has been very busy these past few days."
Leaving the box and book in the tent, we stepped out into the maelstrom of stinging sands, and M. Maspero led us down the ravine to the site of the macabre discovery. Some of the laborers looked away as we passed, and others glared, their faces harboring barely concealed malice. No doubt there was talk regarding the uncanny resemblance of the body in the tomb and myself, and I wondered what local superstitions had been piqued.
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