"Yes," I said, nodding vigorously.

"I was unaware the two of you had maintained a correspondence."

"It was after the summer he came to stay with Mother. The two of us. .h.i.t it off, you know, quite well."

"As a matter of fact," George said, "I didn't know." He continued to hold the letters out before him, as if he were weighing them. The look on his face had slid into something else.

Inspired by the Scotch, I found the nerve to ask George what I had wanted to ask him for so long: if he ever had received any word, any kind of hint, as to what had become of Peter? His already flushed face reddened more, as if he were embarra.s.sed, caught off-guard, then he laughed and said he knew exactly what had happened to his son. "Exactly," he repeated, letting the letters fall from his hand like so many pieces of paper.

Despite the alcohol in which I was swimming, I was shocked, which I'm sure my face must have shown. All at once, I wanted to tell George not to say anything more, because I had intuited that I was standing at the doorway to a room I did not wish to enter, for, once I stood within it, I would discover my older brother to be someone-something-I would be unable to bear sitting beside. We were not and had never been as close as popular sentiment tells us siblings should be; we were more friendly acquaintances. It was an acquaintance, however, I had increasingly enjoyed as I grew older, and I believe George's feelings may have been similar. But my tongue was thick and sluggish in my mouth, and so, as we sat on the back porch, George related the circ.u.mstances of his son's death to me. I listened to him as evening dimmed to night, making no move to switch on the outside lights, holding onto my empty gla.s.s as if it were a life-preserver. As his tale progressed, my first thought was that he was indulging in a bizarre joke whose tastelessness was appalling; the more he spoke, however, the more I understood that he believed what he was telling me, and I feared he might be delusional if not outright mad; by the story's conclusion, I was no longer sure he was mad, and worried that I might be. I was unsure when he stopped talking: his words continued to sound in my ears, overlapping each other. A long interval elapsed during which neither of us spoke and the sound of the crickets was thunderous. At last George said, "Well?"

"Gaunt," I said. "Who is he?" It was the first thing to leap to mind.

"Gaunt," he said. "Gaunt was my teacher. I met him when I went to Oxford; the circ.u.mstances are not important. He was my master. Once, I should have called him my father." I can not tell you what the tone of his voice was. "We had a disagreement, which grew into an . . . altercation, which ended with him inside the stone sarcophagus that had Peter, though not for as long, of course. I released him while there was still enough left to be of service to me. I thought him defeated, no threat to either me or mine, and, I will admit, it amused me to keep him around. I had set what I judged sufficient safeguards against him in place, but he found a way to circ.u.mvent them, which I had not thought possible without a tongue. I was in error."

"Why Peter?" I asked.

"To strike at me, obviously. He had been planning something for quite a length of time. I had some idea of the depth of his hate for me, but I had no idea his determination ran to similar depths. His delight at what Peter had suffered was inestimable. He had written a rather extended description of it, which I believe he thought I would find distressing to read. The stone teeth relentlessly pressing every square inch of flesh, until the skin burst and blood poured out; the agony as the teeth continued through into the muscle, organ, and, eventually, bone; the horror at finding oneself still alive, unable to die even after so much pain: he related all of this with great gusto.

"The sarcophagus, in case you're interested, I found in eastern Turkey, not, as you might think, Egypt; though I suspect it has its origins there I first read about it in Les mysteres du ver, though the references were highly elliptical, to say the least. It took years, and a small fortune, to locate it. Actually, it's a rather amusing story: it was being employed as a table by a bookseller, if you can believe it, who had received it as payment for a debt owed him by a local banker, who in turn . . . "

I listened to George's account of the sarcophagus's history, all the while thinking of poor Peter trapped inside it, wrapped in claustrophobic darkness, screaming and pounding on the lid as-what? Although, as I have said, I half-believed the fantastic tale George had told, my belief was only partial. It seemed more likely Peter had suffocated inside the coffin, then Gaunt disposed of the body in such a way that very little, if any, of it remained. When George was done talking, I asked, "What about Peter?"

"What about him?" George answered. "Why, 'What about Peter'? I've already told you, it was too late for me to be able to do anything, even to provide him the kind of half-life Gaunt has, much less successfully restore him. What the sarcophagus takes, it does surrender."

"He was your son," I said.

"Yes," George said. "And?"

" 'And'? My G.o.d, man, he was your son, and whatever did happen to him, he's dead and you were responsible for his death, if not directly then through negligence. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"No," George said, his voice growing brittle. "As I have said, Peter's death, while unfortunate, was unintentional."

"But," I went on, less and less able, it seemed, to match thought to word with any proficiency, "but he was your son."

"So?" George said. "Am I supposed to be wracked by guilt, afflicted with remorse?"

"Yes," I said, "yes, you are."

"I'm not, though. When all is said and done, Peter was more trouble than he was worth. A man in my position-and though you might not believe it, my position is considerable-doing my kind of work, can't always be worrying about someone else, especially a child. I should have foreseen that when I divorced Clarissa, and let her have him, but I was too concerned with her absolute defeat to make such a rational decision. Even after I knew the depth of my mistake, I balked at surrendering Peter to her because I knew the satisfaction such an admission on my part would give Clarissa. I simply could not bear that. For a time, I deluded myself that Peter would be my apprentice, despite numerous clear indications that he possessed no apt.i.tude of any kind for my art. He was . . . temperamentally unsuited. It is a shame: there would have been a certain amount of pleasure in pa.s.sing on my knowledge to my son, to someone of my own blood. That has always been my problem: too sentimental, too emotional. Nonetheless, while I would not have done anything to him myself, I am forced to admit that Peter's removal from my life has been to the good."

"You can't be serious," I said.

"I am."

"Then you're a monster."

"To you, perhaps," he said.

"You're mad," I said.

"No, I'm not," he said, and from the sharp tone of his voice, I could tell I had touched a nerve, so I repeated myself, adding, "Do you honestly believe you're some kind of great and powerful magician? or do you prefer to be called a sorcerer? Perhaps you're a wizard? a warlock? an alchemist? No, they worked with chemicals; I don't suppose that would be you. Do you really expect me to accept that tall butler as some kind of supernatural creature, an animated skeleton? I won't ask where you obtained his face and hands: I'm sure Jenner's has a special section for the black arts." I went on like this for several minutes, pouring out my scorn on George, feeling the anger radiating from him. I did not care: I was angry myself, furious, filled with more rage than ever before or ever after, for that matter.

When I was through, or when I had paused, anyway, George asked, "Could you fetch me a gla.s.s of water?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

He repeated his request: "Could I have a gla.s.s of water?" explaining, "All this conversation has left my throat somewhat parched."

Your grandmother's emphasis on good manners, no matter what the situation, caught me off guard, and despite myself I heard my voice saying, "Of course," as I set down my gla.s.s, stood, and made my way across the unlit porch to the back door. "Can I get you anything else?" I added, trying to sound as scornful as I felt.

"The water will be fine."

I opened the back door, stepped into the house, and was someplace else. Instead of the kitchen, I was standing at one end of a long room lit by globed lights depending from a slanted ceiling. Short bookcases filled to bursting with books, scrolls, and an occasional stone tablet jostled with one another for s.p.a.ce along the walls, while tables piled high with goblets, candles, boxes, rows of jars, models, took up the floor. I saw paintings crowding the walls, including the Bosch I described to you, and elaborate symbols drawn on the floor. At the other end of the room, a bulky stone sarcophagus with a fierce face reclined against a wall. Behind me, through the open door whose handle I still grasped, I could hear the crickets; in front of me, through the room's curtained windows, I could hear the sound of distant traffic, of brakes squealing and horns blowing. I stood gazing at the room I understood to be my brother's study, and then I felt the hand on my shoulder. Initially, I thought it was George, but when he called, "Is my water coming?" I realized he had not left his seat. Through my shirt, the hand felt wrong: at once too light and too hard, more like wood than flesh. The faintest odor of dust, and beneath it, something foul, filled my nostrils; the sound of a baby's rattle being turned, slowly, filled my ears. I heard another sound, the whisper of sand blowing across a stone floor, and realized it was whatever was behind me-but I knew what it was-speaking, bringing speech from across what seemed a great distance. It spoke one word, "Yes," drawing it out into a long sigh that did not stop so much as fade away: Yyyeeeeeessssssss . . . .

"I say," George said, "where's my water?"

Inhaling deeply-the hand tightening on my shoulder as I did-I said, "Tell him-tell it to remove its hand from me."

"Him? It? Whatever are you referring to?"

"Gaunt," I answered. "Tell Gaunt to release my shoulder."

"Gaunt?" George cried, his voice alive with malicious amus.e.m.e.nt, "Why, Gaunt's on the other side of the ocean."

"This is not entertaining," I said, willing myself to remain where I was.

"You're right," George said. "In fact, it's deeply worrying. Are you certain you're feeling all right? Did you have too much to drink? Or are you, perhaps, not in your right mind? Are you mad, dear brother?"

"Not in the least," I replied. "Nor, it would seem, are you."

"Ahh," George said. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," I said, "I am sure." I might have added, "To my profound regret," but I had no wish to antagonize him any further.

"In that case," George said, and the hand left my shoulder. I heard rattling, as if someone were walking away from me across the porch in tapshoes, followed by silence. "Now that I think on it," George said, "I needn't bother you for that gla.s.s of water, after all. Why don't you rejoin me?"

I did as he instructed, closing the door tightly. I walked to George and said, in a voice whose shaking I could not master, "It is time for you to go."

After a pause, George said, "Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?"

"I will not be asking you back," I said.

"No, I don't suppose you will. I could just appear, you know."

"You will not," I said, vehemently. "You will never come here again. I forbid you."

"You forbid me?"

"Yes, I do."

"I find that most entertaining, as you say. However, I shall respect your wishes, lest it be said I lack fraternal affection. It's a pity: that time you came to visit me after Peter's death, I thought you might be my apprentice, and the notion has never vanished from my mind. It generally surfaces when I'm feeling mawkish. I suppose there's no chance-"

"None," I said, "now or ever." You have Satan's nerve, I thought.

"Yes, of course," George said. "I knew what your reply would be: I merely had to hear you say it. When all is said and done, I don't suppose you have the necessary . . . temperament either. No matter: there are others, one of them closer than you think."

That was his final remark. George had brought no luggage with him: he stepped off the porch into the night and was gone. I stood staring out into the darkness, listening for I am not sure what, that rattling, perhaps, before rushing to the kitchen door. Gripping the doork.n.o.b, I uttered a brief, barely coherent prayer, then opened the door. The kitchen confronted me with its rows of hanging pots and pans, its magnetic knife rack, its sink full of dishes awaiting washing. I raced through it, up the stairs to your room, where I found you asleep, one arm around Mr. James, your bear, the other thrown across your face as if you were seeking to hide your eyes from something. My legs went weak, and I seated myself on your bed, a flood of hot tears rolling down my face. I sat up in your room for the rest of that night, and for a week or so after I slept in it with you. The following morning, I returned to the back porch to retrieve your cousin's letters, which I replaced in the s...o...b..x.

I have not heard from George since, all these years.

When I sat you on your bed after having found you surrounded by the shreds of my work, this was what shaped itself into my cautionary tale. It had been festering in my brain ever since George had told me it. Carrying George's words with me had left me feeling tainted, as if having heard of Peter's end had made me complicit in it in a manner beyond my ability to articulate. In giving that story voice, I sought to exorcise it from me. I recognize the irony of my situation: rather than expunging the story, telling it once led to it being told over and over again, until it had achieved almost the status of ritual. Your subsequent delight in the story did mitigate my guilt somewhat, tempting me to remark that a story's reception may redeem its inception; that, however, would be just a bit too much, too absolutely over the top, as James would put it. I remain incredulous at myself for having told you even the highly edited version you heard. It occurs to me that, if it is a wonder our children survive the mistakes we make with them, it is no less astounding that we are not done in by them ourselves; those of us with any conscience, I should add.

Something else: how much you remember of the literature cla.s.ses you sat through in college I don't know; I realize you took them to please me. I'm sure, however, that enough of the lectures you actually attended has remained with you for you to be capable of at least a rudimentary a.n.a.lysis of our story. In such an a.n.a.lysis, you would treat the figure of the skeleton as a symbol. I can imagine, for example, a psychoa.n.a.lytic interpretation such as are so often applied to fairy tales. It would judge our particular story to be a cleverly disguised if overly Oedipal allegory in which the locked room would be equated with the secret of s.e.xuality, jealously guarded by the father against the son, and the butler/skeleton with the father's double, an image of death there to punish the boy for his transgression. If you preferred to steer closer to history, you might postulate the skeleton as a representation of an event: say, Mr. Gaunt and your uncle caught in an embrace, another kind of forbidden knowledge. Neither these nor any other interpretations are correct: the skeleton is not a subst.i.tution for something else but in fact real; I must insist, even if in doing so I seem to depart plausibility for fantasy, if not dementia. It could be that I protest too much, that you aren't the rigid realist I'm construing you to be. Perhaps you know how easy it is to find yourself on the other side of the looking gla.s.s.

No doubt, you'll wonder why I've waited until now to disclose this information to you, when you've been old enough to have heard it for years. I'd like to attribute my reticence solely to concern for you, to worry that, listening to this outrageous tale, you would lose no time setting out to verify it, which might result in your actually making contact with your uncle, and then G.o.d only knows what else. I am anxious for you, but, to be honest, more of my hesitation than I want to admit arises from dread at appearing ridiculous in your eyes, of seeing your face fill with pity at the thought that the old man has plunged over the edge at last. I suppose that's why I'm recording this, when I know it would be easy enough to pick up the phone and give you a call.

I can't believe I could be of any interest to George at this late date (so I tell myself), but I'm less sure about you. Sitting up in my bed last night, not watching the remainder of the doc.u.mentary, I heard your uncle tell me that there were others to serve as his apprentice, one of them closer than I thought. These words ringing in my ears, I thought of that Ouija board you used to play with in college, the tarot card program you bought for your computer. I understand the Ouija board was because of that girl you were seeing, and I know the computer program is just for fun, but either might be sufficient for George. Your uncle is old, and if he hasn't yet found an apprentice- However belated, this, then, all of this tangled testament, is my warning to you about your uncle, as well as a remembrance of a kind of your cousin, whom you never knew. If you believe me-and you must, Henry, you must-you'll take heed of my warning. If you don't believe me, and I suppose that is a possibility, at least I may have entertained you one last time. All that remains now is for me to tell you I love you, son, I love you and please, please, please be careful Henry: be careful.

III.

With a snap, the stereo reached the end of the tape. Henry Farange released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and slumped back on the couch. His beer and the pleasant la.s.situde it had brought were long gone; briefly, he contemplated going to the refrigerator for another bottle, and possibly the rest of the six-pack while he was at it. Heaving himself to his feet and shaking his head, he murmured, "G.o.d."

To say he didn't know what to think was the proverbial understatement. As his father had feared, his initial impression was that the old man had lost it there at the end, that he had, in his own words, suffered one mini-stroke too many. But-what? What else was there to say? That he had felt some measure of truth in his father's words? That-mad, yes, as it sounded-a deeper part of him, a much deeper part, a half-fossilized fragment buried far beneath his reflexive disbelief, accepted what the old man had been telling him?

Well, actually, that was it exactly, thank you for asking. Laughable as it seemed; and he did laugh, a humorless bark; Henry couldn't bring himself to discount completely his father's words. There had been something-no single detail; rather, a quality in the old man's voice-that had affected him, had unearthed that half-ossified part of him, had insinuated itself into his listening until, in the end, he found himself believing there was more to this tape than simple dementia. When Henry had been a child, his father had possessed the unfailing ability to tell when he was lying, or so it seemed; even when there was no obvious evidence of his dishonesty, somehow, the old man had known. Asked the source of this mysterious and frustrating power, his father had shrugged and said, "It's in your voice," as if this were the most obvious of explanations. Now, hearing those words echoing in his mind, Henry thought, It's in his voice.

But-a living skeleton? An uncle who was a black magician? A cousin he'd never heard of devoured by a coffin made of living stone? He shook his head again, sighing: there was some truth here, but it was cloaked in metaphor. It had to be. He walked over to the stereo, popped open the tape deck, slid out the tape, and stood with it in his hand, feeling it still warm. His father's voice. . . Although the old man had quoted their story's beginning and middle, he had not recited its end. The words rose unbidden to Henry's lips: "Slowly, the skeleton carried the screaming boy up the stairs to his father's study. It walked through the open doorway, closing the door behind it with a solid click. For a long time, that door stayed closed. When at last it opened again, Mr. Gaunt, looking more pleased with himself than anyone in that house ever had seen him, stepped out and made his way down the stairs, rubbing his hands together briskly. As for the boy who had opened the door he was forbidden to open: he was never seen again. What happened to him, I cannot say, but I can a.s.sure you, it was terrible."

The phone rang, and he jumped, fumbling the tape onto the floor. Hadn't he switched that off? Leaving the ca.s.sette where it lay, he ran into the kitchen, catching the phone on the third ring and calling, "h.e.l.lo."

His Uncle George said, "h.e.l.lo, Henry."

"Uncle George!" he answered, a smile breaking over his face.

"How is everything?" his uncle asked.

"Fine, fine," he said. "I was just getting ready to call you."

"Uh oh."

"Yeah, it looks like I'm going to be a few minutes late to dinner."

"Can you still make it? Should we wait for another night?"

"No, no," Henry said, "there's no need to reschedule. I was just listening to something, a tape; I got kind of caught up in it, lost track of time."

"Music?"

"No, something my father left me. Actually, I was kind of hoping we could talk about it."

"Of course. What is it?"

"I'd rather wait until we see each other, if that's all right with you. Listen: can you call the restaurant, tell them we're running about fifteen minutes late?"

"Certainly. Will that be enough time for you?"

"I can be very fast when I need to be; you'd be amazed. Do you have their number?"

"I believe so. If not, I can look it up."

"Great, great. Okay. Let me run and get ready, and I'll see you shortly."

"Excellent. I'm looking forward to this, Henry. I haven't seen you in-well, to tell you the truth, I can't remember how long, which means it's been too long."

"Hear hear," he said. "I'm looking forward to it too. There's a lot I want to ask you."

"I'm glad to hear it, son: there's much I have to tell you."

"I'm sure you do. I can't wait to hear it."

"Well, this should be a fine, if melancholic, occasion. A Farange family reunion: there haven't been too many of those, I can a.s.sure you. What a pity your poor father can't join us. Oh, and Henry? one more thing?"

"What is it?"

"Would it be too much trouble if my butler joined us for dinner?" As Henry's stomach squeezed his uncle went on, "I'm embarra.s.sed to ask, but I'm afraid I am getting on in years a bit, and I find I can't do much without his help these days. The joys of aging! He's a very quiet chap, though: won't say two words all evening. I hate to impose when we haven't seen each other . . . "

His mouth dry, Henry stuttered, "Your butler?"

"Yes," his uncle said. "Butler, manservant: 'personal a.s.sistant,' I suppose you would call him. If it's going to be an intrusion-"

Recovering himself, Henry swallowed and said, "Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. I'll be happy to have him there."

"Splendid. To tell the truth, he doesn't get out much any more: he'll be most pleased."

"I'll see you there."

Henry replaced the phone in its cradle, and hurried to the shower. As he stood with the hot water streaming down on him, his uncle's voice in one ear, his father's voice in the other, he had a vision, both sudden and intense. He saw a boy, dressed in brown slacks and a brown sweater a half-size too big for him, standing at a landing at the top of a flight of stairs. In front of him was a great oaken door, open the slightest hairsbreath. The boy stood looking at the door, at the wedge of yellow light spilling out from whatever lay on the other side of it. The light was the color of old bones, and it seemed to form an arrow, pointing the boy forward.

. . . a coast-line of mingled mud, ooze, and weedy Cyclopean masonry which can be nothing less than the tangible substance of earth's supreme terror-the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh, that was built in measureless aeons behind history by the vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the dark stars. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green slimy vaults and sending out at last, after cycles incalculable, the thoughts that spread fear to the dreams of the sensitive and called imperiously to the faithful to come on a pilgrimage of liberation and restoration.

"The Call of Cthulhu" H.P. Lovecraft (1928).

* THE VICAR OF R'LYEH *