In the Court of the Eyeless King

[Char-Vell]

In the Court of the Eyeless King 

    It was shortly after I had read George Gaylord Simpson’s fine article in The American Museum Novitiates on the discovery of the bones of a great Jaguar in the Craighead caverns that I began to be troubled by the vivid, disturbing dreams. I remember having a vague, unreasoning sense of alarm after reading the article, but could discern no reason for my misgivings. Night after night, the dreams became more vivid, more REAL. Until they became not the drowsy, half -remembered phantasms of slumber, but crisp, firm memories of events that I had lived.

    In the dreams, I was not Brian Conrad, architectural draftsman from Knoxville, but Rothull of the Aesir. As Rothull I tread the earth in an age so distant that history only remembers it as fevered myths. A full lifetime of Rothull’s memories sprang forth in my consciousness during this time, but it is only the memory of a particular incident that is germane to the matter of the bones in Craigshead.

    As Rothull, I had the misfortune of being taken captive with some fellow Aesir, and chained to the oars of a galley. My misfortune was compounded when, within moments of having escaped and engaged in a fierce battle to wrest the galley from our captors I, along with my fellow tribesman, Regn, was swept overboard by a gargantuan wave. I will not detail the horrors I endured in the days or weeks I clung to the remains of the ship’s mast, or my grief when I discovered Regn no longer clung there with me, Suffice it to say I lived to wash ashore upon some coast far removed from the icy crags of Asgard.

    My luck began to change at this point. I was found on the beach by members of a nomadic tribe as they foraged for shellfish. They were copper skinned, raven haired people, robust and well formed. They could have easily cut my throat, but some strange whim caused them to spare me. Perhaps my blue eyes and yellow mane and beard, I know not, but they spared me, and cared for me till I recovered.

    Again, I will not linger on how I became adopted by the White Stag people, (So named for the elusive animal that was their totem.) nor detail my adventures with them as we roamed across this wild, unnamed country; adventures that saw me become blood-brother to Achak, chief of the White Stags, and won for me my wife, Magena.

    It was the start of the sixth spring I had spent among the White Stags. We had roamed far inland to a forested hill country. We settled here for a time, all had been well until one of our hunting parties was savaged by an enormous beast. The survivors said it was an enormous, spotted cat, larger than even the saber-toothed cats that menaced the wilderness in those times. Thrice more the beast attacked us, once at our own encampment. Each time it escaped our spears and eluded parties that pursued it. We were not a small tribe, but we could ill afford to lose many of our people to this ravening horror. I decided new tactics were needed. Magena was great with our first child, and I would not have my spawn birthed into a situation of such menace. I resolved to track the beast alone, reasoning a single man might be less likely to alert the beast.

    Achak was skeptical. “This is folly, Longclaw!”

    He called me by the name he’d given me years ago, after the cutlass I had by some miracle retained during my ordeal at sea and still carried at my side. (The White Stags knew not the secret of steel, and I, not being a blacksmith, could not share it with them. As it was, mine was the only metal implement among the tribe, but enough digression.)

    “You cannot dissuade me, brother, nor will I suffer you or any other brave to accompany me.” 
     “I suppose not, ever were you a stiff-necked buffoon!” he exclaimed. He sighed then relenting. “We will wait for you six days or until the beast attacks again, and then we move.”

    I nodded grimly. “So be it” I said. Then embraced my brother. Throwing a wolfskin cloak over my shoulders and taking up a flint-tipped spear, I made my way to the edge of our camp. Magena met me near the barrier of thorny brush we had piled up for protection.

    Ah! Magena! The words at the disposal of Brian Conrad are insufficient to describe her primal beauty! Her long raven hair gently stirring in the wind her fierce head thrown proudly back. There were no tears in her clear obsidian eyes that day, but the fierce primitive love we shared was in full evidence. Ymir! Women were of a different breed in those bygone epochs.

    She grasped me about the neck and pulled my lips down to hers, after a fiery kiss she whispered. “Return to me Yellow-Hair, return to US!”

    “It shall be as you will, my love.” With another kiss, I left her and set forth into the wilderness.

*************** 

[Char-Vell]

********

    I will gloss over the details of tracking the creature. I was no mean tracker in my days hunting mammoth and bear in Asgard, and I had honed my woodcraft to a keen edge living among the White Stags, so tracking so immense a beast was not difficult for me. At length I tracked it to a cave mouth in the side of a rocky outcropping. I fashioned a torch from a tree branch and some pitch soaked hemp I had brought along for such and occasion, and kindled it with sparks struck from flint and the hilt of my cutlass. Brandishing the torch in one hand and spear in the other, I entered the cave, I knew not fear. I, who had spent time immeasurable floating as a mote on a trackless sea, found terror in very little.
    The cave mouth opened into a large chamber. Resplendent with columns and colorful crystalline deposits. The cave floor was rocky, but there was enough soil here to reveal the spoor of my quarry. I followed it to a roughly circular passage in the cave wall. Tufts of fur clung to its edges where the big cat had squeezed through. I followed. A long tunnel stretched before me. And I crept along it. The air grew cooler and moist, and a strong, fungal scent came to my nostrils. Here and there my torch revealed curious markings on the walls and ceiling. Where they writing? Pictures? I knew not, and had no time to speculate.
    The tunnel ended and opened into another chamber. Here there grew a proliferation of fungus, enormous toadstools half again the height of a man. They were densely packed, but the big cat had shouldered his way through them blazing a trail for me to follow. For some time I crept through the forest of mushrooms, at last coming to its edge. I stepped out onto a smooth sandy surface, one that clearly showed the massive paw prints of my quarry. As I followed an incongruous sound came to my ears. Verily, it sounded like the crashing of waves. It grew louder and finally I paused, raising my torch aloft.
    There, at the edge of my torchlight I beheld the edge of some underground lake, its waves gently caressing the bank upon which I stood. Still, I had no time to be amazed but the spectacle. Indeed my prey may have been poised to pounce upon me that very moment! I resumed following the tracks, spear at the ready. Suddenly I was stopped short. “Ymir!” I exclaimed, calling upon the god of my people. The great beast lay stretched in the sand before me, as long as three men lying headlong and its shoulders rising nearly to my chest as it lay on its side. Its ebon spotted, yellow coat was rent and bloodied, its great sides still heaved, it’s breathing labored and gurgling. From its massive head the yellow eyes regarded me with damnable intelligence. Something had struck down this mighty beast, but what? What could dwell here by this hidden sea that could lay low such a mighty creature? I had not long to wait ere I found out.
    There came a rapid, wet, clicking noise, never had I heard its like. I wheeled to face it and saw nothing. It came again. Aye, the source was just outside the light of my torch. I heard it again closer, more rapid. A pale shape emerged from the dark. White, pulpy, glistening wet.

    The fact that Rothull of Asgard did not flee that cavern a gibbering simpleton at that point give testament to the fiber of the men of that bygone age. As I recall the form of that abomination in my current guise of Brian Conrad, my mind recoils in abject terror and the chill, sickly sweat of fear beads up on my back. GOD! That such things existed. Or could exist today! Which is why that fool Brill must be stopped, before….. No. I get ahead of myself.

    As Rothull I stood before a phantasmagorical nightmare. The main bulk of the horror was a colossal albino amphibious thing, tall and broad as a rhino, its full length hidden by the dark. Its wide spade shaped head swiveled to and fro, emitting the rapid clicking from its open maw, lined with tiny needle-like teeth, it was eyeless, with dark impressions on either side of its skull were atrophied sockets lay. Eyeless too was that which road astride the beast like some nightmare cavalier. Its shape was human in form in that it had a head, legs and arms, but the head was a ichthyic, toothy affair, crested with a tall fin, perched on a long, sinewy, gilled neck, Its limbs and torso were curiously elongated, wiry with muscle, a web of spiky fins connected its arms to its ribs and narrow hips. Its coloring was the same pulpy, milk-white of its grotesque mount. In one hand it gripped a peculiar, jagged spear of bone or glass. In the other it held a gauzy net rimmed by wicked looking barbed hooks.
    I had little time to assess this newcomer, for he charged at me immediately, swinging the net to ensnare me. I leapt aside, and while I avoided becoming entangled, the barbed hooks ripped the flesh of my face and shoulders. Bellowing in fury, I hurled my spear straight at the rider's torso. With impossible speed he caused his nightmare mount to rear up, and my spear sunk into the pulpy flesh of the giant amphibian. With a cacophony of rapid clicks, the thing wheeled and struck me from behind with its massive tail. I was hurled like a rag doll through the air toward the forest of mushrooms. I landed among them with such force I lay stunned, unable to move. Worse yet, the torch had been knocked from my grasp and extinguished.

I was plunged into total darkness.

[zarono]

Great work CV! +200 XP for including past life memories in the plot!

[Char-Vell]

********

    Hindered by the soft spongy fungus in which I’d fallen, I was slow to regain my feet. I could see nothing, and the incessant clicking grew louder as the rider closed in to finish me. I drew my cutlass from its rawhide scabbard and slashed at the source of the clicking, but my blade cleaved only air. Hearing the clicking grow more intense I crouched low, and felt the rider's spear graze may back. I scuttled, crablike, to one side, blindly hoping to dodge the next attack. The eyeless horrors heeded not the darkness; no doubt they had other senses that allowed them to thrive in the pitch blackness.

    I became aware that the dark was not as complete as I thought. Lo! The giant mushrooms gave off an eerie phosphorescence, dimly illuminating the area in their midst. I plunged deeper into the fungoid grove, hoping to gain some cover and perhaps take advantage of the faint light. The rider urged his mount into the mushrooms after me. The thing seemed undeterred by my spear which remained in its rubbery hide. They were outlined in the phosphorescence, and I made a desperate leap to unseat the rider. But his great amphibian mount reared its massive head as I leapt and dashed me again to the ground. It raised its slimy; three-toed foot and brought it down on me. The thing must have possessed some sort of evil intellect, for the slowness with which it strove to crush the life from me could only be described as cruelty.

    The air was forced from my lungs and I felt my bones creak under the pressure. Suddenly there was a bestial roar and the great burden was lifted. I scrambled up and beheld what had transpired. The jaguar, which I thought dead, had leapt upon the massive amphibian and now battled it savagely among the glowing fungi. Its roars and the monster’s clicking mingled into a maddening racket. The piscine rider had been thrown from his mount and now struggled to his feet. “Have at thee, fiend!” I roared and set upon him with my cutlass. With inhuman speed he parried my blow and then struck at my vitals with his strange spear. I parried it with my cutlass, and we began the strangest duel ever fought. The blind fish-mans speed and agility were beyond belief. With the skill of the surface world’s finest swordsmen he contended with me, countering my every blow. As for me, the beating I had sustained had taken its toll. My breath came in stinging, ragged gasps and my limps felt as lead. Time and time again the scaly horror slipped past my defense and dealt me shrewd cuts, all the while emitting a steady stream of clicks, just as his mount had. My lifeblood oozed from a hundred wounds, and I knew I was not long for the world. Rage built up within me. Not at the idea that I was to die, I had cheated death enough times where I did not begrudge Ymir his due. But I would not have this thing live to plague my tribe, and I resented the idea it would deprive me the sight of my unborn child. I resolved that if I was to die, this fishy horror would die too.

    I surged forward, ignoring defense and singing the death-song of the Aesir. The wails of the cat, still battling the rider’s albino mount, entwined with my own bellows in a bestial harmony. Wielding my cutlass like a club I rained blows down upon the rider. He gave ground yet still avoided cuts that should have split him in twain. Suddenly, I found my blade locked between the barbs that formed the edge of his weapon. I pressed forward, our weapons ground together and the glass-like structure of the riders spear began to give off a high, almost melodious tone. I was face to face with the thing. It ceased clicking and opened its wide jaws, splitting open an otherwise smooth featureless face and baring row upon row of serrated, triangular teeth. Then with a shrill report, his weapon shattered. My cutlass surged into the creature’s face, opening a great gash across it. Its blood spewed blackly in the dim phosphorescence, and he staggered backward, seeking the waters from whence he emerged. Lunging forward with the last vestiges of my strength, I hacked into the gilled, scaly neck. Thrice did I have to strike before the monstrous, eyeless head was hewn from the body, and my foe was laid low.

    I fell to my knees and clutched my blade to my bosom. My task done, I awaited death to come, curious if I was to be mocked and lured by Atali, or carried off by the great eagle who delivers the fallen warriors of the White Stag people to their final reward. I gazed out into the dark, toward the gentle lapping of the hidden sea. It seemed the frothy waves, like the mushrooms behind me, held an eerie glow. And further out, in the depths I saw….no. ‘twas only the imaginings of a dying man.

    It was then I felt the hot breath upon my neck, smelled the blood and fur, and heard the labored purr of the great jaguar. I felt its coarse tongue on my back and its jaws closed upon my shoulder. I laughed. “Go ahead, cat-brother! Thou hath earned a feast. May I prove indigestible!” I felt myself lifted from the ground, and then I fell into oblivion.

    What seemed and instant later I was troubled by a bright light upon my face. I slowly opened my eyes and beheld a bright blue sky and verdant forest greenery, framed in the rocky entrance to the cave. Looking about I found myself in the first chamber of the cavern that I had entered what seemed like a lifetime ago. I still clutched my cutlass, now clotted with red, but still clearly inhuman blood. With start I beheld the jaguar, stretched out before the tunnel opening that led down to the hidden sea. It was quite dead. It was clear it had drug me alive to the surface, but why? Could it be that on some bestial level it recognized a kinship between us, hot-blooded hunters who stalked under the open sky and breathed the pure air of open spaces? Or did this give truth to the legend of great, ancient animals who still remembered the days when men and beasts where brothers. I knew not. As it was, I gave thanks to the cat’s spirit, and in the fashion of my adopted tribe I took the Jaguar as my totem, and swore an oath to never slay another.

    With that barbaric gesture. I stumbled out of the cave and made my way back to my wife, for I had sworn an oath to her as well.

********************** 

    Here I will end the recollections of Rothull of the White Stag People. Dismiss this tale if you will as the ravings of a lunatic. But I know I am sane, and that the incident I described truly happened uncounted thousands of years ago. Is the cavern in my dream the Craighead cavern of today? Are the bones discovered there those of the great Jaguar I hunted? I believe they are!

    Yesterday, one Steve Brill, a roughneck arrived here lately from Texas, boasted to me of his intent to enter Craighead and dig up a cache of Confederate silver rumored to be there, “Digging up every yard of the place if I have to!” I sought to dissuade him, but he would have no part of that. As soon as I finish typing this account I intend to call upon Mr. Brill and firmly steer him away from his reckless course, with the .45 that sits on the table beside me if need be. For in my mind’s eye I see that which Rothull dismissed as hallucination, but which fills Brian Conrad with unreasoning dread. If what I saw there is indeed waiting in the depths of the Craighead caverns, and survives to this present day,then Brill must be stopped at any cost. And any further delving into those caves for ANY reason must be halted.


For beneath the surface of that hidden sea, glowing with eldritch phosphorescence, were the towers and minarets of an inhuman city.

The End 

[zarono]

Good stuff! Somebody needs to take that shovel away from Brill, one of these days he's gonna dig something up that can't be put back down!

[Char-Vell]

Apr 5, 2018 9:26:00 GMT -5 zarono said:

Good stuff! Somebody needs to take that shovel away from Brill, one of these days he's gonna dig something up that can't be put back down!

There's a conspiracy theory that Jackson Hole National Monument, created by executive order by Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1943, was an attempt to cover up and contain a clash between cattlemen and some sort of enormous crustacean, who's appearance was noted shortly after a Steven Brill was arrested for unauthorized prospecting.

The account is poo-pooed by skeptics.

[Char-Vell]

"Bellowing in fury, I hurled my spear..."