Bohemians of Sesqua Valley (20 page)

In another journal April had found a list of titles in which Simon Gregory Williams had expressed especial interest, followed by the extravagant prices for which Williams was ready to pay for such volumes; and it distressed the young woman to find some of those volumes behind the glass doors of the locked cabinet. There was also a map of the Northwest region where the valley was located, with notes of his journey to the place in her grandfather’s hand. Her curiosity piqued, April placed some of the titles in a box, added the journal which listed titles of interest to this Simon Gregory Williams, and drove to Sesqua Valley. She drove for an entire day, slept for a while in a forlorn motel, and then completed her drive after seven hours, when at last she began to descend into a valley surrounded by mountains and forested hills. A swerving road took her into a small town, and she was instantly charmed by the feel of the place, by its aura of quietude, by the wooden sidewalks and surrounding woodland. A titanic twin-peaked mountain of white stone captivated her with its stunning beauty as it shimmered in the pale sunlight of late morning. Parking the car, she stepped out and breathed in the sweet air as she admired the old structures that made up what must have been the downtown area of the town. She looked around but saw nothing that looked like a bookstore, and when she heard footfalls on the planks that made up the sidewalk, she turned to smile at two young men who walked toward her.

“Hi,” she hailed. “I’m looking for the Adam Webster bookshop.”

The smaller of the lads spoke. “That will be up the Place of Hawks hill road. I was on my way there, actually.”

She held out her hand to him. “I’m April Dorgan, from Wisconsin. My grandfather used to sell rare books to Mr. Simon Williams. I’ve brought some titles that I thought would especially interest him, or Mr. Webster. May I give you a lift to the shop? Then you could guide me.”

The two young men exchanged looks, and April studied their curious facial features, which reminded her of something she could not place. “I’m Cyrus. Yes, let me show you the way, it’s not far.” He patted the other lad on the back and then joined April in entering the car, directing her away from the place and along a rutted road that began to rise as hillside. “There’s the house, just behind those trees. You can park at the steps leading up to it. Let me get that box of books for you, Miss Dorgan, it looks heavy.” She parked near a flight of stone steps that led to one of the strangest houses she had ever seen, one that looked sinister and solitary and very old. Quietly, she followed Cyrus up the steps, which had been usurped by weed and yellow grass, and noticed him studying the books in the box he carried. Reaching the top of the steps, they walked along a gravel path to the three wooden steps that led up to an enormous canopied porch, on which she saw a porch swing and a bin of discarded books. The door of the dwelling had been propped open, and from within the house there came a sound of someone playing a pipe. They crossed the threshold, and April studied the tall man whose back was to them as he looked out an eastern window, toward the white mountain. The music emitted from him, and when at last he stopped his playing and turned around April saw that he held a flute made of shining red wood. He did not smile at her, nor did he speak; and something in the stern gaze of his silver eyes bewildered her with subtle fear and memory. The face seemed very familiar in an uncanny way, and she was repulsed by its ugly combination of features that reminded her of frog and wolf. The unfriendly eyes turned to watch as Cyrus placed the box onto a low table.

“What have we here?” the gentleman asked.

“Some years ago Simon Gregory Williams used to visit my grandfather’s bookshop in Wisconsin, and he expressed interest in the books that are in that box. For some reason my grandfather was unwilling to part with them. I was hoping you could show them to Mr. Williams and perhaps he and I can come to some agreement regarding price.”

“Simon is in Europe, but I know his tastes. I’ll be occupied until tomorrow. Are you able to stay overnight? I have a room upstairs that you are welcome to use while you stay in Sesqua Valley. Was your grandfather Laird Dorgan? Yes, I met him once, when I accompanied Simon to your town. Cyrus will show you to your room. I’ll be dining late tonight, and perhaps you’ll join me and we can talk, hmm? Excellent. The Eastern Room, Cyrus, with its magnificent view of Mount Selta and the woodland. Is your luggage in your car? Why not loan Cyrus your keys and he’ll carry it to you room. You’re very tired, after such a lengthy drive, and a little rest will do you a world of good. You’ll find the bed comfortable.”

She followed the younger man out of the room and up a flight of carpeted stairs. The room into which she was led was small and beautifully furnished with sturdy antique pieces. The bed did indeed look inviting, and after she thanked Cyrus for his help and gave him the keys to her car, she reclined on the bed and shut her eyes. From somewhere below came the sound of someone playing a haunting melody on a flute.

III

The universe was a black and silent sea in which her eyes floated, seeing nothing. It reminded her of the sonnet by Sri Aurobindo, “The Unseen Infinite,” and its line about “the inconscient dreadful dumb Abyss.” Her eyes floated, peering, their whiteness the only stars. Then, from the sea of infinity, one shape arose, blacker than oblivion. It rose and watched her with a semblance of an obscure face, a face that was almost featureless. The figure’s hands, gloved with pitch, rose to its dark almost-face, and pulled, until the face was free. It reached that face to those spools, her eyes, which rolled to it and fastened into tight sockets. As she looked again into nothingness, she saw the whorls of shadow that wheeled around like some vision of Ezekiel, orbits of blackness spinning within each other, tugging at her essence. The mask into which her eyes were set spun like some web of gloom in cosmic nothingness, and with great effort she closed the flaps of mask that were her eyelids.

Her eyes opened to darkness, focused, noticed the dim rectangle of light that contained a silhouette that watched her. She raised herself onto her elbows and peered at the figure whose face she could not see. “Why is it so dark?”

“You’ve slept—and darkness falls early in the valley at this time of year. Do you hunger? I have set a table for our repast. Come.”

She sat up and moved her feet into her sandals, stood up and moved to the figure in the doorway. Adam Webster backed away to allow her exit from the room, and the soft hallway light illuminated his weird face. “I am a little hungry,” she confessed.

“Excellent. The meal that I’ve prepared will please you.” Webster offered her his arm, which she took, and together they walked down the stairs and into a dining room. He pulled out a chair for her to sit into, then went to a side table where he opened covered dishes and plated her some food. She took hold of the glass of wine before her and breathed in the liquor’s sweet aroma, which reminded her of the smells of the valley that had wafted to her when she had first entered its confines. He sat and began to eat in silence, not regarding her in any way. The food was delicious, as was the wine, and after she had dined she lost some of the foreboding that the place and its inhabitant had inspired. The Sesquan looked up and caught her staring at his face, and this made him smile a secret smile. He rose and went to a small side table from which he took an object, and then he pulled one of the dining table chairs nearer to her and sat. She saw that the book was her grandfather’s journal in which he had listed books desired by the mysterious Simon Williams. Webster set the small journal near her and tapped it. “Do you know what happened to the items mentioned in the back of this journal, the Pnakotic Manuscripts and Book of Eibon? I cannot ascertain if they were actual editions of the book or mere photostatic copies as was their Necronomicon.”

April frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah—perhaps you didn’t notice the writing in the back of the journal, after many pages had been left blank.” He opened the book and showed her some back pages on which her grandfather had, long ago, scribbled some odd notes.

“Dreaming about the dweller in darkness—perhaps a result of the

memories roused by study of the photographic copy of Necronomicon, or

Book of Eibon and P. Manuscripts. I see that damn totem that was beside the lodge in the woods, with its reptilian faces and wings. I’m tempted to trek to Rick’s Lake again so as to copy the markings on that totem—yet I am reluctant to return. I don’t care to hear again those buzzing voices or the howling Thing. And yet it tugs me to it, that haunted place.”

“I never noticed those passages,” April lied as she flipped over other pages of equally cryptic notations in her grandfather’s hand. “The Book of Eibon and De Vermis Mysteriis in the box I brought were purchased by Grandfather after the incident at Rick’s Lake and his quitting his position at the university so as to establish his bookshop. He told me the tale of Rick’s Lake near the end of his life, many times, and I know that the photostatic copies of occult books that they had in the lodge mysteriously vanished. I went with him once to the lodge, during a period when he was driving himself frantic with bad dreams, and he seemed unnerved that this stone totem had been removed as he especially wanted to examine it. He opened up to me, you see, when I became interest in the Bohemian lifestyle and began to bring friends to the bookshop, and he seemed to delight in joining us during our séances and such.”

“Have you an interest in the occult, Miss Dorgan?”

She closed her grandfather’s journal and pushed it from her. “No. I saw the way such things affected Grandfather, and that rather turned me off. He got very bad near the end, writing symbols on walls and floor with chalk, sneaking out and running naked through a nearby woods. It was in those woods that we found him one last time, with a strange book in his lifeless hand.”

“And what book was that?”

“I don’t know. I burned it after the funeral, as I was tempted to burn all of the weird books he had locked in his cabinet. Then I found that journal with those extraordinary prices offered him by Mr. Williams, and that kept the books from flame. The shop does well enough, and my needs are modest; but it would be pleasant to have a nice sum in the bank for special occasions. When do you expect Mr. Williams to return from Europe?”

“One cannot say. No matter. I’m prepared to pay you the sums he offered your grandsire. The books are rare indeed, and in excellent condition. Simon will be pleased.”

He took up the small journal and smiled at her. “Are you happy with your room?”

“Oh, yes. It’s enchanting. Those beautiful antiques...”

“Excellent. Stay as long as you wish. It’s often good to ‘get away,’ as people say.”

Webster rose, took up their plates and vacated the room. April stood and stretched, and then she found her way to the front door and sat on the porch swing gazing at the nighted valley, the enormous sky. The sky looked unfamiliar to her, as it had never appeared before, not that she had ever shown much interest in the heavens. She caught a hazy remnant of her dream and thought again of the line of poetry, “the inconscient dreadful dumb Abyss,” and felt that image as never before; for the blackness above her did seem like some abyss into which she might fall should she release her tight hold on the arm of the swing. She thought about the sonnet’s closing lines, wherein is conveyed the human soul’s relationship with the Unseen, with whom humanity is kindred. This was the pathological obsession of her grandfather, and she had never given the matter serious thought, dismissing it as the mental wanderings of an elderly mind. Yet coming to Sesqua Valley had triggered something that she didn’t understand—a sensation that filled her disquiet that was not altogether unpleasant. It was unsettling, certainly, to meet people who seemed as serious about these obsessions of her grandfather as he had been. There was something about Adam Webster’s interest in her grandfather’s books and history that seemed too keen, too interested. Perhaps the rare old books were far more fabulous than she realized; perhaps they were worth more than her grandfather had suspected, more than the generous offering made by Simon Gregory Williams.

Her brain hurt from too much thinking. Yes, she would stay here for a day or two, take a holiday from home, and see the way that others lived. She realized that her life had begun to follow a safe and regular routine, and this annoyed her as it conflicted with her image as a woman who was living an interesting life so different from the staid realities of her family, her boring mother and uncles who had no sense of adventurous living, of radical thought. Her rebellion had been to live what she thought of as an “alternative” lifestyle, but she realized that it hadn’t taken much to seem “different” in her little Wisconsin town. She now laughed at how naive it had all been. It was here, in sequestered Sesqua Valley, that she really felt removed from normality as she understood it. Everything here was strange and truly different. She closed her eyes and pushed with her feet so that the chair would sway gently back and forth, a movement that suddenly brought a memory of sitting as a little child in her grandfather’s lap as he rocked her to and fro. April smiled at memory and closed her eyes.

Adam Webster sat in soft electric light, his eyes closed, his senses on high alert. He heard the movement behind him as young Cyrus entered the room. “You’re looking severe,” said the lad.

“I don’t like this kind of surprise when Simon is absent. We’ve had some pleasant quiet years without outsiders invading our terrain.”

Cyrus laughed softly. “We’re the invaders, Adam. This is more her element than our own.”