Ch.98

Crayfield nodded as if he understood.

“Now I’m starting to see how things are unfolding. Senator Anet Cole wanted to find ‘something’ in Innsmouth related to the Salem witch trial records, but couldn’t enter freely because of Innsmouth’s unique culture of rejecting outsiders. So she used the House representative election as a pretext to dispatch a special investigation team. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Since a senator from the ruling Patriot Party took the initiative, the opposition Progressive Party came along without knowing anything.”

“Precisely.”

“And when the congressional investigation team stepped in, civic groups wanting to exert their influence in political circles tagged along. Talk about a tangled mess. What are the chances of the senator’s retrieval plan succeeding? I hear the cave in question is filled with toxic gas.”

“Some preparation is needed. MIT is analyzing it now, and while the exact composition is unknown, they say it has high concentrations of hydrogen sulfide and ammonia. Full-body protective suits, goggles, and oxygen tanks will be necessary. Since Innsmouth is a fishing village, getting diving suits shouldn’t be difficult. But there’s another problem.”

The doctor looked back and forth between me and Crayfield.

“The location in question must be accessed through the basement of the Dagon Temple. And this town still has many Dagon worshippers. Even for a congressional investigation team, it would be difficult to ignore if the devotees express their refusal. And then there’s the bomb…”

Armitage hung his head as if in mourning.

“Why a clockwork engineer from the British Empire is carrying out terrorist acts on American soil, specifically in Innsmouth… that’s something I cannot fathom. I know a bit about ancient evils and unknown malice, but I know nothing about the foolish actions of fellow humans.”

“Has the perpetrator been identified?”

“The Federal Security Bureau confirmed it. They say it’s definitely Professor James Moriarty’s technology. An unexpected variable in Anet Cole’s careful planning. Agent Catherine Scully doesn’t share much about the bombing case. In truth, it has little to do with my investigation on Innsmouth, the Deep Ones, and the data collection on Dagon.”

Weariness was evident in the professor’s complexion. Crayfield and I exchanged some casual conversation before getting up to leave. Before departing, I casually asked about Hyperborea.

“As it happens, Agent Catherine Scully requested some materials, which I’ve prepared. To briefly introduce it, Hyperborea was a mythical continent believed in by ancient peoples. If I had to name the closest existing land on Earth, it would be Greenland or Iceland. Just a moment… here it is. The part you might find interesting is probably about the White Priestess. The first capital of Hyperborea, Commoriom, was destroyed by a monster that endlessly divided and revived even when killed. The White Priestess had prophesied the downfall of Commoriom early on.”

The professor handed me the materials. Crayfield asked in a somewhat suppressed voice:

“I think ancient peoples had a tragedy fetish. In Greek mythology, there’s a woman named Cassandra. She accurately prophesied the future, but because no one listened to her, they couldn’t avoid destruction. It makes my chest feel tight, like eating potatoes without milk. Is the White Priestess of that kind?”

“Well. Records about the White Priestess are as hard to find as those about Hyperborea itself. But I can certainly speak about the fate of prophets. I believe the true meaning of prophecy lies not in the prophet or the content of the prophecy.”

“Then what?”

“Go out on the street. You’ll find people wailing that the world will end tomorrow without any basis, and intellectuals talking about grain prices and economic outlooks. Aren’t they all prophets in a way? But we don’t believe the homeless person on the street, while we listen to experts. That’s not just because they’re well-dressed. It’s because their outlooks align with our reason and common sense.”

Armitage let out a long yawn.

“Mr. Crayfield. There are more prophets than necessary. What we need is discernment. Which voices to listen to. How much to listen. It’s the human community that determines the status of prophecies and prophets. The average reason and discernment of the community determine the value of a prophecy. You mentioned Cassandra. You even called it a tragedy fetish. But I think there might have been a collective self-reflection among ancient peoples there. Regret for not seeing or hearing the clear signals of impending doom.”

Though I was no prophet, I knew enough to realize that if Armitage continued speaking at length, he would be exhausted. We bid him farewell and returned to our room.

Crayfield’s bed was against the wall, and mine was by the window. Lying down facing the window, I could see Innsmouth town below the balcony, but it was too dark to make anything out.

Since Crayfield was curious about the priestess and Hyperborea, I told him about what had happened between Catherine Scully and me in my mind. I also mentioned how the Lady of Mars had called Catherine Scully’s twin sister, Emma Scully, the priestess of Hyperborea. After a long silence, I thought he had fallen asleep.

“What a tragic story.”

I asked him what was tragic about it.

“The feeling of knowing that doom is approaching, but being unable to do anything yourself and having to leave the future in the hands of foolish humans. I was just thinking how terrible the world must look to such a person. Assistant, if you were that prophet, what would you do?”

I replied that I wasn’t sure. But if such a situation arose, I would still try to find something I could do. If all I could do was watch, I would watch. If I needed to flee, I would flee. If I needed to persuade, I would persuade, and if I needed to trust those around me, I would trust.

“Interesting. Why?”

“Because I would hope others would act the same way.”

I answered. Crayfield didn’t ask further.

* * * * *

June 4, 1929. 10:00 AM

Hotel “Gilman House”

Innsmouth

Breakfast was clam chowder soup and bread. The moderately cooked fish and shellfish with smooth cream blended perfectly, making it quite delicious. I didn’t know who was in the kitchen, but I thought if they paid a bit more attention to hygiene, this place could easily be considered one of Innsmouth’s best restaurants.

When the appointed time came, our protagonist appeared. He had well-groomed hair with pomade and wore a navy striped suit. His eyes were very narrow and long, almost like slits.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

The aide rubbed his hands together energetically. Crayfield responded with good humor:

“You seem quite energetic despite witnessing such a terrible scene yesterday.”

“I was a bit shocked, but we still have to do what needs to be done. First of all, the Innsmouth police and Federal Security Bureau have agreed to track down that wire killer. We just need to focus on our job—listening to the concerns of Innsmouth residents. I’ll handle the tedious task of talking to people. You two, please make sure there’s no commotion. Can you manage that?”

“I’m curious about the extent to which weapons use is permitted.”

“Obviously, you can’t strike first. Firearms are only allowed when the other party draws theirs first. And honestly, it shouldn’t be that dangerous. We plan to spend the whole day going around Innsmouth.”

This kind of bodyguard work was more challenging than specific, one-off tasks. A moment’s carelessness could lead to irreversible consequences, so we had to maintain a certain level of tension at all times. Fortunately, an officer named Martin, dispatched from the Innsmouth police station, did the driving, allowing us to focus solely on protection.

Charles Klein, the aide, and Officer Martin seemed to have planned the schedule in advance. We entered senior centers, community halls, and fishermen’s huts. “How are you today? How’s the economy in Innsmouth? Have you experienced any inconveniences in your life?” The people of Innsmouth seemed uncomfortable with such interest and kept avoiding answers. They wouldn’t look us in the eye, gave vague responses, and openly showed irritation if our stay extended too long.

“I tell you what. I’d be happier without outsiders like you.”

This came from a particularly grumpy old fisherman.

“Innsmouth has always been in turmoil because of outsiders. Can’t you just leave us alone? We were living happily on our own, and I can’t understand why strangers keep meddling in our town.”

“No one lives alone in this world, sir. No town can survive in isolation either.”

Aide Klein spoke gently, but the fisherman crossed his arms and leaned against the log cabin wall.

“That’s old talk, young man. In these days of good delivery services, what more do we need? If we need something, we just ask someone going outside the town, and that’s it. If we want to sell something, phone calls or newspaper ads are enough. We don’t need to be chummy with neighboring towns to make a living.”

“Sir, surely there must be something the people of Innsmouth want from America?”

“Are you not listening, or are you deaf? I said it clearly. Leave us alone. Live your fancy lives among your fancy people. Every time I see those civic group folks, I just want to shoot them all with my shotgun!”

“Civic groups? What did they do?”

Klein persisted. The fisherman sighed heavily.

“They ring doorbells and hand out pamphlets, saying ‘We can’t stay like this. We must unite!’ They barge into yards while people are napping and put up posters without permission. They cause disturbances with their street marches and protests. Those troublemakers came here because of you fancy Washington congressional people. And they’re filling young people’s heads with nonsense!”

“Who are you talking about? Us?”

“All outsiders are the same! ‘You need to go out into the wider world.’ ‘America is an equal country, so Innsmouth people deserve equal treatment.’ This seems very different from the America I know. Just go to Ipswich! Not long ago, I heard someone say, ‘Hey, which parent do you take after more? I mean, which one was the fish?'”

The old fisherman protested, almost foaming at the mouth. Klein smiled awkwardly.

“But those are just the words of some ill-mannered individuals. Most sensible Americans would never…”

“Let me tell you something, Washington man.”

The fisherman wagged his index finger.

“America might be an ideal country. But Americans are not. Sure, there are gloomy and cranky Innsmouth people too. We have thieves and murderers, gambling addicts and con artists! But for the same crime, the treatment of a ‘white person’ versus a ‘frog person’ is worlds apart. So why do you keep telling us to go outside, to leave Innsmouth? And what about those ridiculous cosmetic surgeries!”

“Cosmetic surgeries?”

Klein asked in surprise.

“What cosmetic surgeries?”

“What? You came from outside and don’t know about this?”

The fisherman growled.

“Young folks are getting ‘beauty’ procedures. Good heavens, why undergo surgery when you’re not even injured? After those procedures or whatever, they do look somewhat like ‘white frogs’! That fellow Penny, the one who got his throat cut, he had such foolish notions too! Nothing good comes from mixing with outsiders! Dagon, please take us away!”