The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos (15 page)

The weather did not improve any during the day, and night came early to Tor mount. After supper, I went up to the room that Lindennan had prepared for me. It was situated at one corner of the house so that I might look out both upon the sea and the rearing hills behind, where they stretched black and ominous against the misty sky, curving around the wide bay, out to the spot where the ruined column of Dark Point lighthouse stood atop its out-thrusting promontory.

There were, I noticed, several small fishing vessels out in the bay, but without exception, all of them remained well clear of the spot where the lighthouse and the ruined village lay, and I knew by some strange instinct that this was not only because of dangerous shoals and reefs in that area. The sound of the incoming tide was now very insistent, and I found my gaze drawn irresistibly towards the lighthouse. It occurred to me that perhaps there was some natural explanation for all of these whispered tales, some lingering memory of that cataclysmic happening when an entire village had been destroyed. Witchcraft had been rife in those days throughout the whole of England, but nowhere had it been so deeply rooted as here. Superstition would die hard and slowly here, and what more natural than that, over the centuries, these tales would be grossly exaggerated, handed down by word of mouth in this tightly-knit and isolated community of simple-minded people?

Yet Lindennan was an intelligent and cultured man, and he plainly believed them. Terrible and mad deeds had been perpetrated in those far-distant years, tainting these people with their touch of evil. I resolved to try to find that apocryphal book of peculiar characters of which my host had spoken, a book which he claimed might tell the true meaning behind these things, might throw some light on Philip’s disappearance; for it came to me that perhaps, by some ill-gotten chance, he may have discovered it and found the means of interpreting those forgotten symbols, might have learned far too much from it.

One thing was certain—I would have to stay in Tor Mount for some time, for although my desire to discover what had happened to my brother had faded a little in my fear and loathing, I knew I would never rest easily again unless I did. The thought came to me that there might be a germ of truth in the legends, that some sea-spawned monstrosity had come up from the deeps in those far-off days, some gigantic squid perhaps, and left an indelible impression on these fisherfolk, haunting their dreams, colouring their lives and actions. But even if this were so, inconceivable as it might seem, the actuality must have died almost four centuries before, explaining perhaps those strange bones which Lindennan and the others had found in the crumbling lighthouse.

The riot of ideas that formed chaotically in my mind brought a mounting unrest, and despite the deep weariness in my body, sleep seemed as far off as ever. I tried to give my thoughts as neutral and composed a cast as possible as I watched the twilight deepen over those barren, curiously-shaped hills that flanked the shoreline behind the village. Their contours were softened by the writhing mist, but not in any way that brought beauty to them; rather, the fog tended to enhance the air of brooding malignancy that lay over them. At times, it was just possible for me to make out the symmetrical stone pillars on top of the highest peak, which I took to be High Tor. Watching them as darkness fell, I thought over what Lindennan had told me of those witchcraft rites and conclaves, which had been held there in days gone by, and the outward connection between that circle of carven stones and the ruined village of Torsands. The similarity between what had happened here and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah was obvious, and may have provided a basis for those legends.

For a long while, I did not undress, but sat by the wide window, struggling to analyse my thoughts, only to find to my intense uneasiness that I seemed to be subconsciously waiting for something to happen—my ears straining to pick out some sound which I dreaded to hear but to which I could put no name. There was no doubt that my host’s colourful story had worked far more deeply and intensely on my imagination than I had previously imagined.

At length, feeling a physical fatigue brought about by the long journey of the previous night, I half undressed and lay down on the bed, closing my eyes in an attempt to sleep, but the mental drowsiness was a long time in coming; and when I finally did fall into a fitful doze, it was to be haunted by intermittent dreams into which the most frightful sounds seemed to penetrate. On one occasion, I seemed to awaken from my sleep, startled by a loud crash that originated from somewhere outside the room. I must have been half-awake, for I sat bolt upright on my bed, my entire body palpitating uncontrollably. There was a faint glow of moonlight showing through the windows, and from where I sat it was just possible for me to make out the headland with High Tor rising to one side. I braced myself tensely in expectation of some fearful and imponderable menace which seemed to be pressing itself close around the house, emanating from the hills and the sea, and then, without warning, there came those deep-pitched roaring overtones of sound which must have been the cause of my awakening, and which will never leave my mind to my last day. It was almost wrong to call them sounds, because to my sleep-drugged mind the noises seemed to be shaping themselves into
words
. The ghastly infra-bass timbre boomed and roared as if some tremendous struggle was going on, and then, incredibly, shockingly, freezing the blood in my veins, there came that stuttering, shuddering, final frenzy of noise:

“Hyaaaaaayaaa...Hyaaa...Help! Help me! Bill! BILL!”

From what terrible abyss those sounds emanated, I had no way of telling, and the fact that whatever it was had called my name, in a voice which, in spite of those thunderous and oddly alien overtones, seemed oddly like Philip’s, made me shake convulsively on the bed, fingers clenching spasmodically by my sides.

I have said that I was uncertain whether or not I was really awake. Even at that moment, I could not be sure, for this was surely something bred more out of nightmare than wakefulness. Certainly the experience transcended anything I had ever known. Later, once those harsh croaking sounds had died away, I must have fallen asleep again, but the ephemeral memory of what I thought I had heard entered and tinged my dreams so that my sleeping mind clawed and scratched through shuddering nightmares in which pulsing madness and inconceivable vistas stretched before my inner vision, and I saw vague, formless shadows stalk out of fathomless chasms of nighted rock.

In the morning, with the sun shining brilliantly over the sea, glinting off the incoming waves and the rocky hills glowing purple and green on the landward skyline, I intimated my intentions to Lindennan, who warned me bravely against probing too deeply into such things, at least before I knew the sort of thing I was up against. When he saw that I was determined to go through with it, he hinted that perhaps Ben Trevelyan might be able to tell me things I wanted to know, that in any case, he was the only other person in the village who would talk. If only I could get him into the right frame of mind. He was a strange, furtive character, a little simple in the head, and no one could be sure how much truth there was in his crazy ramblings.

Judging from Lindennan’s opinion of Trevelyan, I doubted if any useful information could be gained from him, but at that point I knew I could not afford to pass over a single clue, and half an hour later I made my way along the narrow street which fronted the row of decrepit houses, crossing a swift-running stream which ran down from the hills, passing several of the boats which were drawn up along the shore where the smooth sand gave way to a narrow fringe of shingle. There were men working with the nets, but none of them looked up as I approached, keeping their gaze downcast, although where I had passed them, I knew they were watching my retreating back closely. Some of the houses were obviously tenanted, but I caught no glimpse of anyone in them, and the curtainless, broken windows of the others, looking out towards the distant sea, possessed a frightening aspect, so much so that it took courage to walk past them towards a short row of three tumbledown cottages, in one of which Ben Trevelyan was reputed to live.

I had approached within fifty yards of the cottages when I caught sight of the bent figure seated on a low stoop beside the centre cottage. One glance was sufficient to tell me that this could be none other than the half-crazed, oldest inhabitant—Ben Trevelyan.

Pushing open the creaking gate that swung in on rusty hinges, I went into the overgrown garden that looked as though it had seen better days, but not for many years, and stood in front of the other for several seconds before he gave any indication that he was aware of my presence. Then he gave me a quick, shrewd glance, and I noticed, to my surprise there was a bright gleam of intelligence in his rheumy eyes that surveyed me intently from head to toe.

Giving me a knowing leer, he bent forward, motioned me towards the seat, and hissed sibilantly: “Reckon I know why you’re here, mister. Come about them happenings at Dark Point, ain’t you?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to my brother, Philip Meredith.”

He nodded abruptly, tilted his head forward confidentially: “There’s things I know you’d never believe. Up yonder is where it all started on High Tor.” He lifted a shaking arm and pointed to the rounded summit that brooded evilly in the sunlight. “Used to hold ceremonies up there long ago. More’n four hundred years ago, they reckon. Brought the Devil up out of the sea. Called Him up into Dark Point lighthouse. Fixed up a place for Him there so He’d bring ’em all the fish they wanted out in the bay. They learnt many things in them days. How to bring down the thunder and lightning. How to start the rain when there be a drought. But there was a price they had to pay.”

He stretched out a bony finger, tapped me on the knee, his face close to mine. There was a terrible insistence in his voice that brought a shiver coursing through my body. Listening to him, it was becoming more and more difficult not to believe some of the things he uttered, incredible and utterly fantastic as they sounded.

“Every May Eve, they’d have human sacrifices up there on High Tor, just to keep things right for another year and there’d be chantin’ and shriekin’ and dancin’ all night, and pretty soon, things got so heathen and devilish that nobody from the other towns and villages would come anywhere near the place. Reckon they must’ve gone a bit too far one time and called down the wrath of God Himself on ’em, because one night a great wave came up out of the sea and drowned ’em all, every last one of ’em. But that didn’t stop things. S’long as that light stands on Dark Point, things’ll still go on like in the old times, only they keep it all hidden now. But I’ve seen and heard things up yonder on the hill and in Dark Point lighthouse—and I do know where Winters and Sloane and Marcy went; and maybe all ’em others who went out to take a look around yon accursed place. How’d you like to crouch on the sand and watch that horrible
transfiguration
take place, see men go into the lighthouse and things come out that weren’t even like anythin’ you’d ever seen afore in your whole life? Just how it was done, Heaven only knows; or maybe Heaven just doesn’t want to know, because it was more like the Devil’s work. These abominations came from somewhere out of time and space as we know it. They were here before men were, and they’ll be here long after we’ve all gone.”

He stopped at that, and his eyes clouded as thoughts crowded in, and it was as though the memories evoked by his words were more than his aged mind could stand. Then he began to laugh shrilly, lips shaking behind the unkempt grey beard.

“Reckon you’re beginnin’ to see now, ain’t ye? Guessed you might. But that ain’t all.” He held a taloned hand on my sleeve, fingers biting in with an incredible strength. His eyes blinked rapidly as he went on: “You don’t have to believe just because I say so. It’s all written down in a book the old ones left behind, only nobody can read it. Ain’t like no language I ever seen. Had a professor down at the end of the last century. Came from Oxford or someplace like that. Wanted to take it away with him, but they wouldn’t let him. In the end, he said it was nothin’ more than a lot of symbols that didn’t mean anything.” He shivered as he spoke, tightened his grip on my arm. “But there’s a meanin’ all right, if only you can read it. I tried but it was no use. Funny sort o’ language, all straight lines and—” He broke off sharply, his eyelids twitching as he stared past me, past the village, up to where the dark column of the shuttered lighthouse stood illuminated by the sun. For a long moment, he said nothing more, then he heaved himself to his feet, moved back towards the house.

“I ain’t said nothin’ for a very long time now. Too many of those who tried to find out went the way of Sloane and the others, up to that damned place.” He leaned forward for a second, hissed through stained and broken teeth: “You know where real horror is? You know what’ll happen if I want to show you that book? It ain’t so much what’s up there on High Tor now. But if you wants to know what happened to Philip Meredith—you say he was your brother—then I reckon you’ll have to meet the Keeper of Dark Point. Ain’t no other way I can see, even though you’ll probably go the same way as the rest.”

He led the way into the cottage, and almost before I could collect my scattered wits had rummaged through a pile of dusty books in one corner of the room, bringing one of them back to me and placing it, almost reverently, into my hands. It was plainly of great age, the mildewed leather cover stained in places as if by salt water, testifying to its authenticity. For a moment I could scarcely dare to open it. When I did so, I found that the pages were covered with the faded writing about which I had heard so much. The symbols and diagrams were sufficient to evoke a shuddering revulsion; a clutching, pervasive fear in me that was terribly difficult to overcome.