The Codex Importunica! Could it really be? I had long thought it the stuff of legend, a bogey man to frighten neophyte librarians. Tales of the horrid tome had long circulated among the occult set; how it was bound in human flesh or worse, how the knowledge contained therein had its roots in bloody empires won at the dawn of time, and, most importantly, how even the most casual perusal could turn a sane man into a gibbering idiot.
Here it is before me. Dare I continue? It is not a large book, its cover black with the grime and decay of centuries, yet it is disproportionately weighty. It settles here in my lap like a great beast and I imagine I can almost feel it expand and contract with hellish breath.
The purported author, the insane Englishman Catsmeat Featherstone, is said to have died alone and penniless despite having inherited millions from the family fortune. His forays into the increasingly bizarre reaches of the occult sciences divorced him from house and home, driving him to the most remote ends of the earth in search of ruins so ancient, the mind reels at the vast gulf of Time which separates those ancient relics from ourselves. Through frozen waste and dripping jungle, he pursued the unearthly knowledge and then, alone and raving in a London flat, he wrote the Codex in a single night.
His body was found three days later, still sitting erect at the desk but, oh, so pale. For he had written the evil thing in his own blood!
Very well. The book is finally in my hands. Contained within is the knowledge which could save Professor Champion and perhaps even reality as we know it. I must venture on.
It is some time later. I can not relate to you those words that burned mine eyes, for you have not the protective devices I bear, given to me by the Witch Doctor on the moor. I can say nothing of those ancient gods and their unseen battles which threaten our very existence - Zsazsa, whose unholy appetites are too horrible to contemplate, Klaatunikta, she who hunts by the light of the moon. Certainly I can say nothing of the Lord of Despair, the many-headed mad god -----, whose name is spoken on pain of death. I see now the ties which bind the fabric of this reality and how simple it would be to undo them, with such grotesque and dire consequences. But I was careful not to go too deep, looking only for that shard of information which will liberate my friend and master from his terrible bonds. Even now, I feel the terror fading, slipping back into those vestigial recesses of the mind, only to make itself felt in the black of night, when shadows take on a life of their own.
My task complete, I exit the water closet.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Among the Savages
"I say, Champion!"
"What is it, Hardings?" The Professor was grappling with a native of immense stature.
I ducked under the swipe of a machete. "Why do you suppose they call it a pitched battle?"
There was a muffled oath, followed by the crack of bone.
"Call what a pitched battle?"
My opponent, a rather ugly fellow, had me up against the hut now, his machete whacking off chunks of bamboo from the wall as I dodged to and fro. I had been preparing to retaliate, but Champion's query stopped me in my tracks while I tried to formulate a coherent reply. My foe saw his chance and drove in for the kill.
"What I mean to say is..." I dropped to the ground, rolling into my attacker's legs. He hurtled head first into the wall, knocking himself unconscious.
I sprang to my feet. "...what makes a battle a pitched battle?"
Having a bit of breathing space, I checked in on Champion. Two men lay at his feet. The third, though, seemed to be giving him his money's worth. As Champion is fond of relating (at some length, I might add), he had the occasion to study the fighting disciplines of the Orient during the world-spanning excursions of his youth. As with most things to which he puts his remarkable mind, not only did he master these arcane arts, but also improved upon them. In keeping with his temperament and sense of decorum, he favored those styles which produced the greatest effect with the minimum amount of effort. The manipulation of certain nerve clusters to induce paralysis, for example.
The present engagement, however, provided little opportunity for such niceties and Champion's adversary had wrapped him in a bear hug, nearly lifting his lanky frame off the ground. This had no effect on the Professor's willingness to pontificate.
"The term 'pitched battle,' my good man," he grunted while chopping his hand like an axe into the savage's neck, causing him to stagger but not release his grip, "originally indicated an engagement in which both sides met at a time and place agreed upon previously." Here he paused again to address his assailant. I know not what he did for I had trouble of my own in the form of a young lad, not more than sixteen years of age, who nevertheless wielded a nasty looking axe. Wrenching a bamboo support from the hut's canopy, I blocked his blow and gave him a sharp rap on the head. I've always been a bit of a whiz with the quarterstaff and this untrained youth clearly possessed more enthusiasm then skill. Still, enthusiasm goes a long way when one is armed with an axe. I struck a defensive posture.
Meanwhile, Champion picked up the thread. "The Battle of Edgehill, for example, in 1642." Though I couldn't spare him a glance, I could tell from his tone that he had regained the upper hand. His speech was accompanied by the grunts and groans of his opponent. "One could argue that the redeployment of the Royalist troops from the advantageous hilltop position they originally occupied constituted a virtual invitation to do battle."
This last sentence was punctuated by a resounding thud as his enemy fell to the ground.
"But why 'pitched'? I nevOWWW"
The lad chose this moment to alter his attack and fetched me a savage slash across my left shoulder. Momentarily enraged by the pain, I dropped my inhibitions about fighting such a stripling and attacked with renewed vigor. Champion, taking on the role of casual bystander, explained.
"Well, that's a bit more difficult. Clearly, it relates to the transitive sense, as in 'to set, or place.' The military connotations are readily apparent, as I'm sure you have heard of an army 'pitching camp.' The etymological origins are less certain, however. It's possible that it's from a causative formation of the Old English 'pick,' though...
I admit at some point I stopped paying attention to the Professor. There are levels beyond which some of us never progress. In any event, I had been driving my young foe backwards in Champion's direction. He was proving more resilient than I had though possible, although that could be accounted for by the imbalance in the armaments at our disposal. Still, I was on the verge of administering the final blow when Champion reached out and touched the young man gently just where the neck meets the shoulder. The boy froze, his eyes wide, axe held aloft, then toppled over backwards.
I stood staring at Champion, breathing hard.
"There was no need for that, you know."
"It seemed preferable to inflicting violence on children." Tearing a strip of cloth from the shirt of one of the prostrate men at his feet, he began expertly binding my wound. "There are times when violence is best countered with its opposite. In my youth, I may have mentioned, I studied the ways of the Orient and, in particular, their methods of unarmed combat. It's fascinating, really..."
He was interrupted by the crash of the front gate and the blood-curdling shouts of the tribesmen as they erupted into the compound. I raised my eyes to Heaven, gave a quiet expression of gratitude and turned to Champion.
"It would seem reinforcements have arrived," I declared as the horde descended upon us. "Perhaps it is an opportunity to put your assertion to the test."
"Indeed," answered Champion with a wry smile.
We turned and ran.
"What is it, Hardings?" The Professor was grappling with a native of immense stature.
I ducked under the swipe of a machete. "Why do you suppose they call it a pitched battle?"
There was a muffled oath, followed by the crack of bone.
"Call what a pitched battle?"
My opponent, a rather ugly fellow, had me up against the hut now, his machete whacking off chunks of bamboo from the wall as I dodged to and fro. I had been preparing to retaliate, but Champion's query stopped me in my tracks while I tried to formulate a coherent reply. My foe saw his chance and drove in for the kill.
"What I mean to say is..." I dropped to the ground, rolling into my attacker's legs. He hurtled head first into the wall, knocking himself unconscious.
I sprang to my feet. "...what makes a battle a pitched battle?"
Having a bit of breathing space, I checked in on Champion. Two men lay at his feet. The third, though, seemed to be giving him his money's worth. As Champion is fond of relating (at some length, I might add), he had the occasion to study the fighting disciplines of the Orient during the world-spanning excursions of his youth. As with most things to which he puts his remarkable mind, not only did he master these arcane arts, but also improved upon them. In keeping with his temperament and sense of decorum, he favored those styles which produced the greatest effect with the minimum amount of effort. The manipulation of certain nerve clusters to induce paralysis, for example.
The present engagement, however, provided little opportunity for such niceties and Champion's adversary had wrapped him in a bear hug, nearly lifting his lanky frame off the ground. This had no effect on the Professor's willingness to pontificate.
"The term 'pitched battle,' my good man," he grunted while chopping his hand like an axe into the savage's neck, causing him to stagger but not release his grip, "originally indicated an engagement in which both sides met at a time and place agreed upon previously." Here he paused again to address his assailant. I know not what he did for I had trouble of my own in the form of a young lad, not more than sixteen years of age, who nevertheless wielded a nasty looking axe. Wrenching a bamboo support from the hut's canopy, I blocked his blow and gave him a sharp rap on the head. I've always been a bit of a whiz with the quarterstaff and this untrained youth clearly possessed more enthusiasm then skill. Still, enthusiasm goes a long way when one is armed with an axe. I struck a defensive posture.
Meanwhile, Champion picked up the thread. "The Battle of Edgehill, for example, in 1642." Though I couldn't spare him a glance, I could tell from his tone that he had regained the upper hand. His speech was accompanied by the grunts and groans of his opponent. "One could argue that the redeployment of the Royalist troops from the advantageous hilltop position they originally occupied constituted a virtual invitation to do battle."
This last sentence was punctuated by a resounding thud as his enemy fell to the ground.
"But why 'pitched'? I nevOWWW"
The lad chose this moment to alter his attack and fetched me a savage slash across my left shoulder. Momentarily enraged by the pain, I dropped my inhibitions about fighting such a stripling and attacked with renewed vigor. Champion, taking on the role of casual bystander, explained.
"Well, that's a bit more difficult. Clearly, it relates to the transitive sense, as in 'to set, or place.' The military connotations are readily apparent, as I'm sure you have heard of an army 'pitching camp.' The etymological origins are less certain, however. It's possible that it's from a causative formation of the Old English 'pick,' though...
I admit at some point I stopped paying attention to the Professor. There are levels beyond which some of us never progress. In any event, I had been driving my young foe backwards in Champion's direction. He was proving more resilient than I had though possible, although that could be accounted for by the imbalance in the armaments at our disposal. Still, I was on the verge of administering the final blow when Champion reached out and touched the young man gently just where the neck meets the shoulder. The boy froze, his eyes wide, axe held aloft, then toppled over backwards.
I stood staring at Champion, breathing hard.
"There was no need for that, you know."
"It seemed preferable to inflicting violence on children." Tearing a strip of cloth from the shirt of one of the prostrate men at his feet, he began expertly binding my wound. "There are times when violence is best countered with its opposite. In my youth, I may have mentioned, I studied the ways of the Orient and, in particular, their methods of unarmed combat. It's fascinating, really..."
He was interrupted by the crash of the front gate and the blood-curdling shouts of the tribesmen as they erupted into the compound. I raised my eyes to Heaven, gave a quiet expression of gratitude and turned to Champion.
"It would seem reinforcements have arrived," I declared as the horde descended upon us. "Perhaps it is an opportunity to put your assertion to the test."
"Indeed," answered Champion with a wry smile.
We turned and ran.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The Accursed Manse
A hand was crawling its way, spider-like, out of the hole! I gave Champion a horrified glance, but his eyes were locked on the monstrous apparition.
"It's a..." I hissed. Champion cut me off with a swift gesture.
I turned back to take a closer look. Even from within our hiding place on the other side of the room, I could see that the thing was grotesque, its knuckles swollen and hairy. The skin was mottled like that of an old man, yet it moved with a vitality which belayed its withered form. The cracked nails were over long and black with grime. The fingers skittered over the wall, pausing now and again to tap or scratch at the flaking paint.
"It's looking for something!" I ventured in a hoarse whisper. Champion's brow furrowed and he raised a finger to his lips, shooting me an angry glance without turning his head.
"I say, I do believe..."
Champion's hand clamped over my mouth. Startled, I instinctively tried to bite it, but could gain no purchase. I was reaching for his wrist, but at that moment, the hand in the wall found its mark and with a sharp click, a partition, previously invisible, swung outward. We froze. From our place of concealment, we had a clear view of the hidden compartment. Upon later reflection, it occurred to me that the space was overly large, certainly too big to concealed within the wall. At that moment, however, my mind was occupied with other matters. The horrific monstrosity which occupied the space, for instance. He made quite an impression.
The hand, stringy and knobby as it was, served as a model for the rest of the body. He seemed to be constructed of a series of narrow rods connected to one another by large, round joints. The effect was rather that of a wooden soldier or, better, a marionette. His skin was grey and covered in a patchwork of liver spots and boils, even beneath the few strands of oily grey hair that struggled to cover his narrow, equine skull. Sunken eyes rolled back and forth, searching the room, and a narrow tongue flickered over dry lips. His dress only added to the macabre effect; formal evening wear stretched so tight over his emaciated frame I swear I could have counted every rib through coat, waistcoat, and shirt.
Despite my horrified fascination, I noticed Champion's grip on my mouth slacken and seized the moment. I jerked my head aside and exclaimed, at what I remain convinced was a reasonably stealthy volume, "That's him!"
The sound, though negligible, I assure you, seemed to echo through the room like a rifle report. Some architectural anomaly, I suspect. I'm told there's a mosque in Persia where if you stand directly under the dome and clap your hands once, you'll hear the sound repeated tenfold. That's the sort of thing I mean. Quite common, probably. In any event, the beast froze for a moment and then that ghastly hand shot in our direction and its yellow eyes locked on the door behind which we were hiding.
Champion was staring at me with a bemused expression. "Oh, well done." he said.
There was a roar from without, something crashed into the door and then everything went black.
"It's a..." I hissed. Champion cut me off with a swift gesture.
I turned back to take a closer look. Even from within our hiding place on the other side of the room, I could see that the thing was grotesque, its knuckles swollen and hairy. The skin was mottled like that of an old man, yet it moved with a vitality which belayed its withered form. The cracked nails were over long and black with grime. The fingers skittered over the wall, pausing now and again to tap or scratch at the flaking paint.
"It's looking for something!" I ventured in a hoarse whisper. Champion's brow furrowed and he raised a finger to his lips, shooting me an angry glance without turning his head.
"I say, I do believe..."
Champion's hand clamped over my mouth. Startled, I instinctively tried to bite it, but could gain no purchase. I was reaching for his wrist, but at that moment, the hand in the wall found its mark and with a sharp click, a partition, previously invisible, swung outward. We froze. From our place of concealment, we had a clear view of the hidden compartment. Upon later reflection, it occurred to me that the space was overly large, certainly too big to concealed within the wall. At that moment, however, my mind was occupied with other matters. The horrific monstrosity which occupied the space, for instance. He made quite an impression.
The hand, stringy and knobby as it was, served as a model for the rest of the body. He seemed to be constructed of a series of narrow rods connected to one another by large, round joints. The effect was rather that of a wooden soldier or, better, a marionette. His skin was grey and covered in a patchwork of liver spots and boils, even beneath the few strands of oily grey hair that struggled to cover his narrow, equine skull. Sunken eyes rolled back and forth, searching the room, and a narrow tongue flickered over dry lips. His dress only added to the macabre effect; formal evening wear stretched so tight over his emaciated frame I swear I could have counted every rib through coat, waistcoat, and shirt.
Despite my horrified fascination, I noticed Champion's grip on my mouth slacken and seized the moment. I jerked my head aside and exclaimed, at what I remain convinced was a reasonably stealthy volume, "That's him!"
The sound, though negligible, I assure you, seemed to echo through the room like a rifle report. Some architectural anomaly, I suspect. I'm told there's a mosque in Persia where if you stand directly under the dome and clap your hands once, you'll hear the sound repeated tenfold. That's the sort of thing I mean. Quite common, probably. In any event, the beast froze for a moment and then that ghastly hand shot in our direction and its yellow eyes locked on the door behind which we were hiding.
Champion was staring at me with a bemused expression. "Oh, well done." he said.
There was a roar from without, something crashed into the door and then everything went black.
I Awake
I awoke at dawn. Within minutes, I was fighting for my life.
Slavering jaws snapped inches from my face, thick, clawed feet tore at my chest. I clutched at the Siberian wolf's throat (for such it was) with a grip of steel, yet knew I could not long delay my gory demise.
I once overheard a picturesque American colloquialism in which the speaker favorably compares his present circumstances, no matter how dire, to "a poke in the eye with a sharp stick." When I presented a similar choice to my adversary, I was not overly surprised to find he came down firmly against the stick option, preferring to flee whimpering through the shattered remains of the window through which he had entered. I grimaced and returned my sharp stick to its accustomed place beneath my pillow.
If I am awoken after sunrise, I have a devil of a time getting back to sleep. In any case, the cool morning air and distant birdsong had decided now that the wolf was gone, they might as well come inside and have a look around. Sitting up, I wiped the last traces of canine saliva from my brow and considered the task which lay before us. It was a daunting prospect. The house was a vast structure and would require days to search comprehensively. Furthermore, the residents, upon whose unpleasant aspects I have dwelt for some length, were obviously displeased with our presence and perhaps contemplating outright revolt. But, and you may think me mad for saying so, it was from the house itself that I felt the strongest resistance. There was something unnameable about the place, some lurking transgression which eluded close observation. It was almost as if the thing had not been erected with the idea of human habitation, its contorted dimensions meant to accommodate some alien physique...
I was jerked from my reverie by a hoarse shout.
"Hardings!"
I leapt to my feet. "Curses! Champion!"
Slavering jaws snapped inches from my face, thick, clawed feet tore at my chest. I clutched at the Siberian wolf's throat (for such it was) with a grip of steel, yet knew I could not long delay my gory demise.
I once overheard a picturesque American colloquialism in which the speaker favorably compares his present circumstances, no matter how dire, to "a poke in the eye with a sharp stick." When I presented a similar choice to my adversary, I was not overly surprised to find he came down firmly against the stick option, preferring to flee whimpering through the shattered remains of the window through which he had entered. I grimaced and returned my sharp stick to its accustomed place beneath my pillow.
If I am awoken after sunrise, I have a devil of a time getting back to sleep. In any case, the cool morning air and distant birdsong had decided now that the wolf was gone, they might as well come inside and have a look around. Sitting up, I wiped the last traces of canine saliva from my brow and considered the task which lay before us. It was a daunting prospect. The house was a vast structure and would require days to search comprehensively. Furthermore, the residents, upon whose unpleasant aspects I have dwelt for some length, were obviously displeased with our presence and perhaps contemplating outright revolt. But, and you may think me mad for saying so, it was from the house itself that I felt the strongest resistance. There was something unnameable about the place, some lurking transgression which eluded close observation. It was almost as if the thing had not been erected with the idea of human habitation, its contorted dimensions meant to accommodate some alien physique...
I was jerked from my reverie by a hoarse shout.
"Hardings!"
I leapt to my feet. "Curses! Champion!"
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