The Strange Dark One

by W. H. Pugmire

  “The lost song of the Mad Arab, from his secret book of dreams unpublished and newly discovered, in my own simple translation.” I found the slurred voice difficult to understand, but as he tried to speak I felt, not pity, but a warming of my heart. I sensed that a poet was encased within that mound of mortality. Idiotically, Kyle Gnoph smiled at nothing and began to chant.

  “Nyarlathotep is his revelation,

  All-seeing eye that crawls within the chaos of auroras,

  Among the seven suns.”

  He stopped, as if to catch his breath, and then he began to mutter to himself in a language that sounded like guttural nonsense. His gibbering mouth gnawed hungrily at the air, as if in search of language; but it was the language that he spoke that astonished me, for it seemed uncannily familiar, like something that I had heard in recent dreaming. It beguiled me and drew me from my chair, to the floor, on which I crawled, to the place of light, until I was very near the poet in his chair. Unconsciously, I reached into my jacket pocket and produced the ebony flute that I had found in some unfathomable realm. Rising to my knees, I brought the instrument to my mouth and began to play it to the stuttering creature before me. The music that I made was very strange, certainly nothing that I had ever heard before. Its effect on Kyle Gnoph was dramatic. His mass of flesh began to shudder, and the clumsy mouth stretched wide with howling. One of his huge hands began to violently slap his face, and then, with a ragged fingernail, that hand began to etch a jagged symbol into the wide forehead.

  “In self-mutilation we conjoined with Crawling Chaos,

  In self-destruction we kiss the Dark One’s triple diadem

  And melt our visage into Nyarlathotep’s nothingness.

  There we burn forever among the million named!”

  His holler echoed painfully inside my skull as his blood-smeared hand reached toward me. I lifted myself higher on my knees to meet his hand, with which he painted an emblem on my forehead with one bloody finger. Then, swiftly, as if in contempt, he raised one massive naked foot and smashed it against my head.

  IV.

  (Sesqua Valley)

  Bathed in yellow moonlight, the trees of the enchanted valley danced their slow dance to gentle windsong. There was a thing somewhere on the white mountain that watched the yellow moon from its secret lair as small creatures, resembling shaggy shadows, frolicked within a ring of stones. Far beneath the mountain, another being danced, and from below her naked foot Selene could feel the phantom pulse that was the valley’s heartbeat. But there was another vibration that summoned her, a calling from the cosmos, from the daemon with whom she was intimately tied. She stepped slowly through the grove of trees where limbs reached down and touched her luxurious hair. Behind her she could sense those others, the creatures of woodland and mountain who were especial to the valley, tiny things that stayed behind trees and within hidden places as they worshipped her with dark eyes.

  Her own eyes were a queer combination of silver and a liquid flow of black that was an aspect of her Outside nature. She had come to Sesqua Valley some time ago, partially from its shadowland; but some essence of her had also originated in the realm of dream, an essence that had been conjured by the strange Dark One who was, in some inexplicable way, her elder brother. He was one of the supreme daemons of time and space, and that which existed outside of time and space. She could sense him in the valley, which he occasionally haunted, lured by Simon Gregory Williams, who adored him. She sensed him especially at the place where the land of mortality touched, at times, the forest of the Dreamlands, and she was being drawn, more and more, to that place in the Sesquan woods where the two lands touched each other. She approached that place now, calling to it with the magick that lived within her alchemical eyes, and it was suddenly there, the forest where the trees were of a darker hue, where they grew in unnatural ways and formed, at this point, a kind of living tunnel through which she passed. She came to a small clearing where, in place of trees, there was a large pool that was surrounded with a foot-high border of stone, the ridge of which she sat upon so as to dip her hand playfully into the water. When she looked up, she saw the Haunter of the Dark in female guise, wearing a bronze mask.

  Selene sighed and said, “You always come to me as a masked thing. Why can’t I see you in true form?”

  The daemon laughed and sat beside her, and reaching for Selene’s red hair with golden hands began to braid some tresses. From some place above them a winged shadow drifted to their place beside the pool, a black horned thing with membraneous wings and no face. It knelt on Selene’s other side and wove its talons in her hair.

  “The one place where I reveal my true form is before the burning throne of Azathoth, a place that you will never know; for this is the place to which you must inevitably return. You are like a patched

  thing, stitched together from pieces of the dreams of mortals and daemons, and the realm of dream is your true home.”

  “I am also of the valley.”

  “That was a mistake. Sesqua Valley lured some portion of you from this habitat. It is like no other place on earth, and shares some similarities to the Outside where I was spawned among the seven suns.” The daemon dipped her hand into the water and moved it quickly to and fro, creating waves; and once the water calmed Selene, peering into the pool, saw that her companion’s reflection had altered and was now that of a young black lord, lean and haughty, with cynical eyes and chiseled mouth. She saw his reflection bend toward her own and felt his kiss upon her ear. The night-gaunt continued its work in dressing the sorcerous hair.

  “Sesqua Valley has held you long enough, much as you want to stay within its sweet confines. This place, and I, have called to you, and yet you resist. It seems that even my allure is not enough to absolutely seduce you.”

  “You have seduced the beast – why not call him to this realm of dream?”

  “Simon Gregory Williams is a child of Sesqua’s shadowland, a place that even I have not been able to locate. To that realm he will inevitably return. He is not of humankind, and thus has no place within this place of human dreaming.”

  “But what is my place here?”

  “You have always existed within the minds of men, within their fancies and illusions. You are a figment of mortal dreaming, who in some extraordinary way had your essence woven with the mortal world that is touched in but two especial places by this world of dream. You are a product of dream, and to dream you must return. I have found a mortal whose dreaming is alchemical enough that, perhaps, he can enchant you enough so that you will feel that your only place is here.”

  “I’ll never know that feeling, brother.”

  “Oh, but you must. This is thy kingdom, wherein you can show your one true image.”

  “My image? Whatever do you mean?”

  “The image that makes you, absolutely, my sister.” He dipped his hand again into the pool, the water of which began to spin and darken. She glanced into the whirling water, at her reflection, and saw in its movement an aspect of her face conjoined with other faces. The sight was dizzying, and so she placed her own hand into the water, commanding it to calm. Once it became still and smooth, she peered again at her reflection and was curious to see that, now, she wore no countenance. Where her beauteous face had once been there was now nothing but celestial blackness. Behind her image in the water she saw another thing. It was the night-gaunt, who had been twining her hair. Now the creature held a curious thing, a triple crown composed of white gold, which it placed upon her goddess head.

  V.

  (From the Journal of Philip Nithon)

  We sat in one quiet corner of an empty cafe, sipping beverages and speaking softly. I casually studied my tenant’s friends, these fantastic creatures, and felt like I was still dreaming some weird dream. The woman especially captivated me, and not simply because of her almost outrageous beauty. She was black and yet there was no trace of African race in her exquisite features. She seemed like some bewitching statue from some lost civiliza
tion that had come eerily to life. Her eyes were of a similar silver hue as Cyrus’s and this other fellow’s, but there some other element within them, a kind of liquid shadow that – flowed – seeming like some other-worldly black lava.

  This other ugly fellow perplexed me, I admit. He was tall and excessively lean, with wide shoulders and longish hair beneath a queer round hat, similar to those that gentlemen wore in the 1920’s and 1930’s. His attire could have dated from that time as well, although it was fashionable enough. He had this way of keeping the brim of his hat lowered so that it partially sheltered his eyes, but that did nothing to conceal his execrable face. Never have I looked on a face that seemed more – inhuman, truly bestial. The features were like a queer combination of frog and wolf, and the twisted mouth was especially awful. Yet when he spoke, it was with a voice that was low and beautifully musical, almost enchanting, and as one listened to it one became beguiled, and the disquieting features of the face became less threatening if no less sinister.

  “You realize,” this fellow said, “that most of these ‘alien’ creatures of whom one reads in the moldering tomes and brittle manuscripts are often little more than the lunatic conjurations of mortal dreaming. The human brain, much as I deride it, is capable of portent performance, although such activity is usually the merest accident, unintended and chaotic, the product of magnificent delirium. Alhazred was such a one – a magnificent dreamer and poet, yet more than half of Al Azif is but a record of his rich delusions, a product of fevered imagination. This is why the nature of his daemons is often in conflict and contradiction with other legends of the exact same deities. It’s mostly madness, all of it.”

  This fellow’s derisive laughter annoyed me, as did his air of superiority. I did not understand why he spoke of the human race as if it were a thing from which he was divorced. This ‘accidental’ nature of the black arts of that he spoke of was rooted in some kind of reality. I knew enough that the legends of Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth, of Nyarlathotep, were founded on some kind of actuality, not mere dream and dementia. Cyrus had discussed these things with me, and I had seen them in my new rich dreaming, in which they called to some dark element of my soul. I had begun to record these impression in poetry of my own, which I suppose this smug Simon Gregory Williams would link to the ravings of other mad poets. I knew it to be so much more. I closed my eyes as the fellow prattled on.

  “Take, for example, They from the Air, of which you’ve read, Philip, in Derby’s verse. He writes that they are assembled from the chanting of the Dho formula, and that they cannot take form without the aid of human blood, from which they earn their corporeal tissue. Pah! Would extraterrestrial daemons, spawned in the millennial epochs that predate the dreary period from whence humanity slithered from its sea-bed slime, require such mortal assistance? The idea makes one gag. And yet there are ‘scholars’ who believe and defend such rot. I met one at Miskatonic.”

  I cleared my throat. “Many of the esoteric texts that I have read do indicate a curious interest on the part of the Old Ones with human blood. Perhaps, if we are indeed the product of the Great Old Ones, who formed us at a time of play and ennui, our element of blood is tied in some way to the elements they created us with, some special ingredient that they find intoxicating.”

  The Simon fellow snorted. “That confused thinking, dear sir. However, there are entities born of diseased dreaming, spawned within the cracked skulls of women and men, forces as deadly as anything conjured by Einstein – and what a daemoniac mind he had! How one would have enjoyed drinking his dreams. The human brain, which is capable of creating its own ‘reality,’ is a miraculous machine, I admit, capable of conjuring a plethora of gods and devils, creatures of myth and legend, beasts whose natures are recorded (if not explained) within the texts of countless necromantic tomes. It’s all so very quaint.”

  “And where would you place me, Mr. Williams – among these lunatics?”

  How cryptic was his smile. “You are extraordinarily authentic, deliciously tainted by Outside forces of which even I cannot comprehend. You have not called forth your own delicious entities – you have been called by the Outside, a conduit channeling to those spaces between the stars where dwell the dead-yet-dreaming, a pawn of their provocative play.”

  “How very helpless you make me feel,” I muttered.

  The silent woman moved her hand to mine. Her flesh was warm. “Your soul has touched the Outside place, where dwells the Boundless One, that for which my Elder Brother serves as avatar. That is a realm I ache to visit, although thus far it has yet been denied me. Perhaps you can serve as my own personal conduit, Philip, to the Throne of That Which Is Not To Be Named. I sense your delicious power, the potency of your dreaming. I’m certain you can assist me.”

  I sensed, deeply, that these – beings – contained within themselves components of awesome power. If I could be of service to them – to her – I was anxious to do all that I could. Tenderly, I brought her magnificent hand to my lips, as I gazed within the galaxy of her eyes.

  VI.

  (Cyrus Lynchwood)

  I stood in the library, looking at titles and sipping my third whiskey. My light-headedness did nothing to tame my growing excitement, and when I smiled at my landlord I could tell that he, too, was buzzing. He was sitting at his desk and nervously fingering the cedar box in which he was keeping the outre flute. Finally, he banged his fist on the desk. “Where the devil are they?” he demanded.

  “They’re preparing themselves. Cool down, Mr. Nithon. Simon likes to make a dramatic occasion out of everything, and this is an occasion like none other.”

  As if the uttering of his name was to conjure him, Simon almost floated into the room on a cloud of glee. He was not wearing his hat, nor had he bothered to smooth his facial features into something more human-appearing; and I couldn’t help but grin as I watched Philip’s startled face as he studied the true face of the beast. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, smiled and winked.

  “Yes!” Simon exclaimed, roaming the room with his wide dark hands raised before him, as if to feel the haunted atmosphere of the room. “This place is indeed a portal! Rarely have I felt such presence. What we have here is one of those outlandish earthly spots where the realms ooze one into the other. You remember, Cyrus, when I spoke to you of the Rue d’Auseil, and of the gateway that I discovered there? Pure accident my finding it – or, rather, pure instinct, led me there. I could smell the uncanny nature of the place above the putrescence of the river water. There were dilapidated factories whose gray smoke perpetually shut out the light of day, and in that smog I could smell the residue of past dwellers, the artists and dreamers whose souls had been tainted by the place. Delicious. But it was nothing like this! When we have concluded, Nithon, you must whisper to me of your family history. I’m certain there’s something there that will help to explain your connection to the Outside, which you’ve never realized until this late time of life.” Simon then noticed the cedar box on which Philip’s hand rested. “But, pray, what hast thou there?”

  Philip hesitated for a moment, and then he opened the box and revealed to Simon’s enthralled eyes the onyx flute. “Oh! Oh!” exclaimed the beast, as he reached into the box and took up the instrument. “But this is magnificent! Clearly a work of Outside craft, and so beautiful! Light as a feather, as if it were not fully in this realm. You’ll remember, Cyrus, that I told you of that statuette that had been fashioned by a psychically hypersensitive artist in Providence? It was a superb piece, and although crafted by a mortal it had dimensions of the Outside. Quite wonderful, yet it had been composed by human hands. Now, this – ”

  Gingerly, Simon brought the thing to his lips. Gently, he exhaled. A low sound issued from the flute as the room darkened perceptively. Then, through the threshold of a doorway, she came to us, wearing a gown of yellow silk that clung to the contours of her sumptuous body. The luxurious red hair, falling almost to her ankles, shone in the soft light of the room as, seductively, s
he sauntered to where Philip sat. Bending to him, she kissed his forehead. “We owe you our deepest gratitude, Philip. You are a rare dreamer.” Her mouth found his, and I saw that he could not shut his startled eyes as he drank her kiss, the likes of which he had evidently never tasted.

  Simon continued to push his breath through the esoteric instrument. No longer able to hide my authentic nature, I let my human mask fall from me so as to reveal my Sesquan features, and I raised my bestial mouth so as to bay in accompaniment to Simon’s rare music. Philip’s eyes looked more confused as ever as they looked on my true nature, but I ignored him and, shutting my eyes, I sang to the eldritch music until I heard the sound beneath our own – the song of alien wind. The same wind that had been summoned on that weird evening not too long ago, by my landlord. Philip recognized it as well, and his face grew pale and afraid.

  Selene moved from us and raised her arms as she began to dance. There was something in the way she held her arms, as if she were greeting a lover from the air. My eyesight began to blur and the phantom wind encased my mortal being. I could not clearly see the black cloud that began to form above the woman’s head, or the strange dark visage that watched from within it. Selene seemed slightly displeased as the walls around us began to melt away, revealing a weird woodland the likes of which I have never seen. The cloud above Selene expanded, and from it fell two squat and formless things that held black flutes at their amorphous mouths, flutes that were identical to the one on which Simon performed. The creatures spilled toward the woman’s feet, before which they settled as they played their pipes in her honor. Some of her displeasure seemed to soften, as if she was suddenly appeased, as if some heavy perplexity had come to resolution. She raised her hand to Philip and commanded that he join her. He rose from his chair and drifted to the goddess.