Colony

By SpunSilk

Part eleven: Account

Deep into that Darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared dream before.

– Edgar Allan Poe

The old timer moaned softly and I glanced up at him, watching him return to settled sleep, before returning to the ledger book. I read the text slowly, the penmanship and language getting in the way of my being able to skim.

I had come that fatesome day to the mine with delivery of lamp oil, and I was there in the flesh when it was harrowed up. The men working below told later of their ordeal, the ones who escaped, I mean to say. Heaven have mercy on the poor souls who were too close when it was breached! The lucky miners told of how the men had pressed on, lower and lower in pursuit of the black rock and had at some un-plumbed depth, breeched a fissure that released the Miscreation, from his imprisonment, into our world.

I, at the top-station, felt the whoosh of dank wind together with the Headmen. Most shocking was the stench of it, many a man up-top was overcome by the air alone. But we didn't fathom what it was, hearing only loud reports of the panic among the men below. These came spilling out. After these, the Miscreation itself came at the men hammer and tongs. It flew in the air, without benefit of wings or balloons and all humanity scattered before it. It fired upon us, yet without fire-stock, with God as my witness I still do not know what was the weapon. The chaos at the mine-head was complete. I recovered partly from the first attack, but before I could fully overcome it, it took a second grip upon us more serious than the first. Many an unthinking skull fell dead. But I withdrew in terror to hide myself in a covert and waited for the attack to quell. I trembled there until the noise settled. I then came out of my covert and went on.

Horace, you yourself know more of the enemy than did we poor victims that day. You know this was a troglodyte from the before-times that had been loosed by the errant tappings of the coal miners deep, deep in the earth.

I glanced back to the old man on the couch. He was unquiet. I went to his side and asked gently, "Horace?" He was mumbling in that unknown language. "Friend, is your name Horace? Dowd?" I asked again.

"Aye." came his soft reply. "Horace Dowd."

This letter in the journal had been addressed to this old man, back when he was too young to understand what his grandfather had to tell him. He was sleeping again. I shook my head and returned to the desk.

The account continued;

The Miscreation had left the mine-head and had traveled forthwith to Banesville itself, where it immediately set-to the town there without warning. This I heard later from an elbow relation. Before it arrived, all vessels of milk were at-once curdled, and overturned of their own accord. This graveled and perplexed all considerate people through the city. Then came the most fright, for the light of the sun was blotted out to the eye by half. Animals of all classes were put to a panic as it passed by, straining at their ropes, or rising up and fleeing altogether. Townsfolk would tell later of the raucous stink that smelt of sulfur-rock and many were there who fell gut-ill where they stood.

Here, then, it seemed to pass by, and honest men rose and gathered themselves together in amazed talk. Once news arrived from the mine-head, all were fearsome.

Twice more did it return from its sojourns thru the air, and cast its shadow over the town as it passed, each time causing panic among the folk, many of whom ran –as is proper– to the church to pray for deliverance from the unknown. For it is written in the Psalms, "My God is my rock, in whom I take refuge". They questioned the poor pastor insistently.

On the next pass, the shadow left the heights, and did plummet to the street, landing with a deafening crash at the side of the old Blacksmithy. This caused the entire building to burst into unnatural flame. No human soul dared approach to quench the flames, and it burned at will. Yet as they watched, a human form did come forth from the fire itself – but not a human soul. The large human form was the embodiment of the Fiend itself, and it stood surrounded by flame and the tight scratch of the destruction it had wrought, and extended its hand calmly outward. From this hand did spew out a stuff like molten metal which flew out towards various on-lookers and fell (as if well-aimed) onto their faces. These victims did then fall where they stood. This gruesome business continued until the Fiend grew tired, or bored (I know not which) and, turning again into the stuff of shadows, the thing again rose to fly over the city and disappear once more.

I myself was on the road, far from this action and returning to the town on shaky legs from the mine-head, when the Vision came upon me. Lahabiel appeared to me. Horace, you know I tell the truth and have no need nor thought to lie to you. She stood before me in the road (though she was not perceived by any other man). She was large and magnificent, as surely all angels in heaven be. I was struck dumb with amazement, but she calmed my fear, and bid me listen and mark her words with great care.

She then explained that the breech and been noticed, the cries of the people had been heard, that the prisoner was loosed, she explained that such as the Miscreation was not meant to be here above with mankind, but was meant to be held deep in the earth, for the end-times. Further insight into this she did not offer, and it has left me with much to think on for many a year since that day. She did offer instructions on how to hobble him, 'tis she showed me the symbol that would repel him. She explained, gently, as if to a young child, that the troglodyte must, at intervals, returned to the deep lair for reasons known only to it (and of course to Lahabiel; she by rights knows much unknown to man). She urged me to contain him again, in said lair, when he was returned, as per her instructions, before the vile thing knew we had something in train.

I frowned at the graphic that followed. The journalist had sketched diagrams of circles – touching – in columns (I had no clue what they might mean), nine in number and each 15 high, being sketched with the circles on the top being slightly smaller than the ones at the bottom of each column. Each circle included the angular symbol I recognized from the outside of the house and general store. It would be 'symbol that repels', I'd bet my last dollar.

I puzzled on the person of Lahabiel. She didn't have to be at the level of an angel in my mind; she could have been just another 'large animal veterinarian' type, from out of the Ether. I continued reading.

When I arrived at the town, I proceeded to the church-house and told my tale of the vision, in great detail, with divine instruction that every house should defend itself with Lahabiel's symbol. But the towns-folk were in such a state of fear and confusion and competing theories, my account was lost among many. My words concerning the angel were true and clear. Be that as it would, they were shy of trusting the account. I insisted, enthusiastically, that they must listen; that I held the answer to the crisis, but they did not listen.

The sad result is; no soul believed my instructions – calling me 'dreamer', 'delusional', and terms much worst.

At this point I grunted sympathy for the journal writer. Oh yeah. Been there.

Time was short, and I was not to ignore the instructions for want of a larger number than I had on my side. Together with my son, your father, I painted the symbol on such safe-places as I had access to, our home and my store, so as to offer safe harbor to those that believed my vision. These numbered very few; myself, your young parents, and by extension yourself. We placed mother and child here safe, and Lawrence and I set our sights on returning to the mine.

The evening was coming on, and the tiny script of the journal was illegible in the dim light of the setting sun, as well as in the dim light of the oil lamp I had found and lit with matches from the General Store. I sat with the old timer through the night, alternatively watching his condition and snoozing in a sadly abused arm chair. The morning found us both red-eyed, but alive.

At the first real light of the morning, I was back at the ledger-book while Horace slept;

Here we gathered the stones as Lahabiel had instructed me, and with these lay-in-wait in the covert that had originally harbored me. As she had fore-told, the troglodyte did return home to roost after some hours, to refresh himself in his native rock. When we observed this, how we sprung into action! We constructed the cairns as per my vision, stone upon stone, for their special blessing. When we had finished, we felt great relief and lightness, for we knew in our bones we had done what needed doing.

But the pinch of the game had not yet arrived.

Once the cairns were in place as she instructed, the enemy later attempted to emerged again at a point, exceedingly peevish at how we had overreached him. Although contained – not physically but spiritually, which for him was as iron bars for men – his anger and vile emotions erupted through the ground itself as wicked plants with large thorns upon them as thick as heckling-comb teeth. The townsfolk, the entire area was caught off-guard in his fury, and all those not protected with the wisdom Lahabiel had offered were caught in the pinch.

I need not retell what happened here, as you have grown up in full view of the results.

Horace, we were 800 souls. Now reduced to four.

Now cut off from countryside, your parents and myself made do eating Indian meal, sea bread, dried neat's tongue, and what have you for belly timber. Daily we check the demon-vines near the mine-head, as the cursed things want to approach Lahabiel's barrier and scatter our construct and the Miscreation's prison-door.

Horace, my dear son, this I see as the very focus of my life; that the responsibility of protecting the cairns lies heavy on my shoulders. We four here quartered are the only chance humanity has for the continued containment of the vile Miscreation. We must not fail in this Task.

Here the fluid script ended. I flipped through the remainder of the ledger, but the rest of the book held only blank pages.

A shrill squeaking rudely interrupted my musings on the troglodyte. My attention went first to the old man, but he was still sleeping peacefully. I scanned the room, then rose and found Edward R. Murrow with his paw, claws and all, hard on a grey mouse. The tiny captive squeaked, terrified. The cat played with his prize, biting lightly – not to kill but for the shear pleasure of the capture. I frowned at him. "Cold," I commented. He glanced at me for less than a second before returning to his entertainment. He would allow the mouse to wriggle free, only to skillfully pounce again on the rodent's blind mad dash for safety. He rolled happily onto his back with his toy pinned in a three-way capture – both front paws and the teeth.

"That's just cruel," I chided him. "Eat it if you must, but just put it out of its misery." The cat looked at me, unimpressed, then let the mouse free once more – only for the joy of capturing it again. He was even purring, the lout. Again and again the mouse thought it had a chance, and ran, but the end result was never in question in the cat's mind, nor in my own. I returned to the my chair, shaking my head. Trying to instruct that cat was an exercise in futility. He would do just as he pleased.

I watched Horace sleeping, and pursed my lips in thought. This fellow had played the part of that dutch boy in the old story, with his small finger on the leak in the dyke all that long, long night through. The dutch boy had saved his entire town by holding back the water with his finger. Now this fellow here had kept this troglodyte contained. And the outside world – the outside world who had benefited by his actions – had not a clue.

Huh. Didn't that sound familiar, now?

When he woke, I offered him thin slices of fresh apples from my lunch-cloth for breakfast. The beef jerky was out of the question, as his poor teeth couldn't handle it. He was still weak. No signs of his being able to walk any distance just yet. I sat next to him on the sad frame of what used to be a padded chair. His thinking this morning seemed more clear, although his voice was weak and breathy, and his hands had started to tremble. I decided to make good use of this lucid moment. "Horace," I started, "This troglodyte… have you ever actually seen him yourself?"

"Yes. Thrice. My grand-father was there in flesh when it rose up from the rock…"

"I know, I've been reading the account he left you," I indicated the roll-top desk with a jerk of my head.

"Good."

"When you saw him, what did he look like, what form did he take?"

"Good!" he exclaimed again weakly. "You know he can take many forms. Surely heaven has chosen a qualified replacement for the Task! I have seen him appear two times as human, also once as a shadow. My father saw him as each of these, and once saw him as a great beast."

"Where have you seen him?"

He spoke slowly. "Inside the enclosure at the entrance to the mine when I came to tend – he, wanting to dispel the barrier but unable to approach it. He cannot… leave the deep earth through the cairns barrier. These times I saw him, I hid myself."

I was amused by the way this guy talked. Had the language really changed that much since this guy got isolated? "How do you maintain the cairns? What is it you do for them?"

"Delicate… are they. But strong in power." He paused for lack of breath. "I must check… daily, cut back thorns when needed. Thorns grow slowly towards barrier… Other cutting tools will work as well, after a fashion, but best is the special handsaw, use this! It has been blessed!" this little speech winded him, and he paused to recover from the effort. "They grow toward the cairns, as if wanting to scratch from the back. But only slowly do they manage. Lahabiel's words are true."

"You're getting tired, you should rest again." I walked over to the desk to examine the papers that lay under the ledger book.

"Come!" the old man called to me suddenly. I returned at his gesturing and sat down next to him on the couch where he lay. "Here. Take this now." Horace moved to take the chain and pewter amulet from over his head.

"Why?"

"For protection... take–"

"No, no my fine fellow," I protested, placatingly. "It's doing a dandy job right where it is." I patted it back in place on his chest.

"I have no more the need, and you now carry the Task. Take!" He was up on one elbow in his enthusiasm to see the amulet hang on me. "Take!"

I protested again, but he became agitated and would not settle down until I relented and pulled the chain over my own head. Once the amulet hung over my heart, he relaxed, and gave his whole weight (scant as it was) back to the frayed couch. I watched the deep relief settle across his face.

"Okay, friend," I instructed, "this is what we're going to do: we'll stay here until you feel strong enough to make it to your cabin. Then, you'll get your strength back there, and afterwards you can tell me more about this thing and this task of yours at your leisure. We'll take a trip to the mine, even, check out that he's snug. How does that sound, eh?"

He didn't even try to answer me. His breathing was shallow, and he groped anxiously for my hand. When I offered it to him, he grasped it between his own with all his feeble strength.

It's an amazing structure, the human hand. It can be the very symbol of any connectedness we have... human hands grasping human hands. Its skill-set separates us from the lower animals. And, the subtleties of its tactile sense are almost unmatched –––

My hands noted, clearly, the moment he died.