The Taint and Other Novellas (30 page)

May know of Thy Coming;

And rush to Thy Pleasure,

For the Love of Our Master,

Knight of Cthulhu,

Deep Slumberer in Green,

Othuum…

This and other bits and pieces culled from various sources, particularly certain partly suppressed writings by a handful of authors, all allegedly “missing persons” or persons who had died in strange circumstances—namely: Andrew Phelan, Abel Keane, Claiborne Boyd, Nayland Colum, and Horvath Blayne—had had a most unsettling effect upon my brother, so that he was close to exhaustion when he eventually retired late on the night that the horror really started. His condition was due to the fact that he had been studying his morbid books almost continually for a period of three days, and during that time had taken only brief snatches of sleep—and then only during the daylight hours, never at night. He would answer, if ever I attempted to remonstrate with him, that he did not
want
to sleep at night “when the time is so near” and that “there was so much that would be strange to him in the Deeps.” Whatever
that
was supposed to mean…

After he had retired that night I worked on for an hour or so before going to bed myself. But before leaving our study I glanced at that with which Julian had last been so taken up, and I saw—as well as the above nonsense, as I then considered it—some jottings copied from the
Life of St. Brendan
by the sixth-century Abbot of Clonfert in Galway:

All that day the brethren, even when they were no longer in view of the island, heard a loud wailing from the inhabitants thereof, and a noisome stench was perceptible at a great distance. Then St. Brendan sought to animate the courage of the brethren, saying: “Soldiers of Christ, be strong in faith unfeigned and in the armour of the spirit, for we are now on the confines of hell!”

I have since studied the
Life of St. Brendan,
and have found that which made me shudder in awful recognition—though at the reading I could not correlate the written word and my hideous disquiet; there was just something in the book which was horribly disturbing—and, moreover, I have found other references to historic oceanic eruptions; namely, those which sank Atlantis and Mu, those recorded in the
Liber Miraculorem
of the monk and chaplain Herbert of Clairvaux in France in the years 1178-80, and that which was closer to the present and which is known only through the medium of the suppressed
Johansen Narrative.
But at the time of which I write, such things only puzzled me and I could never, not even in my wildest dreams, have guessed what was to come.

I am not sure how long I slept that night before I was eventually roused by Julian and half awoke to find him crouching by my bed, whispering in the darkness. I could feel his hand gripping my shoulder, and though I was only half-awake I recall the pressure of that strong hand and something of what he said. His voice had the trance-like quality of someone under deep hypnosis, and his hand jerked each time he put emphasis on a word.

“They are
preparing
…They will
rise
…They have not mustered
The Greater Power,
nor have they the blessing of
Cthulhu,
and the rising will not be
permanent
nor go recorded…But the effort will suffice for the
Mind-Transfer
…For the
Glory
of Othuum…

“Using those
Others
in Africa, those who took Sir Amery Wendy-Smith,
Shudde-M’ell
and his hordes, to relay their messages and dream-pictures, they have finally defeated the magic
spell
of deep water and can now
control
dreams as of old—despite the oceans which cover them! Once more they have mastery of dreams, but to perform the Transfer they need not even break the surface of the water—a lessening of the pressure will suffice.

“Ce’haie, ce’haie!!!

“They rise even now;
and He knows me, searching me out…And my mind, which they have prepared in dreams, will be here to meet Him, for I am
ready
and they need wait no longer. My ignorance is nothing—I do not
need
to know or understand! They will
show
me; as, in dreams, they have showed me the
Deep Places.
But they are unable to draw from my weak mind, or from
any
mortal brain,
knowledge of the surface
…The mental images of men are not
strongly
enough transmitted…And the deep water—even though, through the work of Shudde-M’ell
,
they have mostly conquered its ill effects—
still
interferes with those blurred images which they
have
managed to obtain…

“I am the chosen one
…Through
His
eyes in my
body
will they again acquaint themselves
entirely
with the surface; that in time, when the stars are
right,
they may perform the
Great Rising
…Ah! The Great Rising!
The
damnation of Hastur!
The dream of
Cthulhu
for countless ages…When
all
the deep dwellers, the dark denizens, the
sleepers
in silted cities, will
again
confound the world with their powers…

“For that is not dead which can lie
forever,
and when mysterious times have passed,
it shall be again as it once was
…Soon, when the Transfer is done, He shall walk the Earth
in my guise,
and I the great deeps
in His!
So that where they ruled
before
they may one day rule
again
—aye—even the brethren of
Yibb-Tstll
and the sons of dreaming
Cthulhu
and their servants—
for the Glory of R’lyeh…”

That is as much of it as I can remember, and even then not at all clearly, and as I have said, it was nothing to me at that time but gibberish. It is only since then that I have acquainted myself with certain old legends and writings; and in particular, in connection with the latter part of my brother’s fevered mouthings, the inexplicable couplet of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred:

“That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die.”

But I digress.

It took me some time, after the drone of Julian’s outré monologue had died away, to realize that he was no longer in the room with me and that there was a chill morning breeze blowing through the house. In his own room his clothes still hung neatly where he had left them the night before—but Julian had gone, leaving the door to the house swinging open.

I dressed quickly and went out to search the immediate neighbourhood—with negative results. Then, as dawn was breaking, I went into a police-station to discover—to my horror—that my brother was in “protective custody.” He had been found wandering aimlessly through the northern streets of the city mumbling about “giant Gods” waiting for something in the ocean deeps. He did not seem to realize that his sole attire was his dressing-gown, nor did he appear to recognize me when I was called to identify him. Indeed, he seemed to be suffering from the aftereffects of some terrible shock which had left him in a trauma-like state, totally incapable of rational thought. He would only mumble unguessable things and stare blankly towards the northern wall of his cell; an awful, mad light glowing in the back of his eyes…

• • •

My tasks were sufficient that morning to keep me amply occupied, and horribly so; for Julian’s condition was such that on the orders of a police psychiatrist he was transferred from his police-station cell to Oakdeene Sanatorium for “observation.” Nor was it easy to get him attended to at the sanatorium. Apparently the supervisors of that institute had had their own share of trouble the previous night. When I did eventually get home, around noon, my first thought was to check the daily newspapers for any reference to my brother’s behaviour. I was glad, or as glad as I could be in the circumstances, to find that Julian’s activities had been swamped from a more prominent place of curious interest—which they might well have otherwise claimed—by a host of far more serious events.

Strangely, those other events were similar to my brother’s trouble in that they all seemed concerned with mental aberrations in previously normal people or, as at Oakdeene, increases in the activities of the more dangerous inmates of lunatic asylums all over the country. In London a businessman of some standing had hurled himself bodily from a high roof declaring that he must “fly to Yuggoth on the rim.” Chandler Davies, who later died raving mad at Woodholme, painted “in a trance of sheer inspiration” an evil black and grey
G’harne Landscape
which his outraged and frightened mistress set on fire upon its completion. Stranger still, a Cotswold rector had knifed to death two members of his congregation who, he later protested to the police, “had no right to exist,” and from the coast, near Harden in Durham, strange midnight swimmers had been seen to make off with a fisherman who screamed of “giant frogs” before disappearing beneath the still sea…It was as if, on that queer night, some madness had descended—or, as I now believe, had risen—to blanket the more susceptible minds of certain people with utter horror.

But all these things, awful as they were, were not that which I found most disturbing. Looking back on what Julian had murmured in my bedroom while I lay in half-slumber, I felt a weird and inexplicable chill sweep over me as I read, in those same newspapers, of an amateur seismologist who believed he had traced
a submarine disturbance in the ocean between Greenland and the northern tip of Scotland…

What was it Julian had whispered about a rising which would not go recorded? Certainly something had been recorded happening in the depths of the sea!…But, of course, that was ridiculous, and I shook off the feeling of dread which had gripped me on reading the item. Whatever that deep oceanic disturbance had been, its cause could only be coincidental to my brother’s behaviour.

So it was that rather than ponder the reason for so many outré happenings that ill-omened night I thanked our lucky stars that Julian had got away with so light a mention in the press; for what had occurred could have been damaging to both of us had it been given greater publicity.

Not that any of this bothered Julian! Nothing bothered him, for he stayed in that semi-conscious state in which the police had found him for well over a year. During that year his weird delusions were of such a fantastic nature that he became, as it were, the psychological pet and project of a well-known Harley Street alienist. Indeed, after the first month or so, so strong did the good doctor’s interest in my brother’s case become, he would accept no fee for Julian’s keep or treatment; and, though I visited Julian frequently, whenever I was in London, Dr. Stewart would never listen to my protests or hear of me paying for his services. Such was his patient’s weird case that the doctor declared himself extremely fortunate to be in a position where he had the opportunity to study such a fantastic mind. It amazes me now that the same man who proved so understanding in his dealings with my brother should be so totally devoid of understanding with me; yet that is the pass to which the turn of events has brought me. Still, it was plain my brother was in good hands, and in any case I could hardly afford to press the matter of payment; Dr. Stewart’s fees were usually astronomical.

It was shortly after Dr. Stewart “took Julian in” that I began to study my brother’s star-charts, both astronomical and astrological, and delved deep into his books on the supernatural arts and sciences. I read many peculiar volumes during that period and became reasonably familiar with the works of Fermold, Lévi, Prinn, and Gezrael, and—in certain darker reaches of the British Museum—I shuddered to the literacy lunacy of Magnus, Glynnd, and Alhazred. I read the
R’lyeh Text
and the
Johansen Narrative
and studied the fables of lost Atlantis and Mu. I crouched over flaking tomes in private collections and tracked down all sources of oceanic legend and myth with which I came into contact. I read the manuscript of Andrew Phelan, the deposition of Abel Keane, the testament of Claiborne Boyd, the statement of Nayland Colum, and the narrative of Horvath Blayne. The papers of Jefferson Bates fell to my unbelieving scrutiny, and I lay awake at nights thinking of the hinted fate of Enoch Conger.

And I need never have bothered.

All the above delvings took the better part of a year to complete, by which time I was no nearer a solution to my brother’s madness than when I began. No, perhaps that is not quite true. On reflection I think it quite possible that a man might go mad after exploring such dark avenues as these I have mentioned—and especially a man such as Julian, who was more than normally sensitive to begin with. But I was by no means satisfied that this was the whole answer. After all, his interest in such things had been lifelong; I could still see no reason why such an interest should suddenly accumulate so terribly. No, I was sure that the start of it all had been that Candlemas dream.

But at any rate, the year had not been totally lost. I still did not believe in such things—dark survivals of elder times; great ancient gods waiting in the ocean depths; impending doom for the human race in the form of nightmare ocean-dwellers from the beginning of time—how could I and retain my own sanity? But I had become fairly erudite as regards these darker mysteries of elder Earth. And certain facets of my strange research had been of particular interest to me. I refer to what I had read of the oddly similar cases of Joe Slater, the Catskill Mountains vagabond in 1900-01, Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee of Miskatonic University in 1908-13, and Randolph Carter of Boston, whose disappearance in 1928 was so closely linked with the inexplicable case of the Swami Chandraputra in 1930. True, I had looked into other cases of alleged demonic possession—all equally well authenticated—but those I have mentioned seemed to have a special significance, as they paralleled more than roughly that case which I was researching and which involved so terribly my brother.