The Creeping Kelp Read online

  It was only as I used a pair of forceps to lift one of the errant hot coals that I raised my gaze to the casket. I had the tongs held high ahead of me, and the blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid with the consistency of old pitch seemed to rear back, 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 as of 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.

  I pushed the probing thought away, closing my mind to it by reciting the first line of the Paternoster. I felt it go even as my hand touched the lid of the casket to close it. But there was something else, something I am loath to relate here lest it is discovered and my very 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 thing oozed to the bottom of the box a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck’s egg, opened... and blinked.

  “Sound familiar?” Suzie shouted.

  Noble nodded. He was about to reply, but she had already returned to her reading. He knew that look, the pursing of the lips and the undivided attention on the task at hand. He left her to it.

  She’s on to something.

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, on the 29th day of May in this year of our Lord 1535

  Calamity has overtaken us, as I have feared it might ever since I brought that damned casket aboard. 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. And for their presumption, they were mightily punished.

  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 hell 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 an end of the casket to the deck—that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can only surmise that the accompanying jolt caused the casket to break open—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.

  Mercifully, their pain did not last long. All too soon the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very innards were liquefied and, with the most hideous moist sucking, drank up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously, grown plump on its feeding. 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.

  The very sound made the blood run cold in my veins such that, although we sailed in the Tropics, I felt a chill such as one might in the sea far to the north where the floes fill the horizon.

  The thing swelled and ebbed, as if breathing in deep, rhythmic spasms, a wet, gurgling noise accompanying each breath. The whole room stank of corruption and if there is indeed a Hell, it can be no worse than that hold on that night.

  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 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. It seemed my adversary had other ideas. And 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. Blasphemies beyond the wildest imaginings filled my thoughts, dark red fury where bodies boiled, bubbled and seethed in a soup that might once have been men.

  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. And yet, although dead, something slumbered there, something so ancient as to be unaware of the doings of man, something vile.

  And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.

  We were at peace.

  I know not how long I danced there, and I might be there yet had a flaring pain not jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning, 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 shuffled ever closer to me while I dreamed, and even now it threatened to engulf me in its folds.

  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, both the coxswain and I might have succumbed.

  When the pitch arrived I ordered it poured on the deck between the beast and us. It seemed to take an age to pour and all the time that black tar probed at our minds. Several of the men took on blank stares but, mindful of the coxswain’s earlier success, we were able to jolt them back with a burn to their flesh. Finally the pitch lay on the deck and I was able to step forward and set it alight. It took slowly at first, but soon a good fire burned in the hold.

  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.

  Even then it had one last surprise in store for us, for as we forced it ever backwards an array of white lidless eyes opened along its flanks. As we ensured the last of it drew back into the lead box the eyes blinked, like the wink of a coquette, before drawing down into the shadows.

  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.

  Noble saw more pages on Suzie’s lap left to be read, but they would have to wait. The chopper was descending, and through the window he saw the open spaces of Horse Guard Parade rise up to meet them.

  July 24rd - London

  * * *

  Once out of the chopper they were led into a warren of offices and corridors, frog-marched at some haste while flanked by four soldiers armed with automatic weapons and smile-free faces. Noble expected such urgency to lead to an immediate meeting with whoever had summoned them, but he had forgotten about the fickle nature of the political classes.

  They were told to sit in an admittedly very comfortable pair of chairs in a draughty corridor and informed that the Minister would see them soon. He’d also forgotten that a polit
ician’s definition of the word might be very different from his own. For a while he watched as people scurried back and forward in and out of the office in front of him. He started to notice the strain on the faces of everyone around, a strain that was turning to fear as the time passed.

  It started to get light outside and Noble found his head nodding as sleep tried to take him, but he was nudged awake when Suzie poked him in the ribs. She had continued reading the notes she had brought and she passed several pages to him.

  “You need to read these,” she said, going straight back to her own reading. He took the papers and started at the top, soon finding his thoughts back with the Inquisitor in 1535.

  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 had proved efficacious in the hold of the ship and 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, it being our duty to the Lord to be prepared for any manner of miscreant. 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 hot coals at hand to my right side and three needle-pokers burning white hot in a small oven to my left.

  I paused for a moment of prayer before beginning, but I had no fear. In the cell I have always been the master, stronger than any evil the devil has sent for Inquisition, firm in the faith that has sustained me through these many years. It was that strength I felt flow in my veins as I made a start.

  Even before I opened the casket I felt the thing tickle in my mind, but I pushed it away. My God is stronger than any heathen devil. I mouthed the Paternoster 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 monastery halls, of penance paid for sins. Things I had thought long forgotten were exposed and interrogated, and old shame was examined anew.

  I was under questioning.

  That, I could not allow. I am Master of the Inquisition in the cells. I pushed the thing from my mind. Several wet mouths opened in the black ooze, as if it were hungry. Using a pair of pliers, I plucked a hot coal from the brazier and as another mouth formed I let the coal drop inside. It was enveloped in the beast with a hiss and a sudden tang of acrid vapours.

  The grip in my mind released immediately, to be replaced by a formless scream—one which quickly became a chant, echoing 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. It tasted the air and then made for the back of my hand. I took a poker from the oven and with one smooth strike, thrust it through the black material. The tendril curled and charred and fell to the stone floor of the cell, burned away from the main body. The blackness in the casket seethed and rose up. I took another coal into the tongs and showed it to the beast. The ooze retreated, shrinking back as far into the corner of the lead casket as it could get.

  I leaned forward, a fresh hot poker now held in my hand.

  “Are you guilty?” I asked and stabbed down hard, ignoring the fresh wails that echoed around me. These old walls have heard far worse and will do so again.

  The Inquisition proper has begun

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo.

  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 with 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 and of hot blood flowing to feed my appetites. 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.

  Noble sat up abruptly. He had almost fallen asleep and had to re-read the last few paragraphs to make sense of them. Even then, he struggled to focus. He gave in and let his tiredness take him. Despite the draft in the corridors of power, sleep came quickly and he fell into the dark.

  There were no dreams, at least none that he remembered.

  He was brought out of it sometime later by another sharp dig in the ribs.

  “Looks like they’re finally ready for us,” Suzie whispered. She stood. Noble tried to join her, only to find that his injured leg had stiffened into what felt like a lump of cold stone. He would have fallen flat on his face if Suzie hadn’t put her shoulder inside his armpit and hefted him upright. Like participants in a drunken three-legged race, they staggered into the Minister of Defence’s office.

  The Minister raised an eyebrow as Noble fell into a chair, but said nothing. In fact, Noble thought the Minister looked tired. And there was something else there that Noble was fast coming to recognise.

  He looks afraid.

  It took Noble several seconds to find a comfortable seating position where his leg d
idn’t feel like it was about to fall off. Pins and needles, strong and warm, almost electric, ran through the whole limb and it was all he could do to keep from screaming as a cramp hit. Suzie had to poke him in the ribs again to get his attention. The Minister was looking straight at him, an exasperated look on his face.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Minister said in those sarcastic, clipped tones that only politicians seem capable of. “But things have worsened considerably overnight. And I’m afraid we may have brought you here for nothing. I’m not sure you are going to be much help. The PM has declared a state of emergency all along the South Coast. If we’re very lucky we might save Southampton.”

  Suzie looked stunned, but only for a second.

  “Tell us,” she said. “And then I’ll show you what we have. Then you can decide what to do with the information.”

  The man smiled wanly.

  “That is my job, after all.”

  He started in a flat monotone, telling a story of carnage and destruction in the night. Weymouth had been lucky in that the army was already there, if not fully prepared. Other towns along the coast had fared much worse. The man spoke in numbers that Noble could scarcely comprehend, tens of thousands dead or missing and many small coastal towns destroyed completely.

  “Hundreds of years of coastal defence, fighting off the Armada and the Nazis, and we’re brought to our knees by some fucking seaweed.”

  Hearing the profanity from a man he had only ever previously seen on the television being prim and proper somehow brought the situation into focus for Noble.

  And if the government is this rattled, then I guess we are in trouble.

  “No one knows where it came from,” the Minister finished. “And there’s just too much of the damned stuff for us to handle. Every time we burn it out in one place it turns up in another. It’s almost as if it’s anticipating our moves.”