It was Elizabeth’s.
Dear Cousin:
I hope you are enjoying your travels through Europe, though I do look forward to seeing you again after you find the answers to your questions and return home. I am still at school, of course, and prefer to stay at the university. With you away, the house is much too quiet these days, and I almost dread the occasional trip home. Mother and Father will be leaving soon, and will meet up with you. I really don’t understand why she decided upon a visit to Africa. It’s very unlike her. Still, it’s reassuring that she can be open-minded, and still have a desire to experience new things after all she has been through.
I’ve been thinking about what you’ve told me, but it doesn’t seem to resonate within me as it does you. It’s very hard to place a label on my feelings. I view the subject matter as neither evil nor good. I suppose the best word for me is ambivalence. I just do not see the lost knowledge of the Ancients as being very applicable to daily life. But have no fear—you can continue to use me as your sounding board on such matters. I do find it interesting to ponder the theories you present.
Doctor Gardiner did not have an answer to your inquiry, but he put me into contact with the New England Historical Society. A man there let me borrow an issue of the Arkham Gazetteer, dated November 1 of 1868, which has an article mentioning the event. Because I am well aware of your requirement for details, I am copying the text below letter for letter.
Please return home safely and soon.
Elizabeth.
(ARKHAM) A terrible and bloody scene was discovered early this morning in the small town of Mount Haverton. All members of the household of Johann and Konstanz Fenster (siblings) were found slaughtered, with one exception: the newly born child of Konstanz Fenster. Despite her advanced age, she had apparently carried the child to full term and had given birth during the night. The father is not known. The newborn, a healthy boy, has been sent to St. John's Orphanage in Innsmouth.
Aside from the brother and sister, other fatalities included the two servants, Jacques and Katrina Laurant, and the Reverend Caleb Pryce. Unlike the others, the Reverend was found in the bushes outside the house, his body unmarked. A witness to the scene, Mr. Theodore Yount, commented that it looked as though he had died of fright. That same man refused to describe the scene inside, however, except to say that he had totaled up more limbs than what could be accounted for by four bodies.
Constable Walter Benning was extremely tight-lipped on the matter. Aside from acknowledging the total of five dead, he would only say that Reverend Pryce was indisputably not a suspect—despite having been known as a vocal critic of the Fensters and, as he put it, their “unholy union,” since their arrival in Mount Haverton a few years before.
Perhaps adding to the mystery is a claim by a local woman, Mrs. Margaret Evans, who insists that the small town was visited by Satan during the night. As proof of the event, she described a short period of time right at midnight where there was neither light nor sound of any sort in the village of Mount Haverton. She insists that the stars disappeared from the sky, and it became quieter than even a tomb. The fire in her hearth continued to burn, emitting heat, but no light. No one else in the town could be found who was willing to corroborate her story.
I read it three times, staring at every curve of the writing. I even brought it up to my nose and inhaled deeply to try to detect some tiny, lingering amount of her. It was such a joy to find an unfiltered piece of Elizabeth, a glimpse into her life from before we had even met. But it was also an uncomfortable thing to read a private letter between her and Vincent. It felt as if I was an intruder. But setting that aside, the content spawned some questions. It implied that she and Vincent had spoken about magic to some degree, though her attitude made it seem as if they had not gone into specifics. And the mention of the Fensters again…knowing that there was such a stain upon the name, it seemed odd that he would later choose it willingly. Of course, given what I knew of his father, it was not an unreasonable decision to disassociate from the name of Marsh.
The sound of the motorcar grew loud enough to register on my consciousness. Still holding the letter, I needed to make a decision: simply ask Vincent about it, or hide it away, back underneath the letters…or steal it? I found justification for each, but in my soul, I knew what I had to do. Even as I heard the front door open, I refolded it, placed it back into the box, and covered it up with the second stack of letters. I would let Vincent find it, and he could make the decision of whether or not to tell me about it.
“How are you doing?” he asked as he entered the room.
“That first set of letters is done.”
I stood up, and handed him the list I had compiled. He looked it over, nodding.
“Okay,” he said, setting the list aside. “Nothing really…except that I forgot I had corresponded with Mr. Marley that early on.”
“The man from Birmingham?”
“Yes. So, this exercise has already proven to be of some value.”
As he reached for the box, I thought it would be best to remove myself.
“Do you mind if I take a break and get some air?” I asked. “And stretch my legs for a few minutes.”
“Please do. Enjoy your walk.”
As his hand touched the stack I had just replaced, I turned and left.
Outside, the sky had clouded over, threatening rain. I walked around the backyard, watching the birds and squirrels, but thinking of Elizabeth. And her relationship with Vincent. Admittedly, it was a difficult thing for me to accept that he had known her better than I—which was perfectly natural, given that he had spent more than a decade with her. It was that extra time with her which I envied. No, more than that. I was jealous. During the past weeks, I had so much wanted to sit down and ask him about her, find out day-to-day details of her life, unexciting as they may have been. But each time the thought had occurred to me, I forced it aside. I sensed a reluctance on his part to speak of her. There were times he would visibly tense at the mention of her name. Maybe someday I would broach the subject with him, after all of this was over.
When I had judged that I had given him enough time to discover her letter, I went back inside. In the den, the wooden box was on the floor, empty. The three remaining tied stacks sat on the desk. Vincent was gone. As was the letter from Elizabeth.
Twenty-One
The search through the entire box of correspondence was ultimately somewhat successful, as it yielded two more names for Vincent. But after those overseas inquiries were mailed off, the days that followed were joyless. He spent his time sitting by the telephone waiting for calls, and making lists of names as he searched his memory for friends of friends, then acquaintances of acquaintances. Albert made daily trips to send off a batch of telegrams, all with instruction to contact Vincent. On the rare occasions the telephone rang, the message was the same disappointing answer.
I spent much of my time over the next two weeks working slowly and methodically to memorize every alien syllable, every gesture required to complete the banishment ceremony. But regardless of my knowledge, actually performing the ceremony would prove to be another matter entirely. As far as I knew, any error, however minor, could be fatal. Under such stress, would I falter? Some of the movements required more than a modicum of physical coordination. At the climax of the ceremony, I would have to hold two items in a certain orientation between my hands above my head. Specifically, according to the instructions which Vincent copied from the Necronomicon:
Between ye hands hold ye Shard superior to ye Gateway. With ye hands above ye head, speak ye Words of Sending: Mbulg’r Sothoth Pnath d’nalbr urh’ctha rgho!
What might happen if I dropped the Shard or the Gateway? Could I just pick them up and continue? Inevitably, when my anxiety began to mount, my final image of Andrew would come flooding into my mind. The flash of lightning. The flesh being peeled from his bones. I would have liked some answers, but Vincent was my only source of information, and I could not allow
him to see any lack of confidence in me—asking him ‘what if’ this and ‘what if’ that. I just prayed that when the time came, I would be able to do what I needed. With something of this magnitude, there would be only one chance.
As the days went on, the strain of Vincent’s fruitless searching became more and more evident. He grew continuously more fatigued, as if he was not sleeping at all. Everything irritated him, even deriding the telephone for not ringing. Instead of being a godsend providing the answer he desired, it was the scapegoat, and he distanced himself from it by removing himself to the basement laboratory for hours at a time. That, at least, helped me to avoid his negativity, and keep up my own spirits. I studied in the den on the main floor, wondering why he fretted so much, seeing no need for any urgency. It could take months to find the missing information, but I was confident that we would eventually finish what we had started.
It did not take months.
One fateful afternoon, I found my mind wandering. Unable to concentrate on what I was reading, I decided to take a break. The sun was blazing golden through the windows, a moment of beauty quite rare in that increasingly gloomy house. After walking a lap around the room, I closed my eyes, and took a few deep breaths. When I opened them again, I saw the answer. A few months previous to that, I would have praised God for striking me with such a bolt of inspiration. Now, I can only wish it had instead been one of lightning.
What I saw when I opened my eyes was simply the spine of a book. Perched upon a shelf, at the perfect height: Stars of the Northern Hemisphere. It reminded me strongly of the volume that Andrew had retrieved for me that one night, so long ago, after we had spoken with the dead author of the Portuguese parchment. On a whim, I grabbed it and began to page through. Much of it consisted of diagrams of constellations, with information about each of the component stars: histories, myths, vital statistics like brightness, and sky coordinates.
Coordinates.
Even as I began searching through the pages, I knew that I had the answer. I felt foolish and giddy at the same time. Everything we needed had been here all along! My years of study in mathematics, forsaken for months, would finally come in handy. I found the diagram of Leo. There was Regulus, clearly labeled. Below the drawing was a list of all of the star coordinates. Taking the book with me, I ran out of the den, through the house and down to the basement.
“Vincent!” I shouted as I opened the hidden door in the wine cellar. “I have the answer! I have it!”
He had already opened the door to the laboratory by the time I reached it.
“You have it?” he asked eagerly. “What?”
His eyes were red with fatigue, yet wide with excitement.
“We don’t need the Pnakotic Manuscripts in order to rotate the shard. We already have all of the necessary information!”
“Where? What are you saying?”
“I brought it with me from Arkham! Look!”
I opened the astronomy book and showed him the diagram of Leo and the list of star coordinates.
“Remember what I told you when I first arrived?” I asked. “Every Ancient One has a corresponding star. The star for Sothoth Pnath is Regulus. From this book, we now know the coordinates for Regulus. We can use the equations developed by my former mentor!”
The thought of Professor Josephson gave me pause. He would undoubtedly be dismayed at the knowledge he had helped my ill-fated quest any further, no matter how accidental it may have been.
“Using those equations, I can perform a mathematical transformation upon the coordinates to convert them into the proper extra-dimensional equivalents.”
“Which is precisely the information which we need!” finished Vincent, at that point understanding me perfectly. “We then simply need to take the shard Outside, and rotate it to the correct orientation.”
Simply? The word rang in my ears. That had been our plan all along, but it suddenly did not sound like such a simple matter. My heart sank. I watched Vincent pace around the room as I tried to think of a way to break the news to him. From time to time he would smile and nod to himself.
“We will, of course, need an extra-dimensional reference point,” he said, coming to a stop. “In order to be sure that the shard is aligned correctly.”
“Oh, yes,” I said somberly, certain that we were hardly any closer at all. The equations had the potential to help with the original problem, for sure—but leaving us with a new one.
“But no matter,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Just perform your mathematical wizardry and tell me the results. I’ll take care of the rest.”
There was a condescending note in his voice, as well.
In the space of a minute, I had gone from triumph to misery, and then to essentially being insulted. Once again, I was a rat in a maze, bumping blindly into walls, and he the experimenter, laughing behind his hand at my every slip and falter. I knew this was no time for dissent, especially not now that we were so close to realizing our goal, but that cascade of emotions became too much for me to hold in.
“No, Vincent,” I said. “I am sick to death of your secrets. Tell me what you know.”
He was taken aback by my actions.
“Robert,” he said with a stony voice. “Just do as you are told. We are too close to success—”
“That is exactly right! We are! You need me. We need each other.” I closed the distance to stand directly in front of him. “If you do not fill me in on your plans, I will not cooperate. You can perform the transformation on the star coordinates yourself.”
His face flushed, and for the first time in decades, I saw the little boy that I had known in Mount Haverton. Back then, any anger—most often due to something his father had done or said—had always lasted only a very short while. He seemed to swallow it, or disguise it, perhaps as a survival instinct in that household. Older now, and with no overarching authority, no need to hide it, he made no attempt. Jaw clenched tightly, Vincent lifted the stump of his left arm, and held it in the air. I thought he might strike me with it. Or perhaps not. Something about that act incited some alarm in me. There was a certain similarity with the events immediately before the death of Doctor Trautmann. His arm wavered toward me, then back.
“No,” he said, closing his eyes and lowering his arm. “You must forgive me. I have been—we have both been—under some stress recently.”
He took a few deep breaths.
“You are right,” he said. “I have been too secretive. It is my nature.”
He paused there, perhaps hoping that I would simply forgive him and let him pass. But I was resolute in the matter, so he was forced to continue.
“A Servitor of Q’yoth is an intelligent being, attuned to the extra-dimensional spaces we cannot sense. If you sufficiently describe the coordinates to me, I can explain that information to the Servitor, and it can rotate the shard to the correct orientation for us.”
“But how will you convey such a complex mathematical concept to something so…”
I failed to find the word I wanted.
“The list of R’lyehian words I assembled in the letter to Andrew,” he said, sighing, “was just a small set, one that I thought he might be able to use when practicing the spell. While in Europe, I met someone who taught me to speak the language. Through practice, I have become adept at it. Over the years.”
Through practice. Those words, and the fact that he had threatened me only a minute before, should have set off an alarm in my head. It should have caused me to rethink my alliance with him. It should have. It did not. At the time, I only cared that I had just secured a small victory by finally prying some information from him. Now I know better. The clarity of hindsight has revealed to me just how single-minded I had become over the weeks preceding that confrontation. My goal of vengeance had become paramount, overshadowing important details, and squelching any desire to ask questions which may increase doubt or reduce trust. Doctor Trautmann’s death, for instance, should have disturbed me a great deal. It
did not. I did not investigate. I did not think. I merely accepted it, in much the same way that I accepted my childhood friend’s shocking disclosure that he could fluently speak that infernal language.
An awkward silence persisted between us, and I felt as if I needed to say something. All that came to mind was an apology.
“Thank you for humoring me,” I said. “There was no need for me to make demands. It was uncalled for.”
He waved it off.
“Let us forget this madness for a while,” he said. “This is something to celebrate! Let us drink to our forthcoming success.”
And that is exactly what we did. Vincent was well mannered and warm—almost jovial—as we talked of the past and the future, and shared a bottle of one of the better vintages from his wine cellar. At one point, he even called Albert into the room, and the three of us made a toast. That was the only time I would ever see a smile upon the butler’s sallow face.
Toward the end of the evening, the wine making me brave, I decided to test the depth of my friendship with Vincent.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked.
“Certainly. What is it?”
“Elizabeth,” I said, looking for any kind of reaction from him. This time, there was none. I sensed no discomfort on his part.
“What would you like to know?”
“Tell me anything about her, anything at all. Granted, it is difficult for me to speak of her, and likely you as well, but we never do. She is the reason for this…quest we are on. Every time I ask myself what I am doing, and why, the answer is Elizabeth, of course. I just need for the two of us to speak of her. It would lend some validation for this path I find myself on.”
The Shadow Beyond Page 25
