Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 9

§09. Jacob’s Island

From that fateful moment, a feverish malady gripped me in its sinister clutches. My temperature soared beyond the threshold of 100°F (38°C), and my wretched body could no longer abide the act of swallowing, instead purging its insides with a violent intensity. Marie, ever attentive, dampened a towel with heated liquid, and let a single droplet fall upon my parched lips, yet my fevered form perspired a chill sweat all through the night, and dehydration soon followed.

As for the spectre of death, I found myself no different from a cherished maiden. Incapacitated and forlorn, I paced the edge of the River Styx and, by some miraculous turn, recovered. It was a convalescence that took place after a fortnight of languishing in the throes of a raging fever.

Upon witnessing my reanimated form donning fresh garments, Marie’s eyes widened, and she clung to me, weeping. I was taken aback by her emotional display.

“By the gods, Master! I believed you were destined for the grave!”

“Surely, that is a bit of an overstatement.”

“You are ignorant of the countless days you were confined to your sickbed!”

My fevered delirium had obscured the passage of time, but a glance at Marie’s countenance revealed that it was not a mere day or two. I offered her my heartfelt gratitude and inquired about the events that had transpired during my incapacitation.

Marie, with a hesitant stutter, recounted the tale of her tribulations. The royal physician, thrice, had decreed that I would not survive another day. A solicitor arrived to authenticate the will I had penned a dozen years prior and took his leave. Of my kin, only my second brother paid a visit, bearing a delicate white orchid nestled within a Chinese porcelain vessel he had unearthed from some forgotten corner.

Throughout my unconscious ordeal, Marie attended to me without once returning to her abode—an act of devotion for which I was profoundly grateful. Such an exceptional housekeeper was a rare treasure in London.

“Ah, and there was this peculiar occurrence.”

She related an incident that transpired a week prior, on a night when torrential rains fell, reminiscent of the day the meteorite descended. Alarmed by the sound of rain, Marie opened the door to ensure my chamber’s window was not left ajar, and there she beheld a most unearthly tableau.

I had risen from my bed of suffering, flung open the window, and exposed my naked form to the tempestuous deluge. I bellowed in a language beyond comprehension towards the stygian heavens, and in response, a sound akin to a ship’s bell seemed to resonate through the shrouded mists.

Petrified, Marie desired to flee, but her steadfast loyalty would not permit her to abandon me, my sanity seemingly ravaged, to the merciless storm. And so, she entered the chamber and, with great effort, sealed the window. (Her devotion in this regard was most commendable.)

Yet, an even more bizarre event unfolded thereafter.

As the window was shut, my body collapsed like a marionette bereft of its strings. I labored to sit at my writing desk and demanded a quill and parchment from her. Marie obliged, even preparing a thin, warming broth to serve alongside. But I paid the sustenance no heed, instead furiously penning some cryptic message.

“Impossible,” I declared. I had no recollection of the night she described, and from that eve until the morrow and the day that followed, I had been incapacitated by the relentless fever.

“But it is the truth! Behold this evidence!”

She proffered a notebook, asserting with an air of indignation that I had authored its contents. Emblazoned upon the cover was the title:

“The Gospel of Blackriver”

It was apparent that the handwriting was either my own or that of one who had cunningly mimicked it after perusing my tomes. Otherwise, it would defy reason that I could not discern any disparity.

“Pray tell, what does it contain? Have you perused its pages?”

“No. It emitted a sinister aura, and so…”

Upon opening to the first page, I found myself grateful for Marie’s decision to refrain from delving into the notebook. It commenced with an admission of sacrilege and imprecations against the sole deity in which I held faith, penned in a clandestine manner. As if it laid bare my innermost thoughts all along.

What’s more, it meticulously detailed the vivisection of a living sheep as an offering over the course of eleven pages, including the forms and procedures of three associated incantations. The subsequent fifteen pages harbored obscene prose that I could not bear to gaze upon, as if composed from my own experiences.

A portion of each page was marred by a cold perspiration, rendering the ink indecipherable, and the volume of blood spilled augmented as the pages progressed. I could infer the origin of the myriad scars that adorned my hand; self-inflicted wounds inflicted by a sharpened quill.

The lunacy contained within this slender tome reached its zenith on the final page. Inscribed in blood were the details of all that I had witnessed and heard on Jacob’s Island, the abominable entities and their utterances. From the point at which my memory had been severed, there existed an unceasing torrent of the language utilized by those loathsome creatures, and somehow, I knew it was their prayer.

I wiped away the cold sweat that had formed upon my brow. This blasphemous chronicle must not be read by any soul.

“Speak of this to no one.”

I rifled through a drawer, procured a chain and a diminutive book coffer, and placed the notebook within the coffer before Marie. I secured it with the chain, and resolved that the box would remain sealed for the duration of my existence. In addition, I vowed to amend my will, instructing a solicitor to ensure its incineration alongside my mortal remains upon my demise.

“What has you so disquieted?”

Marie gazed up at me with a countenance fraught with apprehension. The frenzy of that tempestuous eve she had witnessed shimmered in her eyes. I pondered whether to placate her with a falsehood or to share a measure of truth.

“It is a matter of a personal nature. I know not how I came to pen such a document.”

This knowledge must not be shared with another. Most notably Marie, who had earned the recompense of her devotion: the gift of blissful ignorance.

In that instant, I grasped the true essence of the pride I harbored as a soldier. I had waged battle to shield virtuous and innocent souls such as hers. With this revelation, my course of action crystallized with unprecedented clarity.

My pretext was unconvincing, yet Marie posed no further inquiries. Instead, she pressed a mercury thermometer against my flesh.

“I assure you, I am quite well.”

“Your recovery cannot be deemed certain until your fever abates.”

Marie examined the thermometer.

“95 degrees Fahrenheit? Your constitution is akin to an icebox.”

“Allow me to see; perhaps it is malfunctioning?”

Upon reevaluating my temperature, the outcome remained unchanged. Hovering around 35 degrees Celsius, it was far from the norm. However, I felt more invigorated than ever before. I deduced the thermometer to be faulty.

“Why not repose at home for a spell?”

“What is the date today?”

“It is the 31st of May.”

I blinked in astonishment.

“The 31st? Are you quite certain?”

“Indeed. Pray tell, have you an urgent engagement?”

I hastily donned my coat, which hung upon a nearby rack. Marie assisted me by disentangling the hem of the garment from my trousers.

“Today marks the trial of Richmond and Count Essex.”

Once the proceedings conclude, the opportunity to unveil the truth shall be irretrievably lost. The meteorite will be surrendered to either Count Essex or Richmond, and the fate of the island shall be irrevocably altered in accordance with their designs. The chance to liberate Mrs. Curie will likewise vanish into the ether.

I gripped my cane with resolute determination.

“Should you venture forth, do not neglect to bring an umbrella.”

Marie admonished me as she observed my preparations.

“A torrential downpour assails the city.”

Beyond the windowpane, a ferocious tempest raged. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the day the meteorite descended from the heavens.

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

Late morn.

I found myself in Count Essex’s study. Every item was meticulously arranged, and nary a superfluous object could be found in the austere chamber that mirrored its proprietor’s disposition.

Count Essex imbibed a draught of wine that filled but half the glass.

“Following breakfast and supper, pour a third of a glass of red wine and mix with two spoons of vinegar. This, my friend, is the elixir of longevity.”

He drained the vessel without parting his lips or dampening his mustache.

“I was informed you had a misadventure in the river, leading to a feverish state.”

“I was most unfortunate.”

“Nay, consider yourself fortunate. You emerged alive from the depths of the Thames.”

Count Essex, having pushed the glass aside, laboriously rose from his seat. His movements were as deliberate as my own, a man bereft of legs. With measured grace, he pivoted to face the window and uttered in a murmur.

“Are you aware that Lord Herbert also plunged into the Thames in his youth?”

“I was not privy to that fact.”

“It is hardly surprising. Upon siring a son, he adopted the visage of a stern patriarch without a hint of shame.”

I struggled to discern the intent behind his utterances. It seemed incongruous that the earl, renowned for his fastidious attention to detail, would engage in such inconsequential conversation in the presence of his friend’s offspring.

“Forgive my protracted preamble. Now, does the golf bag you bear pertain to this case?”

Count Essex swiveled only his head in my direction as he inquired. True to his observation, I carried a golf bag upon my back. Though the sport had long enjoyed popularity in England, I had never properly participated due to the limitations of my left leg. Even less plausible was the notion that the contents of the bag were golf clubs.

A Snyder Enfield rifle.

I extracted the antiquated firearm from the bag. While I had lovingly maintained it since my discharge, it appeared that the passage of time had taken its toll, leaving me with a weapon as aged as myself. Regardless, I believed it still capable of discharging a single round.

I trained the barrel of the gun upon the earl.

“What manner of jest is this?”

“‘Tis no jest. Your lordship must demonstrate your innocence.”

“Have you lost your reason?”

Indeed, my reason had long been forfeit.

It had occurred long ago, prior to my bout with the dreadful fever and my penning of lunatic missives, before my encounter with the fish-man on Jacob’s Island, before I uncovered the unspeakable secret of the Frank mansion on the distant isle of Sardinia.

In that place, I had been mad enough to take a life without the slightest hesitation.

“You must disclose all you know of the island and the meteorite.”

“You are bereft of reason… Bereft of reason…”

The Earl repeated the words, apparently taken aback. His withered fists quivered with a sense of betrayal.

“What is your objective? Are you under the sway of that wretched Richmond?”

“Only I and Her Majesty the Queen hold dominion over me. And I shall do whatever it takes to protect my beloved country and city.”

A panoply of emotions flitted across the Earl’s countenance: astonishment, terror, and vacillation.

“You possess quite the audacity to spout such drivel. I suspected that one day, someone might make such a confession. I know not what you have unearthed, but if you persist in this manner, as a servant of Her Majesty the Queen, I am left with no choice but to divulge the truth.”

At last, he bore a vacant expression. His voice held no genuine sentiment.

“This is the disgrace of our lineage… Nay, my own personal ignominy.”

As though nothing had transpired, he commenced his tale with an air of composure.

“Four decades past, my father, Earl William Essex, met a woeful end on a rain-sodden day much like this.”

As he recounted the tale, the Earl gazed out the window, where rain streamed down, seemingly oblivious to the firearm trained upon him.

“It was a tragic accident. Earl William was swept into the Thames, and the deluge-born torrent carried him out to sea. For two months, we searched in vain; not even a corpse to inter at his funeral was returned to us.”

His slender, furrowed hand traced the windowpane.

“My mother, consumed by grief, took ill and was diagnosed with dementia a year thereafter. She flung herself into the river, leaving a message that she would seek out my father. I was ill-equipped to confront a double bereavement, yet the solicitor intoned the inheritance I was to receive in a dispassionate manner: the title of Earl, my rights and property, and the attendant responsibilities.”

The aged Earl’s eyes, mirrored in the window, were suffused with myriad emotions: grief, yearning, and ire.

“And among those bequeathments was that accursed isle: Jacob’s Island, the damned island that entombed my father.”

The Earl swiveled his head.

“I was not alone in my suspicions regarding my father’s demise. Providentially, I was able to enlist the aid of several adept collaborators. Among them was your father, Baron Herbert, a consummate detective. Over several years, we conducted a meticulous investigation of the island and, at long last, arrived at the truth.”

The Earl’s eyes gleamed.

“My father was slain by the hands of those coarse and monstrous dockworkers!”

─Crack! Crackle!

As lightning rent the air, the chamber was plunged into darkness. The window was tinged with a ruddy glow. The lightning-stricken wooden utility pole blazed fiercely. White electrical sparks cascaded from the severed wires.

“They had on numerous occasions sought to negotiate with my father for reduced port fees. But time and again, my resolute father refused, and they changed tack, joining forces with a factory proprietor. They awaited a day when the Thames’ currents were strong, lured my father to the island, and dispatched him.”

In my mind’s eye, I beheld the visage of the mutants. Had they truly forged such an unholy bond after their metamorphosis? Or was it the inescapable fate of those who had shared in sin throughout their lives?

“The laborers demanded recompense for their nefarious deeds, but the factory owner reneged on his promises and threatened to expose them as my father’s killers, reducing them to servile pawns. Some, stricken with remorse, sought my forgiveness, but I held no intention of granting them absolution.”

The room’s illumination showed no inclination to return. All I could discern in the darkness were the Earl’s inquisitive eyes. I raised the barrel of the firearm. The sole target I could strike in this blackness was the Earl’s cranium.

“I swore vengeance. I vowed to visit ruination upon the corrupt industrialist and the entire island until my dying breath.”

The Earl began to laugh. It was a bitter, hollow sound.

“The factory owner has already perished. It was an accident. He drowned in the Thames on a rain-swept day.”

He laughed as though on the brink of madness. The aged man chortled with such force that he gasped for air and spewed forth spittle. The sound of his breath was akin to the patter of rain against the windowpane.

“All the inheritance bequeathed by the factory owner was obliterated, leaving naught but a desolate island polluted and eroded by unbridled development. Whenever it rained, the island would subside ever so slightly. Not excessively, not sparingly, just leisurely enough for the inhabitants to acknowledge their transgressions and repent. I received numerous entreaties from residents, imploring for redevelopment as their edifices sank, but I cast them all into the fireplace, bribed the officials, and excised that region from the maps each time they were drawn anew.”

It was then that I finally grasped the reality of that peculiar street. The structures without a ground floor and the thoroughfares differing from the map bore no connection to the meteorite. It was all an act of vengeance orchestrated by the Earl.

“My meticulously crafted retribution was nearing its denouement. The accursed island and its progeny were fated to be engulfed by the Thames’ waves, just as my father and mother had been. And then that man appeared.”

“Whitney Richmond.”

The Earl nodded.

“He purported to possess the development rights to the island, which he could not possibly have, and that constituted the direst of circumstances for me. Though my odds of losing were slim, if I were to be defeated, I would forfeit everything.”

“Should he scrutinize Jacob’s Island for development, it will unveil the discrepancies between the survey results and reality over the past few decades, and your malfeasance will be laid bare.”

At my dispassionate conjecture, the Earl offered a benevolent smile and shook his head. That smile wounded my spirit. I was even filled with dread that a human could manifest such a countenance.

“No. If he succeeds in developing the island, it will not sink, will it?”

───Drip, drip…

Solely the sound of rain reverberated hollowly in the hushed chamber. The fervent madness that had reigned mere moments prior had dissipated, leaving behind only an old man who had lost the impetus of life.

“I had intended to confess this sin before the Lord, but I never imagined I would divulge everything to Herbert’s offspring. The designs the Lord has conceived are truly beyond human ken…”

The Earl appeared far more aged than before he commenced his tale.

The keen vigor that had enveloped his entire form had utterly faded, leaving in its wake a wrinkled and fragile old man befitting his seventy years. He seemed to have aged nearly two decades in a mere ten minutes, yet his visage appeared more serene than before.

“Have you uncovered the answer you sought? Will you now expose me and absolve those sinners?”

“Ultimately, your involvement with the meteorite was nonexistent.”

“I swear upon the name of my late father, I have no further secrets to conceal.”

I lowered the rifle and delved into my coat pocket, extracting a metal tag.

“Rejoice, my lord. Your vengeance has been fruitful. They have encountered a fate more terrible than death, all due to another’s blunder.”

“Richmond…”

Richmond Co.

“As you proclaimed, Richmond is a charlatan. There exists no possibility that he could have purchased the land a mere week before the meteorite’s descent, for the meteorite’s arrival there was sheer happenstance.”

“What do you imply?”

I dimly discerned the verity underlying this trial.

“He harbored no intent to emerge victorious from the lawsuit. Rather, he lodged an outlandish suit concerning the meteorite’s extraction rights to preclude you, the legitimate proprietor of the land, from accessing the meteorite. All he required was the passage of time to reclaim that which was his.”

I cast a glance at my wristwatch. The hour hand indicated precisely noon.

“What do you mean? So, it is as if…”

I nodded in response to the Earl’s inquiry.

“The possessor of the meteorite is Richmond. And this very instant, when all the stakeholders of Jacob’s Island are engrossed in the trial, must be the moment he has so patiently awaited.”

It was one hour before the trial commenced.