“We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.”
H.P. Lovecraft
Lambert, of the family Philpot, took his seat and fixed his attention upon the vacant dais. He was an itinerant nibling of the same dynasty that innovated and distributed the dirigible, of which had quite famously propelled the Fair Isle of Gillion into the world with such ebullience. He was far from the bright lights of Arcton, many miles away from the filth and smog of the capital in the south. For a gentleman such as he, surrounded by many other puissant notables from across the country, to be partaking in such a scandalous affair, why it would have been the talk of the newspapers, both rag and respected, from Yarlford to Sartone, and everywhere in-between.
Lambert crossed his legs and adjusted the leather straps of his mask where it pinched. His was that of the Fox, the scavenger and most mischievous of the Hidden Spirits. The heat of that uncommonly sweltering autumn in the month of Gelan, even so far north, had cast the clearing in a damp mist. They were nestled within the wildings of Helmfirth, ten miles east of the mining village of Nantgarth, where his room waited in the only passable hotel for miles around. Lambert felt a trickle of sweat sliver down his spine. The temperature of his body ascended underneath his exquisite suit, procured from Proctor and Hobbs, a beautiful piece, but wholly unsuited to the odd climate.
They sat, those respectable, and in some cases notorious, few in a wide circle, bemasked and apprehensive, their many faces festooned with the beastly facades of the Hidden. The Fox that adorned Lambert, the Rabbit, the Badger, the Hedgehog, the Owl, and many more of the creatures of the forest. The gathered fidgeted in suits of fine materials and dresses of delicate fabrics as the tension escalated to its summit.
Lambert felt it in his stomach, and it surprised him. He usually had a cast-iron constitution and had anticipated being the last to feel the effects, but it appeared he was the first. It started deep within his bowels with a white-hot agony, causing him to grit his teeth. But the sensation was fleeting, to be replaced with a tingle that dispersed throughout his body until he felt as if his very epidermis rippled. Shortly, he noticed that the others around him had begun to react to the concoction in a comparable manner, with the lolling of heads and tapping of feet. But that was only the beginning.
As before, Lambert felt it first; the tingling, head lolling, and discomfort lifted, and the veil of the world lifted with it.
The towering trees that had kept watch around their seated persons, where before they were verdure shadows, abruptly became slender points of light. The night sky high above, where before was passing beyond dusk, now became a pinpricked wonder of stars, awash under an iridescent canopy.
Lambert felt both at peace and elated as the concoction took hold. He had been given a small glass filled with mushrooms of strange origins and fermented to a liquid. It tasted ghastly but it had done the trick. He glanced around at the faces of the others, and the masks bedizened with the Hidden came to life, moving and smiling, their wooden features exploding with expression.
As emotions continued to rise, the moment arrived.
Sitting upon the dais, Lambert saw a figure where before there was none.
Her hair, forged from the very fabric of nature and reminiscent of creeping vines, coquettishly cascaded down from her skull. Her orgone dress, fashioned from a kaleidoscope of flowers in an astonishing variety, fluttered as if propelled by a light breeze. Her sempiternal skin glistened, near pellucid, so clear Lambert could see her azure lifeblood as it pumped around her ethereal figure. Her dainty feet were bare.
“I,” she proclaimed, her voice like the rustling of autumn leaves, “awaken.”
Upon hearing her voice, Lambert and the others slipped from their chairs in adoration and came to their knees on the dirt of the forest floor. She glanced at their masked faces and smiled, causing the congregation to cry out in joy.
“Whom,” she whispered, her voice now like the trickling of a babbling brook, “have you brought to me.”
As soon as her words departed her sumptuous lips, the sacrifice was brought through the trees by men garbed in black, their faces obscured behind masks of dark velvet. They pushed through the gathered notables as they churned in ecstasy with a fair-haired boy in tow. They threw the winsome youth onto the wooden dais, where he writhed, unaware of his fate, his eyes unfocused, naked as the day he was born.
She peered down at the boy, her cherubic face serene, her hair swaying in the unearthly breeze, and smiled. Upon seeing her features contort as such, the distinguished gathered, including the jubilant Lambert, sobbed with glee.
“You,” she remarked, her voice now like the pollinating winds on a fresh spring day, “have chosen wisely.”
She then dropped to her knees and crawled towards the prone boy, her manner now primitive and base, her face now etched with esurience. The youth observed her approach with wide, terrified eyes, but he was wholly powerless to stop her.
She mounted him and placed her knees upon his shoulders, took his head lovingly in her hands, lowered her angelic face, and began to feast upon his flesh, while Lambert and the gathered watched in enraptured delight.
The Strange Tales of Gillion from Amazon as a paperback for the paltry sum of £7.99 and on Kindle for even less, at a mouth-wateringly cheap, £1.99. This short story collection would make the perfect present for your friends and family who love a bit of weird, cosmic horror (who doesn’t!)
Thanks for reading.
Elliot J Harper
Author of quirky SF novel, New Gillion Street, published by Fly on the Wall Press, the short story collection, The Strange Tales of Gillion, and upcoming novel, The Peculiar Journey of Cecil Tabiner, to be published by Northodox Press.