A Mountain Walked, page 14
Why I obeyed blindly I still do not understand, but I found myself again blundering along the beach, Wilhelm’s key ring in my hand, and then fumbling a portable tape recorder from the orderly storage cabinets of the main laboratory.
When I lugged the machine back to Josephine’s room, I found that Dr. Wilhelm had somehow maneuvered her into an incongruous frilly lounging robe and gotten her under the bed covers. He was massaging her wrists with a mechanical motion, and scanning her face anxiously. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing harsh and irregular.
“Is she in hypnosis or shock?” he inquired edgily.
“Either, or perhaps both,” I shot back. “At this point, the symptoms would be similar.”
“Then set up the machine.”
It soon appeared that the deep mesmeric state into which I had placed Jo Gilman that morning still held. I was able to elicit responses from her by employing the key words that I used to trigger the state of trance, so easily invoked these days as to be almost disconcerting.
“Jo, can you hear me? Tell us what happened to you,” I urged her gently. The color began to return to her face; she sighed deeply and twisted under the bed clothes. For what happened next, I have the evidence not only of my own recollections, but a transcription typed up next day from the tape machine, whose microphone Dr. Wilhelm now held beside her pillow with tense expectancy. This is a summary—omitting some of her repetitions, and the urgings on our part—of what we heard muttered by the bruised lips of that comatose woman writhing uneasily on her cot in a dimly lit room beside the glittering, moon-drenched Pacific, close on to midnight of May Eve:
“Must get out … must get out and unify the forces. Those who wait in watery Arlyah (sp.?), those who walk the snowy wastes of Leng, whistlers and lurkers of sullen Kadath—all shall rise, all shall join once more in praise of Great Clooloo (sp.?), of Shub-Niggurath, of Him Who is not to be Named.…
“You will help me, fellow breather of air, fellow holder of warmth, storer of seed for the last sowing and the endless harvest.… (Unpronounceable name; possibly Y’ha-nthlei) shall celebrate our nuptials, the weedy labyrinths shall hold our couch, the silent strutters in darkness will welcome us with high debauch and dances upon their many-segmented legs … their ancient, glittering eyes are gay.… And we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory forever.…”
The speaker gasped and seemed to struggle to awaken. My apprehensions had crystallized into certainty: “She’s hysterical,” I whispered.
“No—no, not hysterical,” Dr. Wilhelm hissed, trying in his elation to keep his voice subdued. “Not hysterical. She’s broken through. Don’t you see what this is? Don’t you see that she’s echoing ideas and images that have been projected to her? Can’t you understand? What we’ve just heard is her attempt to verbalize in English what she’s experienced today—the most astonishing thing any human being has ever experienced: communication from another intelligent species!”
IX
Of the rest of that night I remember little. The twin shocks of Jo Gilman’s hysterical seizure—for so I interpreted not only her unconscious ranting but also the initial scream, and her struggle out of the restraining apparatus—plus the unreasoning interpretation placed upon these events by my employer, served to unnerve me to the extent that when Jo sank gradually into normal slumber I excused myself to Dr. Wilhelm and reeled off to my own room a little before midnight, for ten hours of uninterrupted—if not undisturbed—sleep.
It was a distinct surprise to me when I joined the others at staff luncheon next day to find that a reticence amounting almost to a conspiracy of silence had already grown up in regard to the events of the preceding night. Jo, although pale and shaken, referred to what had happened as her “LSD trip” before the other staff members, and Dr. Wilhelm merely spoke of an abortive phase of “Operation Dolphin” which had been given up.
In any event, Jo completely abandoned her previous intimacy with Flip; indeed, I never once saw her in the aquarium building again; at least, not until a certain climactic occasion, the facts about which I almost hesitate to affirm, even at this juncture.
Suddenly, all research efforts seemed to be shifted hastily to the crowded pens of young dolphins on the north beach, and I was called upon to interpret sonar charts and graphs recording patterns of underwater movement that might—or might not—indicate a telepathic herd-communion between individuals and groups of animals, both free and in captivity.
This, although a plausibly rational shift in experimental emphasis, somehow failed to convince me; it seemed merely a cover-up (on the part of Josephine as well as Wilhelm), masking a fear, an uncertainty, or some unsurmised preoccupation I failed to grasp. Perhaps these further extracts from my journal will make clear my uneasiness during this period:
May 7. Jo is still distant and evasive with me. Today as we worked together coding patterns of dolphin movement for the computer, she suddenly fell silent, stopped work, and began to stare straight ahead. When I passed my hand in front of her face, I confirmed that her stare was unfocused, and she had actually fallen into a trance again, from which I am able to awaken her with the same key words we used when she was regularly under hypnosis.
I was horrified, for such involuntary trances may well be a symptom of deep psychic disturbance, over which I can only blame myself for giving in to Dr. Wilhelm’s rash obstinacy. When she woke up, however, she would admit only to having a headache and dozing off for a moment. I did not press the issue then.
May 8. The above entry was written in the late afternoon. Since Jo seemed herself at dinner, I determined to go to her room later for a serious talk about the dangerous state into which she has fallen. But when I reached the door of her apartment I was surprised to hear voices, as it seemed, in muttered conversation inside.
I stood there for a few moments, irresolute whether to knock or not. Suddenly I realized that although what I heard was divided into the usual give-and-take exchanges of conversation, with pauses and variations in the rhythm and tempo of the participating voices, in actuality the timbre was that of only one speaker: Josephine Gilman herself.
I was shocked—has her state deteriorated into schizophrenia? Might she indeed be picking up telepathic messages; and if so, from whom? I could distinguish no words in the muttered stream of speech. Cautiously I tried the door. It was locked, and I tiptoed away along the outer corridor as if I were a thief, or an ordinary eavesdropper.…
May 10. I still cannot believe that what Jo said on the tape after her so-called hysterical seizure was really a remembered telepathic transmission from Flip; and despite what Dr. Wilhelm said that night, I don’t know whether he still believes it either. I have studied the transcript over and over, and think I have found a clue. Something about one of the phrases she spoke seemed hauntingly familiar: “Their ancient, glittering eyes are gay.”
Recalling Wilhelm’s remarkable memory, I mentioned it to him, and he agreed immediately: “Yes, it’s from Yeats. I recognized that almost at once.”
“But that means the so-called message, or part of it at least, must have come from her own subconscious memory of a poem.”
“Perhaps. But after all, it was Yeats who wrote the line about ‘that dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.’ Perhaps he’s their favorite poet.”
This flippancy irritated me. “Dr. Wilhelm,” I answered angrily, “do you really believe that that tape was a telepathic transmission from Flip?”
He sobered. “I don’t know, Dorn. Maybe we’ll never know. I thought so at first, but perhaps I was carried away. I almost hope so—it was a pretty unsettling experience. But one thing I do know: you were right; that particular line of approach is too dangerous, at least with a subject as highly strung as Jo. Perhaps we can devise a safer way to resume the research with hypnosis later, but just now I don’t see how. We’re only lucky that she didn’t suffer any real harm.”
“We don’t know that either,” I replied. “She’s started hypnotizing herself.”
Wilhelm didn’t answer.
May 20. For over a week, I have not observed Jo fall into one of her trances in the daytime. However, she always retires early, pleading exhaustion, so we don’t know what may go on at night. Several times I have deliberately paused outside her door during the evening, and once I thought I heard that strange muffled conversation again, but softer or more distant.
The research is now mechanical and curiously artificial; I don’t see that we’re accomplishing anything, nor is there any special need for me to be here at all. The old enthusiasm and vigor seem to have gone out of Wilhelm, too. He has lost weight and appears older, apprehensive, as if waiting for something.…
May 24. I sat late on the patio last night, looking out toward the ocean, which was invisible, since there was no moon. At about nine o’clock I thought I saw something white moving down by the water’s edge, proceeding south in the general direction of the main lab. Curiously disturbed, I followed.
It was Jo of course, either under hypnosis or walking in her sleep. (Here indeed was a scene from a horror film for Wilhelm to snort at!) I took her arm and was able to guide her back to the dormitory building. The door to her apartment was open, and I put her to bed without resistance. However, when I tried to awaken her by the usual mesmeric methods, I failed. After a while, though, she seemed to fall into ordinary slumber, and I left, setting the lock on the hall door to catch automatically.
Wilhelm was working late in his study, but I could see no reason to tell him about this incident. I shall probably not tell Jo either, since it might upset her nerves even more. I realize that I have become extremely fond of her since her “LSD trip,” in a tender, protective way unlike my initial physical attraction for her. And this knowledge makes me recognize, too, that something must be done to help her. All I can think of is to call in a psychiatrist, but Wilhelm has already denied the need for this, and I know Jo will follow his lead.
I must keep alert for more evidence to convince the pair of them that such a step, is urgently indicated.
For the past few weeks our hippies have abated their nocturnal ceremonies, but last night after I left Jo’s room I could hear that inhuman chanting and shouting start up, and see from my patio the reflections from their distant fire on the beach. Again I did not sleep well.
X
It was past mid-June, with no change in the tense but tenuous situation at the Institute, when I had my momentous interview with the hippie guru, Alonzo Waite.
The moon shone brightly that evening, and I sat as usual on my glass-fronted patio, nursing a last brandy and trying to put my thoughts and ideas into some sort of order for the hundredth time. Jo Gilman had as usual retired early, and Dr. Wilhelm had driven into town for some sort of needed supplies, so I was in effect alone in the Institute. Perhaps Waite knew this somehow, for he came unerringly up the beach to my door, his fur cloak flapping dejectedly around his shanks, even though my apartment showed no light. I rose somewhat hesitantly to admit him.
He seated himself in a canvas chair, refused brandy, and abstractedly removed the soiled red beret from his unshorn locks. In the faint glow of the hurricane lamp I had lit, his dark eyes were distant and withdrawn; I wondered whether he were under the influence of drugs.
“Mr. Dorn,” my visitor began, in the resonant tones I well remembered, “I know that you as a man of science cannot approve or understand what my companions and I are trying to do. Yet because your field is exploration of the lesser-known aspects of the human mind, I have hopes that you may give me a more sympathetic hearing than Dr. Wilhelm has done.
“I, too, am a scientist, or was—don’t smile! A few years ago, I was assistant professor in clinical psychology at a small school in Massachusetts called Miskatonic University, a place you’ve possibly never even heard of. It’s in an old colonial town called Arkham, quite a backwater, but better known in the days of the Salem witch trials.
“Now, extravagant as the coincidence may seem—if it is really a coincidence—I knew your co-worker Josephine Gilman by sight when she was a student there, though she would certainly not recognize me, or even recall my name perhaps, in the guise I have now adopted.” He shrugged slightly and glanced down at his eccentric getup, then continued.
“You probably don’t remember the scandal that resulted in my leaving my post, since it was hushed up, and only a few sensational newspapers carried the item. I was one of those early martyrs to science—or to superstition, if you like; but whose superstition?—fired for drug experiments with students in the early days of LSD research. Like others who became better known, and who sometimes exploited their discoveries for personal profit or notoriety, I was convinced that the mind-expanding drugs gave humanity an opening into a whole new world of psychic and religious experience. I never stopped to wonder in those days whether the experience would involve beauty alone, or also encompass terror. I was a pure scientist then, I liked to think, and to me whatever was was good—or at least neutral raw material for the advancement of human understanding. I had much to learn.
“The drug underground at Miskatonic University was a little special. The school has one of the most outstanding collections of old books on out-of-the-way religious practices now extant. If I mention the medieval Arab treatise called the Necronomicon in its Latin version, you won’t have heard of it; yet the Miskatonic copy is priceless, one of only three acknowledged still to exist—the others are in the Harvard and Paris libraries.
“These books tell of an ancient secret society or cult that believes the earth and all the known universe were once ruled by vast alien invaders from outside space and time, long before man evolved on this planet. These entities were so completely foreign to molecular matter and protoplasmic life that for all intents and purposes they were supernatural—supernatural and evil.”
Waite may once have been a college professor, I reflected, but judging by his portentous word choice and delivery, he would have made an even better old-time Shakespearean actor or revival preacher. His costume helped the effect, too.
“At some point,” the bearded guru continued, “these usurpers were defeated and banished by even stronger cosmic opponents who, at least from our limited viewpoint, would appear benevolent. However, the defeated Old Ones could not be killed, nor even permanently thwarted. They live on, imprisoned, but always seeking to return and resume their sway over the space-time universe, pursuing their immemorial and completely unknowable purposes.
“These old books record the lore that has been passed on to man from human and pre-human priesthoods that served these imprisoned deities, who constantly strive to mold and sway the thoughts of men by dreams; moving them to perform the rites and ceremonies by means of which the alien entities may be preserved, strengthened, and at last released from their hated bondage.
“All this goes on even today, and has influenced half the history of human science and religion in unacknowledged ways. And of course, there are rival cults that seek to prevent the return of the Old Ones, and to stymie the efforts of their minions.
“To be brief, the visions induced by LSD in the Miskatonic students, together with the results of certain experiments and ceremonies we learned from the old books, confirmed the reality of this fantastic mythology in a very terrible way. Even now I could not be persuaded to tell any living person some of the things I have seen in my visions, nor even to hint at the places my spirit has journeyed during periods of astral detachment. There were several disappearances of group members who dared too much, and several mental breakdowns, accompanied by certain physical changes that necessitated placing the victim in permanent seclusion. These occurrences, I assure you, were not due to any human agency whatever, no matter what the authorities may have chosen to believe.
“Though there was no evidence of foul play, the group was discovered and expelled, and I lost my job. After that some of us came here and formed a community dedicated to thwarting the efforts of evil cultists to free the Great Old Ones, which would mean in effect the death or degradation of all men not sworn to serve them. This is the aim of our present efforts to achieve spiritual knowledge and discipline through controlled use of hallucinogenic agents. Believe me, we have seen more than enough of the horrors connected with these matters, and our sympathies are all on the other side. Unfortunately, there are opposing groups, some of them right here in California, working in parallel ways to effect directly contrary results.”
“An interesting story,” I put in impatiently, disgusted by what I regarded as insane ramblings, “but what has all this to do with our research here, and the fact that you knew Miss Gilman as a college student?”
“Josephine’s family comes from Innsmouth,” Waite rumbled forebodingly. “That blighted town was once one of the centers of this cosmic conspiracy. Before the Civil War, mariners from Innsmouth brought back strange beliefs from their South Pacific trading voyages—strange beliefs, strange powers, and strange, deformed Polynesian women as their brides. Later, still stranger things came out of the sea itself in response to certain ceremonies and sacrifices.
“These creatures, half human and half amphibians of unknown batrachian strains, lived in the town and interbred with the people there, producing monstrous hybrids. Almost all the Innsmouth people became tainted with this unhuman heritage, and as they grew older many went to live underwater in the vast stone cities built there by the races that serve Great Cthulhu.”
I repeated the strange name falteringly; somehow it rang a bell in my memory. All this was oddly reminiscent, both of what Jo had told me and of her delirious words on the tape, which Wilhelm half believed represented a message from the mind of an undersea race.
“Cthulhu,” Waite repeated sepulchrally, “is the demonic deity imprisoned in his citadel amidst the prehuman city of R’lyeh, sunken somewhere in mid-Pacific by the power of his enemies eons ago; asleep but dreaming forever of the day of release, when he will resume sway over the earth. And his dreams over the centuries have created and controlled those undersea races of evil intelligence who are his servants.”
