Ch.138Act 1: Ch.9 – The King Sleeps in Carcosa (7)

# July 12, 1929, 3:30 PM

## Arkham Police Station Holding Cell

### Arkham

The officer approached. He jangled a large ring of keys and opened the iron door.

“Follow me.” A dry command.

Another officer followed behind me. His baton remained holstered at his waist. Compared to the other detainees, I suppose I was about as dangerous as a fat house cat. I assumed they were taking me for questioning. I pinched the back of my left hand slightly. The familiar pain registered.

But we weren’t heading toward the interrogation room. It was an office with no nameplate. An older uniformed police officer greeted me. A few documents and a pen lay on the table.

“Be more careful next time.”

This made no sense.

* * * * *

Last night, the police arrested me. The charges were trespassing on government property and arson. I claimed innocence. Regarding the trespassing charge, I argued that there were no warning signs or notices indicating it was government property. As for the fire, I flatly denied knowing where it had started.

“Where’s your evidence that I set the fire?”

The police couldn’t produce any. Moreover, I wasn’t even alone there. Professor Henry Armitage, Professor Francis Morgan of archaeology who had worked with Armitage on the Dunwich incident, and Professor Annie Hartwell from MIT’s Chemistry Department. The three were alive but had been taken to the hospital by ambulance, I was told.

The important question was: just as I and those three could move around freely there, could they rule out the possibility that someone else had started the fire?

Naturally, the police couldn’t answer that question. All they could do was intimidate me, but what could they do? I wasn’t carrying even a paper match. Fortunately, I had lit my lantern at the architectural office and carefully set the match down.

Then the police pulled out my shattered lantern.

“So what does that prove? I threw the lantern because I panicked when the fire suddenly spread. Do you think I’m crazy enough to start a fire near the reservoir in the middle of the night?”

“Prove it.”

“After you prove I started the fire.”

In the end, the detective in charge washed his hands of the matter by throwing me in a holding cell. The jail was neither busy nor empty, so I was placed in a solitary cell. When morning came as I lay curled up on the metal bed, every joint in my body ached. The smell of fire still clung to every fiber of my clothes.

What I couldn’t understand was the new detective assigned to my case. He seemed about to call me out but then received an urgent phone call and put me back in the cell. After that, no one bothered me.

Except for lunch—a cardboard-tasting hard muffin and a cup of coffee—the police didn’t even look my way. I couldn’t figure out what they were planning.

* * * * *

The uniformed officer’s “tsk” sound snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Sign here, gather your belongings, and get out. Unless you’ve developed a taste for those dusty muffins?”

“They’re not bad when soaked in coffee.”

“Is that so? My wife will be pleased. You’re the first person to compliment them.” The gray-haired officer smiled warmly.

I scribbled a signature on the line and received my belongings. A thin coat. A revolver. A paper bag containing the Necronomicon.

“Let’s check it.”

And then a woman’s voice. As always, wearing glasses and dressed in a suit—Federal Bureau of Investigation Agent Scully. I didn’t react quickly to her sudden appearance. Agent Scully smiled, lifting one corner of her mouth.

Somewhat dazed, I took out the book from the envelope and opened it. There didn’t appear to be any torn or damaged parts. I nodded to indicate everything was fine, and she opened the police station door. It was time to leave.

Neither of us spoke until we had crossed two intersections. Eventually, we came to a park with a small gazebo. Sitting side by side on a bench, we looked out at the Arkham afternoon. The sky was overcast, and it seemed like it might rain at any moment. I pinched the back of my left hand. The familiar pain registered.

“Emma Scully.”

My guess must have been correct, judging by how Emma burst into laughter.

“Your powers of observation have improved.”

“Catherine doesn’t laugh like that.”

That wasn’t entirely honest. I knew from her wrist—a burn scar that looked like it came from a snake-shaped bracelet.

“So. Why did you set the fire?”

“And why are you impersonating your sister? You even cut your hair short like hers. It used to be straight.”

“How childish. What’s next? Something like ‘I asked you first’?”

Instead of answering, I looked up. Above our heads, tattered spider webs dangled from a long branch. It seemed a rather large spider had lived there. The cocoons caught in the web were already empty.

“Would your sister be angry if she knew?” Emma stretched her legs out.

“Given Catherine’s temperament, I think she would.”

“As I recall, she wasn’t such a righteous person.” There was a hint of bitterness in Emma’s smile.

“Professors Armitage, Morgan, and Hartwell were investigating the reservoir. They made up a story about academic research, but it was actually a request from the Bureau. We knew strange things were happening at the reservoir but didn’t know how to approach it.”

“Why did the Bureau become interested in the reservoir?”

“Thanks to Senator Annette Cole.” People on the street had started running, perhaps because a few raindrops had begun to fall. But neither Emma nor I moved.

“She wants to solve Arkham’s chronic water problems. The water quality of the Miskatonic River isn’t very good. And conveniently, there’s a reservoir in western Arkham that’s been built but not utilized.

What happens next is predictable. Civil servants wanting to impress the Senator are eager to launch public works projects. Contractors are slipping money to get in on the action, and the Bureau, which dislikes Senator Cole, wants to tie this situation to corruption charges. Of course, they won’t rush to ‘operate’ until the ‘tumor has grown large enough to cut out.'”

“What does that have to do with those three professors?”

“A folklorist, an archaeologist, and a chemist—strange combination, isn’t it?” Emma smiled again, lifting one corner of her mouth.

“It’s interference. Either finding culturally significant heritage at the community level, or discovering something in water quality tests. Senator Cole and Arkham City promote the western reservoir as safe, but citizen groups supported by the Bureau are demanding new water pollution measurements. In the midst of this, an MIT chemistry professor visiting personally would be significant, wouldn’t it?”

“And you?”

“Tracking.”

“Who?”

“You.”

There was no hint of joking in Emma’s eyes.

“You’re a person of interest. It’s hard to distinguish whether incidents follow you or you follow incidents. Haven’t you ever found that strange?”

I’ve never found it strange. I know that’s how things are with me and Crayfield.

“Your methods are rather rough. Judging by the people you associate with.”

Though it wasn’t particularly funny, Emma bent over laughing. They were identical twins and surely looked the same, yet it was amazing how different she was from her sister.

“It makes me a little sad. I’ve always wondered why your social circle is so limited, and now I think I understand. Anyway, let me see your left hand. I’ve been smelling something rotting, and I thought it was from a dead rat in that trash can.”

Again, I failed to react properly. Emma Scully forcibly grabbed my left hand and examined the back of it. The long tear and pinch marks were still there. She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and recited an incantation in a low voice. Outwardly, the wound showed no difference.

After completing the ritual, she opened the Necronomicon from the paper bag. She turned the pages with the familiarity of someone flipping through a phone book. Her hand stopped at one place. Judging by the blood stains along the edge, it appeared to be the very page where I had cut the back of my hand.

I couldn’t tell what was written there. But Emma devoured the words with her eyes.

“This is your blood.”

Emma pointed to the bloodstain at the edge of the page. I nodded.

“Do you know what’s written on this page?”

“No.”

“The front side is about Azathoth.” Emma didn’t even whisper. Like calling a neighborhood dog’s name or reciting a favorite restaurant’s name, there wasn’t a hint of hesitation in her words. Was it because that wasn’t the “true name” of the entity? Or was it because she was the last guardian of the forgotten city?

“Why this page in particular?”

“Coincidence.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But there’s no such thing as perfect coincidence in this world. Slipping on ice might be a coincidence, but the fact that you were on that road in the first place isn’t. For whatever reason, you went out. The relationship between coincidence and inevitability is like ‘conflict.'”

Emma twisted her index and middle fingers together.

“Kudzu and wisteria climb up healthy trees. But kudzu twines to the left, and wisteria to the right. When the two become entangled, they’re difficult to separate. Their properties overlap in many ways—they’re tough, have deep roots, climb up things—the only difference is direction.”

I remembered what Crayfield had told me when we first met. That there are countless patterns in the world, and you can find them if you just look. I let Emma ramble on because that thought was strong in my mind.

“They say this world is a dream that Azathoth is having. If he wakes up, this world disappears. So his children try to keep Azathoth from waking up, to keep him dreaming, by singing lullabies and telling stories. Stories that preceded the beginning of the universe and will continue beyond its end. Isn’t it similar to Arabian Nights?”

Having heard this story several times before, I wasn’t particularly moved. To be honest, I was thinking, “So what?”

“Don’t you find it strange?”

“What’s strange is reciting from an ancient text as if it were a romance novel on a gloomy, crowded street.”

“Well, if you’re asking me to wear black clothes and stab bat hearts, I’ll have to decline. It spreads disease.”

“What’s strange about it?”

“For a god… well, I don’t know if it’s just my preconception about gods. But if all he can do is sleep and wake up, yet waking up alone can annihilate an entire world—is that impressive or ridiculous?”

“That’s why he’s called the ‘Blind Idiot God,’ isn’t it?”

“You were pretending not to know, but you knew all along, didn’t you?” Emma Scully elbowed me in the side.

“Be honest. Does this frighten you? Do you feel terror that such a god occupies the position of ‘supreme deity’?”

“No. Perhaps because it seems so absurd…”

“That’s exactly my point. It’s strange. How did such a foolish god rise to the pinnacle above other terrible things, things too horrible to name?

I’ve seen countless humans who are more bestial than any beast. They claim they did it because an evil god commanded them, but many of them were worse than the evil gods themselves. I understand! That’s how minions are.

But such things generally come from fear, horror, terror—something imprinted in our genes since primitive times, from the sense that we cannot possibly resist. Yet the most fearsome god is one who merely wakes from sleep?”

“Theology isn’t my specialty. Nor is it an area of interest. Though I do attend church frequently.”

“No. You should know. Why did you set fire to the forest, and why do you keep pinching the back of your left hand?”

“What are you getting at?”

Instead of answering, Emma quietly embraced me. It was more a gesture of comfort than affection. She whispered in my ear. She who had so easily spoken Azathoth’s name. As if truly afraid.

“Because the gods have taken notice of you.”