Darkest Part of the Woods (38 page)

Heather shook her head, mostly at herself. She was finding it hard not to be drawn into the imagery of the journal, which kept making her aware of the woods that loomed above the page, it seemed less distantly than they should. She glanced up to prove they had stayed where they ought to be, and caught herself fancying the treetops were upraised in search of the dark that lay in wait just beyond the sky. "Get on with it," she told both the book and its reader, and tried again to skim. Nevertheless she experienced some satisfaction when it became apparent that Selcouth had overreached himself.

Great and awful are the Perills even to my self of fathoming the Dark beyond the farthest Spheres, for a Caprice of the Void may transmute the Spirit into Forms for which there are no Words and hence no Formula of Revocation. One such chang'd Horrour did I encounter that would have been a Magus, that now cry'd out sans Voice for it import’d not what Manner of Bodie in which to procure its own swift Death, and for a Month thereafter I feared the very Skies. No less grave are the Hazards of calling down a Messenger from that Dark, for that is to bring the antic Whims of the Void upon the Earth, to consume it as Rot consumes the Apple and make a Maggot even of my self. My Scheme was to send an Other as my Proxie, that I might observe the Transformations of its Essence and so learn how to wield those moderat’d Powers within and about my self. Thus I chose Goodman to voyage in my Stead, he being of more than human Power yet subject to my own..

What Agitation seiz'd the Forest whenever Goodman strove against my sending! How the Trees groan'd and writh'd and cast up a very Blizzard of mournful Leaves, and how the Village Herd must have cower'd within their Pens! Thus was it borne upon me that as the Centuries transformed the Roman Grove into a Forest grown from Seedes pluck'd by Goodman from the Air, so he became besides the Daemon of the wood, its Essence.

Thrice I sent Goodman forth to report upon the Dark that takes no Heede of Time. Thrice he rose up, his stretch'd Limbs trembling on the Earth they fear'd to quit, and vanish'd like thin Smoak between the Stars to return a-pace and crowch both like a Spider and a Dog before me. Well might I have thought he had fallen short of the Dark for Cravenness, had he not carry'd with him Traces of the Void that fasten'd on the Wood. Thus the Trees that surround my Tower, whose deepest Cellar is Goodman's Lair, became so altered as to found a new Genus that takes its Nourishment from such Life as may alight upon it, while the Shaddowes of the Forest acquired a Vigour which may yet outstrip that of their Source. Yet no Formula was to be drawn from Observation of these Prodigies, nor any from interrogating Goodman about his Voyages, our Spirits lacking all Affinitie upon which to base a Discourse.

Therefore I detetermin'd to contain within a Bodie of my own Begetting some Aspect of the Void that had company'd him to Earth, though the Process that had left one London Wench with Child had cast me downe with Weariness and Loathing. To contain the Large within the Small is to concentrate its Power, and every Child must acknowledge its Father. In order to procure a Vessel to receive my Seede I shap’d Goodman into a scent’d naked youth who would appear in a Maiden's Dream and at her Window also to escort her to my Bed, through the Forest that my Powers had render'd charming to every Sense.

It was a recluse's masturbatory fantasy, Heather told herself, and perhaps not even much more deranged than the average for all she knew. It made the oppressive heat and the woods that seemed poised at the edge of her vision feel closer, and she hardly knew why she was continuing to read the passage: she couldn't imagine Sylvia reading it aloud to anyone in the world.

On a Night of the full-belly'd Moone I performed my beastly Task upon a Village Wench and charged the wood to snare her Memorie of our Encounter as Goodman shepherd'd her to her Cottage. When the Moone had fatten'd herself thrice upon the Dark I had the Trollop brought againe to me that I might bid her Inhabitant crawl forth from her and plant its hungry Root in the transformed and antic Earth of the lowest Cellar. Already its Essence was the outer Dark, for while I was at my siring I had utter'd the Formula which I sette downe here for the Eyes and Understanding of my Follower.

Encompass us, o Daoloth, Lord of unveil’d Truth, that the Product of my Seede shall be endow'd with Vision that penetrates even to the Secrets of the farthest Dark "

Heather especially disliked the notion that Sylvia could have read this to the child inside her, but surely there was no reason to assume she had. There was a full page of it, much of it in some altogether less speakable language, from which Heather glanced up to dispel the notion that the trees at the edge of the common were imitating the letters on the page or otherwise responding to the written incantation. They hadn't moved that she could distinguish, but at least she didn't feel the need to recommence where she'd left off. She turned the page and immediately wished she hadn't, for it had concealed a drawing. From life,the caption said.

It wasn't the drawing from which she'd recoiled when Sylvia had shown her the journal, but it was as bad. It showed a small creature crouching on all fours beside a tower. Despite its lack of a mouth and its enormous eyes that looked trapped by an unnaturally lightless sky, it reminded her far too much of a toddler. She attempted to ignore it while she scanned the text opposite, then snatched at the page, only to reveal the drawing of a child with eyes swarming out of its honeycomb of a skull. The third and last was worse still; the figure grovelling in the shadow of the tower-a shadow, Heather was eager to realise, that wouldn't have existed given the blackness of the sky-had an almost perfect child's face except for the single huge eye perched on top like an egg in a cup. Fragments of the text caught at her mind: Though our Spirits were in Sympathie, no Intelligence could I gain from my benighted Offspiring. I had thought to spy my Goal thro' its Eyes, but its Innocence did not protect its Wits from being blast’d to Idiocy by those Sights. Its solitary Meritt is to derive all its Nourishment from the Dark which was its Origin . . .

This second Creature and its vagrant Orbs also proved too puny to trawl the Secrets of the Dark . . .

So a third Bastard shows itself unworthy of my Goal, nor am I content with the Slavishness which besetts the Embodiement of the Formula. Therefore I must steel my self to undertake that Rite which none known to me has dared perform.

Part of Heather's mind was urging her to skip the rest, but she was suddenly enraged to feel daunted by a mere book, and one that smelled of its own senility at that. "So did you?" she said through her teeth.

The waken'd Dead have Strengths not grant’d to the Living, and I hold it to be more than Rumour that the Product of their Mating shall multiply their several Powers within it. Againe, it is an Axiom that Blood shall speak to Blood if generat’d by a Mage. On collecting a Package from London some Weeks past I learned that the Crone my Mother had quit her Prison of Flesh. This was of no greater Moment to me than had a Vessel of inferior Clay crack'd asunder of its Flawes, but now . . .

"That's all," Heather declared, and almost slammed the journal shut before she recalled why she was searching through it. Though she was increasingly reluctant to discover exactly what she'd overheard, she made herself continue skimming. "Do your worst," she said under her breath.

In London Wealth and less than Wealth will purchase Satisfaction of any Desire, and but little Payment was requir’d to coax a pair of Gravediggers to reverse their Trade. Having buried the Casket afresh and borne its Contents to a Field yet strong in antient Magick, they were wonderful eager to leave me at my Task of summoning the Dark to restore Suppleness to the wither’d Limbs. Well short of the Hour at which I had bade a Coach-man to arrive, the Corse was a Puppet of my Will, prancing and curtseying however stiffly beneath the Moone. Once bath’d in Scents and conceel’d by Veils, it might have been mistook for a famous Courtesan, and I doubt not that the Coach-man fancy'd this of my Companion. Indeed, none Other shall its Function be, and thus the Grave shall be a Cradle.

Heather's father must have read this somewhere, she had to tell herself Since this was the only copy, he must have read that. It followed that he must have left it for Sylvia to find---left it wherever she'd found it, at any rate. Recalling how Lennox had echoed the journal made Heather feel that she would catch him watching if she looked up, and when she did, that the woods were observing her with as many eyes as there were trees. If this was how having an active imagination felt, she didn't like it much. She skipped from paragraph to paragraph as though they were stepping-stones over a dark flood.

Throughout the Ride to Goodman’s Wood I suffer’d my Companion to keep its Peace, and so fail’d to mark the Renewal of its Stiffness. Upon gaining the Road beside the Forest it was my Task to assist the veil’d Lich forth from the Carriage. As the Coachman whipp’d his Team towards the Village I summon’d Goodman to bear my Prize to my Tower . . .

It is no great labour to animate the Cadaver nor even to cause it to utter my Voice, but now I see that reviving come Porcion of its Essence and quickening its Venter may be an Affair of many Nights pass’d in its Company sans Illumination in the lowest Cellar. My Journal shall record the Process once it is braught to Fulfillment . . .

The Rite has been interrupt’d meer Nights short of Success by the Interfeerence of the Herd .

. .

Heather almost let out a murmur of relief. It wasn't that she would have been afraid to learn that Selcouth had believed he'd successfully completed his experiment all those centuries ago, but rather that she wouldn't be in danger of reading worse than she already had. In fact it seemed there was very little left to read.

Whose Sport was it to betray me? The Coach-man, or some Village Dullard eager to advance his Cause by sucking up to the Magistrate? The puny Minds of the Xtian Sheep can but persecute and seek to x-tinguish that which they lack Capacity to comprehend. A Mob of themm has enter’d the Woods, bleating Prayers to ward off such Hosts as may greet them.

But my Powers are sore enfeebl’d by my interrupt’d Vigil, and I lack the Vigour to direct Goodman upon the Intruders. Therefore I shall devote my last Moments with my Journall to setting down a Message to my Follower, then conceel the Booke where Goodman may at the appoint’d Time discover it to him.

I have no Feare of what shall come to pass. Two Visions have been Afford’d me that I shall debase my self with no Show of Weakness such as the Xtians tattle of their Man-god. As from my Peak above the Flesh 1 have Wittness’d myown Execution, and I know that it is but an empty Husk that takes its Place upon the Scaffold while my Spirit regains the Conceelment of the Woods. A Scrying has shown me the Face of my Follower, so like unto my own that I might have mistook the Glass for a meer Mirror. Let him gaze upon his Likenesse and recognise his Destiny. He shall unite our Blood, and so shall my Powers be reawaken’d and marry’d to those that roam the Forest. At the Birth, all shall be contained withinne a Single form and give it Life. The Great gains Force when closed within the Small, and so shall I enter the Realm which is my Due.

The last third of the right-hand page was blank. At first Heather was bewildered by her own uneasy dissatisfaction-but she'd heard Sylvia continuing to read aloud the night before she'd left, and a good deal more than one sentence. Surely there had to be more to the journal; otherwise she must have been uttering for her child's supposed benefit some of the material Heather had read or had avoided reading. It was with something grotesquely like hope that she leafed through the rest of the book.

Blank page followed blank page, rustling like a nest of restless insects, offering her only an oppressive smell of papery decay that

made her head swim. The binding twitched against the desk like a lid that was struggling to raise itself. She dug a fingernail into one corner to hold it still and resisted moistening a fingertip so as to turn the last few pages quicker; the notion that traces of the pages were gathering on her thumb and finger was disagreeable enough. Another yellowed sheet revealed itself to her, and another, and then one proved unexpectedly weighty. It was the last page-no, she'd taken hold of the last two. She let them fall against the binding with a muffled click that suggested they were composed of more than paper. She was about to separate them when she noticed what the unlikeliness had prevented her from seeing. The pages were stapled together.

All her understanding of time seemed to desert her as she tried to think how long ago the stapler could have been invented, and then she saw how indisputably new the staples were. One desk drawer contained a stapler. Why would Sylvia have sealed up the last page? By no means sure that she wanted to know, Heather nevertheless set about prising the staples open with a thumbnail.

Each margin was stapled. As she unfastened the third and refrained from sucking a twinge out of the quick of her thumb, both pages settled on the bulk of the journal, exposing a discoloured underside to her. A smell of more than age insinuated itself into her nostrils, and she leaned across the desk to heave the sash of the window up. It must have been her movement that stirred the page as if whatever it concealed was impatient to be seen. She almost tore the corner in a sudden fury at her reluctance to see.

The inscription on the left-hand sheet made her hesitate with the last page still held vertical.

My Follower as scry’d withinne the Glass, it said. She had already glimpsed the ink drawing it described, and she was scarcely aware that her fingers were losing their hold on the page. As it fell open, the woods at the edge of her vision appeared to crane forward to watch. She hadn't time to argue herself out of that

impression; she was too desperate to find some evidence that the drawing had been added recently, no matter why. Although the face that was the whole of it somewhat resembled her father, it looked far more like Sam.

33

The Last Descent