Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (4 page)

Cha Né had taken no pleasure in this profanation of his role as shaman. Yet nor could he deny its necessity. He had intended Henry Johnson’s madness to serve as warning so that others would not follow. He had done the unthinkable to protect the tribes under his care from an indescribable fate. He would do the same again.

For all that, Cha Né knew now that he had failed.

He had observed the progress of this new intruder from his perch upon the Sun-drenched Cliffs. Montague Evans had reached the Plains of Frozen Light, guided by cloying words of promise from behind the Endless Gate. In this world, the invented world, he could be no more than two days from the worldly shadow of the Gate. Then, in dreams, he would also reach its true form.

Already there were signs that he was succumbing to the ruinous thing waiting for him. Already the battle seemed half lost.

For it was something more and less than a man he’d seen there, staring back from the far cliffs. Montague Evans’s dream-self was changing.

Day 27

Last night, in my dreams, I looked out over a vast plain. Great, mottled cysts rose from its surface, which otherwise was glassy and radiant. Amongst these curious mounds, crystalline towers reached into colorless skies. Those edifices were carved in perfect yet nonsensical angles, as if manufactured according to some altogether inhuman geometry. Their upper levels were pitted by what I told myself must have been windows, though I could see no other means of ingress.

In my reverie, I imagined a voice. I knew it was in my mind—but that it wasn’t
only
in my mind. Nor were there really words as such, rather a current of sound that somehow held meaning. I can’t even truly say that I heard it. For I had no sense of either mind or body, and such terms do little justice to what I felt myself to be. In waking, I find it all but impossible to explain. Our language is hopelessly ill-suited for such things.

I spent an indeterminate time crossing that plain, just as, in reality, we’d traversed the plateau of the Lam through the previous day. Other than the voice, there was no sound, no sign of any presence. The surface beneath me was adamantine. There was no sun in the sky, no stars. I progressed at a steady pace, moving as if through the exercise of will.

Eventually, with no clear sense of time having passed, I came to the edge of the mesa. So far, my experience had been not wholly unpleasant, at worst like the queasiness that accompanies the first decline into real drunkenness. Now, abruptly, it veered toward the nightmarish.

Before me, a great sinkhole interrupted the landmass on which I stood. Upon its far side, a sequence of steps joined the higher and lower levels—or what appeared to be steps, for their excruciating size meant that no man could have used them so. At the crater’s base swam a fluid of rainbow color, which swirled with unreasonable currents and eddies. All around the basin, cliffs of an opalescent substance ran, shining brilliantly.

None of those details were frightful. Indeed, the liquid and the cliffs surrounding it were startling and splendid. No, the object that filled me with fear—and much worse, with recognition—stood at the base of that distant, gigantic stairway. At the point where it met the luminous waters of the lake, two columns reared. They were of black rock, polished yet unreflective, seeming almost to absorb the light. Hieroglyphs engraved the twin obelisks from base to tip. I couldn’t read them, nor even identify them, yet they filled me with dread.

Even the columns, however, awful in their way, weren’t the true source of my terror. Rather, it was what lay within them. Another kind of blackness was spread between the pillars of black rock. It wasn’t simply an absence of light, or that there was nothing there. Instead, there stretched an endless void—not the lack of space but its absolute reflection.

And there was worse, even than that. The voice in my head, the not-sound I’d unquestioningly followed—it issued from that impossible dimension. It’s meaning, now, was almost clear. I knew it had led me here, and for a reason.

I was helpless. Whatever purpose I’d been summoned for, I would certainly have played my part—had I been alone.

The realization crept upon me slowly. I was being watched. The figure was hard to distinguish, for it perched upon the precipice to my left and shone in similar manner. At that distance, it was as if someone held a mirror up to the sun. However, somehow I felt sure that this image of light was another presence.

Just then, a whim made me think to look down at myself. Or was it more than that? It was as though a message had reached me from that strange being upon the far cliff. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the thought that I should examine my own form, which before had been so shadowy and ethereal.

No longer. Now it was quite as solid as the ground beneath me. In color, or absence of color rather, it was like the twin pillars. My torso was reminiscent of a shell, armored with great, interlocking plates. I raised my hand. It was a hand no longer. Like my body, it was encrusted, and my fingers were gone—fused into a great pincer.

Strange to tell, in my dream none of this dismayed me. I must have been monstrous, and the memory chills me now. But there was something in the tone of that ever-present voice from beyond the gate that lulled my doubts. More than that—it flattered me.

I can’t say for certain what roused me then. Amidst so much awfulness, what detail stirred enough revulsion to jolt me into wakefulness? I wish I knew.

For sooner or later, I’ll have to sleep again. If I understood what might wake me from such half-known terrors, perhaps the prospect would appall me less.

=[]=

Cha Né had spent the afternoon in preparation.

In shallow dreams, he had hunted upon the shadow-lake for Shanoctoc, hoping against hope that his only agent in the Otherworld hadn’t truly abandoned him. When Henry Johnson had encroached upon the Endless Gate, the shaman and his spirit guide had consulted for two days, planning for every eventuality. Could the approaching threat really be so much worse? Could it intimidate even such a thing as Shanoctoc?

Cha Né woke with no answers to his questions. Angry and dispirited, he’d begun to make arrangements of his own. He had already gathered the ingredients he’d need. The base constituent was water from the lake, for it belonged almost as much to the Otherworld as to his own. The most powerful was the root of the Malaka, which grew in a single patch upon the far shore. But there were many other components, most virulent if used in the wrong proportions, and so the process of preparation was a slow one.

Finally, Cha Né removed his loincloth and his ceremonial garments, retaining only the charms he wore around his neck. Naked and squatting before the blazing hearth, he proceeded to rub the ointment into his body and face. Only when he was sure that he was entirely coated did he allow himself to relax, to meditate.

He felt the salve begin to dry, to work itself subtly within him. The pain rose slowly—until the heat beneath his flesh exceeded the blast of the fire without.

Cha Né held himself still. He remained calm. And eventually, the pain subsided. The heat inside him faded; so did the warmth from outside. All sensation died, by slow degrees. At first, it was like falling out of the world, like sinking into numbing water. But even those comparisons required feelings that, moment by moment, were lost to him.

Then unexpectedly, abruptly, it was over. The descent into deepest trance, the near-death of mind and body, was complete.

When Cha Né opened his eyes again, it was within the Otherworld.

Day 28

Eventful as they’ve been, only now do I find a moment to write of these last two days.

Yesterday we passed through the lands of the Lam. The tribe did nothing to hinder us, and we saw little sign of their presence. We camped without disturbance, and early this morning came upon the edge of the plateau.

I confess that I’d been expecting further bad dreams during the night, and their absence had left me in good cheer, perhaps even a little giddy. Yet as I looked out from those jungle-trimmed heights, the excitement turned to ashes in my mouth.

The view was unmistakably that of my nightmares from the night before. Across from us, where the cyclopean steps had descended, a river tumbled through the brush. The waters of the lake, whilst not so variedly colored, were of equally vivid blues and greens. The cliffs were of similar proportions, though of unspectacular grey stone. As for the two black pillars, I saw two great rocks, one to either side of the distant river at the point where it met the lake.

Once the first flush of alarm had passed, I forced myself to consider how my imagination had so accurately anticipated geography I’d never seen. Surely, my subconscious mind must have pieced together details from Johnson’s journal and the crude maps drawn by Middleton. It was hard to believe, but I could think of no other rational explanation.

Just as I’d managed to calm myself, the Lam descended upon us.

In my state of agitation, I almost fired on them with my revolver. I might really have done so if Harris hadn’t caught my arm. As soon as he did, I realized what the others had seen already; we were not being threatened. No man in the delegation was less than ancient. They were the tribal elders, and they wanted only to talk.

Without our guides, however, even that was no easy task. I managed as well as I could with my smattering of the language. As far as I could tell, they were trying to warn me. I say that without egotism, for they spoke to no one else, though I’d done nothing to identify myself as expedition leader. They talked of a door, or so I thought, and they pointed often toward the twin rocks at the river outlet. But beyond that, I could make no sense of it.

When they realized their appeal was beyond my understanding, their manner grew more excitable. Finally, tired of their ranting, I insisted to the others that we continue onward, before the day was altogether wasted.

We left the elderly tribesman shouting and pleading at our backs and began our descent. Whenever I glanced behind, I could see them watching from on high, and the sight unsettled me more than I could explain. I was glad when our progress cut them off from view.

The plateau proved lower on this side. By noon, we’d reached the heavily jungled rim of the basin. We could clearly see our objective, the lakeside village of the Shanopei, as a clutter of shelters upon the far shore. However, it was evident that there was no direct route between us and it. The only way down was to circumnavigate the basin and descend alongside the distant river, passing the mysterious twin obelisks. After the tirade I’d endured from the tribal elders, that prospect unsettled me more than it should have. But on another, perhaps more academic level, it intrigued me. I couldn’t help wondering what secrets those barely-visible hieroglyphs might hold.

Intellectual curiosity, of course, won over. Against the protests of my companions, I insisted we make haste, so as to camp upon the lower level.

While we marched, I chided myself for being so easily unsettled by the recollections of a lunatic and the prattling of natives. They are wild people here, with wild ideas. My role as a rational man is to suck the poison from those concepts, so that more restrained minds can inspect them without threat of harm or infection. Re-reading my previous entries, I see to what extent I’ve failed in that regard—how I’ve allowed myself to fall under the sway of phantasms.

Well, no more. I am a man of science again. The travails of our day’s journey have worn me out, but in that weariness I discover an unexpected depth of peace. As we make camp beneath a purple sky, and before those great carven rocks, I find myself calm for the first time in longer than I can remember.

In the fading light, those vast columns have a surprising, uncanny beauty. From my position by the campfire, I can just discern the rows of pictograms that reach from base to tip. Perhaps they offer one more version of the fantasies that so dominate the lives of these people.

Whatever the case, they’re a mystery for tomorrow. I feel serene, and very drowsy. Twice I’ve lain down to sleep. But there’s a noise here, a curious, incessant murmuring. The others tell me I’m hearing the river. I’m certain, though, that it was more audible when we examined those twin rocks this afternoon.

The sound, however, is more soothing than distracting. I’ll try to ignore it—or stop struggling with it, rather. Tomorrow will be the crucial day of our expedition. Tomorrow is what I came so very far for.

I must try to rest.

I must sleep.

=[]=

Cha Né perched upon the Sun-drenched Cliffs.

He was deep within dream, so submerged that his body was only a fragile memory. He had torn through membranes of space and time, through many shades of consciousness. The way back was tortuous, hard to recollect.

The sky above was blank and cold. The luminous waters below curved and swelled against brilliant rocks.

Cha Né waited. Finally, in a distant flickering of darkness, the avatar of the thing behind the Gate entered the Otherworld. It sparked into being upon the kaleidoscope of the lake and began immediately toward the Gate, regardless of the shifting surface beneath its hooves. It moved with an awkward creeping motion, bowed beneath its carapace, claw-arms clacking rhythmically. The Gate surged and writhed in anticipation.

Cha Né allowed it to approach. When it was close, he rose and moved cautiously nearer, casting vast shadows. The avatar didn’t notice him at first; but when he leapt again, this time landing clenched in its path, it raised its snout and gave a scratching cry.

Cha Né squatted between the avatar and the infinite darkness of the Gate. It tried to maneuver around him, claws outstretched, head held low to protect its one cloudy eye from his brilliance. Cha Né shifted, keeping between it and its object. His thoughts, as he reached toward it, were a tangible thread of light that quivered in the ether.

Cha Né could feel the mind of the man, Montague Evans—like a dream or the memory of a dream. It no longer controlled the form encasing it. Cha Né felt the man’s fear and recognized it as his own. He knew as well the price, if the thing behind the Endless Gate should be unleashed. He had no choice. Burn out the mind of the man and the cancerous presence anchored to it would be vanquished too.