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.The list continued with two little known books by Commodus and Caracallarespectively, simply for the sake of their authors having been given mentionby Wendy-Smith, and directly after these there followed the translatedsections of the almost unfathomable Pnakotic Manuscript for the same reason.Similarly was Eliphas Levi's History of Magic listed, and finally, this timefrom Crow's own shelves (he had carefully wrapped it for me), his copy of theinfamous Cultes des Goules.He had scanned the latter book so often himselfthat he was fearful of missing something important in a further personalperusal.On my inquiring, he told me he did, however, intend to give specialpersonal attention to the Cthaat Aquadingen; there was much in that hideouslybound book - particularly in the two middle chapters, which Crow long ago hadhad separately bound - that might very well apply.Most of these writings, asI have previously stated, I had read before, but without a definitepurpose other than occult and macabre curiosity.It could, I suppose, be reasoned that my itinerary should also include theG'harne Fragments, and of course it would have, if that mass of crumbling,centuried shards had been in any one of the four languages with which I amfamiliar! As it was, there had been only two supposed authorities on thefragments: Sir Amery Wendy-Smith, who left nothing of his decipherings behind,and Professor Gordon Walmsley of Goole, whose *spoof notes' contained whatpurported to be whole chapters of translations from the G'harne Fragments'cryptic ciphers, but which had been mocked as absurd fakery by any number ofreliable authorities.For these reasons Crow had omitted the fragments fromhis list.All these and other thoughts flew around in my strangely misty mind, untileventually I must have drowsed off again.My next remembered thought was that of hearing, seemingly close at hand, thedreadful droning and buzzing of monstrously alien voices - but it was notuntil I found myself awake and leaping from my bed on wildly trembling legs,my hair standing up straight on my head, that I realized I had only beendreaming.The sun was already up, filling the day outside with light.And yet even then there echoed in my ears those loathsome, monotonouslybuzzing tones of horror.And they were in my mind exactly as they had been inWendy-Smith's document:Ce'haiie ep-ngh fl'hur G'harne fhtagn,Ce'haiie fhtagn ngh Shudde-M'ell.Hai G'harne orr'e ep fl'hur,Shudde-M'ell ican-icanicas fl'hur orr'e G'harne.As the thing finally faded away and disappeared, I shook my head and numbly moved back over to my bedside table to pick up the cardboard box and feel itsweight.I examined the box minutely, still more than half asleep.I honestlydo not know what I expected to find, but I found nothing.All was as it hadbeen the night before.I washed, shaved, and dressed, and had hardly returned from mailing the parcelof eggs to Professor Peaslee from a local post office - all done verylethargically - when the telephone rang.It was quite insistent, clamouringlike mad, but for some reason I hesitated before picking it up to put thereceiver timorously to my ear.'De Marigny? It's Crow here.' My friend's voice was urgent, electrical.'Listen.Have you sent off the eggs yet?''Why, yes - I just managed to catch the morning post.''Oh, no!' he groaned; then: 'Henri, do you still have that houseboat atHenley?''Why, yes.In fact, it's been in use until recently.Some friends of mine.Itold them they could have it for a week just before I went to France.They'reoff the boat now, though; I got the key back in a little parcel in lastnight's mail.But why?' Despite my question I felt oddly listless, growingmore disinterested by the second.'Pack yourself some things, Henri, enough to live with decently for afortnight or so.I'll pick you up within the hour in the Mercedes.I'm justloading my stuff now.''Eh?' I asked, completely uncomprehending, not really wanting to know.'Stuff?' The mists were thick in my mind.'Titus' - I heard myself as if froma hundred miles away - 'what's wrong?''Everything is wrong, Henri, and in particular my reasoning! Haven't you heardthe morning news or read the newspapers?''No,' I answered through a wall of thickening fog.'I'm just up.Slept badly.''Bentham is dead, de Marigny! The poor devil - a "subsidence" at Alston.We'regoing to have to drastically revise our thinking.The houseboat is a godsend [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.The list continued with two little known books by Commodus and Caracallarespectively, simply for the sake of their authors having been given mentionby Wendy-Smith, and directly after these there followed the translatedsections of the almost unfathomable Pnakotic Manuscript for the same reason.Similarly was Eliphas Levi's History of Magic listed, and finally, this timefrom Crow's own shelves (he had carefully wrapped it for me), his copy of theinfamous Cultes des Goules.He had scanned the latter book so often himselfthat he was fearful of missing something important in a further personalperusal.On my inquiring, he told me he did, however, intend to give specialpersonal attention to the Cthaat Aquadingen; there was much in that hideouslybound book - particularly in the two middle chapters, which Crow long ago hadhad separately bound - that might very well apply.Most of these writings, asI have previously stated, I had read before, but without a definitepurpose other than occult and macabre curiosity.It could, I suppose, be reasoned that my itinerary should also include theG'harne Fragments, and of course it would have, if that mass of crumbling,centuried shards had been in any one of the four languages with which I amfamiliar! As it was, there had been only two supposed authorities on thefragments: Sir Amery Wendy-Smith, who left nothing of his decipherings behind,and Professor Gordon Walmsley of Goole, whose *spoof notes' contained whatpurported to be whole chapters of translations from the G'harne Fragments'cryptic ciphers, but which had been mocked as absurd fakery by any number ofreliable authorities.For these reasons Crow had omitted the fragments fromhis list.All these and other thoughts flew around in my strangely misty mind, untileventually I must have drowsed off again.My next remembered thought was that of hearing, seemingly close at hand, thedreadful droning and buzzing of monstrously alien voices - but it was notuntil I found myself awake and leaping from my bed on wildly trembling legs,my hair standing up straight on my head, that I realized I had only beendreaming.The sun was already up, filling the day outside with light.And yet even then there echoed in my ears those loathsome, monotonouslybuzzing tones of horror.And they were in my mind exactly as they had been inWendy-Smith's document:Ce'haiie ep-ngh fl'hur G'harne fhtagn,Ce'haiie fhtagn ngh Shudde-M'ell.Hai G'harne orr'e ep fl'hur,Shudde-M'ell ican-icanicas fl'hur orr'e G'harne.As the thing finally faded away and disappeared, I shook my head and numbly moved back over to my bedside table to pick up the cardboard box and feel itsweight.I examined the box minutely, still more than half asleep.I honestlydo not know what I expected to find, but I found nothing.All was as it hadbeen the night before.I washed, shaved, and dressed, and had hardly returned from mailing the parcelof eggs to Professor Peaslee from a local post office - all done verylethargically - when the telephone rang.It was quite insistent, clamouringlike mad, but for some reason I hesitated before picking it up to put thereceiver timorously to my ear.'De Marigny? It's Crow here.' My friend's voice was urgent, electrical.'Listen.Have you sent off the eggs yet?''Why, yes - I just managed to catch the morning post.''Oh, no!' he groaned; then: 'Henri, do you still have that houseboat atHenley?''Why, yes.In fact, it's been in use until recently.Some friends of mine.Itold them they could have it for a week just before I went to France.They'reoff the boat now, though; I got the key back in a little parcel in lastnight's mail.But why?' Despite my question I felt oddly listless, growingmore disinterested by the second.'Pack yourself some things, Henri, enough to live with decently for afortnight or so.I'll pick you up within the hour in the Mercedes.I'm justloading my stuff now.''Eh?' I asked, completely uncomprehending, not really wanting to know.'Stuff?' The mists were thick in my mind.'Titus' - I heard myself as if froma hundred miles away - 'what's wrong?''Everything is wrong, Henri, and in particular my reasoning! Haven't you heardthe morning news or read the newspapers?''No,' I answered through a wall of thickening fog.'I'm just up.Slept badly.''Bentham is dead, de Marigny! The poor devil - a "subsidence" at Alston.We'regoing to have to drastically revise our thinking.The houseboat is a godsend [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]