Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

No longer sane, the lovers twist, unwind and part. The Father has already bestowed his gift, and now it is the Mother’s turn. A bulging membrane bursts, a protuberance no larger than the first of a child, and she weeps blood and ichor and a single black pearl. It is not a pearl, but by way of the roughest sort of analogy or approximation. One may as well call it a pearl as not. The true name for the Mother’s gift is forbidden. It drops from her and lies quivering in a sticky puddle, to be claimed as the masks will be claimed. And then they drag themselves off the steep eastern lip of the reef, slithering from view and sinking into the ocean as the waves and wind return. They will spend the long night spiralling down and down, descending into that same trench the Ø-10 torpedoed eighty-two Februaries ago. And by the time the sun rises, and Devil Reef is once more submerged, they will have found the many-columned vestiges of the city of Y’ha-nthlei, where they will be watched over by beings that are neither fish nor men nor any amphibious species catalogued by science.

By then, the cars parked above the ghost town will have gone away, carrying the pilgrims back to the drab, unremarkable lives they will live until the end of April and the next gathering. And they will all dream their dreams, and await the night they may wear the golden masks.

THE SONG OF SIGHS

by ANGELA SLATTER

I

FEBRUARY 12TH

The song of Sighs, which is his.

Let him kiss me with his mouths:

for his love is better than ichor.

THE TRANSLATION IS coming along, but ponderously.

It takes so long to get the languages to agree, the tongues to collude. But it is close. Some days, though, I wonder why I don’t adopt an easier hobby, like knitting or understanding string theory. I tap on the thick folio with nails marred by chipped polish. I remind myself this is for fun and stare at the creamy slab of bound pages, let my eyes lose focus so all the notations of my pen look like so many chicken scratches. So they all cease to make sense. If I stare long enough, perhaps I might see through time, see the one who wrote this and ask, perhaps, for its greater meaning.

A polite cough interrupts my reverie. I look up and find twenty pairs of eyes fixed upon me. I realise that I heard the buzzer a full minute ago, that my class has quietly packed up their texts and pads, pens and pencils.

“Doctor Croftmarsh?” says one of them, a handsome manly boy, tall for his age, dreamy blue eyes. I cannot remember his name. “Doctor, may we go? Only, Master Thackeray gets annoyed when we’re late.”

I nod, pick his name from the air. “Yes, Stephen, sorry. Offer my apologies to the Master and tell him I will make amends. Read chapter seven of the Roux, we will discuss what he says about Gilgamesh tomorrow.”

Thackeray will expect expensive whisky in recompense; he does not miss an opportunity to drink on another’s tab. His forgiveness is dearly bought, but it is easier to keep him sweet than make an enemy of him. There is the scrape and squawk of chair legs dragged across wooden floorboards, and desk lids clatter as students check they’ve not forgotten anything.

As they file out, I offer an afterthought, “Those of you wishing to do some extra study for next week’s exams, don’t forget your translations. The usual time.”

“Yes, Doctor Croftmarsh,” comes the chorus. There will be at least six of them, the brightest, the most ambitious, those desiring ever so ardently to get ahead. This is what the academy specialises in, propelling orphans upward. Idly, I make a bet with myself: Tilly Sanderson will be the first to knock at 6:30.

The door closes softly behind the last of the students and the space is silent, properly silent for the first time today, no whoosh of breath in and out, no nasal snorts or adenoidal whistles, no sneezes, no sighs, no surreptitious farts, no whispered conversations they think I cannot hear simply because they don’t want me to. Dust specks cartwheel in the shafts of light coming through the windows. I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of not being scrutinised for however brief a time. A band of tension is tightening across my forehead. Beneath my fingers, the substantial cushion of journal pages is strangely warm.

II

FEBRUARY 13TH

Because of thy savour

thy name is as fear poured forth,

And thus do virgins fear thee.

The refectory is awash with polite noise, the clatter of cutlery against crockery, the ting of glasses and water jugs meeting. Students and teachers, all at their allotted tables, talk quietly to one another, all in their own class groups.