Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (18 page)

Holmes nodded, gazing expectantly at Wilmarth.

“I am reluctant to tell you why I asked you to come, even after your argument in favor of a world unknown to our senses and anathematic to our sensibilities,” Wilmarth said. “I hesitated before I mailed the letter, then wished I had not. It may turn out to be no more than an old man’s fears.”

“I am here, and I shall be here at least a week, so you might as well put aside your reluctance and tell me,” Holmes said. He set his empty glass on a side table, leaned back in the chair, rested his chin upon his steepled  fingertips, and puffed upon his pipe, sending noxious fumes swirling upward. “Tell me everything, from the beginning, leaving out nothing.”

“The beginning,” Wilmarth mused, settling back, more at ease because of Holmes’ encouragement. “I suppose it started about five months ago, at least that was the first time I saw the creature, though at the time I did not think it was anything but a large and malformed bird. This house is the northernmost settled point of St John Island, though a full third of the island lies beyond. For the most part it is uninhabitable, a collection of jagged peaks, sheer cliffs and treacherous shoals. No one braves it now, either by boat or by rope, but there are many megalithic ruins out there, remnants of an unknown culture that worshiped creatures of sea and air.

“As you might have surmised, this house is usually surrounded by mist, which has probably contributed to its ill repute among the islanders. When I took possession, it had been vacant for more than two years, and in all that time no one had approached it, not even wee boys to cast stones at the windows. Also, no local would come to work here, so I was lucky Emerson wanted to make a break with London and have a place where he could pursue his studies.”

“Did the surviving Camshronack heir have the same problem?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, but she had a woman who did for her, last of the old manor servants,” Wilmarth said. “The Camshronack family never had many servants, even when old Angus Camshronack, her father, ruled over what remained of the family estate. No one wanted to work here, but the lairds of the manor always held some kind of sway over the people. A little of that remains still—a hesitation to speak against or disrespect a Camshronack, a sort of deference born of fear—but none living can say why that is. I, however, am not a Camshronack, just the balmy old man from London foolish enough to take a house that should have been left to the elements.

“As I said, the house is usually surrounded by mist. While the village is hardly ever seen, nor the cliffs east or west, the same is not true for the north. At twilight, the wind patterns change slightly, driving the mist away from the house, allowing a view of the stars and, often, the northern reaches of the island. It was on one of those nights that I first saw the creature.”

Wilmarth paused and poured himself another brandy. His hand shook slightly as he brought the glass to his lips.

“I first saw it against a moonlit cloud, nothing but a silhouette,” he continued. “It was larger than any bird I ever saw. Though it was difficult to estimate its true size at that distance, I thought it likely larger than even the condor of the South American Andes. It was seen and gone in a moment of time. I dismissed it as a trick of light and distance, an illusion of the upper airs, and there my conclusion would have remained had I not spied it again, just three days later. It was closer then and remained in sight longer, but, again, it was little more than a silhouette. From those sightings and the others that followed, I produced a drawing…to the best of my ability.”

Wilmarth rose from his chair, crossed the room to a massive oak desk and returned with a sketch on parchment. He gave it to Holmes for examination, hesitated as if he felt a need to say more, then sat down in silence.

Holmes gazed at the drawing. It was a crude representation, the product of a man unschooled in art but well trained as an observer of nature. It was an image that possessed power and presence, a primitive sort of energy. Holmes was certain it was exactly what Wilmarth had seen. The shape was generally anthropomorphic, yet at the same time nebulous, as if it were composed of congealed black mist, whipped at the edges by frigid swirls of wind. It possessed hugely disproportionate hands and feet, all with a sort of smoky webbing. Its eyes glowed like embers and its mouth was a ravenous maw. Its most distinctive feature, however, was a set of wings that swept outward with some of the characteristics found in bats, yet were leathery like the pterosaurs of ages lost, and also possessed something of the aquatic, as if it could soar through the depths of the sea as easily as it navigated the upper air, and beyond. The image struck a note of familiarity in Holmes.

“No wonder you were so affected when you learned the name Captain Camshronack gave his steamer,” Holmes said. “I thought it significant only because it pointed to a connection between the man and the Cthulhu Cult. It is the being called Ithaqua, mentioned in the
Necronomicon
, and featured prominently in some of the other manuscripts under your purview at the British Museum.”

Wilmarth sighed. “You do not know how relieved I am to hear you say that, Holmes, for I had begun to think I might be struck by the dementia that often accompanies age.” He leaned back and sighed again. “No, I delude myself. I asked you here because I feared for my sanity, hoped you might dispel my doubts, but I see now that you have done nothing of the sort. I feel it represents exactly what has plagued me these several months, but your verification that it is one of the gods of the
Necronomicon
, a minion of Cthulhu, does not give it reality. At most, it confirms there might be a place for me amongst the artists of Bedlam, alongside other lunatics who use line and shape to lend verisimilitude to their ravings, who paint fairies and chronicle nightmares.”

“Do not agitate yourself so, Professor,” Holmes counseled. “I have seen the many faces of madness, and I do not consider you a madman. Although lunacy often adopts a mask of lucidity, it is a disguise that cannot deceive the truly analytical eye, which, most unfortunately, few alienists possess, thus bearers of the truth are often locked up while the delusional are left to walk among us, and at times even govern us.”

“Oh, Holmes,” Wilmarth said wearily. “You have no idea how much your words soothe my troubled spirit. You have lifted a great burden from my mind, but your assurances now lead us to even more disturbing aspects, for this manifestation of Ithaqua does not end with mere sightings of the creature.” He paused. “There have been deaths.”

Holmes nodded, thinking of the vague sense of terror he had observed in the aspects of the islanders, and of the way they had reacted to the sudden reappearance of the man who had called his ship after one of the ancient lords of the
Necronomicon
.

III

See the North Wind Rise

“It began shortly after my first sighting of the creature in the far north of the island,” Wilmarth began. “As you know, most of the islanders have small freeholds and pasturages where they raise a few head of goat or sheep, mostly for milk and cheese, but occasionally for butchering. After my second sighting—about a week after the first—Emerson brought back a tale from the village of a dead sheep found on one of the plots.”

“How was it killed?” Holmes asked.

“Emerson reported that it had been thoroughly savaged, as if by some great beast, but no part of it was missing,” Wilmarth replied. “As you might surmise, there are no natural predators on St John, discounting the ospreys and other birds of prey that dive for fish, or scavengers that sometimes swarm the fishing boats. A large raptor might conceivably bring down a full grown sheep, but it would not attack without feasting. This has happened several times over the past few months, always when I have observed the creature flying in the moonlight above the island, cavorting around the ancient rings of standing stones or near the places which have an old repute for being the temples and sacrificial sites of the island’s long-vanished aboriginal inhabitants.”

“The loss of some goats and sheep, no matter how bizarre the circumstances or horrific the manner of death, would not account for the look of subdued terror I observed in the islanders,” Holmes said. “Nor can it be laid at the feet of the prodigal Camshronack. There have been human deaths, I presume?”

Wilmarth nodded. “Two deaths. The first was Ned Copper, one of the fishermen. Ten weeks ago he was found in the high street at dawn, ravaged as if he had been torn apart, but there was nothing missing from the body. Despite the reluctance of the villagers to call on outsiders, they summoned the constable from the mainland, not that he did much good, either to explain the death or to soothe nerves. When Alfie Nevins, a baker, died three weeks later, no one bothered to send for the constable.

“According to Emerson, Alfie stepped outside the pub, a few other lads right behind him. By the time the second fellow heading home was out the door, Alfie was nowhere to be seen. He was found the following morning, in one of the plots, body ravaged like Ned’s, and the sheep.” Wilmarth sighed. “He was a good chap, one of the first to take to me and Emerson when we arrived, the reason others forsook their island sensibilities and did not connect the ill repute of the manor to us. Some of the lads claimed to hear the sweep of enormous wings in the night, but they had been drinking heavily. Were we to go to the village now, mist rising and night falling, the streets would be empty except for the drunk and the foolish. No one wants to believe in the truth of what the men said, but no one has the courage to disbelieve. The oldest villagers now whisper of the times when the family that lived here dominated their daily lives, but no one dares speak of it openly.”

“You’ve not told Emerson of your observations, your fears?”

“He’s a good man, more intelligent that a porter has a right to be, and his loyalty has edged into a sort of friendship,” Wilmarth mused. “But share my fears? What I thought were delusions?” He shook his head. “He knows no more than the villagers, but is not as terrified. Even after assisting me in my researches, correlating the links between folklore and ancient religions, between arcane tomes and the modern world, he remains a surprisingly pragmatic and level-headed man. I think it helps that he has found solace in the realm of chemical research, mostly the non-organic compounds.”

“He has a laboratory then?” Holmes asked.

“Oh, yes, a very complete one,” Wilmarth replied. “Financing it was the least I could do, considering he…”

A new sound suddenly lanced through the wind-filled night, a booming voice chanting in a guttural, inhuman tongue. Wilmarth and Holmes looked at each other, both recognizing the words. They were taken from the pages of the blasted
Necronomicon
, a book no islander should have had in his possession, the nearest copy residing in a double-locked vault in the recesses of the British Museum. The incantations were familiar to both, but only Holmes recognized the voice as belonging to the recently returned Captain Camshronack.

The tempo and the tone of the chanting voice increased. As if in response, the wind around the mist-bound manor swirled faster and shook the study windows until it seemed they would surely burst from their frames. Then, above Camshronack’s voice and the rising wind from the north there came another sound, the rhythmic beating of giant wings.

“What does it mean, Holmes?” Professor Wilmarth demanded.

“It means Captain Camshronack’s subterfuge for coming to St John is revealed,” Holmes declared. “Having lost everything, he seeks to regain it through an invocation of Ithaqua. He first tried five months ago.”

“When I first spied the creature,” Wilmarth blurted.

“He succeeded only in calling it back to his ancient home, where his forefathers once enforced its cult among the islanders.”

“That would explain the ill repute this house…”

“We must stop Camshronack, for his own good,” Holmes said.

“I don’t understand.”

“He thinks he can appeal to Ithaqua for a restitution of his familial status and control of the islanders, but he is a fool,” Holmes said. “He admitted the Brotherhood of Thieves was after him, in addition to the Tsar’s secret police, but neglected to specify the ‘great evil’ he committed while in the Russian prison camp.”

“Something to do with the cult of Ithaqua?”

Holmes nodded. “A blood sacrifice, likely members of the Brotherhood. It never occurred to him, when he left his home to seek wealth and power in the world, he also abandoned Ithaqua. Beings like Ithaqua cannot survive without worship. Without it, they enter a state like hibernation. His sacrifice summoned it here, but there was no propitiation, only rage. On his lower back he is marked with the glyph of Ithaqua, a tattoo likely the heritage of this island and his family since it is of no known school of inking, but that will not save him. Ithaqua has grown impatient waiting, has been unable to sate itself with sheep, and even men, has been unable to engender the worship it once enjoyed, which was the birthright, and the responsibility, of Clan Camshronack. Only the most elderly of villagers recall the old ways, and that is not enough to bring about the worship needed by Ithaqua. Camshronack took the sigil, named his ship after the creature, and probably even propagated its cult among ignorant savages, thinking he still curried the creature’s good will.”

“But he left his family for the outside world,” Wilmarth said, finally catching the drift of Holmes’ reasoning. “His action weakened the family, leading to its downfall and the abandonment of the Ithaqua cult. All that remained was a sister who wanted no more than to hide from the evil of her own family.”