Bohemians of Sesqua Valley (8 page)

Vertigo overtook me a second time, and from beneath my feet I felt a growing sensation, a pulse that could have been the strengthening heartbeat of an atrocious beast. In my growing delirium I imagined that the dirt on which I stood was shifting ever so subtly, spreading so as to pull me downward. Frantically screaming, I rushed from that crimson chamber, up the smooth earthen steps and out of the mausoleum. The moon, so large and yellow, sneered at me as I fled the Hungry Place and ran, panting and full of panic, to my friend’s abode.

IV

She awakened on a bed still made, fully dressed yet rested. Light filtered into the room from the window, and glancing at the clock Sarah saw that it was late morning. At some point in the night she had kicked her shoes off, and so she found where they had fallen onto the floor and slipped into them, and then stalked into the living room. It seemed that she was alone in the house, and this inspired her to investigate the living room and its curios. The spacious room was so crowded with bizarre objects that it did indeed seem like a room inside a cluttered museum or antique shop. Sarah avoided looking at the corner where the black statue stood, for it reminded her too sharply of the weird dream she had suffered in the night, that remarkably realistic dream about visiting a haunted mausoleum with her host. Coming to one cabinet filled with books, she opened one of the glass doors and ran a finger over the soft old bindings. Instinctively, she was looking for a slim volume, and most of the books before her were thick and weighty. One by one, she pulled the thin titles out and opened their covers, disappointed until she found the volume with purple binding. Sarah opened the book and read its title aloud: “Visions of Khroyd’hon, by William Davis Manly.” Closing the book, she stepped out of doors and studied the valley, its lush woodland, the titanic white mountain that seemed to sparkle in the light of day. She then opened the volume again and read one poem aloud.

“Ah, subtle scream beneath disrupted earth,

Oh, moaning of one mouth beneath the sod,

The choking of one final cry, the dearth

Of air spilled forth in prayer to heedless god.

Allow all breath to cease, allow the stream

Of mortal blood within to stop its course.

Allow the liquid eye to dull its gleam.

Abandon misery, unclench remorse.

Your ache, so lunatic, is realized.

You have achieved your fitful mortal goal.

You have accomplished that so highly prized:

The valley has embraced your mortal soul.

You now are kindred with our shadow-race

As you dissolve beneath the Hungry Place.”

It was as strange as Akiva’s newest work, and equally disturbing. Where was he, she wondered? Perhaps he had gone to have breakfast in the main section of town. Book in hand, she made the journey to the business area of Sesqua Town and located what looked to be a bar and lounge. Sarah entered the establishment and was charmed by the quaint atmosphere, the feel of the old wood on her eyes, the sense of the past. However, the inhabitants of the place were dreadful, yellowish and gaunt and peering at her with queer pale eyes. She advanced toward the one she recognized, as the others watched her, astonished.

“Have you seen Akiva?”

The grotesque fellow studied her in silence for some few moments, and then his lips curled in what was a ghastly smile. “Sit down, Miss…”

“Paget-Lowe. Thank you, I will. Your bowl of fruit is beautiful.” She indicated the large bowl that was filled with a colorful array of apples and Japanese quinces, oranges and melon slices and raspberries, apricots and blackberries.

He smiled as he scanned the delectable display, and then he raised one hand and snapped fingers. “Nathan, a second plate, and some of your cherry coffee.” He turned his eyes to Sarah. “You’ll enjoy it—it’s brewed with organic black cherry flavored beans from Columbia. I discovered it during a stay in Panama. Here we are. Let me select your nourishment. Here are some sublime dates, and this Asian pomegranate is perfection. Let me slice it for you.”

“You’ve not seen Akiva, sir?” She set her book onto the table and watched him at his task.

“Simon Gregory Williams,” he introduced himself as he handed her the plate. “Eat, drink. When did you last see Loveman?”

Sarah frowned. “I can’t quite remember. I must have been especially tired and gone to bed early last night. I had such a curious dream, about your graveyard.”

“Indeed. I’m told that dreams can seem especially vivid in this valley. I do not dream myself.” Simon watched her eat and grinned at her obvious enjoyment of the delicious repast. “What brings you to Sesqua Town?”

“Akiva invited me, thinking I needed to get away from Providence. He was mistaken. But I’m glad I came, because I think that being here is having a bad effect on him. He’s become morbid. He’s started collecting the oddest of things. Last night he made the strangest ceremonial motions to that awful black statue. No, wait, that was a part of my dream. I think.” She frowned, confused.

“Your dream was very vivid. You’ve slept badly. Perhaps a walk would relax you and help to ease your mind. Will you join me?”

Something in his voice captivated Sarah. This grotesque creature had an air about him that was seductive, and she found that she did want to stroll with him. She watched him rise and allowed him to help her out of her chair, and then she followed him outdoors.

“Are you a poet, like your friend?”

“No,” Sarah answered. “I’m a novelist. My reputation is that of a feminist Henry James, as I deal with social issues that affect my gender. Did you know that it was this book of poems that brought Akiva to this valley?”

She noticed Simon’s momentary frown and almost expected him to snarl. Instead, after a pause, he replied in a low, soft voice. “I have heard whispers of such a circumstance. Loveman’s fallen under the spell of William Davis Manly. It has happened far too often. The book was never meant for outside eyes. The incident of its publication has caused us nothing but mischief.” He had been muttering to himself, but then he seemed to catch himself and smiled at her. “There is a statue of its author just over there—in the Hungry Place.”

Sarah was just about to remark that she had visited the place the previous evening and seen the statue; but then she remembered that visiting the place had been a part of her vivid dream, and this deepened her confusion. “Will you show me?”

Simon frowned. “It’s an unpleasant place, but I suppose we can stop there for one moment. Come, follow me.” The fellow led the way to the low stone wall that surrounded the graveyard, and to the opening in that wall that allowed passage into the place. Sarah felt a sense of déjà vu as she stepped onto the cemetery sod and joined Simon as he stood before a high statue that was mounted onto a three-foot column. “Is this what you saw in your dream?”

“Yes. He resembles you, Mr. Williams.”

“We share a similar heritage. Pah, this place reeks, can you not notice the rank that has infiltrated the air? Let us depart.” But then his eyes widened as they watched the figure that was staggering toward them, the fellow with a fever of madness tugging at his mouth. “Loveman!”

The young poet’s appearance was shocking. Whereas once his entire head of hair had been black and sleek, it now wore a small patch of white strands. His dark eyes were sunken into their sockets and rimmed with red, giving him a lunatic look. The chiseled mouth was wretchedly twisted and stained with slaver. His clothing were rumpled and one sleeve torn at the elbow. As the poet joined them, both Simon and Sarah curled their nose at his stench as they noted the spread of wetness at Loveman’s crotch. The young man raised his eyes so as to admire the statue.

“Yes—yes, that’s him exactly. He could be your twin, Simon, except that his features are softer and he wears his hair longer. He has the most beautiful voice. I could have listened to him all night.”

“What the devil are you chattering about, pathetic wretch?” Simon demanded.

Ignoring him, Loveman turned to Sarah and took her hands. “You shouldn’t have fled. It was fantastic. The slab is large enough, we could both have slept there. Oh, the dreams! The heartbeat of the valley took hold of my own palpitation, and we thumped as one. Didn’t you hear it as you ran away? Why did you fly? I’ve experienced such wonders. Oh! I’ve left my lantern there. Come with me now, and I’ll teach you the sign of Nyarlathotep. It’s delicious, to feel the crawl of chaos creep over one and kiss one’s eyes!”

Simon clutched at the lad and turned him. “How do you know that name?”

“Manly taught it to me, when he showed me the Circle of Seven Suns. I liked the way he felt, his soft padded hand in mine. He’s far friendlier than you’ve ever been.”

“You’ve dreamed of Manly?”

“Don’t be stupid. Although, come to think of it, he seemed a thing of dream as he drifted to me out of the mauve mist. Manly came to me as I reclined upon the slab in the sunken chamber of the Howard mausoleum. He told me how the Howard family had been among the first mortals to settle in Sesqua Valley, how they began to build the town. They corrupted this place of secrecy and wonder, and awakened the children of shadow.” He cast a playful look at Simon. “The first to seep from out the valley’s shadowland was a potent fellow, richly daemonic and a very devil. Oh, the deadly tricks he played on those early white settlers who dared to invade the sacred land! They were driven away, those pilgrims, but the valley was forever tarnished, and others come, freaks of peculiar bent. The valley accepted them and their absurd ways. He told me of the mountain, which serves as symbol of the valley’s majesty, and of its influence over those who wander into this realm. The mountain adores those who are most bent, as I am, and those are the adopted souls of Sesqua Valley. And then he took my hand and guided me to the Circle of Seven Suns and taught me what ritual to perform once I took my statue there. I was so compelled to buy that statue from Leonidas. Now I know why—well, vaguely. Manly marvels that you’ve yet to figured it out, you’re usually so clever, beast. He’s been so amused by your ‘antics,’ as he calls them.”

“Sirrah, William Davis Manly vanished from this valley decades ago. His fate remains a mystery. Come, we must remove ourselves from this soil. It has a vile affect and is the cause of your pathetic ranting. Come.”

Akiva laughed as he allowed Simon to pull him across the ground and out of the cemetery, followed by Sarah. “You can be such an idiot, Simon. Manly hasn’t left the valley. He’s dwelling in the second shadowland, the place he’s conjured through his sorcery. Haven’t you felt his presence deep inside you? He’s your brother, so alike that you two almost share a single heartbeat. Don’t you heard him singing to you in your dreams?”

“I never dream. This is all rubbish. You have slept within the Hungry Place and it hath made ye mad. Pah—this is what comes from allowing outsiders to enter freely into our demesne. I have warned the others of this, but things have become so lax. What madness you talk! The Circle of Seven Suns? No such place exists.”

Swiftly, the poet turned to Simon and thrust his hand against the Sesquan’s face, digging his fingernails into Simon’s brow. “This hand has touched the seventh statue, the residue of which has left a paranormal stain. Feel it sink into your bestial hide and find your throbbing brain. Let the Circle conjure itself inside your mind. Feel its image bubble in your diseased brain. Yes, there you go! Isn’t it fantastic?”

As Sarah watched this performance, she was overwhelmed with a sense of being trapped inside a dream. Her surroundings, and the macabre inhabitants she encountered in it, disturbed her. Akiva Loveman had altered absolutely, and she did not recognize the man before her now. No longer the shy boy she had known in Providence, the poet seemed to tremble before her with a subdued inner-power that lit his eyes. Sarah was not alone in her astonishment.

“How dare you touch me,” panted Simon Gregory Williams; and yet he did nothing to push the poet from him, and his silver eyes grew more fantastic as Akiva kept his hand on Simon’s brow. The beast of the valley was bewildered, for he had been used to his role of intimidation and control, especially within his valley realm. Although his eyes had remained wide open, dream-like images began to filter into his mind. He saw a steep ravine and a descending trail with broad steps of rough-hewn stone. A wide stream cascaded as waterfall over rocks and boulders and fallen trees in an area that Simon did not recognize. “This is mere delusion and delirium,” he muttered, and yet he could not escape the image in his mind. In vision, he walked away from the singing stream, to an area beneath the trees and ferns where the earth was smooth. It was there that he visualized the circle of diminutive statues, dark gnome-like figures that each held a sphere composed of pale stone. This vision angered the beast, and he sneered. “This is your imagination only. How dare you try and transpose it onto me with your feeble witchery.”

“No,” Akiva countered, “the site exists. Manly took me there.”

“Enough. I will not listen to your babble of secret places and second shadow-lands. I would know if my brother still existed in the valley, in whatever hidden pocket of it. You have fallen under the spell of Manly’s poetry, as have others before you. Incredibly, you seem to have spent a night within the Hungry Place, and as a result of this unheard of behavior you are now utterly deranged. Obviously, you cannot withstand the influence of the valley.” Simon turned to Sarah. “It would be best for you both to return to Providence and not return. You are unwanted here.”