He Who Walks in Shadow (34 page)

“No,” Carter whispered, “even you couldn’t be so mad. You have heard the prophecy, the promise. If he wakes, so they say, ‘there will be worlds nor gods no more.’ You must know this.”

Nyarlathotep bowed. “Of course, dear Carter. Did you think you were the only one willing to sacrifice all to save your world? Or, in this case, to know it reborn? What is this life, but pain and loss? What is this cruel existence that any would see it saved?

“The truth? All of this, all that you see or know, is but a dream of the sleeper. His dream.”

He stepped to the side, and the three of us gasped in shock at what we saw.

I cannot say for sure what actually lay there, squirming in the tiny bed. Without a doubt, our perceptions were not to be trusted, and our eyes had been deceiving us since we entered that realm. And yet, somehow I knew that the thing that lay before us naked and small and defenseless was the only truth I’d ever really known.

It was an ordinary child, a babe, an infant. It slept, though its body was wracked with tremors, with shudders brought on by some unseen horror.

“What witchcraft is this?” Carter said.

“Does it surprise you so much? Think about all you know, the horror of this world. The hate, the pain, the suffering. What else could it be, but the nightmare of a child? Surely you don’t still believe that a just god made you and put you into this manifest sickness to wallow until you die? This is the truth, Carter,” he said, gesturing toward the child, “the one you claim to seek, the one you have dedicated your life to pursuing. This is your god, the god that sleeps, the god that dreams. And when he wakes, the dream will cease, and a new world will be born. A better world where the light is finally banished and darkness rules, as was intended.”

The three of us stood there, a gulf of seemingly endless distance between us and the child. The pipes played. The drums beat. The stars moved. Nyarlathotep looked up and grinned.

“The stars are almost aligned,” he said. “The time has come for all of us to make our choices.”

He opened the book and held a hand high. He began to shout words that I did not understand or recognize into the howling wind. There was a flash of dark light from above; the alignment was complete. The child began to stir.

Rachel grabbed Carter by the arm and pulled him toward her. I feared the grimace on his face. It was one of confusion, of loss. He seemed as though he had no idea what to do.

“Father!” she screamed above the wailing wind. The piping had begun to thin and fade, the drums to slow. “You have to do it,” she said, and tears followed. “You have to do it now!”

Carter glanced at her with a look I had seen before. Wheels were turning. He reached into his pocket and removed the jewel, the Oculus. Nyarlathotep continued to chant, the child to stir towards wakening.

Rachel held the dagger up and pressed it into Carter’s hand. He glanced from the blade to the jewel, and then to Nyarlathotep and the babe.

“I wonder…” he whispered to himself.

“Father, now!”

Carter’s trance broke. He turned toward Rachel, took her chin in his hand. “I love you, child,” he said, before turning to me. Something deep inside the gem began to sparkle faintly. “You too, old friend.” Then he dropped the knife, the blade clattering upon the ground. He stepped towards Nyarlathotep.

“Father!”

“It’s all right,” he said with a smile, looking over his shoulder. “There’s more than one kind of sacrifice.”

He turned and continued toward the dark one.

“Father, no!” Rachel tried to go to him, I suppose to stop him, but I grabbed her and held her back. What Carter had to do, he had to do on his own.

“Nyarlathotep!”

The old wizard looked up from his book and locked eyes with Carter.

“You once said that you’d waited for thousands of years for this chance. I hope you’re prepared to wait a thousand more.”

Carter held the stone up to the sky, and from within burst a light so brilliant that it blinded us. The flash cleared, and by some power beyond our ken, the jewel had grown many times its original size. Even more, it now burned with a holy fire. And in that singular moment, I saw fear in Nyarlathotep’s eyes.

“No!” He took a step toward Carter, but it was too late. Carter took the jewel with both hands and drove it into his chest. That which had been broken was now remade. He had become the staff.

There was a roar like a mighty, rushing wind. It whirled about us, and great lightning bolts streaked down the solid stone walls that surrounded us. The piping grew to a shrieking, the drums beat feverishly. The earth trembled and quaked.

And then—it all stopped.

The drums, the pipes, the shaking, the thunder. One moment it roared, and then it ceased. Just as quickly as it had begun. The world froze. And in that silence, a still, small voice. There was a brilliant flash, and I knew it was Carter. He had become a column of light. It filled the room. The walls of the tower began to break. Stone tumbled from above. The last thing I remember seeing was the light striking Nyarlathotep full on, ripping him apart.

The Hebrides Post
, 13 August, 1933, Front Page

An unusual event in the St. Kildan Archipelago continues to mystify both local authorities and investigators dispatched from London’s Scotland Yard. What we do know, we report here.

A fortnight ago, three Americans were transported to the deserted island of Hirta by way of Berneray, carried in a fishing boat owned by a local seaman, Diarmad Brodie. We can report here, for the first time, that the visitors were two professors from the famed Miskatonic University in America—Henry Armitage and Carter Weston—along with the latter’s daughter, Rachel Jones (née Weston). Remarkably, Professor Weston was reported missing and presumed dead in Arkham, Massachusetts, nearly a year ago. How he came to be in Scotland and why his colleague and daughter were traveling with him is, as of this writing, unknown.

Moreover, inquiries made of Mr. Brodie have failed to reveal the purpose of the voyage to Hirta, and we can only assume that some strange curiosity drove them. Whatever the case may be, the events of 1 August are truly extraordinary.

Upon arriving at the island, Mr. Brodie reports that the three visitors struck off on their own while he tended the boat. Brodie claims that, after surveying the abandoned village, the Americans headed to what he describes as “a mountain, a kind of flat-top pyramid on the other end of the island.” Brodie is embellishing, of course. There is no such mountain on Hirta, the most prominent rise being a small hill just beyond Village Bay. In any event, Brodie reported to the police that he waited for several hours for the visitors and had in fact begun to prepare to find them when there was, and we quote now from his testimony, “a crash unlike any I have heard upon God’s earth. There was a flash of light that turned the night to day, and then an explosion upon the hill. I ran to the rise, climbing as quick as I could. When I reached the top, there was one of the professors and the Miss, passed out on the plain. But the other gentleman, her father, he was nowhere to be found, and by God, I do not think you’ll ever see him again.”

Investigators are said to have questioned both Dr. Armitage and Mrs. Jones extensively as to the whereabouts of Professor Weston, but no satisfactory answer was forthcoming. In fact, there are reports that the two remaining visitors both offered a strange and fantastic story to explain the Professor’s disappearance, one that investigators have dismissed as a joint-hallucination, brought on by extreme stress.

In any event, with Professor Weston’s complicated status and the lack of any evidence of foul play, investigators were forced to release both Dr. Armitage and Mrs. Jones to the American authorities. What truly happened on the Isle of Hirta, we may never know.

Diary of Rachel Jones

August 22, 1933

It’s been a week since we came home from Scotland, and three since my father gave his life for the cause he had lived to uphold. Carter Weston spoke often of turning back the night, of the light that shines in the darkness. On the plains of Leng, at Kadath in the cold waste, he became that light.

Henry may never be the same. Before, when my father disappeared, he was so certain that he was still alive. And he was right, of course. My father did live. But now, his death seems without question. Of course, it’s hard to say exactly what his fate might have been. Did he die? Or was he transformed? Perhaps it wasn’t just that he became the light. Perhaps he is now also the guardian of that light. Someone to watch over us all.

I hope that one day Henry can see it that way.

He came to visit me two days ago. He wanted me to know about something he discovered in his research. There is a legend, it seems, that holds that the Old Ones cannot return without a sacrifice. A human sacrifice. One given freely, and with very specific requirements. It must be a woman, and she must be killed by her own father. Henry believes that this explains much, that Nyarlathotep had allowed us to follow him for a special reason. And that had my father killed me instead of himself, all would have been lost.

Perhaps, but I think it goes beyond even that. I think, in that place of fear and shadow, Carter Weston proved a truth older than time—that love is stronger than hate, kindness more powerful than cruelty, light far greater than darkness. That it was my father’s love, more than his sacrifice, that saved us all.

As for my future, I’m not sure where I go from here. My father taught me, from a very young age, about the things that move beyond the civilized world. But the old saw is true—seeing is believing. And once you see, there is no unseeing.

He taught me something else, too. Knowledge is a burden, and ignorance is bliss. If most people knew the truths we know, they could never go on. They could never go to work, raise families, live their lives or do a million other ordinary, everyday things if they knew that in the deep woods and empty plains and wild places of the earth there waited beings ready to devour them. And since they cannot, it falls to those of us who do know to stand against those forces. That was the burden my father took up. Now it falls to his daughter.

Of course, Henry does not agree. He thinks the world should know. And that’s fine, too. But the fact of the matter is simple in my view—it’s not just that people cannot handle the reality of this world; it is that they
will not
accept it. Nyarlathotep, Cthulhu, Shub-Niggurath, and all the other unpronounceables, to most, will remain nothing more than dark tales and legends, scary stories to tell in the dark around the campfire.

So it is, and so it shall be. I’d have it no other way.

And whatever I face in the days and years to come, I do not walk this path alone. Yes, there is Henry, my friend, my mentor, and an ally till the end. But there is another now, too. I hear it even as I write this, calling to me, singing its song, urging me to open it, to read it, to learn its secrets. For it was not just Henry and me that the good Captain Diarmad found on that desolate plain, a fortnight and a half ago. The book was there, too.

And it has chosen a new master.

Arkham Advertiser
, May 1, 1934, Page D-1

We at the
Arkham Advertiser
rarely make editorial comments on personal announcements, but in this instance, we have deemed an exception appropriate. It is our great pleasure to announce that last night, former
Arkham Advertiser
investigative reporter Rachel Jones safely delivered a healthy baby boy, Carter Weston Jones. We understand that mother and baby have been discharged from the hospital and are recovering at home.

The father of the new arrival is unknown and we understand, of course, that certain members of the community may look askance at celebrating an unwed mother. Nevertheless, we believe that, given the tragedies that have befallen Mrs. Jones over the past few years—including the loss of her husband fourteen years ago and her father in recent days—we can both uphold the moral standard that has long marked the
Arkham Advertiser
while still acknowledging this happy event.

So to Mrs. Jones and the baby, we at the
Arkham Advertiser
offer hearty congratulations.

Truly, the blessings of the Lord are without limit.

THE END

Brett J. Talley is the Bram Stoker Award nominated author of
That Which Should Not Be
and
The Void
. His work has been featured in the shared-world anthology,
Limbus, Inc.
, and he is the editor of the forthcoming sequel,
Limbus 2
. He is also a lawyer, speechwriter, and an avid fan of the Alabama Crimson Tide. He makes his internet home on his website,
www.brettjtalley.com
.