He Who Walks in Shadow (31 page)

I asked him, should we make it through this, if perhaps we could stop at the ancient monument and picnic beneath the stones in celebration. It was a jest, of course, as I know the odds of return are slim, a fool’s chance at best. But even still, my words seemed to pain him. He smiled, and his eyes fell away from mine. He was suddenly distant from me, in another place, in another time. I took his hand in mine, and it was trembling. He covered it with his other, and clasped them so tightly I thought he might hurt me. Then he returned to his book.

He has sat with that evil thing in his lap for hours, staring at the words, following them with his finger, flipping back and forth. That accursed tome, that albatross about the neck of our family. I wonder, sometimes, how he can stand it, the incessant song, the whisperings. I tell myself that he keeps it to prevent others from taking it, from doing evil with it. And yet, there is more to it than that.

The
Incendium Maleficarum
does not choose its master lightly. It seeks only its own purpose—to find its way to those who would return the Old Ones to dominance, who would use it to bring about the end of mankind. Thus, it might seem ironic that my father, a man long dedicated to keeping the gate between the worlds shut, would be its master for all of these decades. And yet, do we not take it now where it seeks to go? Is it even possible that by pursuing Nyarlathotep, we are in fact helping him to achieve his ends? That perhaps if we simply stayed behind he would fail? But the knot of uncertainty is twisted tight, and how can we do anything other than slice through it and pursue? It is a terrible choice, between the Scylla of inaction and the Charybdis of unintended consequences.

I know now why my father has been gray all the years that I have known him.

* * *

I dreamt last night of Leng. I dreamt of
him
.

I knew the place; I am my father’s daughter, after all. And I knew him, of course, for one does not forget the thing that one hates.

We stood upon that endless plateau, he and I. He waited for me, the arid wind whipping his yellow cloak about his incorporeal body. Did any of it exist? The cloak, the man, the wind? Would that I could believe it was a dream.

This was real, and I had come here by some force that I could not comprehend.

“Hello, Rachel,” he said, though I am not sure even now whether he uttered those words or if the sound was entirely within my mind.

“Don’t speak to me,” I said.

“But we are here, aren’t we? Why waste this opportunity?” He stepped towards me, palms up, questioning, as if we were old friends. “Perhaps you would prefer a more idyllic setting.”

I felt faint, and the scene swirled. I was falling. There was a flash of light, and we were no longer on that accursed plain. Instead, we stood within a forest, but one unlike anything I had seen before. The trees were dead, the earth with them. It was cold, very cold, but a little stream flowed freely before me. Although the stars were obscured, a strange incandescence lit the night. I recognized the place, even if I had never been there before.

“This is a cruel trick,” I said, as he moved within the trees. “Even for you.” He stepped into the circle of the light.

“You don’t approve? I thought that perhaps you would want to see it, where he drew his last breath.”

“You mean where you took it from him?”

He shook that regal head of his, an almost sympathetic frown upon the face he had worn for five thousand years. “No, my child. I was not the one who killed your William.”

If this was a fantasy, if it were a dream, then I thought that I might be able to control it, if even to the smallest extent. One second my hand was empty. The next, I held a knife. I kept it close to my body, lest he see.

“Why did you bring me here? Not to kill me. You could have done that by now.”

“Maybe I have other purposes for you. Maybe you have a different role to play in all of this. You know, I spoke to your father last night. Did he tell you that?”

“Can’t say that he mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t expect that he would. He keeps things from you, doesn’t he?”

“You didn’t bring me here to talk about my father. Why don’t you get to the point?”

“The point?” he said, as he lowered himself onto a fallen tree. “The point is that what started here in this place all those years ago is coming to an end. And when it does, all that you know will end with it. Your father understands. He also understands what he must do to stop it. He knows that there is power in blood, power in loss, power in sacrifice. And the greater the loss, the greater the sacrifice, the greater the power.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. A shadow passed across him. If such a creature could display remorse, I would have believed I saw it in him then.

“You must die, Rachel. You must die to save the world. Your father knows that, and he knows that it must be by his hand.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said, but my voice trembled, and I was ashamed of my weakness.

“Yes, you do. You are Isaac to his Abraham, and only your blood can save mankind.”

I stood there before him, angry, helpless, naked. He cocked his head to the side and regarded me.

“I do not hate you, you know? Despite what you have been taught. What they have written about me. I always found your kind to be curious. That is why I have walked among you for so long, even as my brethren slept, as they waited to return, to cleanse this planet as you might burn off a field for planting. They would destroy you without even knowing you are here, so insignificant are you in their eyes. But not mine.”

“So you’re a benevolent god, then? Do you grant wishes too?”

He smiled again.

“It is a rare thing,” he said, “such reckless bravery. And yet a mark of your kind. I know you fear me, and yet you stand there, defiant, sarcastic. But believe me when I say this—you do not have to die. Neither does your father. You can have your life. You will be changed, yes, as the world must be changed. But that, I suppose, has always been the fate of mortals. I simply offer you eternal life of a different sort than you might have imagined in your Sunday school.”

“You’ve already taken the only thing I care to have.”

“Yes,” he said. “But I can give it back.”

I felt faint again, and I believe my heart may even have stopped. There was a boom, like the sound of falling lightning. I opened my eyes, my vision cleared, and William stood before me.

He was exactly as I remembered him, even though more than a decade had passed since my eyes last beheld him. He hadn’t aged a day. He looked bewildered, confused, as if he had no idea where he was or how he came to be there. He spun around, eyes scanning the forest. Then he turned back and saw me.

“Rachel?” he murmured, taking a stumbling step forward. “How did you get here?”

It took all I had to stand there, seeing him. My voice caught in my throat, tears came to my eyes, and it seemed as though all I ever dreamed had finally come true. I don’t even remember how it happened, whether he came to me or I to him, but before I knew it my arms were around him and I was holding him close.

“William,” I said, “William.” There were no other words. No words of love or loss or words to explain how I had felt, what I had suffered those many years. For a few blessed moments, I lost myself in that feeling, the feeling of him, the chance to say goodbye to the man I had cherished.

And I cursed Nyarlathotep for it, cursed the feeling of a debt owed, even as I knew it was all a lie. Even as I knew that this could not be real, that it was only an illusion.

I still held the knife in my hand.

“William,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

I plunged the blade into his back.

It felt like I had grabbed a live wire.

A surge of energy pulsed through my body. I was flying, and then the world went black. I saw things as they are, as they were, and as they would be if we fail. I saw the sun extinguished and the earth cast into a shadow blacker than any comprehensible by the human mind. Within that infinite veil walked beings unimagined and unimaginable, and the force of their intellect alone thrust me into the void.

I was carried along, across galaxies and past dying stars as the darkness spread like a black fire, consuming all in its path. Nyarlathotep carried me on the wings of his hate, and he spoke to me as we touched the edge of the universe, past the swirling abyss where rests the ultimate chaos.

“You worship the light,” he said, “but the light is destruction. Darkness is the natural order of things. Light consumes. It lives only as it kills. It gives only what it takes. It devours all before it until there is nothing left and then, only then, is it extinguished. You think you fight for the truth, you think you fight for the right, but
you
are the evil one. You are the enemy. But you cannot hold the darkness at bay forever.”

I awoke with a start in my bed. The bells of the nearby port rang as the sun crested the horizon. Nothing could have made me question the reality of what I had seen, nothing could have shaken my confidence that it was no simple dream, even if I did not still hold the dagger in my hand.

Journal of Henry Armitage

August 1, 1933

This morning we left Uig for the Isle of Berneray, which lies in the sound of Harris, the narrow stretch of water that splits the Outer Hebrides and opens into the Atlantic. Carter is convinced that there we can discern the place of power from which Nyarlathotep will do his work. I hope that he is correct. When the day burns away and the night comes, the time of the alignment will be upon us. Unless we move quickly, there will not be a dawn.

As it stands, we are on a small ferry that regularly plies its trade between the two islands. A miserable little vessel. I have always hated the sea, and I do not care for crossings. I prefer my own two feet upon the land, though I have no aversion to rail travel or even aeroplanes. There is something about the water, however, the bottomless abyss below, the endless back and forth. It does not agree with my stomach or my soul.

The passage took several hours, much longer than we could have predicted. The wind was against us and so were the waves, and I wondered if some foul magic had bewitched us, if perhaps the very forces of the earth herself had turned against us, if maybe they preferred their old masters to the new. That was fancy, of course. Or at least, I told myself so.

Carter was stoic, indefatigable perhaps, if one can be so bold. Rachel was the same. Rarely in this life have I felt myself the superfluous man, particularly in my relation to Carter. But whatever joined the two of them was not for me. It seemed that they had forged some silent understanding, as if both knew what was required of them and had accepted it. But whatever it was, I was not a party nor was I informed. In truth, I was rather envious, though something told me that what passed between them was not a matter I should want any part of.

Berneray is an idyllic place, the sort of village that neither time nor technology will ever reach. Children here dream of either escape or of nothing more than following in the footsteps of their fathers. So it has been since the beginning of time. So it will always be.

There is a single inn. It serves more as a tavern than a true hostelry. But it has rooms to rent, and here we shall make our base of operations and perhaps even take our rest, should we succeed on this night, the night the stars come right.

The people of the isle are quiet, and they look upon us with suspicious eyes. I would not call them insular, but it is certainly the case that they do not see many travelers. Of course, Carter and I know such people well; we have found them in towns and villages from the Kamchatka peninsula to the Straits of Magellan. They are kind in their own way, and in them is something old and strong that we do not have in the great cities of the West. A goodness and a willingness to stand before the forces of evil, forces that they, on the borders between civilization and the wild, know all too well.

We are to meet a man named Diarmad who is apparently the most skilled boatman these waters have seen, a man whose trade stretches back down into the distant memory of his forefathers. He is also said to be something of a local historian, and it is Carter’s belief that he can provide some clue as to what barren stack Nyarlathotep has chosen to make his final stand.

* * *

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Diarmad made his way to the dark corner of the inn where we waited. He was a solid man, gray hairs streaking his full beard and framing his iron-blue eyes. He said nothing, dragging the ancient stool on the other side of the table back with a dull scraping of wood on wood. He collapsed on top of it, and I wondered if it would hold the weight of him and the extra pounds of his great coat. He removed his cap and dropped it onto the table.

“Mr. Brodie, I presume,” said Carter. The man nodded.

“Diarmad will do,” he said. He glanced toward Rachel. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Do you know why we asked you here?”

“I’ve heard speculation from some of the men at the wharf. I take it you and your friends are in quite the rush to make whatever the destination it is that you seek, calling me here like this and offering to pay what you are.”

“We
are
in quite the rush, in fact. It is a matter of life or death.”

He pulled a pipe from inside his coat and lit it with a long wooden match. Soon the thick smoke of Scottish tobacco filled the air.

“Your business is your own,” he said between draws. “And if you pay the rate, I dunna care whether it is life or death, by the law or against it. My boat is good and true, and so is her captain. Where are you headed, and when do you need to get there?”

I exchanged a glance with Carter, and the old sailor not only saw it but deciphered its meaning. He threw his head back and howled with laughter. This continued for some time. Carter, for his part, showed no emotion.

“You don’t know, do you?”