Stories From a Lost Anthology

by Rhys Hughes

  Eric had little patience with those he decided were not pulling their weight. When I joined him, he had already been swinging his hammer for an hour. I promised not to oversleep again. I did my best to redeem myself in his eyes, but my thoughts were almost entirely on my discovery. Then, as my mind explored the implications in greater detail, my elation started to crumble like the statue of the child we were currently demolishing. In stories, solutions are always straightforward. But I existed in the real world, which is never simple. In our realm, even miracles may have side-effects which require yet more miracles to repair.

  That process is probably endless. A magical recipe to impart life to a sculpted head should provide practical hope for the transmutation of petrified people back to something approaching their original condition. Whether they would become flesh and blood again, or merely statues capable of movement and thought, remained unclear. Further study would answer this question. But the irony lay in the dual nature of my influence. On one hand, I was the potential saviour of millions. On the other, I was still a lowly mason. I was in no position to apply the cure. My real struggle with the disease had only just begun.

  Let me explain. It was my moral duty to concentrate on translating and understanding the magical book. But I had to work for a living. If I resigned my position, the only form of employment I was suited for, and devoted the whole of each day to my occult studies, I soon would starve to death, or default on the rent and be forced into the gutter. Physically and psychologically, the abandonment of my post would render full comprehension of Mr Peele’s secrets impossible. I had to continue smashing the statues. And yet with the cure for their condition so close, a mere chapter ahead, as it were, this destruction was tantamount to murder. To devote as much time to my studies as possible, I had to run to and from work as fast as I could and reduce my sleeping time to a minimum.

  The logical answer was to stop smashing the statues until I had read and understood the relevant chapter. But Eric would not tolerate my attempts to delay our work. He did not want to lose his job. We had quotas to fulfil, and when I deliberately slackened, he worked harder, moaning and threatening to report me to our employers. Because I could not risk dismissal, for the reasons already outlined, I was forced to keep pace with him. I wept as my chisel cut through men and women whom only my ignorance of the book had denied rescue. Before my discovery of the tomb, I was nothing more than a lucky man in a city of statues. Now I was responsible for saving them, and I was letting them down.

  The burden of this responsibility soon grew unbearable. At night I pushed myself to greater and greater efforts. At last I translated the chapter. The secret involved competence in astrology, which in turn meant a knowledge of astronomy and mathematics. The drawing of the symbols necessary to the spells required the skill of a geometrician. The preparation of the specified unguents and elixirs demanded the experience of a botanist. The more I learned, the more I was compelled to learn. And every time the sun rose and I was obliged to abandon my researches for another working day, fifty or sixty petrified souls would lose the chance to regain life. My incompetence became a guilty conscience.

  It was obvious that the task was beyond me. I needed help. I wrote to my employers, requesting a change of official policy. I suggested that the statues be stored in cellars and warehouses instead of being demolished. I received a curt refusal for a reply. I felt an extreme anguish. The hour I had spent preparing my letter had come from those devoted to my occult studies. It would result in the annihilation of more innocents. The only recourse left seemed to be to share the secret. There was no point confiding in Eric. Who then should I approach? As a mason, I knew nobody in a position of sufficient influence. If I attempted to meet a professor at the University and was denied an interview, more time would be wasted. No good consoling myself with the thought that I had at least tried. That approach is inadequate. It would still result in needless destruction. Failure is failure.

  I considered sending the book through the post to an eminent scientist or doctor. But if the package was lost in transit, all hope would be extinguished. The risk was too great. For a short time, I was cheered by the notion that I might make copies and distribute them to numerous academies selected at random. It seemed the obvious answer to my dilemma. But the more I pondered on this solution, the less plausible it became. To write the text out by hand more than once would devour too many of my nights. It would interfere with my understanding of its actual sense. Besides, I had already written the chapter out in English and I should not be able to choose between duplicating that or using the original as my source. Mistakes almost certainly existed in my translation, but I would be sure to make new errors if I reproduced the Latin.

  There was always the option of using mechanical copiers. But I could not bear to make arrangements for this. It is not that the book seemed a fully integrated object, its power deriving from the materials used in its production as much as its words, the warts on the cover, the feel of the vellum pages, even the fonts employed for the text. No, that would be to claim a mystical justification for my hesitancy which I knew to be false. My true reason was the exact opposite. The book had already been mechanically copied. It was a printed volume, not a manuscript. Presumably this one was not alone in the world. Elsewhere, perhaps in other tombs, probably in old libraries or archives, the same grimoire was standing on shelves, waiting for alternative hands and eyes to grapple with its inner meanings. The creation of a new edition was a redundant concept.

  This set me to wondering why the cure was not yet available. Surely someone had attempted to repeat Bungay Peele’s experiments? Was the knowledge not already in the public domain, or if not there, in the possession of modern occult scholars? Why did they not come forward now to implement their wisdom? Then it occurred to me that perhaps they had, and were still doing so. After all, the relative immunity of the city councillors was growing more suspicious. I became obsessed with the idea that the remaining population was composed almost entirely of animated statues. I did not exclude Eric from my figurative paranoia. His large frame and roughly hewn limbs suggested a birth not from a womb but from a block of marble or mould for liquid bronze. I was forced to the conclusion that the responsibility really was mine alone. I dare not try to pass it on.

  I wondered what might be the first thoughts of a statue brought to life. If it had been human before the petrification, would its mind continue from the point where it had left off? Pointless questions. I worked harder. I bloated my brain with knowledge and kept feeding it. Finally it could take no more. I am only human, even now. To devote each day to the hammer, and every night to the deciphering of insoluble puzzles, is beyond the physical and mental capacity of any mortal. I could not assign all my spare minutes to study. I had to eat, to drink and bathe. I had to rest. And yet these simple actions were delaying my possession of the cure. Innocent lives were paying for my indulgences. The fact I felt these indulgences to be essential is irrelevant. I was a murderer. Indirectly, true, but I took no solace from that. Consequences matter more than motives. My weaknesses had become my crimes. My humanity, my despair.

  I had to seek freedom from this condition. It must be obvious to you how I decided to achieve this. Before the plague arrived, my work was more varied. In the corner of my workshop, which is one small room in my apartment, a few examples of previous commissions stood or lay under dust, abandoned when the first man turned to rock. One of these objects was a plinth. I forget whose statue it was intended to support. There had been no time to carve an inscription. With a rope I dragged it out of the house and along the street to the park. I left it near the ornamental fountain, in the shade of a large tree. I was trembling with guilt. As I have previously explained, I was once as innocent as any other citizen, flesh or stone. I desired that moral numbness again.

  Though I continued my study of the book, it was purely an outward show. My mind was less focused on it than before. I opened my window and read with the stars at my side. I washed m
y face in the twinkling light of Cancer. I was willing to try anything to gain release. It is a small constellation, dim and unremarkable. The connection between it and the plague might have been no more than coincidence. That did not matter. I altered my habits in other ways, always in hope. Eric must have noticed immediately, but he said nothing for several weeks. Finally, he mumbled:

  “You have forgotten your gloves, Lazlo.”

  “I need to feel the texture of the stone as I work,” I lied.

  “It is against regulations,” he replied. I shrugged and he let the matter drop. Whether he truly feared for me, I cannot ascertain. I suspect not. Tiny crumbs of broken statues filled the spaces under my fingernails. Were there not tombs enough, this method might be proposed, and rejected, as a substitute. But there were, just. I did not hurry back to my apartment in the evenings. I strolled, leisurely. The book remained open on my desk, but instead of reading it I took up a pen and began writing on the blank inside cover. I made my words very small, as you must be aware. The cramp in my chest and neck moved also into my arm. But this was not yet the pain I craved.

  In certain old stories of a supernatural character, there is a convention which I used to despise. A narrator, menaced by terrors, commits his history to paper. Something is after him. As he reaches the end of his tale, the dreaded object suddenly appears. It is an integral part of the climax. Instead of fleeing, the hapless narrator, perhaps reluctant to abandon his tale without an explanation, writes down the fact of the intrusion. His perfectionism is doomed, as is his life, and the work breaks off, sometimes with a row of dots to symbolise this metafictional incident . . .

  I did not propose to follow this custom when I began writing. But now it seems a variation of the device is unavoidable. There is a stiffness, a coldness, in my legs. As I reach down with my left hand to rub life back into them, I realise that I have finally achieved my aim. They are turning to stone. With my right hand I continue to make notes on this page. But I do not intend to neglect the inclusion of a proper ending. My organisational abilities are too developed to allow that. I have less than thirty minutes of life remaining. Enough time for one more paragraph before I depart to fulfil my final duty.

  The disease will free me from the monstrous responsibility. In a few moments, I will lay down my pen, close the book and take it with me to the park. Then I will mount the empty plinth with it tucked under my arm. I will raise a fist to the sky. I will look like an official statue. This disguise will keep me safe from the chisels of Eric and whoever takes my place. If I am ever awakened back to life, it will be because someone, possibly yourself, has read this story and understood the text which follows it. If you had to hammer my arm to pieces to remove the book, I hereby forgive you. It is a small price to pay. I must not linger here any longer. With legs of stone and knees which do not bend, my gait will be exclusively sideways. That is how the plague earned its name.

  Pyramid And Thisbe

  Thisbe was an anti-vampire. She looked and acted like a normal vampire, but her wings carried a positive charge. The undead are mostly negative in outlook and aura. Physical contact between Thisbe and a cousin would result in annihilation for both. Thus was she doubly cursed, forced to shun the company of other bloodsuckers, as well as humans. A smoking crater does not make a fitting memorial for her kind of beauty. She was lonely and dreadful and lithe.

  I watched over her, having caught her one hilarious night in a net. She rested in a cage that swung from a hook in the attic. She did not require much feeding. Contrary to popular belief, these creatures have modest habits. Blood is essential, yes; but they supplement their diet with conventional food. Thisbe had developed a taste for chocolates. I brought her the richest examples, in a coffin-shaped box. The strawberry creams made her laugh.

  The attic was not a real attic, but my house was not a real house. A shimmering pyramid, it rose out of the crimson desert. Tall dunes and ignorance protected it from prying eyes. There were no windows and only one door. Thisbe’s room was at the apex of the structure. I chose the chamber at the base. Mine was larger, and stuffed with forbidden books, but hers was more pleasant. Two ventilation shafts connected our rooms. Along these conduits we communicated our dreams.

  One evening, studying a papyrus of spells, I came across a curious footnote. The text was concerned with how to master the elements. There were spells to flood rivers, raise tempests and ignite volcanoes. Under a passage on electrical storms there was a description of Thisbe. “You are a daednu,” I called up, placing my mouth to one of the shafts. “You do the usual vampiric things, but won’t be put off by stakes or garlic. It’s shoelaces and chillies you must avoid.” The next time we met, she knelt and traced the delicate bones of my foot with her icy lips. “You prefer nipping heels to necks,” I added.

  Our mutual affection soon putrefied into lust. I was studying stars outside when she crept up and placed a hand between my legs. I lost no time tearing off her clothes, leaving untouched only her high boots and veil. The finer details, as meteors licked the sky, can be imagined. I shall content myself with offering a handful of key words: tongue, ache, blossom, sticky, decay.

  The region was prone to earthquakes. As we thrust into each other, a tremor assisted our coitus. So violent was my climax, I was sure my soul had followed my seed into her sweet tomb. But I felt alive, pierced by a fang dipped not in poison but some stimulating drug. We laughed at the constellations, and I pointed out Algol, most baleful of suns, as many light-years distant as the number of ways to torment an astrologer. We raided my store for wine and relished the antique stuff in the gloom of the internal passages, bloated on peculiar feelings like drunken worms in a rotten cheese.

  This was perhaps the happiest period of my existence. For centuries I knew no company save that of the occasional nomad. I maintained my links with the outside world through these billowing folk, purchasing my modern lifestyle from them with silver measured from my sarcophagus. They came at irregular intervals, camels laden with tinned vegetables, fuel for my generator, newspapers and cutlery. We discussed the weather and politics. But Thisbe was a dearer friend, sharing my pleasures, alternately inspiring and terrifying me.

  “Where are you from, Thisbe?” I asked, and she cried, “Old Vienna, wet and vain, where dark families eat sausage with their blood. The city has changed, the people no longer care. I was born in a cellar near the river. I heard the suicides knocking against my walls at night. Father was a respectable vampire, he worked in the graveyard. Always brought home some giblets for the children.”

  I was uncomfortable with her nostalgia, it cloyed like burnt honey. “How did you lose your innocence?” I demanded, and she said, “One night, as a treat, he took me to the big Ferris wheel. Up alone I went, higher than his gaze. At the top I was struck by lightning. When I came down, I had changed. My father would not touch me. My polarity had reversed, he said. So I was exiled. I grew up wandering the world. When I flew into your net you took me in.”

  I was cheered by her gratitude. She asked about my own life and I shrugged my shoulders. There was little to tell. I was a minor Pharaoh, I was embalmed alive. My priests were too impatient. I still do not know whether to be grateful or angry. Becoming immortal was sore. Since that ancient time, my nomads had kept me up to date with trends. Three weeks before Thisbe moved in, they delivered a washing machine. But my coffers were almost empty, the silver nearly exhausted.

  The following month, standing in front of the huge brass mirror in my room, I prodded my stomach with worried fingers. There was a bulge. It had been hiding from my consciousness for some time, but now it was too large to ignore. I called for Thisbe and she placed her ear to my abdomen. Her eyes grew wide and she exposed her teeth. “Congratulations are in order. You’re pregnant.”

  “Nonsense!” I was stunned.

  “Why? Because you are a man? Yet that is not strictly true. You are so withered the distinction is meaningless. What did you expect when you ruptured my hymen and filled me wit
h powdery seed? That I would brush off the experience as casually as dandruff? That I would suffer alone? But I’m a daednu, so these things work backwards. Our child grows inside you. There will be at least one.”

  “I have no placenta,” I responded miserably. “My organs were taken out and placed in canopic jars. The child will have to be aborted. How will my waters break? I am completely desiccated.”

  Touching my stomach, Thisbe smiled languidly. “But vampires do not give birth to live young. They lay eggs, spherical and black as cracked leather. You will have to cut them out and sit on them in the cool dark. I will help you. When they hatch they will follow you around. You’ll be their mother. You will suckle them on shadows and teach them to ferment the blood of jackals.”

  I told her I did not want the responsibility at my age, I was far too weary. I had no wish to be woken in the middle of the day by little bats. Thisbe was amused by my reaction. As the days wore on, my attitude softened. I was as completely under her spell as I once thought she was under mine. We wandered the passages arm in arm and I showed her all the secret rooms, false doors and mechanical traps. I was lucky in having an imaginative architect.

  When the time came, she helped me unwrap the bandages and we opened my lower stomach. Already eviscerated, there was plenty of room inside. Six black pearls glittered fearfully; she placed them on soft cushions arranged for the purpose. She stroked the objects tenderly. In this form she could caress her children, but when they hatched the laws of physics would disrupt the relationship like a cosmic social-worker. Such is the thermonuclear family’s lot.