He Who Walks in Shadow (15 page)

In answer, I drew my pistol and fired. The bullet passed through him as I knew it would, but the point was clear. His lips split into a wide smile.

“My friends,” he said, holding his skeletal arms wide, “you need not die for him. He has brought you to this place, to your destruction. Now he knows that there is nothing he can do to save you. He has failed.”

He turned to me.

“How many times, Carter Weston, have you stood in our way? How many times have you manipulated forces you do not understand to delay the inevitable? But there’s no more tricks in your bag, no name of God will dispel me. No sigil or sign. Not the cross or the ankh or the pentagram can stay my hand. You know that, as well as I.”

“Tell me he’s wrong,” William whispered. “Tell me you have a plan.”

My mouth went dry, and my body began to shake. “There’s nothing. He is the father of lies, but of this, he speaks the truth.”

Nyarlathotep took a step forward, and the earth seemed to cry out with his footfall. The air grew hot, and everything his robe touched burst into flame. In the smoke that arose from the dying lands was pestilence, the end of all things.

It came to me then, the obvious. The truth that the messenger of the Old Ones had denied. There was yet one act that could be performed, one incantation that would banish him, if not forever, for time enough. But it required a power that only one thing could bring. Sacrifice. It all came down to sacrifice.

I stood. I would hide from him no more. I cocked the pistol that I held at my side. I raised the gun, pointing it at my temple. The smile faded from Nyarlathotep’s face, replaced by a sneer.

“And so it is, Carter Weston. And so it is. The power of sacrifice, yes? So eager to give up your life. So eager to play the hero. So brave. You would exchange your own breath, but what else are you willing to give? No, Carter Weston. It will not be so easy for you.”

I should have fired then. I should have said the words, and pulled the trigger. I should have ended it, before the strange, dark one could do whatever it was he intended. But I hesitated, and in that moment, Nyarlathotep had all the time he needed.

The fire erupted around him, his being dissolving before our eyes. We had not time to wonder about his aims; they soon became obvious. William’s body went rigid, his arms flung wide. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his tears turned to blood.

“No,” I whispered. “God, no.”

Henry stumbled backward. Rostov’s mouth fell open. An utter silence broke upon the forest. Whoever William was, whoever he had been, he was no more.

He turned to face me, and when he spoke, his voice was not his own. “This will do fine,” the thing that had been William said. “A more than worthy vessel for my purposes.”

That was when I had to decide. That was when I had to make a choice. I raised my pistol. I pointed it at William’s heart. I said the words.

“
A ne a mai. Ma lei. Ma dooz
.” For an instant I hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

I pulled the trigger, and time slowed down. The bullet struck William. The fire extinguished. The evil fled. And for one brief moment, what had been William was with us again. For one brief moment, before he died in my arms.

Journal of Carter Weston

July 24, 1933

Rachel sat in silence. She didn’t weep. She didn’t scream or yell. Somehow, it would have been better if she had.

My story ended there. I didn’t bother to tell her how we climbed out of that accursed place, how we wrapped William’s body in a sheet and carried him to Irkutsk. There, we bid Rostov a sad goodbye. He would not leave with us, even though death was on his doorstep. Cannon fire from the Red Army rocked the city. When the last train pulled away from the central station, we were on it. Advanced units of the Bolsheviks arrived the next day. I never learned Rostov’s fate, though I think it is known to all.

In the days that followed, the lot fell to me, of course, to tell Rachel that William was dead. She did cry then, falling into my arms, beating her fists against my chest, begging me to tell her it wasn’t true.

And it wasn’t true. Not, at least, as I told it, that William had been shot in a gunfight with local bandits. That he had saved all our lives. He had, of course. In a way.

As he had no family to speak of, we buried William in the Weston family plot at Christchurch Cemetery in Miskatonic. Rachel’s son was due seven months later. Still-born, he was interred beside his father, and so my hubris claimed another.

I wish I could write here that in that train-car on the border of France we had some epiphany, that she broke down and forgave me, that I held her close and started to forgive myself.

That is not what happened. Instead she stood without looking at me, turned, opened the door, and was gone.

I gazed out the window of the train into the darkness beyond. I wished for a sign. I wished for something to come out of that eternal night, to tell me that my life had not been lived in vain, that the battles and the sacrifices and the unending quest to hold back another night—one far darker and truly endless—was well worth it. That I had, as the Apostle Paul of old once wrote, kept the faith and finished the course. That somewhere, somehow, a reward awaited me, one where Rachel and William would join me. And that in that day, they would say, “Well done, father. Well done, indeed.” Yet, I knew those were the vainest of all hopes.

I didn’t know how much farther we had until Paris would break into view, but I was sure sleep would not come. So when there was a knock on my door, I was thankful for it, even if I had long since ceased to hope that Rachel might be waiting in the corridor. The door opened, and Henry entered.

“Guillaume and Margot are growing restless. I think it’s time to tell them more about what we face.”

“Have you seen Rachel?”

Henry shook his head, with equal measures of pity and sadness. “No. She’s in her cabin, but I don’t think she’s coming out anytime soon. Did you talk to her?”

I nodded.

“And it didn’t go well.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No. It did not.”

I could not bear the silence that fell between us, and neither could Henry.

“Be that as it may, our guests deserve answers. They’ve come a long way on faith alone.”

“Bring them in then,” I said. Anything to break the monotony of that lonely ride. “And Henry, see if Rachel will come.”

“She already knows the story.”

“I know. Still.”

Henry sighed, something I did not hear from him often. He nodded once, wearily, and left.

When he returned, only Guillaume and Margot were with him. It was to be expected, I suppose.

“I know you’re confused,” I said as they sat down. “I can appreciate that. I don’t know that I understand everything that’s going on here myself. But what I know, I’ll tell you now. Henry, can I have a piece of paper?”

Henry reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small pad. He handed it to me, and a pen with it. I took them both and began to draw. It took me only a moment to finish. “Take a look at this.”

I handed the pad to Guillaume. Drawn clearly, albeit crudely, was the image of a pyramid, an eye wreathed in fire where the pinnacle should be.

“An unfinished pyramid,” I said, “crowned by a single eye, one locked in a pyramid unto itself, inscribed in a circle of flame. This is the Great Seal of the United States, my friends. Now, if you ask the average historian the provenance of such an enigmatic and esoteric emblem, he would likely tell you that it is a legacy of the nation’s Masonic roots. But he would be wrong. For this emblem is not part of Masonic lore. It has no basis in the teachings of that order. This is something far older, something far more important.”

“The Eye of God,” Guillaume whispered.

I smiled, more than a little pleased. “As perceptive as ever, my young friend.” Perhaps this Guillaume has a bright future with us. Someone, after all, would have to take up our cause. And I no longer believed it would be Rachel.

“There is a group,” I said, “one whose age is unknown to me—for who can say how long they have existed?—who has made it their duty to protect the Oculus. They are called the Tzadikim Nistarim. The history you know is incomplete. In the long ago, this world was not like it is now. It was ruled by something else, something not made of the stuff of this earth. In a time before time, there existed great beings, what some would call gods. Scholars spend lifetimes arguing about where they came from, what drove them away. They can agree on only one thing—in every culture and every society there are prophesies of their return. Ragnarok, Armageddon, the Frashokereti, all share one common thread. The rise of great beasts, kings that have come to seek dominion over this world. And always, there is the harbinger, the messenger, the one who walks before. He is the herald of their coming. He goes by many names, but only one that he claims as his own—Nyarlathotep.

“The order watches for his coming, for it is foretold that in that day, the one power that can stop him will also return.” I pointed again to the image on the paper.

“How does it work?” Margot asked.

“There is an incantation, one contained in certain rare books—the
Necronomicon,
the
Incendium Maleficarum.
When the Staff of Dzyan and the Oculus are combined and the words are read, then he who holds the staff need not fear the old gods. Nyarlathotep cannot stand against him.”

“And what does this have to do with you?”

“I had the
Incendium Maleficarum
. The man who captured me, Zann, believed that contained in the book was a way to use the staff, not to destroy Nyarlathotep, but to control him. Zann is no cultist. He doesn’t worship the Old Ones. Not in his heart. If you are unlucky enough to fall into his clutches, then he’ll bore you with endless speeches about building a better world or some other nonsense. I can speak to that from experience. But in the end, he simply wants the one thing he has never had—power.”

“I’m glad we left him behind,” said Guillaume.

“Not far enough I fear. He’s heard the rumors. The staff of Dzyan is said to be in France, buried in the catacombs beneath Paris. That is why those who would see Nyarlathotep restored have gone to that place. They want to find the staff. Find it, destroy it, neutralize it, whatever they must do. Without the staff, we are lost.”

“And the Oculus,” Guillaume said, “where is it?”

Henry glanced at me, and Guillaume saw in that look all he needed to answer the question. “You don’t know,” he said.

“It could be in a thousand places. The last place we looked….”

I trailed off. I didn’t want to go back there, back to the snows of Russia, Siberia, the Tunguska forest, even if only for a moment.

“We didn’t find it, and there’s no guarantee we’ll find it this time. But we can’t worry about that now. Zann will go to France. He will do what he can to find the staff before the followers of Nyarlathotep. We just have to beat them all.”

Diary of Rachel Jones

July 25, 1933

When I heard the knock on my cabin door, I told whoever it was to go away. I hoped it was Henry; if I heard my father’s voice from beyond that wood paneling, I’m not sure what I would have done. My reserves were weakening, my ability to hold things together falling rapidly away. But when the person did speak, it was not who I had expected. Not at all.

“It’s Guillaume.”

Guillaume. God. My father might have been better. I was a mess. A blubbering mess. And yet, although my first instinct was to send him away, I needed company. I needed a shoulder to cry on. My pillow simply wasn’t doing the job.

“Hello?”

“Just a second,” I said.

I opened the door, and felt a physical pain when I saw his reaction to my sad state. His mouth fell open, and he looked me up and down like I was some visitor from Mars out of an H.G. Wells story. But then his eyes softened, and his face with it.

“Can I come in?” he asked. I didn’t particularly like the pity in his voice, but I wanted it, nonetheless. I hated myself for that.

“Of course. Sorry my room is such a mess,” I said, smoothing the blanket on the hard, unforgiving bed. The accommodations, though theoretically first class, left something to be desired.

He sat down beside me and, to my utter surprise, took my hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked. I stared at my fingers, clasped in his. His hands were much bigger than I had realized, and they seemed to swallow mine whole. They were warm, and they were comforting, and at that moment, they were exactly what I needed.

“Yes.” I said. “Of course, I am.”

“I don’t know what happened, but from the little I heard, I can imagine. Your husband, he died?”

I shuddered involuntarily, and Guillaume flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “forgive me. We don’t have to discuss it.”

“No. No, I want to talk about it. His name was William. And yes, he died. It was a long time ago.”

“But not so long that you’ve forgotten.”

“I’ll never forget,” I said, looking up into his eyes, those sea-green eyes. I had heard others describe the look in another’s eyes as stormy. Never before had I understood that term. There was something about Guillaume. Something older than his years on this earth, something that spoke of wisdom and understanding beyond what he should have possessed. I wanted to tell him everything. And so…I did.

It seemed to pour out of me. A decade of pain and loss and longing. But that was only the beginning. For my father had provided me more sorrow than most people were ever likely to know, more than I would have ever imagined.

God, what a fool I must have seemed, baring my soul, my darkest thoughts, to this stranger, to this boy, a student far from home, wrapped up in a mad quest that was not his own and that he could barely begin to fathom. And yet I could not stop myself. Not until the last word was spoken. Not until there was nothing left to give.

Finally, I fell silent. He didn’t speak either. Only the steady drone of the train rumbling through a darkened French countryside kept us company.