Kthudagon II

PART II

         He came to with a yelp. They had tossed him overboard and waves were pounding his face. Sputtering he clawed upwards and opened his eyes. He was on the deck of the airship. A half dozen or more pirates surrounded him, grinning and leering, empty water buckets in hand.
         St. John-Smith sat up into a brisk wind. His wrists were no longer bound and bleeding, but they were chaffed raw and brutally burned. His chest and shoulders throbbed with pain.
         “Get up, Mutt!” He was jerked to his feet and pushed roughly across the deck, slipping and falling—much to the amusement of his captors.
         Indignantly he scrambled to his feet, shrugging off their pushing, prodding hands. They forced him aft and down an open hatch. He was thrown into an empty lazerette with a tiny porthole and a reinforced door.
         St. John-Smith leaned against the nearest wall and slid to the floor, utterly exhausted. Within minutes, despite the fear of his impending execution, he was asleep.
         He awoke to a solid throbbing running through the ship. It was plain that her engines were working and the ship was moving. They must have cast off from The Tern and were now under full sail.
         The door opened and Kensington came in. He tossed a small leather flask to St. John-Smith. “Drink,” he said, “You’ll need your strength.”
         St. John-Smith uncorked the flask and the strong odor of rum filled his nostrils. He was a cognac man, but pulled at the flask anyway, coughing and sputtering. The fierce liquor steadied his nerves, so he took another pull.
         “Why are you doing this?” he croaked.
         The man shrugged, “Captain don’t like Mutts.”
         “I’m not a Mutt. That is to say, I don’t even know what a Mutt is, for God’s sake.”
         “Oh, I believe ya, mate.” Kensington squatted next to St. John-Smith and extended a hand. St. John-Smith took it gingerly. “Lemuel Kensington, First Mate of the Kraken. My friends call me Lemi.”
         “Arthur St. John-Smith.”
         “Well, mate, it was jolly good to have met ya.”
         “Likewise, Mr. Kensington.”
         Kensington left and after a short time they came for him. They hauled him on deck before Quarrel, the captain of The Kraken. He stood akimbo, arms holding back the sides of his duster. He was well armed, with a cutlass in a great, brass scabbard and a pair of deadly, long-barreled, brass festooned rayzers. One large, rough, wind-burned hand reached up and pulled his brass goggles down to hang from his neck.
         “I am a loyal subject of the Crown and Queen Victoria’s Man,” The words spilled out of St. John-Smith mostly for lack of anything better to say and because he was not accustomed to being speechless, “You have no authority to do this.”
         “The Crown’s authority does not extend here,” replied Captain Quarrel,” Here, I am the Crown, and you are a dissident aggressor.”
         “I am no such thing.” protested St. John-Smith.
          “And as such,” continued the Captain, nonplussed by his captor’s outburst, “are entitled to no redress of grievances. Your sentence has been decided. You are to be put to death, Mutt, forthwith and without delay. Gentlemen, keelhaul the creature.”
         “No!” St. John-Smith yelled,” I am innocent. I am not one of these Mutts you keep speaking of. I am a professor of Antiquities and Archaeology at Arkham-on-Tyne. You cannot…”
         Rough hands grabbed him and a coil of rope was thrown over his neck. St. John-Smith struggled like a wild beast caught in a trap but was nevertheless forced to the gunwale. Below him yawned a thousand foot drop.
         “Let the rope out,” yelled one pirate,” A good fifty feet or more. Let’s see if this time the head’ll come off’n the body.” There was a general round of good-natured laughter.
         “Too quick,” yelled another gleefully,” let ‘im down slow and easy like. Drop low and drag him through the water. Maybe we’ll catch sometin good wit ‘im.”
         “Belay that,” growled another,” He’s a Mutt, ya fool. He’d like that.”
         Kensington’s voice was heard above the raucous crowd, “Permission to speak freely, Captain.”
         “Granted.” replied the captain.
         “This man hardly seems the type for your typical Mutt, sir. I’ve been thinking, Captain, and I just don’t see it. That is, sir, he’s unlike any Mutt I’ve ever seen.”
         “You and I both know, Mr. Kensington, that not all Mutts appear as such. Mutt blood, however, is still Mutt blood, regardless.”
         “True, yes, Captain,” replied Kensington, “But it’s possible he’s no Mutt at all, only what he claims to be. If that’s the case, sir, he’s more useful to us alive than dead.”
         “I do not see how, Mr. Kensington.”
         “Well, sir, it’s like this,” Kensington leaned in and spoke to the captain in low tones. Quarrel grunted disapprovingly at first but after a minute nodded.
         “Belay my last order, lads. The Mutt is to be remanded once more to the brig. After he has been more thoroughly interrogated then, lads, you can have your entertainment with him.”
         Reluctant, begrudging hands pulled St. John-Smith from the gunwale and took off the rope from around his neck. He was once more taken below and shoved into the lazarette that served as The Kraken’s brig.
         There he stayed for three whole days. He was brought porridge for breakfast and the same for dinner—adequate but unappetizing. Kensington visited him on the second day and brought more rum.
         “Thank you for saving my life.”
         “Don’t thank me yet, mate,” said Kensington,” I’ve only managed to postpone your funeral.”
         St. John-Smith nodded in understanding,” Regardless, thank you. If I might ask, what was it you said to the captain that made him change his mind about keelhauling me?”
         Kensington shrugged, “I appealed to his common sense. If you’re who you say you are, then you’re of more value to us alive than dead.”
         “I don’t follow.”
         “Perhaps someday I’ll tell you, mate. “ He shook his head,” but not now. Well,” he rose to leave,” I have business with the captain.”
         St. John-Smith’s wrists no longer burned, but they were still tender. In time they would heal completely, but he would carry the scars from the ropes to his grave. His upper body was still sore, but otherwise he had full range of motion. Years of field study had hardened him more than he had realized.
On the sixth day of his captivity he was taken on deck and directed abaft. Kensington alone accompanied him and they stopped in front of a fine teak door, on which Kensington rapped softly with the butt of his rayzer.
         “Come,” boomed a deep voice, which could have only been that of Quarrel. So, thought St. John-Smith, my fate is to be decided here and now. They entered. Quarrel sat behind a large desk cluttered with scrolls, charts, books and a myriad of nameless, brass instruments. He scribbled busily with a quill on parchment paper and did not stop or look up as they entered.
         “The prisoner, Captain.”
         After several minutes the captain told Kensington to leave them. St. John-Smith stood awkwardly for many minutes while the man who held the power of life and death over him casually finished writing, folded up his paper, slid it into an envelope and sealed it with wax before stamping it.
         “Sit, professor,” said the captain, slipping the envelope into a drawer and finally looking up at him,” Would you like something to drink? Scotch? Rum? Tea, perhaps?”
         St. John-Smith said tea would be splendid and the captain rang a small bell on his desk. A cabin boy entered immediately through a side door and Quarrel asked him to prepare tea for two. After the boy had left Quarrel spoke again.
         “Fine lad. His parents were lost at sea. It was a sudden Nor’easter that blew up off the Cape, as they are want to do. He was alone in the world, destined for some work house and a short, bitter life—the only one afforded him by the Crown, in its infinite wisdom. So, I took him in. He’s a good cabin boy and a loyal member of my crew. One day he’ll join the other lads on deck.”
         The tea came and they drank. Quarrel said he preferred to take his quietly, reflectively and told St. John-Smith he was welcome to look about in the meantime.
         St. John-Smith had noticed the wall that contained the captain’s library as soon as he had entered the cabin and naturally gravitated there, cup and saucer in hand. Despite the uncertainty of his fate, he felt a little bit better with this bit of civility at his disposal.
         St. John-Smith was impressed with the extensive nature of the captain’s library, especially considering its small size. There were tomes on mythology, archaeology, mentalism, paleontology, arcane knowledge, aircraft engineering and others. He recognized, with a start of surprise, several notable books: the rare Demoninomican of Ibn Falhad and the equally rare English translation of Piglafetti’s Latin text Cultis Africanus. 
         At length the captain spoke,” You claim to be a professor for Arkham-on-Tyne College, specializing, I believe, in antiquities?”
          “I do not claim anything, sir,” replied St. John-Smith with more boldness than he really felt,” I am what I say I am.”
         “That aside,” continued the captain,” It does not preclude the possibility of you being that which I am convinced you are.”
          “Which is what, exactly?”
         The captain returned his cup to its saucer and stared fixedly at St. John-Smith, “A Mutt—a mutant. Something cursed of God and a threat to mankind.”
         “I know nothing of any mutants, Captain,” said St. John-Smith,” And as you can plainly see I am a thoroughly healthy and normal human being.”
         “Mutts do not always appear as such, professor.”
         “So you said before,” replied St. John-Smith,” But I fear I have no possible way of reassuring you on that front.”
         “An honest answer. A mark in your favor, at least.” Quarrel opened a desk drawer and took three items from it and placed them on the desk top.
“Explain, if you would be so kind, as to how these items came to be in your possession.” His words were polite and even, but acid dripped from them.
         St. John-Smith felt a surge of excitement at the sight of the idols. He assumed they had been thrown overboard. But his excitement drained quickly from him. Those objects had caused him much grief and consternation in the short time he had been in possession of them.
         St. John-Smith cleared his throat, “As I have stated previously, I am a professor of Antiquities and Archaeology at Arkham-on-Tyne.
         “I teach occasionally. I even write papers at times. However, my main function is field studies. I have spent most of my career abroad at a number of archaeological digs across the globe.
         “My entire career, to be totally frank, has been uninspired. I have uncovered bits of flotsam and jetsam of ancient cultures already well defined--nothing, however, to distinguish me in my field.
         “Then, in 1884, on an atoll off the Fiji Islands, I discovered this.” He picked up one of the figurines and examined it. It was made of some greenish soap stone-like material. “Upon further investigation I uncovered the remains of some dozen buildings, all seemingly dedicated to the reveration of some obscure and nameless sea god.
         “When I returned to England the following year I inquired among my colleagues as to the nature of this cult. I could, however, get no answers. It seemed there was no record of such a cult anywhere.
         “Needless to say I was most intrigued and excited. Here was a chance to distinguish myself as an archeologist of note. A new cult—perhaps an entire new culture—based upon the worship of a hitherto unknown Polynesian deity!
         “Or, perhaps, an even more intriguing prospect—that the deity was not of Polynesian origin but was imported from regions unknown. This possibility I surmised due to the nature of the carving. It was definitely not made of materials native to the Polynesian region.
         “But I digress. I am perhaps boring you, Captain, with the details of my history and ambitions?”
         “Go on,” was all Quarrel said. He showed no signs of boredom or interest.
         “Well, my plans were to return to the Fiji region and further my field studies, widening my search to neighboring atolls, where I hoped to find more evidence of this ancient cult.
         “However, even as I was finalizing my plans I received a letter which drastically altered everything.
         “A fellow archaeologist wrote me, stating that he had caught wind of my inquiries and thought he could help.
         “He had seen the drawing of my figurine. I had circulated a number of drawings among the intelligentsia of the Empire hoping someone of them could shed light on the subject. This fellow claimed to possess a figurine just like mine.
         “At first I was skeptical, and wrote back as much.” St. John-Smith shrugged, “I had a right to be. I had discovered my figurine in the Fiji region. This fellow claimed to find his while on a fishing trip to Iceland. The two could not be of the same make.
         “But he sent me a daguerreotype of his figurine. Now, being a skeptic, I allowed for fraud. But the mere possibility that the two figurines could be of the same origin was too good to pass up. So I decided it was worth the three hour steam rail to London.
         “My friend greeted me cordially and after a reasonable supper we retired to his study for brandy and cigars. It was there he showed me the figurine. He found it, he claimed, quite by accident as he walked a meandering river. It was among the ruins of a prehistoric site.
         “I knew immediately it was no hoax. It was made of the same peculiar stone and depicted the exact same subject. Its resemblance was uncanny.”
         St. John-Smith picked up the second figurine and looked at it closely. It was only six inches in height, but exuded a presence that demanded one’s attention. It was a hideous marine monstrosity. The sloping, long head had bulbous, veiled eyes and ended in a many tentacled jaw. The head, devoid of anything resembling a neck, bulged up into a high, ridged hump of a back from which sprouted two bat-like wings. The body was that of a naked, sexless humanoid, long limbed and with clawed hands and webbed feet. It possessed a long tail not unlike that of a stingray. 
         “How? How does a relatively obscure marine deity become the object of worship for two separate cultures so distant and isolated from one another?”
         “And this figurine? The third one?” Quarrel picked up the figurine as if he were handling a plague rat.
         “That one I unearthed off the coast of Maine last month. That was an especially fruitful dig in which I discovered more information about this cult than all other sources combined. “
         “What kind of information?” Quarrel leaned forward, expectation and revolt vying for control of his features.
         “For one thing, the extensive nature of this cult. I have reason to believe it exists in every continent on the globe—including Antarctica. I have, of course, kept this information in reserve.  I am, after all, a man of science first and this is all still in the theoretical stage.”
         “Of course,” replied Quarrel, a hint of condescension in his tone.
         “And it was an exceptionally bloodthirsty cult. It rather made the Thuggees in India look like the subject of a nursery rhyme. “ He mused.
         Quarrel stood suddenly and leaned forward, staring intently at St. John-Smith, who shrank back in surprise and intimidation.
         “Let us get to the heart of the matter. I want to know why you were so furtively fleeing Boston. Why so secret a passage on a garbage scow like The Tern?
         “And why is a mere professor of Antiquities at a minor institute armed with an Imperial rayzer?”
         “One must protect oneself in these colonies, you know. Colonial Bobbies are on the spare side, and quite unlike those in London. No offense, but they seem to be lacking in certain…”
         “Tell me what the rayzer is for, doctor.” All pretense was gone from Quarrel’s voice.
         “Er, well, seeing as you put it that way… there was an attack on the Maine dig.” St. John-Smith’s face took on an ashen appearance, “I had five assistants and seven local laborers at the site. One night they were all murdered—brutally and with total disregard for everything that is sacred or decent.”
         “Yet you lived,” It was a simple statement, flat, with no affect to it, but St. John-Smith sensed an accusation within. “And you had those figurines with you at the time?”
         St. John-Smith’s face was flushed and he had to take a few breaths before replying,” The wind was high that night. I went to check on the tarps. If they were loose the wind could blow everything away and ruin all my work. I didn’t trust anyone else to do it—I like to oversee these important matters personally, you know. Besides, they were all asleep and I was restless. The camp was some distance from the site so I was gone for quite a while.
         “The figurines were not on my person, at the time, no. I kept them hidden well away. The locals were a very superstitious lot and were always nervous, almost terrified, around the figurines. They threatened repeatedly to destroy them. So I had to hide them and did so at the site.
         “Anyhow, when I returned to camp it was to a scene of slaughter. My chief assistant, Roger Atherton, was murdered in my tent and the others in theirs--taken by surprise while they slept--the cowards.” Vitriol was thick in his voice.
         “I buried them all the next day, including my friend, Atherton. I couldn’t leave them to be food for crows and the wild dogs. They were my friends.”
         Captain Quarrel sat back down, his face softening slightly,” Quite understandable. Continue.”
         “It took me four days, by rowboat and then by foot, to make it to the nearest village. From there I returned to Boston. I felt dogged all the way and, once in Boston, I had the persistent and troublesome sense that I was under constant surveillance.”
         “For what end?” asked Quarrel,” And by whom?”
         “I can only speculate.” Replied St. John-Smith reluctantly.
         “Well then, man, speculate.”
         “This ancient cult I had uncovered was furtive and secret in its time. They were so out of necessity more than a desire for privacy. Followers of all other religions and cults despised them. It was an unspoken and unwritten rule among all the others that once discovered, members of this cult would be immediately executed. Even cults like the Thuggees and Satan worshipping cults feared and hated them.
         “And so I surmised that, in the event that this cult had survived and was still worshipping their hideous god today, they would likewise be hated and despised, and given to extreme secrecy. Discovery would mean nothing less than annihilation.”
         “An ancient, obscure cult,” mused the captain,” Too evil for even the worst cults to stomach, still in business today, but practicing in total secrecy.”
         “Hard to believe, I know,” said St. John-Smith, “but nevertheless I believe all this to be true: and not ancient—prehistoric. This is of paramount importance to note.”
         “And this cult of yours, whatever it is named and whatever god it worships…”
         “Kathudagon. The god Kathudagon is what they worship,” St. John-Smith picked up a figurine,” This is its image. It is sometimes referred to as Kaluulu. It is a kind of sea god.”
         “…His followers wish to murder you in order to keep their organization secret?”
         “Er, yes, in a nutshell,” St. John-Smith realized how awkward--even ridiculous—this sounded hearing it from someone else, ”I see where this might seem fantastic, but I assure you on my honor as a gentleman and a loyal subject of the Crown that it is all true.”
         “A gentleman’s honor has little meaning here,” Quarrel retorted, “And your honor as a loyal subject of the Queen has even less.”
         “As an honest man with no reason to lie, then.”
         Quarrel seemed to accept his latter statement more readily than his former, but his expression was still one of disbelief,” Why not simply inform Boston Yard?”
         “Their incredulity would have been the equal of yours, I have no doubt,” replied St. John-Smith, “And I had no wish to be arrested for the murder of my friend and my assistants. Frankly, I have little faith in your colonial law enforcement—it is much too lax. My intent was to return home and consult a friend of mine—a detective of Scotland Yard.”
         “And what would be the objective of this consultation?”
         St. John-Smith leaned forward, his face growing flushed, “To avenge my friend; to expose this horrible cult with the intent of causing its utter immolation.”
         The captain stared at the figurines on the desk. After a few moments he abruptly swept the figurines into a drawer in his desk and stood up, yanking down his duster. He called for Kensington, who appeared immediately as if he had been waiting outside the door all this time.
         “Arrange a state room aft, for the doctor.”
         “Aye, Captain,” nodded Kensington.
         “Thank you, Captain,” breathed St. John-Smith.
         “Understand, doctor, that while your status on this ship has changed, it is tenuous at best. Disobey the rules and I will have you thrown overboard or hanged from the yardarm. Are we clear?”
         “Yes, Captain,” replied St. John-Smith humbly.
         Kensington led St. John-Smith from the captain’s quarters to the main deck. The air now felt invigorating, where before, as he went to meet the captain, it had felt suffocating. St. John-Smith looked about him with more interest than he had since he had come aboard. The airship was over open water, flying low, about fifty feet above the surface. There was no land in sight, nor any other ship for that matter.
         “Come along, mate,” said Kensington, “plenty of time for lookin’ about later. We’ll get you fixed up right quick.
         “There’s an empty cabin near mine you can have. Don’t worry, mate, you’ll not be locked up this time. You’ve got pretty much the run of the ship by Quarrel’s orders. But I’d lay low if I were you, at least until I’ve addressed your status change to the entire crew. “
         “If you think that’s best, I will, of course, follow your advice.” One hand went absentmindedly to his wrist, where the pink scar from the rope burn stood out against his tanned, weather beaten skin.
         His new room was indeed much better than his last. There was a reasonably comfortable looking cot, a small table with a chair, and a chest of clothes. There was also, much to his relief, a small pitcher and wash basin on a narrow side table. The porthole was clean and large enough for him to lean out of. Most importantly, however, was that when Kensington dismissed himself there was no sound of a key turning in a lock. St. John-Smith tried the door, just for reassurance, and it was indeed unlocked.
         He sighed in relief, than stopped and looked at his wrists. There was, he noticed, no lock on the inside of the door either. Casting about himself, he took a chair and wedged it under the door knob.
         St. John-Smith lay on his cot and contemplated his future. Should he attempt to escape the first chance he could? He could bide his time and wait until they were near shore, then jump overboard and swim for land. He had a hard time imagining they would make much of an effort to recapture him; he was hardly worth a ransom. They would most likely be glad to be rid of him, he reasoned.
         But an unpleasant thought gnawed at his mind. The captain obviously knew something about those figurines—he was more than casually interested in them. What if Quarrel did see value in keeping him around? Then he would be a prisoner here until they were either blown out of the sky by Her Majesty’s Navy or he was no longer of any use—which would most likely be his death sentence.
         A dreadful feeling of despair suddenly came over him. He rolled onto his side and tried to sleep—to block out his thoughts—but all he could do was stare at the wall in front of him.