Stories From a Lost Anthology

by Rhys Hughes

  Dr Mock had started to jab at my chest with his index finger when I began my little speech, but he broke off when he heard its last sentence and slumped back on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He said: “I admit it. You’ve got me there, Mr Delves. I didn’t expect anyone . . . I mean to say . . . It was so long ago . . . How could I . . .”

  “We never do,” I replied, kindly enough.

  He controlled himself with enormous effort and cried: “I’ll arrange for the expulsion of young Willis. I’ll also do my best to ensure you graduate as a priest as quickly as I can.”

  I nodded. I had finally passed the test!

  And if you’re wondering what the crime was, the one whose evidence was disposed of in the library grate, I’m not going to tell you. Nobody helped me work out the true circumstances of Horace’s death, so why should I assist you with this? I reduced the nebulousness of that scene, its visual namelessness, to an acceptable level of dread on my own. Now it’s your turn. The ultimate horror of it won’t stop haunting you until you devise a method of explaining how a real crime can take place in a fictional setting. At the moment it’s a logical impossibility. Your task is to convert it to a less damaging empirical impossibility. If you fail, so will your soul.

  You have until tomorrow. Better hurry!

  Dr Mock kept his word and I graduated at the end of my first term. I was given control over a rural parish which covered a vast area of forgotten villages and inhabited caves. It was a flat domain, but mountains loomed in the distance. I was grateful enough to turn my back on them as I went about my duties. Tramping the narrow lanes between remote settlements, I continued to wait for specific orders from my new mentors. Unless they arrived in a coded form I couldn’t understand, such as the order of leaves falling off a tree in autumn, all communications were absent. It appeared I was expected to operate alone, which is the safest way for a secret society to conduct business. It made sense. But I did worry about my ability to always choose the most efficient method of discharging my obligation to oppose evil. Mercifully, there are adequate clues written into a priest’s basic community functions.

  One of the most powerful ways of annihilating the hateful condition of namelessness is also one of the simplest. Odious bundles of undefined abhorrence are passed to me on a nearly daily basis, but the formula for defusing their nebulousness is old and direct and undemanding. When it’s over I dry my fingers on my surplice. In my career to date, I have dealt with scores of these unspecified monsters, diluting them from illogical horrors to unreal ones. The subjects generally wail, but there is much rejoicing from the witnesses. Today I can’t share their jubilation. As I said right at the beginning, I’m still a priest. But not for much longer. This morning I received a letter from Lampeter University stating that Dr Mock has expired. A heart attack while entertaining a smuggled girl. He has left instructions to make his private journals available to the Dean after his death. They will reveal how I blackmailed him. I shall be defrocked!

  I clutch my head and sway as I stand by the altar. I must be strong for the sake of my congregation. The first mass of namelessness is passed to me and I struggle against the temptation to vomit with fright. I bite my lower lip as my eyes stray across its revolting form. How can such abominations be permitted to exist in this cosmos? They can’t! Which is why crusaders like myself work tirelessly to enfeeble them. I lower it roughly into the cool liquid, trying to keep hold against all my instincts on the squirming thing. Then I raise it aloft and cry with all the force of a sensual release: “I christen this child Horace!” I stagger back, but there are others to come. “I christen this child Horace!” A third and fourth. “I christen these children Horace and Horace.” A fifth, sixth and seventh! “Horace! Horace! Horace!” The parents haven’t asked for the name Horace, and it’s not really suitable for the girls, but I’m in no state to toy with alternatives at this moment!

  Now they are named, the worst they can ever become are vampires in the mountains, and indeed I even see some of them turning their heads to peer through the open door at the peaks on the horizon. The schools up there will teach them to count by intuition rather than addition. That’s bad enough. But when I am stripped of my authority and no longer available to adulterate namelessness, this region will be flooded with a much worse evil. I run out of the church, gasping, down the lanes. But whatever village I pass through, whether of brick or straw, I always see them. Nameless horrors everywhere! Always lurking in the same place. But I notice them from the bulges they make. I tear away the fabric that conceals them. I point directly at those marks of illogic! Do they really think they can hide in the bellies of certain women for periods of up to nine months?

  Owlbeast

  He has been coming home a long time. And now he is here. He stands in front of the temple, but it is dark. Where are the lamps and priests? It is too quiet. There should be music, dancing and laughter.

  He climbs the steps to the entrance. His feathers trail in the dust. Something is blocking his way. He reaches out and touches a solid barrier. It is not made of stone, but it does not yield to the pressure of his fingers.

  As he feels the whole expanse of the barrier, his hand brushes a protuberance on the side. A chime sounds deep within the temple. There is a murmuring from afar, the shuffling of feet. He frowns and leans forward to listen.

  Suddenly the barrier splits and swings inward. He loses his balance and almost falls forward. A girl is standing in the passage, facing him. She is young and happy, but her laughter is not mocking. She moves back a few paces, hands on hips.

  “You’re very early. But come in anyway!”

  Her clothes are strange and her skin is lighter than it should be. But she has the black hair of a real woman. She is not a ghost. Yet there is a certain absence about her, a lack of astonishment in her dark eyes. She is only mildly surprised.

  He hesitates on the threshold. It occurs to him that her bland reaction is a positive sign. His arrival has been expected. During his journey he was continually assailed by doubts. He feared his existence had been forgotten. As he approached the outskirts of the city, his suspicions were seemingly confirmed. There were too many differences.

  Or is his memory at fault? He has spent the majority of his life as an exile. He is not the same being as the one who first departed. Even the gods can forget details. Indeed they are more likely to, for they have more time in which the images may fade.

  He follows the girl into the corridor. His eyes are adapted to the shadows. It was too bright outside. No sun, no moon, yet the sky still glowed. There had been poles thrusting into the sky, but no acrobats spinning from cords at the top. Only bowls of steady radiance, as if cooling lava or sheet lightning had been captured and fixed high above the streets.

  “Don’t be shy! The others will be here eventually.”

  She leads him into a chamber. There are candles, and it is comfortable, but the floor is not strewn with feathers or flowers. It has been woven from some strange fabric. He stoops to feel, and she links her arm under his elbow, pulling him up. Her laughter is still gentle and her hair tumbles.

  “I can see it’s difficult for you to walk in that costume. It’s so cumbersome!”

  She guides him to a throne. There are several in the chamber. Has his temple been requisitioned by other gods? This does not disturb him, for it is always right to be challenged. It keeps the senses sharp. Without competition, even deities grow decadent. He nods curtly and sits. The throne sinks under his weight. He jumps to his feet with a yell. The girl shakes her head.

  “Why are you so nervous? Relax and I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

  She moves to the other side of the chamber. There is a low altar covered with ceremonial objects. Jugs, bowls and little daggers. But none gleam like black mirrors. They are white. What has happened to the obsidian tools? She pours him a cup of thick red fluid. Have the victims already been sacrificed? There are so many questions and he is still too weak to ask them.

&nb
sp; Offering the drink, she pushes him back down with her other hand. He does not object. It must be an essential part of the ritual that he receive it on his throne. He is more cautious this time. The surface of the throne yields, but does not absorb him. He imagines this is how it might feel to sit on a huge heart.

  He raises the cup to his face. The smell is not quite right. It stings his lips and tongue, but not with salt. It is fiery and yet smooth, with a hint of woodsmoke. Was the victim burned to death? But then the blood would have evaporated. It makes no sense. He consumes it in good faith, watching the girl.

  For a priestess, she is too imprecise in her movements. She walks diagonally across the chamber, brushing her hair back over her ears with her fingers. There is another door set into the far wall. Before she passes through it, she calls to him:

  “I’m just going to get changed. Help yourself to food and drink.”

  Then she is gone and he is alone. He squirms on his throne, gripping the armrests. He can hear her ascending a flight of steps that creak under the pressure of her soles. Now there are shuffling sounds on the other side of the ceiling. With a shock, he realises she has entered a room directly above this one.

  He sits in mounting anticipation. His belly is burning from the cup of unknown stuff. The inner fire spreads along his wings. It may even be influencing his mind. He is not sure. He stretches out his talons, regarding them with unblinking eyes. They are rather amusing, more distant from his body than they ought to be. Almost as if they belong elsewhere.

  Suddenly she is back, and dressed differently. An elaborate gown and jewellery. The necklaces and bangles and earrings glimmer, but they lack the hard softness of real gold. She twirls in the middle of the chamber, seems disappointed at his lack of desire. He is not sure what is expected of him. She pouts.

  “Can you guess who I am? I’m the Queen of Sheba!”

  Before she grows truly annoyed at his apparent indifference, the chime sounds again. He turns his head quickly, seeking its source, but it is cleverly concealed. Obviously the girl is a servant of this bell, for she rushes out of the chamber while the note is still fading. There are noises, voices in the passage.

  “Come in! Come in! Great to see you!”

  Into the room stream a dozen or more people. Not one is dressed like any other. They are all utterly different. They talk in the baffling language of the priestess, a melodic chattering, a swirling vocal web of unknown spells, netting his pointed ears.

  They gasp when they see him on his throne, but they show no fear. Some approach closer and reach out to stroke his feathers. He is satisfied with this attention. It is more informal than it should be, but the sincerity is genuine.

  “What a superb costume! Did you make it yourself? There’s a competition for the best. You’re certain to win!”

  He nods slowly, wondering again at the purpose of these apparently meaningless words. Now it seems their exuberance will be replaced by a more traditional mode of reverence, for they move away to the altar, lifting morsels of food and cups of crimson liquid. He is horrified when they close their own lips around these sacred offerings, rather than presenting them to him.

  He begins to rise, but abruptly there is loud music. His priestess is standing next to an object which is a plant of some kind. It is square and hard with an enormous bloom which curls up from a narrow point and grows wider and rounder until it could swallow his entire head. On its body there is a spinning disc, very thin, and a single thorn which scratches downward.

  Truly this is the greatest of wonders in his honour. A singing flower! So he does not berate his devotees for consuming his banquet. He merely watches as some of them begin to dance in the centre of the room. A wild dance, subtle and clever, yet a product of the heart rather than the mind. The song is strange, words spat in the same tongue used by the dancers. Then he understands they have taught themselves the language of the flower in order to impress him.

  A girl spins close and grasps his talon, as if inviting him to join her. He is indecisive on this point and she moves away, too nervous to ask the same favour twice. Somebody else brings him another mug of blood. Now he is completely on fire. Two worshippers are crouching on either side of his throne. Both are wearing peculiar hats. The man with a broad crescent on his head whispers into his pointed ear:

  “What do you think of my Napoleon costume? I rented it from a friend who is interested in military history.”

  At the same time, the man on his other side tugs his elbow and hisses: “That’s nothing. Charlie Chaplin is a more original concept. Do you like his films?”

  He shakes them both free by ruffling his feathers. He inverts his empty mug and chuckles. Now the flower has changed its song. Wise flower! But this dance is even faster than the last, and the dulling of his senses continues, so that he is unable to follow every twist and gyration. It is satisfying to know this display is for him. They are reverential enough to refuse to meet his gaze. But the mugs of blood keep coming. And now the room itself dances under the feet of his disciples. It is unexpected, marvellous.

  Many hours must have passed, for the altar is bare and each face glistens with the moisture of long exertion. The music comes to an end, but the muttering which follows is almost as rhythmic. Then the priestess raises a hand.

  Something indecipherable is about to happen. That it should also be momentous is the only quality he expects. The silhouette of the impeding event looms over his face like a cloud of blood-smoke or a mother bird, snake dangling from her beak. The priestess is immensely delectable in the golden light. Her brown legs, each knee unwrinkled and ungrazed, seem to be walking somewhere, even though they do not move. Then he understands that she is entering his affections.

  “Time to award the prize!” she cries.

  And the assembled acolytes murmur in return: “Yes, the prize for the best costume! We know the winner already!”

  They regard him with heads loaded with winks or frowns or smiles. A few are merely inscrutable. The girl has extended a finger. Her bracelets fall down her arm and jangle against her shoulder. The hush is sudden. The intake of communal breath wobbles the flames of the candles. But there is no real suspense. This is just theatre. She pretends she does not know where to aim her digit. Her acting is poor. As if appreciating this, she makes an end of the delay. Her arm descends and her point is discharged across the chamber into his scintillant chest.

  “You! The man who has come as a giant owl!”

  There is applause. He knows he is being summoned for the most important part of the ceremony. He hobbles across the room to the empty altar. His priestess catches him in her arms, kisses him on both cheeks, turns him to face the greater gathering. They have started calling to him. Meanwhile, she is pulling a tiny feather from between two of her front teeth. He spreads his wings and the candle flames lean the other way, toward the walls. But his people do not shiver.

  “Speech! Give us a speech, Mr Owl! We want a speech!”

  The finger that pointed now jabs him in the back, stays there and wriggles. The pain makes him hoot. But it brings understanding. He must address his people, he must satisfy their concern for his wellbeing. He must justify himself, the ways of heaven, to man and woman. He trembles a little as he begins his declaration:

  “Thank you for remembering me. I feared my story was lost. Too many centuries have passed. When I entered our great capital, everything was unfamiliar. The streets and houses had changed beyond recognition. Only my instincts guided me to the site of my temple, and even that was not the same. I believed I had taken a wrong turning and arrived at a different city. But you have celebrated my return in the correct manner, and so I know this truly is Tenochtitlan and I am home. I am pleased with the quality of your worship.

  “As you are aware, I was not always a god. I was born a human. It was in the sixteenth year of the reign of the ninth tlatoani, Montezuma Xocoytzin, that I was chosen to be transformed. The emperor had an inspired dream. He imagined there were lands to the
east, new countries beyond the sea which we might conquer. Accordingly, he ordered the building of a boat. There were twenty of us. We were armed with obsidian knives and toothed clubs. While construction of the vessel was taking place, I was declared an honorary god. My reward and also my responsibility.

  “I was given this temple and its servants. I lived for a year in luxury, an object of veneration. When the more important rites of Huitzilopochtli, Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca were finished, the celebrants visited me here, with handfuls of flowers and blood. At last the boat was ready and I set forth from my temple to the coast. We had no idea how long we would be gone. Who could say how distant those unconquered lands were? We sailed toward the east for many days. The ocean was boundless.

  “We had maize flour and chillies and seeds to sustain us, but already our supplies were running low. The dream of Montezuma began to seem false. Then something appeared on the horizon. It was not land, but a square object. Others appeared behind it. As the sun set, it blooded those enormous sheets. We were scared. We believed we had crossed into a different dream, a nightmare. Then it was dusk and the stars burned with an angry radiance. I saw that we could not steer away from these objects in time. As they drew closer, they revealed themselves as vast boats, far larger than our own.

  “Each one had many sails and a lattice of ropes holding them in place. The decks were very high, so high that the strange creatures which stood on them did not notice us. I wept and called out for mercy. Were these the inhabitants of the realms we were supposed to invade? They were not men. They had bodies of silver and pale hands. There was hair on their faces, growing down from their chins. It was yellow, sometimes brown. I saw the gleam of their white eyes as they stood at the rail and looked into the distance. Truly, these vessels were more like floating mountains than boats.