“I will say no more on the subject, Mr. Hathorne. You may consider this interview at an end.”
Allowing me no opportunity for response, my host escorted me to the door and bid me good night. I left feeling sure that whatever disease had ravaged his body had also affected his mind. I felt so sure of this that I felt no need to investigate the other cases of disappearance to which Markson had directed me.
Markson’s unexpected gift occupied all of my attention in the weeks that followed. To my delight, he had amassed Farland’s letters in precise chronological order, methodically binding them in notebooks. The initial page of each letter was carefully dated in an altogether different hand, apparently Markson’s, the oldest being dated nearly two years before Farland’s disappearance.
The earliest letters reflected Farland’s fascination with Amerind art, just as Markson had stated, the sculptor’s inquiries being interspersed with his lengthy dissertations detailing his search for some means to elevate the “intrinsic essence” of his artistic endeavors. Much of this latter text struck me as being the result of his dissatisfaction not only with his work but also with the critical acclaim he had achieved. He repeatedly bemoaned the waste of his talent and effort in creating “relics” which, after momentarily exciting a few critics and gallery owners, ended up being little more than dust gatherers in some collection.
At the same time, he kept Markson quite busy researching various aspects of Amerind history and art, the topics ranging from the several schools of Mayan painting and sculpture, to the sand paintings of the tribes in the Southwestern United States. It must have been quite taxing for Markson to attend to his schedule of classes while still finding time to write an endless number of responses to Farland’s requests for more and more information.
Nothing that Farland had written seemed all that exceptional until a tour of Mexico City’s Anthropological Museum brought him face to face with the eight-foot likeness of Coatlicue. It was carved “in the round” and represented the only image of the goddess known to have survived. Her name, I discovered, translates as “She of the Serpent Skirt,” a reference to the raiment apparent in the museum guidebook photo. Farland had been so overwhelmed by the eidolon that he began to write Markson daily, urgently pleading with the scholar for more information about it. Markson seems to have done his utmost to comply with these requests, but in the meantime, Farland instigated his own brand of study, involving theories and speculations he considered too “outré” for the conservative professor.
I still felt repulsed by the same effigy that had made such an impression on Farland, finding it impossible to imagine anyone worshipping such a monstrosity. Just what was it that had so intrigued Farland that he would abandon all other pursuits? The answer had to lie somewhere within his final correspondence with Markson.
Farland had explored several “forbidden” texts located in private collections both here and abroad, his reputation and association with Markson providing carte blanche access wherever he went. He seems to have felt no obligation to share the results of this private researches with Markson, simply integrating it all into a set of interlocking revelations he believed would provide him the means to instill life in his sculpture.
The letters became almost a chronicle of intensifying dementia. Markson seems to have made periodic attempts to point out the irrationality of his friend’s delusions, but to little effect. In several letters, Farland even scoffed at the scholar’s warnings, inferring the professor predicted certain disaster should he persist in his sorcerous efforts. Farland planned to model his carving after Coatlicue in the steadfast belief that the original’s geometric contours themselves contained an inherent power. He claimed the discrete non-Euclidean geometry of the statue could create an elision in the space-time continuum, a minor gateway through which an adept could entice interdimensionally peculiar life forms. He stressed, for Markson’s benefit, that he could control any life forms he might so entice and protect himself should his sculpture awaken with the appetites of its predecessor. Unfortunately, he neglected to elaborate on those methods. Still, I could not comprehend these two intelligent men taking this nonsense seriously. Farland had made little attempt to convert Markson, merely pointing out documented instances of bi-cephalic serpents, a mutation real enough though exclusive to rattlers; he neglected, however, to mention that such freaks of nature never reach maturity despite both heads being quite functional. I had to assume, therefore, that something else, something he was unwilling to discuss with me, had convinced Markson to accept the reality of the supernatural.
It occurred to me that Farland might have experimented with the same hallucinogenic drugs taken by the Aztec priests for their ceremonies. Under such influence, the terrible stone entity might appear to achieve at least an immanent mobility; yet nothing in the letters directly indicated drug use of any sort, and it seemed unlikely that Farland would have settled for peyote, knowing the Aztec priests had greatly preferred bufotenine. Bufotenine is produced only by a rare and poisonous giant marine toad (bufo marinus), which would have proven extremely difficult for Farland to obtain. If he had indeed experimented with drugs, I believe his conversion to supernatural beliefs would have been an overnight process rather than the gradual evolution expressed in his writings. The only other alternative I could see was that something he learned while exploring forbidden lore had affected him deeply enough to have altered his entire mindset.
An important adjunct to the letters was my own study of the Aztec, beginning with Prescott’s familiar The Conquest of Mexico. But to get beyond the general, I was compelled to reference more than one treatise written by the friars of the post-conquest period. Many of these, unfortunately, had never been translated from the original sixteenth-century Spanish, but I managed to struggle through, armed with my knowledge of contemporary Spanish and a dictionary pertaining to the linguistic quirks of the period. What I read therein put me off my appetite.
Coatlicue, I found, was more than a creation goddess; she was the embodiment of Mother Earth to the Aztecs. As she, along with the other important deities, bestowed favor upon those who fed them, thousands of people were butchered annually in bloody sacrifice intended to quell the appetites of the divinities. For offerings to Coatlicue, the victims’ still-beating hearts were cut out and burned with copal incense in braziers before her idol — the very idol now residing in the museum in Mexico City. The victims’ mutilated bodies were tossed down from the pyramidal heights to be fought over by the mob waiting below. Whoever gained possession of the corpse would flay it and display the skin publicly; the dermally-stripped torso and limbs were used to flavor a ceremonial soup that was consumed by all in imitation of Coatlicue, who it was believed also feasted upon dead bodies. Her ghoulish propensity is reflected by the severed human hands and hearts strung on her necklace, along with the pendant human skull that dangles between her flaccid breasts. Although this cannibalistic penchant of the goddess was literally interpreted by Farland, many scholars believed the Aztecs were simply employing a metaphor to explain earth’s reclamation of organic matter; dead bodies decomposed in earth, thereby replenishing the fertility of the soil. This symbolic interpretation explains the references in Aztec prayers to “She who receives the bodies of the dead, who devours the flesh of the skeletons.” Farland, however, rejected this theory, preferring a living abomination over a mere analogy.
And it was upon a new version of this fiendish aberration that Farland dreamed of bestowing life as his ultimate masterpiece. “What,” the artist had asked in a letter, “if the Mona Lisa had been provided with the resources to explain her enigmatic smile?”
“What,” I had to ask myself, “if Picasso’s abstracted mutations had come to life?” Even that would be preferable to Farland’s Aztec monstrosity!
I no longer harbored any doubts about the state of Farland’s sanity; I concluded he had become quite certifiable. I remained puzzled, however, by Markson’s part in all this. How was it the professor was s
o sure Farland was dead, and what was the meaning of the implied threat in his parting words to me?
After a second read through Farland’s correspondence, I felt I had reached an impasse — I still had no idea what had become of him. From clues spread widely throughout the letters, I gathered he had set up some sort of studio, appropriately in his family’s subterranean burial vault, in early April. The letters mentioned that the entrance lay secreted behind a trio of dogwood trees, in a wooded area not far from the house. I saw no other option than to visit the property myself, gambling that I might still contrive some conclusion for my book. Should Aylesbury prove another dead end, I would stop by Markson’s home in nearby Middleboro for a second, more impromptu visit.
A week later, I was back in summer-heated Providence, where I rented an air conditioned car before heading for Aylesbury. After a nearly two-hour drive, I found it necessary to seek directions to the Farland property, but the local townsfolk proved uncooperative, some even turning their backs upon my inquiries. The town’s metropolitan area consisted of only four blocks of tiny business and office buildings, in the midst of which I spotted the sheriff’s office. As part of my initial research into Farland’s disappearance, I had spoken to Sheriff Waterman of Aylesbury, who had been decent enough on the phone. I parked my car outside his office, hoping Waterman would be available and willing to provide me with directions.
Sheriff Waterman, a short slovenly man, squirmed uncomfortably behind his desk as I introduced myself, then explained my predicament. I eventually managed to extract sufficient directions despite the slurring of his speech due to the wad of tobacco he was chewing. I then asked him if there had been any progress in the search for Farland.
“Progress?” he drawled. “I know he’s more gone now than he was when you called me from Californier, but that’s ‘bout all.”
He spit, missing the spittoon, then wiped his chin. “Listen, mister, you go sniffin’ ‘round out there and chances are I’ll be a lookin’ for you next, an’ I don’t relish the nuisance. There ain’t nothin’ out there worth writin’ ‘bout; Farland’s gone and, well, he ain’t exactly been missed ‘round here. Take my advice — go home, write yourself a dirty novel, and forget all ‘bout this one.”
I did not take the sheriff’s advice, but I had wanted to ask just what Farland had done to make himself such a pariah. The artist had generally been described elsewhere as affable, though self-involved and moody at times. I felt sure the local disdain for Farland had curtailed the sheriff’s efforts to locate the man, thereby increasing the odds of my uncovering some further evidence. If I could solve the mystery or, even better, find the artist himself, the success of my book would be guaranteed, along with my own celebrity.
Following the directions I had been given, I stayed on the post road until I spotted a private, unpaved drive off to the left, about three miles out of town. A few minutes later I parked my car before the dilapidated Farland house, a stark Georgian structure with upper stories nearly obscured by an overgrowth of ancient oaks. Finding the front door unlocked, I entered, leaving it wide open behind me to allow more light into the shadowy interior. A quick perusal of the ground floor revealed that at least three of the first-floor rooms had been occupied, possibly as recently as the previous year — just about the time Farland vanished. The thick dust and heavy fall of cobwebs over the stairs indicated the upper stories had not been used for several years.
In a sunnier room in the back, there was a bed which I assumed had been Farland’s. In that same room, I found a small collection of books and handwritten notes scattered across the top of an old fashioned desk. Among the confusion I also noticed a daily calendar which noted the date as June 21, the Summer Solstice; “Markson at 11” had been scribbled across that same page. I recalled that Farland had last been seen on June 10, although he was not pronounced officially missing until June 22.
The notes were in total disorder and contained passages in several oddly unfamiliar languages along with numerous signs and symbols I assumed were magical emblems. Among the books Farland had collected for reference was Pallida Mors, a vampiric bible with a sanguine history, along with other, equally intriguing banned titles such as Unaussprechlichen Kulten, Cultes des Ghoules, the Popul Vuh, and the Biblia Sinistre. Although not an antiquarian, I recognized the great value of some of those rare tomes, at least one of which was bound in skin, probably human. Tucked among the pages of the Popul Vuh, I found what I assumed was Farland’s attempt to decipher a series of Mixtec pictographs from The Borgia Codex in relation to certain passages from von Junzt’s demonic text.
Thinking I would have ample time later to study the paperwork with more care, I returned to my rented car in search of a light. The glove compartment yielded a working flashlight, so I set out for the wooded area behind the house, determined to locate the crypt’s hidden entrance before dark. According to Markson, Farland worked on his sculpture of Coatlicue in the makeshift studio he had built within the crypt. Considering the artist’s obsession with that particular sculpture, its presence or absence should determine whether Farland was still somewhere in the area.
I searched for nearly an hour before finding the trio of dogwood trees Farland had mentioned in one of his letters. I was tired, drenched in sweat, and covered with tiny cuts from thrashing through bramble bushes and shrubs by the time I finally came upon the trees that marked the entrance to the family sepulcher. Unable to find a path through or around the trees, I forced my way between the rough, twisted trunks of two of them, my skin and clothing already miserably torn. Finally, I found myself facing the rusting metal bars which served as gate to the Farland family crypt.
The inner structure lay deep underground, but the entry shaft had been carved directly into the rocky earth of a mound that served to camouflage its presence. Farland had chosen to work in the isolation of a 300-year-old corpse lair, he claimed, for the eerie ambiance of the place.
I made short work of the lock and chain that bound the heavy bars of the outer gate to an earth-imbedded framework, and prepared to enter the dark tunnel.
Suddenly I felt overcome by a claustrophobic anxiety that I had not experienced since childhood. I shone my light into the dank shaft to reveal roughhewn walls siding a dirt floor that extended some ten or more feet before abruptly ending at a massive door engraved with the family name. I timorously entered and approached the inner door, praying it would be locked. The latch handle turned easily, but I had to apply my full bodyweight in order to shove the heavy barrier of the door inward, whereupon there was revealed a pitch-dark expanse that reminded me of nothing more than a black abyss of Hell. A gut-wrenching odor, far worse than any normal fumes I would have expected even in a sealed tomb, assaulted me immediately as I stepped inside, forcing me to lean momentarily against the moist wall before continuing.
Whatever form Farland’s experiment had taken, I could see instantly that it had gone very wrong, for the inner crypt was a total shambles. Areas of the ancient walls and ceiling had recently caved-in, leaving piles of stone and masonry heaped and strewn across the floor. Only a few support columns remained in place to prevent the earth-burdened roof above from crashing down and filling in the large room. As I maneuvered through the rubble, avoiding unstable structural supports, the beam of my flashlight defined only the slimmest shaft of light through the aggregated shadows.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness around me, I slowly began to spot a few half-buried sculptor’s tools among the debris; I was definitely standing in Farland’s studio, or what remained of it. I discovered crude torches protruding from the farthest wall, by which I managed to illuminate the place somewhat. Thank God I had thought to bring matches with me. How the man could possibly accomplish such intricate carving by the feeble light of torches was beyond me, but Farland had somehow managed it marvelously, for within a spacious recess cut from the raw stone of the room’s circumference, I beheld his awesome work standing apparently undamaged in the midst of the dust-covere
d wreckage.
I pushed aside endless curtains of diaphanous cobwebs, often stumbling over loose stones that lay hidden beneath at least six months’ accumulation of grime blanketing the limestone floor. A fallen plinth blocked my near approach to the statue, but even when viewed from a distance I was impressed by the unbelievably detailed features of the figure and the awesome skill of its creator. Only the pale translucence and immobility of the eight-foot idol tainted the illusion of true vitality, and I wondered at the nature of the material from which it had been carved. Even the gentle transparency of alabaster could not approach the inherent luminescence of its substance.
What amazed me most, however, was the great beauty Farland had culled from such a hideously deformed figure. I found it unexpectedly fascinating rather than frightening, feeling at ease in its presence even in such dank and eerie surroundings. It frustrated me that I could not descry an unobstructed pathway to it through the rubble, as I felt an urge to run my hands along its delicate squamate contours. I wondered what effect this new Coatlicue would have upon the viewer when seen up close under proper gallery lighting, for in its own bizarre way, it was breathtakingly beautiful. I sensed no innate evil in Farland’s depiction of the distorted creature, unlike the foul revulsion elicited by the original even in photographs.
I must have stood entranced before the enlivened sculpture for some time, far removed from thoughts of aught else. Then, while attempting to lean closer that I might better observe certain aspects of it, my foot slipped on a small rounded pebble and I fell roughly forward across a pile of broken masonry. As the dust cleared, I tried to right myself in order to stand up, but I slipped in the course of my efforts, such that my groping palm came to rest upon an oddly shaped object in the dirt. Carefully lifting my hand, I turned my light that I might illuminate whatever it was I had found, recognizing immediately a spinal column with the shoulder blades and one arm still attached — human bones. Caught totally off guard, I screamed and grappled my way awkwardly to my feet.
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