Chapter 27
Conversation died when I walked into the study, and I assumed they’d been speaking about me. “He hasn’t even been initiated,” someone muttered, confirming it.
“We can initiate him later. There are more important things to do tonight,” Father said, shooting a quelling gaze at the speaker. Straightening his jacket, he came to me. His eyes did a thorough once-over, and my gut twisted in on itself. “You might have dressed better, Percival.”
I was a little boy again, being called to task for failing in some way, great or small. “Forgive my enthusiasm, Father. Once I realized, I could only think of coming here immediately.” Which was even the truth.
He made a tsking sound in his throat, but let the matter drop. “It’s all for your mother, you know.”
“Er…no, I’m afraid I don’t.” What could Mother possibly have to do with this?
Instead of answering immediately, Father walked to the doors leading onto the wide veranda. I followed out of old habit. The wind numbed my ears, but colder still was the sight of the lake below. The huge lawn ran right down to the shore, the gray waters stretching off into the distance. The island formed a low smudge amidst the whitecaps whipped up by the fierce wind.
This was where it had all gone wrong. If I had only managed to hold onto Leander, he would still be alive. Addison wouldn’t have gone mad with grief and resurrected Blackbyrne. I would not be standing here today, trying to trick a group of men willing to sacrifice the world for their own power.
Although, if Addison hadn’t joined the Brotherhood and held rituals on the island, there would have been no reason for us to be out on the lake in the first place. Was that one of the reasons he’d had such difficulty accepting the tragedy? Did he feel responsible for his son’s death?
Father went to the balustrade and rested his hands on the cold, white marble. “Your mother,” he said, as if she had no name of her own, “was a beautiful, energetic girl when we married. No doubt it is difficult for you to believe now, but she loved to dance, to walk in the garden, to take the carriage out and visit with her friends.
“When she first became ill, I took her to all of the best doctors in America. When their cures failed, we went to Europe. All of them said the same: there was nothing to be done. I could only stand by helplessly while she wasted into a shadow of the vivacious woman I’d wed.”
Although he seldom showed any emotion other than disappointment or anger, there was a misty look in his eyes now. Had he actually loved Mother once? Did he still?
I wouldn’t feel any sympathy for him. I couldn’t afford it, not here, not now, perhaps not ever. But to watch the woman he loved succumb to a force which cared nothing for his fortune, a force he couldn’t threaten or bribe, must have been devastating.
“I thought Addison was mad, when he said he’d finally found what he’d been looking for all these years,” Father went on, his gaze fixed on the heaving waters of the lake. “We both joined the Brotherhood in college, of course, just like our fathers did. I’d hoped you would, as well, but you did insist on going to Miskatonic instead. I hope you see how great a mistake you made.”
“Yes, Father,” I said, because right now I didn’t dare answer otherwise. And yet, for the first time in years, those words didn’t leave the taste of bitterness on my tongue.
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken, or he had taken my acquiescence for granted. “When Addison said he knew how to return Blackbyrne to life, I believed his grief had unhinged him. He wasn’t sure the instructions would work for anyone else, you see, or else I suppose he would have brought Leander back immediately.”
“And Blackbyrne’s methods?” I asked, not quite able to resist. I had to know if Father truly approved of the horrors he’d helped create, even if indirectly.
“Aren’t ones I would have chosen. But everything has a cost. Addison wants his son back. I want my wife back. By tomorrow morning, we’ll both have our wish.”
“You think there’s a way to heal Mother?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said impatiently. “Those from the Outside have the secrets of immortality, Percival! With their aid, a man can triumph over age, illness, even death. Just look at Blackbyrne!”
An image of Mother healthy and whole bloomed in my imagination. Was it possible? What would it be like to see her dance and sing?
The figure in my mind’s eye warped and darkened. Perhaps Father was right, but at what cost? Would she go forth in the night and kill as it seemed Blackbyrne had killed? Would Miss Emily’s flesh feed some horrible new hunger? When she kissed me on the cheek, would her breath stink like the gaseous exhalation of a rotting corpse?
She wouldn’t allow it. Father had blinded himself, assuming Mother would comply simply because he willed it. He saw her as a brilliant jewel, beautiful and graceful, but she’d always been a scholar at heart. She’d ask questions. And when she learned the truth, she’d refuse, because the woman who had raised me would never let anyone else die in order for her to live.
Hard to believe I could actually feel sorry for Father. Even if I failed tonight, even if the gateway to the Outside was flung wide and the fragile shell of reality broken for good, he would still lose. Indeed, he had already lost. He just didn’t know it.
Nor could I tell him without risking everything. “Perhaps we can take her to the park, once the weather is warm,” I said.
Father nodded, lost in some idyllic vision of our family which would never exist outside of his head. “She’ll like the park. You’ll see, Percival. Now that I have both my sons at my side, there’s nothing we can’t do.”
I wanted to ask him if he’d known about the trap in the foul basement of the house Griffin and I had investigated, or if he’d known but never imagined I would be caught in it. If he’d invited me to dinner because he knew I’d been injured at the gala, and wished see me in good health with his own eyes. Or if I had been right all along, and he didn’t really care at all.
I couldn’t. “Yes, Father,” I said a second time, and stood shivering at his side while he gazed out over the lake.
~ * ~
Returning to the island that night was like falling back through a crack in time. The shadowy boathouse, the frigid darkness, the lap of black water against the shore, all recreated the night Leander had drowned with painful clarity. At least there was no storm.
And of course, Leander and I hadn’t been accompanied by a coterie of madmen including my own father, or Guardians shuffling behind, dragging Griffin roughly along by his bound wrists.
The robes the Brotherhood wore lent a sense of unreality to the scene. The deep hoods masked the faces of the men around me, with only the occasional glimpse of torchlight sparkling in their avid, hungry eyes. The offer of robes of my own had been an unexpected reprieve, as it meant I didn’t have to worry quite as much about one of my companions noticing some oddity of expression.
We climbed into the boats; I rode with Addison and Blackbyrne, while a brutish thug rowed us across. I suspected the rough men Addison hired for the evening would never leave the estate alive. Blackbyrne needed to eat, after all.
Two robed figures awaited us on the small wooden dock, their hands folded and tucked into their voluminous sleeves, their faces shadowed by their hoods. They looked rather like monks, except they served no god dreamed of by human minds.
“Are the preparations complete?” Addison asked, as the hired man tied the boat up.
“Yes, sir,” one of them said. The other just nodded.
We climbed out of the boat and onto the dock. The wind had died to a gentle breeze. The torches jumped and flickered, the shadows writhing as though something alive hid inside them. More torchlight showed through the tangle of trees. Blackbyrne led the way to the center of the small island.
There was nothing to do but follow. My throat constricted and the light dinner I’d eaten a few hours ago was in imminent danger of reappearing. Had I survived that awful night in my boyhood just to die here tonight? My plan was madness. It couldn’t possibly work. How could I even think there was more than the smallest chance of success?
But even a small chance of success was better than none at all.
The path emerged from the tangled trees, and we stepped into a clearing illuminated by a ring of torches reeking of sulfur and tar. The wild light revealed a rough circle of standing stones, most of them taller than a man. Had Blackbyrne erected them when he had been master of these grounds? They seemed far more weathered than could be accounted for by a mere two centuries of exposure.
At the northern end of the circle sprawled a great stone altar, its surface dark with what could only be blood. Monstrous representations of Guardians were carved onto its sides. Tallow candles stood at either end of the altar, and from my reading in the Arcanorum I feared they had been rendered from human fat. In the center rested a copper bowl inscribed with blasphemous symbols, an urn beside it.
My heart gave an unpleasant jolt. No need to ask what—who—the urn held, his body already lovingly transformed into the perfect salts needed for a successful resurrection.
Blackbyrne walked straight to the altar, an excited bounce in his step. Addison followed more slowly, but the glimpse I caught of his face revealed an almost beatific smile. I moved to his side, under the pretense of helping him over the uneven ground, and escorted him to stand only a few feet from the urn.
The rest of the Brotherhood filed into the circle behind us, leaving an aisle leading to the altar stone. The Guardians loped through the space, and none of their masters seemed able to even look at them, flinching away when they drew too near.
In their midst, they dragged a bound, stumbling figure. My blood boiled at the sight of Griffin’s pale face, shadowed eyes, and unkempt hair. He had no coat, his shivers visible even from a distance. Thank whatever fiend had devised this ritual for the hooded robe, or else my face would surely have betrayed me. My hands curled into fists within the wide sleeves, aching to strike the Guardians, to tear away Griffin’s bonds.
But I could only stand and watch while they hauled him past me, before forcing him to his knees to the left of the altar. As for Griffin, he didn’t look at me, if he even knew which of the robed figures was mine. His expression was one of defeat and exhaustion, a man broken by the hopelessness of his situation. Had he understood my signal? Or did he truly think himself utterly alone amongst his enemies?
Blackbyrne placed a wooden case on the altar, lifting out the papyrus scroll. “Welcome, my brothers,” he proclaimed, turning to face his small audience. “Welcome to our hour, the hour which has been prepared and heralded for thousands of years, from the days of the pharaohs. I built Widdershins for this very moment; I escaped death for a purpose we will finally fulfill. Tonight, gentleman, we shall reshape the world to our liking, and all mankind will tremble at the sound of our names.”
Addison’s eyes fixed on the urn. I knew he couldn’t see anything beyond Leander’s return, just as Father no doubt saw only his vision of our family, transformed into the wife and children he’d dreamed we would be. Did the rest of them have similar weaknesses, longings which led them to ignore Blackbyrne’s grandiose declarations? Or did they relish the idea of enslaving the bulk of mankind to their will? How many even believed it was possible?
“Tonight, we shall defeat death for all time,” Blackbyrne went on. “And what better recipient of the gifts of Those from the Outside, than the child of one of our own, lost to the waters of this very lake.”
His glittering eyes touched mine, and he gave me a secretive smile. We were in on the joke together, he and I. Despite all Blackbyrne’s occult power, the men gathered here probably viewed us as much the same. Outsiders, devoted to the arts of the mind rather than the more manly pursuits of athletics and business. No doubt Blackbyrne’s Puritan father had looked upon his fascination with words and books with as much suspicion as mine.
I had longed to make Bradley crawl, to force Griffin to love me, to compel Father to acknowledge I was just as good as—no, better than—Stanford. Did Blackbyrne see those dark longings, when he looked at me? Did he know we weren’t nearly as different as I might wish?
Blackbyrne turned his gaze to the heavens. I automatically did the same, as did the rest of the gathering. The stars above us winked evilly, Aldebaran like a red eye low in the western sky.
“The stars are in alignment,” he said, as if he’d personally organized the matter. “Let us begin the ritual.”
“At last,” Addison whispered, tears gathering in his eyes.
“Pour the contents of the urn into the bowl,” Blackbyrne ordered. Addison hastened to obey with shaking hands. I half-hoped he would drop the urn, or spill the contents on the ground, but the fine, bluish-gray dust streamed unerringly into the wide copper bowl.
When he was done, Blackbyrne began to chant the spell of resurrection I recognized from the Arcanorum, calling upon Metraton and Almousin and Nyarlathotep. As he chanted, he threw various substances into the copper bowl. Smoke billowed out, obscuring the altar and carrying with it the tang of fresh-mown grass, the sweetness of vanilla, underlain by a faint musk as of a lover’s skin. I involuntarily took a deep breath, and for a moment, I was transported back to Griffin’s bed, awash in the afterglow of pleasure, all urgency gone and replaced by tenderness.
Then the scent curdled, notes of sour milk and burnt hair dispelling the vision. Blackbyrne’s chant grew in volume and power, and all of the hair on my arms crackled. The smoke turned noxious, green-black in color and reeking of the grave, pouring forth from the bowl like the vent of a volcano. Was there something moving in there? Was there…?
Blackbyrne flung out his arms, back arching, his mouth gaping as he screamed out the words in Aklo. “I call upon thee, Yog-Sothoth, let him ascend!”
There was something moving in the smoke.
“You who are All-in-One and One-in-All, the God Behind the Veil, who open the gate and are the gate, Yog-Sothoth, let Those from Outside see and rejoice, let this container be filled!”
A titanic crack of lightning split the sky apart, striking the altar only feet from us. I hurled myself back on reflex, but the hem of my robe tangled around my legs, and I fell heavily to the ground.
Blackbyrne laughed, a high, wild cackle which turned my blood to ice. Some of the other men moaned, still dazed from the lightning strike. I blinked rapidly, and as my sight cleared, I saw the smoke had vanished without trace. The after-image of the lightning strike still obscured my vision, painted against the stars and the trees beyond. I moved my head, but the image stayed put.
There was nothing wrong with my eyes. A great, green-black tear hung in the air, as if the fabric of reality itself had been ripped open.
On the altar in front of the tear, something pale and white stirred. A head lifted, then an arm, and very slowly, the figure rose to its feet. I beheld the face I’d seen almost every night in the photograph beside my lonely bed.
The ritual had worked. Leander lived again.