The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) (5 page)

When Sophia called at Blackwood’s rooms the following morning, she found Mrs Butters in a state of some agitation. ‘Oh, do come in, your Ladyship!’ exclaimed the housekeeper as she threw the door wide and beckoned Sophia inside.

‘Whatever is the matter, Mrs Butters?’ Sophia asked as she stepped into the hall and took off her hat and coat.

‘It’s Mr Blackwood, ma’am; I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He won’t come out of his study – didn’t even want his breakfast. And he hasn’t even got dressed yet, and here it is, past nine o’clock! It’s most unlike him, your Ladyship.’

‘I see. That does sound a little odd…’

‘Odd? Oh yes, ma’am; Mr Blackwood is always early to rise and get his ablutions attended to. But he’s still in his dressing gown – hasn’t even combed his hair! I don’t know what’s the matter; I’m
sure
I don’t!’

Sophia laid a comforting hand on the housekeeper’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Butters. I’ll go and see him. After all, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us.’

‘Oh,
thank
you, your Ladyship. Might I bring you some refreshment?’

‘Perhaps a pot of coffee for Mr Blackwood and me, if you’d be so kind.’

Mrs Butters nodded vigorously and took herself off to the kitchen, while Sophia went to Blackwood’s study and gave a loud knock upon the door.

‘I told you I don’t want any breakfast!’ came the response.

‘And I assure you I have no intention of making you any!’ Sophia replied.

There was a pause, and then the door opened to reveal Blackwood. His grey eyes were wide and intense, and, just as Mrs Butters had indicated, he was clad only in his dressing gown, his dark hair wild and dishevelled.

‘Thomas! Whatever is the matter?’

‘Come inside,’ he said and quickly drew her into the room, closing the door firmly behind them. ‘I must apologise for my untidy appearance, Sophia, but I’ve had neither the time nor the inclination to attend to it.’

Sophia glanced around the room. This was where she had first met Blackwood (was it really only a fortnight ago?) and had saved him from the ætherial virus that had infected his cogitator and very nearly devoured his mind. A rather odd way to make each other’s acquaintance, to be sure, and things had only become odder during the subsequent affair of the Martian Ambassador. Sophia noted that Blackwood had yet to replace the cogitator, and decided that she couldn’t really blame him.

A number of books lay scattered about the room, on the couch and chairs, and also on the desk. Blackwood hurried over to it and picked up one of the books, which he waved at Sophia with an evident mixture of fear and triumph. ‘It’s all in here,’ he said.

‘What is?’

‘That strange word which Alfie Morgan uttered when we went to see him yesterday. Carcosa – you recall?’

‘Of course I do,’ Sophia replied in surprise. ‘You have found a reference to it?’

‘I
knew
I recollected it from somewhere,’ said Blackwood excitedly. ‘And this is where.’

‘What
is
that book?’ Sophia asked.

‘It’s called the
Fantasmata of Simon Castaigne
.’

Sophia frowned. ‘The
Fantasmata
… I’ve heard of it, and of Dr Castaigne. But I regret to say I haven’t read it.’

‘There are few who have,’ Blackwood smiled. ‘It is not easy to come by, and were one to do so, one would find that it does not make for particularly light or comfortable reading. Please, Sophia, do have a seat.’ He gathered up the books from the armchair and dumped them onto the desk.

‘Thank you.’ Sophia sat down and waited for Blackwood to explain.

He began to pace back and forth in front of her as he said, ‘Dr Castaigne is a well-known figure in certain esoteric circles. He has led a strange life, even by the standards of the occultist and delver into the arcane arts. He was born into a wealthy family of financial brokers, and so was guaranteed a sizeable income. However, the world of finance held no allure for him, and instead he devoted himself to the study of the occult and supernatural. His brilliance is undeniable and was evident from an early age. He studied Mythology and Anthropology at Cambridge and had gained his doctorate by the age of twenty-three. Not long after, he took himself off to the Far East where he travelled widely in China, Mongolia and Tibet. It is rumoured that he even discovered – or was guided to – the fabled city of Shambhala…’

‘Shambhala?’ exclaimed Sophia. ‘But that’s incredible! The city can only be reached by the most knowledgeable and pure-hearted of mystical adepts. I know of no outsider who has ever managed to reach it – except for Madame Blavatsky, and I’m not entirely sure I believe her.’

‘Quite so: but then, it
is
only a rumour, and Castaigne has never written or spoken of the matter. What is undeniable is that he returned to Great Britain after ten years away, bringing with him an astonishing depth of knowledge regarding the mystical practices of the Orient, knowledge which he set down in this book, the
Fantasmata
. It was privately printed and circulated only amongst those groups whom Castaigne considered worthy of receiving it.’

‘How did you obtain a copy?’ Sophia asked.

‘It was given to me by a friend in my Masonic Lodge a good while ago. I must admit that I gave it only a cursory inspection, for at the time I was engaged upon a particularly complex case which had nothing to do with the occult, and I never went back to it in depth.’

‘May I examine it?’

‘Of course.’ Blackwood handed the book to Sophia. It was a handsome volume, produced with great finesse and attention to detail. It was bound in Moroccan leather of a deep, rich purple, which was tooled with fantastically intricate intaglios outlined in gold. The paper was of the highest quality: creamy and smooth, and delightful to the touch.

‘And what, precisely, is the nature of the knowledge Dr Castaigne set down here?’

‘Ah! That is what I have been examining since the early hours of this morning. I was in bed, on the very edge of sleep, when my mind performed that curious trick which minds are wont to do in moments of great relaxation: it revealed itself to have been working on the problem of that half-remembered word without my conscious knowledge, and I suddenly remembered where I had read it.’ He indicated the book.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs Butters entered carrying a tray with a large silver coffee pot, two cups and saucers, a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. Before Blackwood could say anything, Sophia smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Butters. Would you please set it down here?’ She indicated the occasional table beside the armchair.

‘Of course, your Ladyship,’ the housekeeper replied. She put the tray down, gave her employer a disapproving glance and quickly left, closing the door behind her.

Sophia poured coffee for them both. ‘You were saying, Thomas…’

‘It seems that Castaigne learned a great many things during his lengthy sojourn in the Orient.’

‘Such as?’ Sophia handed him a cup, which he accepted with a nod of thanks.

‘Such as the means by which the human mind can travel unaided into the depths of the Luminiferous Æther.’

Sophia gave him a shocked look. ‘Are you serious, Thomas?’

‘Quite serious, I assure you.’

Sophia shook her head. ‘That’s incredible.’

‘May I?’ Blackwood took the book from Sophia and opened it to a place he had bookmarked. ‘Listen to this.’ He read aloud.

The Æther – how should we describe it? Word and phrase, thought and experience crumble to useless dust in the face of what lies outside the ordered realms of the times and spaces we know. We look up at the black seas of Space, yearning to depart like hopeful adepts in the wake of some cosmic Poseidon. We are unable to release ourselves from the shackles of our quotidian existence, but were we able to do so, we would be gone in an instant, into the depths of the great night which surrounds us.

‘A little florid for my taste,’ Sophia observed.

Blackwood grinned at her as he turned to the next page. ‘And here.’

Take a handful of sand, the tiny grains glittering and golden. Cast it where you please, like a child at play by an innocent sea; count the grains, hold that vast number in your mind, and know that it is but a fraction of the worlds that exist throughout the Æther. How far may the human mind reach, once freed from the base flesh of the body? I have asked myself many times, as if the very act of repetition might forge an answer from the question. How far could one voyage? How far?

Blackwood flipped through to another page and continued reading.

Of all the worlds I have seen, the strangest is Carcosa in the Hyades: strange, paradoxically, because it is so similar to our own in so many ways. But in other ways, it is horribly, frightfully different! I have watched the cloud waves breaking upon the shores of the Lake of Hali; my mind has hovered above those strange waters and has wondered what lies beneath. I have wandered through the melancholy streets of Carcosa’s last cities, Alar, Hastur and Yhtill…

‘So, Carcosa is a planet!’ Sophia exclaimed.

‘Indeed,’ Blackwood smiled grimly. ‘But listen.’

I have heard the last inhabitants sing the Song of Cassilda: a strange, sad song which struck my heart with fear, so clearly does it express the terror of existence – for the universe is emotion, and that emotion is fear. I have heard the last people of Carcosa sing:

Along the shore the cloud waves break,

The twin suns sink beneath the lake,

The shadows lengthen

In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,

And strange moons circle through the skies

But stranger still is

Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,

Where flap the tatters of the King,

Must die unheard in

Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;

Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

Shall dry and die in

Lost Carcosa.

As she listened to Blackwood recite these verses in his deep, resonant voice, Sophia felt the strange sadness of them seeping into her mind and felt her heart beat faster as a subtle, nameless fear gradually enveloped it. ‘Who… who is the King of which the song tells?’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

‘I have scoured the
Fantasmata
for further mentions of him, for there is something in Cassilda’s Song which strongly hints at his importance.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Oh yes, I came upon several references. He goes by many names: the Feaster from the Stars, the King in Yellow, the Unspeakable One, and some others. He appears to be a figure of ultimate evil in the eyes of the people of Carcosa, who seem to be on the very edge of extinction. And there is a strange symbol which seems to be associated with him, something known as the “Yellow Sign”.’ Blackwood turned to another page, and held out the book for Sophia to see.

The symbol was indeed strange, and as she gazed at it, Sophie felt her unease grow.

‘And what of Carcosa itself? Do you think it really exists? Do you think that Dr Castaigne’s mind really voyaged there?’

Blackwood shrugged. ‘Well… the Hyades certainly exist. They were first catalogued by the Italian astronomer Giovanni Battista Hodierna in 1654. It’s a large cluster of stars, very distant from the Earth – trillions of miles – in the constellation of Taurus. Astronomers believe it to contain several hundred suns, all moving through the Æther in the same direction. Whether any of them possess habitable worlds… well, that’s another question.’