Chapter 7: Tea and Mushrooms

Saturday night Neal was once again revisited by his recurring dream—the windswept plateau at Abydos, the altar, the starfish, the brilliant night sky filled with stars. Then the descent down the granite steps into the abyss of terror.

When he'd first encountered that dreaded pit, the shapes were too amorphous to be recognizable, but as he continued to dream, they began to coalesce. Last night he recognized one—the creature from the bookshop. The others, though . . . What monstrosities were they?

As soon as he woke up, Neal sketched as much as he could remember from the plateau. He'd decided to treat his dream not as a vision but as a crime scene. He documented everything as carefully as possible—all, that is, except the pit. How could he draw the sounds, the smells, the horror of a realm so evil?

One small comfort—he wasn't as wrecked by the ordeal as on previous occasions. No cold sweats afterward, no shaky hands, no dizziness. Was he getting used to it? Or perhaps it was the thought that it was no longer simply a dream.

Neal had arranged to meet Peter at ten o'clock on the steps of the Miskatonic Library. The early morning was chilly and Neal wore a heavy turtleneck with his jeans. On Sunday mornings, the quad was at its quietest. Most students were sleeping in after their Saturday nights. He used to be one of them.

Neal paused by a tree in the quad, a tall sugar maple. For a moment he saw Kate sitting at the base of the tree, looking just like he'd photographed her. Smiling face, teasing eyes, her dark hair swept back in soft coils . . . Neal swiped a quick hand across his face and strode quickly through the quad and up the hillside to the north.

The university library was housed in one of the most distinctive buildings on campus. It perched on an isolated knoll as if to accent its peculiarity. The slate roof of the old red brick building bristled with witch's-cap turrets. As a freshman, when Neal first heard the stories of strange lights and unearthly noises emanating from the turrets in the dead of night, he'd thought the upperclassmen were simply pulling his leg. Then he experienced them for himself and he didn't know what to think. He'd asked Mozzie about them and he muttered something unintelligible. When Neal persisted, Mozzie told him to ask the head librarian about it. Very funny. If there ever was a woman who could turn blood into ice with a mere look, it was Lavinia Armitage. Mozzie knew her well. She didn't appear to intimidate him. But then nothing much did, except, of course, the police.

When Neal arrived at the library, Peter was already waiting for him. "Any dreams last night?" He asked as they walked through the front door.

Neal nodded. "The same one," and fell quiet. Should he mention the encounter the previous evening? The dreams Peter could handle. But what would he think of Neal hallucinating monsters on the streets of Arkham? Despite Mozzie's reassurance, Neal continued to believe he was projecting impressions from the land of his dreams onto the real world. Elizabeth hadn't used the word schizophrenia last night, but she didn't need to. She hadn't mentioned him seeing a psychiatrist . . . yet. But it was coming.

"What is it? Did you have another vision?"

Neal's resolve wavered. Peter was looking at him questioningly but with the eyes of a scientist. And after everything else that had gone on, didn't he have the right to know? Neal had already told Mozzie.

When Neal started to relate his encounter with the creature, Peter stopped him mid-sentence. He led Neal to the back of the library which contained seminar rooms, dismissing the protest of the student assistant, retorting, "On a Sunday morning, no one will be holding a seminar."

Peter grabbed the first available seminar room and closed the door behind them. As he grilled Neal for details, Neal wondered if Peter hadn't missed his calling. He would have made a great prosecuting attorney. Neal gave a full account and added Mozzie's explanation. Surprisingly Peter didn't question the validity of what he'd seen and refrained himself to a simple statement. "You should have called me."

"I'd already disturbed your Saturday night enough," Neal protested. "Besides, what could you have done? I didn't see any point in going to the police. I've no desire to be considered the town lunatic."

"You have to stop being so hard on yourself. There's no point in denying what happened. I can understand why you don't want to go to the police, but if we're going to work together, you can't hold things back." Peter paused for a moment. "You're sure your advisor didn't show you a sketch from the Necronomicon?"

"Positive. Our discussions were limited to an analysis of the language. Thaddeus was preparing a translation of the complete work and wanted my assistance, but Dr. Armitage denied me access to the vault. She said I was too young and couldn't handle it."

"That sounds like Lavinia. I've had many a teaching assistant flee in terror from her blandishments. You were fortunate to have Thaddeus as your advisor. It was my understanding he'd stopped mentoring grad students."

Neal nodded. "I'd heard that as well and couldn't believe my good fortune when he agreed."

"I doubt luck had much to do with it. You must have impressed him enough to make him change his mind. It's a real shame what happened to him. I studied the works of his father, Laban Shrewsbury, the noted anthropologist. He was an inspiration to me. For him to die at such an early age was tragic. The family appears to be cursed. How is Thaddeus?"

"They say he'll likely never recover. He's still in a coma in the hospital. I visit him whenever I can."

"Did they ever discover what caused him to fall into a coma?"

Neal shook his head. "Brain fever, tumor, and an unknown tropical disease have all been mentioned. Shortly before he fell ill, he asked me to finish the translation for him. I went to Dr. Armitage to plead my case." He hesitated over whether or not to tell Peter what happened. Would he think he was making it up? But compared to what had gone on the past couple of days, it seemed relatively tame. "You'll never believe what she had me do."

"Try me."

"She led me into her office and had me sit at an ornately-carved round table. That office . . . I assume you've seen it? It looks like something out of the Renaissance with ancient instruments, books, and arcane-looking equipment sharing space with worn tapestries. The chamber is so dim that it's difficult to see much."

Peter nodded. "It reminds me of an illustration for the laboratory of a medieval alchemist."

"Exactly, and she's the sorceress. Dr. Armitage filled a Chinese porcelain basin in the center of the table with a toffee-colored liquid which she'd heated on a hotplate. Then she had me hold my head over the basin and breathe in the steam. It made me so disoriented that I could only stand it for a few minutes before I had to sit back. Then she pressed her fingers on my forehead and held them there for one, maybe two minutes before releasing them." He glanced over at Peter and winced. "Afterward she told me not to bother her for four years."

Peter chuckled. "Lavinia pulled that stunt on me, too."

"She did? And you passed?"

"Only after failing my two previous attempts. How old were you when you attempted it?"

"That was a year ago when I was twenty-one."

"Well, let's give it another try. What's the worst that can happen? She makes you breathe in some more fumes?"

"Do you think on a Sunday morning she'll even be here? I'd planned to do research in the rare book room while you're in the vault."

"She'll be here," Peter said confidently. "She's always here. I suspect she lives here"—he darted a mischievous glance at Neal—"when she's not flying around on her broomstick."

Neal chuckled in spite of himself.

"That's better. You should smile more often. Even fake smiles are better than none at all. You smile enough, you'll wind up conning yourself it's real, and soon it will no longer be a con." Clapping him on the shoulder, Peter said, "Come on, we'll face her together."

What was Peter? A one-man booster club? Neal had never been around someone like him—so positive, so self-assured. Correction—Mozzie was self-assured too. Even if his theories didn't make any sense at all. He'd once expounded in all seriousness about the cosmic ramifications of the moon being made of green cheese. Neal had tried to treat the subject with the gravity which his friend expected but wound up snorting in his face. Mozzie wasn't worried that he was going insane. He relished being a university eccentric. Was it time for Neal to stop fighting and join him in the loony bin?

Dr. Armitage's office was on the top floor of a corner turret and was accessed by a steep, spiral staircase. Peter led the way up the narrow steps. When they arrived at the top, he gave a solid rap to the carved oak door.

At first there was only silence but after about five minutes, the door slowly creaked open. Dr. Armitage stood in front of them, peering at them from over her glasses as if they were a previously unrecorded species of insect. She had dark brown skin. Her long hair was piled up high on her head like the turret her office was in. The sturdy laced bootlets with high heels she wore made her almost as tall as Peter. "Why are you disturbing my studies?" she demanded impatiently. "Peter, you know better."

"Now, Lavinia, you know you're thrilled to see me. I always bring you such interesting discoveries."

She sniffed, looking somewhat mollified. Turning her steely glance to Neal she froze him in place with one glare. "Didn't I tell you not to bother me for another three years?"

"He's seen things, Lavinia," Peter said quietly.

She gave Neal a sharp look and then stepped away from the entrance. "Well, why are you just standing there? Come in."

Her office looked more cluttered than ever, with the pale light struggling in through the stained-glass panels of the window doing little to dispel the overall gloom. The oak table Neal remembered from his previous visit was still in the center of a worn oriental carpet. Three high-backed oak chairs with velvet cushions were grouped around the table. Last time there'd only been two chairs. It was almost as if she'd been expecting them. The cushions must have once been a rich emerald-green but were now faded to a dingy slate-gray, with the original luxurious color only visible around the cording. The air was pungent with a heavy musk fragrance, but Neal couldn't see any evidence of incense or candles.

Neal looked up. The exposed beam ceiling rose high into the witch's cap roof. Peeking out from behind a beam were two golden eyes. Thaddeus had mentioned once she kept pets. Was that one of them?

Neal longed to peruse her books. Many of them appeared more ancient than those in the rare book room. Some of the volumes were in Greek; others in Latin or Arabic. A manuscript was lying on her desk—an Arabic script he didn't recognize. Neal approached her desk to take a closer look but she brusquely ordered him away.

Lavinia instructed them to take their seats at the table. It was difficult to call her by her first name but that's how Peter addressed her and he should as well. After all, he was no longer a student. Besides, addressing her as Lavinia made her seem not quite so intimidating. Neal was reluctant to sit down after his previous experience but she was in no mood for compromise. Glimpses of elaborate arabesque carvings could be seen around the edges of the threadbare tapestry covering the table.

"You need tea," Lavinia said abruptly. She had a teapot on a hot plate on a side table and poured them out steaming mugs of the liquid. Neal breathed in the fragrance. It was redolent of sandalwood and reminded him of a spice shop he'd visited in Oxford. "Now tell me about these things you've seen."

As Neal sipped the tea, the words tumbled out. To his astonishment he found himself going into far more detail about the dreams than he had with Peter. He even described the staircase he'd found beside the altar at Abydos. His descent to the pit, the glimpses he'd had of the underworld below, the shapes, the haunted piping, the gibbers, the smells too vile to . . . Lavinia cut him off as he felt his breath quicken.

Peter choked back an exclamation when Neal described the staircase. Neal was by this point beyond caring what he must think of his nightmares.

Lavinia poured some emerald-green liquid from an opaque bottle into a glass and commanded him to drink it before proceeding. Although the liquid looked toxic, it was oddly refreshing and he felt calmer afterward.

When Neal described the hold the starfish had on him, Peter elaborated on how he'd discovered it at Abydos and gave a detailed account of the reaction Neal experienced when he first saw it. Lavinia sat with an impassive expression on her face as they related the incredible events. She didn't appear to be the least bit surprised. It made Neal wonder what it would take to astonish her.

Surely his vision of Seth being in trouble, the attack at the bookstore, and the creature would provoke a reaction, but instead she could have been a stone statue. Was it her very aloofness that caused him to be so garrulous? He hadn't intended to be and was dismayed that he went into such vivid detail about the beast. But it was like he was on a treadmill and he couldn't stop until she'd wrung every detail out of him.

At the end, she stared at him with those disconcertingly large eyes for a long moment then stood up. She walked over to a side cabinet and pulled out the Chinese porcelain bowl Neal remembered from his previous visit. Placing it on the table, she muttered, "Wait here," and departed to an inner room.

"That went well," Peter commented.

"Really?" That was hardly the way he would have described it.

"Relax. Lavinia likes you."

"Why do you say that?"

"You're still in one piece."

Neal broke into a sheepish grin. "When you put it that way . . ."

Peter chuckled. "Just remember to breathe and you'll be fine."

Lavinia returned with a glass beaker, but this time the steaming liquid was chestnut-brown and slightly viscous. She poured some into the bowl and commanded him to breathe deeply.

Neal leaned over the basin. It smelled of the earth, rich and organic. He expected to see mushrooms floating on the surface and looked into the liquid for them, but couldn't find any. As he stared into the basin, the liquid grew increasingly dark till it was almost black. Slowly glowing shadows started to emerge, shimmering shapes transforming before his eyes. At first tiny, they grew larger and larger . . .

"That's enough," Lavinia commanded. She yanked the bowl away. Neal was startled to discover his face was within an inch of touching the surface. The room was spinning slowly. He sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. Peter was looking at him with concern.

Neal lifted a hand and nodded, then closed his eyes to stop the spinning.

He felt fingers on his forehead. Must be Lavinia's. They pressed into his temples and stayed there. Her fingers were warm. He relaxed into them . . . When the pressure lifted, it was as if he were awakening from a deep sleep.

Lavinia was looking at him thoughtfully when he opened his eyes. Finally, she nodded and said, "You'll do. Perhaps there's something in the vault that will answer your questions. I'll add your name to the security list."

She removed the basin and placed it on a shelf. Going over to the bookcase, she retrieved a small ornate ebony chest and set it on the table. Sitting back down, she opened the box and pulled out a small brass key. "This is for you. Thaddeus had left it with me to give to you when the time was right. I believe that time is now upon us. You'll find a cabinet inscribed with his family name in the vault. This key is now yours to unlock the cabinet's mysteries."

A flood of emotions surged through Neal at her words—sorrow for Thaddeus that he couldn't work with him on it, appreciation that she was granting him access, and an overwhelming curiosity to see what was in the cabinet.

Lavinia turned to face Peter. "A word before you leave. Follow me." With an imperious gesture, she directed him to a side room and closed the door behind them.

Neal gazed at the door in perplexity. He could hear the low murmur of voices inside but nothing intelligible. He glanced around the chamber. From high in the rafters, bright eyes peered down at him. He twisted his head and stared up at them to see if they moved. At first, he'd thought there was only one animal, but now there appeared to be two. They looked too large to be bats. Squirrels? Owls? Maybe monkeys? If he strained to hear, he thought he detected a soft chittering. They appeared to be as fascinated with him as he was with them.

Peter and Lavinia were gone for about five minutes. When they reemerged, Lavinia wasted no time on small talk, directing them to leave so she could get back to her work. She escorted them to the door but stopped Neal with a warning hand on his arm. "Remember, you're a novice in the vault. You must build up a tolerance. Limit your exposure at first."

"How long is too long?" Neal asked, but she'd already slammed the door. He turned to Peter for help. "What does she mean by that?"

"That was Lavinia being Lavinia. She gives a new definition to the meaning of the word cryptic. Two hours sounds like a reasonable length of time to me. We're scheduled to meet Cyrus at three o'clock. That makes a good breakpoint." Peter started back down the narrow spiral staircase.

Neal glanced at his watch. They'd spent over two hours with her. He would have estimated only a half-hour. "What did you two talk about? Anything you can share?"

"Sorry, but she advised against it, and frankly it would only raise more questions than answers."

Neal didn't answer but his disappointment must have been apparent as Peter added, "You did well. She said you're the youngest to have ever passed her test. That's quite an achievement. Did you have any visions when you stared into the liquid?"

"Vague shapes are all I remember. I believe they were starting to coalesce but then I blacked out, or at least that's what it felt like. Was I out for long?"

Peter shook his head. "It didn't appear to me that you lost consciousness at all. Your head was slowly sinking toward the bowl. Just when it looked like you were going to break the surface of the liquid, she pulled you out of it."

"You've been through it. Did you have any visions?"

"Sounds similar to what you experienced. Nothing definitive. I wondered if I was tripping. The smell of cardamom was very strong."

"It smelled like mushrooms to me."

"I'm not surprised the fragrance was different. As I recall the liquid she gave me was the color of mahogany." He paused for a moment. "When you described your dreams, you included far more details than what you told me."

"Do you blame me? The first part was crazy enough. If I'd told you about the staircase, you would have hauled me off to a padded cell."

"No, I wouldn't have," Neal had spoken half in jest, but Peter was surprisingly serious. He stopped and turned to face Neal. "That staircase . . . you've been living with that image in your mind. That demonstrates to me, you're tougher than you look. One thing I can tell you from what Lavinia said. She told me not to dismiss your dreams."

"What did she mean by that?"

"I don't know. She offered no further explanation." He continued down the staircase.

Neal shook his head in frustration. "I wish she weren't so cryptic. I probably have better luck asking her pets in the rafters."

Peter stopped so abruptly on the stairs that Neal almost tripped on him. "What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see their eyes? Those golden orbs? I wondered if they were owls or perhaps monkeys. All I saw were the eyes."

"I didn't see anything," Peter said, giving him a strange look.

"Great, another vision." Neal groaned in frustration.

"Well, if you were having a vision, according to Lavinia, it may be real although possibly only real in Lavinia-land."

Neal chuckled. "Do you know how many people have access to the vault?"

"No, but I don't imagine it's much more than a dozen. It's a privilege that Lavinia rarely grants."

What was the meaning of the ritual? The first time Lavinia had subjected Neal to breathing the steam from the liquid, he'd thought she'd invented a novel way of denying access to the vault. But if that were true, why hadn't she simply turned him down? Peter seemed to accept her idiosyncrasies. It made Neal all the more curious to know what Lavinia had told him behind closed doors.