Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror (45 page)

Cynthia winced. She had looked up Major Ngao—Major Kirawat Ngao, R.N. M.Sc.—but had had to draw back from attempting to contact his next of kin. What could she say?
I'm sorry your loved one was murdered and reanimated by an unscrupulous scientist, and is still animate and possibly conscious—though in pieces—in the belly of a dead boojum?
That was rank cruelty.

It was Ngao and the rest of the
Charles Dexter Ward
's crew that she still felt worst about; Charlie himself was at least peacefully dead—even the pseudoghosts had faded out before the
Jarmulowicz Astronomica
was picked up by the
Judith Merrill
, showing that the spacetime disruptions were healing. But the reanimated were trapped in their dead ship, and the best that could be hoped for was that Fiorenzo's serum might someday wear off.

"Someday," which might just be another word for "never."

"You said yourself," Hester continued, pursuing the argument and jarring Cynthia out of a sad and pointless spiral of thought, "that you wouldn't put anyone in a canister, and I suspect you wouldn't have experimented at all if it had still had a brain in it."

"No," Cynthia said, then muttered rebelliously, "I still think we could find really valuable applications for the knowledge."

"Which is exactly what we told you about Fiorenzo," Hester said.

"Ouch," Cynthia said. She swung into her hammock and rearranged the cheshires to give her space.

"Mostly, I've always thought 'forbidden knowledge' was another way of saying, 'don't do that or the bandersnatches will get you,'" Hester pursued thoughtfully. "Or, I suppose, the Mi-Go."

"Which is frequently true," Cynthia said.

"Yes, but it never stops us." Hester looked up at Cynthia, her eyes dark. "Maybe that's the worst part of human nature. Nothing ever stops us. Not for long."

"Not for long," Cynthia agreed and petted the tentacled horror on her lap until it cuddled close and began to purr.

The house stood on a cold finger of land that poked out grudgingly into a sullen sea. Cara could see it from far off, because the peninsula appeared scoured of life, covered only by heather and wiry grass, with the occasional salt-stunted tree—leaning sorrowfully away from the winds—and lichen-covered rocks. The house was square, bereft of gardens, ornate or otherwise. There wasn’t even a fence, just a narrow, neglected road, full of holes, and an enormous backdrop of miserable sky, where sinister spirals of rain cloud pushed blackly down over the far ocean.

Cara’s car whined as it negotiated the bumps and pot holes. She passed a solitary wooden post, from which colorless tattered ribbons hung. Surely not the site of an accident? Any driver would have to aim very carefully at that post to hit it. She grimaced, fumbled on the dashboard for a cigarette, the last she would smoke before leaving the car.

A commission had come from the house, Maples, asking for a book restorer—Cara’s specialty. Since leaving university ten years ago, her job had taken her to many hidden corners of the country, to dim museums and crumbling houses with wormy libraries. Mrs. De La Mere, the inhabitant of Maples, had contacted Cara via a letter handwritten on creamy headed notepaper. Usually her clients got in touch with her by e-mail and, if not, letters were typed. Mrs. De La Mere was concerned about the condition of a valuable family heirloom and included two photos with the letter: grainy pictures of a huge old book. But—the older the better, as far as Cara was concerned. There was more chance of restoring an ancient book that had been created before the acids of relatively modern paper-making had doomed books to a finite life.

Cara finished her cigarette on the front drive of Maples, while her car ticked and cooled. She could hear the wind beyond the car windows, its voice rising and falling in bitter song. Mean rain, menaced by the spiteful squalls, rendered the scene blurry and vague, like a watercolor painting. Drenched and somber, Maples was a gaunt-looking residence; two turrets and constructed entirely of dark stone. Cara imagined it would feel arthritic inside, with unstable banisters and groaning stairs, a haunting of creaks and sighs. Also, houses simply didn’t look right if they had no garden. Not far from it, the sea pounced against the cliffs and savaged them, perhaps goring away the finger of land so that one day Maples would fall into the bullying waves.
Maples
. What a stupid name for a house where no trees grew.

Cara got out of her car, locked it, and went to the front door that stood above three worn steps of black slate. She lifted the bulky brass knocker, which had apparently been polished fairly recently, and let it fall three slow times. She wondered with some amusement what apparition would eventually shamble forth to answer her.

The door opened. A tall, teenaged girl stood there, dressed as if she’d expected the day to be warmer than it was—red shorts and a lime green T-shirt with a cartoon duck print on it. Her greeny-blond hair was tied in a pony-tail. Her feet were bare. How disappointingly ordinary.

“Hi,” Cara said. “I’m the book restorer. Cara Milltop.”

The girl nodded vaguely. “Come in.”

Cara entered the hallway, which was naturally dark, it seemed, but lit by a sufficient array of wall lamps. Stairs rose majestically, branching at the foot of an immense stained-glass window. Overhead a chandelier hung, with coldly glittering pendants. The wood paneling on every wall was intricately carved. The hall was beautiful—in a Gothic, fairy-tale kind of way. “Amazing,” Cara said feebly, her head thrown back to squint at the vaulted ceiling high above. She peered at the colorful window at the point where the stairs divided, seeing now that it depicted a seascape hectic with storms, a great ship rolling, mermaids clawing its sides, taking drowned sailors into their embrace. “That’s dramatic,” Cara said, pointing.

The girl smiled as if she didn’t care. “Yeah, guess so. It’s my grandmother you want.”

She began to walk away, then paused, turned to see if Cara was following her. Cara blinked quizzically.

“This way,” said the girl.

§

Cara found that the house wasn’t completely without garden, as when she entered the room where the reigning matriarch awaited her, she could see a walled yard through the long windows. She glimpsed a washing-line bearing a few wooden pegs, turned earth with garden implements, straggling growth.

“Ms. Milltop,” announced the elderly woman seated by the hearth. A fire burned there, licking wood as an elderly dog might lick its own paws. The woman sat straight-backed, blessed with remarkable bones that anchored beauty still to her narrow face.

Cara strode forward, hand extended. “Mrs. De La Mere,” she responded, smiling.

The woman indicated the seat opposite her with a pale graceful hand. “Do take off your coat and sit down.” She gestured at the girl who was loitering at the door. “Judy, put the kettle on, dear. Make us tea.”

The door closed.

Cara removed her jacket and put it carefully over the back of the chair. She sat, in what she hoped conveyed businesslike purpose.

“It’s the damp that’s always a problem,” said Mrs. De La Mere. She sighed, stroked her coifed silvery hair. “Well, you must know that.”

“The book…”

“Yes,
Marvels of the Deeps
. It’s been in our family for perhaps hundreds of years. I understand it’s quite valuable. The children have always loved it. The illustrations, you see.”

“Like the window in the hall? That’s quite stunning.”

Mrs. De La Mere nodded vaguely. “Yes, that sort of thing. It’s a shame when something so beautiful and so
meaningful
to children can no longer be handled. Is there anything you can do?”

“Well, naturally I’ll need to see the book first, make an assessment.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“But the good news is that the older a book is, the healthier it can be. It’s because of how paper was made. Wood pulp is flimsy in comparison to the old linen-based paper. That can withstand quite a lot and is more amenable to being restored.”

 “I see. Well, I hope that’s the case.” Mrs. De La Mere paused. “Do you love your work, Ms. Milltop?”

Cara nodded. “I know I’m privileged to have this job, and yes, I love it very much.”

“I imagine it’s similar to working in a beauty parlor—restoring old things.”

Cara wasn’t sure whether that was a joke.

Mrs. De Le Mere grinned. “It’s quite all right. I’m not asking you to restore me!”

Cara laughed uncertainly. “I suppose it is, in a way.”

The girl Judy was swift with the tea. It didn’t come in delicate ancient tea cups, but sturdy modern mugs, each with a different print. Mrs. De La Mere talked a little about the house and the village—Mordarras—nearby. Cara listened but didn’t feel as if she was actually hearing anything. Perhaps she was more tired than she felt.

§

The library of Maples seemed tall as a cathedral. The De La Meres were certainly a family of bibliophiles. Cara itched to explore every shelf. Book cases rose to a mezzanine where more books huddled in shadow. Sliding ladders reared on three sides of the room. “I used to adore swinging on these when I was a girl,” said Mrs. De La Mere, gently fingering the satiny wood of one of the ladders. “We all did.”

She indicated the way to a table where the muted colors of another stained-glass extravaganza—an abstract pattern rather than a picture—splashed over the wood. Here, the family treasure,
Marvels of the Deeps
, lay waiting for Cara’s attention. It was as big as a Bible. Cara opened her work satchel and drew out a pair of latex gloves, and also her dictaphone and other instruments she might need during her preliminary inspection. She put on the gloves and turned on her machine. “Book title
Marvels of the Deeps
,” she began. “Dimensions approximately 30 centimeters width, 40 centimeters height. Thickness 8 centimeters.”

“How very
forensic
,” murmured Mrs. De La Mere.

Cara smiled reassuringly at the woman. “I just like to keep thorough notes and record progress. It’s not an autopsy.”

“Well, I would hope not.” Mrs. De La Mere laughed charmingly.

Cara laid her fingers lightly against the front cover board. This appeared to be made of leather, originally dyed dark green and embossed with gold, but now faded. Almost all of the embossing had gone. There was also staining to the cover, perhaps water damage. Reverently, Cara opened the book. The first folio was severely spotted and clearly suffering disintegration. The book hadn’t been stored correctly. And yes, as Mrs. De La Mere had suggested, damp had had its way with the ancient fibers. Happily the binding appeared still strong; as far as Cara could tell, the book would not need rehinging. She used felt-tipped tongs to turn the page. The book certainly predated the mid-nineteenth century, when new paper-making methods had brought in the dreaded death sentence of fiber-destroying acids; but at first glance, she wasn’t entirely sure the base material had been linen.

“Is it rescuable?” Mrs. De La Mere asked tremulously, as if enquiring about the health of a frail relative.

Cara flashed a smile at her. “I’m sure I can do something.” She paused. “Really, Mrs. De La Mere, this book should be stored under careful conditions. If you want children to play with it, I’d advise getting a copy made for them.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t be the same…”

“I know, but this book is really too old to be handled by little fingers. No one should touch this without wearing gloves, like I’m doing.” She turned the blank page that had followed the title page. “Oh!”

“Yes,” breathed Mrs. De La Mere.

Even though the folio itself was ancient and delicate, the woodcut upon it was still dark and clear, printed with thick, shining black ink. Staring at the picture was like looking down a tunnel deep beneath the ocean, rocks to either side thickly gemmed with anemone growths and crystals. Weeds hung like drapes, drawn back to reveal the path. Paler shapes suggestive of eyes winked between the weeds. Was that a tiny hand reaching out? And at the distant end of the path, soft rays of light, an intimation of space and height. Anyone looking at that page would want to go further, to see the end of the path, to walk it. The pages beyond were the portals to this secret place.

Cara carefully closed the book. “It’s late now,” she said, “I’d like to examine the book properly and start work tomorrow. Hopefully the light will be better. I like to work in natural light. Is there a hotel you can recommend in Mordarras?”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Mrs. De La Mere, making a sweeping gesture with both arms. “You can see the size of this place. You will of course stay here for however long it takes.”

“Well… thank you,” Cara said.

§

Judy showed Cara to a room upstairs that had windows in two walls, one overlooking the walled garden, the other providing a dramatic view of the sea. It was a pleasant, airy room—in spite of the dull weather—although somewhat featureless, almost as if Cara had walked into a generic hotel.