Cthulhurotica

Maria Mitchell SONG OF THE CATHERINE CLARK

“That is where my grandfather saw her on the winter solstice of 1873.” Abe Gilman thrust his bony, wart-addled finger towards Devil’s Reef and took another swig of his plum-flavored poison while Dryden scribbled the information hastily. “Of course, no one but a gossip rag would report on the ship having been seen here in Innsmouth. My grandfather was quite angry because the tabloid made it out to be a kind of ‘Flying Dutchman’. The Catherine Clark vanished after departing from England sometime in the winter of 1872. As far as the legitimate records are concerned, she sunk at sea sometime after her departure and was never seen again.” Abe took another swig and Dryden wrinkled his nose in disgust as a dribble of slime clung to Abe’s chin.

“Thank you, Mr. Gilman. I certainly appreciate you taking the time to recount to me what your grandfather knew of this affair.” Dryden Brewer looked cautiously at the Innsmouth waterfront while Abe swaggered drunkenly away along the pier. Dryden watched in mounting disgust as Abe continued to swill down the liquor as he stumbled toward the sea. He was soon joined by a cluster of other old men, and the usual sharing of the bottle commenced. Dryden knew from experience that they all smelled of rotten fish, and hurried away. He had spent two months in Innsmouth and had begun to loathe the Massachusetts town teetering on a desolate coast. Just getting anyone in the town to speak to him at all had been a feat of Herculian proportions. Outsiders were seldom welcome in Innsmouth, so most of Dryden’s information was gleaned from his voracious study of the historical articles on loan to him from the nearby Miskatonic University.

What had frustrated Dryden most about Dyer Gilman’s account was none of the historical documents detailing the vanishing of the Catherine Clark could confirm that the ship had ever been anywhere near Innsmouth. The ship registry noted that its destination from England was New York. It could have been steered off course by a gale, but if it had ended up in Innsmouth in 1873, where was she for that whole year she was unaccounted for? Dryden puzzled it over. Piracy was common back then. The Clark could have been commandeered by sea wolves and then used to transport contraband. Innsmouth had a dark reputation that had been whispered about by its neighbors for over a century and a half. The town was universally shunned by anyone living near it (except, of course, by those living inside of it), the general impression being that its citizens carried themselves outside the laws of mankind. Dryden had hoped that Dyer’s grandson, Abe, would supply the concrete corroboration he needed. Instead, the man had been supremely unhelpful, and Dryden grudgingly walked up the trail back into town.

One of the few people who treated Dryden like a welcome guest was Hitch Leeds, manager of a coffee shop near the pier. He’d lived in Innsmouth for about ten years and most of his clientèle was comprised of the non-native longshoremen and other sailors who drifted in and out of Innsmouth Harbor regularly. Hitch smiled as Dryden entered the warm shop with a bit of mist clinging to his gray coat.

“Your special today, Dryden?”

“Please, Hitch,” Dryden replied with a halfhearted smile. Hitch set to work brewing a black coffee, laced with espresso, while Dryden sat down and set the bound articles from the university on the counter. Hitch cast an absent glance over at them.

“Light reading for the weekend, huh?”

“Not exactly. It’s a bunch of articles detailing that shipwreck I’m tracking.”

“I used to do a little beach combing myself when I was a kid, down in North Carolina. Down there, every kid goes through a phase where they think they’re going to be the one to solve the mystery of what happened to the Lost Colony of Roanoke. That’s how I used to spend a lot of summer days — scrambling around Roanoke with my cousins. All we ever found was cigarette butts and cans. Some shells.”

“My pursuit is even more mysterious. The Catherine Clark disappeared at sea, but according to at least one account, was sighted here in Innsmouth a year after she vanished.”

“I don’t understand why you put so much stock in that tale. Most likely it was a different ship that was sighted.”

“Wait a minute, Leeds. You don’t know the whole story about that.” Dryden smiled knowingly and retrieved from his binder the aged log of Innsmouth’s lighthouse keeper, Dyer Gilman. Clearing his voice, Dryden read aloud:

The beeping of the coffee maker wrenched Hitch’s attention back to the counter. Dryden smirked, knowing Hitch had been thoroughly mesmerized by the shadow of Gilman’s words cast over his mundane thoughts. Hitch retrieved the coffee and served Dryden and himself. He leaned over the counter, peering over Dryden’s binder.

“Let me see that article.”

“Be careful. It’s very fragile.”

Hitch looked it over with a critical eye. “This Gilman wouldn’t be related to Abe Gilman, would he? That boozer isn’t going to be a reliable witness, you know.”

“Dyer was his grandfather. I was just talking to him this afternoon. Getting confirmation.”

“You needed confirmation that he’s a drunk?”

“I wanted to ask him more about what his grandfather had seen. I didn’t tell him anything about what Dyer had written in the logbook. I wanted to see what he had to say. I don’t think anyone had mentioned the affair to him in a long time.”

Dryden sipped the coffee listlessly while Hitch studied the article in more detail.

“I really think you’re looking too hard for something that isn’t there. I think that there is something to be said about the simplest explanation here.”

Dryden frowned. “What is the simplest explanation?”

“That the ship was dashed to pieces in the surf and was never anywhere near Innsmouth. I know you hope to find the wreckage, but most likely, it’s lost forever, unless you find a way to sieve the entire Atlantic Ocean.”

Dryden’s brow furrowed but he managed to change the subject to more pleasant, emptier, topics before bidding farewell to Hitch. Dryden gathered up his articles and departed into the mist that lingered outside. It was cold but Dryden was used to it. At first it was a terrible biting thing, constantly reminding him that he was in a hostile place, so unlike home. It didn’t seem to bother him anymore.

As he slid into sleep amidst all his articles he felt his mind being pulled into a distant dream. He waited and saw the ocean creep up to meet him. In the depths of the tide pool he saw the flash of glimmering light. Dryden bent down to retrieve the stray jewel. Bedecked with winsome gems, the tapered claw was a barrette of some kind. Its razor sharp hair teeth made Dryden wince as one scratched his finger, leaving a red welt that wept a trickle of blood. He tossed it back into the water and as it fell to the depths of the churning waves he heard an echo of music bounce off the cliffs. It flooded his body with sensation and he staggered to keep his balance against the singing. It grew in volume and reverberated against the twisting caverns of his veins. He clutched himself against the pain of the melodic assault. He gazed out to the sea and saw the ship emerge from its depths. Its siren figurehead held its lifeless arms out to him. He listened and she sang. Her song rippled under his skin.

Dryden looked up to her and marveled at her topaz eyes that glittered with a demon light from beyond space and time.

“You are the song,” Dryden whispered in the darkness. She nodded with a predatory smile.

“I am the memory of man, or rather man’s desires. I am the witch’s light that burned before the creation of man. I am Lilith, Ia, Ishtar, Venus, the many guises that man has given me. I am older than the Earth. I was here before,” she said with a winged flutter of her long, silken black hair.

“Then why are you here now?” Dryden asked petulantly as she pained him with more desire by arching her naked form above him.

“I am here to make you realize your blood’s vast potential. You have within your veins the secret key to an eternity most mortals can only envy in vain as they race to the worms. You are of Deep One ilk. There are many branches of your family dwelling under the waves. You needn’t linger upon the mundane, earthly shore if you hanker for the reaches of time that beckon to your lively mind. I can take you through all the prisms you seek in your heart. I can thrall you into dimensions past and unborn.”

Dryden sweated with fear and lust and she snaked off of the ship and slimed her legs around his like two great serpents. She entwined around him, orifices sprouting from her body in a patchwork of blood-leeching passion. She kissed him and he tangled his fingers through her undulating black hair. She never stopped singing. It was the singing that penetrated into his organs and vibrated them with prickles of pain and pleasure and she sucked him, slimed him, and transformed him. She sucked every last warm drop of human blood from him and stripped him of every scrap of human flesh. He looked up at her as their maelstrom reached crescendo.

“My dear Dryden, it is time I take you to the sea,” she sang.