THE NECRONOMICON ~ The Cthulhu Revelations (3 page)

And yet, those most heretical of the Mad One’s confessions (for they are many) have been encrypted by mine own hand into the Enochian tongue, as it was gloriously revealed to me.  Too, the most blasphemous passages of all have been encrypted and locked by the
Key of Enoch and of God
.

You who do receive this writing, who darest in the manner of your searching:  as you have done this in the name of thine own will, and not in the name of God; in finding this blackest glory, you too know well where you shall find the
One Key
which I have made, that which shall unlock and translate all.

~

(Note:  This editor has reason to believe that Clarice Whateley received the sole manuscript of this decoding work, this
Enochian Key of One
, through private and select agreement via Sotheby’s London in 1986.  Further, there is reason to believe that the text itself had originally been stolen by an “archaeologist” of questionable background, a gentleman by the name of Iacob Tillinghast, who is recorded as a dig assistant to the international team which disinterred the remains of Dee at Mortlake, Richmond in 1892. ~K..)

~

And so is all that follows mine own humble translation of the confessions of the Mad Sage of Yemen, the
Kitab Al Azif
of Al-Azrad, rendered so the
Sibilance
, entitled by the heretic-priests among the Romans as
NECRONOMICON
.

I remain beyond all Inquisition.

O Father, O Majesty,

I have done as I am commanded by mine will.  Forgive me.

—Mortlake,

XIII Septembre, MDCVIII.

007

GATHERING THE FIRST

Sana’a and the Ideal

SCROLL I

Of the Keying of Minds ~

And So Shall Ye Become the Beholder

Of Great Cthulhu’s Rising

(The text of the Kitab Al Azif of Abd Al-Azrad, translated and encrypted by Doctor John Dee, decoded by Kent David Kelly, begins thusly, with a warning of the reader’s possession by Al-Azrad:)

~

Fool and dreamer, you who in a slaughterer’s delight unbury this, you who set eyes upon this accursed scroll, I, Al-Azrad, ask of you:

Before which of the untrue Gods have you fallen, to beg upon your knee in sin?  By whose King have you been cursed to this cruelest end?  To read this is to be caged in revelation, and now you shall be my slave.

For only the untouchable shall read of these words; for only the dead, eternal, shall inscribe the final cantus unto this, the
Kitab Al Azif
, the chronicle of the Many, so the Sibilance which shall never be as one.

By God and too, by King, in certainty you are forsaken, compelled to set your mind within this skin, this undying flesh of the one who now inscribes you, here within the first of all worlds’ ending; these are the meditations and confessions of your master,

Abd Al-Azrad.

In suffering, your silence shall be the testament of my years, these words the merest remnant of my love, my shame, my death which is soon to come:  a blessing, all in ending.  Read herein of all my suffering, fool and dreamer.  In oblivion, be one with me.  Judge me, delight and know thy pleasure only through me, forever hereafter.

~

You shall be the vessel, and I the mind.  Live through me unto the End.  Read and walk where I have walked, whisper my incantations and so bring forth the madness, that which I have suffered in the name of the unreachable, eternity.

Love as I have loved.

To entwine with my slain beloved is to know the ice-ebb of the Worm, her kiss upon thy tongue.  To linger as a thrill over my shame is to live thine own life accursed, as my own heart has lived and begged to beat no longer.

Feast, prideful one who readeth me.  Taste deeply of my grief.

To behold the incantations locked herein is to know the eye of oblivion, to gaze upon these secrets is to by Them, forever, be seen.  To deny my truth and the truth of Chaos is to bear the mark of death which now sets upon me.

And so, the mark of the hunt is now the unfelt blood upon thy brow.  As you are now the vessel of myself, so They shall hunt you in turn.  In ending me, so shall They pursue you.  By my inscriptions you are scented, in my annihilation are you beheld.  In delighting in my sorrows, you now beckon Them to find you.

In the ritual of veils, in the keying of minds, your immolation shall be Their gateway.

~

‘Umr at-Tawil
, the All in One, Yog-Sothoth is one with the eye inside the gate.  Yog-Sothoth is the key which unlocks the prey, Yog-Sothoth is the guardian whose shadow shall coil and constrict the heart of thee.  Lock unto gate, gate unto key, past after present and so to future, all minds are ever one, in the eye of
‘Umr at-Tawil
.

Let the soul trapped inside you gaze unto me:  the dream of black R’lyeh rises, and never again your dreaming shall be your own.

~

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,

In his palace in high R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits in dreaming.

~

Through thy last rapture, destine, in the name of Nephren-Ka, thrall to Nitocris, you who believe you stand shall kneel before the one Black Pharaoh in adoration.  You who believe yourself unchained must now take up the hand that is licked by beasts.  You who believe you shall stride alone, as one isolate truth amongst the real, shall become as one within, one with all our legion, we the swallowed, we the Crawling of the Chaos.

To the very stars unto the end of time, you, fool and friend, shall scribe your name beneath mine own, into the Blackened Codex of Azathoth.

Beguiled, to Him you shall descend, overturned and so ascending.  For the root of the gate is the rind of Sana’a.  Far beneath the earth, you will stand upon the peak of the abyss, that deep height which the unlit lords raised as a mantle over the highest spires of the netherworld.

The seven hundred steps you shall trod into tomorrow.  So shall you walk the stairs, unto the Gates of Deeper Slumber.

The Eden-lost, the wondrous forest beyond the opening shall be thy hunting ground.  Soon you will find thine own prey, the hunted ones shall answer to your name.  For in dreaming—the Other Real beyond the world—the single dreamer becomes the many.  Reflections of your desires shall give birth to other selves within your mind.  You will hunt yourselves unto the End, all the selves of the elder you who fled yourself in revelation.

So shall you—in seeking the escape of an awakening—find only the brim of the Endless Stair, and so down to the height of the deepest netherworld shall you swim and so find the Abzu, the sea eternal which, in your drowning, swallows you into Them.

So in slumber shall your life—the lie, which yet believes eternity—become as one before the truth of death.  For in the death-dreams of Cthulhu, we are all but the illusion, the un-reflections who needle beneath the feasting of the Sleeper.

~

The ocean’s whorl shall be thy revelation,

O Yog-Sothoth.

Yog-Sothoth beholds the fractures of the sphere, the sea where all the fractures and their reflectors lie entombed, the silver of all seas’ blackness, where They once sundered through.  And, through you and I, in rising, so shall we become reflections in the Eye.

~

They shall come, as stars They all shall fall to hunt us in their delight, They shall sunder through once more.  In hunting you, even now They stalk amongst the ruins; still within the wastelands there They tread, unknowing to Themselves, a many-shadow without a caster, an un-light which no seeker can behold.

They walk behind the rows, They filter down through the stars, They give as one a voice to the mouths of men, Their voice is the sibilance of the locusts upon the wasteland.  So is the song of the desert cries, the howling of the Jinn,
Al Azif
.

In Their feasting, They are hollowed.  In dying, They live again.

They are teethed in turn by men, the flesh upon which They feed, a unity of the devoured and that which feasts.  As merely a swarm of flies do They behold us, and as flies of the dust, we are swept before Them.

Hope, unbeliever, is the name which only fools give unto the One’s unopened door, behind which now unveils His eye.  Waiting within lie your other selves.  As you must sleep the Others rise in waking; all are one, oblivion.  In opening, in reflecting yourselves to unity once more, the door is one with madness.

Embrace these truths not as thy curse, nor warning, but as thy blessing.  Do not flee as the defiant, for I have flown to the ends of the utter earth, through the wasteland of the locust, unto the deepest chasm, to know only the hopeless chill of the viper’s kiss.  In fleeing, the soul is nothing.  Hope is thy mirage, to pursue it and to touch upon its veil is to know only the serenity of its fading.

For They cannot be thwarted, escape is an illusion.  Your flight leadeth only as a circling of tracks upon the ever-coiling sphere, an aging, an unforgetting unto the crueler tortures of oblivion.  There is no hunter as merciless as memory.

~

In seeking to readeth of my confessions, you shall know my love, my Adaya.

Alone, even in the forgetting of They who fall, you will remember only her.  My beloved shall be yours, her death shall be thy delight, and so thine ending.  The mark of love destroyed will be your soul in echoing, Adaya in eternity.

From outside of all remembrance, throughout the resonation of the worlds, from the love you bore, to that which your senses cannot untouch, so will she fall prey to your other selves, they who reign only when you are lost to slumber.  Her betrayal will be wrought by you alone.  From love—that which you believe to be immortal, for such is my heart of hearts and you are mine—there shall never be an escape.

And so am I the innocent, and you her murderer.  In judgment, Nephren-Ka will come.  When the Black Pharaoh doth rise, when he speaketh unto you and so giveth voice to my name, submit to him.

O beloved, unbeliever, it is far greater a glory to atone on hand and knee, to be forgiven by the Pharaoh’s tongue, to know the
nepenthe
, than to know only hope and pride and so be cursed with understanding.  Slave to me and reader of this scroll, believe in me.

For if, unto the End of Days, you are known only to madness, if to yourself you are a stranger, such shall be thy only mercy in Their coming.  For all will be slaughtered, all souls shall be as one in the wild feast, the writhing mass to greet Cthulhu’s rising.

The gift of madness, the nepenthe I offer you shall be thy only true immortality.  To you who would deny these truths:  past, present, future, all are one, the triad-soul of the single ever-moment, the universes poised within the un-time.

Even now you are lost unto yourself, you wander amongst the desert-selves beyond your own convictions.

~

I now give birth to the sole you who is true, the vessel of myself.

And so your nothingness,

And so my rising.

For I remain:

Abd Al-Azrad,

Son of no one, beloved of the forsaken, the brideless of Adaya.

So it is written, so let it be done in the name of the final prophet, in this Year of the Palest Moon, one hundred and eleven, Damascus.

SCROLL II

The Song of Sana’a ~

Being a Revelation of Our Youth,

The Shorn Age of Simplicity

(Scroll I is believed to have been written among the last of Al-Azrad’s works, in 738 A.D.  In contrast, the following scroll begins the oldest section of the
Necronomicon,
circa 730 A.D., wherein Al-Azrad tells of his childhood.)

~

I am the keeper of the coldest flame, I am the Tayr al Ramad, O Phoenix of the Ashes, that which burns to nothing, and am thus created.  I am Abd, the servant, Al-Azrad, of the devourer.  I am the one servitor to myself, the spirit of the feeding.

I am the one blinded of the innermost, that which turns in horror away from all truth, the eye of the unbeliever; I am the dreaming dream which whispers, thrice-fold, the bitterest tongue, the silence, in sepia Pharaonis
(Dee annotaton:  ink of the Cuttlefish)
; I am the word inscribed in an ageless voice, ever manifold, never to be spoken.

In these, the pale shades of my elder moons in Damascus, city of manna and veil and treachery, I write of my selves’ unity:  yet neither in the name of reverence, nor with a song of glory shall I entreat thee.

I etch these words solely in my lone belief, thus:  the body shall be no palace for the soul.  For the flesh of the mind is all, the soul is nothing.  Thus am I eternal through my confession.

Should I die hunted, bait of the slaughter, immortal shall be the
jambiya
, dagger of my reflections.  For the scroll needeth not the surge of blood, the stain of sepia needeth not the breath:  the voice of the mind remains.

Such is the cry of the locust, such is the
Kitab Al Azif
.

Should fell corruption, the revelation of all my wisdom lead only into oblivion, this laying of these sigils upon the tays-skin
(Dee annotation:  Tays, a male goat; skin, thusly, the vellum of the goat)
shall remain my only entirety.  High on and through the sandstorm-path, unto the eye of mine own death, echoes fading as footprints before the claw-path of the Ghul, O spirit of Adaya, may the dark radiance of these words yet find you.

So the song of the untold:  let the lay be pure, simplicity.

As first unto the world, we all are children, and through a child’s nightmare shall the lens of the moon-glow find me, remembering.  So I write these words in Ramadan of the anno Hijra, one one one. 
(Dee:  anno Domini DCCXXX?)