Haggopian and Other Stories

“As to your first question: I don’t believe there’s any need to explain more than I’ve done already. But to enlighten you, albeit briefly; the Sathlattae consist of working spells and counterspells. The third Sathlatta is of the latter order. As to what I’m frightened of, well…”

“Yes?” Nuttall impatiently prompted him again.

“As applicable to our present situation,” Millwright finally went on, “—in this predicament we’re in—the third Sathlatta is…incomplete!”

“You mean it won’t work?” Bart demanded, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Oh, yes, it’ll work all right. But—”

“For God’s sake!” Nuttall cried, his usually disciplined nerves stretched now to the breaking point, evidence of which shoved clearly in his high, quavering voice. “Get on, man!”

“How do I explain something which I can’t readily understand myself?” Millwright snarled, rounding on the frightened man. “And you’d better not start shouting at me, my friend. Why, but for your meddling, none of us would be in this position…and remember that, without my help, you’re stuck with it forever!”

At that, Nuttall s face went very white and he began a stuttered apology. The occultist cut him short. “Forget it. I’ll tell you why I’m worried. To put it simply, the third Sathlatta carries a clause!”

“A clause?” Bart repeated the word wonderingly, plainly failing to understand.

“To quote Alhazred,” Millwright ignored him,”the counterspell’s protection lasts ‘only unto death’!”

For a moment there was silence; then Bart gave a short, strained laugh. “Only unto death? Why, who could ask fairer than that? I really don’t see—”

“And one other-thing,” the occultist continued. “The third Sathlatta is not irrevocable. Its action may be reversed simply by uttering the Sathlatta itself in reverse order.”

Millwright’s guests stared at him for a few moments without speaking; then Nuttall said: “Does anyone else know of our…problem?”

“Not unless you’ve told someone else,” the occultist answered, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Have you?”

“No,” Nuttall answered, “we haven’t…but you see what I mean, don’t you? What is there to worry about, if it’s all as simple as you say? We, certainly, will never mess about with this sort of thing again…and who else is there to know what’s happened? Even if someone was aware that we’d conjured up a devil, it’s unlikely he’d know how to reverse this process of yours. It’s doubtful anyone would even want or dare to, isn’t it?”

Millwright considered it and gradually his manner became more relaxed. “Yes, you’re right, of course,” he answered. “It’s just that I don’t like complications in these things. You see, I know something of the Old Adepts. They didn’t issue the sort of warnings I’ve seen here for nothing. This

Bugg-Shash—whatever he is—must be the very worst order of demons. Everything about him is…demoniacal!”

III

That same evening, from copious notes copied in the rare books department of the British Museum, Millwright set up all the paraphernalia of his task. He cleared the floor of his study. Then, in what appeared to Nuttall and Bart completely random positions—which were, in fact, carefully measured, if in utterly alien tables—upon the naked floor, he placed candles, censers and curious copper bowls. When he was satisfied with the arrangement of these implements, leaving the centre of the floor clear, he chalked on the remaining surrounding floor-space strange and disturbing magical symbols in a similarly confusing and apparently illogical over-all design. Central to all these preparatory devices, he drew a plain white circle and, as the midnight hour approached, he invited his guests to enter with him into this protective ring.

During the final preparations the candles had been lit. The contents of the censers and bowls, too, now sent up to the ceiling thinly wavering columns of coloured smoke and incense. Moreover, the purely electrical lights of the room had been switched off—very much to the almost hysterical Bart’s dislike—so that only the candles gave a genuine, if flickering, light while the powders and herbs in their bowls and censers merely glowed a dull red.

As the first stroke of midnight sounded from the clock on the wall, Millwright drew from his pocket a carefully folded sheet of paper. In a voice dead of emotion—devoid, almost, of all human inflection—he read the words so carefully copied earlier that day from a near-forgotten tome in the dimmer reaches of the British Museum.