By the Light of a Gibbous Moon

by Scott Jäeger

  At one time I awoke to the hoarse and ugly voices of every one of the devil tribesmen raised in ululation to the many-starred sky, as they danced in supplication to what the digging had finally uncovered. The returned slaves had made furious progress and the object of the great work was now revealed to me: a massive structure built of greenish stones. The blocks were smooth and close-fitted, and of a workmanship finer than any White Man’s building I had seen. It was equal on four sides, which sides rose up in great square steps. Father Marylebone has told me this structure is called a ‘pyramid’. Near the top of this pyramid a small stone slab, about three feet high, was being forced open. A hush descended all at once when the portal toppled, and a fierce exhalation of greenish cloud poured straight up from the black hole. I had never thought of a cloud underground before, but by this time such a marvel fazed me not at all. The Indians gathered around the summit of the pyramid screamed horribly and were struck down. I did not know if they lived or died, but here my mind went black.

  When next I woke, the stars and moon were hidden with cloud. I think now that to this smallest of mercies I owe what remains of my sanity. The Manuxet cavorted once more about their temple, but a group of lean, dark-skinned figures had joined them, which wherever they were placed stayed always in shadow. Silence reigned over this dance but for the stamp of bare feet on earth and an occasional low clicking and clacking unlike any sound I had heard before. From time to time one of the shadowy new-comers emerged from the tiny black doorway of the pyramid, and at other times returned, taking one of the tribesmen by the hand. Those men who entered the pyramid did not appear again.

  The final time I was roused, it was to a cacophony of booming retorts that shook the very trees about: gunfire! A small army of motley white settlers had appeared, and to me they were as welcome as a host of angels. They rained lead shot of all kinds upon the Manuxet still assembled around the stone pyramid. Would the slaves raise their tools against the white men? Who could say whether in their new and horrid aspect they would do their masters’ bidding? But I saw then that the slaves were to a man laid flat and motionless. The shadow men also were absent, and the tiny door to their house back in its place.

  Many of the Manuxet showed the same resilience as the man Tall Pine had shot down when we had been captured, but the white men’s storm of buckshot and lead balls tore them apart. Although their ruined corpses stirred and twitched much longer than any dying thing ought, in the end they were destroyed utterly.

  I was concerned at first that my saviours might mistake me as one of the Manuxet and kill me as well, but I was released from my bonds and kindly made comfortable. It was then I caught a glimpse of the three men with stiff high collars watching from beyond. One of them was the Reverend Snow himself, an important Churchman from Boston who I had seen preach in Deerfield. Though I had seen him only once before, he had a powerful, hawkish nose I would never forget. From their attitude towards the mercenaries, I saw these men were in charge. When they noticed me however, they hastily retreated from sight and I did not see them again.

  Very soon after the gun smoke had lifted, the white men took up shovels and picks to fill in the great hole around the blasphemous temple. They would be long at this task, I thought, but as the first blade struck dirt, the earth itself started to shake. I believed that we had angered this horrible Yig and asked God how much more tribulation would he rain down on my head. The earth did not rise up against us however, but in a great wash of dirt, stones and broken trees the hillside above the camp rushed down to bury the strange green stones. I and the men who had shot down the Manuxet got well out of the way of the landslide and none were injured. All agreed it was the Hand of God which had wiped out the rogue tribe’s evil works. The pyramid was indeed covered, all but the very highest tier, which still rose just high enough for the portal to show above ground. A brief effort was made to break apart the protruding portion of the stone house, but the men were tired, and eager to be on the trail home lest more of our dreaded enemy arrive seeking vengeance.

  As for the slaves who had been laid out in the dirt, I was later assured that from all appearances they were quite dead, most of them for weeks. Whilst they did not benefit from a Christian burial, they are indeed buried and for that I am glad. It must be plain to you, Reader, as it is to me that my rescuers had been specifically employed to eliminate this group of Manuxet, and that the attack had been very carefully planned, but on this account my new companions remained as silent as the grave. After they returned me to Deerfield Township, these men vanished back into the woods and of them I know nothing else.

  I am much reduced since my captivity, in both body and mind. Most of my hair has fallen out, my bones show through the skin everywhere, and I have a sickening pallor like that of the Manuxet. My people shun me now, and call me Tchibai, Ghost. They say that a Manuxet is living in my skull, watching through my eyes. They say that I stink of the Manuxet, like the places where the White Man has buried his dead, but not deep enough.

  In the face of such injustice, the old Blind Crow would have turned to Our Lord Jesus Christ. He would gather strength from Christian belief. He would call on Christ for protection and hope.

  I reach for Christ now, but I find nothing. In my heart, I know He must still be there, but I know too that no Christ, lamb or lion, could ever protect me from the underground God of the Manuxet, the foul thing they called Yig.

  ****

  That is the extent of Blind Crow’s statement. Although I have never before doubted this Indian’s honesty, I naturally must question the veracity of his outrageous tale. It is indisputable that Blind Crow vanished for about a month after a hunting trip in the deep woods, perilously close to the territory of the Manuxet, and that his companions have never returned. It is also true that a massacre of the Manuxet was reported to our Order by a pair of Narragansett hunters at about the time specified in this narrative, but the agents of this violence have never been revealed.

  Blind Crow has asked for my assistance in petitioning the Colonial Government for funds and men to eradicate the Manuxet entirely, and to excavate and destroy this fanciful House of Yig of which he speaks. Needless to say, such a petition will accomplish nothing. The Manuxet have never been a threat to white colonists, and whatever danger they are to their fellow Indian is reduced day by day by the Evils which sadly afflict all of the Native people: smallpox and drink.

  Finally, regarding the assertion that a representative of the Church –especially as highly respected a man as Reverend Snow!– had some responsibility for such a massacre, or even stood by to witness it, I cannot credit. However, I did promise to transcribe Blind Crow’s statement word-by-word, and I have faithfully done so.

  Interview with a Lunatic

  PATIENT FILE: 071523-0014CASE OPENED: 07/15/23

  PATIENT: BARTON, GILESADMITTED BY: SGT. WILLIAM MONROE, ARKHAM POLICE DEPT.

  PRIMARY PHYSICIAN: WOLCOTT, PhD

  July 20th, 1923

  *physician/patient dialogue recorded on phonograph cylinder and transcribed at my discretion. My personal annotations are prefaced by an asterisk – Wolcott

  *patient is an accused multiple murderer, and was remanded for observation by Arkham Police July 15, 1923

  *my first impressions: Barton is a young fellow, but troubled. Layfolk do not realize that murder weighs on a madman’s conscience as much as anyone else’s, for a crime against morality is recognized by the soul, howsoever the mind wanders. He also looks to be the soft type. His mother came into an inheritance during his formative years, and probably spoiled the child.

  DW. Good day to you, Mr. Barton. I am Doctor Wolcott. I trust you slept well?

  GB. I’m fine. I mean, yes.

  DW. Do you know why you’re here, sir?

  GB. I’m accused of murdering my step-father.

  DW. But do you know why you’re here, in Sefton Asylum, instead of the jail at City Hall?

  GB. Because of what happened to his body. The face was mut
ilated.

  DW. All right, good. You understand that much anyway. Now I’m going to go over a little bit of your background to ensure your file is accurate and up to date. Born 1904, Santa Monica, California. Father died in car accident, 1918. Mother relocates to family property in Arkham, Massachusetts. No other living relatives. Full name, Giles Marcus Barton.

  GB. My middle name is Matthew.

  DW. Ah. There you are. Always something, some small error. A doctor is as fallible as any man. We’re not gods here at Sefton. We don’t have all the answers. But we care, Mr. Barton, about you. That’s the main thing.

  *there are no errors in the file, regarding the patient’s middle-name or anything else. This is the first of several tests, in this case merely to see that he is paying attention.

  DW. Your mother brought you to Arkham in 1918, and immediately took up with one Ward Rockwell. They were married that same year. According to associates of your mother, you hated your step-father from the very beginning.

  GB. I hated him, yes. Doctor, I went over everything with the Arkham Police ten times already. Must we–

  *I held up a hand and, though it pained him, he was silent. Barton will be a willful one I think.

  DW. Mr. Barton. I need to hear the story from you at first hand. The grimy notations of some half-literate police officer will not give me the depth of detail I need. These truths, straight from the source, will help me to help you.

  *the first of many times, no doubt, I must remind him that denying me is the surest route to growing old and gray within these stone walls.

  DW. The police believe that you murdered your step-father, Ward Rockwell, and your own mother as well. What do you believe, Mr. Barton?

  GB. It’s not what I ‘believe’ as you put it. It should be evident to anyone who takes the time to look at the facts: Rockwell did it. He killed my mother, shot her, because she knew what he was about, that he was a liar and thief. She was going to throw him out. The dead man isn’t Rockwell. It’s a colleague of his. He killed this colleague to throw the police off his trail.

  DW. Right, we will return to that point, but may I suggest an alternative explanation? You admit that you hated your step-father. You hated him every day for five long years. Arguments, tantrums, running away, only to be retrieved by the police, this was the routine in your house. Everyone knew about it: the neighbours, your teachers, the grocer, everyone the police questioned. Five years is a long time for a young man, I remember what it was like. I’m not exactly a dinosaur myself, you know. And one day, you let your rage carry you away and you killed him with his own pistol.

  GB. That isn’t what happened–

  DW. Threw your mother into the bargain. Bullet through the heart, both of them. She was responsible for bringing him into your house though. She had to be punished.

  *a pause here on my part elicited no response.

  DW. Let’s leave your mother’s death aside for the moment. Why did you at last decide to kill your step-father?

  GB. I didn’t kill him. I– I was following him…

  DW. To do him some harm? I doubt you were following him to make amends. That wouldn’t jive with what I’ve heard.

  GB. You’re right, I did mean to hurt him, at first. I think now that if I had killed him, it might have been a favour to him, the way things turned out. Anyway, yes, I had always hated that egocentric bastard, always knew he didn’t love my mother.

  *‘egocentric’ he says. Strange to hear such five dollar words from someone in his position. Delusions of grandeur, perhaps?

  GB. Lately he had gotten to be even more of a bastard. He had been staying out late, until dawn, for months, and coming home strung out and haggard, as if he had been riding a wild bull for hours. He hardly spoke around the house anymore. It was eating my mother up inside.

  DW. You thought he was being unfaithful to your mother?

  GB. No, it was something else. Going with a woman would have been natural at least. I know Rockwell didn’t drink, and of course the bum never had a job. But he was getting worn down. He looked like he’d aged ten years in as many weeks. He was distracted all the time and began to mumble to himself. Sometimes he would spot me watching him and was startled. Other times, he didn’t even know I was there. I should have been glad to see the cares written on his face, instead of that smirk, but it made me afraid. I had to know what he was up to. I began following him. He never went directly to his destination, but followed a variety of routes around the city, often cutting through buildings and across private property. He was taking precautions against being followed. Since he would have recognized me at once, I had to be very circumspect in my pursuit. It took over a week to discover he had a basement room on Walnut Street.

  DW. Where he was killed.

  GB. Yes. No, he wasn’t the one killed. He isn’t dead.

  *I waved him to continue with his tale. It will be easier to refute once it is all out.

  GB. I had been monitoring the Walnut Street house when my mother received a note from a friend of hers who works for the bank. Rockwell had been into mother’s inheritance, heavily. As her husband, he had taken over the finances and my mother didn’t get any regular notices or statements. I had suspected all along that the freeloader took up with my mother for her money. Why else settle down with an old housewife in Arkham, and with a teenager to boot? But now he was going to ruin us. Reading the message myself, I noted the change in Rockwell’s behaviour coincided with the first dates large sums of money began to disappear.

  My mother was furious, but I asked her not to confront him, to let me look into what he was up to. I wanted to know where the money had been going, and I told her it might be important if there was a divorce later. She went to stay in Boston, where I asked her to wait my telegram. I told my step-father she was visiting friends, but by that time I don't think he would have heard a train whistle if he was standing on the tracks.

  He had been spending the money on electrical equipment and chemistry supplies, and probably other stuff I couldn't track down. He called himself an inventor. Up till then I thought it was a joke, since everything he did was a failure, but in the Walnut Street house he had built something he thought was important, revolutionary. At that point, I figured on locating this invention and wrecking it. Or stealing it, I don’t know.

  *fascinating. Despite myself, I wondered what part of his tale was reality and what part base lies. The brain is alone among organs in that certain facilities may become augmented when it is damaged, even while its overall operation, as in Barton’s case, is impaired.

  DW. So Rockwell and your mother surprised you snooping around his property on Walnut Street, and when you learned your mother would not be throwing him out of the house as you anticipated, you took his gun and shot him.

  GB. As I said, Mother was out of town then. This was still days before Rockwell killed her.

  DW. You are clearly agitated, Mr. Barton. Why don’t you take a rest for now and we will continue our session tomorrow.

  *unfortunately, Barton does not seem at all agitated. Anyone who can lie so fluently must have a touch of the sociopath about him. By breaking up his narrative, I ensure he will err at some point.

  July 21st, 1923

  *I began today’s session with the ‘deep frown’, one of my favourite little pantomimes, directed at my clipboard.

  DW. Now then. Where were we, Mr. Barton?

  GB. I had discovered the Walnut Street property where Rockwell had a laboratory, and was working on his device. But the real discoveries were in his journal.

  DW. You broke in, obviously?

  *Barton grits his teeth at my observation. I must reinforce that he is a criminal, however he denies it.

  GB. I entered from the back yard by way of a disused coal chute. His lab was located in the basement and the only other entrance was inside the apartment house, and was kept locked at all times. There was an electric bulb overhead, but the wall switch did nothing. I lit a dusty old oil lamp, apparentl
y all the light he himself used. Inside was a chemistry bench outfitted with all sorts of bottles and equipment, and a couple of textbooks on electrical engineering. I didn’t know what half the stuff was for and couldn’t identify his invention, or even if it was there at all. Until I found his work journal in a desk drawer. The desk was locked but it was so old and rickety that a good shake allowed me to get it open without causing any damage.

  On my initial survey of the room, his invention, which had caused such mental strain, I took to be nothing more than an oddly shaped footlocker. There didn’t appear to be any way to open it, so I let it be.

  *here Barton abruptly stopped, manifestly struggling to come to some decision.

  GB. I’m afraid– I’m concerned that if I tell you the whole story, truthfully, that it will look bad for me, that it will hurt the chances of my release.

  DW. Mr. Barton, the only possibility of your release is successful treatment of your illness. In my opinion, full disclosure of whatever on your mind is of paramount importance. I am a busy man, however…

  *with a nod, the lunatic swallowed his pride, or whatever it was, and went on.

  GB. The device is electrical, but also party organic. Do you know how a battery works?

  DW. Yes, yes, you ninny, I know what a battery is!

  *I instantly regretted this outburst. Displays of weakness before the patient are unforgivable, but in my defense I cannot abide having my intelligence questioned by a mental –and moral in this case– deficient! I signaled for him to continue.

  GB. Rockwell’s box was some sort of battery where one of the galvanic cells is organic, and even partly alive. Instead of electricity it generates a magnetic field. This field, it– it opens a doorway to another place. I don’t pretend to know how it works, or even what it does, but the living component of the cell is suspended in a solution composed of certain rare mineral salts. This was one of the items he had constantly to replenish.