Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (14 page)

I had almost come to believe that this might be the most ancient of evils, the Great Deceiver himself. But the thing has memories even older than the time of ice, memories of a time when it was but a servant of something vast and strange ... memories of a
creator
that I do not recognise as being anything resembling my Lord. I am at a loss to know what to think of this new information and must question the beast further.

I have learned one other thing. The
creators
gave it a name, a moniker by which it recognises itself. It is known as
Shoggoth
.

From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 14th August 1535.

We will make port on the morrow. It matters little, for the dream is with us now in every waking hour and no distance from the beast will make any difference. It has passed on to us so completely that we will never be free from it. Nor would we wish anything other. Indeed, I am not the only one who has found himself standing over the lead casket, just to be closer to the blessed, drifting peace it offers.

There is no pain in the dream, no fear, no hunger, just the sweet forever of the dead god beneath.

I have talked to the crew. We will do our duty and take our captive to the castle. But we will no longer work for the Church after this task is done. I intend to set sail again as soon as night falls. There is a spot in the South Seas where a dead god lies dreaming.

We will find him and join him there.

From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535.

I wish now that I had read Santoro’s journal a mere hour sooner, for then I might have been able to prevent the
Santa Angelo
slipping out of port under cover of night and I might have been able to question the crew as to the nature of the malady that so sore afflicted them.

For I, too, have been dreaming.

I am not alone. We float, mere shadows, scores – nay, tens of scores of us – in a cold, silent sea. I am aware that others are near to me, but I have no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below me, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection.

And something deep in those ruins knows I am there.

But it is of no matter. The beast is now in my thrall and its secrets shall be mine before the day is out. They will have to be, for I fear I have been lax in my
inquisitions.
Even as I have been burning my will into the beast’s flesh, so it has been leaving its mark on me. This morning, at my ablutions, I discovered a fleck of blackness betwixt thumb and finger that no amount of scraping will shift. It has now covered most of my left hand, forcing me to wear a glove lest it is discovered. For, if the Inquisitor General were to find out I am
tainted
, my questioning would be brought to an abrupt end and that I cannot allow.

The beast
will
reveal its secrets.

I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.

By order of the Inquisitor General, 28th August 1535.

It is our command, on this day of our Lord the twenty and eighth of August, that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported shall be taken to the place of the
Auto de-fé
and burned at the stake, alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.

It is further commanded that, if the
Santa Angelo
is found in Spanish waters, it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands, and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.

Any persons found spreading the sedition of the
Dreaming God
shall be subjected to the full force of the
Inquisition
.

Let this be the end of the matter.

The Lord wills it.

William Meikle
is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series, among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland, with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters, he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace, so please check him out at
williammeikle.com
.

The author speaks:
I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of the Spanish Inquisition and Man’s inhumanity to Man in the name of religion. I’ve been searching for awhile for the right concept to introduce them into a story, and when I had a dream about Conquistadors finding something in a temple in the jungle, something with questions of its own, I just had to write it.

THE FAR DEEP

Joshua Reynolds 

I
t was the Year of Our Lord 1571 and John of Austria was dancing a galliard on the gun platform of the
Real
. Men crowded the decks of the vessels – Italian, Spanish and corsair alike – that made up the Grand Fleet of the Holy League to watch as their admiral succumbed to youthful enthusiasm for the coming battle.

On the far flank, aboard the Maltese galley
St. Elmo
, Francisco Felluci, Knight Hospitaller, late of Venice, said, “He is dancing.” His much-battered, ornate armour creaked in sympathy with the rigging overhead as he turned to glance at his man-at-arms, Agostino. “Dancing.”

“Who?” Agostino was a bulky Sicilian, with one good eye and a cleft cheek, through which yellow teeth were visible. He rubbed absently at the crude patch that covered the memory of the Turkish bullet that had taken his eye at the battle of St. Elmo.

Felluci had been there as well, in those mad final hours, locked sword-to-sword with the Janissaries pouring over the walls, until a bullet had shattered his ribs and sent him into the water. It was Agostino who had helped him swim to safety after stripping him of his armor, beneath the thunder of Turkish guns.

“The Austrian whelp, who else?” Felluci said, sighing. “This is a farce.”

“I thought it was a fleet,” Agostino said. Felluci fixed him with a glare, but the one-eyed man took no notice.

“A farce,” Felluci said again, teeth bared. “Why are we even here?”

“To sink the ambitions of the Turk?” Agostino said innocently.

“Ha!” Felluci tore off his peaked helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Stop that, or I’ll put you down with the galley slaves.”

Agostino shuddered. “I’d rather kiss the Sultan’s rear.”

“Hrm,” Felluci said, replacing his helmet. “You might get the opportunity, at that. This is going to be bad.”

“They always are.” Agostino hefted his arquebus and sighted down the barrel. “Still, no call to mope. God will provide.”

“Whose God? Ours or theirs?”

“Does it matter?” Agostino shrugged. “Religion is a cloak. Wear it, or another, as you see fit, sir.”

“Blasphemy,” Felluci murmured, staring out at the coastline of Lepanto. The Sicilian was right, of course. Many was the Knight who had been a Janissary, or vice-versa. One master or another, one god or the next, when it came down to the sword-edge, it seemed to matter not at all. He sighed again and set a boot on the rail. Resting his forearms across his knee, he turned from the spectacle of a Christian admiral dancing like a madman and towards the approaching fleet of the House of Osman.

The great emerald banner of Islam, shot through with golden thread, flapped in the sun over the red-hulled ship carrying the admiral of the Turkish fleet. A low thudding, as deep as the ocean’s heart, rang out, accompanied by the blaring cacophony of
zornas
and cymbals from the ships of the enemy fleet. Distant figures clad in extraordinary colours stalked the decks of the swift-moving galleys surging forth from Lepanto, calling out the twenty-nine thousand names of God and shouting verses from the Koran.

On the vessels of the Holy League, it was much the same. The sky-blue banner blessed by the Pope, himself, was unfurled from the mast of the
Real
. Men roared imprecations in Spanish and Italian, and trumpets warred with the drums of the timekeepers. The sun caught the polished breastplates and helmets of the troops, creating a blinding sheen of brightness that threatened the eyes of any who looked too closely.

One fleet coming to challenge the other’s control of the Middle Sea and the center of the world. It was a sight to stir the blood.

Felluci, who preferred his blood unstirred and safely in his veins, made a sound of disgust. “Farce,” he said again.

“You said that about St. Elmo, as well,” someone said. Felluci winced and turned as Henri Argustier, the commander of the galley, strode towards them. “And look how that turned out.”

“A bloody massacre?” Felluci said. Argustier, a stern French knight with a disapproving countenance, frowned.

“A God-sent triumph,” he corrected.

“St. Elmo fell,” Felluci said. “If that’s your idea of triumph, I’d hate to see a defeat.”

“Your cynicism verges on defeatism,
Venetian
,” Argustier said, emphasizing the last word. “But then, your people never had the stomach for battle, did they?”

“I prefer to eat tastier fare,” Felluci said. “Did you strike the slaves’ shackles?”

Argustier snorted, showing what he thought of that idea. The general order to free all slaves of Christian bent was being tacitly ignored by several commanders – including Argustier, apparently. Felluci frowned.

“We were ordered–”

“The Austrian can spit, for all I care,” the French knight said. “We serve only the Order.”

“And the Pope,” Agostino said quietly. Argustier shot him a withering glare, but nodded brusquely.

“And the Holy Father. Of course.”

“Amen,” Felluci said. He drew his sword. “I’ll go free them, then.” Slavery – whether the victim was Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or pagan – was a fact of life in the Middle Sea. Galleys needed crews and volunteers were in short supply. Felluci found the entire concept detestable, but was far too practical to protest openly. He had no slaves of his own, not even before he’d lost his estates to the Doge’s whim. And after he’d joined the Order, he’d kept that practice. Agostino was his only servant and one servant like Agostino was often one too many.

“You’ll do nothing but man your post,” Argustier barked. “The last thing we need is galley revolt. They’ll stay chained until I say otherwise. And that fisherman we took earlier, as well.”

“Of course,” Felluci said, after a moment, glancing at the mast. The fisherman was a Cypriot Greek, small and wiry. He looked more tired than frightened, even tied to the mast as he was. A number of fishing boats had been taken by the fleet, both to prevent any possible warning to the Turks and to learn what could be known about the disposition of the enemy fleet.

So far, any useful information had been less than forthcoming. The Greek was unlettered, unkempt and pig-ignorant. He knew next to nothing, save that the Turk was there and the Holy League was here and the fishermen on this section of coast were trying to be anywhere other than in-between them.

Sensible enough, Felluci supposed. He sheathed his sword with a flourish and bowed his head to Argustier. “Forgive me my presumption, Brother-Commander.”

Argustier made a noise, but turned away, apparently satisfied. He looked at the fisherman. “Filthy pagan. Should burn him here; let the Moslems see what awaits them at the end of the day.”

“Probably not worth setting our boat on fire,” Felluci said. Argustier turned back.

“I see you set to looting early,” he said, smiling crookedly. Felluci started and looked down at the small golden ornament hanging from his sword-belt. It was an ugly thing: chunky but gold through and through.

The Cypriot had been carrying a number of such trinkets. Primitive iconry, wrapped in burlap and hidden beneath his catch, wet with salt and covered in fish scales. The priest onboard, a phlegmatic Genoese who was more interested in drink than judgment, had shrugged when they were revealed, saying that the men of the Ionian Sea were heretics and pagans, and often threw things – foodstuffs, mostly – into the water to placate their heathen gods.

Felluci had thought the bauble too valuable to feel the sea’s embrace and had, along with a dozen other sailors, swiped his share from the lot, pitiful as it was.

The Greek hadn’t protested, beyond an initial panic. Either he wasn’t a man of strong faith, or he was easily resigned. Now, he stared at the water beyond the deck rails, his eyes following the movement of the waves.

Felluci shuddered, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the way the man looked to the sea, with a longing that wasn’t quite right. Like a saint approaching the pyre.

“Well, when the battle starts, take him down to the rowing benches. We’ll need extra men before long,” Argustier said.

“Of course.” Felluci looked at the fisherman and felt a stab of pity mingle with the disgust. He was a stupid brute, by his look, closer to the fish he caught in nature than the men around him. Pop-eyed and wide-mouthed, his skin had been turned rough by the sun and weather. If he survived the battle, he was destined for a life chained to an oar.

Something about the man’s face, though, pulled at Felluci’s attention. Something familiar. On impulse, he looked down at the icon. He gave a grunt of realization.

It was a bad likeness of anything living, but if it could be said to resemble anything, it was the fisherman. He blinked, wondering what to make of the unusual coincidence.

As if aware of Felluci’s attentions, the Cypriot looked up, his dull eyes fastening on the stolen trinket. Felluci brushed it with his fingers and the man’s eyes lit up. He opened his mouth, displaying snaggle teeth. The expression reminded Felluci of a shark’s grin and he felt his blood curdle. He turned to Agostino. “Stay beside me. When the battle starts, I mean.”

“Never fear, sir. I’ll guard your back.”

“It’s not my back I’m worried about. Stand to my front, if you please. Be sure to absorb as many shots as you can. Any slacking and I’ll pitch you overboard.”

“My master is kind.”

“Yes. Any other knight would have swept your truculent head from your shoulders by now.” Felluci watched the Turkish fleet draw closer. He looked back at the fisherman. The Greek hung from his bonds, head bowed, apparently dozing, now. “Hnh,” Felluci grunted. “How anyone can sleep –”

Agostino chuckled. “When you’re poor, you catch sleep where you can.”

“Before a battle?”

“He’s probably slept through storms.” Agostino looked over the side. “Speaking of which … the waters here are dark,” Agostino said. “Ever seen them so dark, sir?”

Felluci glanced at the water. Silvery shapes cut through its dim reaches. Fish, he thought, scattering out of the path of the two fleets. Much like the men who sought to net them. It wasn’t as funny as it should have been. He shivered as the shapes darted to and fro, just out of easy sight. “No. But considering the noise we’re making, I have no doubt we’ve stirred up the ocean bottom something fierce.”

“Or something fierce from the ocean bottom,” Agostino said. “I knew a fisherman once, who used to use a gong rather than a net. He used to sound it just over the deep water and things’d swim upwards to investigate. ‘Bigger the gong,’ he said, ‘bigger the catch.’”

“If we lose the battle, maybe we can make our money selling the catch, then,” Felluci said, smiling. Agostino shook his head, but said nothing. “So, what happened to him?” Felluci said.

“Caught something he couldn’t handle,” Agostino grunted. Before he could say more, the ocean heaved and screamed and the battle started, so swiftly that they almost missed it. The first Felluci knew of it was a series of bright flashes, as if someone were throwing jewelry into the sea. For a moment, Felluci was reminded of the baubles hidden on the Cypriot’s boat, wet and filthy. And then came the roar.

It was as if some great titan had awoken, angered and in pain. A vast, sweeping bellow of sound, a sheer wall of noise that rocked Felluci to his core. Then came the shriek of splintering wood and the screams of dying men, as iron balls shredded the decks of the opposing fleets. Galleys burst asunder, as Felluci watched, literally exploding up into the air and dropping back into the water as huddled masses of wreckage.

Black smoke coiled on the wind as the Venetian galleasses ranging ahead of the fleet raked the Turkish formation with a withering cannonade at one hundred and fifty yards. The warships were armoured so heavily that they rode low on the water and, with every belch of cannon fire, they rocked back a little.

Felluci, overcome with a sudden nationalistic fervor, pounded the rail with his gauntlet, shouting “St. Mark! St. Mark!” The feeling passed soon enough, washed away by the sheer carnage being meted out.

The sea was soon covered in bodies, yardarms, water casks, powder barrels, and jetsam of all kinds as ships clashed in a nightmare of smoke and fire. Cannons gave vent to pent-up fury as ships swung around each other in a mad dance.

While the roar settled into a thunderous, omnipresent growl, Felluci steadied himself on the writhing deck and happened to glance towards the mast and the Cypriot. The Greek was awake now, mouth gaping in what might have been either a scream or a song.

“What is that heathen shrieking about?” Argustier snapped, turning from the battle, his cloak flapping. “Someone quiet him!”

“One more scream in this won’t make a difference,” Felluci said, though not loudly. No sense straining his voice, not when his brother-knight wasn’t actually listening. And, for his part, he didn’t want to get any closer to the fisherman than he had to.

Something about that scream, about the way it seemed to ride the roar of the ocean and turn back in on itself, made Felluci’s spine quiver. It wasn’t a cry of fear, or anger. Not entirely, at least.

“God almighty,” Agostino mumbled, visibly resisting the desire to fire his arquebus into the bound man. “He sounds like – ah ….”

“What?” Felluci said, but Agostino simply hunched in on himself, shaking his head. The crew began to mutter among themselves. War-hardened men, yet the screams of a fisherman were setting their nerves at odds.

The Cypriot continued to scream, tongue waggling behind his teeth like a fish trapped in a reef. He strained at his bonds and jerked back and forth, stomping his foot rhythmically on the deck. For a moment, just a moment, Felluci thought that he could hear an answering sound to the mad wail emerging from the fisherman’s throat.

Almost as if something were knocking on the wooden hull of the galley in response. His fingers found the bauble. It felt so cold that it was almost warm. He could feel it through the stiff leather of his gauntlet. Like something that had been buried in the silt for so long that it had absorbed something of the chill of the ocean bottom. Felluci yanked his hand away, but couldn’t lose the chill. It climbed his arm and settled in his head.