Her words were ever soothing. One could resist her nothing. I climbed onto the table and shut my eyes as my ears drank the sweetness of her voice. I was almost unaware of the sharpness that began to etch schema into my skin.
Memory grew dull and faded as I regained my sense of place beneath the hollow’s trees. Unaware, I had walked to that altar stone and reclined upon it. I fancied that I could smell again the alchemical fragrance of incense and occult candles that Elana and I had burned as part of unholy rite. As if in dream, I could remember her chanted phrases, copied from that olden tome and memorized. I looked, and saw the smoke of candle and incense that mingled with the grey ground-mist; and then I saw the banks of other emission, the thousand smokes that heralded the coming of the Nameless One whom we adored with sacrament. It filtered to us, the One who wore the mask of fire, ushered by hazy hooded phantoms that surrounded the altar and pressed their ashy kisses onto my exposed flesh. I beheld an additional phantom, a sorry spectre that stood apart from the others, clothed in cloud and gloom. Its contours were familiar.
I think I groaned a little as this new horror drifted to me and lifted its ritual dagger. I quivered as that implement was lowered to my lips, which kissed it. My eyes brimmed with tears as proverbial ritual was uttered on the wind, as sigils were etched onto my eyes. Oh, her odd beloved face. Behind her, the Nameless One reached past the starry voids and caught one strange grey world, a sphere of which Elana and I had learned about in some prehistoric text. The blade’s point worked on me still, and I could feel my streams of liquid mortality seep from their newborn slits and mingle with the ashy remnants of phantasmal kisses.
My human hands reached out. One caught my sister’s hair, and the other was clutched by her fiendish hand. Aided by her alchemy, I floated from the altar, into her embrace, and we danced as the earth beneath us crumbled into dust that was scattered as cosmic waste. Chortling, we stepped beyond the stars, guided by a Nameless One, past space and time, to hoary Yuggoth, where we buzzed in ecstasy among immortal fungi.
X
“I longed to learn the songs the demons sing as they swoop between the stars, or hear the voices of the olden gods as they whisper their secrets to the echoing void. I yearned to know the terrors of the grave; the kiss of maggots on my tongue, the cold caress of a rotting shroud upon my body. I thirsted for the knowledge that lies in the pits of mummied eyes, and burned for wisdom known only to the worm.”
--Robert Bloch, The Shambler from the Stars
You would think, weird author that I am, that I would merrily dwell on my day of happy death. Yet am I complacent. Because as I sit upon this boulder beside the Seekonk River, as I listen to the wind whistle among the leaves of spreading trees, I try to imagine your final days at Butler. Were you locked inside a little room, and were there bars on the window? It was ninety years ago, and I shudder to think of what you may have suffered. Yes, I love the macabre, but it is fantasy. Reality is the authentic horror. You were boxed inside your little room, and then you were planted in your little box at Swan Point. I won’t abide such boxes. Teach me not the mundane terrors of the grave. I’ve known geeks who feasted on maggots, and I was not impressed. I’ve slept with mummies and found their conversation lacking. No, no. I will not slumber ‘neath the sod.
Do you remember the legend of the Outsider, the fellow who lived beneath the earth? Can you recall how he tried to escape the crumbling corridors of his palace and creep into the terrible forest beyond his buried edifice? That realm and its preternatural shadow was not for him. Instead, achingly, he climbed the stairless cylinder of rock, upward to what he thought would be “the light.” What he found, after his folly among the dancing folk who fled him, was the night, and its illuminations. His friends became the happy ghouls who mock mortality. I am such a fiend, and I will ride the wind. Do not plant me in some box, do not pack my ashes into a jug. Sprinkle me into the wind that rushes over this Seekonk River, and let me flow on water and in gale.
Until then, I will sing the songs of horror and kiss your flesh with chilly lips. I will churn the substance of your brain with language that sighs of secret things. I will evoke the dark wonder that thrilled the prophet of Providence, who is my midnight Muse. Selah.
This Splendor of the Goat
I
The young woman knelt in the area half-way up the mountain and smoothed its surface of rock with pale hands. The mountain stone was as white as polished limestone, and its shiny façade reflected the bright afternoon light. Turning, she looked down into the valley and smiled. They would not follow her here, and so she could escape for a little while their queries and queer glances. Laughing, she lifted her hands to the sun and clapped, and then she rose upon her feet and looked above her at the magnificent arched peaks that resembled two wings on the back of some daemon. Playfully, she studied her shadow on the rocky surface and shaped her arms so that her silhouette resembled, however feebly, the appearance of Mount Selta. Happily, she glanced around her, until her sight fastened on the nearby bust that had been sculpted from a large rock. She went to it and admired the skill with which the face and torso had been fashioned. The sun-lit features were as grotesque as any she had seen in Sesqua Town, except that here they wore a slight difference from that of the children of the valley; for their Sesquan faces were a bizarre combination of frog and wolf, whereas this sinister countenance was distinctly goat-like.
Perhaps this was meant to be a portrait of Pan, and that idea inspired the woman to begin to whistle a strange and lively tune. Once more, she raised her hands and began to clap in rhythm to her song; and as she whistled she began to move her feet upon the silky white stone, in dance. She was but vaguely aware of her peculiar tune, and when she stopped one moment to listen to it she could not recall where she had learned it. No matter, it fitted her mood precisely, and so she kept whistling it as she unbuttoned her blouse so that she could feel the delicious morning sun on her breasts. As she cavorted about the bust she examined it carefully and decided that there was something decidedly sensual in its expression. Stopping her gyrations, she knelt before the bust and touched her breasts against its baleful countenance. Vaguely, she became aware of the one who observed her.
Playing over the sculpture’s hair with pale hands, she bent so as to kiss the creature’s brow. Without turning she shouted, “I came here to be alone.”
“Then you shouldn’t be so pretty and so wanton. Good grief, prancing around with your tits hanging out! How could I resist watching? Anyway, you’re invading my special haunt. This is where I come to think.”
“What could possibly be on your mind, Arthur, that requires such a trek?” she asked as she turned and sat on the ground, not bothering to cover her nakedness.
“Memories, and expectations. What brings you here, Monique?”
“Oh, a momentary escape—from them. This is one of the few areas they seem to shun.” She shrugged. “I get tired of the way they react to me, the way they’re always watching me.”
The young man laughed and knelt before her, glancing around. “So where’s your friend?”
Monique frowned, confused. “What?”
“That dark naked guy who was dancing with you.” Her frown deepened, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. “He was right over there, by that outcropping of rock.”
She tilted to him and smoothed her brow with a pallid hand. “Your eyes are playing tricks, Arthur. We are here alone. There are no dancing naked men.” Her laughter bubbled from her as she buttoned her blouse and got to her feet. “It’s getting hot. Did you drive from town? No? Excellent, walk back with me. You can protect me from any dark naked gentlemen we may encounter.”
They descended the steep mountain path, and Monique wondered again at the utter lack of vegetation on Selta. When at last they reached the valley floor, she looked up at the twin-peaked titan and sighed.
“She does look amazing, doesn’t she?” Arthur commented. “Almost like some slumbering daemon that is just awaiting that specia
l spectral moment of wakefulness. Do you remember how Simon reacted when I found that large piece of rock that had rolled off Selta, and I took it home and sculpted a replication? ‘Meikle, this is not allowed,’ he barked, and then he took my piece and put it on display in Creighton’s antique shop. Did I ever tell you about the outlandish dreams I had as I was making that sculpture?”
“Dreams of what?”
The young man sucked in air. “Can’t tell you. Can’t remember. When I try to recall them all I see is a blur of hazy shapes inside my mind, like formless shadows in a mist. But I remember the ecstasy and horror those dreams inspired. Ah, the air grows sweet again. Funny, on the mountain the air is fresh and ordinary, as it is outside the valley. But down here it regains that cloying sweetness that takes some time to get used to. I like this little clump of woodland, there’s something calming about it.”
Yes, the woman thought, this was a restful place, and she was in no hurry to rush through it. But the woodland ended too soon, and they found themselves on barren, blighted ground. The air breathed in turned rank, and they tried not to inhale too vigorously as they stepped through tall patches of yellow grass, past trees that were twisted and diseased. “This reminds me of the Hungry Place,” Arthur muttered, “only ten times worse. Ugh!” Finally they came to the end of poisoned ground, to a rocky road that led toward Sesqua Town. The sun had risen higher and the day was warm. Arthur removed his shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his taut torso. Smiling coquettishly at her friend, Monique removed her top as well, and then laughed as Arthur leaned to her and kissed one pert young breast. They wandered nonchalantly down the rocky road that took them to the main section of the small town, and the girl slipped on her blouse but did not bother to button it.
Monique looked at the old buildings, the wooden planks that formed the town’s sidewalks, and the few denizens who shuffled on those planks. “Do you remember the first time you looked upon this scene? You came from city life, too, didn’t you? I remember taking it all in and feeling that Sesqua Town was both charming and absurd. Somehow, I knew that I belonged here, almost that I had been summoned by the valley itself because of my predilection for occult things; and yet when I first arrived I thought my visions of the valley had been drug-induced delusions. How did you learn of Sesqua Valley?”
“From a little cult I dabbled with,” Arthur answered. “Simon used to join us, and I was especially beguiled by his sorcery. He was impressed with my grasp of esoteric languages, so he brought me here and showed me some manuscripts in his tower library that he was pondering over. He’s such a freak. I could tell that he was hesitant to bring me to the valley, and yet he couldn’t contain a kind of enthralled pride in showing me some of its wonders. And then we had a little sexual episode, as part of a ritual, and I was hooked. The place haunted my dreams when I returned to the city, to such an extent that I sold my business and relocated here. Now I feel totally adopted.”
Monique looked past the downtown section, to the mammoth mansion that stood on a low hill just beyond. “Let’s go visit Leonidas. I want to look at your sculpture of Mount Selta. Oh, stop moaning. It’ll be fun. Leonidas is such an oddity.”
Arthur laughed. “That’s what is said of you, sweet thing.” He bent to kiss her cheek, and they walked past the storefronts and to the ascending road that took them to the enormous mansion. The upper rooms of the building were rented out to the few who were passing through the valley or staying for limited visits to Sesqua Town. The mansion’s lower portion mainly housed the fantastic antique and curio shop of Leonidas Creighton, an occultist originally from London.
“Ah, he’s burning dragon blood incense. I wonder if he has any tenants,” Monique whispered as they climbed the steps that led to the wide porch and front door. “I haven’t noticed any outsiders in town.” A little bell sounded as she opened the door, and they strolled into a spacious smoky room. The room was arranged with rows of olden oak display tables on which fantastic items were carefully arranged, with taller cases filled with books or objets d’art. Wonderful paintings hanged on the walls, the most magnificent of which was a large oil of Mount Selta and the valley at sunset. The young woman followed her friend to a low table against one wall on which what looked like a collection of religious icons had been gathered.
“I caught her, didn’t I?” Arthur asked his friend as he examined the sculpture of white stone.
“You did indeed,” Monique agreed as she examined the sculpted image of Mount Selta, “but you’ve—enhanced—her image as well, given her a more sentient aura.”
“No,” her friend countered, “I’ve caught her during one of her restless moments, that’s all. Haven’t you ever gazed at her and seen the twin peaks bend just ever so slightly? It happens most in moonlight.” But his companion did not regard him; rather, she walked away, toward another table on which another artistic display had been assembled.
“Oh, look—it’s the kindred of our acquaintance on the mountain.”
A figure oozed toward them from one dusky corner in the room. “They are the work of Edith York.” Leonidas, sans his tall hat, regarded them somberly. Monique had never known the man to smile, and was rather glad of the fact; for this English gentleman seemed to have had his teeth filed into small perfectly shaped pearls with pointed tips. “What acquaintance on the mountain were you referring to? Have you been ascending Selta?”
Roguishly, Arthur chortled. “Aye, Leonidas, we have trespassed the sacred rock. We found a bust there, rather similar in style to some of these here. Perhaps it is the work of this Edith York.”
“Unlikely. Miss York is a child of the shadowland. She would never surmount that prohibited place. This bust of which you speak…”
“Is Edith York still among us, or has she returned to shadow?”
“She is entirely reclusive since the demise of her brother. I hope you’re not thinking of disturbing her.”
Arthur picked up one of the small sculpted satyrs and examined its countenance. “Are any of these for sale? This one could be one of the children, look at that ugly mug. No, for display only? Pity. But what the devil is that supposed to be?”
“That is called ‘Shub-Niggurath,’ one of her most complex works. As one gazes on it, one almost fancies that it moves, however subtly, that is expands and contracts like some sentient cloud.”
Monique touched the thing with timid hand. “Are those faces etched within it? Damn, it’s creepy, like a beast of vapor in which the visages of trapped souls cry out for mercy.”
“No,” Arthur countered, “not mercy. I mean, they are almost undistinguishable as faces, but they suggest, somehow, elation more than misery. A twisted kind of ecstasy, perhaps, but ecstasy nonetheless.”
“I believe they symbolize the thousand young of the black goat of the wood. Ah, you aren’t familiar with that particular legend. A minor Outer God, so legend says, and curiously wedded to terrestrial regions. I know very little about it, actually. Simon could tell you all there is to know.”
But Monique wasn’t listening. She was utterly captivated by the outré object, and by her sudden desire to become acquainted with the one who created it.
II
The bent, grotesque creature listened again to the timid knocking, and then used her cane to move through a corridor to the front door of her large old house, slightly alarmed that someone would be invading her privacy, which had never happened before. Slowly, she opened the door and observed the pretty girl who stood there, an outsider dressed in a gown of simple beige cotton, whose sleek black hair was tied up in a piece of white cloth. And there, held in one hand—the violet chapbook.
“Hello. Please pardon the intrusion. Are you Victoria York?”
“I am not.”
Monique paused, uncertain how to proceed, hoping that her real intention wasn’t obvious. “Oh. I found a copy of her book of poetry, and was hoping maybe I could get her to sign it.”
“My sister has escaped mortality,” was the woman’
s queer reply.
“Ah. Are you Edith York, the sculptress? Leonidas showed me your pieces at the curio shop a few weeks ago.”
“Do you sculpt, Miss…? Would you care to come inside? I am just having my afternoon tea.”
“Oh! Thank you. I’m Monique Lambert. No, I’m not artistic at all.”
She followed the hunched woman into a comfortable sitting room, where a pot of tea and tray of cake slices sat on a low table before a petite settee. Edith motioned for Monique to sit, and then went to a sideboard and fetched a second tea cup. “What is it that you do, Miss Lambert?”
“I’m a daemonologist, studying with Simon,” the young woman answered as she watched the other pour tea into a cup. “Umm, that smells good. I was so impressed with your work on display. And I was struck with the goat-like features of some of your figurines. There’s a bust with similar features on Mount Selta, chiseled from a boulder. Could that possibly be your work?”
Bohemians of Sesqua Valley Page 10
