~~~Back To Top
The Books
(A continuation of The Merlin Saga)
By Richard Lawrence
Merlin was pensive. Since the visit by Uriel he had done a lot of thinking. He had a better understanding of the nature of gods and demons and, more importantly, of whom his father was. Yes, he had been thrown out of heaven, but not the heaven he had been told about. He wasn’t even, as he claimed, created by god. He was brother to a beast, a monster.
This final piece of information had finally made up his mind; he had no intention of standing against the people of the planet, or against what was perceived as good. He knew, deep inside himself, that whilst he could do good acts, work for good, to make things better he wasn’t, himself, good. There was too much of the love of power, he had such a craving to carve his own way regardless of what was standing in his way.
He would follow his own dictates, his own desires, tempered by looking after his country, his world. He had seen that there were things out there that would destroy his world. Not out of spite, or malice, but, simply, because it was in their way. They would destroy, move on and not even think about what they had done, they would destroy mankind, devastate the earth, with no more regret than a man stepping on an ant. That could not be allowed to happen. Mankind had to be warned.
Merlin had spent months spying on the enemy, using the mirror and the good graces of Alice. Carefully he had watched the sleeping Cthulhu in its icy tomb and he was pleased with what he had done there, the ice was so thick that nothing could break through and was getting thicker, day by day, the illusions and wards were still working wonderfully, to most people, angels and even gods, there was nothing there. Perfect.
He had viewed the beast in the far north, Ithaqua it called itself, the primitives called it Wendigo, or the Walker on the Winds, as it hunted and sported with the natives of the land across the ocean. Merlin had set up wards and limitations to this creature, now it was restricted to the ice pack of the far north. Merlin had travelled into other dimensions, where time and distance had no meaning and had watched the Hounds of Tindalos hunting through time. They were beyond him, he couldn’t restrict them but, happily, there was no need to.
He had seen the horrific worms, giant creatures, spawning in Africa, digging tunnels and breeding chambers, he had watched the last, brave stand of the shaman of Ptah as they fought the creatures, scattering the stone stars they found to act as a barrier, even whilst the worms destroyed their city and a created a desert out of lush jungle. The star stones were the only protection against these beings and the priests had done a good job, Merlin needed do nothing there.
Travelling back to the north of the country across the ocean, he had seen, in out of the way coves and rotting swamps, the strange offspring of Cthulhu, the horrific cross-breeds, the shambling sub-humans, worshiping old memories and badly carved idols. Desperate to bring back the gods they feared and adored, with no understanding of what would actually happen to them if they did. Merlin killed as many of these as he could. He took pleasure in their destruction; they were just too pathetic, too far from human to justify their existence. And, besides, he needed something to give him pleasure. Simple violence was very cathartic.
He had viewed the depthless lake of Hastur and watched the priests in their degenerate land, hidden in the mountains of Leng, their disgusting, cruel and pointless rituals, the sacrifice of children, the most beautiful, clever children in their society. Not surprisingly, the whole society was ugly, corrupt and degenerate. It was a pleasure to wipe them off the face of the earth.
He had visited the peoples of Dogon and their worship of the sea beasts. Where he could he placed limitations and wards. He enjoyed himself by killing some of the degenerate animals masquerading as human; he had destroyed temples and holy books, doing his best to wipe out the memories and desires of these crude, cruel and idiotic people.
It still wasn’t enough, humanity had to be warned.
Merlin knew he had achieved some good, more importantly, he had gone some way to protecting his home. But there were ideas bubbling just below the surface, things he felt he should do.
Sitting on his couch he looked at his mirror, it would be nice just to chat for a few moments, get the ideas out into the open.
“Alice,” he said “Are you there?”
As always, there was a brief giggle and the sound of running feet and the blond hair and pretty face of Alice poked around the corner of the mirror.
“Where else would I be, you silly bear?”
Alice sat, feet dangling over the edge of the mirror and looked at him expectantly. He knew what she would see. He was a big man, a giant in a land of pygmies, well over six feet tall, as broad as an ox and, he had to admit, rather ugly. Heavy ridges over his eyes that hid their flickering flames, a broad, flat nose, a strong, heavy jaw. His face was shaved clean so that whiskers wouldn’t interfere with the magic of the tattoos.
His face was covered with spirals and shapes, a dragon cavorted across his brow and intricate knot-work ran down by his eyes and across his jaw. The rest of his body was covered as thickly in similar designs. He had gone far beyond the normal druidic tattoos, creating and inscribing his own markings, some for protection, some to enhance his power, one that allowed him to become invisible, well unnoticeable anyway, he was pleased with that one. His body was covered from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
He had shaved his head to add the tattoos, but had now allowed his hair to grow back, his vanity. Thick, heavy and now halfway down his back. It was thickened by woad, bright blue, and hung in heavy ropes.
Merlin looked at Alice “Thank you Alice, for your help so far, we have done some good work here.”
Alice wriggled like a pleased puppy “I enjoyed it, helping those people and,” she shuddered “You didn’t make me watch when you killed, thank you for that.”
Merlin nodded his head “I have an idea.”
Alice looked interested.
“We need to warn mankind of these beasts, but not to give them enough information to be able to call them back.”
Alice nodded again.
Merlin continued “You remember I told you of my birth, how I took the thoughts, memories and experiences of the witches?”
Alice nodded again.
“Do you think I could reverse the process? Place thoughts in the minds of others?”
Alice sat and thought for a moment. “Well,” she finally said, “You should be able to put thoughts in their minds, like dreams, when they sleep, but you will need people who are receptive. To be fair, most people will think them mad.”
“Yes,” said Merlin, “I will need to travel across time, catch as many as I can, four or five should be enough to start, I can use the mirror, and your help, to view them and then to transmit my thoughts and ideas.”
Alice nodded “Yes, that’ll work, shall we get started?”
“No,” said Merlin “I am tired and this will take some time, we will start tomorrow. Off you go.”
Alice nodded and ran off into the mirror. Merlin settled back onto his couch, to relax and to sleep.
Morning arrived too quickly, Merlin had not really had a good night’s sleep, his brain had been let loose and was rampaging through his psyche. Having said that, he had generated some ideas about how he was going to go about disseminating the information he needed to. It would be scattered across time and space and, he anticipated, would not really be gathered in one place for at least 2,000 years. Probably about the right time for mankind, as a species, to be ready to stand up to Cthulhu and his horrific minions. With any luck and a bit of planning, he should be there to help them.
He breakfasted on bread and cheese before calling on Alice, as always she was prompt, happy and helpful.
“I have some ideas,” he mentioned to Alice, “We both know that people have specific interests.”
Alice nodded.
“I think, in most cases, it woul
d be better to impart that information that they can relate to.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” said Alice with surprise.
Merlin nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. “So,” he asked, “How do we go about this?”
“I have been thinking, and it should be quite simple. We use the mirror and scan through time, I can make sure it homes in on those who are susceptible to your thoughts, you can then just put the ideas into their minds. It may need several attempts, but, once we have found someone, we will always be able to find them.”
“Excellent,” said Merlin “That sounds like a plan.”
Merlin expanded the mirror so he could get more detail, sat back and watched as the mirror started scanning. “We’ll start close to home,” said Alice “At least in time.”
Merlin watched as landscapes streamed past, crossing the sea separating England from Europe, south then east and slowing as it came to a small, isolated monastery, the monks were sitting in pale candlelight, laboriously copying sections of this new holy book, the Bible. But, in one corner, was a scrivener, idly doodling sea creatures on a piece of parchment. The man was old, bent over and suffered from palsy.
Merlin sent his thoughts forward, probing the man’s mind to find it broken and twisted, a name popped out, Aelfric, called The Fish by his fellow monks, the nearest town was Mogontiacum, but they were isolated in the forest and had no real contact with mankind at all. The Fish was obsessed, with, of course, fish and fishing, sea monsters and serpents, the Kraken and the flood. Anything to do with the sea and sea creatures, he was obsessed. Merlin sat back; this was going to be easier than he thought.
Putting his thoughts in order, Merlin sent images and explanations to the old monk. Aelfric dropped his head to the desk and gripped it with surprising strength as more and more images flooded his mind. Pictures, explanations, protections and spells, histories and horrors.
This went on for several hours and, finally, Merlin sat back, exhausted. He simply watched The Fish now to see what he would do. Aelfric sat up, his face streaming with sweat and looked around. He seemed surprised the other monks had not seen anything of this but, in his dark corner, he took a piece of vellum, dipped his pen and started the cover of his new book.
Merlin watched as the words were spelled out in German black letter, decorated, of course, with fish and sea monsters, Merlin was very pleased at the first page - Cthäat Aquadingen, it read – Things of the Water. Merlin had passed on his knowledge of these monsters, specifically relating to Ubbo-Sathla, lord of the sea and the Sathlattae rituals.
Exhausted, but pleased, Merlin decided that would be enough for one day. He hadn’t realised how much energy this would take. He needed to sleep. With this thought he lay on the couch and started snoring almost immediately.
Early next morning Merlin was back at the mirror, watching as The Fish completed the book. Merlin was skipping through time, watching the highlights. It had taken Aelfric several years to write, in complete isolation, less than two hours for Merlin to watch. Aelfric sighed, put down his quill and staggered out of the door of his cell, the other monks looking at him in surprise “Finished,” he croaked “It’s finished.”
Aelfric pulled the nearest monk into a hug, clinging to him to hold himself up but, slowly, he slid to the floor, a look of peace on his face. He died in that position. A senior monk looked into the cell and saw the pile of parchment, he turned to another monk “Get the Abbot,” he said. The second monk ran off and the first turned back to Aelfric, trying to make him more presentable.
Shortly the Abbot arrived, “He’s finished it,” said the first monk, “It’s in there,” pointing at the door.
The Abbot entered and looked at the document, picking up the first page and then dropping it with a look of disgust. He looked back at the first monk “I didn’t know he could read.”
“He can’t,” was the reply “Whatever that is must be divinely inspired.”
The Abbot looked back at the book; he looked very unsure and shook his head. “Take the pages to the binder,” he instructed, “I will keep it in my library, just in case it is needed.” With that he walked away.
Merlin sat back, satisfied. The first, he knew, was always going to be the most difficult, refining the process and the timescales, he knew better now and the other books should be a lot easier.
The next morning, Merlin called Alice again, he was in a bit of a bubbly mood. “Whither we go this time, young lady?” after getting a brief look of confusion and then a quick giggle of amusement, she said.
“Well, a French nobleman, this time, a certain Francois-Honore Balfour the Comte d'Erlette, he is completely mad, has spent his life delving into death and decay, have a look and see what you think.”
The mirror cleared onto a dank and stuffy library, books and parchments were piled up in noisome heaps, old, mouldy food was scattered across the floor, the curtains were tightly drawn and the room was lit by a single candle on an old, rickety desk. The count himself was a pale, skinny feverish looking man with lank pale blonde hair and dressed in a threadbare green velvet coat and small-clothes, nothing else. He was sleeping at his desk; he looked seventy, but cannot have been more than thirty.
Merlin nodded and invaded his thoughts. The nightmare he was having was disgusting; he was having carnal knowledge of, well, a corpse, a pile of rotting meat. Merlin shook his head, constantly surprised at the depths of depravity of people. But, he bent to his task and started to pour images and knowledge of the half-breeds and degenerate humans belonging to Cthulhu.
How quickly things become common place, Merlin thought to himself as he watched the count scribbling feverishly at what he considered to be his masterwork. Never considering where this information came from. The manuscript, the Cultes des Goules, was finished quickly and privately printed in very limited numbers. Even so, the church got hold of a copy and it was quickly added to this list of banned books.
Another day, another mind. This one a degenerate madman, locked up in prison for unholy experiments. Screaming incoherently that they couldn’t kill him, he was too old, over four hundred and he would outlive them all. All the while, he was squatting, filthy and unkempt, in a tiny stone cell, water streaming down its’ walls and mould growing everywhere. Even so, this man, Ludwig Prinn, had parchment and pens and, in his fever, wrote De Vermis Mysteriis, outlining the place of decay, of maggots and other such creatures in the mythos. The Warden found the manuscript when they were clearing out the cell, he passed it on to his brother in law, a Rosicrucian of some note, who had it published and distributed quietly amongst his bretheren.
Merlin needed a bath after that one.
Across the ocean, this time, to a small town where a little known writer of fiction was scribbling tales of horror, darkly reflecting his own nightmares. Merlin was very surprised, this man Howard Philips Lovecraft, was already writing about the Cthulhu mythos, badly, but the details were there. This horse faced man, scared of his own shadow, was nearly there. The thoughts Merlin sent merely clarified the details. The man’s writing became a lot more coherent after that.
“Well,” thought Merlin, “That was an easy one.”
There were others following the same theme, Unaussprechliche Kulte by Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt, outlining the peculiar, degenerate cults and religions that surround the Cthulhu mythos.
The strange and disturbing King in Yellow by Max Niles, a down at heels British playwright, spending his time between getting drunk on Absinth, smoking opium and desperately trying to be a playwright, he completely missed the point of the dreams, having said that, Merlin was greatly amused by the outcome. Max wrote the play and put on a private performance with himself as the lead. The first part was, in reality, extremely dull and monotonous and most of the audience left. They were the lucky ones.
The tone changed with the second part, it was darker and completely manic, hypnotic, dangerous and degenerate, within ten minutes
, the audience had stormed the stage, sacrificed Max and were enjoy roast haunch of playwright when the police broke down the doors and, amid the violent reaction of the audience, had to kill them all. No one knew what happened to the manuscript, no one except Merlin.
But, Merlin had to admit, his favourite was the time he spent in the strange and twisted mind of Alhazred or, as he called himself, the Mad Arab.
This man’s mind was already twisted by Cthulhu and his minions, so much information had been given to this man that his mind had snapped. Merlin could not even see his original name or where he came from. But, he was highly educated, could speak, read and write all the major languages of the day and spent his life travelling. He had visited the ruins of Babylon, explored and uncovered the subterranean secrets of Memphis, travelled through the Empty Quarter of Arabia where he discovered the dark, nameless and dangerous city below Irem. He had excavated, partially, the abandoned cities in the depths of the Sahara.This had been the start of his contact with Cthulhu. The breaking of his mind. Mankind had abandoned those cities for a reason, and Merlin remembered the brave priests of Ptah.
He tried to preach his visions, tried to explain about these old gods and the fate of mankind, but got stoned out of every town he entered. Merlin found him in his tent, by a small oasis just outside of Damascus.
As he fell asleep, Merlin entered his mind. My god, it was a mess, Merlin quickly catalogued what was there and realised he didn’t have to add anything, this man knew as much as he did, no wonder he was insane. All Merlin needed to do was nudge him into writing his book.
It took him years, but eventually, burnt by the sun and feverish from lack of sleep, food or water, it was finished, he even bound it, in camel skin saved from when he had to eat it, tied with sinew and written, partially, in his own blood.
Alhazred crawled out of the desert surrounding Damascus and died on the steps of a mosque. The young Imam took in the body, dressed and performed the funeral rites, all the while glancing, fearfully, at the book on his desk. He had opened the cover and seen, scrawled in blood, the words Al Azif, or The Noise of Demons and quickly slammed it shut again. Finally, he decided to forward the book to the Great Mosque of Kairouan and let the scholars look after it. He wanted nothing to do with this foul Necronomicon.
Merlin sat back. There was a lot more he could send out but, for the time being, he had done what he had set out to do. That was enough. He needed a break, a rest. He was going to travel for a while, musing over the idea he fell asleep in front of the crackling fire.