Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) (11 page)

Without Morley’s sponsorship, Oliver had seen his own position become ever more untenable, as though the university was seeking to sever all ties to the unfortunate affair. More and more doors were closed to him until it had become clear he was no longer welcome within Brown’s hallowed halls. Nevertheless, he had been given a glowing letter of recommendation from the head of faculty, which, together with Morley’s endorsement, had seen him secure his current position at Miskatonic in the summer of 1919.

This Massachusetts institution had a reputation for academic freedom, a place where all manner of research was conducted and where scholars were free to teach as they saw fit. That wasn’t the only reputation the university had. Whispered tales concerning the gruesome history of Arkham were widespread, but Oliver attributed such attendant mysteries to latent memories of the famous witch trials that had blighted this region of the country in centuries past.

None of these tales had put Oliver off accepting a position at Miskatonic, and the seven years he had spent here had been—with the exception of the Yopasi debacle and poor Henry’s unfortunate incarceration—the happiest of his life. True, there was an indefinable
oddness
to Arkham, a lingering sense of the unknown pressing at the fragile meniscus that separated the known world from the unknown. Oliver had explored the town extensively, taking winding walking tours through its rambling streets of gambrel-roofed townhouses, past its overgrown graveyards, around the black and looming spires of its derelict churches with lancet windows that seemed to leer down at the curious observer, and over the bridges crossing the dark waters of the Miskatonic River toward the russet-faced brownstones of Uptown.

No finer example of a Massachusetts town could be found in the state, no better example of all that made its people so proud of their rich heritage. The town’s inhabitants were of fine stock, God-fearing, honest, and tenacious, with a healthy suspicion of the world beyond the state line. The people of Arkham were hard-working, steadfast, and united in their desire to see their hometown retain its unique character in the face of the ever-advancing tide of modernity. “Welcoming” wasn’t a word Oliver would have used to describe the men and women of Arkham; “guarded” would have been a better choice. It was as though the townsfolk feared some buried secret might slip out were they to allow their tongues to wag too amiably to out-of-towners.

 
Oliver had found a place to live in Easttown, a modest Georgian brownstone with modern amenities and appropriately shabby character that matched his own shambolic impression of himself. With only the bare minimum of furniture required for basic existence, the rest of Oliver’s home was a riot of groaning bookshelves stuffed with textbooks, papers, and items brought back from his expeditions to document the peoples and cultures of distant lands. Numerous visitors had used words like “chaotic,” “jumbled,” or uncharitably, “junkyard,” to describe his house. He preferred “eclectic.”

Since coming to Arkham, Oliver had attempted to keep up correspondence with his former mentor, but Morley had answered his letters with ever-widening infrequency. Oliver had learned that Morley had taken a position within the Pierpont Morgan Library, transcribing the many texts coming from the numerous archaeological digs currently rushing to excavate the Egyptian deserts. As time passed and the letters coming from New York finally dried up, Oliver had been forced to conclude that his old friend no longer wished to communicate.

Which was a shame, as Oliver would have welcomed Morley’s help with what had come to light in regards to the correlation between the Yopasi’s sea devil and Amanda Sharpe’s dreams.

* * *

Oliver pushed open the heavy oak door to the Miskatonic University faculty lounge, drinking in the warm smells of tradition, security, and self-assuredness. A breath of smoke from the hearth and numerous pipes gusted from the room, a tantalizing scent of this forbidden sanctum of academia. The lounge was a place of refuge for the lecturers, professors, and doctors of the university: a large, smoky chamber presided over by the portraits of former deans, and filled with faded carpets, smoke-hued tables, and sumptuous, high-backed leather chairs.

An open fire burned in an expansive stone hearth that had once belonged in an English abbey before Henry VIII had appropriated the rich holdings of its former owners. Shipped from Liverpool sixty years ago, the fireplace radiated warmth and history into the room, as though the smell of burning hickory carried the legacy of those long-vanished centuries.

At any time of day, a dozen or more academics with esoteric titles could be found relaxing here—reading, sleeping, smoking, or bemoaning the lack of focus evinced by their students. It was a place where the mantle of teacher could be hung on a hook, and the man behind the title could emerge. Spirited debates could be had here, and Oliver relished the sense of intellectual momentum to be found within its walnut-paneled walls.

He nodded to a number of professors of his acquaintance, and set his briefcase down next to an empty chair. The professors of biology were arguing with the doctors of theology, and Oliver smiled as he heard references to Darwin and Genesis hurled back and forth.

Oliver took his seat and fished out his notes, thinking back to what he had told Amanda Sharpe. His thoughts had been unformed and she had likely left with no clearer idea of what was happening to her than she had when she came in. His theories were, he accepted, far-fetched, but Oliver had seen enough disparate peoples sharing identical beliefs and experiences to discount the idea of a form of race memory from some unfathomably ancient time.

He began collating information from his interview with Amanda, transcribing his notes as though from a field study, extrapolating what he could and establishing points of congruity between her dreams and the Yopasi belief system. There were many points of agreement and many areas where the crossover was too exact to be coincidence. The more he read, the more he felt his excitement mount, no matter how he tried to restrain it. As much as he sought to keep a dispassionate eye, Oliver knew this was a means of salvaging something from his years of research in the Pacific.

“Grayson, fancy dragging your head out of that notebook and joining our discussion?” said a voice Oliver recognized as belonging to Theodore Hutchins, a visiting professor of geology who was assisting Dr. Dyer in preparing for the long-planned expedition to the Antarctic.

Standing beside Hutchins was Professor Nathaniel Eaton, a fellow geologist who had learned his trade at Yale, then put it to use in the oil fields of California. Both were learned men, but Oliver had had little to do with them, what with his field of research being somewhat newer and less well-established than their own.

“That depends,” he said, closing his notebook. “What’s the subject at hand, and what do you feel I could bring to the discussion?”

“Ah,” said Hutchins, a florid-faced man of around fifty years and with a waistline that was rendering him more and more like the planet whose rock he studied. “We’re debating the latest discoveries in the Naica Mines of Mexico. Seems like workers there might have found some interesting crystal deposits in a previously undiscovered cave deep below the surface.”

Eaton was Hutchins’s opposite in every way, tall and gangling, with long, drooping arms that made him look like a character from
The New Yorker’
s cartoon pages. “The cave is too far down to reach yet, but there’s strong indications that there’s something dashed strange down there.”

“Strange in what way?” asked Oliver.

“Well, the core samples the miners have been taking indicate the crystals have been forming for perhaps millions of years. It’d be the find of the century to document such a place, and it would certainly put the wind up the theologians who think the world is only six thousand years old.”

“Indeed,” said Hutchins, taking up the mantle of storyteller. “All signs point to incredibly large and dense formations of selenite formed in mineral-rich water.”

“Wouldn’t Dr. Dyer have more useful an opinion than I on such matters?”

“Not at all, Grayson,” said Eaton. “Hutchins and I believe you might be the ideal man to speak to in regards to this mystery.”

“How so?”

“Well,” said Hutchins, sighing with exaggerated disbelief at the incompetence he was about to relate. “It seems the geological surveyors in Mexico aren’t as thorough as our home-grown ones. Apparently they’ve misplaced the maps and sample charts that correlate where each sample came from. Nobody can find the damn place anymore!”

Oliver saw the punch line a moment before Eaton delivered it.

“And seeing as you are such an expert in misplaced things, Grayson, we naturally thought to pick your brain,” said Eaton. “After all, a man who can lose an entire tribe of Pacific Islanders should have a unique take on such a matter, eh?”

Oliver felt his anger simmer below the surface. Bad enough that the Yopasi expedition had been an abject failure, but to be so brazenly mocked was almost more than he could bear. Oliver was not a violent man. He did not own a gun and had not been in a fight since his grade school days, but Eaton and Hutchins’s disrespect was a slap in the face too far.

He pushed himself from his chair, a vein at the side of his temple pulsing in time with his choleric outrage. His mockers saw the fury in his face, were surprised by it, and backed away from him. Oliver knew he should sit back down. No one said anything constructive in anger, and words spoken in such a frame of mind would almost always be regretted.

“Professor Grayson, if I may?” said a cultured New England voice at his shoulder. A hand took his elbow and a tall, distinguished man with dark hair with just a hint of silver at the temples smoothly interposed himself between Oliver and the professors of geology.

“Templeton,” said Hutchins warily.
 

Alexander Templeton was professor of ancient religions at Miskatonic, a man who had made his name by unlocking the mystery of how the pagan faiths in ancient Britain had been supplanted by Christianity. His work around Stonehenge with William Hawley had proven vital in the understanding of the monument and he had posited many fascinating and controversial theories as to the original purpose of the great megaliths.

Templeton eyed the two professors of geology critically.

“I think you’ll find that it is a great deal easier to misplace a tribe of indigenous peoples with a rich heritage of moving from island to island over the centuries than it is, say, a geological formation. After all, I am given to believe rock doesn’t move around much,” said Templeton. “Professor Eaton, I believe it took you nearly six years to find an oil deposit the size of Richmond beneath an area already identified as oil-rich. That strikes me as rather careless. And Professor Hutchins, didn’t you once incorrectly identify a series of rock formations in the Grand Canyon, the nature of which any freshman could determine?”

Hutchins started to reply, but contented himself by storming away with a snort of irritation.

“We were just having a bit of fun, eh, Templeton?” said Eaton in a querulous tone. “No need for insults.”

“No insult intended, I assure you,” said Templeton. “Simply a leveling of the playing field. I’m sure you understand. All’s fair in love and war and academia.”

Eaton grunted and retired from the conversation, joining Hutchins by the fire.

Oliver smiled, almost ashamed at the pleasure he took in seeing his antagonists so humbled. Templeton offered him his hand.

“How are you, Oliver?” he said.

“Well, Alexander, well,” said Oliver. “Do you have time to join me?”

“Of course,” said Templeton. “It would be a pleasure.”

* * *

Alexander Templeton was a comparatively new addition to the teaching staff at Miskatonic University. A Princeton graduate, his area of expertise lay in the fields of history: more specifically the study of ancient religions and the societies that created them. A decorated war hero, he had fought as a Marine captain in the Great War and returned home with numerous commendations and, it was said, a box containing a Citation Star.

Templeton rarely spoke of his years as a soldier, but Oliver had gleaned a measure of it from Henry Cartwright prior to his incarceration. Alexander Templeton had captained the Marine company in which Henry had served as a corpsman, leading his men through the nightmarish battlefields of Europe to the final defeat of the Bosch. Henry had spoken highly of Templeton’s military record, but appeared to dislike him for no reason he would adequately explain.

Likewise, when Alexander Templeton’s application for a position at Miskatonic was under review by the board, Henry had vehemently opposed his appointment. Oliver had read the man’s exemplary resume and could find no reason for Henry’s reservations. Templeton had graduated magna cum laude from Princeton, was class valedictorian, and had his pick of the universities to approach in order to pursue his post-graduate work. Instead, he had enlisted in the Marine Corps and earned numerous commendations for meritorious conduct during the last years of the war.

The deans of the university saw the opportunity to employ a man they felt would soon become a leader in his field, and Henry’s objections were overruled—much to his vitriolic indignation. Such was Henry’s apoplexy that words harsh enough to see him suspended had been yelled at the dean. In the aftermath of the shouting match in the university council chambers, Oliver had tried to talk to Henry about the matter, but his friend would not be drawn. All he would say was that during the war he and Templeton had disagreed on a matter that had seen a number of men die.

The strain of his suspension had proven too much for Henry, and the fire starting had begun soon afterward. Within the space of a month, Henry had been arrested and committed to Arkham Asylum, where he remained to this day. A sad end to an unnecessary fiasco.

Oliver had known Alexander Templeton for three years. They had become good friends, and spent many an afternoon in the faculty lounge discussing how religion in ancient societies had shaped the anthropological development of the culture. From the pyramids of Egypt to the cave dwellers of Petra and the spirit worship of the American plains, their discussions were often rambling, digressive, and impenetrable to those not versed in ancient history, but never less than fascinating.