Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (59 page)

He leapt away from the desk and into the shop. Strutt wondered what was beyond the door behind the desk. He half-rose but, peering back, saw the bookseller already returning through the drifting shadows with a volume extracted from among the Lovecrafts and Derleths.

“This ties in with your Ultimate Press books, really,” the other said, banging the office door to as he entered. “They’re publishing a book by Johannes Henricus Pott next year, so we hear, and that’s concerned with forbidden lore as well, like this one; you’ll no doubt be amazed to hear that they think they may have to leave some of Pott in the original Latin. This here should interest you, though; the only copy. You probably won’t know the
Revelations of Glaaki
; it’s a sort of Bible written under supernatural guidance. There were only eleven volumes—but this is the twelfth, written by a man at the top of Mercy Hill guided through his dreams.” His voice grew unsteadier as he continued. “I don’t know how it got out; I suppose the man’s family may have found it in some attic after his death and thought it worth a few coppers, who knows? My bookseller—well, he knew of the
Revelations
, and he realized this was priceless; but he didn’t want the seller to realize he had a find and perhaps take it to the library or the University, so he took it off his hands as part of a job lot and said he might use it for scribbling. When he read it— Well, there was one passage that for testing his theory looked like a godsend. Look.”

The bookseller circled Strutt again and placed the book in his lap, his arms resting on Strutt’s shoulders. Strutt compressed his lips and glanced up at the other’s face; but some strength weakened, refusing to support his disapproval, and he opened the book. It was an old ledger, its hinges cracking, its yellowed pages covered by irregular lines of scrawny handwriting. Throughout the introductory monologue Strutt had been baffled; now the book was before him, it vaguely recalled those bundles of duplicated typewritten sheets which had been passed around the toilets in his adolescence. “Revelations” suggested the forbidden. Thus intrigued, he read at random. Up here in Lower Brichester the bare bulb defined each scrap of flaking paint on the door opposite, and hands moved on his shoulders, but somewhere down below he would be pursued through darkness by vast soft footsteps; when he turned to look, a swollen glowing figure was upon him— What was all this about? A hand gripped his left shoulder and the right hand turned pages; finally one finger underlined a phrase:

The hands on his shoulders shifted constantly, slackening and tightening. The voice fluctuated: “What did you think of that?”

Strutt thought it was rubbish, but somewhere his courage had slipped; he replied unevenly: “Well, it’s—not the sort of thing you see on sale.”

“You found it interesting?” The voice was deepening; now it was an overwhelming bass. The other swung round behind the desk; he seemed taller—his head struck the bulb, setting shadows peering from the corners and withdrawing, and peering again. “You’re interested?” His expression was intense, as far as it could be made out; for the light moved darkness in the hollows of his face, as if the bone structure were melting visibly.

In the murk in Strutt’s mind appeared a suspicion; had he not heard from his dear dead friend the Goatswood bookseller that a black magic cult existed in Brichester, a circle of young men dominated by somebody Franklin or Franklyn? Was he being interviewed for this? “I wouldn’t say that,” he countered.

“Listen. There was a bookseller who read this, and I told him you may be the high priest of Y’golonac. You will call down the shapes of night to worship him at the times of year; you will prostrate yourself before him and in return you will survive when the earth is cleared off for the Great Old Ones; you will go beyond the rim to what stirs out of the light …”

Before he could consider Strutt blurted: “Are you talking about me?” He had realized he was alone in a room with a madman.

“No, no, I meant the bookseller. But the offer now is for you.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I’ve got other things to do.” Strutt prepared to stand up.

“He refused also.” The timbre of the voice grated in Strutt’s ears. “I had to kill him.”

Strutt froze. How did one treat the insane? Pacify them. “Now, now, hold on a minute.…”

“How can it benefit you to doubt? I have more proof at my disposal
than you could bear. You will be my high priest, or you will never leave this room.”

For the first time in his life, as the shadows between the harsh oppressive walls moved slower as if anticipating, Strutt battled to control an emotion; he subdued his mingled fear and ire with calm. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got to meet somebody.”

“Not when your fulfillment lies here between these walls.” The voice was thickening. “You know I killed the bookseller—it was in your papers. He fled into the ruined church, but I caught him with my hands.… Then I left the book in the shop to be read, but the only one who picked it up by mistake was the man who brought you here.… Fool! He went mad and cowered in the corner when he saw the mouths! I kept him because I thought he might bring some of his friends who wallow in physical taboos and lose the true experiences, those places forbidden to the spirit. But he only contacted you and brought you here while I was feeding. There is food occasionally; young boys who come here for books in secret; they make sure nobody knows what they read!—and can be persuaded to look at the
Revelations
. Imbecile! He can no longer betray me with his fumbling—but I knew you would return. Now you will be mine.”

Strutt’s teeth ground together silently until he thought his jaws would break; he stood up, nodding, and handed the volume of the
Revelations
toward the figure; he was poised, and when the hand closed on the ledger he would dart for the office door.

“You can’t get out, you know; it’s locked.” The bookseller rocked on his feet, but did not start toward him; the shadows now were mercilessly clear and dust hung in the silence. “You’re not afraid—you look too calculating. Is it possible that you still do not believe? All right—” he laid his hands on the doorknob behind the desk: “—do you want to see what is left of my food?”

A door opened in Strutt’s mind, and he recoiled from what might lie beyond. “No! No!” he shrieked. Fury followed his involuntary display of fear; he wished he had a cane to subjugate the figure taunting him. Judging by the face, he thought, the bulges filling the tweed suit must be of fat; if they should struggle, Strutt would win. “Let’s get this clear,” he shouted, “we’ve played games long enough! You’ll let me out of here or I—” but he found himself glaring about for a weapon. Suddenly he thought of the book still in his hand. He snatched the matchbox from the desk, behind which the figure watched, ominously impassive. Strutt struck a match, then pinched the boards between finger and thumb and shook out the pages. “I’ll burn this book!” he threatened.

The figure tensed, and Strutt went cold with fear of his next move. He touched the flame to paper, and the pages curled and were consumed
so swiftly that Strutt had only the impression of bright fire and shadows growing unsteadily massive on the walls before he was shaking ashes to the floor. For a moment they faced each other, immobile. After the flames a darkness had rushed into Strutt’s eyes. Through it he saw the tweed tear loudly as the figure expanded.

Strutt threw himself against the office door, which resisted. He drew back his fist, and watched with an odd timeless detachment as it shattered the frosted glass; the act seemed to isolate him, as if suspending all action outside himself. Through the knives of glass, on which gleamed drops of blood, he saw the snowflakes settle through the amber light, infinitely far; too far to call for help. A horror filled him of being overpowered from behind. From the back of the office came a sound; Strutt spun and as he did so closed his eyes, terrified to face the source of such a sound—but when he opened them he saw why the shadow on the frosted pane yesterday had been headless, and he screamed. As the desk was thrust aside by the towering naked figure, on whose surface still hung rags of the tweed suit, Strutt’s last thought was an unbelieving conviction that this was happening because he had read the
Revelations
; somewhere, someone had
wanted
this to happen to him. It wasn’t playing fair, he hadn’t done anything to deserve this—but before he could scream out his protest his breath was cut off, as the hands descended on his face and the wet red mouths opened in their palms.

M
y name is Paul Dunbar Lang, and in three weeks’ time I shall be seventy-two years old. My health is excellent, but since one can never know how many more years lie ahead, I shall set down this story on paper, and perhaps even publish it, if the fit takes me. In my youth, I was a confirmed believer in the Baconian authorship of Shakespeare’s plays, but I took care never to mention my views in print, out of fear of my academic colleagues. But age has one advantage; it teaches one that the opinions of other people are not really very important; death is so much more real. So if I publish this, it will not be out of desire to convince anyone of its truth; but only because I don’t care whether it is believed or not.

Although I was born in England—in Bristol—I have lived in America since I was twelve years old. And for nearly forty years, I have taught English literature at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. My
Life of Chatterton
is still the standard work on its subject, and for the past fifteen years I have been the editor of
Poe Studies
.

Two years ago in Moscow, I had the pleasure of meeting the Russian writer Irakli Andronikov, who is known mainly for his “literary research stories,” a genre he may be said to have created. It was Andronikov who asked me if I had ever met W. Romaine Newbold, whose name is involved with the Voynich manuscript. Not only had I never met Professor Newbold, who died in 1926, but I had never heard of the manuscript. Andronikov outlined the story. I was fascinated. When I returned to the States, I hastened to read Newbold’s
The Cipher of Roger Bacon
(Philadelphia, 1928), and Professor Manly’s two articles on the subject.

The story of the Voynich manuscript is briefly this. It was found in an old chest in an Italian castle by a rare book dealer, Wilfred M.
Voynich, and brought to the United States in 1912. With the manuscript, Voynich also found a letter that asserted that it had been the property of two famous scholars of the seventeenth century, and that it had been written by Roger Bacon, the Franciscan monk who died about 1294. The manuscript was 116 pages long, and was apparently written in cipher. It was clearly some kind of scientific or magical document, since it contained drawings of roots or plants. On the other hand, it also contained sketches that looked amazingly like illustrations from some modern biological textbook of minute cells and organisms—for example, of spermatozoons. There were also astronomical diagrams.

For nine years, professors, historians, and cryptographers tried to break the code. Then, in 1921, Newbold announced to the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia that he had been able to decipher certain passages. The excitement was immense; it was regarded as a supreme feat of American scholarship. But the excitement increased when Newbold disclosed the contents of the manuscript. For it seemed that Bacon must have been many centuries ahead of his time. He had apparently invented the microscope some four hundred years before Leeuwenhoek, and had shown a scientific acumen that surpassed even that of his namesake Francis Bacon in the sixteenth century.