He Who Walks in Shadow (6 page)

“But what,” I said, leaning in close to Carter, “does this have to do with what happened in Siberia?”

Carter looked down at the letter he had received from Denikin, rereading its key passages. “The Bel Xul is voluminous,” he said, still scanning the missive, “but the good professor has directed us to one passage. The Old Ones, of course, are unimaginable to us, and attempts to conceptualize them are as if one were to stare into the unreverberate blackness of the abyss—impenetrable. That is their nature.

“But there is one,” he said, holding up a finger, “whose relationship to mankind is entirely different. When the Old Ones were overthrown, when light came to this world and they were cast into outer darkness, there was one who remained, who still walked the earth and sowed destruction and confusion in his midst.

“He is the harbinger, the messenger, he who stands in between. A god to the legendary Mi-Go, a demon to early man. He wears a thousand masks, or so they say, and thus is known by many names. He is the crawling chaos, the ‘Black Man’ of the ancient witch cults, the haunter of the dark. But one name, taken when he walked along the River Nile in the city of Shem in the Old Kingdom, he wears as his own. And that name,” Carter said, the light of the fire reflected in his eyes, “the one that has come to us across the darkness of forty-seven centuries, is Nyarlathotep.”

He leaned back in his chair, relighting the cigar that had gone dead in the telling of his story. The name of Nyarlathotep was well known to me, as were the tales of his wanderings across the earth. And black stories they were. It was said that he possessed power over the mind of man and that he could, merely with his words, sway the masses. He had the ability to possess and control the powerful—kings, emperors, popes—leading entire kingdoms to death and destruction. Disease followed in his wake, and there was no land that his feet fell upon that was spared an ill fate. Even William, who was but a neophyte in his knowledge of the true nature of the world around us, had heard that accursed name.

“And that is why we are on this voyage. I believe that Nyarlathotep will return. Now, the Oculus can banish the dark one from our world, but it has been lost for a millennium. It is said that it will only reappear when the stars come right and the rise of Nyarlathotep is imminent. If it is possible that the Oculus has returned, then we cannot ignore the threat. If others were to attain it first, all hope might well be lost. And given that the last few years have brought us death and destruction never before imagined, I must believe that Denikin’s words are more than idle chatter. Then there is the matter of the ring he is said to wear.”

“Yes,” I said, “the one that bears the yellow sign.”

Carter nodded. “It is that sign by which he is known, the sign that heralds the aligning of the stars and the opening of the gate. The same sign that Denikin mentions, the one that rumor tells has arisen again. Rumors seldom bear the whole truth, but they rarely bear none, either. The fact is,” he said, folding the letter carefully and placing it in its envelope, “we are fortunate that Denikin wrote to us when he did, while time remains to us, even if it is short.”

“What does the book say of Nyarlathotep?” William asked.

I watched as Carter’s eyes trailed across the darkened chamber to the tome that sat upon the desk of his stateroom, the book that I rarely saw him without. The flickering light of the fireplace seemed to play along the crimson cover, and the gold-flaked inscription,
Incendium Maleficarum,
sparkled in the night. When I had first met Carter Weston, he was a skeptic, a naïve unbeliever who knew little of the world. But now he was the master to whom I looked for answers, and the book was one reason for his wisdom.

“Little more than we already know from other sources. Whereas the knowledge contained within the book is often secret and hidden from mankind, it is not so with the stories of Nyarlathotep. These are well known. He has walked among us for centuries. It is for this reason, perhaps, that the
Necronomicon
speaks so often of him. Some say that it was he who gave the mad Arab inspiration for that work.”

“What do you think we will find in Russia?”

“Possibly nothing. But I don’t think so. I think the signs are clear. I think the Oculus is there, and we will find it. And that’s a good thing, because I fear we will need it in the days to come.”

The conversation ended then. Carter leaned back and smoked his cigar, peering into the distance. William and I sat in silence, pondering what we faced, hoping for fair winds and clear skies. Alas, whatever god watches over us all did not hear our prayers.

Excerpt from
Memoirs of a Crusader
, Dr. Henry Armitage, “The Tunguska Folly of 1919”, (unpublished)

We arrived in Vladivostok early in the morning of November 21, 1919, to chaos and madness. Word had come late the night before of the fall of Omsk and the defeat of Admiral Kolchak’s forces in Siberia. The eastern White Army was now in full retreat towards Baikal, with the western army and General Denikin bottled up in the Crimea. Kolchak was rumored dead, though the worst news was yet to come. The British and Americans, who had to that point provided support in the form of both men and materiel, were pulling out. The war was all but lost. The host of civilians gathered at the port confirmed that bitter truth in the starkest way possible.

We disembarked into a maelstrom. Men, women, and children of every possible background and distinction were everywhere, surrounding us. Some stood shivering in the cold, while the wealthiest were wrapped tight in their finest furs. They came at us, each with something to sell. Diamonds and jewels were thrust into my face, while the prices asked were but a pittance, no more than the cost of transit to anywhere but Vladivostok. Others offered the clothes on their back, and at least one woman tried to sell me her daughter. When it became clear that we weren’t interested, the swarm moved on to their next victims.

“What the hell was that?” William spat.

“That,” Weston said, “was desperation.”

“And theft,” William replied. “I had a woman try to convince me she’d sell a pair of diamond earrings for a few dollars. Fakes.”

“Those weren’t fakes. The same thing happened in Europe when Moscow fell. The cream of Russian civilization fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the diamonds around their necks. But even the market for rare jewels can be flooded. You just witnessed the wealthy of the old order, cut down by the very capitalism the Bolsheviks abhor.”

William and I looked back at the crowds of desperate people, a thin sliver of paper between them and freedom, between life and the advancing Red Army. I’ve rarely seen such horror, but even worse awaited me as we made our way to the military train that would carry us to Irkutsk.

The streets were thick with carts carrying the dead and wounded from Vladivostok station. They had been streaming in for days, every arriving train bearing more casualties from western battles. So many shattered bodies. Men shorn of arms and legs. The stench of death, the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh, both of the still-living and the long-dead, all thrown together in a horrid testament to the evils of war. The snow drifted down gently around them, reminding me in one macabre instant of Christmastime. And now, with the collapse of the Eastern resistance and the fall of Omsk, this stream of broken men would soon become a flood. As bad as things were in Russia’s great eastern port, darker days were coming.

“Let’s just get to the station,” Carter said, perhaps sensing our growing discomfort. “The sooner we are away from here, the better.”

“I know we’ve come a long way, but perhaps…” I was certain of our purpose, but the chaos surrounding us made me question whether we could accomplish it. Carter cut me off.

“I will understand,” he said, turning to William and me, “if either of you wishes to abandon this errand, foolish as it may be. Certainly our time is even shorter than we thought. But I must continue, no matter what the cost. So, if you are with me, I need your word now. There’s no turning back once we get on that train.”

My doubts notwithstanding, I was unwilling to challenge Carter so directly. If he was determined to see this through, who was I to disagree? And William, he would never go against Carter. No, our answer was clear. He saw it in both our eyes, nodded to each of us, and we continued on our path.

The station was on the edge of town, a scene of even greater din and clamor. The dead and dying were being removed as quickly as the men who bore them could act. Each body was replaced with supplies—guns, bullets, food—all desperately needed on the front lines. Above the screams of the wounded could be heard the shouted orders of the officers, each tinged with the threat of severe punishment if the men did not move faster.

We entered the station to find it deserted but for a man in a booth at the far end. The floors were covered by old newspapers and discarded flyers from happier—and busier—times. The high dome of the station with its great windows must have been something to see in a different age. Now the place was but a tomb to the old regime, a monument to what had been and a warning of what was to come. The man, despite his lack of customers, sat at attention, as if at any moment he expected ticket buyers such as ourselves to appear.

“Excuse me, sir,” Carter began, “we need to speak to someone about passage on your train.”

The man stared at him in seeming bemusement, then said, “Ya ne govoryu po-Angliski.”

William leaned over Carter’s shoulder and began to speak to the man in his own tongue. Carter and I waited. Without William, we would have been lost.

“He says that there are no tickets for the trains. He says the army has taken them all for their own purposes.”

“Tell him we understand that,” Carter said. “Tell him we are on a mission for the army and need to find someone in authority to speak with.”

William nodded and turned back to the man, relaying the message. He gestured to a door to our left. “He says a Captain Aleksandrov is in charge. Says we can find him on the loading dock.”

We nodded our thanks to the man, while William added a
spasiba
for the three of us.

We walked back into the chill wind and gently falling snow. Before I could ask how we would know this Aleksandrov, we came upon a man standing on the platform, watching the loading and unloading. He had the obvious air of command, and if he was not the Captain, he would certainly know his whereabouts.

William led the way, excused himself in Russian, and began to explain our situation. A quizzical smile spread across the man’s face before he held up a hand to stop him.

“Your Russian is very good, my friend, but perhaps not as good as my English.”

“And much preferable,” Carter said with a laugh, “as my friend and I here speak not a word of the former.”

“Understandable. It is not an easy language, as I know well. My parents moved to England when I was young, so I struggle with its finer points even now. I returned on the eve of the Great War, to defend my homeland. I never thought,” he said, gesturing to the tumult around him, “that I would be defending her from my own brothers. And I certainly did not expect to see three Americans here, in Vladivostok, seeking my assistance. What brings you to this godforsaken place?”

“We come at the behest of General Denikin,” Carter said, handing him the pass. “We seek passage to Irkutsk, on an urgent errand for him, an old friend from well before the revolution.”

“General Denikin? I’m sorry to say that I’m not even sure he still lives. And besides, I do not believe he would have called you to Irkutsk if he knew the situation there now. What you see here is but a fraction of the chaos there. We will hold her as long as we can, but Irkutsk will be overrun by the Red Army by the spring, if not sooner. It may not see Christmas. I must advise you to abandon this plan.”

I watched as Aleksandrov handed Carter the pass, who shook his head.

“I’m sorry Captain, I can’t do that. We have obligations, and we must see them through.”

Aleksandrov’s eyes narrowed, and something of the friendliness he had offered us melted away even in the freezing cold.

“I don’t know what those obligations entail, and I won’t bother to ask since, if I judge you rightly, you wouldn’t tell me in any event. But I must ask you, are they worth your life? Are they worth the lives of your friends? If you travel to Irkutsk, you are putting all of them at risk. I’ll tell you what I should not, but what every Bolshevik knows already. Transbaikal is lost, my friends. We intend to halt the retreat at Chita and establish a new line there. But even that plan is suspect, and Chita lies several hundred miles east of Irkutsk. Go if you must, but know well what you face if you do. There is no help for you beyond the Baikal.”

“I thank you for your assistance, Captain. And I thank you for your warning.”

Aleksandrov nodded, not bothering to argue further.

“This train departs within the half-hour. The accommodations leave something to be desired, but they are the best I can do. I have no doubt you will find Colonel Rostov in Irkutsk. It is his home, and he will never leave it. I only hope that the same will not be said of you.”

Aleksandrov turned to his duties, and Carter glanced at William and me. We were committed, and he saw it in our eyes. We entered the train and made our way to the corner of a half-empty troop car. There we passed the next few nights as the train traveled inexorably west into the jaws of the advancing Red Army, a menace that now far outshone in our eyes anything we might find in Tunguska.

How naïve we were.

Journal of Henry Armitage

July 24, 1933

Rachel and I arrived in Berlin’s Tempelhof airport late on the night of July 23, 1933. A storm came with us. The howling wind cut through us, and torrential rain rode on it. By the time we hailed a cab, we were soaked to the bone. We had not much dried when we arrived at the Hotel Esplanade at the Pottsdamer Platz. I would have preferred to go straight to our room and straight to bed, but alas, fate was not to be so kind.