Despite his now-intense interest, I hesitated to reveal more of Curwen’s theory as it doubtlessly would put the scientist in Porter off if not presented carefully, just as it had put me off at first.
“Now, I should warn you that Curwen ran with this species idea, taking it to quite extreme lengths, so I must ask you to bear with me for a moment as I feel obligated to present the whole picture. You’re patience will be rewarded,” I assured him. Taking a deep breath, I plunged right into the thick of it.
“Curwen came to believe this species had a physiology completely foreign to anything known then or now … because it existed long before the birth of our galaxy, it’s anatomy being so nearly perfect that it has resisted evolutionary change for billions of years.” I paused a moment, then continued before Porter could stop me. “He was convinced these creatures were impervious to the effects of extreme heat, cold and pressure far beyond anything we can imagine. Their numbers were actually distributed throughout the universe by cosmic calamities such as the Big Bang.”
Unable to restrain himself, Porter objected, “Good Lord, Ernest! This man was obviously making this all up as he went along. I need something tangible, something I can relate to as a scientist.”
“For the moment, I ask you to simply listen to what I’m telling you. Whether or not you reject certain aspects of what Curwen has to say is irrelevant should the rest shed new light upon your research.
“As for the scientist in you, I might add that, without any doubt whatsoever, Curwen possessed a thorough grasp of all the concepts involved in the Theory of Relativity more than two hundred years before Einstein formulated it. I can prove that, if you’d like.”
Still skeptical, Porter remained politely silent.
“Although vague as to the specific source of whole blocks of information, Curwen stated with certainty that members of the species have inhabited and continue to inhabit the core of every world in the universe and have done so since the time those worlds were created, Earth being no exception.”
Squirming uncomfortably in his seat, Porter stopped me once more. “This is quite fascinating, I’m sure, Ernest, but what makes you think any of this relates to my interests?”
I leafed through my notes to produce a page of thin tissue paper upon which I had carefully traced two illustrations from Curwen’s manuscript. Handing them to Porter, I said, “I’d have to say this page was the real clincher.”
My friend’s jaw immediately dropped with amazement. Awed, he whispered the word “incredible” as he studied the drawings
Pleased at his reaction, I indicated the higher figure on the page. “Odd looking creature, isn’t it? One might even call it unique.” Pointing, I added, “At first, it struck me as just a huge eyeless grub with a black, leathery exterior, but then I read Curwen’s accompanying notes. He was convinced the creature’s perception of its environment is limited to an ever-altering set of vibratory images received through tiny receptors that run the entire length of its torso. The frontal extensions are retractable tendrils, twelve in number, that comprise fully a third of the body. These appendages shoot forth in rapid-fire succession with enough intensity to drive their arrow-like metallic tips through solid rock, allowing the worm, if one may call it that, to propel itself right through such impediments, especially stone as malleable as limestone, with relative ease. At their base, the tendrils surround and conceal a nasty parrot-like beak, similar to that of certain types of squid. This beak serves to crush the dirt and stone fragments so they may then be consumed.”
Porter’s amazed silence urged me on. “In the lower drawing, the Shub is shown as it appears free of the restrictions of the burrow. The upright stance of the main body segment and the resulting splaying of tendrils make it easy to understand the reference to it having a tree-like appearance, don’t you think?”
Porter nodded dumbly in agreement.
“And, though I may be stretching a point, the metal tips on the drooping tendrils could easily account for the reports of its having ‘hooved feet.’”
“Does this Curwen fellow say anything about its size, growth cycle, longevity or reproduction?” Porter asked breathlessly.
“Oddly enough, he makes no mention of the method of reproduction, although he claims the species’ numbers are legion. He had the impression that they are all but immortal, their size being the only obvious indication of their age. However, the largest one he ever saw …”
My friend jerked nearly out of his seat at my words. “The largest he saw? You mean he actually encountered a living specimen?” Porter shrieked.
I admit, at that point I was thoroughly enjoying my companion’s newfound enthusiasm.
“Why, yes,” I responded, “he saw a whole room full of the queer things in a chamber beneath an abandoned church in some small town in Massachusetts, Innsmouth I believe was its name. He visited the leader/high priest of a cult there that worshipped the Shub worms as the minions of Dagon, a deity I’ve managed to trace all the way back to ancient Phoenicia.
“The worms Curwen saw were young ones, less than two feet in diameter. However, the priest informed him that he had personally seen older worms that were nearly six feet in diameter and some twenty feet long. He claimed their growth rate changed over time due to environmental and other, less-tangible factors.”
Scanning through my notes, Porter inquired about a particular section I had copied down verbatim. “What’s this about the Shubs all someday rising to the surface at once ‘when the stars are ripe’ in order to reveal man’s ultimate place in the scheme of things?” he inquired.
“Oh, that,” I said. “Keep in mind that alchemists are usually also occultists, which would account for many of the embellishments Curwen added to an otherwise valid manuscript. He declared mankind would reach its zenith with the coming of the worms but doesn’t really explain the connection between the two events, aside from the mention of the timing. This is all supposed to come about ‘when the stars are ripe.’ I’ve run across the phrase ‘when the stars are right’ several times in other references, so I think it is safe to assume that the use of the word ‘ripe’ in place of ‘right’ constitutes an unintentional error on Curwen’s part. Quite honestly, I must admit that I’ve disregarded that entire part of Curwen’s monograph.”
“When did you say this Curwen lived?” Porter asked.
“Born 1662, died 1771,” I answered.
“My God, he lived for one hundred and ten years! That’s quite an age even for now, let alone back in those times. Maybe he did know something we don’t,” he joked.
I left the drawings and my notes with Porter that night for further review, then bid him a fond good evening, feeling a bit smug at the impression I had made with my research. Only later was I to realize how intensely Porter studied the notes I left behind, especially those relating to Curwen’s hints that the worms are benevolent creatures destined to one day herald a golden age for all of humanity.
I was not to see or hear from him again until he phoned me at the university nearly two months later.
“Ernest, you’re coming on a trip with me,” Porter excitedly announced when he called,” to the Yucatan Peninsula.”
Once calmed, he informed me that he had received a tip from an archaeologist friend working in Mexico that led him to believe that actual surviving specimens of the Shub worm had been spotted but not yet documented in central Yucatan, not far from the post-classic Mayan ruin of Chichen Itza. His archaeologist friend had spoken firsthand to three local Indians who explained that the inner cliff face of a huge cenote near a small village had dropped off and fallen into the waters below during a recent earth tremor, exposing a series of large tunnel-like burrows in the extant limestone wall. The friend’s informants claimed they had lowered themselves on ropes to the very edge of the tunnels where they were frightened nearly half to death by the sight of giant black worms moving about within the newly-exposed cavity.
Porter was hardly able to contain his exciteme
nt. We had to leave as soon as possible, he insisted, and I was the only person he trusted to accompany him. Coming from a wealthy family, Porter offered to make all the arrangements and cover all my expenses. I had nothing scheduled at the university for that quarter, so I accepted his fervid invitation. To tell the truth, I was not convinced we would find Curwen’s Shub worms, but I feel there was a chance we might discover a new species of some kind, and that alone would made the trip worthwhile.
There is no need for me to document our preparations or even the details of the journey itself. Suffice it to say, we arrived in the small town of Qonnoco one week later, eager to reach the site. Porter hired as guides and helpers two of the locals who identified themselves as his friend’s informants. I should mention that, along with climbing, photographic and specimen collecting equipment, I insisted we both be adequately armed. Aside from the dangers of entering unexplored territory, I did not fully trust the local people themselves. I had read about epigrapher Peter Matthews’ near fatal encounter with a mob of misdirected vigilantes in the Chiapas area of Mexico in mid-1997, and I had no intention of exposing Porter and myself to a similar situation without some sort of protection.
We reached the cenote early the next afternoon after hacking our way through an insanely hot, humid and insect-laden stretch of jungle. Peering over its edge, we could clearly see the massive corner of the freshly fallen slab of limestone that jutted up from the dark, slime-covered pool at the bottom of the well-like aperture. The newly-exposed side of the cenote reminded me of nothing more than a toy with which I had been fascinated as a child, an ant ‘farm’ that allowed me to observe the insects in a cross-sected simulation of their natural habitat.
Our superstitious guides steadfastly refused to do more than secure the ropes with which Porter and I lowered ourselves from the lip of the circular opening. The vertical inner walls of the well receded quickly, leaving us suspended in mid-air. We climbed hand-over-hand down ropes for thirty or more feet before swinging back and forth in order to catapult ourselves into the dark cavity before us. I confess that I felt considerable discomfort, even fear, as I gazed into that pitch-black honeycomb of tunnels. Porter, on the other hand, struck me as being almost too eager to plunge into the shadowed unknown.
I felt a certain relief as my feet touched solid ground again, the powerful beam of my battery-powered lantern revealing a twisting labyrinth of huge empty burrows before me, as if I were staring down the abandoned path of an ancient subway line that stretched off into inky nothingness. Both my companion and I were immediately struck by the uniformity of the interlocking shafts, all of which were perfectly rounded and, to our best measurement, approximately ten feet in diameter. I could not imagine a creature large enough to dig such passages, yet it was unlikely that the weathering effect of flowing waters could carve with such steady uniformity. An uncanny silence, reminiscent of an abandoned tomb, haunted the empty, otherworldly terrain. The air was reasonably fresh, at least, tainted only by the humid heat, the smell of wet limestone and an unidentified odor I associated with the rotting contents of a compost pile.
The floors of the shafts proved remarkably free of any debris that might have provided some clue as to what type of creature dwelled there. Not incidentally, there were no indications that the shadows hid any of the normal cave-dwelling life forms we had expected to find; the terrain itself struck us as completely and unnaturally dead. Additionally, the tunnel walls were entirely coated from top to bottom with a gelatinous slime that made walking a veritable challenge, for it clung to our boots and was as slippery as any lubricant.
The tunnels branched off here and there in a most haphazard manner, connecting one to the other on all sides and sloping both up and downhill without warning. We had to take care least we stumble into holes that abruptly opened in our path, holes that continued right on up through the ceiling at various angles. We were both aware that we would have to rely on Porter’s uncanny sense of direction to find our way back to the entrance as, typically, I became hopelessly confused after only a few turns.
I had decided not to inform Porter that I suffer from claustrophobia, and as we traversed the limestone maze I gained confidence that I could contain any mild feelings of discomfort I might experience. I would simply distract myself by taking endless flash photos.
We wandered further into the cliffside for what seemed like an eternity as Porter made note of endless observations or called out the information for me to jot down. Eventually he suggested we pick up the pace of our explorations in anticipation of an encounter with a ‘live’ specimen, whether it be the expected Shub worm or something else entirely. I, on the other hand, secretly wished the creators of such a weird habitat were long dead or had at least fled the vulnerability created by the recent rockslide.
Directly, Porter whispered that I should stand still and remain perfectly silent. I complied in deference to the imperative tone of his voice. Fear knotted my gut as I too heard a noise, as if something large were scraping against the rough walls of an adjacent tunnel, a noise that sent chills down my spine. Porter remained transfixed with fascination.
I tried to give voice to my fear, but Porter hissed, “There, in the tunnel next to this one … something’s coming this way!”
He quickly stumbled to just inside the opening of the indicated passage, pausing there to listen and aim his beam toward the direction of what had become a roar. I finally came to my senses enough to call out before running over and grabbing Porter by the arm, barely snatching him from the path of whatever was approaching at a furious pace.
Just seconds later, we were both thrown backward against the tunnel walls by the tremendous force of the dark leviathan’s passing, it’s canvas-rough skin whizzing awkwardly past us. Neither of us were prepared for the sight of a behemoth whose bulging segments sagged through the opening into our tunnel, one after another, expanding and contracting with a peristaltic movement that propelled the enormous bulk along its earthen trail at a goodly speed. Although the ubiquitous slime surely acted as a lubricant, we were still stunned that such a giant could move with such ease. Had I not snatched Porter back at the last instant, he undoubtedly would have been dragged along the corridor by the titan, crushed into an unrecognizable pulp spread along the curved interior of the shaft. As he realized this fact, I saw real terror steal across his features.
To my utter amazement, all of Porter’s previous courage totally evaporated in an instant, causing him to bolt and run headlong down the tunnel away from me. I set out after him, amazed he could maintain his balance without slipping on the dangerously slick flooring. As we ran, a second gargantuan beast came thundering down a parallel shaft like an infernal engine. Porter screamed as it passed near him, which provided me with new hope that I was not about to lose track of him.
By the time I finally did catch up with him, I felt compelled to try and bolster the man’s confidence for both our sakes. I grabbed and held him tightly, shouting that I too was frightened but that we could leave now, having found more than enough proof to confirm the existence of either colossal Shub worms or something equally spectacular.
Unfortunately, I held onto him as I spoke, so when he slipped in the slime, we both tumbled to the ground, one on top of the other, sliding and rolling until we were covered with earth and disgusting goo. Porter was the first to manage to stand again, and as he helped me to my feet, I insisted we reverse our path and return to the university where we might organize a real research team to study our tremendous discovery. Porter slowly calmed. Once he caught his breath, he sobbed, “But, Ernest, I … I’ve lost all sense of direction. I was fine, I knew exactly where we were until … until those things … Oh, God, I never anticipated such enormity!”
I assured him that we would be fine once he composed himself, although, in all honesty, I really disbelieved my own words. Yet I could not blame him for having turned tail and run; I might have done exactly the same had he not beaten me to it.
“I’ve
let you down, Ernest, let us both down and maybe … maybe even led us to our deaths,” he moaned. “So full of myself, so intent on making a name for myself. How could I be so selfish, so damnably foolish?”
I let him go on, somehow sure that he needed to rid himself of self pity before going on. But, as I watched, his mood dramatically changed once again.
“Oh, what is wrong with me?” he blurted out. “There’s nothing to be afraid of! The Shub worms are benevolent toward mankind, Curwen all but said it himself.”
Dumbfounded by his instant transformation, I asked him what he meant. “You read, even copied down Curwen’s words. Surely you must have realized what he was hinting at?” Seeing my blank expression, he continued. “Curwen implied the worms are guardians of sorts, awaiting the time when mankind is ready to receive whatever knowledge it is that they hold, the knowledge that will show man his true worth and value in the cosmos. It was all there; all it took was a bit of reading between the lines.”
“And so?” I inquired dubiously.
Still choking back the tears, he said, “We have nothing to fear from the worms. Don’t you see? And to think I was terrified of them, convinced we were going to die.” His laugh struck me as somewhat maniacal, I did not like the look in his eyes, and his words made little sense to me.
It was becoming more apparent by the moment that Porter had fallen into some kind of shock as he was spouting nonsense. Nothing short of sheer desperation could have driven him to believe Curwen’s fantasies about the messianic potential of the worms. The only option open to me was to take charge of the situation and humor my befuddled companion, even encourage him in his delusions should it become necessary, at least until we managed to reach safety. Once back in familiar surroundings, I told myself, Porter would surely regain his normal mindframe.
“It’s really ironic, you know,” he added, grinning. “Here I am shivering and crying like a frightened school girl, while you remain steady as a rock. Isn’t the stereotype that the heterosexual is supposed to be macho rather than the homosexual?”
Ancient Exhumations +2 Page 16
