James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“In a manner of speakin’,” said Gingham, returning the sack to his coat pocket. He clapped both of them mightily on the shoulder. “Yer job is to listen and pay attention. And your take will be a hunnerd times what you just received. What I gave I give freely, because it was freely given. Unnerstand?”

“No,” said Abberline.

Gingham fixed them with a tombstone grin. “You don’t have to struggle in the dark anymore, gents. Jus’ imagine it. No more sufferin’, no more want. And you can have it right here on Earth, right now. How does that sound to ya?”

“It sounds wonderful,” Burton said, though Abberline detected the faintest edge of fear and caution in his voice.

“That settles it then, gents. Ya need to join the Esoteric Order a’ Dagon. Let them gods I spoke about show ya what they can do.”

“What do we have to do?” asked Abberline.

“Be at the big church what burned two year ago in one hour. Show them this.” He produced two cards imprinted with the now-familiar elder sign. Gingham then clapped their shoulders again, squeezing hard as he did so. “Brothers,” he said before loping out of the pub.

“These cultists certainly keep some late hours,” said Abberline when Gingham vanished from sight.

“If you don’t want a lot of prying eyes,” said Burton, “the later the better. Do you know this church of his?”

Abberline nodded. I think so. But it’s in a very dangerous part of the Cauldron.”

“More dangerous than this?”

“Afraid so. You want to turn back?”

“No. Not when we’re so close. Lead the way.”

It was dark as they threaded their way through the narrow, unpaved streets, and the moon was obscured by pale clouds. The only light they had spilled from a small lantern that Burton had brought. The noxious smells of boiling tripe, slaughterhouses, back yard cows and pigs, and “night soil”—human excrement collected and used as fertilizer—hung cloying and disorienting, and several times Inspector Abberline had to stop to get his bearings before continuing onward. Once he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and clamped it to his nose.

“Please,” said Burton. “Endure it if you can. You’re going to mark us as outsiders”

“What?” said the policeman, his eyes watering from the stench that assaulted their nostrils. “How?”

“East Enders are no doubt used to the smell.”

They worked their way toward the river wharf, twisting through streets that could barely be called such. Burton saw few street signs or other markers. To navigate the Cauldron, he reasoned, one must get by on familiarity and dead reckoning, and he was glad the Inspector was as familiar with it as he was.

As the full moon appeared from her shroud of gray clouds, Abberline pointed to a large dark shape hulking up ahead. “That’s it,” he whispered.

Burton nodded. Their destination loomed. A large burned-out Catholic church, its spires had crumbled to near dust, its many gambreled roof caved in in places. But lamp and candlelight sputtered from within, and Burton and Abberline could hear inside its walls a low chanting.

They stepped up the crumbling steps and through the ruined doorway. A large man wearing a hooded white robe loomed in the shadows. Burton and Abberline showed him the cards emblazoned with the elder sign that Gingham had given them. Saying nothing, he gestured with his outstretched right arm toward the interior of the ruined church.

They could smell burnt wood and warm candle wax as they moved cautiously toward the nave, where a cluster of white-robed figures hunched on half-burnt, rotting pews. Beyond them, in the right-hand corner, stood the baptismal font, which had been turned into a source of warmth. Burton watched as a robed attendant tossed moldering hymnals and bits of splintered wood into the growing pyre that had been made there.

What was left of the ruined tabernacle was completely covered in glowing candles, sputtering furtively. Trails of many-colored wax ran down its length, transforming it into a lurid work of art.

Suspended from wires above hung a grotesque sculpture carved crudely from a block of maple wood. Burton and Abberline stared up at the blasphemous visage of some abhorrent entity that seemed to be part fish, part frog. A thing of bulbous, staring eyes and a long, thin mouth. Front appendages ended in stumpy webbed, claw like hands. And it chilled Richard Francis Burton to his marrow.

Another robed figure, this one a woman, gestured for Burton and Abberline to take a seat in the last pew on the left side of the nave. Behind the woman sat John Gingham, also in a white robe. Burton and Abberline sat on the creaking wood and watched as a figure emerged from somewhere behind the hideous sculpture. He was garbed in a yellow robe decorated with all manner of crude sigils, including the now familiar elder sign. He lifted his hood and smiled at the small audience, his face ghastly in the candlelight, for it was covered with a grotesque wooden mask, the irregular angles of which were cast in weird shadows by the candlelight.

“Who on earth is that?” whispered Abberline.

“That’s the King in Yellow,” said the woman. “Now shhhh!”

“Welcome, brothers and sisters,” said the King in Yellow, his voice echoing strangely off the burned brick walls of the decimated church. “You come here tonight a member of the great unwashed, having failed in your pursuit of the almighty dollar. But you will leave here as kings and queens of the Earth.”

The huge open space filled with the echo of a multitude of excited whispers which the man before the tabernacle silenced with a look before continuing. “Up to now you have lived in filth and squalor. But those days are no more. Those that live in the deeps will end your suffering. You will become masters of men, and live in the House of Dagon forever and ever.”

This last remark created more excited whispers from the audience. Burton stared at the man, thinking he should know him from somewhere. Some of the phrases he used, “the great unwashed,” “the pursuit of the almighty dollar,” sounded strangely familiar.

“This bloke is completely mad,” whispered Abberline.

“Perhaps. But we need to know what his plans are.”

The chatter amongst the small crowd had just started to die down when Burton and Abberline felt a familiar strong, cold grip on their shoulders.

“Excuse me, brothers and sisters,” John Gingham shouted above the din. “We have some folks here who should not be. I heard them call you mad, sire.”

“Now see here,” said Abberline before Burton silenced him with his gaze.

“Who dares interrupt these holy proceedings?” asked the King in Yellow.

“I do, sir. John Gingham. I invited these two here, but they may be imposters.” As if testing his hypothesis, Gingham yanked on the fake beard appliance Abberline was wearing. “Ow!” he cried as it tore away from his face.

“See? They ain’t who they claim to be!”

“Run, Fred,” said Burton.

“What?”

The explorer jumped to his feet, twisted around and punched John Gingham hard in the mouth in one smooth motion. “Run!”

The police inspector proved faster than he looked. He bounded over a crumbling pew and beyond the reaching arms of some angry, confused cultists in seconds.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the King in Yellow. “I will have order in the house of Dagon!”

“Oh, stuff your sea-god rot,” Abberline shouted as he punched a robed figure who got too close for his liking. Three more cultists grabbed the police inspector from behind, subduing him.

Burton dove in, fists flying, knocking cultists out of the way. They were just poor people. Some of them cutthroats to be sure, but none expecting a scuffle this night. Burton managed to fight his way into the aisle between the two rows of pews. Standing in front of the tabernacle was a seething King in Yellow, hands clenched into fists though he clearly had no idea what he should do next. He didn’t have to do anything, as his followers, stirred into action at last, pounced upon Burton, pummeling him with their fists and limiting his movement.