The Tales from the Miskatonic University Library

by Darrell Schweitzer

  “You speak English!” she said at last. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Bill Drake,” I said. “Traveling. Like yourself, I assume.” I frowned. “You’re not dreaming, are you?”

  “I…” she said, but a panicky look came into her eyes and she glanced around quickly. “No, I’m not. But I think I’ve seen someone…”

  “No doubt,” I said. “Most dreamers don’t stay here long. It’s the nature of dreams. A few seconds, a minute or two, and they move on. If you sit in one place long enough here in Ulthar, you’ll see dozens. But there are some who dream more…” I took a swallow of nutty, golden ale, searching for the word I wanted. “More enthusiastically, I suppose. Some even dream strongly enough to come here in the flesh.”

  “Is that how you got here?” There was a hunger in her dark eyes, and I almost pitied her. The Dreamlands are unsettling enough; even Ulthar which is friendly and more or less innocuous if you remember to treat the cats well. But to arrive here as a stranger upon the wings of the hideous Byakhee…

  “You have not gone mad,” I said. “It does happen to some, especially those who arrive upon a Byakhee. They are unspeakable things. Is that how you came?” I knew, of course. I simply wanted to hear what she would say.

  “Byakhee,” she said, and her jaw tightened. Her hand trembled as she brushed the coppery hair back from her eyes. “The wings…the voice. I can…” The broomstick slipped from her grasp and she sat down abruptly upon a low, wooden bench. “I can’t,” she sobbed, and tears glistened on her cheeks. “I won’t.“

  I signaled the lass behind the bar for a measure of Black Spirits. She glanced across at the sobbing woman, and nodded to me in silent agreement. I took the glass of tarry stuff, reeking so strongly of habswort and wrenbane that it cut through the inevitable drifa-smoke, and sat next to Anastasia. “Drink this,” I said. “It smells, I know, but it will help. But don’t take too much. A glass or two, perhaps, no more. I had too much after my first…journey. I forgot my own name for half a year.”

  She took the Black Spirits delicately, doubt written large across her face. At my unspoken urging, she sniffed, then screwed up her eyes and downed the stuff in a swallow. Blinking, gasping, she rocked back and I caught the glass as it slipped from her fingers. A wide, incredulous smile blossomed upon her face. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s so good. I can’t…” She turned to me. “How did you know?“

  I set the glass to one side. “Black Spirits are distilled by a tribe of arachnomorphs to the south. The river-men trade for it. What, exactly, makes up the drink nobody knows for certain. But it has the effect of clouding memory and softening recall, especially of recent events. Seasoned travelers usually carry a flask with them here in the Dreamlands.” And elsewhere, of course. The Dreamlands, fraught though they be, pale in comparison with places like Carcosa and Yuggoth. I’m not sure there are enough Black Spirits in existence to cope with an extended journey to Yuggoth.

  “Business now,” I said when she had caught her breath and the color had returned to her face. “Where is the book, Anastasia?”

  “You know my name?” She blinked muzzily. Black Spirits also fuddle the mind for some little time, rendering one vulnerable to suggestion. I had counted on that, of course.

  “You are Anastasia Usmanova, recently of Arkham. You are a schoolteacher, and a postgraduate student in early Sanskrit languages. You inherited from your late uncle a copy of the second edition of The Dream Journal of Arpan the Elder. Acquiring access to a very rare first edition copy, you noticed the acrostics in the text which had been removed in the second edition. With your skill in languages, it wasn’t hard to piece together the rituals which—well,” I smiled. “I’m sure you know what comes next.”

  She pulled away from me, and her right hand slid behind her back. I watched her carefully, letting the sadness show in my face when she brought out a small revolver. “How do you know these things?” she snapped. “Speak quickly. I don’t trust you. I’ve already seen…” She shuddered. “Things,” she finished weakly.

  “Nightmares?” I suggested. “This is one of the Dreamlands, after all. Not all dreams are desirable. Please,” I said, gesturing at the gun. “Put that away. If it works at all, it’s likely to blow your fingers off. Earthly iron doesn’t survive well here. The steel of your weapon will already be weakened. Within a month, there will be little more than rust remaining.”

  Eyes wide, she nodded and put the gun on the seat. Thankful for the Black Spirits, I pushed it a little farther from us. “The book,” I said again, in a firm voice. “You brought it with you. It won’t be far away.”

  “They gave me a room,” she said in a small voice. “The man who owns the tavern is kind. He speaks a little English. He said I could stay, and work for my board. Until…until I was ready.”

  I nodded. “You planned to go farther. See the wonders Arpan hinted at. But you didn’t really believe, at least not until the Byakhee came for you, and after that it was too late. Arpan’s book made it clear what would happen if you didn’t go through with the journey.” I covered her trembling hand with one of my own. It was warm, like a trapped bird. “You aren’t ready.”

  “No,” she said, and bowed her head. “I didn’t know.” She looked up at me. “Why do you want the book?”

  I chuckled. “It’s overdue, of course. You borrowed it from the Special Collection of the Miskatonic Library, using your uncle’s card. When you failed to return it in time, inquiries were made. Upon discovering your uncle had been dead three months, we checked the disposition of his estate and that led us to you, and to the Circle of Loranz on the floor of your apartment. Simple, really.”

  “Overdue?” she said. I nodded. “Overdue!” Her eyes turned to saucers. “You came here for an overdue library book?“

  “The Miskatonic Library takes such things very seriously,” I said, and showed her my Library Proctor ID card, complete with photograph and signature. “Did you not read the borrowing conditions?”

  Anastasia giggled musically, and flapped her hand. “Uncle’s card, remember? I told the clerk I was picking it up for him.”

  “And that clerk has been disciplined,” I said. “Anastasia, books from the Special Collection can be dangerous. Think where you are!”

  From another corner of the room, a high-pitched twang and a yelp of pain announced the breakage of a lute-string. A smattering of applause followed. Anastasia giggled again. “Overdue,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t—you’re here because a book of magic spells is overdue at the library.”

  The Black Spirits had livened her mood more than I really needed. “The book,” I said again, in a sharper voice. “Where is it?”

  She made an effort to focus. “It’s safe. I—I don’t want it any more. If I give it to you, will you…can you get me home again?” That was a safe question.

  “Yes. I can. Where is the book?”

  “Wait here,” she said, and stood up, swaying a little. “Woo! Dizzy.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said and stood as well, offering her my arm. She leaned on it without comment, and we shuffled our way through the smoky maze of stools and tables until we reached the cool, sweet air outside. The tom-cat was waiting for me, a coil of yellow fur draped over a protruding roof-beam.

  “Found her, then,” he said, and swiped at his torn ear with one paw. He regarded Anastasia with curiosity. “Are you going to mate with her?”

  Anastasia giggled again. “That cat sounds like it’s trying to talk.”

  “Ignore it,” I said, glaring at the cat. “It’s a rude creature.” Yet perhaps he had a point. Anastasia was very pretty, and smart enough to reconstruct a complex occult ritual from a 12th century text. Under other circumstances, I would have been delighted to meet her.

  Woozily, Anastasia steered me to a narrow stair at the side of the stable. “My room is at the top,” she said. “It isn’t much, but it’s clean.” She made a face. “Chamber pots, though. I
’m glad I won’t have to get used to that.”

  The book was, predictably, tucked under the straw-and-sacking mattress. I took it from her as she straightened, and brushed the stray pieces of straw from the cracked leather cover. She watched uneasily as I held it up to the small window and examined it with care. “Too dark in here,” I said. “Let’s go back down.”

  “Too dark for what?” she said.

  “To check the condition of the book,” I called back over my shoulder as I descended. “Bad enough you took the book. But if you haven’t damaged it, I can still save you.”

  “Save me?” She wobbled at the top of the stairs, grabbed at the rail and tottered carefully down to the yard. “Save me from what?”

  The book appeared unharmed, which was a relief. I didn’t have to bring her back to face the Librarians. With the book unharmed, they would be satisfied if I simply returned it—so long as Anastasia remaind out of their reach. I folded a silk cloth around the book, tucked the package into a heavy plastic bag, and slid the bag into my backpack. “That’s the thing,” I said. “The really good thing. You’ll never actually have to know what I’ve saved you from.”

  She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.” Her legs wobbled, and she sat on the edge of the watering trough. “How do I know you’re saving me at all?”

  “Here,” I said, and handed her a small leather pouch. “Take these. They’re neodymium magnets.”

  She tipped them into her hand and poked them. “Oh, I love these things! They’re so much fun!”

  “Careful,” I said. “Since iron doesn’t behave the way we’re used to here in Ulthar, magnets are very rare and highly valuable. That little pouch is—well, if you’re careful, you won’t need to find work here ever again.”

  “Huh?” She looked up at me, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun. “What are you saying?”

  I anchored my backpack firmly and checked the straps. “You should visit the Temple of the Elder Ones in the old quarter of the city. The Patriarch is a kind man with a weakness for lovely women, and he comes from Earth as well. He’ll help you, if you need it.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s not—I’m going home. You’re taking me, aren’t you?”

  There was a plea in her voice. I ignored it, though my stomach tightened. It was better this way. It had to be this way. Ulthar was a kindly place. She would survive. “Also, you should be kind to the cats. You very definitely want to be on the good side of the cats of Ulthar.” Then I tipped my hat to the yellow tom, and switched to Ulthari. “See you later, puss.”

  “You’re leaving?” he said, and looked around. “You need a guide?”

  “Not this time.” I smiled at Anastasia, who stared at me uncomprehendingly. Then I tucked my arms tightly against my body, hunched over, and said very clearly: “There’s no place like home!“

  The eleven hooks set deep inside my very soul tightened with a sensation I cannot describe. A terrible force pulled me, ripped at me, and the warm, kindly afternoon light of Ulthar spun and flickered into howling darkness as I was yanked screaming through nameless dimensions of time and space.

  An unknown and unknowable period of time later, I found myself kneeling in the silver-limned heptagon in the Shadow Room off the main sub-level of the Miskatonic Library, my head spinning. I grabbed at my hip flask, but my hand shook too much.

  “Here,” said Chandler, the Senior Proctor. A tall, severe, stick of a woman, she limped out of the shadows with a clicking of arthritic joints, and offered me a silver-chased flask of her own. Gratefully I tipped back my head and opened my mouth to receive a small measure of Black Spirits. Her face softened as I drank. “Better?”

  “Better,” I grunted, wiping my lips, and yes, it was better because the spinning, whirling, horrifying impressions of the unthinkable journey seemed to fade. There would be a price: a hangover, a period of clumsiness. Better than the memories. “I got your book.”

  “But not the woman,” said Chandler. She shook her head. “Seriously, Drake. I don’t understand you. You know the drill. Bring back the borrower. We make them into a Proctor. They help pay your fine while they work off their own. You really like doing this stuff?”

  I didn’t bother answering. “I did my part. Do yours.”

  “Eh,” she said. “Your funeral.” Producing a knife of meteoric iron in her left hand, she chanted a passage in a throat-twisting, tongue-paralysing language never meant for humankind. Making a slash in the air in front of my chest, she reached and as her right hand vanished, I felt something lurch and twist under my ribs. A moment of bright, silvery pain, a flash of nausea, and then Chandler stepped back, a soul-hook of iron and silver in her right hand. “Ten more to go,” she said. “Ten more recoveries, and your fine is paid. Unless,” she added, “You recruit another proctor for us.”

  I shook my head. “I screwed up,” I said. “I admit it. I read the rules. I knew the penalties. This is my fine, and nobody else’s. I’m not an evil man. I won’t do this to anybody else.”

  Chandler tossed the soul-hook into a sigil-encrusted cabinet of dark wood on the opposite wall. She shook her head again, and looked at me. “You’ve made ten recoveries already. How many times have you almost died? Twice we’ve had to get the Institute to put you through a course of ECT. You eat Valium and Prozac and Zoloft like M&Ms, but you still wake up screaming every night. You really think you can do ten more?”

  “This one was easy,” I said. “If you’re really worried about my well-being, you can keep sending me to Ulthar.” Slipping the straps on my backpack, I dug inside and brought out the package with the book. “Here,” I said. “Undamaged. Unfortunately, the borrower eluded me.” She would be all right in Ulthar, I told myself. She had money, of a kind. Bierce would help her too.

  Chandler took the book, and shrugged. “Have it your way,” she said. “The next one is right here on Earth. New York, as a matter of fact. One of our borrowers died unexpectedly, and before we could clear the authorities, his library was snapped up by a—well, he’s reputedly a necromancer.”

  “Fabulous,” I said. “He doesn’t recognize our claim?”

  “Over a near-complete copy of the Pnakotic Manuscripts?” Chandler laughed, the gray helmet of her lacquered hair quivering. “Besides…did I forget to mention he’s a Marsh? From a branch of the Innsmouth Marshes? Oh, and lately he hasn’t been seen outside much, but those who know him say he’s grown pale, and seems changed.” She grinned at me. “You’ll have to move fast.”

  Wearily, I stood and stretched my legs. Somewhere in Ulthar, I knew, a pretty red-haired woman was nursing a hangover and wondering if she would ever find a way to return to the world of her birth. She would face zoogs, stray nightmares, mad dreamers, lutenists, anthropophagous cats and medieval plumbing…

  …but she would live.

  “I’ll get onto it right away,” I said. “Can you organize a diving bell and a deep-sea rig, just in case he goes over before I catch up with him?”

  Chandler nodded, and I shuffled to the door, the familiar musty, reptilian stink of the Miskatonic Library welling up. I sneezed. My head hurt.

  Oh, to be in Ulthar amongst the cats in the afternoon…

  INTERLIBRARY LOAN

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  Hafez ibn Abd-al-Rahim strode across the campus of Miskatonic University, heading for the library. He’d never been there before, but he’d studied maps and satellite photos on Google Earth. He knew his way around as well as if he were a senior about to graduate. It was a warm spring day, a little muggy but not too bad.

  No one paid him any special mind. He might have been a senior about to graduate himself. He was in his early twenties, with a neat black beard and hair razored on the sides of his head and longish on top. Older people said he looked as if he had a cowflop on his head, but when did older people ever do anything but complain? Half the guys at Miskatonic chose styles not too different from his. At least half.

  He was neater than most. He tucked a
powder-blue polo shirt into new Levis. His Topsiders were also new. No ratty T-shirts, tattered cutoffs, or flipflops for him. No Red Sox cap, either; he hadn’t succumbed to that idolatrous passion. In fact, he’d never heard of the Red Sox.

  His biggest problem, as it had been since he flew in to Logan, was not gaping at the women. Sternly, he reminded himself that staring marked him as a foreigner, and a particular kind of foreigner. It would not do.

  But they were sluts. They were all sluts, and even sluttier because in their kafir ignorance they had no idea how slutty they were. Bare flesh on display, hair uncovered, peach-ripe bottoms shoehorned into jeans far tighter than his…One girl wore a clinging T-shirt with MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY FIGHTING CEPHALOPODS written across the stomach. The octopus or whatever it was above the top word had tentacles brazenly curling up to circle her breasts. Hafez made himself look away. He bit down, hard, on the inside of his lower lip at the effort it took.

  By the time he got to the library, he was sweating from more than the humidity. Its gray, stern, forbidding bulk steadied him somewhat. Even the very pretty blonde in running shorts coming down the broad stairs as he was going up distracted him for no longer than a moment. He was here at last. Now, God willing, to do what he had come to do.

  The doors automatically opened when he came up to them. They closed behind him the same way. The air inside had the tasteless, bland perfection of air-conditioning. Twenty-one degrees Celsius, a bit of humidity but not much, unchanging regardless of the hour, regardless of the day, regardless of the season—a useful device, but bloody dull. The shadowless light the fluorescents in the ceiling panels cast was just as boring.

  He looked around. Signs directed people this way and that: to the terminals that accessed the library catalog, to the copy room, to the main stacks, to the circulation desk. He saw none directing people to Special Collections, where he needed to go. He muttered under his breath. Nothing ever went as smoothly as you wished it would.