“All across the world,” Coler said, “these things have been happening, the incidents in New England and Tahiti were but a part of it. And I could not help but ask myself: why now? What ineffable forces were spurring those things to attack now? Meredith’s Kurkur Fragment told me.”
Again going to his desk, he took hold of a sheet of paper which I could see was Coler’s translation of part of the text. What I read was this:
…And the minions of Azathoth first moulded the Earth as a plaything of the gods, who might fashion upon it what they would—living travesties of the planet’s scarce-cooled crust to serve as ultimate signs of the mistake that is Life. But Cthulhu and the Deep Ones came to wrest the earth away, so that they could serve as the gods of the hoary denizens that shambled before there were men; and this pleased not the minions of Azathoth, who by a supreme jest entrapped the feeble god within the waters. Thence did the prehuman worshippers of Cthulhu fashion the Crystal of Zamalashtra from elements spawned on Yuggoth, burying within it the fire from Nyarlathotep. And when the stars are right, the fire will glow; and may this serve as a sign to the worshippers of Cthulhu to deliver the Crystal of Zamalashtra to their entombed god, whereupon he shall break through his shackles and crush the plaything of the gods called Earth…”
“Need I say more, Collins? need I say more?
“You know that Yuggoth is nothing but that recently discovered planet called Pluto. And you know, too, that the orbit of ‘Pluto’ has been calculated as roughly 248 years. Once every 248 years Yuggoth lines up perfectly so that ‘the stars are right’; now is it not obvious what has happened?
“I dug up the crystal in that exact 248th year!
“Think of what a phenomenal coincidence that was! What an unbelievable stroke of bad luck that I dug it up at the exact time when Cthulhu could be freed from his prison! The glowing confirmed it.
“But why, then, was Cthulhu not released aeons ago? Why has the earth not been crushed? What must have happened was that the crystal was lost before ‘the stars were right,’ and because of this Cthulhu and his minions could never completely escape their watery tombs! All they could do was to make random and ineffectual attacks on men, as the Johansen narrative and the Wilmarth manuscript prove. Without the crystal, it would all be futile…
“Yet the worshippers seem somehow to know when ‘the stars are right,’ and as a result their activities, and the activities of Cthulhu’s spawn, suddenly increase. This most recent attempt proves it; yet this time, because they knew that the crystal had now been rediscovered, their anxiety was a thousandfold greater: for the first time in millennia, they had a chance finally to annihilate the world! Why else did one of the worshippers try to rob the crystal in our very presence? Why else, when that failed, did they resort to physical violence? Why else did they so madly try to get back the crystal when we had taken it from them? Why else did those incidents occur all over the planet?
“Then, too, Collins, think of this: this is 1940; we know that this is the period when ‘the stars are right’; then 248 years ago, the stars must again have been right. And what is 248 years from this date? Is it not 1692, the time of the Salem witch trials? Is there any other explanation for the sudden activity of the witches? Then, as now, they knew it was time; but the crystal was lost, and they could do nothing about it. They had to be content at merely intensifying their rituals, to such an extent that they were caught and killed. But it was all useless: they could do nothing without the crystal.
“If it had not been for me, we would not have gone through what we have; yet think of our marvelous good fortune that Meredith dropped in our laps the very thing we needed to counteract all that had happened! There has never been a time when coincidence has been so devastating, when chance so entered into the composition of events, when sheer accident first threatened, then saved our lives.
“We need not worry about the Crystal of Zamalashtra for another 248 years: by now, the stars have surely moved their alignment, and the crystal has again become powerless. We shall both be dead before the proper time next comes: let us hope that no idiot stumbles upon the crystal as I did, or if someone does, that he has the sense to leave it in its place. I don’t see how we can ever escape the recurring doom of this crystal; and I don’t see how in time Cthulhu will not escape his prison. Uncontrolled curiosity has ever been our worst enemy.”
Jefferson Coler died thirty-six days later, having saved the world yet having left a legacy of eternal dread that seems destined eventually to overcome mankind. The preservation of this document is vital to the preservation of our race: if men cast doubts as to its veracity, then they will pay the consequences of their folly.
Really, it would be the most priceless irony.
NECROTIC KNOWLEDGE
BY DIRK W. MOSIG
“MAY I HELP YOU, SIR?”—THE LITTLE OLD MAN WITH THE gray beard leaned solicitously over the counter.
Rashd hesitated momentarily, then walked past him without uttering a sound. Moving toward one of the many tall shelves filled with musty volumes, he stared at them for a few seconds, and then wandered down one of the poorly lit aisles of Ye Olde Occulte Book-shoppe. He silently scanned row after row of the brittle, brownish and grayish spines, occasionally touching one of the mouldy books. Removing a tome lacking any visible lettering on the spine, he replaced it after discovering that the silverfish had not been merciful.
The little man sporting the beard that gave him an uncanny resemblance to Sigmund Freud shrugged, accustomed to being ignored by some of the rather unconventional types that frequented the ill-kept dump. With a grunt he returned to the copy of Anal Lovers he had picked up a few minutes ago to combat the early afternoon boredom. The heat was sweltering, and the tall and wiry stranger with the aquiline nose was the only customer—or potential customer—he had seen in the past two hours.
“Kitb… you have kitb… book… kitb-ul… nekrut?”
“What?” The dealer lifted his graying eyebrows.
“The book. Nekrut. Al-nekrutic. Nekrotico? Sati’ said you had kith, kitb-ul-majnn…”
The little man gasped, and his knuckles turned white as he grabbed the edge of the counter and leaned forward.
“Satih sent you? That bastard! Ibn-Sharmtah! Son of a bitch! You know…”
Rashd paled considerably, and his long fingers reached under his ill-fitting coat, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“No, no, I didn’t mean you! Satih… Sati’?…”—the smallish man pronounced the ‘ain’ sound only with great difficulty.
Rashd stared blankly for a moment, then insisted:
“Necrotic? Kitb-ul-majnn… kitb-ul-necrotic-ul-majnn?”
“All right, dammit!”—said the little Freud look-alike. “Wait a minute.” He walked nervously around the counter to the door of the shabby shop, pulled down the shades, and quickly flipped over the OPEN sign, securely fastening the door. Turning around, he rapidly walked past Rashd, who had observed the proceedings with a curious lack of interest.
“Come with me.”
The gaunt Arab followed him silently to the back of the shop.
“JACK DAVIS—PRIVATE—KEEP OUT” read the stained yellowish sign discernible on the padlocked door. The little man, apparently Jack Davis himself, reached inside his trouser pocket and produced an odd-looking key, while his customer pressed closer.