Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 3

Frank’s Fools.

Pray, allow me to make a remark that may prove somewhat delicate for the readers within my cerebral realm.

I must confess, I harbor an abhorrence for the mythos of Cthulhu. And I daresay, perchance, many a soul among those who indulge in the multifarious artistic expressions of the 21st century might share my sentiment.

Indeed, I perused the tomes of Lovecraft in my former life. ‘Tis not as though I consumed every work of the Cthulhu persuasion, but I did peruse the majority of the renowned pieces, and some ere they were translated into the Korean vernacular, the tongue of the land wherein I dwelt in a bygone era.

I even paid my respects to the classics, the fount from which sprung innumerable creations.

However, a quandary arose when the commentaries of the creators accrued and reached an explosive zenith.

The otherworldly beings, which held their own in their own right, suddenly materialized as mere pawns in games of strategy or characters in video games.

Nay, there were even works of art unrelated to the mythos of Cthulhu that materialized without rhyme or reason!

As though their creators spoke it into existence! The figments of divinity, once dreaded and revered, became mere yardsticks of combat prowess in fantastical skirmishes. Such is why I hold disdain for the Cthulhu mythos.

I delighted in Lovecraft’s idiosyncratic sensibilities and flights of fancy, but the manner in which they were reimagined in the realm of fantasy failed to capture my interest.

Verily, that did not signify my desire to be included in a conventional Cthulhu tome.

“Khlûl′-hloo”

Arthur intoned after my utterance, “Ktulu, how peculiar. I am at a loss on how to properly enunciate it. It is rather amusing.”

Arthur, whose countenance had returned to a state of jocundity, as if the prior outburst was a mere facade, inquired.

The cause of his perplexity in pronunciation was solely due to my accentuation.

Confronted with a concept that solely existed in my past life, I unconsciously truncated the syllables and uttered them in a manner akin to Korean, a fact not lost on Arthur.

“Perchance… do you possess knowledge regarding the subject matter of this statue?”

In that moment, I cursed my own folly.

Over the past 40 years, I had meticulously concealed my true identity as a reincarnated individual.

This was due to four compelling reasons.

First, out of fear of being branded insane in London and subsequently committed to an asylum where a trepanning procedure would be performed on my skull. Indeed, one ought to exercise discretion when engaging in discourse within the capital, lest they find themselves in such a dire predicament.

Second, divulging my truth would avail me naught. I have no desire to sully the reputation of my adopted home, but London is a merciless city. Good or ill repute, all things shall eventually transmute into venom that shall turn on the speaker.

Thirdly, I myself remain uncertain if I truly hail from the future. Though I possess a scant knowledge of history, I am privy to a few indisputable facts. Darwin, who ought to have passed away in 1895, is alive and well, whilst Amundsen, who had just completed his military service, is already traversing the Antarctic Ocean.

And lastly, the fourth reason I had long awaited.

I scrutinized the individual before me, and the fourth reason grinned in response, caressing the statue’s head.

Truly, I yearned not to be ensnared by this personage.

“I cannot recall it accurately. I surmise I must have seen it in my travels abroad. I have journeyed to numerous locales.”

“Ah, splendid! This artifact happens to hail from a foreign land.”

Arthur regarded my flimsy justification with a contented expression.

“My father discovered it on the dark continent over half a century ago. Driven by his passion, he devoted his entire life to deciphering its secrets.”

Internally, I balled my fists.

Very well, I am in the clear.

Should it pertain to the Dark Continent, I am well-versed in its nuances. So much so, I was confident in deceiving Arthur, a native Englishman who had yet to venture beyond the confines of England.

“Yes, I believe it was the Dark Continent.”

“My father entrusted an explorer to uncover its origins. Coincidentally, his aspirations to traverse the Dark Continent aligned, and he readily accepted my father’s patronage. Thus, he set out to cross the Dark Continent.”

As Arthur’s narrative unfolded, unease began to envelop a corner of my psyche.

The source of my apprehension was abundantly clear.

As previously stated, the Dark Continent was an uncharted expanse during the 19th century. Even conducting a survey beyond the dismal Cape City of the Cape of Good Hope was deemed an impossible feat.

I did not know anyone who claimed to have crossed the Dark Continent during this era. Or rather, I knew of only one such individual.

It was a personage of considerable renown.

“Do you refer to Dr. Livingstone?”

Arthur assented.

“Yes, the name of the explorer in question was David Livingstone, who returned from traversing the Dark Continent without a clear answer. Yet, you surmised his identity upon hearing his name. Quite impressive.”

Curses.

Arthur was blessed with numerous talents, but he possessed one exceptional gift. He was a masterful orator, capable of transforming even the most innocuous dialogue into a double-edged sword that ensnared the listener. And I had fallen right into his trap.

I was at a loss on how to answer his inquiry on how I possessed knowledge on a matter that even the illustrious Dr. Livingstone was unable to discern.

The excuse that I chanced upon the information no longer held any weight. For Dr. Livingstone was a far more eminent figure in the annals of the Dark Continent than I, a mere four-year-old neophyte explorer.

Such was the absurdity of the Victorian era. Merely crossing a bridge or two was sufficient to forge acquaintances with brilliant minds previously only encountered within textbooks.

I vacillated on how to respond, much like a frog caught in the gaze of a serpent. I had a premonition that Arthur would consume me should I offer a foolish excuse.

An awkward stillness descended upon the chamber.

Arthur laid a stack of papers upon the table, opting not to pose any further inquiries, as if my silence had sufficed in providing him with the answer he sought.

The sheets fluttered, and a cascade of dust cascaded forth from their midst.

“Cough, cough…! Goodness gracious, what manner of disarray is this?”

“As soon as I received the statue, I found myself musing over a question: What was it wrought from? Bronze? Silver? Or perhaps jade? I intuitively recognized it to be unlike any ore I had previously encountered.”

I sniffled and nodded my head in agreement. Indeed, it was a peculiar material possessing an atypical hue. Yet, I dared not ponder over it too long.

“I subsequently severed a segment of the statue and forwarded it to the Royal Society for compositional analysis.”

“What?!”

I leapt up and bellowed in response to Arthur’s audacious pronouncement.

“By the heavens, Arthur! What were you thinking?”

I hoisted the statue aloft. It proved to be more cumbersome than anticipated, requiring some exertion to manipulate.

As I twirled it about, my gaze alighted upon an anomalous cross-section in an elongated region, the nature of which was unclear- whether it was a toenail or a toe.

It was an incision freshly made, about the size of a finger.

“Why would you sever a piece without having first conducted any research? What if it leaves a mark upon it?!”

“I beg your pardon, Philo, but what on earth are you on about? The 19th century is an age defined by the science of chemistry. Even if my father was unable to adopt such a method, it is incumbent upon us to approach the issue with modern, scientific rigor.”

Arthur was so blasé in his response that I appeared the fool. Nay, he even derided my concerns as ‘stupidity.’

It dawned upon me once again how vastly dissimilar the common sensibilities of the 19th and 21st centuries truly were.

This was the 19th century- an epoch in which the imperative to safeguard cultural heritage was woefully lacking. Cultural assets possessing immeasurable historical worth were often sold to collectors at a pittance or desecrated in the name of academic curiosity.

Should I juxtapose Arthur’s intellectual approach to the standards of the 21st century, he would undoubtedly view me as a primitive savage.

And yet, despite this knowledge, I could not shake off my nerves. For if this were truly Cthulhu…if it truly existed, this statue could very well possess otherworldly powers.

An ominous premonition consumed me that Arthur’s impulsive actions might bring forth a curse.

Unaware of my apprehension, Arthur appeared content that I understood his conduct, given my taciturn demeanor. As such, he unfurled the analysis papers upon the desk.

I gingerly plucked one of them up- a resplendent document bearing the seal of the Royal Society.

Permit me to reintroduce myself momentarily- I am a graduate of Cambridge University, having earned my Ph.D. via a degree committee, albeit not by way of traditional academia.

Additionally, owing to my familiarity with 21st-century knowledge, I surpassed numerous experts in certain domains.

I am not one to boast, but by the standards of the modern 19th century, I am categorized among the intelligentsia.

It wasn’t that I was incapable of comprehending the technical jargon- it was that the author of this report was rather unsympathetic. I make no excuses- he truly was!

“Do you grasp the significance?”

As I grappled with the abstruse terminology, Arthur proffered a paper listing the elemental breakdown.

“Forty-five percent platinum, twenty-three percent iron, and 0.5%… Tellurium? I am unfamiliar with this element.”

“That is inconsequential. Continue perusing.”

I recited an array of elemental components, some of which I had only ever encountered in name. When I arrived at the conclusion, instead of a labyrinthine assemblage of chemical terminology, I stumbled upon a sentence:

“The Royal Society firmly believes that the following three elements differ from any compound hitherto discovered upon the Earth. However, owing to a lack of specimens, comprehensive research has yet to be executed. Thus, the Society hopes that you will donate the statue in its entirety, to further scientific and human development…?”

I glanced up at Arthur, perplexed.

He merely shrugged his shoulders.

“What is your opinion?”

“Bloody madmen.”

Arthur chortled in response to my profanity.

“I shan’t be surrendering the statue.”

“Indeed!”

Arthur gaped at me, his features contorting into a sheepish grin as he revised his statement.

“No, what I meant was that it is of no import.”

Without warning, Arthur abruptly stood from his seat, clutching the statue to his chest.

I gaped at his sudden action, as I was about to peruse another report on the table.

“Come, I must show you something.”

“Wait, what?!”

I sprang from my chair, struggling to match Arthur’s pace as a person with an absent limb.

Arthur hastened down the hallway without sparing me a glance. I limped after him, muttering expletives under my breath.

The rotting wooden floorboards creaked and groaned with every step we took.

Arthur seemed unfazed by the noise, but I treaded carefully, not wanting to lose my balance.

“You have quite a few questions, don’t you?” Arthur suddenly said, without even turning around to face me.

“Why has the mansion changed so much? Where did the other servants go? Who is that strange-looking butler? How did I come to inherit this statue? What have I been researching all these years? And, most importantly, how come I’m not old?”

I was taken aback by his words. How did he know what I was thinking? And his boldness was startling. He knew I was curious, but he didn’t bother to address any of my concerns until now.

“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Everything has its own order, don’t you think?” Arthur continued. I could hear the amusement in his voice. He was enjoying himself, relishing in my confusion and frustration.

“Where should I begin? Ah, yes. It all started with a letter. My father’s obituary, to be exact.”

I knew for a fact that Count Frank had died less than a year ago, but Arthur spoke as if it had been ages ago. He was deliberately playing with my perception of time.

“After my father passed away, an unwelcome visitor showed up. He was an insurance investigator, and he pestered me with questions for a week. He wanted to know everything about my father’s death and our family’s wealth. And what do you think he eventually discovered?”

I rolled my eyes. “It must have been something big for you to be so dramatic. Did he find another heir?”

Arthur paused for a moment before bursting into hysterical laughter. “Ha! A twin brother, locked away in a secret cellar in this very mansion, who had been abused for forty years. Isn’t that just brilliant, Philo? Brilliant.”

He abruptly stopped in his tracks, and I nearly collided with his back.

Arthur strode a few paces ahead, while I remained rooted in place. He soon turned back towards me, his expression grim.

“My family is cursed, Philo. Cursed,” he said with a smile, tapping my shoulder reassuringly. “But let us discuss that some other time. Right now, I must focus on the source of the curse. Fortunately, my father left behind a vast fortune, and I intend to use it to uncover the truth.”

He resumed his slow pace, and I followed. It was difficult to believe, but I couldn’t deny that Arthur cared for me.

“Have you read the Daily Telegraph?” he asked suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean that malicious prank, ‘Frank’s Fools’?”

“I like it,” he said, nodding. “Finally, the Telegraph did something I approve of.”

I studied his countenance carefully. Why would he bring this up now?

“It wasn’t very humorous,” I commented.

He looked pleased. “That’s the point. The prank itself was a test.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “A test?”

“Think about it. The fools who fell for it thought they were too clever to be pranked. But in reality, they were just ignorant. And those who saw through the prank proved themselves to be wise. I’ve made my own filter.”

Arthur reached up and pulled on a candlestick mounted on the wall. With a loud click, a hidden door slid open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down to the basement.

“Welcome to the Frankish Society, Philo,” he said with a shy grin, beckoning me to follow.