King Solomon himself greeted her and extended a hand into veiled coach, they strode side by side to his gilded court always without reproach.
A staff bearing the image of an elder god thrust from her hand, by her side a dark boy dressed as pharaoh in bright silks from a far eastern land.
***
The black vault of night fell and the starry cosmic serpent whirled overhead, tail in mouth, as the queen of Sheba’s retinue entered Jerusalem through the southeastern fountain gates. Solomon kissed her hand as she exited the gossamer shrouded palanquin. Through the wafting frankincense and myrrh they passed to speak in the Hall of Pillars.
Nearly alone in the magnificent Hall, the king sought to embrace a queen but she withdrew.
“I have missed you dear Balqis. Did you not miss me as well? What is thy wish? Have I offended thee my love?”
She stood tall, strong and imperious speaking in a loud voice as a herald. “I have come to introduce you to our son,” she said. “That you may learn at his feet as I have learned at his.” She beckoned then for Solomon the king to behold the darkling child.
“My son?” Solomon’s brow furrowed and he waved off the multitude of eavesdropping concubines who watched from behind inlaid stone.
“My father,” said the boy, whose deep bass voice ground defiance to dust. He extended a hand in mocking supplication to his father the king.
She said, “He is beyond the wisdom of ages, the Mazeroth burns in him and the stars have aligned, releasing all their knowledge.”
Solomon twisted his magic ring and wondered. Balqis, the woman, the queen who stood before him was changed, no longer did her eyes shine but were pallid orbs unblinking. Her voice once soft and sweet as honey was hard and firm as the temple stones. The ornate crown she wore shot forth the gaze of a golden tendriled abomination, that seemed to shimmer and writhe in the flickering torchlight.
“It is late dear queen, let us retire for the night and discuss these things more in the break of day. Demons and Djinn’s rule the night and it is not meet to discuss such things during their witching hour.”
She looked to the boy who answered himself, “Why fear the night? There was wisdom in the darkness before there was light.”
The boys black eyed gaze burned into Solomon and for a moment the king feared he might drop to his knees before the imposing child. Solomon shook off the nausea and muttered an incantation to himself, a prayer for strength, a hope for deliverance. “Send the boy away Balqis, I would speak with you alone.”
She responded coldly, “He is not to be shunned, but obeyed.”
“Curse the child!” he shouted. “I care not for how he looks upon me.”
Solomon’s chief bodyguard, captain Kenaz, stepped forward, hand on hilt. Kenaz was sandy haired and strong, he feared no man or beast, but the pale eyed queen and lean dark boy gave even him pause. He wiped a hand over his stubbled beard and cursed at what he must do now.
Looking to the bodyguard, the boy gave a sign of vibrant chaos and opened a gate which warped like a twisting whirlpool on end.
The vortex opened.
The torches blazed momentarily as a ferocious wind sent them guttering. A tormented sound echoed from the gate, reverberating the stones. A maddening fear took hold the folk and animals of the palace. The braying of donkeys echoed across the city and the cocks crowed in terror. Babes whined and pregnant women miscarried.
Sensing the unholy threat the boy posed to his king Solomon, Kenaz charged.
A long slender tendril, purple as Phoenician sackcloth, lashed out.
It took Kenaz about the head and shoulders and sucked him through the gate.
With the spiraling tentacle about Kenaz’s mouth, Solomon shuddered, wondering how he could hear the man scream.
From behind, two guardsmen broke ranks, swords raised.
“No!” Solomon shouted, expecting their doom.
The iron swords shattered upon the boys ebon body. Dumbstruck as the tendrils grasped and brought them to the maw of the beast from beyond.
“You shall heed me,” said the boy with a voice deep as the pit.
Solomon nodded and knelt at his son’s feet.
***
And so it was that in the following weeks, the new son of Sheba and Solomon instructed the palace upon many things. He constructed brilliant artifices and skillfully showed them the nature of the universe. And Solomon did depart from his God and even the pagan gods of his wives and did heed unto the counsel of Azathoth, Yog-Sothoth and yea, even dreaming Cthulhu.
But not all in the palace were held in thrall of the dark child. Rehoboam the former heir apparent sought to renew his place. His was not a noble spirit but an ambitious one that would not be cheated of his destiny. He plotted with the priest Sethur some manner to destroy the dark usurper.
“Nothing of this world can harm the dark child, but we have things from beyond this world,” said the priest. He mentioned the sacred Ark and also brought forth the sword of Goliath. “Legend says this was made on another world than ours. It is hallowed and can cut the demon boy.”
“How can I know it will work?”
“You have no other choice. Slay and live or lie and slave.”
The prince nodded and together they prepared their assassination.
***
Declaring the stars were right, Solomon, Sheba and the boy prepared the invocation of the Outer Gods. The world would be reborn, reorganized in their image. In the garden and vineyards of Gehenna, signs were drawn in blood and glyphs carved into stone and wood. The moon hung overhead uncaring.
At the temple Sethur prepared the Ark and Rehoboam ran a finger along the sword of Goliaths edge as he joined his father.
The celestial alignment merged with that within the gated world and the boy’s voice boomed unutterable incantations into the bleak starred night. Phantoms swirled and green flames projected like vomit from unknown fissures.
A gelatinous mass threatened to pierce the veil of night and formless void took shape.
Now the plotters struck.
Sethur and eleven Levites projected the Ark at Gehenna. Light blasted out and wrestled the void. Time froze and shook.
Rehoboam was there in the darkness waiting his chance. Casting dull acolytes aside he lunged at the darkling child.
The queen reached out to protect her son and Solomon held her back, “This too shall pass,” he said.
The boy recognized the otherworldly sword in the prince’s hand and fled from its shining wrath. Into the darkness of Gehenna the two ran.
Without the boy’s call, the chaos was damned and held back, sucked to whatever gulf it spawned from, to sleep eons more.
Solomon and Sheba could not gaze through the gloom upon the wicked pursuit of their sons, but the cacophony of screams and the thud of bloody chops spoke the harsh truth.
Rehoboam crawled forth, the sword of Goliath in his hand and the dark child lay still. The prince collapsed and it was then Sheba took her soon and to depart.
Solomon asked, “Where will you go, what will you do?”
“The child is not dead but sleeps. Twenty seven wounds will equal twenty seven centuries and he will rise up again to bring back that which has waited eternities already.”
***
Always it is said that with the blessing comes a curse, and it is for both the fools and wise to know and understand that which is worse.
Sheba was beautiful and Solomon was wise, together they brought a thing into the world which could not love but only despise.
Halted in his infancy and pyramidal step, that crawling chaos was brought low only but once the darkling child, Nylarthahotep.
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David J. West is an award winning writer, family man, sword collector, and rogue of all trades. Click here to visit his website!
Story art by mimulux.
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NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ©2006-2
012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.
The Case of the Galloway Eidolon
by Bruce Durham
An original Lovecraftian Sherlock Holmes story
We received the message to attend a crime scene at the British Museum some time after seven in the evening.
I sat reading the paper and enjoying a cup of tea when the constable arrived. He stood at the entrance speaking in such a rush that my friend, as short-tempered as he is wont to be, took him by the shoulder, and in a surprisingly calm manner, asked the man to repeat the message, slowly.
The strangeness of the details proved of such intrigue we spared little time in preparation. Upon reaching the museum’s grand entrance we were immediately escorted by the constable past a gathering of curious onlookers and through doors guarded by two stern officers. Once inside, we passed a series of rooms resplendent in statues and artefacts garnered from all points of the known world.
While I dallied at the Rosetta Stone, my friend and his escort continued down a long hall to an area reserved for items collected from ancient Briton. His sharp call reminded me of my purpose and I grudgingly followed.
Here I found Inspector Lestrade and two constables standing near three bodies. A third constable was off to the side conversing with a visibly distraught night watchman. Lestrade acknowledged my entrance with a quick flick of his dark eyes. I touched the rim of my hat before concentrating on the bodies.
Though closed for the evening, the warm, deep shadows cast by the subdued lighting failed to disguise each victim’s grisly demise. Two had received severe chest wounds, their cotton shirts blood-soaked and torn from multiple swings of some bladed instrument. The third had suffered a more ghastly wound, a crushed cranium; the blow slicing bone and opening the forehead down to the mouth. His glazed eyes stared obscenely in opposite directions.
“Ever see anything like it, Holmes?” Lestrade asked. “A deranged madman with an axe, I say.”
My friend merely grunted; intent on examining the crime scene. He paused, his brow wrinkling, then strode to a spot a dozen feet from the victims. Bending, he drew his finger across the floor, and then inspected his fingertip, placing it against his nose before gingerly tasting the tip with his tongue. Rubbing index finger and thumb together, he said, “Inspector, did the night watchman say anything about a missing artefact?”
Lestrade turned. “You, Berkshire, bring that watchman here.”
The night watchman, a thin fellow, lean as the Inspector, gave the bodies a wide berth as Constable Berkshire prodded him before Lestrade and Holmes.
“There was something here,” Lestrade snapped. “What was it?”
The watchman swallowed, the sunken eyes of his narrow, pasty face flitting from man to man. “Those fellows came at closing, sirs, at the delivery entrance out back. Had a wooden crate with them and official looking paperwork with orders to place a statue here.”
Holmes cupped his chin. “A statue, was it?”
The watchman nodded eagerly. “Oh yes sir. I left them to make my rounds when they took to opening the crate.”
“And did you see this statue?” Holmes asked. “Can you describe it?”
“Just a little, sir. It was black. Like coal. Looked like a man, it did. Imposing it was, like an ancient king or god. Gave me chills.”
Lestrade said, a touch impatiently, “And then what?”
The watchman shivered and swallowed. “I heard something.”
“Out with it.”
“I was in the basement doing my rounds, as I said, when I heard shouting, and then screaming. Blood-curdling screaming it was. When I came to investigate, it was to this.” He gestured weakly at the bodies.
“And their assailants?”
The night watchman hesitated. “I did see them, sir, but I tell you now; you won’t believe me.”
Lestrade frowned. “Try.”
“They were small. Like dwarves. African dwarves. I can’t think of the name—”
“Pygmies,” I offered.
“Yes sir. That’s it. Like Pygmies. ‘Cept they weren’t. Not exactly. They were maybe a dozen in all. Hacked these men to death, they did. Then they took the statue. Carried it off like it weighed nothing.”
Lestrade snorted. “Nonsense.” He leaned close to the cowering man and sniffed. “You have been drinking, sir.”
The watchman whimpered, wiping his nose with a dirty sleeve. “Tis true I had a nip or two, sir, but I’m telling you the truth. I’m no hero, I’m not. I hid. I didn’t want to end up like them.”
Holmes gave a dismissing wave of his hand. “That will be all for now.” Kneeling down, he said, “What do you make of these, Inspector?”
Lestrade, motioning Berkshire to take the watchman away, snapped, “Make of what? I see nothing.”
“Shine your torch here, by my hand. Like so. See? Residue from the shallow imprint of a foot. A bare, damp foot. Rather small. Angle the light down a bit more. Yes. That’s it.” He stood. “Just as I thought.”
“What, Holmes? Pygmies running barefoot through the museum?”
“Possibly. I suspect we shall find others like it by the bodies, the broken crate, and leading to an exit. The rear exit, I presume. These men had identification?”
“No.” Lestrade reached into his coat and produced a journal, nodding toward the man with the split head. “That one had this.”
Holmes held out a hand. “May I?” Taking the journal, he inspected the front and back covers before opening it and reading from the first page. “To a Peter Stiles, a gift from his sister, Anne. There is an address here.”
Lestrade waved an impatient hand. “I know all that. In the morning a constable will bring her to the morgue to identify her brother. Perhaps she can shed additional light on this mystery.”
Holmes nodded as he flipped through the book. “Doctor, can you add anything?” Absently he tucked the journal inside his peacoat. Lestrade made to protest, but thought better of it.
A cursory inspection on my part had provided little beyond the obvious cause of death, save for an object embedded deeply in the head of the man with the split skull. Opening my kit, I produced a pair of tweezers and extracted a chip of black stone. Holding it against the available light, I turned it about, unsure of its origin.
My friend, his brow raised with curiosity, approached, motioning Lestrade to follow. Taking the tweezers from my hand, he inspected the black stone carefully under Lestrade’s torch. “Note the scalloped pattern,” he said, running his finger along an edge and drawing it away sharply, placing the digit to his mouth. “Cut myself,” he mumbled. “It is flint. I would say from an axe.
Lestrade snorted. “A flint axe for a murder weapon? Preposterous.”
Holmes returned the item to me. “Many tribes continue to use flint to this day, Inspector. New Guinea, the Amazon, certain cultures along the—”
“All right, all right. So, you propose these men were murdered by Amazons?”
“Nothing that exotic, Inspector. From its shape and texture I suspect this flint originated in the vicinity of Galloway.”
Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. “Galloway? Galloway, Scotland?”
Holmes nodded. “Galloway is known to have evidence of Neolithic settlements, as well as extensive findings of flint tools.”
Lestrade regarded the bodies with obvious distaste. His eyes darted to mine, gauging my reaction. I remained silent. Speaking carefully, he summarized, “So, to be clear, these men delivered a statue; then were subsequently murdered by Pygmies armed with flint weapons who then ran off with the st
atue.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes.”
“Where to? Another museum?”
I allowed a thin smile, though the humor appeared beyond my friend. I offered, “Perhaps we should look out back. We may find additional clues.” My suggestion was met with grunts of approval.
The night watchman led us to the rear loading dock, though he refused to go further. Under electric torchlight we searched the immediate area until a constable called out. We gathered around a grate. A close inspection revealed scoring about the edges, indicating recent displacement.
Lestrade said, “This must be where your Pygmies went.” He glanced at the thickly clouded night sky. “These tunnels go for miles. They could be anywhere by now. It is best we wait until morning before conducting a proper search.”
I could see my friend disapproved, and was prepared to climb into the dank, filthy sewer system honeycombing London. Hastily I said, “The Inspector is right, Holmes. You can study the journal tonight and tomorrow we shall meet this Miss Stiles at the morgue. Between her and the journal we may better understand this mystery.”
Holmes muttered, “Tomorrow then,” and stormed off.
Smiling grimly at Lestrade, I followed.
#
Anne Stiles arrived at the morgue shortly after mid-morning, escorted by Constable Berkshire. She was a handsome woman in her early twenties, with dark, nervous eyes and thin, pinched lips.
I hurriedly approached and held out my hand. “Miss Stiles, I am Doctor Watson.”
Absently she took it, her touch cold and clammy. Before I could offer words of comfort she asked, “Where is Peter?”
I led her to the body. “I must caution you, Miss, the wound is most grievous.”
Anne nodded.
I raised the sheet, exposing the ruined head.
She gasped, her hands covering her mouth. “Dear God, who could do such a thing?”
Replacing the cloth, I said, “I am truly sorry, Miss Stiles, I—”
“That is not Peter.”
“Eh, what?”
“That is not Peter. Peter has red hair and a beard.”
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011 Page 22
