He opened the Bible to find that it too was a trick.
The book had been hollowed out. There was no curandero’s herbs, no list of spells against the coming of the night. It was little spiral-bound book from Lulu Press. The chapters made no sense to Nat.
1. “Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy in the Ryleh Text,” Mircea Eliade
2. “Divinatory Deep Structure in Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan and the Yi Ching”
3. “ Prophetic Patterns in Innsmouth Jewelry,” Ellison Marsh
4. A selection from “Crave the Cave: The Color of Obsession.” Esther Harlan James. Diss. Trinity College 1996, pgs 665–670
5. A selection from “A Refutation to Shrewsbury’s ‘Elemental Schemao.’ ” Mary Roth Denning. Diss. University of Chicago 2007, pgs. 118–126
6. A selection from “Fieldwork with the Brujos Ocultados of Barret, Texas.” Carlos Cesar Arana. Diss. UCLA 1973, pgs. 93–118
7. “Cthulhu in the Necronomicon,” Laban Shrewsbury
8. “The Black: Sutra of U Pao in relation to Left Hand Path Cults of South east Asia,” Patrica Ann Hardy. Diss. MIT 2001, pgs. 23- 40
9. “The Prehistoric Pacific in Light of the ‘Ponape Scripture’ (Selections),” Harold Hadley Copeland
“Alles Nahe werde fern”
Everything near becomes distant — Goethe
AD MEIORVM COVLHI GLORIAM
As usual, Nat did not know who was tricking whom. The small black book with its simulated leather binding had probably been one of those books college kids buy for a class. Juan had bought one for his Southwest life and literature class and another for his HVAC class at the community college. Juan had been working in Dallas when the Rising had occurred. Mama loved Juan better; he was the gang-free smart son. Nat smiled at his brother’s favorite joke, “What do you call two Mexicans playing basketball?” “Juan on Juan.” Nat started to throw the book away, but who was he to judge? Certainty went out of the world three years ago. Daymares and night-reams were the scaffolding of reality now; loved ones walked into the sky.
He opened the hollowed- out Bible; on the flyleaf someone had written two verses in heavy pencil. Genesis 28:16–17: And Jacob awoke out of his sleep, and he said, Surely Jehovah is in this place; and I knew it not. And he feared, and said, How terrible is this place! this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven. And Job 3:8: May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan.
He drove on to Doublesign. Felix Washington stood on guard duty. He was the Rev. Jackie Jones’ uncle. Felix was a very popular man, and at 78 certainly the oldest left. He had been a jazz pianist back in the day; he’d played gigs in Austin as little as five years ago. He had also saved a coffee can full of marijuana seeds. Marijuana provided a good buzz and it was good for trading with the some of the other little towns that still remained, like Thalia. Felix still tickled the ivories at the Kuntry Kitchen, and Nat had seen his name on yellowing posters for The Soft Machine and The Mahavishnu Orchestra. He liked to piss people off by saying, “Cthulhu ain’t no worse than white people.” Felix opened the gate and waved him on.
Nat drove to Santa Cruz. Father Murphy sat at the wooden picnic table near the entrance. He had his pocketknife out, looking for all the world to be carving something in the rotten wood. He indicated that Nat should sit beside him.
Nat realized how angry he was. His heart pounded. The fat bastard had had him risk his life for a book. A book wasn’t going to solve their problems, certainly not the Bible. Hadn’t we seen hundreds of people using the Bible to lay It back in the sea? Who was this fat Irish-man, telling his family and friends what to do for the last two decades? He had preached against his cousin Cody’s queerness, so Cody had run off to Houston to live in the gay community there, sealing his death when the waves that came with the Rising wiped Houston off the globe. He denied the Mass of the Dead for the scores of suicides, saying the Rising was God’s test of our faith. As though the death of millions was a little algebra quiz. Nat wanted to start smashing him with the Bible — hit that red uneven face that always reminded him of a potato. Nat couldn’t sit down.
“I brought your damned book.”
“Thank you, Nat,” said Father Murphy.
“It’s hollow.”
“Many people find the Bible hollow these days.”
“No, I mean it is really hollow. You sent me there for nothing.” Nat took out the little book from inside and tossed in front of Father Murphy. Murphy showed no surprise. Murphy continued his carving, some complicated sign.
“When did you really know the human world was over?”
“Three years ago, like everyone else.” Nat wanted the guy to finish. He looked at the church door.
“Oh, she’s in there with the others. I am as good as my word. I understood the world was over when the Bishop sent me here. I was sent to this little hellhole as a punishment. The Mother Church doesn’t like its priests to stick their dicks in altar boys’ cherubic little mouths. Did you know that? So they sent me here and I knew the world was over when I saw Christ’s face in there. All that look of suffering. He had been mutely telling the human infestation for years and years.”
Nat didn’t like that he had had the same thought as this kid-fucker.
“You’re a fucking pedophile?” Nat felt his stomach heave.
“I never liked fucking them; anyway age has taken care of that. Besides, I don’t really like brown boys as much as blonde ones. Do you know why the Rising happened?”
“¡Chingada!”
“Remember all of those talking heads on TV? When the stars are right, they said, they know nothing. The great Priest Cthulhu took a little nap, and a great deal of what is hidden by matter slept. We are the alarm clock. The shock. We figure out things, and as our tiny brains correlate the contents of our minds, their shock, their agony at glimpsing the true cosmos sends out a nice jolt. There are so many things waiting to Waken still; roses in your garden wanting to sing weird songs, pebbles wanting to shoot forth stony blossoms. Human time is done.”
Nat wanted to hurt him. He would check on Stephanie, and he would tell some of the others first.
“Why did you want the book?” asked Nat. “I know it is about bad things, but why now?”
“The collector of these little texts was special to Cthulhu. His moment of endarkenment actually impressed It. This little Liber Damnatus is dear.”
“You work for It.”
“I have always worked for It. Most humans do, and those that don’t serve as well. Hasn’t your good doctor explained the Octopus to you? Humans’ shock, their horror, and, for a rare few, their ecstasy works for It. At this point all we can do that is meaningful in the world is to increase the aesthetic value of this blue marble of a planet for a Will older and better than our own. Humanity is its last decade will finally have a purpose.”