The Book of Cthulhu

by Neil Gaiman

  Enthusiasm was a big part of Diane’s personality, but anxiety wasn’t—at least, it hadn’t been. They’d fallen out of touch these past few months. Sara had been working a lot of overtime, while Diane whirled through diets, feminist causes, and dead-end relationships at her usual breakneck pace.

  In all three departments, she’d been certain each latest discovery was the Real One. Her voice on the phone last night hadn’t sounded so unshakable. She’d just insisted that this new group was unlike anything she’d ever been involved in. More authentic. More empowering.

  The gallery door’s tinkling bell interrupted.

  “Oh wow,” came a female voice moments later. “Can I borrow your employee discount?”

  Sara snorted. “My what?”

  Halfway down the tippy ladder, she got her first good look at Diane. Her friend had been struggling with her weight for years without much success. Now the wrists protruding from the sleeves of her loose black sweater were positively bony. Her jeans sagged in the rear, and even her features looked pared down.

  “Good God, girl. What diet drugs are you on?”

  Diane laughed, but her laugh was thin too.

  “Just plain old womanpower—really old womanpower.” Her eyes lit with secret humor. “It’s like we’re all tapped into this ancient matriarchal energy source. There’s nothing it can’t help you do: lose weight, find a job that doesn’t suck, get clear of the idiot men in your life.”

  “Not a problem.” The idiot man in Sara’s life had left on his own. And not recently, either.

  “Sorry.” Her friend’s smile faded. “I guess what I’m saying is, you’ve got to try it yourself. Come meet our circle tonight. Meet Sesh’tet …”

  “Who?”

  “Our High Priestess, except this isn’t Wicca. It’s way older, out of Egypt. Like Sesh’tet.”

  Sara stifled an inward groan. She’d tried women’s spirituality groups before, and remained unimpressed. Too much New Age crap. Too much lip service to Sisterhood, with the same bitchy backstabbing afterwards.

  But Egypt?

  “Come on.” Diane grinned. “You know you want to.”

  The hell of it was, she did. Egyptology was a recent but major hobby. She’d even taken a class last summer, accumulating embarrassing quantities of books and Egyptian jewelry since.

  Fingering the ornate silver ankh under her collar, she sighed.

  “Just let me get these last few straight.” Heading for the front door, she locked it and flipped the CLOSED sign around. “You can tell me all about Sesh’tet. What’s she working from, anyhow—Isian mysteries?”

  “Older.”

  Something in Diane’s tone made Sara frown. “I can’t imagine what might be older and still documented, not in that part of the world.”

  The secret look flashed in her friend’s eyes again. “I can.”

  Sara took a deep breath to quiet her own frustration. Whatever cult Sesh’tet was selling, it obviously resonated at some deep emotional level. Maybe tonight’s meeting would show her how to unsnarl Diane from this latest spiritual tangle.

  Of course, it might be legit. She’d read about some pretty strange religious survivals, animism and shamans and such. And this was Boulder: People’s Republic of Alternative Reality.

  “So who made this Sesh’tet a High Priestess? Was it part of an initiation, or what?”

  “An initiation in the Valley of the Kings.” That proud-confused tone was back in Diane’s voice. “She hasn’t told us much about it, though. I think she’s afraid of the Egyptian government—they’re not exactly big on religious freedom.”

  “Makes sense.” A nastier thought occurred to Sara. “Have you been initiated yet?”

  Diane’s chin bobbed down before she could catch herself.

  “Don’t worry—I won’t ask for details.”

  The secrecy didn’t bother her. Mystery cults worked like that. What she deeply didn’t like was the idea of initiation after maybe three months. Didn’t Wicca require a year and a day?

  Of course, this wasn’t Wicca. It was far older—or so this Sesh’tet person claimed. Which meant she wouldn’t learn a damn thing without meeting Sesh’tet.

  Straightening one last photograph, Sara climbed off the ladder and dusted her hands on her chinos. “Ready to go?”

  Diane blinked at her. “I thought you weren’t… ” The corners of her thin mouth twisted. “Egypt snagged you, didn’t it?”

  It’s snagged one of us, anyhow. And I want to understand why.

  At least the incense smelled right. Balsam and cedar and something else, ancient and bitter, still thick in the air an hour after tonight’s “open” meeting. The one she’d been allowed to sit through before Diane and about a dozen other women left to attend an initiates’ circle with Sesh’tet in the basement. The High Priestess didn’t always attend open meetings.

  Which really fueled Sara’s suspicions, since she’d been tonight’s only non-initiate.

  After another glance at her watch, she debated switching on the overhead light and cracking a couple of windows. She was getting a headache, and she still had no idea of her surroundings. When they’d arrived at the shabby two-story house off Pearl Street, no one had greeted them at the door. Diane had just hurried them both down a pitch-dark hallway, toward candles flickering in some wider space at its far end.

  There wasn’t enough light to know what kind of space. This might be somebody’s made-over living room, or a specially consecrated ritual area. A cluster of guttering candles and tiny brass incense burners occupied an altar at one end of the room, but even that was draped in dark cloth. From the way the walls absorbed the candlelight, they might be draped as well.

  Maybe the draperies also accounted for tonight’s muted voices. Or maybe not. Even by candlelight, many of the initiates looked —and sounded—unhealthy. A few had racking smokers’ coughs. Another used crutches, and still another wore a colorful, tightly wrapped headscarf with no hair or eyebrows showing.

  Tonight’s leader had urged everyone to remember “our absent sisters” in their meditations through the week. She’d ask Diane later what absent meant, but it didn’t sound empowering.

  The meeting hadn’t told her much about Sesh’tet’s agenda. There had been readings from something called The Gate of All Lost Stars, which sounded Egyptian enough—though the subject matter was odd. If Diane was right about how old this cult was, Gate should have echoed the Old Kingdom’s Pyramid Texts. It didn’t.

  She’d heard no references to any solar deity, or to Osiris. The primary god-name had been Ammut-something. Ammutseba, maybe? At least it sounded female—most of the others, she couldn’t even guess at. Nyarlat and Assatur sounded potentially Egyptian; but Shuddam-El, Karakossa, and Shuppnikkurat were utter mysteries.

  They weren’t good names to sit alone with in the dark, either: all hard Ks and hissing Ss and weird gutturals that barely sounded human. Not that anybody else had had problems. The smokers coughed worse when they said them, but that’s why you didn’t smoke.

  Light. Oh God, she needed more light.

  Sara struggled up from her pile of pillows and headed for the nearest wall, intending to work her way around until she found a switch plate. Surely nobody would have been stupid enough to drape over one—and if they had, she’d rip through and damn the consequences.

  Shoving her hand hard against the wall—which was indeed draped heavily—she started groping for a switch. Ks and Ss clicked and hissed in her brain. Her sinuses shriveled with the incense, and cold apprehension traced her spine as her fingers burrowed into the cloth.

  Then light appeared somewhere behind her, faint and flickering. Moving closer.

  As her fingers closed on the nub of a wall switch at last.

  “Sara?”

  Diane’s voice in the doorway came just as she flipped that switch —and nothing happened. Whirling, she saw Diane cradling a flat clay oil lamp in both hands, staring at her. A second thin figure stood just behind
and to the left of her friend.

  “Sara, this is Sesh’tet.”

  Her first impression was of something closer to a bush baby than a woman—a tiny creature with too-large eyes in a narrow dark face. When Sesh’tet stepped past Diane to greet her, her bare feet barely whispered on the hardwood floor.

  The clay lamp’s additional light didn’t help much. Except for her feet, hands, and face, Sesh’tet’s whole body was swathed in loose inky fabrics. Where these fell away from wrist or ankle or throat, Sara glimpsed only more formfitting darkness: a turtleneck leotard and dancer’s tights, maybe. Islamic modesty meets Martha Graham.

  “Welcome, Sara.”

  The words emerged as an arid whisper between Sesh’tet’s lips. Without waiting for an answer, she reached forward and grasped Sara’s right hand in both of her own.

  “Thanks for letting me come.”

  She pried the words from some last reserve of politeness, trying to ignore the worst—or at least the weirdest—handshake she’d ever experienced. Sesh’tet’s hands felt dry-slippery as snakeskin, and about as warm. Sara was suddenly aware of her own palms sweating terribly… and of the other woman’s surprising strength. The tendons in those hands felt like roped steel.

  Sesh’tet released her grasp slowly, leaving behind a lingering chill. Sara fought the urge to wipe her hands on her chinos. At least they weren’t sweating now—in fact, they felt dry enough to be itchy. Almost painful.

  “What do you think, then?” The High Priestess glanced past her to Diane, who stood by with an expression approaching awe.

  “I wouldn’t have brought her if I didn’t think she could… benefit.” The last word emerged with shy hesitation. “She’s been through some bad times.”

  Sara scowled at her friend.

  “I just came tonight because Egyptology fascinates me.” She could feel heat spreading across her cheekbones. “I’m not exactly what you’d call a seeker.”

  Sesh’tet’s bush-baby eyes blinked at her. “Are you sure?”

  Before Sara could reply, she dropped something into her hand: a small flat stone lozenge on a braided cord. The lozenge felt deeply engraved on one side.

  Diane’s expression shifted from awe to disbelief.

  “Wear that until our next meeting,” Sesh’tet continued. “Next to the skin, preferably. Let it serve as a focus for your own power. A reminder of the strength She holds for all who hunger, whose hearts are aligned with Hers.”

  With Diane and Sesh’tet both watching, Sara had little choice but to unwind the cord and slip it over her head. The stone pendant slid under her collar to hang between her breasts, just below but touching the ankh she already wore. It felt oddly cold, as though no one else had touched it.

  “Thanks.” What else could she say?

  “Be sure to keep your thoughts focused on what you want happening in your life right now,” said Sesh’tet. “Focused female energy is very powerful. It may take a day or two, but most of us notice some change right away.” The knife-thin lips quirked in a smile. “Diane’s already told you how effective this can be, I’m sure.”

  Diane’s own smile filled with nervous relief. “I’ll get her a copy of this week’s Gate readings.”

  “I think that would help a lot.” Sara meant it, too—though not in a seeker’s way. Unless or until she could identify the engraving on this amulet, she needed every available clue.

  That night she slept badly, her mind churning with random phrases from The Gate of All Lost Stars—or rather, her own fevered memories of those readings. Surely Behold, Ammutseba has devoured the light of the stars, she has eaten their words of power, she has eaten their spirits wasn’t meant literally. All religious writing was rooted in symbolism. References to devouring the light (among other things) probably meant the light of truth. To devour was to internalize, so devouring light would be internalizing wisdom or…

  She woke up suddenly, bruised where the new amulet had gotten between her chest and a hard corner of the bed.

  What the…?

  Reaching down to pull the amulet around behind her neck, where her ankh already hung quite comfortably, Sara found that the small chilly thing wouldn’t budge. It also didn’t feel much like stone against her fingers. The polished basalt surface had turned yielding and gummy—almost leechlike.

  And it was stuck to her.

  Flipping on her bedside lamp, Sara peeled up her t-shirt. The lozenge of greasy blackness was still wedged between her breasts—and pulling at it did no good. When she pried underneath with a thumbnail, though, she heard a miniscule pop of broken suction. Prying harder, tearing skin in the process, she finally got it loose and yanked the braided cord over her head.

  Still shuddering, she threw the ugly thing across the room. The movement slid her silver ankh around on its chain. When she tried to toss it back behind her, she noticed it wasn’t catching the light.

  Then the chain broke, and she found herself holding the tarnished ruin of her favorite Egyptian pendant. The mess in her palm looked about a thousand years old, its elaborate hieroglyphs reduced to dust on corroded metal.

  Sara folded her fingers around it and got up carefully. Heading for her desk against the far wall, she scrabbled one-handed through its drawers for a clean envelope and spilled the ankh into it. Then she laid that on her desktop and flipped on the overhead light.

  The new amulet lay in plain sight on the floor where she’d thrown it. She knelt down and prodded it with a finger: cold black stone.

  Cold black inscribed stone.

  Picking it up by its cord, she put it on her desk and shrugged into her bathrobe. Sleep was no longer an option. Neither was handling this alone. Taking a deep breath, she began by sketching the amulet’s design, taking care not to touch it again

  After that, she turned on her computer, swallowed her pride, and started a very long e-mail—to the only Egyptologist she knew.

  Despite the short notice, Diane was happy to join her at work for lunch next day. She arrived with a bag from the mall’s burger joint. While Sara nibbled at raw veggies and yogurt, her friend devoured a large order of fries, a cheeseburger, and a strawberry shake.

  Sara wasn’t sure whether to be jealous or worried. “Is that the Sesh’tet diet plan?”

  Diane grinned and munched another fry.

  “That’s what’s so great about being tapped into all this energy. Once you’re focused, dieting doesn’t matter. I want to lose weight, so I do.”

  She pulled a sheaf of papers from her black leather backpack. “There’s a lot about focus in this week’s readings. I went ahead and photocopied them for you.” Her grin faded a little. “You must’ve really impressed Sesh’tet last night. She doesn’t just hand those amulets out, you know.”

  Sara frowned. “I hope not.”

  Setting aside her yogurt, she went to her back room desk and returned with two small white boxes. Diane looked puzzled as she handed her the first one.

  “What’s this junk?”

  “My ankh I ordered direct from Cairo back in January.”

  “God.” Diane looked sympathetic. “What happened to it?”

  “That damn amulet trashed it.”

  Sara told the story as simply as she could, leaving out the bad dreams and her nagging suspicion that more than a simple chemical reaction was involved. It didn’t make sense—not twenty-first century, daylight sense. What had driven her to copy the amulet’s design, then send a frantic e-mail to the one expert she knew of, was impossible to explain over lunch.

  “I’ve never had any problem with mine.” Diane touched the lump beneath her heavy sweater. “And I’ve been wearing it nonstop ever since Sesh’tet gave it to me.”

  “When was that?”

  Her friend’s expression clouded. “When I got initiated.”

  And if Sesh’tet had given her one right away, what did that mean? There was no kind way to ask. Instead, she handed Diane the second box.

  “Well, you can give this one back to
her. It’s sticky and creepy, and it wrecked my necklace.”

  Diane frowned. Her chin twitched sideways.

  “What do you mean, no? You’re the one who dragged me to that meeting!”

  “I mean no, you can’t give it back. Sesh’tet made it for you.”

  Cold anger knotted in Sara. “Because she knew I’d be there last night?”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. Really. Sesh’tet’s always asking if we have friends who might benefit from our group—women with, um, life issues. Women who need empowerment…”

  “Don’t give me that psych crap!”

  Even as her temper flared, Sara was sorry. Diane worked in a metaphysical bookstore. It wasn’t her fault that she picked up the buzzwords, or that she’d wanted to help a friend. Sara just preferred keeping her private life private.

  Including the fact that she hadn’t had a private life for way too long.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to apologize. Diane listened silently, finishing the last of her fries and wadding her trash into a tidy ball. She didn’t look so much offended as preoccupied—or maybe distracted.

  Finally, Sara gave up before she got angry again.

  “Look, just keep the amulet. Please.” Diane handed its box back to her. “I’m sorry it messed up your pendant, but you need to give it another try. I know it sounds weird, but these amulets do help you focus on… well, the energy. Sesh’tet calls them power triggers.”

  Noticing Sara’s dubious frown, she shrugged. “Anyhow, mine started working for me really fast.”

  Diane shot her lunch trash into the back room wastebasket. Watching her sweater sleeves flap around her arms, Sara felt like screaming.

  “Maybe you’ve lost about enough weight,” she finally said. “Maybe you don’t need any more meetings. Or that amulet. I know you’re feeling all empowered, but this Sesh’tet just seems like bad news.”

  She hoped she didn’t sound racist. It wasn’t Sesh’tet’s Arabic looks that set off her shivers, but the cold reptilian feel of the woman’s touch. The way her eyes bulged dark, unaccustomed to the sun.