by Rhys Hughes
I nodded sombrely and applied my tongue to the place where my glass had stood, to lap up drops of spilt absinthe. I was not yet reduced to performing this feat on the floor. The dwarf cleared his throat. ‘Your days of sorrow are over now. You have not changed your mind?’ I shook my head and he reached out for the coin, but I slapped my palm over it. I did not wish to free him so easily. He bared his teeth and growled. His dirty blue fists clenched tight.
I used my most assertive tone. ‘Why are men with chins longer than misery hunting you? Why are they so darkly clad? Why has treacle more substance than their formless figures? How grim can a grimoire be?’ I stole a glimpse at the volume while I voiced these questions, but the cover revealed nothing. It was clasped by a rusty old lock and bound in some heavy material, possibly uncured leather, that had been marbled but stank like a sewer. The marbling was grotesque even by my standards. It suggested foul, unwholesome things: putrefying fungus, the growth of a corpse’s fingernails, brown shoes worn with a black suit.
He relaxed somewhat and offered me a small smile. ‘Most grimoires do not work. This is because they are locks rather than doors. This book is their key. It is not an end in itself. It belongs to a small special category of literature. Biblia abiblia, I would say, if I could speak Greek. Listen carefully: one drop is enough.’ I did not try to follow his erratic line of thought. We discussed sorcery in general. The basic idea was simple enough. A lonely, inadequate man would attempt to call demons to do his bidding, offering his soul in return for so many years service. Demons were traditionally reluctant to answer a summons. The idea that magicians actually worshipped them was absurd.
‘There are no true Satanists,’ he continued. ‘The sorcerer attempts merely to do business with the Old Fellow or his cohorts. A contract is drawn up, it is very old fashioned and proper. But here is something you may not know: the truth is the reverse.’ I frowned at this and pressed him to elaborate, but he remained enigmatic. Just then, I saw one of the long chinned men enter the café. The dwarf followed my gaze and grasped my arm. ‘It’s now or never!’ he cried. I did not hesitate. I removed my palm from the coin and let him snatch it up. Then he departed with great haste and a ringing laugh. Strangely, the darkly-clad one ignored him. I frowned, thrust the grimoire into the enlarged pocket I had sewn onto my coat specifically for the purpose and followed his example. What had he meant by his cryptic references?
Thus it was in some confusion that I left the Café Worm and did all those things I have already related: the grope back down Rubellastrasse in dense fog, the short cut through the graveyard and the collecting of stunned owls who later assisted me in my struggles with the hill. In my rooms, in my easy chair, I reached for my discarded coat and worked free the book from my pocket. It was a grand tome indeed; the weight of ten thousand forbidden secrets. There was no lettering on the cover but the spine—held a certain way—betrayed a title: the Good News Grimoire. I smirked. Good news for whom? By no means for my landlord! I would summon demons to rend him to bloody pieces, to string Tartarean orpharions with his nerves, to make a stew of his liver, neither good nor thirsty (Mem., get recipe for Mina). So I snapped the lock—which was nearly corroded through—threw open the volume on the floor before me and crouched down low for a more exacting perusal.
Imagine my disgust at finding that all the pages had been cut away in a deep square trench! You know the sort of thing: such books are used to conceal jewellery or other valuables. In the centre of this one was a corked flask of some viscous liquid. I was bitterly disappointed. Otho had cheated me after all! And now my life was over: my landlord, Wynkyn de Rackrent, would kick me out; Carnacki would seize my belongings. Mina would forsake me for some rich Swiss student who could create life in a tank. On a whim, I removed the flask, pulled the cork and drained the contents. My head whirled. Sartor resartus! I half hoped it was some kind of poison. It did not mix well with the absinthe.
My vision dimmed for but an instant. My senses returned with few complaints. When I looked up, I found that only one thing in the room had changed: the spines of my ordinary grimoires, high on my shelves, were glowing with a steady radiance. I felt attracted to them; I stood on tiptoe and reached for the nearest. It was somehow comforting to the touch. When I opened it at a random page and studied the naked sigils and incantations, I could suddenly understand them; they were no longer abstruse or perverse. The esoteric had been rendered natural. The pages winked at me and I knew then what the dwarf had been getting at. He had described the book as a key. In itself it was nothing, but it had the power to turn the rusty bolts of others.
My attitude toward the Cosmos had changed. I no longer believed in the laddered tights of fate. I could assert my own Will on the World. Common grimoires were obviously coded texts; the liquid was a sort of lens that could focus the fragments of secret knowledge into one crisp meaning. The dwarf had also mentioned that a single drop would suffice; I had consumed the flask entire. I wondered what consequences might follow from this. ‘Harker, dear friend,’ I cried, ‘this is no time for ponderings! To work! Let Wynkyn de Rackrent’s bones be used as skittles this night; let his skull be made into a toad’s prison. Let his eyes be sewn on tapestries and shoes re-soled with his tongue!’
Without further ado, I selected a spell to call a minor but fairly brutal demon and made the necessary motions with my hands. I was opening a gateway to another dimension, cutting through the fabric of reality like scissors through muslin. I would forfeit my soul, of course, but it would be worth it. Grimoires typically consist of spells to bind a devil to a conjuror for twenty years; after that time he loses his soul (terms considerably fairer than those of Carnacki, who would also feel the bite of my vengeance). I finished the spell and gazed around for the reward of my labours, but there was no puff of smoke, no sulphurous stench or hideous visitation. Had I deluded myself? While I struggled to make sense of it all, there was a knock on my door.
It occurred to me, as I answered it, that it might be the landlord or even Monsieur le Purr. But to my utter amazement it turned out to be one of the long chinned creatures. ‘You rang?’ he inquired, arching a dark eyebrow. I threw back my head and laughed. All was now clear. The Blue Dwarf had used the grimoire after all; his twenty years were up and his pursuers—who were actually demons—were eager to claim their part of the bargain. I would not seek to flee when my time came. I invited the foul monster in, and outlined my first request: bones as skittles, skull as toad’s prison, tongue as soles. The tapestries I would do myself. The demon stroked his chin—it would have been more astonishing had he not—and collapsed into my easy chair, putting his hooves up on my table. He knitted his grisly brows.
‘I wish you to provide me with a selection of fine wines,’ he said, after a little thought, ‘and some éclairs from Udolpho’s pâtisserie. Then I will require a relaxing bath in black cat’s milk and a cigar of purple herbs. Do not forget to provide nibbles with the wines: diced cucumber, olives, a few nettles. And milk the cat with circular motions, widdershins.’ He covered a yawn with a gnarled claw and waved me away. I thought this was a fine joke. I laughed and laughed and repeated my commands. He fixed me with a withering stare.
‘It is you,’ he added, very slowly, ‘who must obey me.’ He gazed around the room. ‘Nice place. I will be happy here.’ I could do nothing but stand and gape, my throat making convulsive swallowing motions. He picked up a discarded copy of the Chaud-Mellé Chronicle and began to read it, yawning again. I was enraged. I returned to the grimoire and quickly performed another spell, raising a different demon and opening the window to let it in when it arrived. The first long chinned figure sighed and regarded the second as he might an old acquaintance. In fury I directed the second to slice off his chin and beat him to death—or the diabolical equivalent—with it. But the new arrival sauntered over to the mantelpiece, picked up the miniature portrait of Mina and nodded to himself. This insolence was quite incredible.
‘I have taken a fancy to her,’ he r
asped, ‘and I would like to spend a couple of evenings in her company.’ He clicked his talons under my nose. ‘Arrange it!’ I tried to wrest the portrait away, but he was too strong. I had known that demons were surly beings, but I was quite unprepared for this. I took the grimoire into my kitchen—filled not with pots and pans but tailor’s dummies and cotton reels—and managed to conjure up half-a-dozen at once. They appeared from various cupboards and urns; one emerged from the oven. I ordered them into the other room on the instant; in a bass voice I intoned them to punish their disloyal brothers with the nastiest measures I could conceive. They merely stood their ground and scratched their chins. And then the cacophony deluged me and I fell back. ‘A whole jar of pickled shrews for me!’ ‘No, a snort of Palaeolithic snuff!’ ‘Well I require a rope of sand!’ ‘No, a woman made of cheese!’ ‘Twenty seven kowtows!’ ‘Nine league slippers!’
I groaned. What was happening? The demons began arguing; I left them to their Plutonian debate and returned to my living-room. The two original fiends wanted to know why I had not yet carried out my orders. I raved at them; I hurled the grimoire against the wall. I tried to leave, but they blocked my exit. One of them took a step closer. ‘You will do as I say!’ he bellowed. I retreated before him. Suddenly I found myself against the open window. I stepped out onto the balcony. Far below, the city slumbered. The demons followed.
There was only one way down. I doubted I would survive the fall, but anything was preferable to being a slave of folk with long chins and longer lists of requests. I climbed over the railings. ‘There is the city!’ I cried. ‘Grisly and torn and broken! It languishes like a lover who dreams she is alone. Coquette of loneliness, constellation of dead angel’s eyes, how I adore and loathe and desire you! Cleave my body to your bosom, open the coffins of your heart; I am here to sew my bones into the stones of your body. Let my ghost gallop free down your streets and lanes and over your decaying bridges!’
‘That’s all very well,’ remarked the first demon, ‘but you shall have to wait until spring when the cobbles are less icy.’ He grinned. ‘Men and women have broken necks, arms and resolutions by hurrying. Until then, and even afterwards, you have us. Did not the dwarf tell you? The Good News Grimoire is only good for us; it is not just a key but a mirror. The old authors hid their knowledge in clever ways. They said the opposite of what they meant. It is not we who serve you, but you who serve us. The dwarf is free now; he managed to sell the book. We languish in Hell; we are most gratified when we are able to bind mortals to our purpose. We do not worship you, however.’
‘Damask and brocaded velvet!’ I roared. ‘I have been stitched up!’ Everything I knew about the black arts had been overturned. Grimoires enabled not sorcerers to invoke and harness demons (in exchange for their souls) but demons to harness sorcerers. Those who dabble in the forbidden secrets are, in truth, generally sad and ineffectual men. Now I was learning that some demons were equally frustrated; they too were willing to enter into a pact in return for love and comforts. It was both pathetic and awe inspiring. But I had no time to contemplate the issues any longer. I bade the monsters farewell and launched over the side. ‘Chin chin!’ I cried as I spiralled down. I landed with a crunch on something soft and greasy. It broke my fall.
Regaining my feet, I saw that it was Wynkyn de Rackrent, my anæmic landlord. I had crushed him into a heap of leaking bones. Having left my own coat behind, I snatched up his, praised my good fortune and set off into the fogs. I fully expected the devils to make after me in hot pursuit. But as I passed the front door of the house, I heard soft laughter coming from the stairs. More curious than rational, I stole a glance through the keyhole. Monsieur le Purr had engaged the demons in conversation on the landing. They seemed to be enjoying his company immensely; they applauded his wit and cried, ‘What a wag!’ or ‘Avoir la langue déliée!’ at each of his wry solecisms. At that moment, I was extremely grateful that my neighbour was a trifle odd.
I took refuge in the graveyard and weighed up my position. I sat on a tombstone until morning, dangling my legs and weeping. ‘Harker,’ I consoled myself, ‘worse things happen at sea.’ But I knew this was not true. I thought of Mina; this did not help. The demons would harass me forevermore, as they had Otho, unless I could follow his example and sell the cursed book. To comply with their requests was no solution; they would simply make greater demands on me. I would have to procure women, chocolates and rare liqueurs to feed their appetites. I would have to do the impossible to keep them satisfied: turn them into animals for a day or knit them chin-warmers. And this would go on for twenty years. I would be reduced to the level of a housewife.
I had to return to my rooms for the grimoire. I stayed in the graveyard for a couple of days, forcing my way into a mausoleum and resting on the cold sepulchre, until I felt strong enough to make the attempt. All the time I was fearful that the demons would seek me out. If only I had summoned just one! Otho had plainly been even more obtuse than myself; there had been a score pursuing him. I pulled the collars of my landlord’s filthy coat high about my ears and slinked back up the hill. The front door was open; the demons were nowhere to be seen. I crept up the stairs and back to my chambers. They were all completely bare. I gnashed my teeth and pounded my breast. Carnacki had doubtless sent in bailiffs to appropriate my goods. After a careful search of the rooms, I discovered a needle and a length of thread wedged between two floorboards. These had been overlooked. On the landing, as I left, I heard a strange noise emanating from my neighbour’s room. I peeped through a crack in the door and saw Monsieur le Purr himself crouching over a saucer of milk, his tongue lapping the liquid.
I took the needle with me, but the grimoire was gone and that was what really mattered. So now I was homeless, penniless and in thrall to a number of silly men who were not really men but cacodæmons. I needed to find a job. Accordingly, I made my way back to Katzenellenbogen’s on the Rue Discord. Irving von Landshort, the proprietor, was still under the delusion that I was a member of the Secret Police. He offered me employment on the instant. Thus I became a shop-assistant and general dogsbody to a man who liked his piccolos to be polished with vigour but his timpani to be treated with scorn.
In truth, I made a poor assistant. I was so nervous of meeting one of the long chinned fiends that I rarely answered the call of a customer but cowered behind the counter. Once, indeed, one of the devils did come in; I kept absolutely still and did not dare to breathe. He sniffed the air, narrowed his eyes and gazed around the interior of the shop. Then he shrugged, took a tuba from a rack, played a few bumbling notes, shook his head and left. But von Landshort had seen all. I was sacked and the furious proprietor chased me off his premises with the aid of a hurled metronome and a barrage of musical oaths. ‘Volti subito!’
I wandered the city—my mistress now I had lost Mina (she would not care to marry a homeless man). I became a sort of busking tailor; with my single needle and length of thread, I mended the socks of drunks in parks, commuters on bridges, or audiences in queues outside theatres. This period of my life I wish to forget. I wept profusely and often. Whenever I passed a window from which wafted smells of cooking, I broke down completely. I could no longer seek out the recipe for Mina. But I was clever. I managed to evade the devils. Only once was I caught and forced to carry out a request; the freeing of the thin man I imprisoned in the wishing well years before. A jest at my expense. (He later went back to the well of his own accord, preferring the security of the wish to those wishbones of misery—the junctions of filthy streets.)
One evening, I was sewing socks outside the Theatre de l’Orotund when I happened to overhear two of the dilettantes in the queue. They were discussing the play they were about to see. It was the new comedy by Caspar Nefandous. ‘But of course it is the music we are so looking forward to! A new score by Cobalt Hugh!’ I bit my lip and returned to my darning. But after the performance, I waited outside the stage-door. He emerged at last; as blue as before but far more dapper. When he saw
me, his jaw dropped open and his knees gave way.
‘Cobalt Hugh now is it? A fresh start, eh?’ I picked him up and shook him vigorously. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. ‘You knew exactly what you were letting me in for! I ought to twist off your scheming ears. But I am too weak: I have not eaten for days. You owe me an explanation and more; I will have my single silver florin back for a start. And to think I trusted you! Better by far the devil you know than the frilly shirt you know not! How can I pass this curse on? I have lost the book!’
He fixed me with a nonchalant eye. ‘I rather like my nom de plume. But that’s neither here nor there. I am successful now; I care nothing for you. Yet I will tell you something: I sought you out especially because I believed only a fool would buy the book. I was correct. Yet it is not the grimoire that needs to be passed on to free you from the devils, but the flask inside. A single drop on the tongue of each user; pass on the flask and when some other idiot tastes the fluid, you will be safe.’ He paused. ‘I had a standing ovation tonight!’
From the expression on my face, he saw that something was amiss. I blurted out that I had drunk all the liquid. ‘Then you are doomed,’ he told me. ‘For twenty years, and not a day less, you must either serve or evade them. I was wrong. You are not a fool; you are an imbecile.’ He stalked away and left me in a heap on the ground. But then under his breath he added: ‘Glückliche reise!’
The city was hazardous. I had a vague notion that I could flee to another land. Surely the countryside would be unsuited to demons? They liked urban facilities too much: trams, newspapers, gas-lighting. They would not enjoy the sticks. Their thin bodies would chatter; they would wrinkle up their saturnine faces in disgust. So I took to my worn heels and headed out. I was mistaken. The chinned menace came abroad; it kept to my footprints in snowy fields, it climbed glaciers in my wake, it wove between high passes where banditti stalked with Romansch tongue and smooth carbine. The pursuit across the Continent was a frenetic thing; again I sought the confusion of cities. They found me in Geneva, in Lausanne, in St Moritz, even in Marseilles. The life of a rat is less furtive than was mine.
