Home From the Sea Page 5

  From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535

  "Already it whispers in my mind."

  I had given no thought to that phrase, believing it to be the product of a sailor's superstition. But now, having seen my new opponent, I know better.

  When we opened the casket that had been brought to the chamber where the questioning was to take place, I orginally bethought that we had been played false and that trickery was at work. At first glance the lead box seemed empty, its bottom a dark shadow. But as Brother Ferrer leaned over it, something surged within, and he was forced to step back, so suddenly that he knocked over a brazier and sent coals skittering on the flagstones. The blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid which had the consistency of pitch, seemed to rear back at that, giving me time to slam the lid closed on the obscenity.

  And that is when it happened.

  There was a tugging in my mind, a probing of an intelligence. I knew immediately what it was doing, as it is my own profession also. Even as I sought to ascertain the form of my opponent, at the same time it was questioning me.

  I am not the only inquisitor here.

  And there was something else, something I am loath to relate here lest it is discovered and my sanity is brought into question. I only caught but a fleeting glimpse, just as the lid of the lead casket dropped back into place, but it was unmistakable. As the black thing oozed to the bottom of the box a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck's egg, opened... and blinked.

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 29th May 1535

  Calamity has overtaken us, as I feared it might.

  The thing has plagued our dreams since the start, and the crew has been without sleep for many days. There have been mutterings of mutiny since the beginning of the month, and last night matters came to a head. Three crewmen took it upon themselves to rid us of our tormentor.

  At least, they tried.

  Their screams in the dark alerted me to their plight and I was first to enter the hold. It is hard to describe the fear that gripped me as I saw the carnage the thing had wrought on my men. It was obvious that they had lifted the casket, probably intending to throw it overboard. But someone had dropped their end – that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can only surmise that the jolt opened the casket – and let the beast out.

  What did not need conjecture was the fate of the men after that.

  The black ooze lay over the bodies like a wet blanket – one that seethed and roiled as if boiling all across the surface. Pustules burst with obscene wet pops and flesh melted from bone even as the men screamed and writhed in agony.

  Their pain did not last long. All too soon the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very bones were liquified and, with the most hideous moist sucking, drank up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously. It opened itself out, like a black crow spreading its wings, the tips touching each side of the hold walls.

  All along the inside surface of the wings wet mouths opened, and the air echoed with a plaintive high whistling in which words might be heard if you had the imagination to listen.

  Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.

  My every instinct told me to turn and flee. But there was nowhere to escape to except the sea itself, and that was a choice no sailor would make. Instead I stood my ground while Massa, stout coxswain that he is, brought forth some firebrands. Only then did the thing seem to cower and retreat, and only then did I remember the circles of burning oil which we had crossed on entering the black temple in the jungle.

  I called for a barrel of pitch and tried to hold the beast at bay with a brand until aid might arrive. My adversary had ideas of its own. Now that it was free of the casket its powers had increased. It probed at my mind, searching for my weaknesses, taunting me with my dreams. I saw things no man should have to see as I was shown the atrocities that had been committed in this thing's name by the savages in the temple.

  The grip on my mind grew stronger.

  I saw vast plains of snow and ice where black things slumped amid tumbled ruins of long dead cities.

  My head swam, and the walls of the hold melted and ran. The firebrand in my hand seemed to recede into a great distance until it was little more than a pinpoint of light in a blanket of darkness, and I was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness.

  A tide took me, a swell that lifted and transported me, faster than thought, to the green twilight of ocean depths far distant.

  I realised I was not alone. We floated, mere shadows now, scores – nay, tens of scores of us, in that cold silent sea. I was aware that other sailors were nearby, but I had no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below us, cyclopean ruins shone dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumbled in a non-Euclidean geometry that confused the eye and brooked no close inspection. And something deep in those ruins knew we were there.

  We dreamed, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulfed the stars, of blackness where there was nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.

  We were at peace.

  A flaring pain jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning skin, but took several seconds to note that it was my own hand that had seared. The coxswain, stout man that he is, had broken the hold on me by touching his firebrand to my skin.

  I had no time to thank him, for the beast had encroached closer to me while I dreamed, and even now threatened to engulf me.

  Once again I held the firebrand ahead of me, and with the aid of the coxswain I held the beast at bay, struggling to keep its grip from settling on my mind. Indeed, if the barrel of pitch had not been brought, I might have succumbed.

  Burning the pitch enabled the recapture of the beast to proceed more rapidly. The heat from the flames threatened to set fire to the deck of the hold itself, but I refused to allow the men to put it out until we had driven the beast back into the casket.

  I have ensured that the box is sealed completely, and it is now stored at the furthermost end of the hold. All I can do is keep the crew as far away from it as is possible on this small vessel.

  That, and hope that in our dreams we do not fall again under its spell.

  But it is hard. For every time I close my eyes I dream, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while my slumbering god dreams, I dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.

  In dreams I am at peace.

  From the journal of Father Fernando. 17th August 1535

  Captain Santoro's journal has at least given me a place to start. I already knew that strapado would not be an option for this particular miscreant. Nor would I be able to utilise the rack or the maiden. But fire would be more than sufficient for my purposes. It took little work to prepare the cell for Inquisition, as matters are already set up amply for the ordeal. I ensured that the lead casket was placed inside concentric circles of oil such that they could be lit immediately in the event of an attempt to escape. I also had a brazier full of coals at hand to my right side and three needle-pokers burning white hot in a small oven to my left.

  Even before I opened the casket I felt the tickle in my mind but I pushed it away. My God is stronger than any heathen devil. I mouthed the Pater-Noster as I lifted the lid.

  Once again the black ooze surged, and the tickle in my mind turned to an insistent probing. Memories rose unbidden in my thoughts; of summer days in warm meadows, of lessons learned in cold monastry halls, of penance paid for sins.

  I was under questioning.

  That I could not allow. I am master of this inquisition. Several wet mouths opened in the black ooze. Using a pair of pliers I plucked a hot coal from the brazier and as another mouth formed I let the coal drop inside.

  The grip in my mind released immediately, replaced by a formless scream which qui
ckly became a chant that echoed around the cell. I knew the words. I had read them in the captain's journal.

  Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.

  A long tendril reached from the lead box, coming towards me. I took a poker from the oven and with one smooth strike thrust it through the black material. The ooze retreated, shrinking back as far into the corner of the lead casket as it could get.

  I leaned forward, a fresh poker in my hand.

  "Are you guilty?" I asked, and stabbed down hard.

  The Inquisition proper had begun.

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 17th July 1535

  Will this nightmare never end?

  The beast, despite its incarceration, has steadily increased its hold on us since we forced it back into the casket. We cannot allow ourselves to sleep, for when we do we are trapped in its spell, lost in the dream somewhere above the cyclopean ruins.

  In truth, the dream is seductive, even more so than drinking endless flagons of wine or constant inhalation of the weed that the natives smoke in the New World. Three of the crew have succumbed, falling into a deep slumber from which they cannot be awakened. They breathe, and their eyes are open, but I cannot get them to eat, and they are already close to starving. I fear they will be long lost afore we reach port.

  Some days I almost feel like joining them. I am kept awake by a suffusion made from a roasted bean, a drink we discovered among the native tribes where we landed in the New World.

  Would that were all we discovered.

  Some of the crew have reported that the beast is also reaching into their minds during waking hours. Many of them have had the same compulsion – to go down into the hold and open the casket, releasing the thing to roam the decks. No one has yet given in to the demands, but it is another reason to make for port with all speed.

  I know not how much longer we can hold.

  From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535

  It has taken more than a week, and sorely tested the Inquisitor General's patience, but finally, after I have burned away more than nine-tenths of its matter, it has weakened. I have found that the mind-grip works both ways. If I concentrate hard I can catch glimpses of what the beast is thinking, and feel its fear.

  I have put it to the inquisition, and it has answered me.

  As shocking as it seems, the beast has no conception of our Lord. Indeed, it seems never to have encountered a single Christian, despite the fact that it is possibly the oldest living thing on the face of the earth. That revelation came as something of a shock to me. The creature has memories going back to a time when ice covered the face of the earth. Its first encounter with man shows a savage race clothed in furs with only rudimentary speech and I am at a loss to know how such a thing can be reconciled from what I know from my study of the biblical texts. I must seek guidance from the Inquisitor General, for my thoughts are troubled and dark.

  This beast I have under my ministrations is devious and subtle. It works constantly at me, testing my belief with scenes of lust and debauchery; maidens in states of undress displaying themselves wantonly for my pleasure, hot blood flowing to feed my growth. I have to see these things, and endure, for in the seeing I also learn more about the beast's drives and passions, which are mightily strong.

  I had almost come to believe that this might be the most ancient of evils, the great deceiver himself. But the thing has memories even older than the time of ice, memories of a time when it was but a servant of something vast and strange... memories of a creator that I do not recognise as being anything resembling my Lord. I am at a loss to know what to think of this new information and must question the beast further.

  I have learned one other thing. The creators gave it a name, a moniker by which it recognises itself. It is known as Shoggoth.

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 14th August 1535

  We will make port on the morrow. It matters little, for the dream is with us now in every waking hour, and no distance from the beast will make any difference. It has passed on to us so completely that we will never be free from it. Nor would we wish anything other. Indeed, I am not the only one who has found himself standing over the lead casket just to be closer to the blessed drifting peace it offers.

  There is no pain in the dream, no fear, no hunger, just the sweet forever of the dead god beneath.

  I have talked to the crew. We will do our duty and take our captive to the castle. But we will no longer work for the Church after this task is done. I intend to set sail again as soon as night falls. There is a spot in the South Seas where a dead god lies dreaming.

  We will find him, and join him there.

  From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535

  I wish now that I had read Santoro's journal a mere hour sooner, for them I might have been able to prevent the Santa Angelo slipping out of port under cover of night, and I might have been able to question the crew as to the nature of the malady that so sore afflicted them.

  For I too have been dreaming.

  I am not alone. We float, mere shadows, scores... nay, tens of scores of us, in a cold silent sea. I am aware that others are near to me, but I have no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below me, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection.

  And something deep in those ruins knows I am there.

  But it is of no matter. The beast is now in my thrall, and its secrets shall be mine before the day is out. They will have to be, for I fear I have been lax in my inquisitions. Even as I have been burning my will into the beast's flesh, so it has been leaving its mark on me. This morning at my ablutions I discovered a fleck of blackness betwixt thumb and finger that no amount of scraping will shift. It has now covered most of my left hand, forcing me to wear a glove lest it is discovered. For if the Inquisitor General were to find out I am tainted, my questioning would be brought to an abrupt end, and that I cannot allow.

  The beast will reveal its secrets.

  I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.

  By order of the Inquisitor General, 28th August 1535

  It is our command that on this day of our Lord the twenty and eighth of August that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported shall be taken to the place of the auto-de-fe and burned at the stake alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.

  It is further commanded that if the Santa Angelo is found in Spanish waters it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.

  Any persons found spreading the sedition of the Dreaming God shall be subjected to the full force of the Inquisition.

  Let this be the end of the matter.

  The Lord wills it.

  The Tenants of Ladywell Manor

  It is a truth most evident that a naval officer found taking the waters in Bath on a Saturday before noon must be in need of a wife.

  Indeed, on the day I first met Captain Wentworth, he seemed somewhat distracted. Mother, Lucy and I had mistimed the journey, and arrived before the milliner's in Duke Street was due to open. That being the case, we decided to partake of the waters.

  Lucy was distraught, for she had been so eager to try on every bonnet in the establishment, and was beside herself with worry that all the new hats would be sold before we returned to the store.

  "Well, if we must take the wretched walk, at least let us do it at pace," she said, and strode off ahead of us in high dudgeon.

  And thus it was that she had the misfortune to be first of us to reach the baths.

  When Mother and I caught up with her, she was sucking her thumb, and was close to tears.

  "The flowers were so pretty," she said.

  Above her head someone had hung a tightly woven ball of hawthorn, a mane of white flowers draped like a pow
dered wig over the rough twigs. A single drop of red hung from a thorn, showing where Lucy had pricked herself.

  "Let me see," I said, trying to prise her thumb away from her mouth.

  But Lucy was more concerned about her dress. Three drops of blood lay near her waist, and she wailed when she saw them.

  "I can never wear it again. I must have a new one."

  Mother merely sighed, and I well knew the reason. We did not have enough wardrobe space in our whole house to satisfy Lucy's capacity for clothing.

  I wrapped Lucy's finger in one of my handkerchiefs and, with a promise of a visit to not one, but two dressmakers, we continued our perambulation.

  Something made me look back at the head of flowers, and a chill struck me that I could not shake off. There were two deep cavities in the ball of twigs, sunk-in shadows that tracked us like a pair of dark eyes as we walked into the old Roman baths.

  After my initial misgivings, we had a most pleasant tour, and, despite Lucy's loud and frequent protestations, both Mother and I found it very educational.

  We had seen no one all morning, and were walking alone alongside the largest of the bathing areas, trying to avoid the more noxious of the odours, when we were nearly knocked off our feet by a rushing gentleman. Indeed, Mother came so close to tumbling headlong into the waters that for a full minute afterwards she was all aflutter and was barely able to speak.

  The gentleman, clearly a navy man from his apparel, suddenly became most solicitous, and prayed that he had done us no harm. There was something of the night about him, something dark and brooding. And although it did make my heart beat faster, one might have unkindly said there was more than a trace of fear in his eyes.

  "I am most sorry, ladies," he said, helping Mother upright. "I fear I have become clumsy in my rush to be about my business."

  Mother was about to give him a verbal onslaught, but it was only as she was girding herself for the argument that she saw the uniform.

  She regained her composure with all the alacrity of a Mother with two unwed daughters faced with a prospective beau.