Johannes Cabal: The Fear Institute

much of a path, but it was the first time they had seen anything approaching a cleared route and it heartened them, as surely such a thing would only exist close to the wood’s edge.

After a moment’s quiet discussion as to whether they should follow the path this way or that, then a quiet argument, then a quiet flip of one of Shadrach’s golden coins, they went this way, and hoped that Fortune would favour them. Fortune seemed a much better travelling companion than, say, Nyarlothotep.

But even Fortune may behave wilfully on a slow day when she is looking for amusement. They followed the path in as much silence as they could manage, listening for the distant cry of babies. None came. There was only the oppressive quiet, punctuated frequently by their own poor efforts not to punctuate it.

The path turned sharply to one side and suddenly they found themselves in a clearing, a true clearing in the forest, not just one of the patches of slightly lower tree density that had been all of their previous experience. It was not, however, unoccupied.

With the expenditure of great effort, sections of fallen trees, anything from three to six yards long, had been dragged from elsewhere and placed on their sides. Then the cores of the logs had been patiently removed, apparently by many hours of gnawing. The result was crude but effective dwellings, a whole village of perhaps fifty or so. Each log was swathed with sheets of some organic substance that at first glance appeared to be webbing but that, seen close to, must have been extruded as great flat sheets, addled and crazed with imperfections.

The explorers were just wondering what sort of creature could have made such a place when they noted evidence at their feet which answered that question. The stunted grass and weeds were dusted with thin grey powder of a shade and consistency they had seen all too recently.

‘It’s their village,’ said Corde, his sword never having left his hand since they had discovered the clearing. ‘Those creatures, this is theirs.’

‘They are all dead,’ said Shadrach, strictly unnecessarily, yet it still needed underlining. He peered inside a slightly more complex structure of two tree sections that had been bound together to create a small hall. Inside, football-sized egg sacs hung from the walls. Within every one, there was no movement. They dangled dry and flaccid, half filled with grey dust. ‘Even the unborn,’ he whispered.

As he stepped back, his shoulder brushed the rough lintel. With a loud crack, a great section fell away, dropping to the hard-packed soil and smashing to dust. As if the sound had been all that was required to start the collapse, the roof fell in, breaking into greyness as it tumbled down. The men instinctively clustered together as the destruction spread. Hut after hut came crashing down, the sound of destruction starting harsh, but ending soft. Inexpressibly disturbed, they withdrew to watch the creatures’ village vanish as suddenly as any baker abducted by a snark.

‘They are all dead,’ said Shadrach again, looking at Cabal with fascinated repulsion as if he were a cobra. ‘They, their kin and their homes are destroyed.’

Bose was watching the last of the tree huts become nothing very much with childish amazement. ‘I wonder if you got their pets, too, Mr Cabal? If they had pets.’ He considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, they looked the sort to eat anything vaguely petlike. I don’t suppose they were nearly so keen on companionship as they were on dinner.’

Nobody was listening to Bose’s ruminations. They were all too busy staring at Cabal, except Cabal, who was glaring back.

‘I say again, I am no sorcerer. The rules here, however, are apparently very different from our world in ways that we had not previously considered.’

‘That you had not previously—’ began Corde, but he was cut off by the increasingly testy Cabal.

‘Yes, that I had not previously considered. This world is disturbingly arbitrary, random . . .’ he looked for some term that would effectively communicate how repugnant he found it ‘. . . whimsical. I ask you, who spent so much effort planning for contingencies, did you ever consider anything even approaching our current situation?’ The question was only partially rhetorical, but Cabal was glad of the silence it provoked.

Into that silence crept the ever-perturbable Bose. ‘So . . . what do we do next? Shall we abandon the endeavour?’

Cabal shook his head, angry with himself for the weak leash on which his temper tugged eagerly. ‘That is not a decision for now. We cannot spontaneously leave the Dreamlands whenever we want to. We must either exit via another gate opened by the Silver Key—’

‘Will it be necessary to destroy some other hapless soul, Mr Cabal?’ asked Shadrach, coldly.

‘Usually not,’ said Cabal, blithely unaware of any implied criticism. ‘Gateways of the Silver Key rarely manifest in living creatures. Luckily, on this occasion it chose to do so in a poet and writer, not somebody important or useful. As I was saying, that is one way of re-entering the waking world. The other is to find a rising path, which brings one up and out physically from the Dreamlands. Those are few, and extraordinarily dangerous.’

‘As opposed to the nest of security and comfort in which we find ourselves now, eh, Cabal?’ said Corde.

Cabal looked at him coldly. ‘By comparison, yes, Herr Corde. This is a nest of security and comfort.’ He looked down the path leading away from the clearing that had once held the creatures, their kin, their homes and, presumably, their pets. ‘This must lead somewhere,’ he said, and without waiting for agreement, he set off down it. The others quietly followed.

Chapter 5

IN WHICH CABAL WANDERS FROM THE BUCOLIC TO THE NECROPOLITIC

The path did indeed lead them somewhere – and somewhere practical rather than to a cottage made of gingerbread or full of bears or dwarfs or all three. They emerged from the Dark Wood on a long, rolling meadow that sloped down towards a tree-lined road bounded by small fields of corn. The heavy silence that had travelled with them was lifted by clear air and sunlight, and their mood – but for the impenetrable sullenness of Johannes Cabal – lifted too.

‘That will be the road for Hlanith down there, eh, Cabal?’ said Corde, unaware of or unconcerned at Cabal’s metaphysical torment. ‘Finally, a bit of good luck on this expedition.’