No Light in August: Tales From Carcosa & the Borderland (Digital Horror Fiction Author Collection)
Authors: Digital Fiction
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Short Stories & Anthologies, #Short Stories, #British, #United States, #Single Authors
NO
LIGHT
IN
AUGUST
Tales
from Carcosa and the Borderland
By
R.L. Robinson
NO
LIGHT
IN
AUGUST
Tales
from Carcosa and the Borderland
By
R.L. Robinson
Collection
copyright © 2016 Digital Fiction Publishing Corp.
Stories
copyright © 2016 R.L. Robinson
Illustrations
copyright © 2016 Pedro Elefante
Edited
by: Christine Clukey Reece
All
rights reserved.
ISBN-13
(paperback): 978-1-927598-26-9
ISBN-13
(e-book): 978-1-927598-27-6
The
collection would not be possible without the help and contribution of Karen
Gubbins and Robert Cano.
Karen is
perhaps the best beta reader I’ve ever encountered. Her help and critical eye
proved invaluable in the creation of this collection.
Robert
Cano is one of the best writers and readers it has been my privilege to meet
and talk with. His support in this work has been invaluable.
Special
mention must also go to Christine Clukey Reece, an editor and friend who is
second to none.
My thanks
to you all.
To Andrew, Louise, Natalie, Levi, Andy (Welshy), Andy,
Dave, Maria, Iain and Nick. To Polly, Steven, Carmen, Jenny, Ciaran, Peter,
Ewan, Christopher, Tom and Michael and Martina. My friends, who remind me there
are good things in this world.
To my mother and father; although separated, both of
you were there for me when I did well and when I messed up.
I’ll never forget that and I can never repay it.
As I write
this introduction, the collection isn’t yet finished, but I write it for the
day it will be.
Growing up
I read a lot and nothing enticed my imagination more than horror, the
supernatural and the weird; hence this collection.
The
stories here span time, space and worlds. Carcosa and the King in Yellow are
with us everywhere and every
when
. To me they exist across all time and
space, have always existed and always will. They represent something elemental
and primal; the place where all is possible, even if you don’t want it to be
so.
It exists
as a reflection of us; the place where all devils come from. It is a hell where
the devils exist not
for
us, but
because
of us.
This is
easily the darkest work I’ve attempted to write and the decision to have it
illustrated was always foremost in my mind. To me illustrated collections have
a special, nostalgic significance.
Not all of
the stories here will appeal to everyone; perhaps the artwork will be the best
thing about it for some readers.
Nonetheless,
I invite you to take a trip through the borderland to Carcosa and spend some
time with the King’s subjects. Who knows…you might find you belong there with
the rest of us after all.
-
Vienna, July 2014
Hanging
from the cart’s iron bars, or else secure on top, were all manner of weird
things.
Whent
looked up, startled from his cleaning work as three men banged the door open and
strode into the tap room.
“My name
is Haran,” one said and gestured to the two behind him. “This is Foss and Iayn.
We need
ale and food and our horses stabled and fed for the night.”
“Hurry up
there,” Iayn said, sliding a chair noisily across the boards. “We’ve ridden
hard.” “Of course, of course,” Whent said hurriedly and ducked around the bar.
He filled three
tankards,
tipping the keg forward to drain what was left. “Where have you come from,
sirs?”
He placed
a tankard in front of each. Friendly chat was often the best way to deal with
men carrying good steel and the potential for violence.
“North of
here,” said Foss. “We sold our swords to Marshal Cray.” “You were hunting the
mutineers from the River Fort?”
“We were,”
said Haran, taking a mouthful of ale. “Found some, but the rest have turned
brigand and scattered across the country.”
“We heard,
though we’ve not seen any sign of them.” Nor did Whent think the town would
stand much of a chance if they did. A merchant passing through the day before
said he’d come across a village all burned out and with the townsfolk crucified
along their makeshift palisade.
“Damn
fools,” Iayn put in. “But then, the River Fort ain’t the best place to end up
soldiering.
Fuck all
there, for one thing.”
“Like as
not to break a man’s spirit and make him think about other uses his skills
might be put to,” said Foss.
Whent
looked the three men over before leaving for the kitchen to see what he could
scrounge up from the pantry. As he was raking the shelves for what he hoped the
three would find a satisfying meal, he thought about what his father had said
and what passed through the village days before.
Here in
the north, things are older
, he’d
said. Whent was just a boy then, not much older than four or five, but he
remembered it.
The
towns, the stories, and the memories all speak to an elder time, when people
feared what lurked in the night
. Aye,
that was true enough, and Whent knew many still did — and perhaps they were not
wrong to never stop.
Things
do still crawl near the frost fens because they, like the people, remember they
are supposed to.
Perhaps
they could explain it — they seemed like men of the world, and doubtless men
who sold their edged steel had seen and done much. Perhaps they would laugh at
his superstition and take him for a northern bumpkin who jumped at shadows.
Either
way, it would provide some entertainment and perhaps make up for any
disappointment they might feel about his cooking.
“Something
on your mind, innkeep?” Iayn asked as Whent lingered close to hand after
handing the plates over.
“Well,
sirs…it’s maybe nothing, but I have a story to tell you…thought you might have
heard something about it,” he said as he twisted his apron between his hands.
“Might be nothing, but it was right strange, so it was.”
Haran
stared into his tankard as if expecting more ale to mysteriously appear. “A lot
of strange things happen up here, but why not give us a refill and tell us,” he
said, picking up a sausage from his plate. “Distractions are hard to find.”
Whent did
as he was bid, and he poured a half for himself while he was at it. Pulling a
chair up, he took a drink to clear his throat before beginning.
“It was
about a fortnight ago; you see…”
Whent
could say nothing much happens in town. The odd passing wagon or rider, but
little else besides; about all the most regular visitors came from the farms
roundabout.
The mutiny
to come at the River Fort was only a rumor, talk of grumblings among the
garrison carried back to town by the men who supplied the soldiers’ food. It
wasn’t the first time they’d heard such things, so they paid them no mind.
Then one
day, a wagon man returning south told them there was a strange procession
coming down the road.
“They’ve
put in at the garrison,” he said. “Like as not, it might quiet ‘em down and set
‘em at
ease.”
“What kind
of procession?” someone asked.
“Looks
like a carnival, if ever I saw one.”
“Where’d
it come from?” Everyone knew there was precious little beyond the River Fort,
save the mountains and the savages who lived there.
“Who
knows?” he responded, gobbing some of his chew into the dust as he climbed into
the driver’s seat. “But it should be here by tomorrow.” He flashed a toothy
grin. “Strangest fuckin’ sight I ever laid eyes on.”
As the
wagon man said, they did indeed arrive in town the next day. They were heard
before they were seen — a jangle and creaking of wheels loud enough to carry
ahead of the procession.
A
scattering of townsfolk made their way into the thoroughfare to watch the
approach and were joined later by most others. When the carnival drew close
enough, it let out a blast of trumpets, together with a rhythmic drumbeat
underscoring the blaring horns.
The line
it formed wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small either. A thin man rode at its head
on a great horse, most likely bred for war.
He wore a
cloak that looked to have been ripped up and stitched back together, only with
different-colored cloth mending the tears. Red seemed to be his favorite choice
on that score, and as he rode into town, Whent saw his face was covered in dark
ink.
None of
the shapes and patterns made the least bit of sense; it was all swirls and
whorls.
Underneath
the ink, the man’s skin was an angry red, especially around his eyes.
Six men
trudged behind the rider; tall and wiry, they had a wolfish look about them and
seemed to stare hungrily at the crowd. But they weren’t the strangest sight,
not by a long way.
Pulled by
more men, each in harness, the center of the parade was taken up by a huge
cart. Though cart didn’t quite describe it — it was more like a wooden platform
on wheels, enclosed by iron bars. There was no roof, so the bars wobbled about
as it moved along.
Men and
woman capered around it, wearing grim parodies of carnival costume. Jesters in
black, with necklaces of bone trinkets dangling about them; dancers wearing
almost nothing, save for pelts.
The wagon
man was right. It was a strange sight.
A fire
breather tossed a pair of small birds in front of him and burned them from the
sky, the flames licking over the heads of the audience. He produced the same
birds again, seemingly from thin air.
Hanging
from the cart’s iron bars, or else secure on top, were all manner of weird
things.
Masks and
shoes, a pair of woman’s gloves, and the bleached ribcage of what could’ve been
a child for its size and shape.
There were
other bones too, all mismatched around it to make a bizarre and grotesque
skeleton. Someone had fixed a pair of rotting wings, pulled from
some great bird, to its back. A dog, or maybe wolf’s, head was transfixed onto
the bar above it all. Its tongue hung between its lips, frozen in something
that might have been a snarl.
“Is that
it?” asked Haran, now on his third ale.
“More or
less, but that ain’t the strangest thing ‘bout it.”
Iayn and
Foss exchanged a look. “Go on, then,” Foss offered.
“Well,
they performed somethin’, though I’d not claim to know what…seemed like a bit
of theatre and a bit of magic. The usual stuff; dancing, juggling, fire eating,
and the like…but it was all darker somehow.”
“I don’t see
where this is going,” said Iayn. “Well, it’s hard to put into words.”
“Then
don’t try,” put in Haran. “Just say whatever comes and don’t mind if it’s right
sounding.” The story and the ale had lulled them, but it looked like it
wouldn’t hold.
“They camped
outside of town for a night and moved on. They never took any payment or food
or nothin’, just left.”
That was
strange, Iayn thought. In his experience, performers of most stripes would have
the gold out of your teeth given half a chance. He saw that Foss and Haran
agreed.
“And
there’s been a strangeness in the air ever since,” Whent said, spreading his
arms at the empty taproom. “I’d be full on any normal night. People’s stayin’
away, and they’re snappin’ at each other more ‘an usual. Why, last night, Malick
— he’s the smith — he beat his wife half to death for no good reason.”
“Are you
saying they worked a spell?” asked Iayn.
“I’m a
god-fearin’ man, so I’d rather not say.” Whent hummed and hawed about
mentioning the tracks, then decided he probably should.
“What sort
of tracks?” Foss leaned back and belched, dumping his empty tankard on the table.
“Weren’t
like none I’ve seen…there weren’t no shape to them, but they were too
regular-like
to be
anythin’ else.” Whent rose and went to the mantle over the fire. He returned
with a bottle of brandy and poured a tot into each of their empty tankards.
“There was a mark on Malick’s door, near more of ‘em.” He traced a vague shape
in the air. “Made me think of the ink on the thin man.”
“If we see
them, we’ll give them a wide berth,” Iayn reassured him.
Whent
wanted to say that wasn’t why he was telling them about the carnival, but the
drink only served to muddle his head more than he’d intended.
They rode
out the next morning, heading south first before turning north again. “You were
right,” Foss said.
Iayn
didn’t reply, just kept looking straight ahead. “Sad to hear you doubted me.”
“Can’t blame a man for asking questions.”
“There’s
truth to that, I suppose.”
“You think
we should’ve stayed back there?” asked Haran.
“No
point,” Iayn said as he looked over to where the town was, though it was now
hidden behind some hills. “Won’t be anything left of it before too long.”
The other
two didn’t question Iayn. Once they might have, but after what they’d seen
around the River Fort and surrounds, the impetus to do so was gone. It still
kept them up some nights, and none of them could be said to be soft about such
things.
Marshal
Cray was still further north with the bulk of the regulars and free swords.
Most of the mutineers were run to ground now, but not all. Not the leader, who
survivors had identified as a thin, tattooed man — a deserter with no name. The
fact that no one had stopped him spoke to mutiny over a single night, and the
countryside had been burning before anyone realized it.
“What do
you reckon about this rabble he’s picked up?” Haran asked.
“Hard to
say, but I doubt they’re from the garrison. No women there, for one thing.”
“Hill
people?”
“Or fen
folk, maybe.”
Whatever
the answer, they had the trail; a group that big left one that a blind man
could follow. It just didn’t make sense why they were turning north again.
The land
became more hilly as they rode into the far north once again, returning to
places each would rather forget. The ground alternated between rolling hills
and deep valleys where the frost fens started. Their horses kicked up clods of
damp earth as they went, forced to wander into the fens because the trail led
there.
“Why
wouldn’t they take the high ground?” Foss guided his horse through tricky
water, tugging the reins to keep the animal steady. “Firmer going, for one.”
“Trying to
reason out what mad folk do leads you down the same road,” said Haran. “You’d
know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s
more than just madness about these people,” Iayn put in. There was magic in the
world, of course. Neither good nor bad, it depended on the person who used it.
They’d just never seen it for themselves.
Perhaps
they were starting to believe.
The deeper
they went into the fens, the more the land began to age. It felt as if the
places they rode through might not have been disturbed for an age, save for the
passing of the troupe they followed.
Few sane
men would travel so far. The fen folk were not known for their hospitality.
“How the
fuck could they get a wagon or whatever it was through this?” Haran’s horse was
ready to drop; they’d pushed too hard; it was impossible to coax more out the
animals.
“It
doesn’t matter, we’re close.” Foss pointed ahead.
Mist rose
from the fen, but a shape resolved itself, seeming to grow out of the cloud. It
was a figure, upright and arms flung wide apart. Pulling ahead, Foss saw it was
not one figure, but several; or rather, the pieces of several. Crudely stitched
together, the collection was lashed to a crude cross.
