The Creeping Kelp

After all my pondering, deliberations, and misgivings, the time has finally come. My new charge has arrived from the New World in the hold of the Santa Angelo and it has been brought to the castle. The Inquisitor General has tasked me with discovering the true nature of the abomination, to make a full and careful examination and ascertain what manner of Inquisition might be made of it. It is a great honour, and one I will fulfil with all the diligence the good Lord hands to me.

There is a certain doubt in my mind. A cloud has hung over the proceedings since I read the journal of Captain Juan Santoro last night on his arrival in the Inquisitor General’s chambers. A dark evil is detailed in those pages, and although the Inquisitor General teaches us that all things are powerless before the truth of our Lord, I have grave misgivings about the thing I am about to see for the first time.

I have prayed all morning for the strength to fulfil my duty to the Lord, but still my knees feel like water and there is a cold pit in my belly that nothing can assuage.

But the Inquisitor has entrusted this matter to me for a reason. He believes me worthy of the task, the one man here who might have the perception and the courage to do what must be done.

My duty is clear.

It is time for the questioning to begin.

If there is a hell on this Earth then surely it is in this place here. No god-fearing man should have to face the horrors I have led my crew through on this day. I give thanks that I have brought us all back safely to the ship and I am much afeared with the thought of the return voyage, for the cargo is most foul and ungodly. But I would be remiss in my duty to the Church if I did not report on the things that plague this new land. If the Crown wishes, as I have been told, to colonise this place, then we must know what manner of things lay claim on it at present.

In truth, I know not what we have found. It began when we started to hear rumour of something being hidden from us in the forest to the west of the collection of huts that passes as civilisation here. The fact that something was being hidden proved most interesting, for until that moment, the people had been the most open and friendly of any I have met anywhere on my numerous travels and journeys in service of the King and Queen.

At first I did not wish to pry, but the rumours persisted, and the men began to clamour for action, having the scent of gold in their nostrils and the thought of glory in their hearts.

I took a party to the forest and we did indeed find resistance there, so much so that it became obvious there was indeed something hidden there from us, something of great value.

The natives died bravely defending it, and for most of the day we fought our way ever closer, thinking that we had stumbled on a great treasure. We fought through their defences, hacking and slashing our way to the centre of a dark temple that rose up high, even rising above the tall forest canopy. The temple itself was ringed with four concentric circles of burning oil, and several of our party took severe burns in their crossing, but all the men braved the fire, the thought of fortune spurring them on.

As I have said, we expected treasure. What we found was beyond our ken.

The temple was fashioned from a material unlike any we had ever before encountered; a green soapstone with jet black marbling that on close inspection looked like it might once have been alive. The stone itself was moist, almost oily to the touch and to a man we found ourselves trying to scrub the taint of it from our skin even as we climbed, still felling defenders all the way to the top.

We lost five good men on the quest for that treasure, and the men were dismayed when all we found at the top was a deep pool of what at first glance looked to be a thick tar. Fernando Vasquo stepped down into it, intent on exploring the depths, unwilling to give up the quest for fortune and glory. It was to be the end of him, and I will hear his screams from now until eternity.

I do not have the words to describe the carnage that was wrought on Vasquo’s poor body, but when the thing was done, there remained only several pieces of bone, white and shining as if picked clean.

Even then the men refused to leave, tearing at the stones, sure that there was gold to be had. But in the end, all we received for our vicissitudes was that bubbling pit of blackness.

I have had it sealed in a lead casket and will take it back to Seville.

But the journey will be long, for already it whispers in my mind, and I fear my dreams will be dark indeed during the long months at sea ahead.

“Already it whispers in my mind.”

I had given no thought to that phrase, believing it to be the product of a sailor’s base superstition. But now, having at last seen my adversary in this Inquisition, I know better.

When we opened the casket that had been brought to the chamber where the questioning was to take place, I originally bethought that we had been played false and that trickery was at work. At first glance the lead box seemed empty, its bottom a deep dark shadow. But as Brother Ferrer leaned over for further examination, something surged within and he was forced to step back, so suddenly that he knocked over a brazier and sent glowing coals skittering on the flagstones. Those of us present had to hop and skip to avoid burns to feet and the skirts of our vestments, and I almost missed the first sight of the thing.

It was only as I used a pair of forceps to lift one of the errant hot coals that I raised my gaze to the casket. I had the tongs held high ahead of me, and the blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid with the consistency of old pitch seemed to rear back, giving me time to slam the lid closed on the obscenity.

And that is when it happened.

There was a tugging in my mind, a probing as of intelligence. I knew immediately what it was doing, as it is my own profession also. Even as I sought to ascertain the form of my opponent, at the same time it was questioning me.

I am not the only Inquisitor here.

I pushed the probing thought away, closing my mind to it by reciting the first line of the Paternoster. I felt it go even as my hand touched the lid of the casket to close it. But there was something else, something I am loath to relate here lest it is discovered and my very sanity is brought into question. I only caught but a fleeting glimpse, just as the lid of the lead casket dropped back into place, but it was unmistakable. As the thing oozed to the bottom of the box a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck’s egg, opened… and blinked.

Calamity has overtaken us, as I have feared it might ever since I brought that damned casket aboard. The thing has plagued our dreams since the start, and the crew has been without sleep for many days. There have been mutterings of mutiny since the beginning of the month, and last night matters came to a head. Three crewmen took it upon themselves to rid us of our tormentor.

At least, they tried. And for their presumption, they were mightily punished.

Their screams in the dark alerted me to their plight and I was first to enter the hold. It is hard to describe the fear that gripped me as I saw the hell the thing had wrought on my men. It was obvious that they had lifted the casket, probably intending to throw it overboard. But someone had dropped an end of the casket to the deck—that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can only surmise that the accompanying jolt caused the casket to break open—and let the beast out.

What did not need conjecture was the fate of the men after that.

The black ooze lay over the bodies like a wet blanket—one that seethed and roiled as if boiling all across the surface. Pustules burst with obscene wet pops and flesh melted from bone even as the men screamed and writhed in agony.

Mercifully, their pain did not last long. All too soon the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very innards were liquefied and, with the most hideous moist sucking, drank up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously, grown plump on its feeding. It opened itself out, like a black crow spreading its wings, the tips touching each side of the hold walls.

All along the inside surface of the wings wet mouths opened and the air echoed with a plaintive high whistling in which words might be heard if you had the imagination to listen.

Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

The very sound made the blood run cold in my veins such that, although we sailed in the Tropics, I felt a chill such as one might in the sea far to the north where the floes fill the horizon.

The thing swelled and ebbed, as if breathing in deep, rhythmic spasms, a wet, gurgling noise accompanying each breath. The whole room stank of corruption and if there is indeed a Hell, it can be no worse than that hold on that night.

My every instinct told me to turn and flee. But there was nowhere to escape to except the sea itself, and that was a choice no sailor would make. Instead I stood my ground while Massa, stout coxswain that he is, brought forth some firebrands. Only then did the thing seem to cower and retreat, and only then did I remember the circles of burning oil we had crossed on entering the black temple in the jungle.

I called for a barrel of pitch and tried to hold the beast at bay with a brand until aid might arrive. It seemed my adversary had other ideas. And now that it was free of the casket its powers had increased. It probed at my mind, searching for my weaknesses, taunting me with my dreams. I saw things no man should have to see as I was shown the atrocities that had been committed in this thing’s name by the savages in the temple. Blasphemies beyond the wildest imaginings filled my thoughts, dark red fury where bodies boiled, bubbled and seethed in a soup that might once have been men.

The grip on my mind grew stronger.

I saw vast plains of snow and ice where black things slumped amid tumbled ruins of long dead cities. And yet, although dead, something slumbered there, something so ancient as to be unaware of the doings of man, something vile.

And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.

We were at peace.

I know not how long I danced there, and I might be there yet had a flaring pain not jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning, but took several seconds to note that it was my own hand that had seared. The coxswain, stout man that he is, had broken the hold on me by touching his firebrand to my skin.

I had no time to thank him, for the beast had shuffled ever closer to me while I dreamed, and even now it threatened to engulf me in its folds.

Once again I held the firebrand ahead of me, and with the aid of the coxswain I held the beast at bay, struggling to keep its grip from settling on my mind. Indeed, if the barrel of pitch had not been brought, both the coxswain and I might have succumbed.

When the pitch arrived I ordered it poured on the deck between the beast and us. It seemed to take an age to pour and all the time that black tar probed at our minds. Several of the men took on blank stares but, mindful of the coxswain’s earlier success, we were able to jolt them back with a burn to their flesh. Finally the pitch lay on the deck and I was able to step forward and set it alight. It took slowly at first, but soon a good fire burned in the hold.

Burning the pitch enabled the recapture of the beast to proceed more rapidly. The heat from the flames threatened to set fire to the deck of the hold itself, but I refused to allow the men to put it out until we had driven the beast back into the casket.

Even then it had one last surprise in store for us, for as we forced it ever backwards an array of white lidless eyes opened along its flanks. As we ensured the last of it drew back into the lead box the eyes blinked, like the wink of a coquette, before drawing down into the shadows.

I have ensured that the box is sealed completely, and it is now stored at the furthermost end of the hold. All I can do is keep the crew as far away from it as is possible on this small vessel,

That, and hope that in our dreams we do not fall again under its spell.

But it is hard. For every time I close my eyes I dream, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while my slumbering god dreams, I dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.

In dreams I am at peace.