Next, I knelt down and inhaled deeply of the smoke issuing from the censer. I brought the hoop near my mouth and emptied the contents of my lungs through the opening. The smoke did not exit the other side. I spoke another magical phrase, and once again felt the faint, rumbling reply. I repeated the procedure with the glass of wine, with similar results.
After speaking that phrase, however, there was no subtle, half-imagined reply. Instead, a wind began to blow. Rather, I heard a wind blow, but could not feel it. Neither the smoke from the censer nor the flames of the candles showed the least sign of a breeze. Nevertheless, the sound quickly rose in intensity. Within seconds, it had escalated from a light wind to a furious gale.
I then picked up the shard, careful to move it only vertically from its spot on the floor. I held it firmly out before me, and recited a lengthy incantation. The sound of the wind around me had continued to rise, threatening to drown out my words even before I said them. Increasing the volume of my voice to its physical limit, I shouted out the required phrases. With each syllable of that guttural, alien language, I could feel myself growing hoarse. I spoke continuously for more than a minute, then paused and swallowed, trying—and only barely succeeding—to generate some moisture.
A conscious realization that I was nearly finished with the ceremony almost distracted me. Kneeling down carefully so that I would not drop the shard, I held onto it with my right hand, and picked up the hoop with my left. Taking advantage of the unique, nearly gravity-defying characteristics of the thing, I managed to place both it and the hoop between my hands so that I touched only their outer edges. The hoop was centered in my palms; the shard was above the hoop, held between my fingertips.
I stood up slowly and raised my hands up over my head. Involved with the mechanics of this maneuver, I did not notice until then that a great charge seemed to have built up. It was not like the static charge that energized the hoop. Rather, it was more of a knowing, a definite realization, that something specific was about to happen, something as incontrovertible as the sun rising in the east. Even above the din of the constantly blowing but unfelt wind, I could sense a profound silence, as if the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for my action. As loud as I dared, I bellowed the final words.
“Mbulg’r Sothoth Pnath d’nalbr urh’ctha rgho!”
The sensations I experienced at that juncture can hardly be put into words.
First, it was evident to me that I had succeeded. What was not as certain, however, was whether or not I would survive to enjoy my triumph.
There was a momentary paralysis that then gripped my entire body, as some reverberation passed from the hoop to the shard, which I still held in my fingertips, before bouncing back to the hoop again. The immense power it unleashed rattled me. If I had not been frozen in place, I believe that I would have been shaken to pieces. Without the protection of the magical circle, I imagined the city of Boston may have suffered an earthquake of titanic proportions.
After the tremor dissipated, the sound of the blowing wind increased in pitch, becoming a piercing whistle. Still holding the shard and the hoop above my head, I tried to use my arms to block my ears. But it was no use. The noise was not a physical effect. Somehow, my mind was interpreting an unknown magical or extra-dimensional event as a shrill whine. It continued at a nearly unbearable volume and intensity for a few more seconds—until, all at once, it stopped.
I knew it wasn’t over, but nothing happened for so long that I became confused. I was nearly ready to relax my arms. Unexpectedly, with that sound still echoing through my mind, a liquid darkness poured from the hoop above me, enveloping me completely. A deep, instinctual fear took hold, and a shriek formed in the recesses of my brain.
The blackness was total, and I could feel nothing. But I heard…something. Or maybe there was no sound. Maybe, it was a certainty that the darkness was not just a shadow. Maybe I could tell that something else was there in my mind, with me. However, just as soon as the sensation of that otherness registered on my consciousness, it was gone. The reappearance of light blinded me temporarily, and the shock almost forced a scream out of me. But I fought the urge, and contained it.
I glanced around. All was silent; all was still. Vincent had a look of awe upon his face, which slowly turned into a huge smile. I nodded in acknowledgment, and smiled back. Yet the horrific realization that I had just been touched by Sothoth Pnath momentarily overshadowed the success of our achievement. I lowered my arms, and carefully put down the hoop and the shard. The hoop was, once again, merely a brass hoop. Its red glow was gone, the magic depleted. I whispered the few simple phrases to dispel the magical barrier delimited by the circle on the floor.
“We did it,” I said, too enthusiastically, and regretted it almost instantly. My throat was nearly raw. When I started to cough, Vincent ran over, and handed me an open bottle of wine, from which he had presumably drawn the glassful for the ceremony. I greedily drank straight from the bottle. It did not soothe my burning throat, but it was wet.
“We did it,” I repeated with both joy and relief. “We did it.”
It was over, I thought. It was all over.
Twenty-Four
Not long after, fatigue set in. As I had expected after seeing both Andrew and Vincent affected, the physical effects of casting such a powerful spell were great. The vitality had been drawn out of me, leaving me weak. Merely standing was difficult; walking unaided was nearly impossible. Mentally, rather than feeling tired, it was an inability to concentrate, like the exhaustion one felt after staying awake far too long, with unending thoughts and anxieties unmercifully prodding at one’s consciousness.
Vincent helped me into the wine cellar and up the stairs. Once in the kitchen, Albert and Vincent together dragged me the length of the main floor, and into the den. Along the east wall, a loveseat sat beneath the window that looked out into the gardens behind the house. After situating me upon it so that I was comfortable, Vincent placed my jacket over me, then moved off to confer quietly with Albert.
Through the window, I saw that the formerly clear sky had clouded up, and the wind was starting to blow. There was no doubt that a storm was on its way. As I watched the trees behind the house sway rhythmically in the gusts, the excitement of the ceremony ebbed away. I began to relax, and allowed my mind to wander. Despite not feeling tired enough to fall asleep, I soon felt my consciousness slipping away. I remember seeing Albert leave the room, and Vincent sit down in a chair facing me.
Then, I slept.
I awoke to a world where the sun was shining, and a great weight had been lifted from my heart. Vincent was so pleased over the outcome that he offered me a job as his assistant, with room and board included. Though the offer was tempting, I needed to stop hiding behind the doors of this home, and rejoin the world I had left behind. With a firm handshake and a hug, I promised—at the very least—to correspond with him on a regular basis, and continue the friendship we had restored.
Gathering my courage, I then returned to Arkham to face the consequences of my actions. My first stop was the boarding house. I held my breath as I searched for Mrs. Bettings, wondering what her reaction would be upon seeing me again after so many weeks. She was delighted, of course, greeting me with tears of joy, and a warm hug that lasted forever. As was wonderfully typical, the woman smelled more of the kitchen than anything else, an aura of cinnamon and apples clinging to her. She had saved my room, and I was welcome to move back in.
Professor Josephson was next. This was a more difficult confrontation, but after his initial shock over my arrival wore off, he also welcomed me. I explained the deaths of Andrew Cooke and Doctor Trautmann to him in great detail. Though I had witnessed them both, it was a fact that I had participated in neither. He listened closely and believed my words. He also believed me when I told him that my need for vengeance was spent, and that I was ready to return to work. My time off had thoroughly derailed my original timetable for the completion of my thesis, but I would c
ommit to whatever was necessary to live up to his expectations. At least, I would do that if possible, because my next visit would be to the police. I would make myself available for whatever questions they had, and submit to whatever punishment was required. That pronouncement, specifically, pleased the professor. He announced that, not only would he vouch for my character, but he knew an excellent lawyer who would represent me.
That was the best news I could hope for, and my remaining worries began to dissipate. The next day, accompanied by the lawyer, we went to the police. The detective I had encountered at the train station was there, and seeing that slightly familiar face helped me feel a little more at ease. I admitted to him—
A tremendous blast of thunder startled me awake. When my eyes flew open, I was surprised by the darkness of the room. My first thought was that I had slept through the afternoon and evening, but the clock on the wall showed only a few minutes past three. I had barely slept an hour. Outside, a storm was raging, the sky nearly black from the ominous clouds. Very little light penetrated into the study, even with the curtains wide open. The last time I experienced a storm of this magnitude was the night of Andrew’s death.
“Awake already?”
I nearly jumped at the sound of Vincent’s voice. Looking in the direction from which it had come, his shape was indeed still in the same chair. In the low light, his unmoving form had blended into the shadowy background. He seemed to have not shifted position at all. Had he merely sat there and looked at me the entire time?
“Yes,” I replied, speaking carefully, my throat still sore from the ceremony. “I feel rested.”
Aside from my throat, however, I felt much better overall. The general weakness was still there, but that overwhelming fatigue was gone. A ravenous hunger made my stomach growl.
“Good.”
We both sat silently for a little while, watching the rain and the wind and the lightning. The fury outside increased; evidently, the edge of it had just arrived. My hunger was coaxing me to get out of the seat and eat something, but I ignored it, choosing instead to sit still, and stare at the storm.
“Tell me, Robert,” Vincent said, after a time. “You were a religious man? In your former life?”
“I was,” I said. It seemed so far away then, the Christianity of my upbringing, and up through a few months ago. Those formerly comforting beliefs called to me, but I held them at arm’s length.
“Can you define evil for me?”
“What?”
I was fully awake, but unprepared to answer such a question.
“Evil. Can you define it?” he repeated.
I thought for a moment.
“Evil is the tendency to act without the consideration of others.”
“Many decisions are made without the consideration of others,” offered Vincent.
“No,” I countered, sitting upright. “It can seem that way. But there is an inherent sense of good within man. An unconscious consideration of others. A morality.”
“The voice of God?”
“Some might say.”
“A conscious or unconscious consideration of others, then—by your definition—is good?”
“Yes.”
“Can an unconscious decision be evil?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Evil is a conscious choice.”
“Even if done for a good reason? Love, say?”
For this, I had no answer, and was growing weary of his semantic game. The storm continued to spout its rage, wind lashing rain against the windows.
“What if,” started Vincent. “What if one unintentionally—but consciously—makes the wrong choice? What if the information to make the right decision—the good decision—is lacking?”
“I suppose,” I said after some consideration, “that responsibility is a factor. It is one’s responsibility to gather the necessary information to make fully informed decisions. Irresponsibility is plainly evil, because the impact of one’s actions upon others must always be considered.”
“Yes, responsibility.”
He seemed to like that answer, judging by the tone of his voice. There was a pause, then he asked another question in a similar vein.
“If man has an inherent sense of good—this voice of God, say—then evil must be external, yes? Do you consider evil to be a learned behavior?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then—from where does humanity learn it?”
“Vincent, why are you asking all of these pointless questions? Where are you headed?”
“From where does humanity learn to be evil?” he asked again, patiently.
“According to the Bible, it was the serpent,” I answered nonchalantly.
“But it wasn’t just a serpent. Not just a snake.”
“No. It was Satan in the guise of one.”
“That is one of His names, yes. Although, He is much older than the Bible.” There was a pause before he added, “A difficult and unforgiving master.”
“What are you trying to say?”
He answered me by asking another question, apparently deciding to try a different tack.
“Isn’t evil just another word for freedom?”
“Are you serious?” I asked, my annoyance turning to worry.
“The consideration of others limits one’s options,” he said. “Fewer options means less freedom. By thinking less of others, one gains more freedom. Imagine a hypothetical society where absolute freedom of action is considered to be the primary right of every member. In such a society, the constraints imposed by being ‘good’ would be tantamount to slavery.”
“But you cannot have freedom without responsibility,” I insisted. “Society cannot exist without constraints. All would be reduced to chaos.”
“Not necessarily,” he said calmly. “You assume that all members of such a society would take full advantage of the enlightened approach—which would not be the case. The few who did would find themselves in a position of power. They would be the strong among the weak, shepherds among the sheep.”
“More like wolves,” I interjected.
“And what if they are? It would be their right.”
I responded with silence. Outside, the storm continued. The delay between the lightning flashes and the accompanying blasts of thunder were noticeably shorter.
“Do you know how you came to be here, Robert? I don’t mean by train—but how you, originally a religious man on his way to a successful career in mathematics, came to be sitting on a couch in Boston, on the run from the law, your beliefs having been replaced by a system to which you gave no credence only months ago?”
It was then that a chance flash of lightning cast some illumination upon the chair in which he sat, glinting off an object in his hand, though what it was, I could not say. Then just as quickly, it was dark again. But the impression it left on my mind cast a chill down my spine.
“To do what I set out to do,” I said at last. “The banishment of the entity Sothoth Pnath from—”
“Yes, but why?” he asked. “Why, Robert?”
“What do you want to hear? Elizabeth was…”
“Yes!” The violence of his reply was disquieting. “Precisely. Your love of Elizabeth. It is because of her that you set yourself on this path. Because of her that you sought me in Boston, rushing headlong into things you could not begin to understand. It is because of her—and only her—that you find yourself here, now. You have been led like a sheep. You could be more.”
“Vincent, what are you saying?”
He sighed.
“I am offering you a chance to join me, Robert.” I heard him slide forward in his chair. “You have already taken the first step. Accept Him completely. We can work together to create this society. We can be the wolves, with the whole world our sheep.”
His eyes. In the low light they glistened with the unblinking fervor of a zealot. He was serious. Where was this coming from? During the previous weeks, he had never spoken to me of such matters. Had he broached th
ese ideas with Elizabeth? Perhaps some of them, but not all. Theoretical discussions are one thing, but his current attitude indicated an inclination toward action. Why? Had the ceremony somehow changed him? Lost in thought for a time, the sounds of the storm dragged me back to reality. He was waiting for an answer.
“No, Vincent. I do not perfectly epitomize the best of human virtues, but I do try. And I continue to believe in goodness. Yes, it is because of Elizabeth that I am here. But that does not make me a sheep. Even the shepherd looks out for his flock. His power is not just for rule.”
Once again, he sighed.
“If you do not stand with me, then you are against me. I’m sorry, Robert.”
It was then that another flash of lightning illuminated the room, and in its harsh light, I was finally able to see what it was he held. The metallic click of the hammer was loud as thunder in my ears.
There was nothing that I could do to defend myself. Although not as weak as I had been, I was still in no shape to attack him. Besides, the distance between us—while not great—was enough to allow him plenty of time to react. My only strategy for survival was to keep still, and try to keep him talking. Confuse him, perhaps? I pulled a memory out of the depths.
“You killed the rabbit,” I said, recalling the image of a small boy grasping a ball of fur in his arms.
If he hesitated at all, I was unable to detect it. He knew exactly to what I referred.
“I did,” he admitted. “That was the very first step along my path. Somehow, I caught the rabbit. I believe He granted me that ability. In return, I did as He asked, and squeezed the life out of it. You came upon me in the field just as the body had stopped trembling. I learned right then just how easy it was to kill.”
The Shadow Beyond Page 28
