The Cthulhu Encryption

by Brian Stableford

  “Yes—but Shakespeare’s Oberon was not a dwarf. That image would be more familiar to an Englishman than the one from French romance…if Ysolde’s Oberon really is an Englishman.”

  “True,” Dupin admitted. “All the more so, perhaps, since Mademoiselle Leonys evidently has English ancestry herself. Not that she is likely to have seen Shakespeare performed on stage before concocting her own long dream.”

  “She is a magician herself now,” I observed. “At least, she has a magical object in her possession.”

  “So it seems,” Dupin agreed, thoughtfully. “She has the ability to repel shoggoths…although that might only be necessary because her treacherous flesh, spoiled by disease, seems also to attract them. She obviously did not issue the invitation to Cthulhu herself—she is a victim in this, though probably not the kind of victim you suspect.”

  “What do you suspect?” I demanded, resentfully.

  He did not answer. He was still distracted, as he had been the day before, only giving me half his attention. A part of his mind was still working, obsessively, on the Cthulhu encryption. I could not help wondering whether that very fact might make him something of a magnet for dangerous hallucination. There is, after all, more than one way to issue an invitation, or open a breach where reality is worn thin.

  After a long pause, however, the pedantic Dupin showed through again. “Bougainville was wrong, I think,” he opined, pensively, “to conclude that his South Sea islanders were worshippers of Cthulhu, who chanted the incomplete encryption as a kind of homage or glad anticipation of an apocalypse to come. Their primary motive, I think, was self-protection. The ritual repetition of the partial encryption is surely intended to reinforce the imprisonment, or at least the concealment, of the entity, and not to break the seals of encryption. It is a shield, of sorts, like the other spell, which wards off Cthulhu’s minions whenever they contrive to manifest themselves, however tangentially, in this universe The encryptions were not initially devised by humans, though; they have merely been handed down to us, awkwardly by necessity, as a kind of legacy—an angelic legacy, if you wish, to oppose Cthulhu’s demonic legacy. John Dee certainly thought of the matter in those terms, and encoded his Claves accordingly, presumably intending to keep the darker element of the power strictly between himself and Edward Kelley.”

  “It’s a pity he wrote them down at all, if they’re so dangerous,” I observed.

  “He was a scholar,” Dupin said, as if that explained everything. In fact, it did. Scholars cannot bear to obliterate knowledge; they are often inclined to bury what they know as deeply as they can, but they can never bear to leave it to oblivion.

  “But if the Cthulhu encryption is intended to keep Cthulhu at bay, not to let its disturbing power loose,” I said, “why is the last sequence of seven syllables omitted from its vocal version?”

  “Presumably because it is only to be used in cases of dire necessity, when some manifest loosening of the crypt’s seal has already taken place. It is the true word of power, whose possession probably exacts a price…just as Mademoiselle Leonys’ inheritance has exacted, and is still exacting, a price.”

  “Do you know how the last set of syllables is pronounced?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” was his telling reply. He was a scholar.

  “You’re unlikely ever to need it,” I said. “Saint-Germain is surely right when he says that we’re all on the same side where Cthulhu is concerned…even Oberon Breisz. All humankind is united in that defiance.”

  “Let us hope so,” Dupin said. “Like you, I can hardly imagine that it might be otherwise—and yet, men have sometimes attempted to make pacts with the Devil, for their own petty advantage. The legend of Faust assures us that scholars are more vulnerable to that kind of temptation than common men…and suggests, too, that scholarship in itself might be an instrument of evil, no matter how well intentioned its seekers might be.”

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, whimsically, “the entire human race and all of its history is no more than a hapless instrument of patient evil.”

  “Perhaps it is,” Dupin agreed, a little too soberly for my liking.

  We reached Rennes in the early afternoon, and hastened to find a carriage and horses as soon as we had made a cursory meal. At first, when Dupin presented himself at the hirers and listed our requirements, the hirer said that it was quite impossible to provide a carriage and six horses at such short notice, but when Madame Lacuzon emerged from behind her master, the hirer only had to glance at her to be persuaded to think again, and to promise that he would assemble what we needed within the hour, even if he had to go cap-in-hand to his competitors. The old woman had not said a word, and the hirer had never seen her before, but the power of her presence seemed to have increased further now that she was back in her homeland.

  “It’s wonderful what a heart of gold can accomplish,” I commented to Dupin, while we waited for the hirer to fulfil his task.

  “You may mock,” he said, “but I assure you that Amélie is on the side of the angels, in spite of her appearance. No matter what legend might imply, ugliness is not contiguous with evil, nor beauty with good.”

  I remembered the shoggoths, and was not so sure about that—but I made no explicit comment.

  When we eventually rode out of Rennes, heading westwards, there was still three hours to go until sunset. The light carriage we had hired, pulled by a pair of horses, sat three people abreast in reasonable comfort on its hooded bench. Madame Lacuzon took control of the reins, but disdained the whip. I had the impression that the horses might have obeyed her even without the reins, but she was prepared to use orthodox methods when convenient. Ysolde Leonys sat between the concierge and Chapelain. Dupin fell in behind the vehicle and I brought up the rear, each of us with a second horse attached to our saddle with a leading-rein. The animals were all practised and docile, and we made reasonable speed without having to push them too hard.

  There was no sign of Saint-Germain; presumably, he had decided not to wait for us after all, having found information by himself to indicate the direction he should take.

  The day was as grey as the one before, but the light drizzle that was falling when we left the city was sporadic, and did not increase in intensity until the gloom was quite intense. The sun had not yet set, but it was obvious that the twilight would be not far short of pitch dark, and so we began to look out for an inn in advance of its setting. None materialized, perhaps because we were passing through a dense wood, which was not nearly as inviting to human construction as the heathland occupying the greater part of the Breton heartland, which was known collectively as the Grand’Lande.

  Extensive woods are uncommon in Brittany today, although legend has it that the whole region was once heavily forested, and that is almost certainly true. Centuries of felling and erosion by the weather have left much of its lowlands barren, the heath competing in many areas with boggy marshes, while its hills have frequently reduced to rugged crags, but the forest whose remnants are still called Lyonesse was once part of a vast pan-European wilderness that still has a legendary echo in the alternative name of Broceliande.

  The deforestation must have happened long before the Bretons came, let alone the feudal dukes, and the forbidding crags that appealed as fine locations for castles were ready-made for any and all Bronze- and Iron-Age invaders. The castles in question could never have been comfortable homes, though, and they had mostly been vacated as soon as their defensive capability no longer seemed a desperate necessity. A few had been besieged and sacked, but the majority had simply been abandoned for more modest châteaux built in the heart of farmland domains. My exploits as a tourist in the region had assured me that there was not a single one that was not haunted, usually by some woeful Medieval knight unjustly dispossessed of his wealth, his lady love or his honorable reputation…or all three, the melodramatic impulse being somewhat incompatible with modesty.

  A few woodlands still survive, though, including one or two that
are optimistically called forests, and we had not ridden a mile into the one that had temporarily swallowed us up before I was wishing that there were fewer still. We lit the two lanterns that were attached to the carriage’s hood, but their light did not extend far enough forward to give the horses confidence, even on a well-marked road, and our pace slowed to a walk—which inevitably had the effect of making the wood seem interminable, even though we knew full well that it had to be small in strictly geographical terms. The foliage kept the rain at bay, though, and there would have been no moonlight or starlight in any case, so it was not entirely an inconvenience or a hindrance.

  I heard Chapelain arguing that we should stop, and make what camp we could in the trees, but he did not win the argument—not, if my judgment was correct, because Mademoiselle Leonys roused herself sufficiently overrule him but because Madame Lacuzon was stubborn.

  In the end, her stubbornness paid off, because we did eventually come through the wood, as had always been inevitable, and we found a hostelry of sorts just beyond its end, positioned in the first spot that was convenient for the erection of a building made mostly of stone.

  By comparison with the coaching-inn in Alençon, the roadside establishment in question was a poor one, with only a single storey and no private rooms at all. Chapelain opined that it had better accommodation for the horses than for us, but he was a Parisian through and through, unused to rural privations. Madame Lacuzon inspected the floor where we would have to sleep, and the larder from which our dinner would be supplied, and judged them satisfactory. I had every confidence that the master of the house and his wife would make sure that we got the best of whatever there was to be had, for they were clearly more respectful of the crone than they were of the rest of us.

  The tenant of the hostelry built a blazing fire in the main room, in order that we would be able to dry ourselves before lying down to sleep. We had time in hand before we went to bed, however, and Dupin and Chapelain were equally enthusiastic to question Ysolde Leonys one more time, if she could be persuaded to reply.

  At first, I thought that she was now quite impervious to Chapelain’s suggestions, but he persisted in his attempts, and eventually she seemed to weaken—or to least to relent.

  “Is the Underworld nearby now?” Chapelain asked, once we were convinced that she might be co-operative.

  “Not far,” she said. We were in a region now where all distances were habitually described either as “not far” or “a long way,” and she seemed to be adapting to local custom.

  “Will we get there before noon?” Chapelain asked.

  “Probably.”

  “What will you do when we get there?”

  “Find Oberon, if I can.”

  “What will you say to Oberon, if you find him?”

  “That will depend on what he has to say to me.”

  “And what will you do if he is not there?”

  “Wait.”

  Chapelain checked with Dupin; there was an exchange of whispers.

  “How were you able to read the medallion that Tristan gave you two days ago?” Chapelain asked, when he resumed.

  “I know how to read.” That was an obvious evasion, but it was quite casual. She was a somniloquist still, but she was no longer as meek as she had been when first questioned in that manner.

  “Who taught you to read symbols of that kind?”

  “The Mahatma.”

  “Angria’s Mahatma?”

  “The Mahatma in Callaba.”

  “Was this Mahatma a magician?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he a worshipper of Cthulhu?”

  “No.”

  “But the magic he worked upon you was to do with Cthulhu?”

  The question was phrased rhetorically; there was no reply. Dupin was making hand-signals.

  “When Oberon took you away from Callaba,” Chapelain resumed, “was it by stealth?”

  “No.”

  “Did Angria allow him to take you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Oberon pay some kind of price for you?”

  Silence. Not understood, or not known.

  “Why did your father leave you with Angria?”

  Silence.

  Another swift conference between Chapelain and Dupin. Then: “What did Oberon do to you, Ysolde?”

  “He made me his queen.”

  “Yes—but what did that entail?”

  Silence.

  “Did Oberon ever hurt you?”

  “Never.”

  “Then why did you run away from him?”

  “I betrayed him.”

  “In what way?”

  “I fell in love with Tristan.”

  “Did you and Tristan run away together?”

  A hesitation; then: “Yes.” Why the hesitation? I wondered

  “Who first told you Tristan’s name?”

  “He did.”

  “Where was Tristan in the years before you saw him again, three days ago?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did he desert you?”

  Hesitation. Then: “I was punished.”

  “By whom?”

  Silence.

  Another swift conference; then: “Why does Oberon want you back now?”

  Silence, unsurprisingly.

  “Has he forgiven you for betraying him?”

  Silence.

  “Or does he want to exact revenge?”

  A slightly disturbed silence—but not a fearful disturbance. I had the impression that she thought that time was being wasted, and that she did not want to waste precious energy on such trivia.

  “What do you want from Oberon?” Chapelain persisted.

  No hesitation this time: “I want to be his queen again.”

  “Why?”

  I expected silence; presumably we all did. In fact, we got an answer: “Because I don’t want to die.”

  “Do you believe that Oberon can prevent your death?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought she was overly optimistic. So did Chapelain, but he was not about to say so. After a pause, Chapelain asked: “How old is Oberon?”

  “Very old.”

  “More than a hundred years?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than two hundred?”

  Hesitation, then: “I think so.”

  “Did you ever hear the name Edward England?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “When I was a child.”

  “Who first spoke the name in your presence?”

  “Angria.”

  “When?”

  “I was five.”

  “What did Angria say about Edward England on that occasion?”

  “I can’t protect you from Edward England—you have to go away.”

  Chapelain hesitated, and Dupin was quick to whisper in his ear.

  “To whom was Angria speaking when he said that?” the mesmerist asked.

  “My father.”

  “John Taylor?”

  The rhetorical question must have slipped out, but it brought a predictable response: “Jack Taylor was a bad man.”

  “Is that when John Taylor sailed for the South Seas?”

  “No.”

  “Where did he go, on that occasion?”

  “Poona.”

  “Who first spoke the name of Olivier Levasseur in your presence?”

  “My father.”

  “You told us that the medallion that Tristan returned to you was not Levasseur’s. Whose was it?” He was just checking; we already knew the answer.

  “Mine.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “Angria.”

  “How did you lose it?”

  “Levasseur took it.”

  “When?”

  “Before he returned to Brittany, the first time.”

  “How many times did he return to Brittany?”

  “Twice.”

  “Did you tell Angria that Levasseur had taken the medall
ion?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he do?”

  Silence.

  Chapelain opened his mouth to ask another question, but it was too late. The somniloquist had lapsed into a deeper sleep, in which speech was no longer accessible.

  Madame Lacuzon whispered something in Dupin’s ear, and he nodded. “Go to sleep,” he advised us. “If we’re fortunate, we shall find out more tomorrow than Mademoiselle Leonys can tell us in this state. If she can guide us to her Underworld, and her Oberon, answers will surely be far more freely available there than they are here.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN THE MIST

  I was not entirely unused to sleeping on a stone floor, but it was not an experience I could relish now that I was no longer young. I was, however, quite exhausted; it is surprising how tired a day in the saddle can make a man, given that he only has to sit while his mount carries his burden. I was sore too, in spite of having ridden on a regular basis since I was a boy, but that only added a further edge of discomfort to my dreams, which were hardly in need of the assistance. Fortunately, I still possessed the invaluable faculty of forgetfulness, and was able to dispel my visions as soon as I awoke, without magical aid. Once I had stretched and shaken my limbs, I felt fully human again—and I say that because it describes exactly how I felt, although I couldn’t quite imagine how I had been less than fully human while I slept.

  Primitive as the hostelry was, the mistress of the house had flour and a good oven with which to bake bread, and goat’s milk heated almost to boiling-point to warm us up—which we needed, for the floor, in spite of the straw we had used as makeshift mattresses, had grown very cold once the fire had lapsed into sullen embers.

  Plain as the fare was, I felt sufficiently repaired once I had eaten my fill. I even contrived to feel optimistic at the prospect of reaching journey’s end before another day had run by—at least until I stepped outside, and walked into a wall of mist.

  The rainclouds had cleared overnight to leave clear skies and allow the temperature to fall sharply. The result of that, as the Chevalier de Lamarck has taken care to explain in his tedious text on the fledgling science of clouds, had been that all the water saturating the atmosphere close to the ground had turned to crystalline vapor. This was not the foul fog of Paris, which is impregnated with smoke and other by-products of industry, so that it retains a faintly organic texture and a nasty odor; this was a pure, unsullied mist, more silver than white or grey—but still, it was exceedingly dense mist, and although I could still see my hand clearly enough when I stretched out my arm to its full length, everything further away was cloaked and hidden.