A few minutes later, the five who’d left came back into the cavern, two of them hauling an enormous stoneware bowl with a bronze rim, the third with something large wrapped in cloth, and the others with a large pitcher and an assortment of small round cups. The bowl turned out to be full of something that looked and smelled very much like mushrooms and some kind of meat; the cloth wrappings opened up to reveal some sort of soft flatbread, grayish-brown in color and smelling of mushrooms as well, and the pitcher held water.

  The voormis stood as soon as the food was set down, and all faced the same direction: toward Mount Voormithadreth beneath the ice, Owen guessed, remembering another scrap of lore from von Junzt. He stood with them, bowed his head as one of them recited something like an incantation. A few parts of it almost made sense to Owen; he was sure, or nearly sure, that some of the baying sounds included the name of the Great Old One Tsathoggua.

  Once that was done, they all sat. The voormis showed him how to scoop the meat and mushrooms from the bowl with a folded piece of flatbread, and fell to eating. Owen decided he needed to ask about the meat, indicated a piece and gestured in what he hoped was a gesture of uncertainty. The voormis caught on at once, and one of them mimed with his hands the scuttling movements of a cave lizard. That was enough to settle Owen’s worries, and he tried some. Inevitably, it tasted like chicken.

  By the time the meal was finished, he and the voormis had worked out enough in the way of gestures to be able to communicate after a fashion. They mimed going to sleep; voormis, he gathered, or at least these voormis, liked to bed down in a pile like so many puppies, and they let him know that he could join them or sleep alone in the room, his choice. The thought of trying to doze off under a heap of young voormis amused him but didn’t greatly appeal, and though they seemed disappointed they didn’t try to argue. The dishes and cloth were hauled away, Owen gestured goodnight to all, and the voormis nestled down to sleep right in front of the door.

  The door with the crescent moon on it turned out to be exactly what he’d guessed, which was one kind of relief, and the sheer ordinariness of the bedding and furniture was another. He slept hard but dreamed unquiet dreams. When he woke, the quiet sounds of voormi-talk filtered through the door; after he’d dressed, he opened it, and found his guides already awake and breakfast waiting. This time the stoneware bowl was full of mushrooms and cave fish, served as before with flatbread and water. After they’d prayed to Tsathoggua and eaten, the voormis gestured for him to come with them, and retraced the same route through the depths of Dhu-shai, past the pit of shoggoths, and back to the chamber where he’d left Nyarlathotep.

  The Old One was waiting there, along with one of what Owen guessed were the voormi elders. “Not much the worse for wear, I see,” Nyarlathotep said.

  “Not at all,” said Owen. “Please thank them for me.”

  A flurry of voormi-talk passed between the Old One, the voormi elder, and the small voormis; the latter scampered off, and Nylarlathotep and the elder turned and led the way through Dhu-shai’s caverns and passages to the foot of the Six Thousand Steps. It was only when the voormi had bowed to Nyarlathotep and made off that Owen realized what wasn’t with them.

  “What about the machine?”

  “The voormis will keep it for now. They’ve become very clever with machines these last thousand years or so.” He gestured toward the stair. “We need to go. Up on the surface, the sun’s about to rise, and there’s much to do.”

  Owen gave the stair an unfriendly look, but started up it alongside the Old One. “Is it okay to ask about what the voormis figured out?”

  “You’re wondering why the machine didn’t have the same effect on you as before.” When Owen nodded, he went on. “That question’s on a good many minds right now. The machine’s an ordinary Tillinghast effect generator—do you know about those?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an elegant little bit of technology, come up with by an Arkham inventor back in the 1920s; we have them, and so does the Radiance. It emits waves that stimulate the pineal gland and awaken various senses that have atrophied in most humans, the voor-sense among them. What we don’t know is why this one, this time, blanketed a good half of Innsmouth with the effect you felt. That’s troubling—not least because we don’t know what else they might be able to do with it.” He shook his head.

  The stair stretched on, rising up out of sight before them. “Can I ask another question?” Owen said finally. When Nyarlathotep nodded, he went on. “You’ve said a couple of times now that there are things you don’t know. You’re a god—don’t you know everything?”

  Nyarlathotep chuckled. “Oh, that. No, that’s a story the Radiance circulates. They like to try to discredit the Great Old Ones, by making humans load expectations on us that nothing and no one can fulfill. We’re neither omniscient nor omnipotent, and nobody in ancient times ever dreamed that we could or should be.”

  Owen thought about that as they climbed the six thousand steps. By the time they reached the top, his legs ached and breath burst harshly from his lips. He stood panting in the cavern at the head of the stair; Nyarlathotep went to the door, placed his hands against the two great stone slabs that sealed it, and stepped back as they pivoted open.

  Owen went through. In the cave outside the door, the air tasted raw and wet, and pale morning light filtered in from the cave mouth. As Nyarlathotep followed, something small and dark came scurrying past Owen across the cave floor. The Old One dropped to one knee and seemed to commune with the creature, then gestured at it and rose to his feet as the animal scampered away.

  “Trouble,” Nyarlathotep said. “There are armed humans on the slope below, heading this way—more than a dozen of them; that’s as high as wood-rats can count. If they’re a Radiant negation team, this could be difficult.”

  “Let me know what I should do,” Owen said.

  The Old One indicated a jagged mass of stone that thrust out into the cave from one side. “Get behind that. If they start shooting, that should keep you safe until I can act.”

  Owen moved over and crouched behind the rock, making sure he was out of sight of the cave mouth. Nyarlathotep raised his hands, and out of nowhere in particular, two of his silent black dogs trotted over to stand beside him.

  Something dimmed the light from the cave mouth. A moment later, footsteps sounded on the broken stone: just one person, Owen guessed. He tensed, watched the Old One.

  “Lord Nyarlathotep.” The voice was a woman’s. “The King sends his greetings.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” The Old One lowered his hands, and the dogs trotted off and vanished into the shadows.

  ELEVEN

  The Yellow Sign

  “YOU CAN COME out, Owen,” Nyarlathotep said. “This is a friend.” Then, to the newcomer: “You must be April Castaigne. I knew your father, of course.”

  The woman nodded. Owen, rising from behind the projecting stone, could see her only as a shadow framed by the light from the cave mouth.

  “Am I right,” said the Old One, “that the King had more than his greetings to send?”

  “Of course, Lord.” The voice sounded amused. “He’s deeply troubled by the patterns the bones have shown him; he sees a juncture approaching where many destinies are knotted together. You’re part of that juncture, Lord—and so is the Radiance.”

  Nylarhathotep nodded once, acknowledging. “I thought as much.”

  “He also asks me to remind you of the Weird of Hali.”

  A silence came and went. The Old One’s expression did not change, but Owen, watching him in the dim light, sensed that something of immense importance had been said.

  “Finally, he sends five heptads of the Fellowship.” She motioned with her head, indicating the slopes outside the cave. “They’re waiting below for your instructions. If you need more, that can also be arranged.”

  “It’s that serious,” Nyarlathotep said.

  “So I was told.”

  The Old One nodded again. “We’ll act accordingly. Do you have vehicles?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. We need to return to Innsmouth—the next step will have to be taken from there. We got here without trouble, but I don’t expect to return so easily.”

  “Give us fifteen minutes lead time,” said Castaigne, “and I can promise you a trip without interruptions.”

  “That would be welcome,” the Old One said. “Let’s proceed, then.”

  Owen picked his way through the cave, following Nyarlathotep. Outside, morning spread gray over the Maine mountains. In the clear light, Castaigne turned out to be a woman of maybe forty, tanned, blonde and wiry, dressed in the sort of nondescript clothing he’d expect to see on a casual hiker. The clothes looked out of place on her, and it took Owen a moment to realize why: she looked as though belonged in uniform. The way she moved reminded him of Special Forces guys he’d known in Iraq.

  She walked a short distance down from the cave mouth, put her hand to her mouth, and produced a perfect imitation of a whippoorwill’s cry. A cry just like it came from further down the slope, and then all at once a dozen men and women rose out of hiding places Owen hadn’t noticed. They were all wearing the same sort of unmemorable outdoors clothes as their leader, and none of them seemed to be carrying a weapon, but they moved like soldiers.

  Castaigne turned to Nyarlathotep. “Innsmouth?”

  “The Esoteric Order of Dagon lodge hall.”

  “We’ll be there.” She turned and set off down the trail. An instant later, the others down the slope had vanished.

  Nyarlathotep stood there watching for a moment, then turned to Owen. “You asked a little earlier whether I know everything. There’s your answer—this was a complete surprise to me. Welcome, in a sense, and very troubling in another.” He started walking down the trail, rather more slowly than Castaigne had, and Owen quickly caught up to him.

  “Who are they?”

  “The Fellowship of the Yellow Sign—you might have heard of them. Servants of the King in Yellow, and among the very worst enemies the Radiance has.”

  “They’re human?”

  “Yes, or mostly. The Castaigne family is descended from the King, and so are some of the others in the Fellowship.” They picked their way down a steep stony slope. “The others—they’re humans who have some personal reason to want to see the Radiance darkened forever.” A bleak smile creased one side of the Old One’s face. “Pure abstract reason doesn’t leave much room for compassion, and it’s an endless surprise to the adepts of the Radiance how many people resent having their lives, families, careers, and reputations destroyed for some perfectly logical reason.”

  Owen thought of Professor Noyes and said nothing.

  THEY GOT BACK to Nyarlathotep’s car without seeing anyone or anything but a few squirrels and a distant soaring hawk. Owen managed not to look at the license plate, didn’t even try to count the doors, and climbed in the passenger side. Nyarlathotep got in behind the wheel, leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. In response to Owen’s unspoken question, he said, “I plan on giving them half an hour. Tom Castaigne rode with me more than once, but I’m by no means sure his daughter really understands just how fast I like to drive.”

  Owen laughed, settled back in his chair. After a moment: “Can I ask a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “April Castaigne mentioned something about—the Weird of Hali,” Owen said. “I don’t know what that’s about, but it felt important.”

  Nyarlathotep glanced at him. “Your pineal function is coming along nicely, I see. Do you know much about the prophet Hali?”

  “Just what von Junzt says about him.” Then, a moment later: “I read a poem about him, too. I think it was about the same person.”

  “Justin Geoffrey’s sonnet?”

  Owen nodded.

  “Good. Yes, it’s the same person—the last high priest of the Moon Temple of Irem. Do you recall what I told you about the desecration of the holy places? The Moon Temple was the last of those to fall to the Radiance. The soldiers they sent to Irem put out Hali’s eyes and then hacked him to death before the sanctuary, and used his blood to pollute the great crystal mirror of the Moon before they turned their axes on it and shattered it forever. Everyone who took the smallest part in that deed died shrieking before the year was out, but—” The Old One shrugged. “The thing was done.

  “Before they cut him down, though, Hali spoke his Weird—his death-prophecy, you might say, calling down doom upon the Radiance and all those who serve it. Nobody on our side knows exactly what he said. There were maybe two hundred priests and priestesses at the Moon Temple of Irem when the soldiers came, but only a few survived, and only one young priestess hiding in a storeroom was close enough to hear some of Hali’s words. A few of the soldiers talked about what they’d witnessed before the curse took them, and a few others howled words from the Weird as they died. What we know is little more than what Justin put into his poem.”

  “‘Four join their hands where gray rock meets gray tide,’” Owen quoted.

  “Exactly. When the stars are right, where the gray sea meets the gray shore, four will join their hands together and open the way for the fifth. Then that which was bound shall be loosed, that which was broken shall be made whole, and an age that began in flame will end in flame. That’s what we know.”

  Owen thought about that for a long moment, then shook his head. “I wish I understood what that means.”

  “So do I,” said Nyarlathotep.

  Owen gave him an uneasy look.

  “I have my suspicions,” said the Old One, “but that’s all they are. And now the King in Yellow sees the Weird stirring as he watches the bones tumbling in the cold wind from Yhtill.” He shook his head. “And I still have no idea what exactly the Radiance did to you in Innsmouth, or how to fight it.” He reached for the ignition, started the car. “We’ll just have to see.”

  Owen fastened his seatbelt, sat back as the car pulled out into the road. Gravel crunched under the tires as it moved through a tight turn and started back down the road the way they’d come the evening before. Fragmentary thoughts tumbled through his mind like the bones Nyarlathotep had mentioned: fragments of von Junzt, things he’d seen in Dhu-shai, and over and over again, the ghastly image from Justin Geoffrey’s poem—the dead prophet with his eyes gouged out, lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the desecrated temple. He tried to recall the rest of the poem, and that brought back to his last visit to the restricted stacks of Orne Library, Dr. Whipple shuffling into the stacks, the slim volume of Geoffrey’s poetry, the other book in its cracked leather bindings sitting on the table—

  His breath caught suddenly. Nyarlathotep glanced at him. “What is it?”

  “I’ve remembered something. I don’t know that it means anything, but—” He swallowed, feeling the sudden gut-punch of intuition: it mattered.

  “Go on.”

  “Some of the people in the Inner Circle were looking up things in the Necronomicon.”

  The Old One slowed and then stopped the car, turned in his seat to face him. “Tell me everything you know about that.”

  Owen nodded. “The day before I left Arkham, I was down in the restricted stacks in the library at Miskatonic. I didn’t usually go there that early in the day, but—” He shrugged. “When I got there, Shelby Adams—the woman I told you about, the one they changed—was reading the Olaus Wormius translation.”

  “You’re certain of that.”

  “I looked at the book after she left, when Dr. Whipple was getting me Justin Geoffrey’s book of poetry. The title page read Necronomicon seu Liber de Legibus Mortuorum. I don’t think it could have been anything else. And Dr. Whipple—he’s an odd duck—”

  “I know Abelard Whipple well, and yes, he is. Go on.”

  “He grumbled to me a couple of times on other days before then that people were coming to the restricted stacks and looking up things in one book after another. When I asked him about Shelby, he said that she was one of them, and the others—they were from Belbury Hall. From the Noology Program.”

  Nyarlathotep considered him for a long moment, and then nodded once, turned back to the wheel, and without another word started driving again. Owen watched the Old One for a long while. Once again, as on the beach at Innsmouth, something immense seemed to hover around the long lean figure in the driver’s seat, something so vast and ancient it made the rounded gray mountains around the car feel tiny and temporary. Something stirred within the immensity, though, that Owen didn’t remember sensing earlier: something that whispered of grief and pain and bitter memories, of terrible struggles fought through years beyond counting against a cold relentless enemy: and something else besides.

  Something that felt, however improbably, like the first faint stirrings of hope.

  THEY GOT BACK to Innsmouth early that afternoon. April Castaigne had been as good as her word; if the Radiance had sent negation teams to stop Nyarlathotep’s car, they and their efforts had been brushed aside, and nothing interfered with the journey.

  The Old One parked just off New Church Green, climbed out of the car and motioned for Owen to follow. “They’ll be waiting for us,” he said; those were nearly the first words he’d spoken since he’d questioned Owen in the car.

  Owen followed. When he realized that they were heading toward the old Masonic lodge building, he asked, “Am I allowed in there?”

 

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