He was in the body of the evil sea-thing—the evil sea-thing that had once harbored the soul of Morelia Godolfo!
At that moment Dean would gladly have welcomed death, for the stark, blasphemous horror of his discovery was too much to bear. He knew about his dreams now, and the legends; he had learned the truth, and paid a hideous price. He recalled, vividly, how he had recovered consciousness in the water and swum out to meet those—others. He recalled the great black hulk from which drowning men had been taken in boats—the shattered wreck on the water. What was it Yamada had told him? “When there is a wreck they go there, like vultures to a feast.” And now, at last, he remembered what had eluded him that night—what that familiar shape on the waters had been. It was a crashed zeppelin. He had gone swimming into the wreckage with those things, and they had taken men—. Three hours—God! Dean wanted very much to die. He was in the sea body of Morelia Godolfo, and it was too evil for further life.
Morelia Godolfo! Where was she? And his own body, the shape of Graham Dean?
A rustling in the shadowy cavern behind him proclaimed the answer. Graham Dean saw himself in the moonlight—saw his body, line for line, hunching furtively past the pool in an attempt to creep away unobserved.
Dean’s flippered fins moved swiftly. His own body turned.
It was ghastly for Dean to see himself reflected where no mirror existed; ghastlier still to see that in his face there no longer were his eyes. The sly, mocking stare of the sea-creature peered out at him from behind their fleshy mask, and they were ancient, evil. The pseudo-human snarled at him and tried to dodge off into the darkness. Dean followed, on all fours.
He knew what he must do. That sea-thing—Morelia—she had taken his body during that last black kiss, just as he had been forced into hers, but she had not yet recovered enough to go out into the world. That was why he had found her still in the cave. Now, however, she would leave, and his uncle Michael would never know. The world would never know, either, what horror stalked its surface—until it was too late. Dean, his own tragic form hateful to him now, knew what he must do.
Purposefully he maneuvered the mocking body of himself into a rocky corner. There was a look of fright in those gelid eyes—
A sound caused Dean to turn, pivoting his reptilian neck. Through glazed fish-eyes he saw the faces of Michael Leigh and Doctor Yamada. Torches in hand, they were entering the cave.
Dean knew what they would do, and he no longer cared. He closed in on the human body that housed the soul of the sea-beast; closed in with the beast’s own flailing flippers; seized it in its own arms and menaced it with its own teeth near the creature’s white, human neck.
From behind him he heard shouts and cries at his very back, but Dean did not care. He had a duty to perform, an atonement. Through the corner of his eye, he saw the barrel of a revolver as it glinted in Yamada's hand.
Then came two bursts of stabbing flame and the oblivion Dean craved. But he died happy, for he had atoned for the black kiss.
Even as he sank into death, Graham Dean had bitten with animal fangs into his own throat, and his heart was filled with peace as, dying, he saw himself die—
His soul mingled in the third black kiss of Death.
The Jest of Droom-avista by Henry Kuttner
This story is finally little more than a conventional “you can’t win in a deal with the devil” story, but it has a few points of interest vis-a-vis the Kuttner Mythos and its development. For one, Droom-avista would seem to be the prototype of Zuchequon in the later “Bells of Honor.” The first is called the Dark Shining One, the second the Dark Silent One. The advent of each is signaled by a veil of eldritch shadow. I have already suggested that “Bells of Horror” owes a debt to Lovecrafis “The Haunter of the Dark.” Another clue to this conclusion is this epithet, “the Dark Shining One”, which combines both the notions of the Shining Trapezohedron and the Haunter of the Dark.
As for the name Droom-avista, here we see a bit of Zoroastrian influence. “Avista” is plainly derived from the title of the Zoroastrian scripture, the Avesta. In older works on Zoroastrianism this scripture was often called the Zend Avesta, because of the unique Zend language in which it is written. Kuttner has appropriated this term, too: it appears as the name of the sorcerer Zend in “Spawn of Dagon.”
First publication: Weird Tales, August 1937.
There is a tale they tell of voices that called eerily by night in the marble streets of long-fallen Bel Yarnak, saying: “Evil is come to the land; doom falls on the fair city where our children’s children walk. Woe, woe unto Bel Yarnak.” Then did the dwellers in the city gather affrightedly in huddled groups, casting furtive glances at the Black Minaret that spears up gigantically from the temple gardens; for, as all men know, when doom comes to Bel Yarnak, the Black Minaret will play its part in that dreadful Ragnarok.
Woe, woe unto Bel Yarnak! Fallen forever are the shining silver towers, lost the magic, soiled the glamor. For stealthily and by night, under the triple moons that hurtle swiftly across the velvet sky, doom crept out inexorably from the Black Minaret.
Mighty magicians were the priests of the Black Minaret. Mighty were they, alchemists and sorcerers, and always they sought the Stone of the Philosophers, that strange power which would enable them to transmute all things into the rarest of metals. And in a vault far below the temple gardens, toiling endlessly at glittering alembics and shining crucibles, lit by the violet glow of ocuru-lamps, stood Thorazor, mightiest of priests, wisest of all who dwelt in Bel Yarnak. Days and weeks and years he had toiled, while strange moons reeled down to the horizons, seeking the Elixir. Gold and silver paved the streets; blazing diamonds, moon-glowing opals, purple gems of strange fire, meteor-fallen, made of Bel Yarnak a splendid vision, shining by night to guide the weary traveler across the sandy wastes. But a rarer element Thorazor sought. Other worlds possessed it, for the intricate telescopes of the astronomers revealed its presence in the flaming suns that fill the chaotic sky, making night over Bel Yarnak a mirror reflecting the blazing scintillance of the city, a star-carpeted purple tapestry where the triple moons weave their arabesque patterns. So toiled Thorazor under the Black Minaret all of glistening jet onyx.
He failed, and again he failed, and at length he knew that only with the gods’ aid could he find the Elixir he sought. Not the little gods, nor the gods of good and evil, but Droom-avista, the Dweller Beyond, the Dark Shining One, Thorazor called up blasphemously from the abyss. For Thorazor’s brain was warped; he had toiled endlessly, and foiled as often; in his mind was but one thought. So he did that which is forbidden: He traced the Seven Circles and spoke the Name which wakens Droom-avista from his brooding sleep.
A shadow swept down, darkening over the Black Minaret. Yet Bel Yarnak was untroubled; glorious and beautiful the shining city glowed while thin voices called weirdly in the streets.
Woe, woe unto Bel Yarnak! For the shadow darkened and encompassed the Black Minaret, and midnight black closed ominously about the sorcerer Thorazor. All alone he stood in his chamber, no gleam of light relieving the awful darkness that heralded the coming of the Dark Shining One, and slowly, ponderously, there rose up before him a Shape. But Thorazor cried out and hid his eyes, for none may look upon the Dweller Beyond lest his soul be blasted forever.
Like the groaning tocsin of a Cyclopean bell came the voice of the Dweller, rumbling terribly under the Black Minaret. Yet only Thorazor heard it, for he alone had called up Droom-avista.