Strange Eons (21 page)

Kay watched him as he went. No wonder the man was tired; he’d been on duty day and night and the strain showed.

Now that the danger was past she could feel it herself, but fatigue was counterbalanced by adrenalized anticipation. Mike was safe and in just a few hours now they’d be together. Now she must relax.

Reaching down to the coffee table she picked up the latest editions of the
Post
and
Times.
Maybe there’d be some story or at least a bulletin, however censored or disguised, which would give some clue as to what had happened.

She found nothing. Apparently the security lid was still clamped on, or had been at the time the papers went to press.

Tossing the papers aside, Kay decided to investigate the radio-television unit. But when the fading musical program was interrupted by the crackling voice of an announcer, his message was addressed solely to hemorrhoid sufferers. And the flickering television screen offered nothing but the black-and-white images of the Bowery Boys.

Kay leaned back, closing her eyes, then opened them quickly as she felt herself surrendering to sleep. No sense taking chances.

No sense.
What a change had been wrought in the meaning of that phrase! A week ago none of this would have made sense to her, and thanks to government security—censorship, really—it still wouldn’t make sense to most of the world. People would go on as before, listening to hemorrhoid commercials and watching old B-movies just as though nothing had happened. The Great Old Ones would never disturb their dreams.

Of course, she had no proof that her dreams came from such a source, nor even a theory as to
how
they came. But the conviction remained. Somehow the dreams were a method of communication between the alien presences and mankind. Not all men were capable of receiving and recalling their messages; only those gifted—or cursed—with a certain form of creativity.

Wasn’t that what Lovecraft tried to convey in
The Call of Cthulhu?
That sensitive artists, sculptors and painters, in particular, responded to such dreams and reproduced their memories in clay or on canvas?

And what about Lovecraft himself? Were such dreams the source of his own knowledge? Was he hinting as much when he wrote about the nightmares of his supposedly imaginary characters? If so, that might explain everything.

Kay stared into the dusk beyond the cabin windows and nodded to herself.

In the light of what she herself had experienced it
could
make sense. Even in the mundane world of skeptics and scoffers there were records of many whose dreams were not like those of other men—so-called “psychic sensitives” such as Edgar Cayce. Their slumber-visions seemed somehow to link them to sources of alien awareness.

Had Lovecraft been such a man? By his own account he’d dreamed vividly throughout his entire lifetime. And he himself admitted that dreams were frequently the direct source of his stories.

Suppose that the psychological explanations of his work were correct—but that cause and effect had been
reversed?
Scholars suggested that an allergy to seafood may have led him to write fantasies such as
The Shadow over Innsmouth.
But maybe it was the other way around—what he wrote was the truth that came to him in dreams, and it was his fear and hatred of the sea-creatures that prompted his aversion to seafood in waking life.

Kay nodded to herself. If true, the pattern was all too clear. Those same scholars tried to link his Atlantic tale with his physical reaction to low temperatures. But couldn’t that reaction be psychosomatic? Couldn’t it be that frightening dream-glimpses of Kadath in the Cold Waste resulted in a dread of cold extending into his daily existence?

And his much-debated dislike of “mongrel” infiltrations from Europe, Asia and Africa—how much of this stemmed from dreams of hybrid presences spawned by the mingling of men and aliens? How much came from knowledge of those who secretly worshipped the entities he encountered beyond the wall of sleep?

Perhaps his “mongrels” were symbolic. And his preoccupation with ancient houses, ruins and graveyards, with the creatures of superstition emerging from such settings—suppose this was not based on a fear of death but on a fear of certain forms of
life?
Because the dreams told him that death is
not
the end—there are things that continue to exist in an ageless half-alive state, things that can be summoned forth again.
That is not dead which can eternal lie . . .

Kay frowned. Was this how it had happened? Did Lovecraft dream true? Did he augment his knowledge by secret study and further research in waking hours? And were his stories actually disguised warnings? If so, such warnings had finally been heeded, just in time.

Time.
Kay glanced again through the cabin windows at the darkened sky. Looking at her watch she was surprised to see that almost three hours had passed. She’d promised to wake him before they prepared to land.

Rising, she started up the aisle to the compartment. Physical movement was a reassuring reminder of reality—or what she accepted as such. How had Jung put it?
The Individual is the only reality.
Meaning that everything is a matter of subjective interpretation. Here she was, forty thousand feet in the air, traveling at a speed faster than sound. Would Lovecraft have accepted this as reality fifty years ago? Only with difficulty—and perhaps what she now found difficult to accept in his writing was also valid.

Kay opened the compartment door and peered into the cubicle where Sanderson sprawled face down upon the bunkbed.

He was so still, so motionless, that for a moment her heart thudded in sudden dread. Then, to her relief, she heard the faint rasp of breathing.

She reached down and touched the agent’s shoulder. “Wake up,” she murmured.

He stirred and turned over, eyes blinking. “Sorry to disturb you,” Kay said, “but it’s almost time.”

“Thanks.”

Sanderson smiled and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. Rising, he moved to the doorway and followed her back into the main cabin.

Kay watched as he lowered himself into a seat. “We should be landing soon,” she said.

“There’s still time.” Sanderson gestured across the coffee table. “Sit down.”

She nodded and complied. “You really must have been tired. Feel better now?”

“Much better. What were you doing while I slept?”

“Trying to get my head together. Thinking about Lovecraft and some of the things he wrote.”

“Lovecraft?”

Kay nodded self-consciously. “Sorry. We haven’t discussed him, have we? I don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about.”

Sanderson smiled. “What do you want to know about Lovecraft? He was telling the truth, of course. It’s Nye who distorted it.”

Kay leaned forward. “You know about him, too?”

“Enough to realize that what he preached to the Starry Wisdom people was revised to suit his own purpose. Actually mankind wasn’t in existence when the Great Old Ones came to colonize the earth. Take a closer look at the story of creation in various religions. Almost all of them say the same thing in different ways. God, or in some versions, a group of gods, created man.

“And that’s what really happened. The Great Old Ones were here first. The world they ruled must have been much different than the one we know today—and when it changed, in convulsions which crushed continents, they fled into other dimensions. But some remained, submerged beneath the sea or trapped under mountains of ice; physically powerless but physically potent.

“It was then that they created life as we know it, both animal and human.”

Kay met Sanderson’s stare. “But why?”

“For food.”

“But that’s—insane!”

“Insanity is merely man’s reaction to a reality he cannot face. Now you know why Nye concealed this from his sect. If they guessed the real reason for their existence they wouldn’t follow him or do the Old Ones’ bidding. But it’s true. Azazoth, Yog-Sothoth and the others, created lower life-forms and animals to devour each other, and all these became the food of man. And man, in turn, is here only to feed the Great Old Ones.

“Not physically, you understand. The Great Old Ones aren’t nourished by flesh—they feed on human
emotion.

“This is the source of their strength. And the most powerful, the most satisfying of these emotions, is fear.

“Men were bred for fear, just as they themselves bred plants and animals selectively for their own most desirable qualities. From time to time new strains were added to what mankind in its vanity calls the human race. Matings were arranged with certain alien life-forms—the sea-creatures, the so-called spawn of Dagon, are an example. There have been other unions with the winged beings from the outer rim of the galaxy, and sometimes such experiments succeeded. The blending of blood resulted in hybrids with a heightened capacity for emotional response.

“Naturally, most men were unaware of all this—do you suppose their own animals know that they are used as food or even bred as pets for sheer amusement?

“But sometimes hints come to them in dreams. The legends of incubi and succubi emerge from nightmare glimpses of such matings. And the mutations that result live on, explaining the myths of vampires, werewolves, creatures half-beast and half-human. How many times have you remarked upon people whose faces bear a resemblance to some animal? This is not coincidence, nor is the appetite for cruelty and torture and mass murder, which we dismiss, wrongly, as “animal” behavior.

“All such attributes increase fear, and throughout the ages the Great Old Ones have feasted upon it, gaining strength to stir, to break through the barriers, to rise again upon the earth and claim it as their own.

“And always a few men have guessed or discovered the truth. Those who learned little called their knowledge magic, sorcery, witchcraft. And those who knew all—through dreams and inspiration communicated to them by the Great Old Ones—have kept the faith. They worship and help speed the day when the Old Ones return.

“Never before has the world been as full of fear as it is now. Never have the worshippers been so powerful and purposeful. The waiting and planning is at an end, for the Great Old Ones are strong again and their time has come. The stars are right and the way is open at last.”

Kay listened in growing bewilderment; once again she reminded herself about the inconsistency of speech, how people varied their vocabularies to fit the situation. Even so she’d never imagined the hard-headed but soft-spoken Sanderson could talk like this.

Her reaction must have been evident, for now Sanderson gestured quickly. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Keith.”

Mrs. Keith.

He’d never called her that before; it was always “ma’am.” There was no reason for the change, unless he himself—

She rose involuntarily, unable to control her expression or her words. “You’re not Orin Sanderson!”

His silent smile was answer enough. Kay took a step back, eyes widening.

“But how? . . .”

“The exchange was made while he slept.” The smile never wavered. “Perhaps you may recall another Lovecraft story—”

“The Thing on the Doorstep!”
Kay remembered it only too well. A witch, a woman whose blood bore the taint of the sea-creatures from Innsmouth, took over her husband’s body in place of her own. “Then it’s true, all those legends about demonic possession—”

The smile broadened. “Really, Mrs. Keith!”

“Who are you?”

“Merely one of the many who serve.”

Kay turned and ran to the front of the cabin, tugging at the door. It didn’t budge.

As she pounded on it, the figure of Orin Sanderson rose.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I did not come alone.”

She turned, eyes widening. “You mean the pilot and the crew are? . . .”

“It is not necessary to be asleep in order for the exchange to take place.” He nodded. “Don’t be alarmed. We are here to protect you on your journey.”

“But why? We’ll be landing in Los Angeles in a few minutes.”

Still smiling, he glanced out of the cabin window to his right. Kay peered past him, gazing down—and it was there, far below, that she found the answer to her question.

They were flying over an endless expanse of open water.

Almost endless.

Kay must have fainted, for she was no longer aware of the passage of time as she rested on the lounge. At intervals she opened her eyes to find the familiar figure of Orin Sanderson seated beside her, then closed them again at the sound of the words and phrases issuing from his lips.

The whispered fragments filtered through.

“Nye’s plan . . . you’d been Keith’s wife and he had to make contact, find out how much you knew . . . totally ignorant, of course, but when you got involved with Miller it was too late to let you go.

“Followed you . . . that meeting in Washington . . . luckily we learned of the seek-and-destroy mission in time. But someone had to be chosen . . . you were ideal, he said . . . take over the plane . . . risk . . . not dealing with a Lavinia . . . he insisted . . . written in the stars . . . all precautions . . . even if something does go wrong, the essence will be preserved . . .”

When the needlepoint of the syringe entered her arm Kay didn’t feel it. She blacked out again, and her next recollection was of staring through a cabin window as the plane began its descent, circling the rocky land mass thrusting up from the sea below.

Numbly she glanced at the figure beside her as he spoke, anticipating her question.

“Rano Roraku,” he said. “The crater of an extinct volcano—you see it? Just behind the Poike promontory.”

“But where are we?”

“Easter Island.”

It was like something heard in a dream, and she seemed a part of that dream as she heard herself reply.

“The place of the statues—I remember seeing pictures—huge stone heads standing and staring out at the sea.”

“I’m afraid they’re not standing now. Most of them tumbled down when the quake hit last week, and the tidal wave did the rest. The village at the west end was leveled. Hundreds of people, thousands of sheep—all gone, washed away.”