CHAPTER SEVEN: OXFORD

by Josh Reynolds

“Why are we down here again, Mr Mabati?” Roland Banks asked, as he and Trish Scarborough followed the man calling himself Nkosi Mabati down through the stacks of the Bodleian Library. Somewhere above them, students and faculty crossed Radcliffe Square, heading for class or home. Roland wished he was up there with them. He’d never been good with tight spaces and the close-set, heavily laden shelves to either side of them were feeling closer with every passing moment.

Mabati, leading the way, chuckled. He was a short, bald man, but broad, and dressed in what Roland thought of as the uniform of an academic: lots of tweed and a watch on a fob chain. Ritual scarification marked his round face, lending him a sinister air despite his otherwise innocuous appearance. “Because what you are in search of is not for public consumption, Mr Banks. Only by special permission of the head librarian can one visit the Chained Library – or by accompanying a fellow of the college with those privileges, such as myself. That is why Thorne sent you to me.”

“I’ve never heard of this ‘chained library’,” Trish said.

“Why would you have? Its existence is known only to those who might make use of its contents.” Mabati glanced back at them, a twinkle in his eye. “You two don’t strike me as would-be necromancers.”

Roland frowned. “Is that a joke?” The electric lighting overhead flickered oddly, and he thought he heard someone moving books nearby. His skin prickled with unease. Mabati had assured them that they had the stacks to themselves at this time of day.

“Only if you find it funny,” Mabati said. “The Chained Library lies below the stacks. When this area was dug out a decade ago, the builders encountered a strange abscess in the earth – a tumulus, built over centuries before. Certain persons of… discretion were employed to put the space to good use. They oversaw the construction of the Chained Library; the secret stacks of the Bodleian, sometimes called the Black Stacks by the ignorant.”

“And what’s in these… secret stacks?” Trish asked.

“Secrets, Miss Scarborough. I should have thought that was obvious.” Mabati stopped and indicated a heavy wooden door just ahead of them. “Here we are.” The door looked medieval to Roland; then, so did almost everything about Oxford. His feelings of unease grew. He felt like someone was peering between the shelves at them. He turned and scanned the stacks for any sign of an eavesdropper but saw nothing save books and dust and shadows. He’d been jumpy since Mexico. The whole world felt off-kilter to him these days. Like he was standing on quicksand. Trish, on the other hand, seemed as calm as ever.

He turned back to Mabati. “Great. Let’s get what we came down here for and go.”

“Are you always this impatient, Mr Banks?” Mabati asked, as he selected an iron key from the ring he’d been carrying. “Haste breeds waste, they say.”

“Who says?” Roland asked. He heard a thump echo through the stacks, as if someone had dropped a book. Was Mabati wrong? Was someone else down here? The thought wasn’t an appealing one. What if it was a trap?

Once, he might’ve considered such a thought to be mere paranoia; these days, he knew better. He and Trish were swimming upstream in this investigation. The attack in Mexico City had been a warning. Someone didn’t want them looking into what happened in Arkham, or Randall Tillinghast. Maybe it was Tillinghast himself, covering his tracks.

All he knew for certain was that they were on their own. He didn’t know about Trish, but he was fairly certain he was out of a job. He’d received a cable in Mexico City asking for his resignation. He’d expected it to come, sooner or later. His superiors hadn’t been happy about the investigation into Tillinghast from the start. He hadn’t replied yet, though he knew that he’d have to do so eventually. He wasn’t certain how he felt about it. He’d given so much of his life to the Bureau and now, for all intents and purposes, it was over. He glanced at Trish. Maybe the Cipher Bureau was hiring. She met his gaze and looked away.

It was hard to tell what she was thinking at any given time. Knowing her as he did, he figured she was calculating all the angles, looking for an opening to spring a few questions on Mabati. Though he’d given them no reason to distrust him, Roland still couldn’t help but feel that they were being played somehow. From what Trish had told him of Thorne and the Coterie, they were a tricky bunch; if Mabati were in with them, there was no telling whether he truly intended to help them, as he claimed.

A creak of hinges drew his attention back to Mabati and the door. The latter swung open, and a gust of cold, dry air washed over them. Inside was a large, circular brick chamber, lined with heavy lecterns of dark wood and lit by electric sconces mounted at regular intervals. The books that occupied the lecterns bore one commonality; all were connected to the pedestals by heavy chains, black with age. “Welcome to the Chained Library of Oxford,” Mabati said. “What you seek will be here. We simply have to find it.”

As he looked around, Roland found himself wondering whether that was true. That the answers they sought, about what had happened in Arkham and was still happening, were in this dingy sub-basement seemed unlikely at best. Then, everything about this case was unlikely, if not downright impossible.

“How can a bunch of worm-eaten old books tell us what happened in Arkham?” he asked. He’d had enough experience with ugly little books like these to know that they were almost always a dead-end – or worse. The world might be wilder and stranger than he’d ever conceived as a rookie agent, but some things were as certain as the tides.

Mabati looked offended. “These books contain the accumulated knowledge of cunning men, witches, and sorcerers from across the centuries, Mr Banks. Also, they are assuredly not worm-eaten.”

Trish cleared her throat. “I think what he meant to say was, where should we start?”

Mabati glanced at her. “That depends on what, exactly, you wish to know.”

Trish looked around. “How about we start with the Pilgrims of the Drowned City and go from there. What can you tell us about them?”

“Here, start with this copy of The Confessions of Clithanus – I translated it myself,” Mabati said, indicating a lectern. “As to what I know: if what you told me is true, they want you dead. Or, rather, Randall Tillinghast wants you dead.” He shrugged. “At this point, one is the same as the other.”

“So he’s a member?” Roland asked, picking up another book. It was old; the cover was made of something green, greasy, and flexible that smelled like low tide. The pages were hand-cut and unevenly bound. It was written in something that looked like Latin, but wasn’t, and the words seemed to squirm in the dim light. Mabati gently took it from him and set it back on its lectern.

“Better to say ‘the’ member. The founder, I believe.”

“And how’d you come by this information?”

Mabati grinned. “So suspicious, Mr Banks. But understandable, given the circumstances. The truth is, I, like many who share my… inclinations, have kept a weather eye on the situation in Arkham. What occurred was nothing less than the first sounding of the horn of the apocalypse. And Randall Tillinghast was the one who blew it.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“As I said, I pay attention.” Mabati indicated a second lectern. “Here, Gantley’s Hydrophinnae – mind the illustrations, they’re quite unpleasant.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “After you’re done with those, I suggest we look at our copies of Gaston Le Fe’s Habitants des Profondeurs and Unter Zee Kulten – the Von List translation for the latter, I think…” He trailed off, his expression thoughtful. “What else might be helpful? Ah – The R’lyeh Text, authors unknown. I believe there’s a copy here, let me – eh?”

Roland felt it, too; the air was different. Like just before a storm. The hairs on his arms and neck were prickling. His hand dropped to his weapon. Trish’s contacts had ensured they had weapons waiting at the docks, but he’d hoped not to have to use them. It was bad enough they were here unofficially; gunplay would only make things more difficult.

“What is it?” Trish asked, still looking at the book Mabati had directed her to.

“Something is coming,” Mabati said, unhelpfully. His expression was troubled.

Roland heard the sound of a book falling from a shelf outside, among the stacks. He waved for the others to stay where they were and stepped out of the chamber. Outside, the lights above the shelves were flickering oddly, and the air smelled heavily of dust. As Roland watched, more books toppled from the shelves as if pushed by an unseen hand. In the dim light, he could see the dust motes dancing on the air – no. Not dancing.

Changing.

The dust coalesced into something more or less man-shaped, and Roland felt his blood curdle in his veins as it slid towards him. There was a face there, in the swirling cloud, but not a human one. Something else; something awful. Large – too large for the cramped space, squeezing and ballooning towards him with terrifying speed. A voice like sour thunder rattled the stacks and set the shelves to swaying crazily. Precious volumes spilled onto the walkway or whirled about like leaves caught in an updraft.

Roland blinked as dust stung his eyes and he belatedly went for his pistol, but something caught him up in a strong grip – stronger than steel – and he found himself wrenched upwards, like a recalcitrant child caught by an angry parent. He groaned as the grip tightened; pressure built in his lungs, his sternum… his head. What might have been an eye the size of a tire rolled down to observe him, and a great, hideous mouth split in a malign, idiot’s grin. He couldn’t breathe; couldn’t think. Then – a crashing shout.

A voice – Mabati’s – rang out, and the dust stilled, if only briefly. Roland fell to the floor gasping, as the presence reared up like a startled cobra. It spoke in a rumbling gust, and the light bulbs nearest it burst in incandescent showers. Mabati stood firm. He shouted again; the words were in no language that Roland recognized but he knew a ritual chant when he heard one. Whatever Mabati was up to, he hoped it worked fast. The dust-thing looked like it was readying itself for another attack.

Trish was at his side a moment later. “Are you okay?” she asked, as she helped him to his feet. “It looked like that thing was wringing you out like a bar rag.”

“Felt like it, too,” Roland muttered. He watched as Mabati took a step towards the dust-thing. The entity retreated, grudgingly. It was still making noise, but it was somehow muted. Mabati began to gesture, as if shaping the air with his hands. The dust followed suit, condensing into a more stable mass. This seemed to pain the entity, because its struggles became more frantic. Roland wondered if it were trying to flee.

Mabati’s gestures became firmer. The dust compacted in on itself. The roaring became a squeal, like that of a small animal caught in a trap. Then, silence. The dust sank into invisibility. The rattling of the stacks stilled.

Mabati sagged, and Roland leapt to keep him from collapsing. “Is it gone?” he asked. The other man gave him a tired smile and nodded.

“It is no easy thing, banishing a conjuration like that.”

Roland helped him to stand. Trish picked up a fallen book and placed it on a shelf. She looked at them. “That’s twice now. I get the feeling that someone doesn’t want us following this trail.”

“We know that,” Roland said. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

Mabati mopped at the sweat on his face with a handkerchief. “I might be able to help with that. A summoning like the one I just undid has an… aftertaste. An imprint of the one who sent it. I think I might be able to locate the one who cast it.”

Roland looked at him. “Helping us might put you in the line of fire.”

Mabati grinned, but there was precious little mirth in it. “If what I suspect has come to pass, that is true of all of us, helpful or no. The world is in danger, and I would be remiss if I didn’t do my part.” He gestured fluidly, and dust motes danced around his fingers. Roland felt his scalp prickle as the air took on a briny tang. Mabati’s eyes blazed momentarily, as bright as torches, and he said, in a voice not totally his own, “Kingsport. That is where he is hiding.”

“Who?” Roland asked, but he already knew.

Mabati looked at him. “Randall Tillinghast.”

Roland looked at Trish. “Guess we’re going home,” she said.

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