They watched him go off in the direction of the bar, so did not notice Cabal’s quiet smile of triumph before it vanished behind a two-day-old newspaper.2
On the eighth day, New York appeared on the western horizon, glittering monoliths caught in the morning sun. As the ship approached and the famous skyline became more distinct, Cabal’s expression became more sour. Finally, he declared it the most phallocentric conurbation he had ever seen or even heard of, and that they should escape from it as quickly as they could because ‘These subcultures get ideas of incipient superiority, combined with decadence across the social strata that make them psychologically inhuman. They will be tribalised and not subject to recognisable norms. We may even have trouble communicating with them. Mark my words, if we don’t escape that hive as soon as we possibly can, things could go badly.’
Neither did their subsequent experiences undermine Cabal’s expectations. The customs official they met on landing used ‘youse’ interchangeably for not only the singular and plural second-person personal pronouns, but also for the nominative, accusative, dative and possessive forms. A man they asked directions of also claimed to be a native, but his speech drawled on as if he were giving a running commentary on glacial shift. In contrast, the woman in the ticket kiosk at Pennsylvania station spoke rapidly and without pause for almost three minutes, leading Cabal to suspect that she was simultaneously inhaling through her mouth and talking through her nose.
Only when they were safely aboard the Boston train and it was
‘I don’t know,’ said Bose, as he watched New York thin out around them. ‘It didn’t feel
‘You can’t get a decent bacon sandwich there, you know, old man.’
‘What?’ gasped Bose, scandalised. He glared at the slowly diminishing tall buildings. ‘Barbarians . . .’
Their first impression of Boston was that it had a far more European air about it, and was therefore patently more civilised and much more to everyone’s taste. As it was already mid-afternoon, they decided to break their journey there and find a hotel. They would reach Arkham the next day, and that would be soon enough.
That evening after dinner, they repaired to a private room, taking a large pot of coffee with them. Corde, Shadrach and Bose ranged themselves along one side of the table, cups and notebooks to hand, while Cabal stood opposite them in the manner of a lecturer.
‘It has been said,’ he began, ‘that what you do not know cannot hurt you. This would come as a revelation to many, if it were not for the fact that what they did not know had already torn them to shreds and giblets.’
‘I’m not sure that’s the context that—’ began Shadrach, a little prissily, but Cabal was not listening.
‘Our motto for this expedition, then, is
‘The Dreamlands are an inexact quantity. A cartographer’s and a demographer’s nightmare – or perhaps jobs for life – because the Dreamlands are constantly changing. Slowly, I grant you, but their tectonics are as hummingbirds compared to those of the waking world. I have maps, but their reliability must be suspect to a degree. Thus, we ask, and we ask often. Which brings us to the people.
‘As we have already discussed, there are two ways for a mortal to enter the Dreamlands – corporeally or incorporeally. In the former case, their body accompanies them and all is straightforward. In the latter case, it is not clear where the matter comes from to form the dreamer’s new Dreamland body, or where it goes to when the dreamer awakes. Many dreamers, of course, never return. Either due to accidents in the mundane world while they sleep, or by dint of the injudicious use of drugs to bring them into the Dreamlands in the first place, they die here, yet live there. It is impossible to be sure, but it seems likely that the indigenous population are all – or largely – immigrants from here. No, Herr Bose,’ for Bose was looking around, startled, ‘not specifically from this hotel. I mean from Earth and Earth’s prehistory.’
‘Wouldn’t they be a bit . . . you know, old, by this time, Cabal?’ asked Corde.
‘Time is a more flexible asset there, Herr Corde, but I take your point. The current natives of the Dreamlands were born and bred there from ancient dreamers who either could not or would not return.’
‘Is that fact, Mr Cabal?’ asked Shadrach, making copious notes in a flowing cursive hand. ‘Or supposition?’
‘The latter,’ said Cabal unabashed. ‘It is difficult to explain the localised racial traits if it is true, but not impossible. Perhaps, millennia ago, immigrants from Ancient Greece or lost Mu came there and settled close together. That is human nature, after all. And so those populations naturally have Grecian or Muite characteristics to this day. It is impossible to be sure. The Dreamlands are . . .’ he waved at his folder of notes, his distaste very evident ‘. . . very woolly.’
Corde, who felt too much orientation would dull the romance of it, was happy to change the subject. ‘Then let us simply be on our guard and meet the Dreamlands as they meet us. We shall pick up the gist of them quickly enough, I have no doubt. Now, Cabal, the Gate of the Silver Key. You have its exact location.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cabal was languid as he put the loose notes carefully back into their folder. ‘I know precisely where the keyhole is.’
‘Then . . . ?’
‘But I cannot give you a precise location.’
There was a silence, finally broken by Bose whispering to Shadrach, ‘He’s doing that thing again, like he did with the cats.’
‘I thought you had cast lots or some such . . .’ Corde resisted the urge to say ‘nonsense’ and instead said ‘. . . as a method for determining the current location of the Gate.’
‘I have, indeed,’ said Cabal, ‘and my findings have been precise and unambiguous. We shall catch the train to Arkham tomorrow morning and locate the Gate by evening.’
‘Why leave it so late?’
‘Because there will be less chance of witnesses.’
Shadrach regarded Cabal with the uncertain air of censure one might expect from a headmaster confronted by
