David Barbour - Shadows Bend

“So you think those horrid men are actually creatures from your childhood nightmares?” she said. “It doesn’t make sense to me. If these men are after you because you somehow exposed Cthulhu in your writing, what does your having the Kachina have anything to do with things? And why are they nightmares from before you even made up Cthulhu?”

It had not occurred to Howard to pursue this line of questioning himself, but he realized Glory had an excellent point. He himself had begun to accept Lovecraft’s story on the face of it-there certainly was enough to go on even on the surface-but the underlying logic was a little bit shaky.

At first Lovecraft seemed a bit put off by the cross-examination, but he, too, was patient. “It is not merely Cthulhu of whom we speak,” he said. “The list is long: Cthulhu, Azathoth, Nyarlathotep, Shub Niggurath.”

“And don’t forget Yeb and Nug,” said Howard.

“The ones with the less exotic names,” said Lovecraft. “Of course there is also Bob’s own Friedrich von Juntz and his Unaussprechlichen Kulten with the hideous Black Book and Klarkash-Ton’s Tsathoggua and The Book of Eibon.”

“But those hardly sound as real,” said Glory. “Where did you get the name for the Necronomicon?”

“It came to me in a dream,” Lovecraft replied. He added an “of course,” but by then his voice had taken on the tone of dark realization. There was a thick silence. They looked at each other, each recalling the horror and reality of their recent dreams.

“If I remember my Latin, it means something like ‘The Book of the Names of the Dead,’ ” said Glory. “I can’t help but think it’s the opposite of the book that Christ is supposed to have in His second coming, the book with the names of the saved.”

“To pose it as an unholy mockery of such a book was not my intention,” said Lovecraft. “But if it takes on that resonance, then all the more credit to my dreaming mind.” He paused. “Not that I had the sort of dreams I am wont to experience these days, thank God.”

“You haven’t answered my original question,” said Glory. “If you didn’t make up these demons until you were an adult, then what business do monsters from your childhood have in this story?”

“I have pondered that myself,” Lovecraft replied finally. “The conclusion at which I arrived after much thought is that my childhood imaginings were foreshadowings. I was a sensitive child, much isolated and taken to long bouts of vivid imagination. I am the first to admit that I do not believe in premonitions and the like, but that is the only conclusion that makes rational sense.”

“You’re forgetting another one,” said Glory.

A thin smile touched Lovecraft’s lips. “Yes. That I am mad. But then I must remind you that you and Bob are then participants in my vivid mania.”

Howard had been paying attention to the mountainous road, but he finally interjected himself. “You remember Jules Verne?” he said to Glory.

“Of course. I must have read all his books when I was a girl.”

“Well, think of him. He was just a fantasy writer back then, but he wrote about submarines and airships and airplanes, all before those things came true. Now a rational man would say that what he wrote helped those things come true. Or if you’re inclined to believe in the supernatural, then maybe you’d say he predicted those things.”

“You have a point there,” Glory replied. “I guess plenty of people believe in predictions and prophecies. The Bible’s full of it, after all.” ,

Lovecraft looked pleased to be compared, even indirectly, to a classic writer and the biblical prophets. “We are all in agreement that many weird phenomena have been following us. Correct?”

“Yes,” said Glory.

“Then even though I am inclined to be skeptical, let us view these things the way Charles Fort views such things as rains of fishes or strange lights in the sky-with an open mind. And let us proceed pragmatically from there. I myself have adopted the outlook of Sherlock Holmes: Once the impossible has been ruled out, then what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” He sounded very pleased with himself.

“Fine,” said Glory. “But I would still rather not be with you two. You can consider me a hostage of circumstances beyond my control. The ride to Vegas was plenty for me.”

That ended conversation for a while. Howard attended to the road, and Lovecraft scribbled furiously in his journal. Glory gazed out of the window at the soothingly real landscape.

SHORTLY AFTER NOON, having driven through the night, they passed through the old part of Auburn, still hanging on from the days of the Gold Rush. A mile or so farther on, they crossed the railroad tracks that Smith had identified as the best landmark for finding the road to his house.

“Here,” said Lovecraft. “Turn here.”

“You sure this is the right road?” said Howard. “It don’t look like more than a trail.”

“This is it, Bob. There’s no other turn. Klarkash-Ton was very clear.”

Howard turned onto the rutted trail, up the forested hill, driving very slowly to avoid the loose rocks and pits. It was pleasant and quiet, the air punctuated only occasionally by the sound of a bird. “I’m glad we fixed the damned suspension,” he mumbled as he was jostled up and down. The forest on either side of the road seemed to converge as they continued uphill around a blind curve, and as they came around, the trees approached almost into the road itself, looming up on either side; where there were large branches, they laced together to form a tunnel of shade. Howard stopped momentarily, looking down the dark green throat under the trees. “I don’t see no road ahead,” he said.

Lovecraft and Glory squinted forward. They, too, were suddenly suspicious and uncomfortable. “I believe the road bends,” Lovecraft concluded after a moment’s hesitation. “It only appears to come to an end.”

Howard eased slowly forward. “Well, we either go all the way forward, or we back outta this place. Ain’t no room to turn around.”

They had all expected a house on some side street of town, and after their recent misadventures, they found it difficult to relax despite the idyllic surroundings. The air was dry, having already taken on the afternoon heat, and there was a thick, somnolent silence everywhere, almost eerie.

Just before Howard’s patience had expired, they saw the weathered old sign, lettered rather roughly in faded paint: Timeus Smith. Howard recognized the name, and for an instant he thought they had come upon the grave of Clark’s father. He was still slightly disoriented when they came through the weave of trees into a dry, grassy clearing, where they could see an old cabin.

Howard honked the horn after they got out, and Smith appeared at the door, looking weary. He was neatly though casually dressed, probably because he was expecting them; his dark hair combed wide over his broad forehead gave him an especially intellectual air, and his heavy brows and slightly sunken eyes added a touch of the suffering artist. To Howard, Smith looked too feminine—like a lady’s man, but to Glory his asymmetrical features conveyed empathy, sensitivity, and soulfulness. She found him instantly attractive.

Smith gave a broad, crooked smile and walked down the slope to greet them. “Welcome to my humble abode!” he called. “Always refuge for weary travelers here.”

Howard and Lovecraft staggered up to the house, finally realizing how exhausted they were. Glory, feeling bloated and wretched from having slept in the heat, grudgingly followed them up the pathway.

Smith said his manly hellos to his friends with much shaking of ‘ hands and patting of shoulders. At first Glory thought it had been a long while since they had all seen each other, but there was a strange awkwardness about the way they looked at each other, as if they were comparing the man before them to some former image. It was almost a kind °f suspicion, or disbelief, or maybe just simple disillusionment.