Standing on the pavement outside the gardens of a quiet country crematorium between Landon and Oxford, we gazed in through spiked iron railings across plots and head-stones at the pleasant-seeming, tall-chimneyed building which was the House of Repose, and I for one wondered what words had been spoken over Magruser. As we had arrived, Magruser's cortege, a single hearse, had left. So far as we were aware, none had remained to join us in paying 'our last respects'.
Now; while we waited, I told Crow, 'I think I have the answers.'
Tilting his head on one side in that old-fashioned way of his, he said, `Go on.'
'First his name, I began. 'Sturm Magruser V. The name Sturm reveals something of the nature of his familiar winds, the dust-devils you've mentioned as watching over his interests. Am I right?'
Crow nodded. 'I have already allowed you that, yes,' he said.
'His full name stumped me for a little while, however, I admitted, 'for it has only thirteen letters. Then I remembered the "V", symbolic for the figure five. That makes eighteen, a double nine. Now, you said Hitler had been a veritable Angel of Death with his 99999. . . which would seem to make Magruser the very Essence of Death itself!'
'Oh? How so?'
'His birth and death dates,' I reminded. 'The 1st April 1921, and 4th March 1964. They, too, add up to forty-five, which, if you include the number of his name, gives Magruser 9999999. Seven nines!' And I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
After a little while Crow said, 'Are you finished?' And from the tone of his voice I knew there was a great deal I had overlooked.
VI
I sighed and admitted: 'I can't see what else there could be.'
'Look!' Crow said, causing me to start.
I followed his pointing finger to where a black-robed figure had stepped out onto the patio of the House of Repose. The bright wintry sun caught his white collar and made it a burning band about his neck. At chest height he carried a bowl, and began to march out through the garden with measured tread. I fancied I could hear the quiet murmur of his voice carrying on the still air, his words a chant or prayer.
'Magruser's mortal remains,' said Crow, and he automatically doffed his hat. Bare-headed, I simply stood and watched.
'Well,' I said after a moment or two, 'where did my calculations go astray?'
Crow shrugged. 'You missed several important points, that's all. Magruser was a "black magician" of sorts, wouldn't you say? With his demonic purpose on Earth and his "familiar winds", as you call them? We may rightly suppose so; indeed the Persian word "magu" or "magus" means magician. Now then, if you remove Magus from his name, what are you left with?'
`Why' I quickly worked it out, 'with R, E, R. Oh, yes and with V.'
'Let us rearrange them and say we are left with R, E, V and R,' said Crow. And he repeated, 'R, E, V and R. Now then, as you yourself pointed out, there are thirteen letters in the man's name. Very well, let us look at—'
'Rev. 13!' I cut him off. 'And the family Bible you had on your desk. But wait! You've ignored the other R.'
Crow stared at me in silence for a moment. 'Not at all,' he finally said, 'for R is the eighteenth letter of the alphabet. And thus Magruser, when he changed his name by deed-poll, revealed himself!'
Now I understood, and now I gasped in awe at this man I presumed to call friend, the vast intellect which was Titus Crow. For clear in my mind I could read it all in the eighteenth verse of the thirteenth chapter of the Book of Revelations.
Crow saw knowledge written in my dumbfounded face and nodded. 'His birthdate, Henri, adds up to eighteen — 666, the Number of the Beast!'
'And his ten factories in seven countries,' I gasped. 'The ten horns upon his seven heads! And the Beast in Revelations rose up out of the sea!'
'Those things, too,' Crow grimly nodded.
'And his death date, 999!'
Again, his nod and, when he saw that I was finished: 'But most monstrous and frightening of all, my friend, his very name — which, if you read it in reverse order—'
'Wh-what?' I stammered. But in another moment my mind reeled and my mouth fell open.
'Resurgam!'
'Indeed,' and he gave his curt nod. 'I shall rise again!'
Beyond the spiked iron railings the priest gave a sharp little cry and dropped the bowl, which shattered and spilled its contents. Spiralling winds, coming from nowhere, took up the ashes and bore them away.. .
THE BLACK RECALLED
CROW HAS GONE, dweller now in Elysia. Nothing now remains of him in this earth.
Or does it . . ?
[NOTE to this ebook: the paper original from which this ebook was derived was owned by a rare and accomplished psychic, Magus, Adept, and Ipsissimus. He had turned down one page in this volume, for use in future reference to that part of the book, of special relevance to him regarding meaning and reality of the Cthulhu Cycle Deities.]
`Do you remember Gedney?' Geoffrey Arnold asked of his companion Ben Gifford, as they stood on the weed-grown gravel drive before a shattered, tumbled pile of masonry whose outlines roughly suggested a once-imposing, sprawling dwelling. A cold November wind blew about the two men, tugging at their overcoats, and an equally chilly moon was just beginning to rise over the near-distant London skyline.
'Remember him?' Gifford answered after a moment. 'How could I forget him? Isn't that why we chose to meet here tonight - to remember him? Well, I certainly do - I remember fearing him mightily! But not as much as I feared this chap,' and he nodded his head toward the nettle- and weed-sprouting ruin.
'Titus Crow?' said Arnold. 'Yes, well, we've all had reason to fear him in our time - but moreso after Gedney. Actually, it was Crow who kept me underground all those years, keeping a low profile, as it were When I picked up the reins from Gedney - became "chairman" of the society, so to speak, "donned the Robes of Office" - it seemed prudent to be even more careful. Let's face it, we hadn t really been aware that such as Crow existed. But at the same time it has to be admitted that old Gedney really stuck his neck out And Crow.. . well, he was probably one of the world's finest headsmen!'
'Our mutual enemy,' Gifford nodded, 'and yet ,here we pay him homage!' He turned down the corners of his mouth and still somehow summoned a sardonic grin. 'Or is it that we've come to make sure he is in fact dead, eh?'
'Dead?' Arnold answered, and shrugged. 'I suppose he is - but they never did find his body. Neither his nor de Marigny's.'
'Oh, I think it's safe to say he's dead,' Gifford nodded. 'Anyway, he's eight years gone, disappeared, and that's good enough for me. They took him, and when they take you . . . well, you stay taken.'
'They? The CCD, you mean? The Cthulhu Cycle Deities? Well, that's what we've all suspected, but—'
'Fact!' Gifford cut him short. 'Crow was one of their worst enemies, too, you know . .
Arnold shuddered - entirely from the chill night air - and buttoned the top button of his coat just under his chin. Gifford took out and lighted a cigarette, the flame of his lighter flickeringly illuminating his own and Arnold's faces where they stood in what had once been the garden of Blowne House, residence of the white wizard, Titus Crow.
Arnold was small, thin-faced, his pale skin paper-thin and his ears large and flat to his head. He seemed made of candle wax, but his eyes were bright with an unearthly mischief, a malicious evil. Gifford was huge - bigger than Arnold remembered him from eight years earlier - tall and overweight; his heavy jowls were pock-marked in a face lined, roughened and made coarse by a life of unnatural excesses.