Compleat Crow

by Brian Lumley

  'I take it that book contains the item of supporting evidence which you mentioned in your letter, Mr Crow?

  That being the case I think it's only fair to warn you from the beginning that I can't put much stock in anything Urbicus says; though I'll admit that his description of the temple to Mithras at Barrburgh was pretty accurate.'

  Appreciating the way in which my obviously erudite critic was shaping up, I countered his exploratory thrust by smiling and telling him: 'No, the book merely contains a few additional fragments of interest in connection with my actual evidence — which is of an entirely different nature.'

  'I don't want you to get me wrong, Mr Crow,' he answered, taking out a cigarette and settling himself more comfortably in his chair in preparation for the more strenuous battle to come, 'as an entertainment your story was very good — excellent — and any casual reader of such tales must surely have experienced a definite shudder at some of the "shock" paragraphs which you so successfully employed; but to have set the thing in a period of which we're so historically and archaeologically "sure" — the same period, I note, in which old Urbicus scribbled his notes for that book of yours — was a mistake the story could well have done without. You see, I'm a collector — a gourmet of such tales, you could say — and while I don't wish to be offensive I must admit that blunders like yours irk me considerably . . .' He sipped at his brandy.

  While Mr Davies had been speaking, I had carefully opened Frontier Garrison to a previously marked page and as soon as he was done I turned the book around and slid it over the table separating us so that he could read the selected paragraph. Smiling, he did so, though I thought his smile was just a trifle too sarcastic; and sure enough, when he was through, he closed the book with a flourish which indicated complete rejection.

  'I have also read Plato on Atlantis and Borellus on, er, revivication? — No, Mr Crow, Lollius Urbicus' account of the death of Yegg-ha at the swords of a centuria of fear-frenzied Roman soldiers doesn't impress me at all. I'm sorry'

  'I rather fancy your dismissal of Plato and Borellus as a bit too perfunctory Mr Davies! I can only suspect that your appraisal of their works, to say nothing of the work of Lollius Urbicus, is undertaken with the same attitude of mind with which the Inquisition viewed the work of Galileo Galilei; and, of course, if Sayce hadn't unearthed their remains all over Asia Minor and Northern Syria you'd probably still be denying that the Hittites ever existed!' I- smiled.

  'Touche!' he said But now you're talking, Mr Crow! Remains, you said Now, that's it exactly! After all, remains are proof! But tell me please — what remains are there to show that that abominable invention of Urbicus' ever existed?'

  'You think he created Yegg-ha himself then?' I asked. 'You believe that the featureless, ten-foot-tall monstrosity he mentioned in his notes was purely a figment of his own imagination?'

  'Oh, no.- I wouldn't be so presumptuous. Urbicus probably got the idea from local legends or fairy tales. Later, rather than write off the ignominious loss of a half centuria of soldiers to a barbarian attack, he attributed their annihilation to this giant, faceless God . .

  'Hmmm — clever, I answered, 'but how about the communal grave recently unearthed at Briddock Fort — with forty-eight fantastically mutilated Roman skeletons haphazardly piled, one upon the other, some still encased in their armour, as if buried in great haste?'

  That shook him a bit. 'I'd forgotten that,' he admitted.

  'But for God's sake, man — there must have been thousands of small skirmishes which never got chronicled! You see, that's the whole point, Mr Crow; you talk about these things in exactly the same way in which you wrote about them in that damned story of yours — as though you believe in them conclusively! As though you actually believe that a great, murderous, lunatic thing was called up from hell by the barbarians to do battle with the Romans! As though you have definite proof — which you haven't. No, you shouldn't have done your story as an historical document at all. God only knows how many poor, deluded little lore-swallowers you'll have galloping all over Briddock and Housesteads, awesomely trembling at the thought that they're perhaps treading the same ground upon which the, Romans did fearsome battle with the hideous Yegg-ha!'

  While he sat there fuming I poured more brandy into his glass and grinned at him. 'Well, I've obviously made a literary enemy! I'm sorry about that because it was my intention to ask you to illustrate my next book. But anyway, tell me — have you ever seen that horrible, ten-foot chunk of granite statuary in the Roman Antiquities section of the British Museum?'

  'Yes, I have; from Limestone Bank, I believe. A stubby-winged thing much similar to the God in your story, with defaced features and . . .' He checked himself. 'Just what are you getting at?'

  'Try to think, Mr Davies — didn't you find it funny that the features of that statue were so cleverly, so smoothly, er, defaced? Why! If one looks at it at all closely it almost appears as though it wasn't intended to have any features . .

  He choked over his brandy. I reached for his glass and

  filled it again as he sputtered and coughed, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief, getting himself under control.

  'There you go again! Of all the prepos--'

  'I've been unfair, Mr Davies.' I shut him off. 'I've kept you in suspense too long and you're losing your patience. Drink your brandy . .

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Drink your brandy, I repeated_ 'You'll need it.' I opened my writing cabinet and took out an object cowled unconventionally in a tea-cosy. I balanced it upon the table. Then I pointed to the book in front of my bewildered visitor and said 'Page thirty-four, second paragraph . . : As Mr Davies fumblingly, suspiciously found the page and paragraph I stroked my item of supporting evidence beneath its tea-cosy cover.

  Eventually he looked up from the book It relates to a walk Urbicus took over the countryside shortly after his men allegedly disposed of your monster. Six of his best men went with him. So what?'

  He was looking for a place to bury something, and needed those men to carry it,' I explained. 'He wanted it hidden so that the barbarians wouldn't be able to use whatever powers of, er - what was that word you used? - revivication they might have possessed upon it.'

  Mr Davies opened his mouth to stutter a denial but I cut him off. 'You see, I've examined the whole length of. Hadrian's Wall in that area, between Housesteads and Briddock, and eventually I found the right spot. I'm quite a little archaeologist, you know, but even if I hadn't been, Urbicus' description,' - I nodded at the book which he had put down, - 'as with his description of the temple at. Barrburgh, fitted the spot exactly. Surprisingly enough, the countryside hasn't changed all that much in eighteen

  centuries; all I had to do was look for the, place where I would have put the body if I'd been Urbicus. It took me five weeks but I did eventually find it.'

  'What on Earth are you talking—'

  I lifted the tea-cosy and passed the football-sized item it concealed over the table for Mr Davies' incredulous inspection.

  I made him promise to keep it to himself; I cannot say I fancy the idea of crowds of boffins disturbing my privacy and I certainly would never part with that item of supporting evidence. Not only that but he promised to illustrate my next book.

  There are many outré items in Blowne House; a weird, four-handed clock which ticks all out of rhyme, the Cthaat Aquadingen with its nameless binding, a crystal-ball which is so disturbing to look upon that I have to keep it locked away – and many others equally as strange as these. But I am particularly proud of my paperweight –though I will admit it does seem peculiar to put such an odd item to such a use. You see, it's a rather large, socketless skull...

  With wire hooks screwed into them the wings make excellent coat-hangers.

  BILLY'S OAK

  THIS IS ANOTHER tale of an unconventional ghost. More I can't say . . .

  Having enjoyed a surprising measure of success with my latest book, Here Be Witches!; and, in the process of researchi
ng for that 'documentary' volume, having stumbled across various mentions of a certain 'black' book — the Cthaat Aquadingen, an almost legendary collection of spells and incantations purported to relate, among other things, to the raising of certain water-elementals — I was considerably put out to discover that the British Museum did not have a copy; or, if there was a copy at the museum, then for some reason the controllers of that vast establishment were reluctant to permit its perusal! Yet I especially desired to see a copy, in connection with a companion volume to Here Be Witches!, to be entitled Forbidden Books!, which my publisher was pressing me to start work upon.

  It was this reluctance on the part of the Curator of the Rare Books Department to answer my inquiries with anything other than the most perfunctory replies which prompted me to get in touch with. Titus Crow; a London-dwelling collector of obscure and eldritch volumes who, 1 had heard it rumoured, held a copy of the very book I wished to consult in his private library.

  In prompt reply to a hastily scribbled letter Mr Crow invited me round to Blowne House — his residence onthe outskirts of the city — assuring me that he did indeed own a copy of the Cthaat Aquadingen and that with one provision and on one condition I might be allowed to check through its contents. The provision was that any projected visit to Blowne House would have to be paid during the later hours of the evening; for, as he was currently engaged upon some studying himself, and because he was better able to concentrate at night, he was retiring very late and was rarely out of bed before noon. This, plus the fact that his afternoons were taken up by more mundane but nevertheless essential labours, left him only the evenings in which to work or entertain visitors. Not, as he was quick to explain, that he was given to entertaining visitors very often. In fact, had he not already acquainted himself with my earlier work he would have been obliged to pointblank refuse my proposal. Too many 'cranks' had already attempted the penetration of his retreat.

  As the fates would have it, I chose a filthy night to call at Blowne House. The rain was coming down in sheets and great grey clouds hung heavy over the city in the lowering sky. I parked my car on the long driveway in front of Mr Crow's sprawling bungalow home, ran up the short path with my collar turned up against the downpour, and banged on the heavy door. During the space of the half-minute or so in which it took my host to answer my knock I got thoroughly soaked. As soon as I had introduced myself as being Gerald Dawson I found myself ushered inside, relieved of my dripping coat and soggy hat, and bustled through to Mr Crow's study where he bade me sit before a roaring fire to 'dry out'.

  He was not what I had expected. He was tall and broad-shouldered and it was plain to see that in his younger days he had been a handsome man. Now, though, his hair had greyed and his eyes, though they were still bright and observant, bore the imprint of many a- year spent exploring-and often, I guessed, discovering — along rarely trodden paths of mysterious and obscure learning. He was attired in a flame-red dressing-gown, and I noticed that a small, casual table beside his desk sported a bottle of the best brandy.

  It was that which rested upon the desk itself, however, which mainly attracted my attention; for it was obviously the object of Mr Crow's studies; a tall, four-handed, hieroglyphed, coffin-shaped monstrosity of a: clock, lying horizontally, face upwards, along the full length of the huge desk. I had noticed when he answered my knock that my host carried a book; and, as he placed this volume on the arm of my chair while he poured me a welcome drink, I was able to see that it was a well-thumbed copy of Walmsley's Notes on Deciphering Codes, Cryptograms, and Ancient Inscriptions. Apparently Mr Crow was attempting a translation of the fantastic hieroglyphics on the weird clock's face. Even as I got up and crossed the room to have a closer look at that device it was obvious to me that the intervals between its loud ticks were quite irregular; nor, I noticed, did the four hands move in consonance with any time-system with which I was at all familiar. I could not help but wonder just what chronological purpose so curious a timepiece served.

  Crow saw the bewilderment on my face and laughed.'It puzzles me to the same extent, Mr Dawson, but Ishouldn't let it bother you. I doubt if anyone will evertruly understand the thing; every now and then I get the:urge to have another bash at it, that's all, and then I'm atfor weeks at a time, getting nowhere! Still, you didn'tcome round here tonight to get yourself involved withMarigny's clock! You're here to have a look at a book.'

  I agreed with him and commenced to outline my plan for including a mention or two of the Cthaat Aquadingen in Forbidden Books! As I spoke he moved the occasional table from its position near his desk to a place nearer to where I had been seated beside the fire. This done he slid back a panel, hidden in the wall to one side of the fireplace, and took down from a dim shelf the very volume in which my interest was seated. Then an expression of extreme loathing crossed his face and he quickly put the book down on the table and wiped his hands on his dressing-gown.

  'The, er, binding . . .' he muttered. 'It's forever sweating which is rather surprising, you'll agree, considering its donor has been dead for at least four hundred years!'

  'Its donor!' I exclaimed, glancing in morbid fascination at the book. 'You don't mean to say that it's bound in . . .

  'I'm afraid so! At least, that copy is.'

  'My God! . . . Are there many copies then?' I asked. 'Only three that I know of — and one of the other two is here in London. I take it they wouldn't let you see it?' 'You're very shrewd, Mr Crow, and perfectly correct.

  No, I wasn't allowed to see the copy at the British Museum.'

  'You'd have received the same answer if you'd asked for the Necronomicon,' he answered. I was taken completely aback.

  'I beg your pardon? Don't tell me you believe there really is such a book? Why, I've been assured half-adozen times that this Necronomicon thing is purely a fiction; a clever literary prop to support a fictional mythology'

  `If you say so,' he blandly replied. 'But anyway, it's that book you're interested in.' He indicated the evilly-bound volume on the occasional table.

  'Yes, of course, I answered, 'but didn't you say something about a, well, a condition?'

  'Ah! Well, I've taken care of that myself,' he said. 'I've had the two centre chapters — the more instructive ones -- taken out and bound separately, just in case. I'm afraid you can't see them.'

  'Instructive ones? In case?' I echoed him. 'I don't quite see what you mean?'

  'Why, in case the thing should ever fall into the wrong hands, of course!' He looked surprised. 'Surely you must have wondered why those people at the museum keep their copies of such books under lock and key?'

  'Yes; I imagine they're locked away because they're very rare, worth a lot of money!' I answered. 'And I suppose some of them must contain one or two rather nasty items; erotic-supernaturaI-sadistic stuff, I mean; sort of medieval Marquis de Sade?'

  'Then you suppose wrongly, Mr Dawson. The Cthaat Aquadingen contains complete sets of working spells and invocations; it contains the Nyhargo Dirge and a paragraph on making the Elder Sign; it contains one of the Sathlatta, and four pages on Tsathogguan Rituals. It contains far too much — and if certain authorities had had their way even the three remaining copies would have been destroyed long ago.'

  'But surely you can't believe in such things?' I protested. `I mean, I intend to write of such books as though -there's something damnably mysterious and monstrous about them — I'll have to, or I'd never make a sale — but I can't believe such things myself.'

  Crow laughed at me, in a rather mirthless way. 'Can't you? If you'd seen the things I've seen, or been through some of the things I've been through, believe me you wouldn't feel so shocked, Mr Dawson. Oh, yes, I believe in such things. I believe in ghosts and fairies, in ghouls and genies, in a certain mythological "prop", and in the existence of Atlantis, R'lyeh, and G'harne.'

  'But surely there's not one scrap of genuine evidence in favour of any of the things or places you've mentioned?' I argued. 'Where, for instance, can one be sure
of meeting a — well — a ghost?'

  Crow thought it over a moment and I felt sure I had scored a major victory. I just could not take it in that this so obviously intelligent man genuinely believed so deeply in the supernatural. But then, in defiance of what I had considered the unanswerable question, he said: 'You put me in the position of the ecclesiastical gentleman who once informed a small child of the existence of AnAlmighty-God-Who-Is-Everywhere — and was then asked to produce him. No, I can't show you a ghost — at least, not without going to a lot of trouble — but I can show you a manifestation of one.'

  'Oh, now come, Mr Crow, you ..

  'No, seriously,' he cut me off. 'Listen!' He put a finger to his lips, signifying silence, and adopted a listening attitude.

  The rain outside had stopped and there was only the sporadic patter of droplets draining from the tiles to disturb the silence of the room; that and the ticking of Crow's great clock. Then there came to my ears a quite audible, long drawn out, creaking sound — like straining timbers.

  'You heard it?' Crow smiled.

  'I heard it,' I answered. 'I've heard it half-a-dozen times while we've been talking. You've got unseasoned timber in your attic.'

  'This house has very unusual rafters,' he observed. 'Teak — and seasoned well before the house was built.

  And teak doesn't creak!' He grinned, obviously liking the sound of that last.

  I shrugged. 'Then it's a tree straining in the wind.'

  'Right, it is a tree, but it's not straining in the wind. If there was a wind up we'd hear it. No, that was a branch of "Billy's Oak", protesting at his weight.' He crossed to the window with its drawn curtains and inclined his head in the direction of the garden beyond. 'You missed our Billy when you wrote Here Be Witches!' he said. 'William "Billy" Fovargue — accused of wizardry — was hanged on that tree in 1675 by a crowd of fear-crazed peasants. He was on his way to trial at the time, but after the "lynching" the crowd testified they'd jumped the gun on Billy because he'd started a horrible incantation and weird shapes had begun to form in the sky — so they'd simply strung him up to prevent things from going any further . . .'