INQUISITOR
William Meikle
From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535.
The time has come. It arrived yesterday from the New World in the hold of the Santa Angelo and it has been brought to the castle. The Inquisitor General has tasked me with discovering the true nature of the abomination, to make a full and careful examination, and ascertain what manner of Inquisition might be made. It is a great honour and one which I will fulfill with all the diligence the good Lord hands to me.
There is a certain doubt in my mind, a cloud that has hung over the proceedings since I read Juan Santoro’s journal last night. A dark evil is detailed in those pages and although the Inquisitor General teaches us that all things are powerless before the truth of our Lord, I have grave misgivings about the thing I am about to see for the first time
I have prayed for strength, but still, my knees feel like water and there is a cold pit in my belly that nothing can assuage.
However, my duty is clear.
It is time for the questioning to begin.
From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 3rd April 1535.
If there is a hell on Earth, then surely it is in this place here. No god-fearing man should have to face the horrors I have led my crew through on this day. I give thanks that I have brought us all back safely to the ship, and I am much afeared with the thought of the return voyage, for the cargo is most foul and ungodly. But I would be remiss in my duty to the Church if I did not report on the things that plague this new land. If the Crown wishes, as I have been told, to colonize this place, then we must know what manner of things lay claim on it at present.
In truth, I know not what we have found. The natives died bravely defending it and for most of the day, we bethought that we had stumbled on a great treasure. We fought through their defenses, hacking and slashing our way through the savages to the centre of that dark temple.
As I have said, we expected treasure. What we found was beyond our ken. I have had it sealed in a lead casket and will take it back to Seville.
But the journey will be long, for already, it whispers in my mind and I fear my dreams will be dark indeed during the long months at sea ahead.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535.
“Already, it whispers in my mind.”
I had given no thought to that phrase, believing it to be the product of a sailor’s superstition. But now, having seen my new opponent, I know better.
When we opened the casket that had been brought to the chamber where the questioning was to take place, I originally bethought that we had been played false and that trickery was at work. At first glance, the lead box seemed empty, its bottom a dark shadow. But, as Brother Ferrer leaned over it, something surged within and he was forced to step back, so suddenly that he knocked over a brazier and sent coals skittering on the flagstones. The blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid which had the consistency of pitch, seemed to rear back at that, giving me time to slam the lid closed on the obscenity.
And that is when it happened.
There was a tugging in my mind, a probing of an intelligence. I knew immediately what it was doing, as it is my own profession also. Even as I sought to ascertain the form of my opponent, at the same time, it was questioning me.
I am not the only inquisitor here.
And there was something else, something I am loathe to relate here lest it is discovered and my sanity is brought into question. I only caught but a fleeting glimpse, just as the lid of the lead casket dropped back into place, but it was unmistakable. As the black thing oozed to the bottom of the box, a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck’s egg, opened ... and blinked.
From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 29th May 1535.
Calamity has overtaken us, as I feared it might.
The thing has plagued our dreams since the start, and the crew has been without sleep for many days. There have been mutterings of mutiny since the beginning of the month and last night, matters came to a head. Three crewmen took it upon themselves to rid us of our tormentor.
At least, they tried.
Their screams in the dark alerted me to their plight and I was first to enter the hold. It is hard to describe the fear that gripped me as I saw the carnage the thing had wrought on my men. It was obvious that they had lifted the casket, probably intending to throw it overboard. But someone had dropped his end – that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can only surmise that the jolt opened the casket – and let the beast out.
What did not need conjecture was the fate of the men after that.
The black ooze lay over the bodies like a wet blanket – one that seethed and roiled as if boiling all across the surface. Pustules burst with obscene wet pops and flesh melted from bone, even as the men screamed and writhed in agony.
Their pain did not last long. All too soon, the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very bones were liquified and, with the most hideous moist sucking, drunk up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously. It opened itself out, like a black crow spreading its wings, the tips touching each side of the hold walls.
All along the inside surface of the wings, wet mouths opened and the air echoed with a plaintive, high whistling, in which words might be heard if you had the imagination to listen.
Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.
My every instinct told me to turn and flee. But there was nowhere to escape to except the sea itself and that was a choice no sailor would make. Instead, I stood my ground while Massa, stout coxswain that he is, brought forth some firebrands. Only then did the thing seem to cower and retreat, and only then did I remember the circles of burning oil which we had crossed on entering the black temple in the jungle.
I called for a barrel of pitch and tried to hold the beast at bay with a brand until aid might arrive. My adversary had ideas of its own. Now that it was free of the casket, its powers had increased. It probed at my mind, searching for my weaknesses, taunting me with my dreams. I saw things no man should have to see as I was shown the atrocities that had been committed in this thing’s name by the savages in the temple.
The grip on my mind grew stronger.
I saw vast plains of snow and ice, where black things slumped amid tumbled ruins of long dead cities.
My head swam, and the walls of the hold melted and ran. The firebrand in my hand seemed to recede into a great distance, until it was little more than a pinpoint of light in a blanket of darkness and I was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness.
A tide took me, a swell that lifted and transported me, faster than thought, to the green twilight of ocean depths far distant.
I realised I was not alone. We floated, mere shadows now, scores – nay, tens of scores of us – in that cold silent sea. I was aware that other sailors were nearby, but I had no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below us, cyclopean ruins shone dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumbled in a non-Euclidean geometry that confused the eye and brooked no close inspection. And something deep in those ruins knew we were there.
We dreamed, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulfed the stars, of blackness where there was nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.
We were at peace.
A flaring pain jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning skin, but took several seconds to note that it was my own hand that had seared. The coxswain, stout man that he is, had broken the hold on me by touching his firebrand to my skin.
I had no time to thank him, for the beast had encroached closer to me while I dreamed and even now, threatened to engulf me.
Once again I held the firebrand ahead of me and, with the aid of the coxswain, I held the beast at bay, struggling to keep its grip from settling on my mind. Indeed, if the barrel of pitch had not been brought, I might have succumbed.
Burning the pitch enabled the recapture of the beast to proceed more rapidly. The heat from the flames threatened to set fire to the deck of the hold itself, but I refused to allow the men to put it out until we had driven the beast back into the casket.
I have ensured that the box is sealed completely and it is now stored at the furthermost end of the hold. All I can do is keep the crew as far away from it as is possible on this small vessel.
That, and hope that in our dreams, we do not fall again under its spell.
But it is hard. For every time I close my eyes, I dream of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while my slumbering god dreams, I dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.
In dreams, I am at peace.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 17th August 1535.
Captain Santoro’s journal has at least given me a place to start. I already knew that strapado would not be an option for this particular miscreant. Nor would I be able to utilise the rack or the maiden. But fire would be more than sufficient for my purposes. It took little work to prepare the cell for Inquisition, as matters are already set up amply for the ordeal. I ensured that the lead casket was placed inside concentric circles of oil, such that they could be lit immediately in the event of an attempt to escape. I also had a brazier full of coals at hand to my right side and three needle-pokers burning white-hot in a small oven to my left.
Even before I opened the casket, I felt the tickle in my mind, but I pushed it away. My God is stronger than any heathen devil. I mouthed the Pater Noster as I lifted the lid.
Once again, the black ooze surged and the tickle in my mind turned into an insistent probing. Memories rose unbidden in my thoughts: of summer days in warm meadows, of lessons learned in cold monastery halls, of penance paid for sins.
I was under questioning.
That I could not allow. I am master of this inquisition. Several wet mouths opened in the black ooze. Using a pair of pliers, I plucked a hot coal from the brazier and, as another mouth formed, I let the coal drop inside.
The grip on my mind released immediately, replaced by a formless scream, which quickly became a chant that echoed around the cell. I knew the words. I had read them in the Captain’s journal.
Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.
A long tendril reached from the lead box, coming towards me. I took a poker from the oven and, with one smooth strike, thrust it through the black material. The ooze retreated, shrinking back as far into the corner of the lead casket as it could get.
I leaned forward, a fresh poker in my hand.
“Are you guilty?” I asked, and stabbed down hard.
The Inquisition proper has begun.
From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 17th July 1535.
Will this nightmare never end?
The beast, despite its incarceration, has steadily increased its hold on us since we forced it back into the casket. We cannot allow ourselves to sleep, for when we do, we are trapped in its spell, lost in the dream somewhere above the cyclopean ruins.
In truth, the dream is seductive, even more so than drinking endless flagons of wine or constant inhalation of the weed that the natives smoke in the New World. Three of the crew have succumbed, falling into a deep slumber from which they cannot be awakened. They breathe and their eyes are open, but I cannot get them to eat and they are already close to starving. I fear they will be long lost afore we reach port.
Some days, I almost feel like joining them. I am kept awake by a suffusion made from a roasted bean, a drink we discovered among the native tribes where we landed in the New World.
Would that were all we discovered.
Some of the crew have reported that the beast is also reaching into their minds during waking hours. Many of them have had the same compulsion – to go down into the hold and open the casket, releasing the thing to roam the decks. No one has yet given in to the demands, but it is another reason to make for port with all speed.
I know not how much longer we can hold.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535.
It has taken more than a week, and sorely tested the Inquisitor General’s patience, but finally, after I have burned away more than nine-tenths of its matter, it has weakened. I have found that the mind-grip works both ways. If I concentrate hard, I can catch glimpses of what the beast is thinking and feel its fear.
I have put it to the inquisition, and it has answered me.
As shocking as it seems, the beast has no conception of our Lord. Indeed, it seems never to have encountered a single Christian, despite the fact that it is possibly the oldest living thing on the face of the earth. That revelation came as something of a shock to me. The creature has memories going back to a time when ice covered the face of the earth. Its first encounter with Man shows a savage race clothed in furs, with only rudimentary speech, and I am at a loss to know how such a thing can be reconciled from what I know from my study of the biblical texts. I must seek guidance from the Inquisitor General, for my thoughts are troubled and dark.
This beast I have under my ministrations is devious and subtle. It works constantly at me, testing my belief with scenes of lust and debauchery: maidens in states of undress displaying themselves wantonly for my pleasure, hot blood flowing to feed my growth. I have to see these things, and endure, for in the seeing, I also learn more about the beast’s drives and passions, which are mightily strong.
I had almost come to believe that this might be the most ancient of evils, the Great Deceiver himself. But the thing has memories even older than the time of ice, memories of a time when it was but a servant of something vast and strange ... memories of a creator that I do not recognise as being anything resembling my Lord. I am at a loss to know what to think of this new information and must question the beast further.
I have learned one other thing. The creators gave it a name, a moniker by which it recognises itself. It is known as Shoggoth.
From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 14th August 1535.
We will make port on the morrow. It matters little, for the dream is with us now in every waking hour and no distance from the beast will make any difference. It has passed on to us so completely that we will never be free from it. Nor would we wish anything other. Indeed, I am not the only one who has found himself standing over the lead casket, just to be closer to the blessed, drifting peace it offers.
There is no pain in the dream, no fear, no hunger, just the sweet forever of the dead god beneath.
I have talked to the crew. We will do our duty and take our captive to the castle. But we will no longer work for the Church after this task is done. I intend to set sail again as soon as night falls. There is a spot in the South Seas where a dead god lies dreaming.
We will find him and join him there.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535.
I wish now that I had read Santoro’s journal a mere hour sooner, for then I might have been able to prevent the Santa Angelo slipping out of port under cover of night and I might have been able to question the crew as to the nature of the malady that so sore afflicted them.
For I, too, have been dreaming.
I am not alone. We float, mere shadows, scores – nay, tens of scores of us – in a cold, silent sea. I am aware that others are near to me, but I have no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below me, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection.
And something deep in those ruins knows I am there.
But it is of no matter. The beast is now in my thrall and its secrets shall be mine before the day is out. They will have to be, for I fear I have been lax in my inquisitions. Even as I have been burning my will into the beast’s flesh, so it has been leaving its mark on me. This morning, at my ablutions, I discovered a fleck of blackness betwixt thumb and finger that no amount of scraping will shift. It has now covered most of my left hand, forcing me to wear a glove lest it is discovered. For, if the Inquisitor General were to find out I am tainted, my questioning would be brought to an abrupt end and that I cannot allow.
The beast will reveal its secrets.
I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.
By order of the Inquisitor General, 28th August 1535.
It is our command, on this day of our Lord the twenty and eighth of August, that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported shall be taken to the place of the Auto de-fé and burned at the stake, alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.
It is further commanded that, if the Santa Angelo is found in Spanish waters, it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands, and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.
Any persons found spreading the sedition of the Dreaming God shall be subjected to the full force of the Inquisition.
Let this be the end of the matter.
The Lord wills it.
William Meikle is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series, among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland, with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters, he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace, so please check him out at williammeikle.com.
The author speaks: I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of the Spanish Inquisition and Man’s inhumanity to Man in the name of religion. I’ve been searching for awhile for the right concept to introduce them into a story, and when I had a dream about Conquistadors finding something in a temple in the jungle, something with questions of its own, I just had to write it.