Gregori crouched low over the spider, watching her scuttle in her web towards the vibrations of a kicking fly. Young Petir knelt next to him in rapt attention. “Why does a spider build her web?” he asked the boy.
Petir looked up at him questioningly. “For a home?”
“A spider could live anywhere. The web is for feeding. For catching the fly.” Gregori watched as the fly struggled in the web, flailing desperately for its life, but only tangling itself deeper. The web tugged and twisted, but held firm. Petir nodded, seeming to grasp the point of the lesson.
“Both the spider and the fly are needed for the web to have purpose,” the boy concluded. Gregori smiled – Petir may have been a runt, but he was sharp. He would sustain both the line and the knowledge that accompanied it well. He would be ready for the language of Those From Beyond soon.
“And how does the web feel?”
Petir looked up at him puzzled. “The web can’t feel. It is a thing. It catches as it was made to.” Gregori waited for a moment for Petir to gather his thoughts. “Even if the web could feel, it wouldn’t matter. Its entire purpose is the spider and the fly. Without them, it is nothing.”
“What if capturing the fly made the web suffer?” asked Gregori.
“Then the web will suffer.”
Burfict found himself standing in a dark room. Massive stone arches stretched to unfathomably tall ceilings above him, while a strange, dim light seemed to illuminate the area from everywhere. He recognized the room from previous dreams. He was in the chamber of the whisperers. Silently before him stood the three men in the tattered yellow robes. Burfict backed away instinctively, his eyes darting from one to another trying to watch them all. For a long moment, nothing moved. “Who are you?” he asked finally, shattering the long silence.
“We are the prophets,” they answered as one. “Seers of the web.” Their voices were deep and powerful, seeming to echo from the walls like distant thunder. Burfict was reminded of the low rumble of a lion’s snarl. He felt it in his gut and bones as much as he heard it. David tried to peer under their hoods through the gloom, but found the darkness to be impenetrable.
Burfict swallowed, summoning his courage. These specters had haunted his dreams for decades, but always carried with them the wisdom he sought; he needed to be brave now. He steadied himself and looked towards the nearest one. “Are you going to tell me about Shub-Niggurath? How do I stop her?”
“Iä! Iä! Shub-Niggurath!” they exclaimed. “The Black Goat of the Woods!” said the first. “She with a Thousand Young!” proclaimed the next. “She From Beyond!” shouted the last. The middle prophet stepped forward, and in a low voice whispered “She is your purpose, Last Son.” Burfict felt himself instinctively shrink back from the advancing figure, his heart racing.
“Why do you call me that? ‘Last Son?’”
“You are the last of your line. Ten generations of lineage. The Last Son. The Omega.”
“What’s so important about the Burfict family tree?”
“Burfict blood does not flow through your veins.”
“You are borne from the blood of Gregori Weder.”
“With you, the line ends.”
David thought back to Phillip Kindred – so he had been right about the adoption. But what difference did that make? “So? Who the fuck is Gregori Weder, and what does that have to do with anything?”
“You have been marked.”
“Chosen by your ancestor, to save your people.”
“Shub-Niggurath approaches!”
That caught Burfict’s attention. If he had been chosen to save mankind, then perhaps he had the means to stop The Black Goat before Shub-Niggurath ever broke through. He faced the center prophet, swallowing his revulsion and terror. “Sullivan has brought Shub-Niggurath into our world somehow? Hasn’t he?”
“She is not yet born into your world, but she will be soon.”
“Rog’nshgnak can feel her approach.”
“The web sings in her shadow.”
“Who is Rog’nshgnak?” asked David, straining to pronounce the bizarre name. “And why is that name so familiar? What does she have to do with Shub-Niggurath?” He felt ill speaking to these beings, but the importance of his task before him steeled his resolve. They had the knowledge he sought.
“Rog’nshgnak is the mother,” whispered the third-most figure from the shadows of his robe.
“She is the life giver and the death bringer.”
“The writer of the web.”
“And Shub-Niggurath? Who is she?”
“The Invader.”
“The Thing from Beyond the Web.”
“The Black Goat of the Woods.”
The air seemed to tremble with their words, as if Burfict’s skin could feel the vibrations from their breaths. Goosebumps broke out along his arms, and he felt a shudder run up his spine. He swallowed and pressed on. “And what do you want? Who are you working for?”
“We are dead things,” whispered the first.
“Fhtagn,” murmured the second.
“Ghosts of the dreaming past,” hissed the last.
“We want nothing.”
“Serve nothing.”
“Seek nothing.”
“What are you?” David regretted the question as soon as it had left his lips. The three leered back at him from gloom, unmoving.