Ch.116Ch.8 – And Then There Was Nothing (1)

1929. 6. 20. PM 1:21

Southern Cathedral

Pollard Island

Crayfield and I returned to our daily routine.

The kind of work real private detectives do—investigating someone’s background, serving as a bodyguard for a day or two, finding lost items that can’t be reported to the police. Those ordinary tasks.

Pollard is a big city, and in big cities, various things happen. Jobs kept coming in, but Crayfield never took on two or three cases at once.

Partly because his motto was “steady and long” rather than “many at once,”

“Mrs. Margaret prefers diligent people.”

And partly because he wanted to stay in the good graces of Mrs. Margaret Graham, pharmacist and landlord.

Pharmacies in Pollard were divided into those affiliated with the mafia and those that weren’t. Among non-mafia pharmacists, Mrs. Margaret’s influence was absolute.

That’s why Crayfield couldn’t get “sedatives” prescribed at any pharmacy.

In his defense, Crayfield enjoyed alcohol but wasn’t living in alcoholism. His hobby was savoring small amounts of good liquor. He was a true connoisseur who would enjoy the same drink in five different ways to find which method was best.

But as Crayfield himself admitted, the Innsmouth incident had taken a toll on both his body and mind. It was true that he, who normally enjoyed moderation and balance with alcohol, had drunk excessively just to get drunk and forget.

From that perspective, Mrs. Margaret’s “one month alcohol prohibition” was a timely measure.

“I’ve always liked alcohol. And what era are we in? A time when you can taste pure human alcohol before artificial sweeteners are added. How can you ask me to miss the opportunity to taste genuine drinks that will only remain in records?”

It was during this period that Crayfield began frequenting the cathedral. Mrs. Graham was delighted, thinking Crayfield had found faith.

“Have you finally learned to fear God, Crayfield?”

When we ran into Mrs. Graham while she was meeting with church people, Crayfield slightly tipped his hat.

“Father Michael’s sermons are quite good.”

“Well, I’d prefer you attend church, but the cathedral is a fine choice too. That priest does a lot of good work.”

Publicly, Father Michael and the Southern Cathedral did much for poverty relief, child education and care, and medical services. Of course, this was possible largely because Mother Superior Abasina and the other nuns played significant roles—their mere presence was enough to deter troublemakers and mafia interference. The secret bar was still operating, and the mafia, having seen what happens when someone messes with the nuns, knew not to cross the line.

“Ah, you’ve come?”

Father Michael always welcomed us when we visited. And as always, he led us to the underground storage. Father Michael’s shelves were filled with alcohol, and he and Crayfield would drink various spirits while engaging in connoisseur conversations.

Father Michael traveled abroad frequently, and Crayfield had knowledge about the history and evolution of alcohol. Some of his knowledge was ahead of its time from the perspective of people in this era. Crayfield would pretend not to know and suggest possibilities like, “What if we aged it this way?” and the two would have serious discussions.

“I wonder if you’re visiting too often.”

“Many people drink alcohol, but few cherish and love it. What’s wrong with meeting a true enthusiast?”

And then they would return to talking about alcohol.

When they reached topics like “how the Little Ice Age affected vineyards and wine production” or “how Irish, German, and Italian brewers who came to America found compromise between their hometown flavors and American tastes,” I would excuse myself, claiming I’d had a bit too much to drink.

“You came?”

As always, Abasina would be waiting in the courtyard. And we would lightly hold fingertips and head to the nuns’ private garden.

The small garden was full of the nuns’ personal touches. Each had decorated their allotted plot according to their own standards, so individually, each was quite refined. That meant that when viewed from a step back, it lacked any unity and was utterly chaotic.

“Everyone has a strong personality,” Abasina said with a bright smile.

In the garden, I told her about Innsmouth. I related what happened as plainly as possible but glossed over the clockwork. I tried to appear calm, but Abasina seemed particularly displeased whenever the topic of the clockwork came up.

Instead, we talked more about Catherine Scully’s twin sister. Since returning to Pollard Island, Emma Scully’s spiritual form had not appeared.

“Well, I may not be an ordinary nun, but that doesn’t mean I know everything about the world. Hyperborea is something I’m hearing for the first time. I don’t know much about shamans or wizards either.”

Abasina, momentarily distracted by a butterfly fluttering around the garden, pursed her lips with a thoughtful “hmm.”

“Still, I can tell it’s different from something harboring malice or being a ghost. How should I explain it? Like astral projection, where the body is in one place and the consciousness moves separately… if such a thing exists. Actually, I’ve only read about it in novels and never seen it myself.”

At the end of our conversation, Abasina placed her hand on my chest.

“More than that, this is what worries me.”

Vines.

In Abasina’s eyes, something like kudzu vines was growing from my chest. It wasn’t physical—naturally invisible to the eye and intangible—but from a spiritual perspective, it was essentially “something unclean clinging” to me.

“I thought it was simply a crack before. But it’s not. It’s a growing plant. It’s not causing any harm right now, but still, having something like this growing…”

Then Abasina would hold me tight. It was a somewhat difficult embrace to understand. An ailment that even the patient doesn’t know about but only the doctor can see.

“I really can’t take my eyes off you. Why do you keep coming back injured… why…”

Her sigh was enough to make my throat burn. I told her it was nothing, as I always did, and that I was fine.

“I’m afraid of losing you,” she said, refusing to let me go. Like a child afraid of falling into a deep sleep and never waking up again.

“I could take a bullet for you. I’d be fine even with a wooden stake through my heart. As long as you’re by my side, I can always live. And then I can always protect you. But when you come back injured like this… do you know how upset I get? Do you know how powerless and pathetic and foolish I feel?”

There was even resentment in Abasina’s eyes.

“If you didn’t want me to worry, you shouldn’t have gotten hurt. If you thought you might get hurt, you should have run away. Instead, you stupidly take all the hits and feel all the pain! Why are you so stubborn? That’s it. From now on, if you’re going somewhere, take me with you. You know I’m good at fighting, right? Stop just smiling! It’s really annoying. You hurt my feelings and you’re smiling?”

Then she pinched my arm hard. As always, I had to think of something to cheer her up. Crayfield’s stories about fools always worked well. Candies and jellies bought from the street bookstore were second best.

“Do you think I’m a child?” she would say, but she would pretend to feel better anyway. Today, however, nothing could reassure her.

“Should I meet that agent?”

Abasina blinked.

“I could ask her to tell me more about that sister person. She might know what this thing in your chest is…”

But I didn’t have Catherine Scully’s contact information. And I didn’t want to worry Abasina that much. Even now, she had no intention of leaving my side.

Not knowing what else to do, I just stroked her shoulders and patted her back. Slowly, leisurely, as one would do to a child. By the time Abasina’s breathing slowed,

Something glinted on the ground.

White stones, something like crystals, were scattered at regular intervals along the drainage ditch. Someone had clearly scattered them deliberately.

“Oh, those? Our priest sprinkles them around. It’s called alum, and he says snakes hate it. This is a secret.”

Abasina looked around and whispered in my ear.

“Actually, alum isn’t very effective at keeping snakes away. Snakes just dislike it, apparently? But did you know our priest is surprisingly superstitious?”

Seeing Abasina smile, I felt relieved. She seemed to be in a better mood. Whether she truly felt better or was just pretending to be cheerful, I wasn’t sure. Still, it was quite unexpected to hear that the portly priest was afraid of snakes and sprinkled alum around.

“The other nuns and I told him, ‘Father, alum isn’t very effective at keeping snakes away!’ but he doesn’t listen. Our priest is very brave and good at fighting, you know?

But he particularly detests snakes. The other nuns say he wasn’t always like that, but he became that way after visiting Mexico once.

It was quite a long time ago, before I was in America, so I don’t know much about it. He still does it even though there are no snakes on Pollard Island. Hmm…”

Abasina seemed to be pondering something.

“Right, I just remembered something. Come here.”

She took me to the statue of the Virgin Mary in the garden. The benevolent Virgin was barefoot, and beneath her feet was a snake with an apple in its mouth.

“The snake was called the first tempter. The creature that corrupted the first humans. Originally it had limbs, but God punished it to crawl on the ground forever.

But if you look at the story closely, the snake is portrayed as a very wise creature. It cleverly deceived the first humans with persuasive words.”

I asked how the snake had deceived them.

“It’s quite fascinating. What it said was, ‘If you eat this, you can become like God.’ When you think about it, that’s a very peculiar thing to say. Not ‘you’ll never die’ or ‘you can play and eat forever,’ but ‘you can become like God.’

What’s more interesting is how that statement has been interpreted. The interpretation has changed according to the times. In societies with fixed classes, it was read as a warning not to challenge authority. During the Enlightenment, it was read as a warning about human arrogance. In modern times, it’s read as a representation of human desire.

Isn’t that what classics are about? They can be read differently depending on the era, and however you read them, they make sense.”

Then what does it mean for the woman to be standing barefoot on it? I became curious about the meaning.

“Oh!”

Abasina let out a small cry.

“Beast. Do you see that?”

Below the statue of the Virgin. On the gravel.

“It’s so tiny. A baby perhaps? This is my first time seeing a snake on Pollard Island.”

A small baby snake was flicking its tongue and looking up at us.