He Who Walks in Shadow (12 page)

“And I wish we could be on that train,” I said, “but I think we should only move at night—as long as we are in Germany, at least. We’ll lay low here until the sun sets.”

And with that, we gathered our things and prepared for yet another journey.

Portram Campbell Tobin,
A Guide to Spirits and Otherwordly Beings
, 2
nd
Edition (1907), Chapter 33

While the demon Pazuzu has received much scholarly attention in demonology for its tendency to possess virginal girls at the cusp of womanhood, there is another malevolent entity of far more dangerous potential, one whose name is obscure to all but the most learned in the hoary tomes of antiquity. I refer, of course, to the being known as Nyarlathotep.

Long shrouded in mystery, the name
Nyarlathotep
appears rarely in the ancient texts, absent altogether from the canonical books of the Holy Bible, Torah, and Koran. This absence is of particular note since the first recorded instance of the invocation of the spirit appears in the infamous scroll of Imhotep, discovered among the items in the eponymous sorcerer’s tomb beneath the sands of the great Memphis burial grounds. As such, it would seem that reverence for, and indeed the fear of, Nyarlathotep would have been widespread amongst the denizens of ancient Egypt, and thus his name should have been well-known amongst all the peoples of the Mesopotamian region.

A possible explanation of this absence lies in the peculiar nature of the god often referred to as “the crawling chaos.” It seems that the name of Nyarlathotep was considered a powerful curse, the mere utterance of which could lead to dire consequences both for the object of the curse as well as him who would cast it. Thus, Nyarlathotep came to be known by any number of epithets—the whisperer in the darkness, the black man (often evoked by European witch-cults), the haunter of the dark, the harbinger, the great messenger, he who strides in shadow, and the stranger, to name but a few. In fact, it seems that Nyarlathotep was but one of the proper names by which the god was summoned. References—in the Bible and elsewhere—to Moloch, Kesan, Zanoni, and Azazel have been interpreted as possible invocations of
Nyarlathotep
.
45

Many scholars have noted the apparent dualistic relationship between the god Nyarlathotep and the Biblical Christ. Nyarlathotep is said to be the son of Azathoth—known simply as Chaos in the Greco-Roman pantheon—the slumbering god who sleeps at the center of all things. It is this Azathoth—chief among the Old Gods, the being whom even Cthulhu is said to fear—who gave birth to the swirling darkness, to the formless void of which the universe consisted before the present age. According to the lore of the ancient Ashmodai, when Azathoth awakens, the world will end, and the void will hold sway once more. And it is Nyarlathotep who will, one day, awaken his father, ushering in a second darkness of unending night. That he will do so eventually is seen as the inevitable end of all things, with echoes of Ragnarök in the Norse tradition.

It is perhaps not surprising, then, that early Christians viewed Nyarlathotep as the ultimate antichrist. This belief, once widespread, was considered a heresy of the first order by the clerics of the ascendant Roman Catholic Church. The first council of Nicaea decreed that the term
antichrist
referred to a minion of Satan—a fallen angel, and most certainly not a god of equal stature with Yahweh—and decreed it anathema to teach of the existence of Nyarlathotep or to promulgate any theories about his relation to Christianity or the Hebrew God. It is thus unsurprising that the name of Nyarlathotep is missing from the scriptures we possess today, even if it would have featured prominently in original sources now lost and presumably destroyed.

But some early-Christian references to Nyarlathotep do survive. The heretical sect known as the
fraternitatis oculus
—the Brotherhood of the Eye—were meticulous in documenting and protecting the early stories of Christ. Of particular interest to our study is an account of Christ’s temptation in the desert, one altogether different from the tale that comes to us in three of the four gospels. According to their traditions, it was not Satan that appeared to Jesus as he fasted in the wastes of ancient Israel, but Nyarlathotep himself.

I quote from a translation of a fragmentary text recovered in a cave just outside of ancient Ephesus:

And in those days Jesus went unto Sinai, in Egypt, to the great desert through which he had passed as a child. There, for forty days and forty nights, he waited. The sun had not yet climbed high on the fortieth day when the stranger appeared to him, as Christ knew he must.

“Son of light,” said the lord of shadow, “why do you come to this desert to perish? For you have debased yourself, clothed in the filth of this world. It need not be so. Forsake the light, for every day will surely end in darkness.”

But Jesus answered and said, “It is written, ‘The sun also riseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. For no darkness will last forever.’”

Then the harbinger lifted his hand to the heavens, and the day did turn to night. The constellations wheeled above, and the harbinger spoke, “Look to the abyss above, son of light. The stars are like dust, pinpricks on a funeral shroud, swallowed by the night that surrounds them. For it is the shadow that covers all.”

But Jesus answered and said, “It is written, ‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. For without light, there can be no shadow.’”

Nyarlathotep was enraged, and he took up a sword, saying, “Son of light, it is written, ‘He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth: he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter.’”

But Jesus answered him and said, “It is written, ‘He is despised and rejected of men, and of men will he die. For it is not your place to take me, and is not my time to go.’”

Then Jesus reached forth his hand and took up wood from a cedar and a pine and a cypress, weaving them into a staff. His other hand he swept across the dirt, and from the earth he formed a shining pyramid of stone which he pressed into the head of this staff. A flash erupted from it, and before the brilliance of the staff and stone Nyarlathotep fled, as all darkness must flee the light.

This story is remarkable not only for its failure to adhere to the traditional temptation motif, but also because of its inclusion of the Staff of Dzyan and the Eye of God—the combination of which is the only known weapon, according to legend at least, that can defeat Nyarlathotep. It is hotly debated among scholars whether this is the first depiction of the Oculus myth, or whether it predates Christianity altogether. In any event, the staff and Oculus, if they ever existed, have long since been lost to antiquity.

* * *

Carter Weston,
The Gods of Ancient Days
, (1920),

Chapter 6, Pages 85–86

While the mode and method of worship vary wildly across cultures and religions, there is one element that seems to be universal—sacrifice. It is sacrifice by which the adherents of the faith prove their devotion, and it is through sacrifice that the priest and the penitent harness the power of the gods.

Sacrifice can come in many forms and under many names. In the Buddhist tradition, personal sacrifice is necessary to achieve enlightenment, particularly through the shedding of
ta
ṇ
hā
, or cravings. Similar acts of self-control are required in the three great religions to emerge from Mesopotamia—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Each of these faiths calls upon the believer to give up the carnality of the material world for spiritual enlightenment, to reject “sin,” ordinarily encompassing hedonistic, sybaritic pleasures.

But while we have come to associate sacrifice in the modern day with personal strength and self-betterment, true sacrifice, as envisioned by the ancients, was often bathed in blood. The core tenets of these faiths was that the life-force was just that—a natural force as strong as gravity or magnetism, and one just as subject to exploitation. And through sacrifice, such energy could be released and harnessed.

Animal sacrifice was most common, though human sacrifice was also prevalent. Whether we look to the Aztecs and Incas of the Americas, the tribes of sub-Saharan Africa, the ancient Chinese and Greeks, the druidic faiths, or the ancient religions of the Fertile Crescent, the tendency to turn to human sacrifice in times of crisis was nearly universal. Even the Romans—who generally eschewed human sacrifice—embraced the practice when the armies of Hannibal threatened to destroy their ancient capital.

In some of these societies, human sacrifice was more thoroughgoing. The Aztecs were known to cut the hearts from thousands upon the festival of Acolnahuacatl, a god who was said to drink the blood of humanity. And his thirst was nigh unquenchable.

It is in Moloch, however, that we see the most dramatic example of sacrifice as a means to achieve power, and the cost that such power often entails. For not just any offering would please the dark god of ancient Canaan. He required the most precious gift of all—the life of the firstborn sons and daughters of his followers. In return for this devotion, Moloch was said to grant his adherents power and wealth beyond imagining. It is not surprising that many of the greatest nations among the ancient Fertile Crescent were known to worship him.

Biblical sources indicate that burning alive was the preferred method of conferring the offering to the god. There is, however, an interesting anecdote within the infamous
Necronomicon
that posits another theory of Moloch altogether. According to the mad Arab Alhazred, some followers of Moloch were known to practice a form of crucifixion. The
Necronomicon
speaks of fields of wooden
crux decussata
, the saltire of the St. Andrew’s Cross, with children, from newborn babes to teenagers, nailed nude and spread-eagled, their screams and cries echoing across the plain. Only when their pain was so great that they began to lose consciousness was the final blow struck: the offering was slit from gullet to groin. Often, the internal organs were allowed to spill upon the ground. For special offerings, they were removed and ritually placed in esoterically significant locations.

This alternative manner of sacrifice described in the
Necronomicon
is remarkable as it mirrors precisely the method of worship employed by the followers of “he who walks in shadow,” Nyarlathotep. Can there be any doubt that
Moloch
is simply yet another denotation of the Great Old One?

Journal of Carter Weston

July 24, 1933

Rachel found me, as I knew she would. I was waiting for her in my cabin in the train, having sent Henry away when he came to check on me. Yes, I was tired, but I could not sleep on this. I could not let another night pass until my daughter, my only child, knew the truth. For better or for worse. So I was eager for her coming, even as I dreaded it.

I didn’t say anything as she entered, and she didn’t look at me as she closed the door behind her and sat down. A minute passed. Two. Still, I said not a word. It was not my place to speak. At least, not first.

“I never questioned you,” she said finally. “I never asked why. Not when you were gone for weeks and months on end. I never had a mother and, bless Aunt Gertrude’s soul, you were my world. My whole world. Until I met William.” She looked at me, and in her sad eyes there was a wistfulness, the reflection of a soul that longed for days gone by, of a pain so deep that I could barely stand it.

“Damn it all, if you two weren’t just alike.” She laughed mournfully and shook her head. “Too alike.” She looked down at her hands, rubbing the deep lines in her palms, and somehow my little girl had never seemed so old.

“And when he died,” she said, and her voice cracked. The tears came then, the sobbing whimper of a cry. I reached to put my hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it away. When she looked up at me, anger had replaced the sadness.

“Still,” she said, “I never questioned you. I never asked what happened. I never wanted to know. But never,” and now her voice grew as sharp as the edge of a knife, “
never
did I imagine that you had something to do with it. That you might be
responsible
for it. You have to tell me, Papa. You have to tell me right now. What happened to William?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but she held up a hand.

“And if you love me, if you care for me at all, you won’t spare a detail. You won’t try to save my feelings. I just want the truth, every last bit of it.”

I nodded, and in an instant, I was transported back a decade or more, to that day in the barren wastes of Siberia, when our world was saved and hers was shattered.

* * *

Tunguska Field Journal of Dr. Carter Weston, December 7, 1919

It took only two days for our train from Irkutsk, traveling at its maximum speed and making no stops, to reach the end of its line—the Siberian village of Vanavara. And a village it was. As we alighted, it struck me as something of a miracle that anyone lived here at all. Rostov answered my unasked question.

“When the railroad was built, it was the government’s intention to colonize this place. What the area lacks in charm, it compensates for in natural wealth. Coal, silver, even gold. This line was finished not a month before the war. And now,” he said, gesturing to the deserted area around us, “well, development will have to wait.”

We followed Rostov to a town square where a handful of men were gathered around a roaring fire, smoking long wooden pipes and drinking from a single jar that was passed around the assembly. Rostov boomed a greeting in Russian, and the men answered back. I gestured to William.