He Who Walks in Shadow (32 page)

“We were hoping,” I said, “that you could help us to figure that out.”

“Were you now? And how, precisely, might I do that?”

“You know the area,” Carter said, “and you know its history. I have a feeling you know much more than that. I have a feeling you know many things.”

Diarmad grinned. “Go on.”

“We are looking for a place of power,” Carter said. “A place likely of legends, and dark ones at that. Perhaps a place where something strange happened recently.”

Diarmad leaned back and crossed his arms. His brow furrowed, and while he might have been mistaken as deep in thought, I believed something else was going on, something else entirely. He was studying us, weighing us, deciding whether the knowledge that he held was best kept to himself or shared with those who sought it.

“There are many places in this world where strange things can be found. Many places, indeed. Tell me, what do you know of this island?”

“Very little,” Carter answered. “I know only that it lies at the edge of things, and that beyond that edge is the fall. That, if this village is the last outpost of civilization, it would be the beginning of the frontier. That past its breakers they would have written ‘here there be dragons’ on the old maps.”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, perhaps they would. But there is one thing you have wrong, my friend. This place, this island where you find yourself this blessed evening, it is
not
the last outpost of civilization before the wilding sea.”

Carter seemed to deflate. Had we misjudged?

“Or, at least,” and a sparkle came into the man’s eyes, “it wasn’t always.”

Carter leaned forward, the old energy back. “Something happened here.”

Diarmad nodded. “Yes, a few years back now. There is an island, some fifty nautical miles to the west. It is a place that we do not speak of, particularly with strangers. A dark place, marred by ancient stone monuments to an unknown god. But there have always been those who are drawn to it. Strange folk. They would come here from places near and far, and to the island of Hirta they would travel. Often times, they’d never return from that place.

“Three years ago, a naval expedition from England stopped here to refuel and resupply. The steamed off in the direction of Hirta. Four days later, they returned, but with far fewer men than before. We were curious, of course, to know what had happened. But no one had the courage to go.”

“Except you.”

A half-grin. “Some men are more foolish than others.”

“And what did you find?”

“I left in the morning, for I did not want to chance the place at night. The sea was calm, but the sun was obscured by thick and unyielding clouds. It wasn’t long before I thought that my eyes were deceiving me, that one of those clouds had descended from the heavens to rest upon the sea. As I drew near I realized it was the island, shrouded in mist.

“I circled it once at a distance, past the cliffs of Conachair and between the stacks of Sgeir Domhnuill, for I was hesitant to come within that bank of fog. And yet nothing revealed itself. Nothing of the island, and certainly nothing of the disaster that had befallen it. There is only one inlet suitable for a landing, the harbor of Village Bay. I made for it, and I entered the fog.

“It was eerily peaceful, silent, with nothing but the lapping of the waves and my own engine to break the calm. I approached deliberately, slowly, lest I ground myself on some jagged rock that hid beneath the waves and the mist. Perhaps I delayed for other reasons, too. Perhaps, in the part of my heart that feared, I did not wish to see what had become of the Isle of Hirta. But as with all things, one cannot delay forever.

“My boat clanked against the wooden dock, and I made sure the mooring lines were tied double secure before my feet left the deck. I had no intention of staying for long. With my rifle in hand, I made my way into Village Bay.”

“And what did you find there?” I asked. It seemed that the light had dimmed in that place, that the darkness from Diarmad’s story had infected us all. For his part, he only shook his head.

“I’m not sure what I expected to find there,” he said. “Blood. Bodies of the dead. Signs of violence and struggle. Instead, there was nothing. It was as if the few hundred souls that had inhabited that island had simply disappeared. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was broken. If the navy had found a fight when they made landfall, they covered their tracks, that much is for sure.

“I thought about leaving. The air about the place was foul. The feeling of menace, immense. Evil had come to that little village. I knew that then, and I know it now, as surely as you sit across from me tonight. But I didn’t leave. I needed to see more. I needed to know more.

“I made my way to the little dirt road where most of the people of Hirta lived. I suppose I thought that if I saw where they had dwelt I would know where they had gone. But there was nothing to be found, nothing except a Bible in each of the little hovels.”

“A Bible?”

He nodded.

“Some upon the tables, some upon the hearth, some in chairs or even on the floor. And all of them, every one of them, open to the same page. Revelation, chapter 8.”

A chill rippled through me, and Carter spoke. “’And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabitants of the earth.’”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. So I returned to my boat, and I left that accursed place. I am not eager to go back.”

Carter leaned forward, the fire flashing in his smiling eyes. “Well then,” he said. “How soon can we leave?”

The Diary of Rachel Jones

August 1, 1933

We approach the island from the east. The sun is sinking in the distance, and the wind howls and the rain falls with unceasing fury. Diarmad was exceedingly wary of embarking tonight, and he warned us that these conditions were in no way ideal or even safe. But we were insistent, and I must believe that some preternatural sense of the captain told him that we were more than fools seeking folly.

I watch the sun as it descends. Even through the lashing rain, the sunset is beautiful here on the sea. The clouds seem to have parted around it, and the brilliant crimson sky promises that a new and better day is coming. I've never been one for sunsets. Not until this moment.

I have decided to maintain this diary for as long as I can, come what may. Someone should keep a record of what we face tonight. I have seen Henry hunched over his own journal, scribbling away between bouts of sea sickness. I am glad. If we survive, people should know. They should know what we had to do here, what we had to sacrifice here.

My father does not write. He simply stares ahead, into the coming dark, the wakening gloom. His thoughts are his own. He does not share them with me.

He has not spoken to me of his dream, of his walk with Nyarlathotep. Nor has he spoken of what we both know we must do, of our only chance to keep the gate closed. I do not expect this cup to pass from me. I do not expect to see the dawn.

Later

The island is close now, and I hear his voice. It echoes in my mind.

I can feel you, Rachel. It is not too late to turn back. It is not too late to choose life. It is not too late not to die.

I wonder if my father feels him, too. I wonder if my father hears him, too. I wonder what he says to him. What he offers. What price he is willing to give in exchange for our souls.

Journal of Henry Armitage, August 1, 1933

I hate boats. If I am to die tonight, at least I will never have to set foot on one again. This is a strange comfort, albeit a small one.

Everyone is silent. Sitting in quiet reflection, as I imagine soldiers before they face the enemy. Only Diarmad moves about the boat, tending to it, fighting a losing battle against the wind and the rain. So it goes.

I know, of course, that this journal must end soon. There is, for me, great sadness in that. It has been my companion for so long, throughout this and countless other adventures before. And when I close its cover and bind it again, it may well be for the last time. So I make a promise here, on this sacred parchment. If I survive tonight, if I see the dawn, I shall record truly and faithfully all that I witness this eve. For good or ill. For fair or foul. So help me God.

Journal of Carter Weston, August 1, 1933

We stand now on the silent docks, listening to the lapping of the waves. What began a decade ago in Siberia will end tonight. Of that I am sure.

Diarmad is a good captain, honest, brave, and true. He grasped my hands after the others had left the boat, and drew me close.

"I don't know what you are seeking out there," he said, nodding into the dark. "And there is no need in you telling. But I give you my word, I won't leave this place without you and yours."

And I believe him, too. In fact, I know what he said is true.

"Listen carefully," I said. "Whatever happens out there, whatever you see or hear, do not come after us. There's nothing you could do to help anyway. Stay with the boat. Keep her safe. Hopefully we will be back to you soon. But if we don't arrive by noon tomorrow, leave this place, forget about us, and never return."

I could tell by the glint in his eyes that he didn't like that last bit. Didn't like it at all. But after some hesitation, he nodded once and released my hand.

"You take care of yourself, professor. And you take care of that girl of yours, too."

The simplest request of a father, and yet, can I keep it? Can I even begin to?

Now we depart. A great hill towers above the inlet where the people of Village Bay once made their home. Diarmad spoke of its strangeness, how it looks a bit like a pyramid, its top sheered clean off, leaving nothing but a flat plain at its summit.

But I know this is not strange at all. In fact, it is precisely what I would expect. It is just as the legends predicted.

Statement of Henry A. Armitage of Arkham, Massachusetts, United States, before D.I. John Jacobs, Scotland Yard, 11 August 1933, regarding unexplained events of 1 August 1933

You have asked me to swear an oath to speak the truth of what happened on that accursed hill, ten days ago. No oath is needed. When one witnesses that which I have seen, it is a duty to share with those who come after. That much I know for sure.

As to my recollection, I can tell you only what I believe I witnessed, for no man who claims sanity would be so bold as to assert that the things I saw on Hirta, beyond the Kildean straits, were anything more than illusion. And yet I am certain of them, as certain as I am that you are sitting here before me, as certain as I am that you will not believe me. It is for you to judge my sanity. I can only tell you what I know.

We did not tarry long in Village Bay. Time was short, and the sun had long since fallen behind the accursed pyramidal hill that was our destination, bathing it in an unearthly glow, and casting its shadow upon us all. The clouds above us swirled and danced, and though no breeze blew upon the land to cool our faces, it was as if a hurricane raged above.

It was beginning.

Up we climbed, Carter burdened by the great crimson tome he carried, the
Incendium Maleficarum
, and I hoped that within its pages he had found a spell or an incantation that would save us. The ascent was not difficult; paths had been cut through the trees by countless men and beasts before us. But we labored under unearthly burdens, and every step was heavy. We did not speak, not for long minutes, not until we reached the final berm, the traversing of which would take us to the unnatural plateau that was our destination.

Carter turned and looked at his daughter. Carter, a man of limitless intelligence, a man who could speak ten languages like they were his own, and yet the question of what to say then was one he simply could not answer.

I thought it was simply that he feared we would not survive our quest, that he wanted to tell his daughter one last time that he loved her before we made what might be a futile charge against the creatures of the night. It was only later that I understood the storm that was raging within his mind, that I knew what he planned, what he felt he must do.

I cannot know how it weighed upon him, the burden, the guilt. I pray that I never do. He had stared into the abyss and seen its depths. He had fought monsters for so long that he had now become one himself.

The words did not come. Rachel reached out and took his hand. She cocked her head to the side and smiled.

“It’s all right, father,” she said. “We’ll do what we came to do. We’ll do what we must.” Then she kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.” When she let go his hand, his arm fell to his side, as if he didn’t have the strength to hold it up.

I watched him, watched them both, like a fool. I suppose I could not have known what passed between them. It was impossible, really. How could I? The language between fathers and daughters is always a mystery. How much more so then?

Still I blame myself. I should have known. I should have been part of it. I should have helped them to carry a weight that was so much more than any two people should be asked to bear.

Instead we stood on the precipice of the ultimate darkness, standing, waiting, loving, planning, wondering. We stood there until whatever needed to pass between them had made its way, until Rachel said, “Let’s go.” So we followed her over the berm and into shadow.

We stepped into another world when we set foot upon that plateau, the flat plain that stretched from one edge of the ancient pyramid to the other. I could no longer fool myself into believing the structure I stood upon was natural, even as I was certain it was not man-made.

It was not night there, at least, no night that I had ever seen. But it wasn’t day either. A purple radiance lit the very air, and as we moved across the plateau it was as if we were walking through the ocean. The air was thick and unyielding, and it was foul to the taste and burned my lungs. The wind blew with a ferocity I had rarely seen, one that belied the calm we had just left. We had passed beyond something, some narrow membrane that separated our world from theirs, that divided the light from the dark. And in that instant, I was certain that this was the place destiny and whatever dark eminence moved within had chosen where the fate of the world was to be decided.