Neil Gaiman & Caitlin R. Kiernan & Laird Barron (72 page)

In mid-October the now thoroughly disgruntled and morose proprietor of the Tomb of the Great Old Ones looked to a different approach. Patently, no matter how hard he personally studied Hamilton’s books, he was not himself qualified to puzzle out and piece together the required information. There were those, however, who had spent a lifetime in such studies, and if he could not attract such as these to the fairground—why, then he must simply send the problem to them. True, he had tried this before, with Titus Crow; but now, as opposed to cultists, occultists, and the like, he would approach only recognized authorities. He spent the following day or two tracking down the address of Professor Gordon Walmsley of Goole, a world-renowned expert in the science of ciphers, whose book,
Notes on Deciphering Codes, Cryptograms, and Ancient Inscriptions,
had now been in his possession for almost seven months. That book was still far too deep and complicated for Anderson’s fathoming, but the author of such a work should certainly find little difficulty with the piece from the
Necronomicon.

He quickly composed a letter to the professor, and as October grew into its third week he posted it off. He was not to know it, but at that time Walmsley was engaged in the services of the Buenos Aires Museum of Antiquities, busily translating the hieroglyphs on certain freshly discovered ruins in the mountains of the Aconcaguan Range near San Juan. Anderson’s letter did eventually reach him, posted on from Walmsley’s Yorkshire address, but the professor was so interested in his own work that he gave it only a cursory glance. Later he found that he had misplaced it, and thus, fortunately, the scrap of paper with its deadly invocation passed into obscurity and became lost forever.

Anderson meanwhile impatiently waited for a reply, and along with the folk of the fairground prepared for the Halloween opening at Bathley, a town on the northeast border. It was then, on the night of the twenty-seventh of the month, that he received his third and final warning. The day had been chill and damp, with a bitter wind blowing off the North Sea, bringing a dankly salt taste and smell that conjured up horrible memories for the surviving Tharpe brother.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth, rising up gratefully from a sweat-soaked bed and a nightmare the like of which he had never known before and fervently prayed never to know again, Anderson Tharpe blamed the horrors of the night on yesterday’s sea wind with its salty smells of ocean; but even explained away like this the dream had been a monstrous thing.

Again he had visited sunken R’lyeh—but this time there had been a vivid
reality
to the nightmare lacking in previous dreams. He had known the terrible, bone-crushing pressures of that drowned realm, had felt the frozen chill of its black waters. He had tried to scream as the pressure forced his eyes from their sockets, and then the sea had rushed into his mouth, tearing his throat and lungs and stomach as it filled him in one smashing column as solid as steel. And though the horror had lasted only a second, still he had known that there in the ponderous depths his
disintegration
had taken place before the throne of the Lord of R’lyeh, the Great Old One who seeped down from the stars at the dawn of time. He had been a sacrifice to Cthulhu…

∇

That had been four days ago, but still Tharpe shuddered when he thought of it. He put it out of his mind now as he ushered the crowd out of the tent and turned to face the sole remaining member of that departing audience. Tharpe’s oratory had been automatic; during its delivery he had allowed his mind to run free in its exploration of all chat had passed since his brother’s hideous death, but now he came back to earth. Hiram Henley stared back at him in what he took to be scornful disappointment. The ex-professor spoke:

“‘The Tomb of the Great Old Ones’, indeed! Sir, you’re a charlatan!” he said. “I could find more fearsome things in
Grimm’s Fairy Tales,
more items of genuine antiquarian interest in my aunt’s attic. I had hoped your—show—might prove interesting. It seems I was mistaken.” His eyes glinted sarcastically behind his tiny spectacles.

For a moment Tharpe’s heart beat a little faster, then he steadied himself. Perhaps this time…? Certainly the little man was worth a try. “You do me an injustice, sir—you wound me!” He waxed theatrical, an ability with which he was fluent through his years of showmanship. “Do you really believe that I would openly
display
the archaeological treasures for which this establishment was named?—I should put them out for the common herd to ogle, when not one in ten thousand could even recognize them, let alone appreciate them? Wait!”

He ducked through the canvas doorflap into the enclosed area containing Hamilton’s relics, returning a few seconds later with a bronze miniature the size of his hand and wrist. The thing looked vaguely like an elongated, eyeless squid. It also looked—despite the absence of anything even remotely mundane in its appearance—utterly evil! Anderson handed the object reverently to the ex-professor, saying: “What do you make of that?” Having chosen the thing at random from the anomalies in his dead brother’s collection, he hoped it really was of “genuine antiquarian interest.”

His choice had been a wise one. Henley peered at the miniature, and slowly his expression changed. He examined the thing minutely, then said, “It is the burrower beneath, Shudde-M’ell, or one of his brood. A very good likeness, and ancient beyond words. Made of bronze, yet quite obviously it predates the Bronze Age!” His voice was suddenly soft. “Where did you get it?”

“You
are
interested, then?” Tharpe smiled, incapable of either admitting or denying the statements of the other.

“Of course I’m interested.” Henley eagerly nodded, a bit too eagerly, Tharpe thought. “I… I did indeed do you a great injustice. This thing is
very
interesting! Do you have… more?”

“All in good time.” Tharpe held up his hands, holding himself in check, waiting until the time was ripe to frame his own all-important question. “First, who are you? You understand that
my—possessions—are
not for idle scrutiny, that—”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” the little man cut him off. “My name is Hiram Henley. I am—at least I was—Professor of Archaeology and Ethnology at Meldham University. I have recently given up my position there in order to carry out private research. I came here out of curiosity, I admit; a friend gave me one of your tickets with its peculiar invitation. I wasn’t really expecting much, but—”

“But now you’ve seen something that you would never have believed possible in a place like this. Is that it?”

“Indeed it is. And you? Who are you?”

“Tharpe is my name, Anderson Tharpe, proprietor of this”—he waved his hand deprecatingly—“establishment.”

“Very well, Mr. Tharpe,” Henley said. “It’s my own good fortune to meet a man whose intelligence in my own chosen field patently must match my own—whose possessions include items such as this.” He held up the heavy bronze piece and peered at it again for a moment. “Now, will you show me—the rest?”

“A glimpse, only a glimpse,” Tharpe told him, aware now that Henley was hooked. “Then perhaps we can trade?”

“I have nothing with which to trade. In what way do you mean?”

“Nothing to trade? Perhaps not,” Tharpe answered, holding the canvas door open so that his visitor might step into the enclosed space beyond, “but then again… how are you on ancient tongues and languages?”

“Languages were always my—” The ex-professor started to answer, stepping into the private place. Then he paused, his eyes widening as he gazed about at the contents of the place. “Were always my—” Again he paused, reaching out his hands before him and moving forward, touching the ugly idol unbelievingly, moving quickly to the carved tablets, staring as if hypnotized at the smaller figurines and totems. Finally he turned a flushed face to Tharpe. His look was hard to define; partly awed, partly-accusing?

“I didn’t steal them, I assure you,” Tharpe quickly said.

“No, of course not,” Henley answered, “but… you have the treasures of the aeons here!”

Now the tall showman could hold himself no longer. “Languages,” he pressed. “You say you have an understanding of tongues? Can you translate from the ancient to the modern?”

“Yes, most things, providing—”

“How would you like to
own
all you see here?” Tharpe cut him off again.

Henley reached out suddenly palsied hands to take Tharpe by the forearms. “You’re… joking?”

“No.” Tharpe shook his head, lying convincingly. “I’m not joking. There is something of the utmost importance to my own line of—research. I need a translation of a fragment of ancient writing. Rather, I need the
original
pronunciation. If you can solve this one problem for me, all this can be yours. You can be… part of it.”

“What is this fragment?” the little man cried.
“Where
is it?”

“Come with me.”

“But—” Henley turned away from Tharpe, his gloved hands again reaching for those morbid items out of the aeons.

“No, no.” Tharpe took his arm. “Later—you’ll have all the time you need. Now there is this problem of mine. But later, tonight, we’ll come back in here, and all this can be yours…”

The ex-professor voluntarily followed Tharpe out of the tent to his caravan, and there he was shown the handwritten
Necronomicon
with its cryptic “key.”

“Well,” Tharpe demanded, barely concealing his agitation, “can you read it as it was written? Can you
pronounce
it in its original form?”

“I’ll need a little time,” the balding man mused, “and privacy; but I think… I’ll take a copy of this with me, and as soon as I have the answer—”

“When? How long?”

“Tonight.”

“Good. I’ll wait for you. It should be quiet here by then. It’s Halloween and the fairground is open until late, but they’ll all be that much more tired…” Tharpe suddenly realized that he was thinking out loud and quickly glanced at his visitor. The little man peered at him strangely through his tiny specs;
very
strangely, Tharpe thought.

“The people here are—superstitious,” he explained. “It wouldn’t be wise to advertise our interest in these ancient matters. They’re ignorant and I’ve had trouble with them before. They don’t like some of the things I’ve got.”

“I understand,” Henley answered. “I’ll go now and work through the evening. With luck it won’t take too long. Tonight—shall we say after midnight?—I’ll be back.” He quickly made a copy of the characters in the old book, then stood up. Tharpe saw him out of the caravan with an assumed, gravely thoughtful air, thanking him before watching him walk off in the direction of the exit; but then he laughed out loud and slapped his thigh, quickly seeking out one of the odd-job boys from the stratojet thrill ride.

An hour later—to the amazement of his fellow showmen, for the crowd was thickening rapidly as the afternoon went by—Anderson Tharpe closed the Tomb of the Great Old Ones and retired to his caravan. He wanted to practice himself in the operation of the tape recorder which he had paid the odd-jobber to buy for him in Bathley.

This final phase of his plan was simple; necessarily so, for of course he in no way intended to honour his bargain with Henley. He
did
intend to have the little man read out his pronunciation of the “key” and to record that pronunciation in perfect fidelity—but from then on…

If the pronunciation were imperfect, then of course the “bargain” would be unfulfilled and the ex-professor would escape with his life and nothing more; but if the invocation worked…? Why, then the professor simply could not be allowed to walk away and talk about what he had seen. No, it would be necessary for him to disappear into the green light. Hamilton would have called it a “sacrifice to Cthulhu.”

And yet there had been something about the little man that disturbed Anderson; something about his peering eyes, and his eagerness to fall in with the plans of the gaunt showman. Tharpe thought of his dream of a few days past, then of those other nightmares he had known, and shuddered; and again he pondered the possibility that there had been more than met the eye in his mad brother’s assertions. But what odds? Science or sorcery, it made no difference, the end result would be the same. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.

Things were at last looking up for Anderson Tharpe…

At midnight the crowd began to thin out. Watching the people move off into the chill night, Anderson was glad it had started to rain again, for their festive Halloween mood might have kept them in the fairground longer, and the bright lights would have glared and the music played late into the night. Only an hour later all was quiet, with only the sporadic patter of rain on machines and tents and painted roofs to disturb the night. The last wetly gleaming light had blinked out and the weary folk of the fairground were in their beds. That was when Anderson heard the furtive rapping at his caravan door, and he was agreeably surprised that the ever-watchful dogs had not heralded his night-visitor’s arrival. Possibly it was too early for them yet to distinguish between comers and goers.

As soon as he was inside Henley saw the question written on Tharpe’s face. He nodded in answer: “Yes, yes, I have it. It appears to be a summons of some sort, a cry to vast and immeasurably ancient powers. Wait, I’ll read it for you—”

“No, no—not here!” Tharpe silenced him before he could commence.

“I have a tape recorder in the tent.”

Without a word the little man followed Tharpe through the dark and into the private enclosure containing those centuried relics which so plainly fascinated him. There Tharpe illumined the inner tent with a single dim light bulb; then, switching on his tape recorder, he told the ex-professor that he was now ready to hear the invocation.

And yet now Henley paused, turning to face Tharpe and gravely peering at him from where he stood by the horrible octopoid idol.

“Are you—sure?” the little man asked. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” His voice was dry, calm.