Read Online The Taint and Other Novellas by Brian Lumley - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Lumley
Tags: Horror
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even sound, yet I could see how such an argument might very well anger established anthropologists of “the Old School.” How, for instance, might one equate a god of the ancient Hittites with a deity of comparatively modern Eskimos? Unless of course one was to remember that in a certain rather fanciful mythology Ithaqua had only been banished to the North following an abortive rebellion against the Elder Gods. Could it be that before that rebellion the Wind-Walker strode the high currents and tides of atmospheric air over Ur of the Chaldees and ancient Khem, perhaps even prior to those lands being named by their first inhabitants? Here I laughed at my own fancies, conjured by what the writer had written with such assumed authority, and yet my laughter was more than a trifle strained, for I found a certain cold logic in Bridgeman that made even his wildest statement seem merely a calm, studied exposition….
And there were, certainly, wild statements.
The slimmest of the three books was full of them, and I knew after reading only its first few pages that this must be the source of those flights of fancy that had caused Bridgeman’s erstwhile colleagues to desert him. Yet without a doubt the book was by far the most interesting of the three, written almost in a fervor of mystical allusion with an abundance—a plethora —of obscure hints suggestive of half-discernible worlds of awe, wonder, and horror bordering and occasionally impinging upon our very own.
I found myself completely enthralled. It seemed plain to me that behind all the hocus-pocus there was a great mystery here—one that, like an iceberg, showed only its tip—and I determined not to be satisfied with anything less than a complete verification of the facts concerning what I had started to think of as “the Bridgeman case.” After all, I seemed to be ideally situated to conduct such an investigation: this was where the professor had died, the borderland of that region in which he had alleged at least one of his mythological beings to exist; and Judge Andrews, provided I could get him to talk, must be something of an authority on the man; and, possibly my best line of research yet, Bridgeman’s widow herself was here now in this very town.
Just why this determination to dabble should have so enthused me I still cannot say; unless it was the way that Tha-thka, which Being Bridgeman had equated with Ithaqua, was shown upon the Toros Mountains tablet as walking splayfooted through a curious mixture of cumulonimbus and nimbo-stratus—cloud formations that invariably presage snow and violent thunderstorms! The ancient sculptor of that tablet had certainly gauged the Wind-Walker’s domain well, giving the mythical creature something of solidarity in my mind, though it was still far easier for me to accept those peculiar clouds of ill omen than the Being striding among them….
II
It was something of a shock for me to discover, when finally I thought to look at my wristwatch, that Bridgeman’s books had kept me busy all through the afternoon and it was now well into evening. I found that my eyes had started to ache with the strain of reading as it grew darker in the small library room. I put on the light and would have returned to the books yet again but for hearing, at the outer door of the house, a gentle knocking. The library door was slightly ajar so that I could hear the Judge answering the knocking and his gruff welcome. I was sure that the voice that answered him was that of Bridgeman’s widow, for it was vibrant with a nervous agitation as the visitor entered the house and went with the Judge to his study. Well, I had desired to meet her; this seemed the perfect opportunity to introduce myself.
Yet at the open door to the Judge’s study I paused, then quickly stepped back out of sight. It seemed that my host and his visitor were engaged in some sort of argument. He had just answered to some unheard question: “Not me, my dear, that is out of
And there were, certainly, wild statements.
The slimmest of the three books was full of them, and I knew after reading only its first few pages that this must be the source of those flights of fancy that had caused Bridgeman’s erstwhile colleagues to desert him. Yet without a doubt the book was by far the most interesting of the three, written almost in a fervor of mystical allusion with an abundance—a plethora —of obscure hints suggestive of half-discernible worlds of awe, wonder, and horror bordering and occasionally impinging upon our very own.
I found myself completely enthralled. It seemed plain to me that behind all the hocus-pocus there was a great mystery here—one that, like an iceberg, showed only its tip—and I determined not to be satisfied with anything less than a complete verification of the facts concerning what I had started to think of as “the Bridgeman case.” After all, I seemed to be ideally situated to conduct such an investigation: this was where the professor had died, the borderland of that region in which he had alleged at least one of his mythological beings to exist; and Judge Andrews, provided I could get him to talk, must be something of an authority on the man; and, possibly my best line of research yet, Bridgeman’s widow herself was here now in this very town.
Just why this determination to dabble should have so enthused me I still cannot say; unless it was the way that Tha-thka, which Being Bridgeman had equated with Ithaqua, was shown upon the Toros Mountains tablet as walking splayfooted through a curious mixture of cumulonimbus and nimbo-stratus—cloud formations that invariably presage snow and violent thunderstorms! The ancient sculptor of that tablet had certainly gauged the Wind-Walker’s domain well, giving the mythical creature something of solidarity in my mind, though it was still far easier for me to accept those peculiar clouds of ill omen than the Being striding among them….
II
It was something of a shock for me to discover, when finally I thought to look at my wristwatch, that Bridgeman’s books had kept me busy all through the afternoon and it was now well into evening. I found that my eyes had started to ache with the strain of reading as it grew darker in the small library room. I put on the light and would have returned to the books yet again but for hearing, at the outer door of the house, a gentle knocking. The library door was slightly ajar so that I could hear the Judge answering the knocking and his gruff welcome. I was sure that the voice that answered him was that of Bridgeman’s widow, for it was vibrant with a nervous agitation as the visitor entered the house and went with the Judge to his study. Well, I had desired to meet her; this seemed the perfect opportunity to introduce myself.
Yet at the open door to the Judge’s study I paused, then quickly stepped back out of sight. It seemed that my host and his visitor were engaged in some sort of argument. He had just answered to some unheard question: “Not me, my dear, that is out of
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