Read Online Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles
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“No,” he said firmly. Though his hands were shaking, he stood, his eyes still fixed unswervingly on me. “This is why we were sent here, Brother Wen. Your people need to hear the dharma . The Guru sent us here to free your people.”
I shook my head and stood up, too. Satindra was a full head taller than I, so I still stared up at him. “No, Brother Satindra! The Guru could not have foreseen this! We cannot go alone; it’s too dangerous. We should return to the monastery ....”
He interrupted me by gripping my arms hard and giving me a little shake, as one would a hysterical woman. “You would dare to question the enlightened Guru?” He released me abruptly and I staggered back.
Satindra whirled away from me and began walking resolutely toward the village.
I watched him for a few moments, debating what to do. The night air seemed to rush into the space left by Satindra’s quick departure, enveloping me in dark, cool silence. And then, beyond the quiet of the abandoned village and the overgrown fields, I heard a sound, faint but persistent. At first, I could not identify it. Then I thought it was the buzzing of insects. Finally, I realized that it was human voices, chanting a repetitive mantra.
I ran after Satindra.
The tracks of the dakini were easy to spot; they had not bothered to hide their movements, and we followed their trail of muddy footprints and broken branches deep into the dark, dense forest, where trees and bushes tugged at our robes and we tripped over huge roots. Here, we lost the trail, because the darkness was too omnipresent, but now we could hear the chanting and the high-pitched, frantic notes of a zither.
The people were in the center of a clearing, where they sang in the darkness without benefit of a fire. I couldn’t see the zither player in the darkness, but I knew he was off to the right somewhere, because I could hear the slithering, off-key notes. He played no tune, just as the chant seemed to have no rhythm. I had thought that perhaps, upon approaching the chanters, we would be able to discern their words, but I realized, as we approached, that the words were gibberish, meaningless, though they repeated them with conviction.
In the dim moonlight, we could see that the villagers were mostly naked, though a few still wore shreds of clothing. They were turned away from us, kneeling on the ground, facing something at the center of the clearing. I had to peek around Satindra’s bulk to get a glimpse of them – it was impossible to walk two abreast in the close forest – but I could see that a few were dancing ecstatically to the tuneless music. The din was horrible and I covered my ears to drown out what I could. It made me feel confused and hopeless, as if the veil between sanity and insanity could be breached by this combination of sounds.
There was a stench that made my eyes water. It smelled like rotten meat, sour milk, feces, and blood all together. I fought the urge to vomit.
Satindra stopped in front of me and I ran into his back. I clawed at him, trying to make him move so that I could look at the people in the clearing, but he was frozen in place. Standing on my toes, gripping his shoulder, I was able to see a little around him, where the moonlight illuminated the dancers. For a moment, I glimpsed with terrible clarity the twisted bodies, arms and limbs akimbo in unnatural positions, scattered on the ground. Among them were the tiny feet of children and the gnarled hands of the arthritic elderly. The dancers moved around and on top of these motionless forms, seemingly unaware of them, naked bodies gyrating horribly, eyes wide and mouths distorted.
Beyond the dancers was the thing they worshiped. It was so tall that it blotted out the stars behind it, dwarfing the huge trees, and I squinted to make out its features. Was that a long, crane-like neck or arms? Was that a deformed head or a stooped back? Like the statues in the altars along the road, it was a thing that
I shook my head and stood up, too. Satindra was a full head taller than I, so I still stared up at him. “No, Brother Satindra! The Guru could not have foreseen this! We cannot go alone; it’s too dangerous. We should return to the monastery ....”
He interrupted me by gripping my arms hard and giving me a little shake, as one would a hysterical woman. “You would dare to question the enlightened Guru?” He released me abruptly and I staggered back.
Satindra whirled away from me and began walking resolutely toward the village.
I watched him for a few moments, debating what to do. The night air seemed to rush into the space left by Satindra’s quick departure, enveloping me in dark, cool silence. And then, beyond the quiet of the abandoned village and the overgrown fields, I heard a sound, faint but persistent. At first, I could not identify it. Then I thought it was the buzzing of insects. Finally, I realized that it was human voices, chanting a repetitive mantra.
I ran after Satindra.
The tracks of the dakini were easy to spot; they had not bothered to hide their movements, and we followed their trail of muddy footprints and broken branches deep into the dark, dense forest, where trees and bushes tugged at our robes and we tripped over huge roots. Here, we lost the trail, because the darkness was too omnipresent, but now we could hear the chanting and the high-pitched, frantic notes of a zither.
The people were in the center of a clearing, where they sang in the darkness without benefit of a fire. I couldn’t see the zither player in the darkness, but I knew he was off to the right somewhere, because I could hear the slithering, off-key notes. He played no tune, just as the chant seemed to have no rhythm. I had thought that perhaps, upon approaching the chanters, we would be able to discern their words, but I realized, as we approached, that the words were gibberish, meaningless, though they repeated them with conviction.
In the dim moonlight, we could see that the villagers were mostly naked, though a few still wore shreds of clothing. They were turned away from us, kneeling on the ground, facing something at the center of the clearing. I had to peek around Satindra’s bulk to get a glimpse of them – it was impossible to walk two abreast in the close forest – but I could see that a few were dancing ecstatically to the tuneless music. The din was horrible and I covered my ears to drown out what I could. It made me feel confused and hopeless, as if the veil between sanity and insanity could be breached by this combination of sounds.
There was a stench that made my eyes water. It smelled like rotten meat, sour milk, feces, and blood all together. I fought the urge to vomit.
Satindra stopped in front of me and I ran into his back. I clawed at him, trying to make him move so that I could look at the people in the clearing, but he was frozen in place. Standing on my toes, gripping his shoulder, I was able to see a little around him, where the moonlight illuminated the dancers. For a moment, I glimpsed with terrible clarity the twisted bodies, arms and limbs akimbo in unnatural positions, scattered on the ground. Among them were the tiny feet of children and the gnarled hands of the arthritic elderly. The dancers moved around and on top of these motionless forms, seemingly unaware of them, naked bodies gyrating horribly, eyes wide and mouths distorted.
Beyond the dancers was the thing they worshiped. It was so tall that it blotted out the stars behind it, dwarfing the huge trees, and I squinted to make out its features. Was that a long, crane-like neck or arms? Was that a deformed head or a stooped back? Like the statues in the altars along the road, it was a thing that
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