Arthur Fortesque

11/09/11 00:36

Subgenius Digest V5 #4





The tale I am about to tell is true. My name is Arthur Fortesque, and I am a professor of folklore at Miskatonic University. As I write this, I am awaiting death by hanging for a crime I did not commit. But it is not in the hope of saving myself that I write now, but rather, to deliver a most urgent warning, a warning against an antique horror once locked away within the womb of the Earth, a ravenous horror now set loose to prey upon an unsuspecting Humanity, all due to my damnable, foolish pride. When this dreadful adventure began, I just was settling down to what I had hoped would be the most peaceful, productive time of my life. The faculty had granted me a year-long sabbatical, partly because the Great War had decimated our entering classes for a few years, reducing the need for teaching staff. Thus freed from the burden of teaching, I looked forward to a period of scholarly contemplation and research. On the first day of my repose, I sat in my tastefully appointed chambers, drawing thoughfully on my prized meerschaum while my silver Himalayan, Kelly, purred contentedly before the fire. While Heinrich, my secretary, poured me a small Amontillado, I sorted through the stacks of notes and manuscripts, the labor of many years, that I planed to compile into the definitive monograph on folk drama in 17th century New England. But this was never to be. From my antechamber I heard an unfamiliar voice. "Dr. Fortesque? You in here?" My secretary replaced the decanter on the tray and met the unlooked-for visitor. When Heinrich announced "Lane Kirkland to see you, sir," my serenity gave way to seething irritation. Kirkland was a well-known dabbler in folklore, and, to put it charitably, his reputation in academic circles was not high. Frankly, we regarded him as a flashy but unlettered treasure-seeker. True, he had made a few notable discoveries while mucking about, including some especially remarkable ones in Arabia, but nothing that couldn't have been duplicated by the steady, persistent efforts of responsible scholars. Scholars like myself, I thought, as Heinrich ushered Kirkland into my chambers. I rose stiffly to greet him. Kirkland's leathery, sunburned face told the tale of many years' exploring in the tropics. His conservative clothes seemed strangely out of place on his lean but stocky frame, as though he had just dashed off a resplendent military uniform and donned the garb of a civilian, better to blend into the crowd. As he heartily gripped my hand in greeting, I noticed that he had tucked under his left arm an ornate box of ebony, locked with a lock of iron. He sat in the leather armchair nearest the fire. As we exchanged pleasantries, he grew increasingly nervous, and he took a glass of sherry from Heinrich with a trembling hand. "Listen," he said at last, "can we talk... privately?" I nodded to Heinrich, who drifted out of the room. Kirkland rose from his chair and drew the shade over my single window, so that we were illuminated only by flickering firelight. He turned to face the fire, still clutching the ebony box. "Arthur, what do you know of . . . Barney?" I drew deeply on my pipe. "Well," I began, "not much. Nobody knows much about him. He was worshipped by a degenerate clan of settlers somewhere in New England in the seventeenth century. They left no writings, ruins, or artifacts of their own. The only way we know of the Barnites at all is that every society in New England with knowledge of writing condemned them for their hideous, unholy practices." Kirkland turned to face me. "Arthur, would you believe me if I told you that I now know more about Barney than all the folklorists in the civilized world combined? And that I am very, very, close to knowing everything about him?" I couldn't conceal my incredulity. "Well, Barney is one of the great mysteries of pre-Revolutionary paganism . . . ," I sputtered. I could hardly believe that a rank amateur like Kirkland could gain any ground where the sharpest minds in folklore had failed. "I don't expect you to take my word for it," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He stepped up to my desk, placing the ebony box before me. "Don't ask me where I got this," he shuddered. He then unlocked it with an iron key he drew from his jacket. From the box, he produced two objects. The first was a strange purple stone, smooth, about fist-sized, of some material I could not identify. As I examined it in the firelight, I noted that was approximately the shape of a quadruped, tailed and standing upright, with a long, saurian head. A patch of green appeared on its "underside". It seemed strangely, achingly cold in my hand, as though it had just been brought to the surface after spending many eons buried in the chilly, lightless subterranian depths. Kelly, who until this point had been lounging in front of the fire, was suddenly on her feet, back arched, her glowing jade eyes fixed on the purple stone in a wild blaze of animal fear. She hissed and spat furiously, then tore out of my office as though every fiend in Hell was pursuing her. But I hardly noticed, so engrossed was I by the second of Kirkland's treasures. It was a roll of parchment, or some other sort of skin. On it was some nearly illegible scrawl that I barely recognized as being similar to an obscure Colonial dialect I had studied in the course of my work as a folklorist. "Incredible," I muttered. "That's why I came to you," Kirkland said. "That fragment you have in your hand is the only known written record of the Slaves of Barney! And you are the only scholar in the world who could read that dialect and pinpoint their exact geographical location." His voice dropped to a trembling whisper. "There, I'm certain, we will uncover the secrets of the Barnites! Their artifacts! Their treasures! And I'll split everything with you, fifty-fifty! Are you with me? Arthur?" But I didn't hear him. I sat insensate, transfixed by the opening verse on the archaic scroll: EI LU'HV YUU YUU LU'HV MII WEIR AE HAPII FAH MILII My mind, my soul, were wracked by a tempest of emotions! Merciful God, If only I had heeded the primal fear that welled up from deep within the most primitive parts of my brain, those parts devoted to the survival of the organism! But pride, my damnable pride, overcame my saner instincts. To solve the riddle of Barney would make me immortal among folklorists. What a fool I was! If I had at that moment even an inkling of the terrors we would soon face, I would have cast the scroll into the fire, smashed the stone into dust, and thrown Kirkland out of my high window, sending his soul screaming to hell! We went right to work on the Barnian Fragment. Or, rather, I went right to work, and Kirkland paced around my chambers, drank my sherry, and smoked my cigars. For nearly six days I continuously poured over the scroll, taking only brief naps when fatigue drenched my burning curiousity. All the while, the strange purple stone sat upright on my desk, grinning in anticipation of some ephocal event long looked-for. I occasionally dispatched Kirkland or Heinrich errands to the Miskatonic Library, there to dig up obscure, sometimes blasphemous tomes from the darkest recesses of the collection. The Fragment was maddeningly difficult to unravel. It had been written either by a moronic child or a mind of genius far beyond what we would consider sane. Finally, at my wit's end, I consulted the abhorred NECRONOMICON, ignoring the frightened whispers of my wiser colleagues. [Continued next post...] - - -- Brad Corsello (bsc7@po.cwru.edu) - 3L Case Western Reserve U. Law School "Sir, the law is as I say it is, and so it has been laid down ever since the law began, . . . and so held and used for good reason, though we cannot at present remember that reason." Y.B. 36 Hen. 6 fo. 24, 25b-26 (1458).
------- End of Forwarded Message

--
Michael J. Leibensperger ___ "Rats and roaches live by competition under the
Locus Computing/Boston \X/ laws of supply and demand; it is the privilege
8 New England Executive Park of human beings to live under the laws of
Burlington MA 01803 justice and mercy." -- Wendell Berry
Member of the League for Programming Freedom --- write league@prep.ai.mit.edu

------------------------------

 

Automatic Subgenius Digestifier (@mc.lcs.mit.edu:Subgenius-request@mc.lcs.mit.edu)
Thu, 6 Jan 94 00:00:15 EST
 
 
  
 
http://subgenius.com/subg-digest/v5/0003.html
digest
End of Subgenius Digest
******************************
 
 
 Espace