The Womb of Time, page 17
“No, Dr. Ridpath,” said Giles Crome. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. I am the Forge and the Hidden Crown, the Last Elector of Dunwich and Seer of Sinomagus. This is the first time in more than a thousand years that Medraut’s heir has been obliged to summon the proxies of the Staff, the Sword and the Cup—not since Arthur was slain, in fact—and I hope that a thousand years will pass before any of my descendants is compelled to do so again, but desperate times require desperate measures. I don’t want to hurt you, sir, but if you will not turn back, we shall be forced to act.”
Ridpath raised the gun, and pointed its barrel at Halsted’s head. “Go forward, Dr. Halsted,” Ridpath said. “Go to the water-line and fill the jars—and the test-tube too, if you wish. Ignore them. If any one of them makes a move to stop you, I shall shoot to kill.”
“No,” said Halsted, mustering the valor of a knight. “I will not.”
“Then I shall shoot you,” Ridpath said. “You first, to demonstrate to these others that I mean business, and then any of them who might try to stop me. In any case, we shall do Cthulhu’s work, as we are bound to do. Time is pressing, Dr. Halsted—I can only give you a count of three.”
As Ridpath pronounced the word one, Halsted took a step forward. He had not intended to, and he immediately exerted the full force of his will of prevent himself from taking a second—but his head was spinning now, and he could hear a voice in his head that was far from human, whistling like the wind, modulated as if by the stridulation of a vast swarm of locusts. There was nothing human in that voice, and the phonemes it pronounced were utterly devoid of any human meaning, but Halsted understood what the voice was saying.
It was pronouncing his name, in a way that gave it complete dominion over his soul.
He fought against that power with all his might, but he could not resist it. Courage was simply not enough.
“Two,” said Ridpath—and Halsted began to walk forward toward the water-line.
Then one of the shadows took action—the one to Crome’s right, which seemed to be all shadow. It raised a phantom staff as if it were a magic wand, and Halsted fully expected black lightning to spring from the tip of the staff and strike Ridpath down.
Ridpath immediately adjusted his aim, and fired.
The bullet must have gone clean through the phantom, but not harmlessly. Indeed, the phantom screamed as its mercurial form was shattered and dissipated, and the scream seemed to expand across the glittering pain before reverberating, very faintly, from the distant cliff. The phantom staff spun in mid-air, like the rotor-blades of a helicopter, and moved through the air toward Halsted, purposefully.
In the meantime, the woman took action.
Ridpath tried to turn the gun on her, but she was too quick for him. She was not holding a sword, but she had one nevertheless—or perhaps she was one. At any rate, a sword flashed, like vivid white lightning, and struck the gun clean out of Ridpath’s hand. Ridpath screamed in his turn, and fell down.
Halsted tried to continue forward, but the spinning staff barred his way, and instructed him to stop.
He could not stop, and the staff immediately struck him down—but as he lay there, dying, someone pressed a cup to his lips, and forced him to drink.
“Don’t be afraid,” James Wychelow murmured in his ear. “It’s a sleeping-draught, and when you wake, this will all appear to have been a dream…but if you value your life and sanity, you ought to remember that there was an interval in which it was all perfectly real: an interval in which Death’s self loomed over you, but stayed his hand. Always remember, whenever you hear the call of Cthulhu again—and you will, eventually, wherever you may be—that you have not only seen the grail but drunk from it, and are armored against the threats of alien thought.”
Halsted swallowed the draught that had been forced into his mouth. It tasted like stewed tea diluted with sour milk. Then he fell deeply unconscious, as if he had inhaled chloroform vapor, or overdosed on Veronal.
Chapter Thirteen
The Fretted Heart
Halsted woke up in his bed in room 4, dressed in his pajamas. His overcoat was hanging beside the door, but its hem was splashed with mud, and there was a pair of muddy Wellington boots on the floor beside the armchair. His gloves were on the table. The Story of the Glittering Plain lay beside them, closed. There was no way to tell whether or not he had finished reading it, but he could not remember how the story had ended, if it had ended at all.
It was early; he got to the bathroom ahead of Rylands and Ridpath, who had not yet emerged from their rooms, and he had the benefit of abundant hot water. Then he went down to breakfast. Henry Vamplew was there, already sitting down at the residents’ table; he did not get up but he greeted Halsted with a mournful nod. Walter Conrad’s chair was empty, and Halsted read an ominous message in the nod. Wychelow was there too, having not yet sat down, and his greeting was a grave and formal bow.
Halsted understood that he could not and must not talk to either of them about what might or might not have happened the previous night, because they would not be able to admit it even in the unlikely event that they remembered it. He moved to a position behind his chair, standing rather stiffly, and waited for someone else to take the initiative.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Dr. Halsted,” Vamplew said, as if it pained him to speak of it, “that Mr. Conrad died suddenly during the night—peacefully, thank God. I had been optimistic about his eventual recovery, but it seems that my optimism was misplaced.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Halsted replied, soberly. He sat down, not knowing what else to say or do, and Wychelow followed his example. They looked at one another uncomfortably.
“My God!” said Rylands, who had just appeared in the doorway. “I’ve had the most frightful night—terrible nightmares. I must have walked in my sleep, for I woke up at one point outside your door, Dr. Halsted. My knuckles felt sore, but I couldn’t actually have been knocking on the door, else you’d surely have answered it. I crept back to bed, but was then afflicted with insomnia for hours. I’m beginning to believe that De Quincey’s ghost really does haunt that accursed room, and if I were not leaving today, I’d take up your offer of an exchange tonight. I’ve ordered a car for ten o’clock, to take me to the railway station at Ipswich. If I can offer anyone a lift…” He stopped suddenly, realizing that his words were not having the effect he had anticipated, and that something must be wrong.
“Yes,” said Halsted, dully. “I’ll take you up on that offer, if I may.”
“Me too,” said Wychelow. “Will there be room for four, though? I should not like to deprive Dr. Ridpath of a place, simply because his indisposition has kept him in bed. His need will likely be greater than mine.”
“I dare say that we can all squeeze in,” Rylands said, still puzzled by the evident tension in the room, “provided that the boot and the roof-rack can take all the luggage.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir, I’m afraid,” said Giles Crome, as he came in just then with a plate of grilled bacon and sausages. “Dr. Ridpath also passed away during the night.”
There was a deathly silence, which lasted several seconds.
“But the fellow can’t have been much more than forty,” Rylands said, calculation having doubtless informed him of the identity of the other casualty implied by Crome’s also. “Younger than me, for sure. He didn’t seem too bad when we put him to bed yesterday—no worse than Halsted, in my estimation. I thought he was simply being overly careful when he took to his bed. Had he really had a stroke, then?”
“I’m not competent to judge, sir,” Crome admitted. “The doctor will call to examine him, and will doubtless order an autopsy. It’s most unfortunate. I hope it won’t spoil the memory of your stay here—especially for Professor Halsted, who’s come so far.”
Halsted did not feel capable, for the moment, of issuing an assurance that it would not. He had no idea how Ridpath had died—or what the autopsy would indicate as a cause of death, at least—but he was ready enough to mourn the man’s passing, as well as to think: There, but for the grace of God…
“Is there anything that we can do, Mr. Crome?” Wychelow asked. “If you would like one of us to stay…”
“There’s no need,” the innkeeper assured them. “Mr. Vamplew has helped me through similar circumstances in the past, and between the two of us, we shall be able to take care of all the formalities. Please eat your breakfast—you shouldn’t allow it to go cold. I’ll bring in the toast, and the tea. We must maintain appearances, must we not? Death, however sudden and unexpected, and even when it does not arrive singly, must be put in its place, subjected to the discipline of civilized order.”
Rylands sat down at the table. One by one, the four remaining guests found their appetites.
“I couldn’t approve of the man,” Rylands said, eventually, “but I couldn’t wish him dead either. I feel sorry for his wife and children—although I dare say that it might have seemed even worse if he’d collapsed and died at home.”
No one suggested that if Ridpath had never come to Dunwich, he might not have collapsed or died at all.
All things considered, Halsted reflected, it would have been better if Crome had served hard-boiled eggs again. He could hardly slip a sausage or a couple of rashers of bacon into his pocket for later consumption. With luck, though, he would be on the train before he began to feel peckish, and would be able to buy a sandwich in the buffet. He would be able to buy a couple of magazines at Ipswich station too—something light, to take his mind off things. British fiction magazines couldn’t offer the same gaudy range of melodramatic fare as the American pulps, but that wasn’t altogether regrettable.
Mechanically, he began to sip his tea as soon as it arrived. For once, the infusion had not been left too long.
∴
When he had packed his clothes and taken his suitcases down to the hall, Halsted went to hand in his key and settle his bill. He was still running ahead of Rylands and Wychelow, so he had a brief opportunity to speak to Giles Crome alone.
“Why did Medraut go to war with Arthur?” he asked.
“Thanks to Arthur,” Crome replied, without any prevarication, “Merlin already had the staff and the sword, and Arthur’s knights were hunting high and low for the cup. He wanted the crown too, very badly. Medraut didn’t know what Merlin intended to do if he contrived to collect the set—and I’m talking about the objects themselves, not simply their proxies—but he wasn’t about to take the risk. Maybe it was a pity that Arthur was killed, and maybe it wasn’t, but the cup and crown were still safe in hiding, and the sword was returned to its resting-place. The staff’s always been a wanderer, so it’s always been abroad. So the local legend has it, at any rate—other places have their own legends, I suppose, which won’t necessarily agree. You may take your choice between them. I dare say that we won’t be seeing you again, sir, if you’re going back to America?”
“Perhaps not,” Halsted said. “But who knows? Some of your guests come back time and time again, don’t they?”
“Mr. Swinburne did, sir, and both Mr. Jameses—but Mr. De Quincey never came back, and nor did Mr. Machen.”
“You won’t be here, will you, in 2049?” Halsted observed. “By that time, the erosion of the cliff will have undermined the building.”
“I dare say that my descendants will still be hereabouts,” Crome said. “My son’s not at home at present—he’s gone inland to help with the harvest—but he’ll be back soon enough. He’ll find a new place, I dare say, and he’ll have a son of his own. 2049’s a long way off, but I’m hopeful that something akin to the Hidden Crown will still be here. Perhaps some great grandson of your own will return, in memory of your visit, if you leave a sufficiently tempting record of your experience.”
“Perhaps,” Halsted agreed, unenthusiastically.
“Be careful in America, sir, “Crome added, as he handed Halsted a copy of his bill marked PAID IN FULL. “Being a new country, relatively speaking, it may not have the same long-standing safeguards against the hazards of the past that England has. Things sometimes get loose there, if rumor can be trusted.”
“I’ll be as careful as I can,” Halsted assured him. “Good luck to you, Mr. Crome, and to the Hidden Crown. Please thank your wife for me.”
“You’re very welcome, sir,” the landlord replied, as James Wychelow staggered out of room 1, laden down with luggage. It wasn’t long before Rylands lurched down the stairs in his turn, making the hallway so crowded that Halsted thought it better to step outside. He was still there, silently contemplating the distant sea, when Henry Vamplew came to find him.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” the resident said. “I enjoyed talking to you, and I’m sorry that Mr. Conrad’s illness prevented us from spending more time together. His death has quite taken the wind out of my sails, I fear, and what we were talking about so earnestly yesterday no longer seems to have the least importance.”
“It was a privilege to meet you, too,” Halsted assured him. “You’ve given me a great deal of food for thought—as has everyone else I’ve met here. If I were to write a letter to you, care of the Hidden Crown, you’d be sure to get it, wouldn’t you? That way, we needn’t lose touch entirely.”
“I’d like that, Dr. Halsted,” Vamplew said, “if you have the time for such frivolities. I know that you must be a busy man—and you’ll be busier still once you’ve returned to America.”
“I’ll try not to become too dissipated,” Halsted promised, “even if I learn to drive an automobile. The learned culture of the university provides some protection against the insidious advance of radio and the cinema, so I expect that I’ll be able to pander to my taste for solitude and intellectualism for a good while yet. You might not be so lucky, if war in Europe really is as inevitable as it seems.”
“I’m too old to be conscripted,” Vamplew assured him, “and there’s reason to be optimistic that the war might not be quite as apocalyptic as the doom-mongers fear. At the end of the day, though, we’ll simply have to hope that things work out. I hope they work out for you.”
“I’m sure they will,” Halsted lied. “I’m sure they will.”
∴
On Ipswich railway station, Halsted bought a sandwich from the buffet and two cheap magazines from the bookstall, at which Martin Rylands looked down with a disapproving eye. The two of them were standing on the platform from which the Cambridge train was due to leave imminently. It had already pulled in, and its engineer was waiting for the hands of the station clock to reach the time designated for its departure. Wychelow had already said goodbye to the professor and retired to the waiting-room.
“Railway bookstalls don’t carry much in the way of literature,” Halsted said, defensively. “Besides, railway journeys aren’t conducive to concentration, and it’s sometimes better not to think about weighty matters.”
“Ridpath’s stroke has cast something of a pall over the occasion,” Rylands admitted. “I suppose I ought to send my condolences to his family. You’ll be traveling in the same train as Wychelow, I imagine, at least as far as London?”
“I believe that Wychelow and I will be traveling companions while we cross the great metropolis and catch a further train to Reading,” Halsted said. “I’ll be going on to Oxford thereafter, though. I’ll be glad of the company, to be honest.”
“That fellow’s head was in the clouds even before he imagined he saw the Holy Grail,” Rylands observed, with faint disgust. “I hope you won’t find his conversation too wearisome. Are you sure that you’re all right yourself, though? It really was uncanny, the way that you and Ridpath collapsed simultaneously—almost as uncanny as the fact that he and Conrad seem to have died within minutes of one another, if not quite simultaneously. Coincidences do pile up in the most alarming fashion, sometimes, don’t they?”
“I did feel a slight pang of alarm when I heard this morning’s news,” Halsted agreed. “I couldn’t help feeling that Conrad had somehow died in my stead.”
“Even men like us can’t entirely shake off the burden of superstition,” Rylands said, supportively. “There’s too much weight of tradition behind it. I shan’t be going back to Dunwich—certainly not to the Hidden Crown. If De Quincey slept as badly in that room as I did, it’s no wonder his Confessions took a dark turn.”
The Cambridge man looked at Halsted slightly anxiously, as if afraid that he might be fated to become the subject of some awkward anecdotes—anecdotes that might spread all the way from Miskatonic to Cambridge via the academic grapevine. Even though he had no intention of making a funny story out of the professor’s nocturnal visit to his room, Halsted did not take the trouble to reassure him.
“We gained a measure of insight, though, did we not?” the American said, instead. “We understand him a little better than we did before.”
“Do we?” Rylands wondered, aloud. “Can one really understand the produce of delirium? Should we even try, lest we become darkly intoxicated ourselves, and prey to nightmares? I am beginning to understand what he meant, though, when he spoke of the insufferable splendor of his nightmares fretting his heart.”
“And of the sensation of having descended into a gloomy and shadowy realm from which he could never authentically re-ascend,” Halsted added.
“You’re young, as yet,” Rylands told him, “with your entire career ahead of you. You have yet to ascend for the first time, in any meaningful sense, but I have every confidence that you will. I expect to hear of you, Dr. Halsted, and good things. If my judgment can be trusted, you’re a true scholar.” As he was speaking, the professor climbed into the carriage; he slammed the door shut to emphasize the final period. The blast of the station-master’s whistle added a long flourish to the figurative punctuation mark.
