Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Once we were inside, I was conscious of a certain relaxation in the Dean. He became almost animated. Clearly he loved the place, and his knowledge of medieval architecture was intelligent and extensive. My own complemented his, so we enjoyed each other’s company as we walked down the great Early English nave, like an avenue of tall and stately trees. Weak sunlight filtered through the high windows and few people were about. I glanced quickly behind me. The Dean’s surmise was correct: Cutbirth had not followed us into the Cathedral. After this brief interlude, the Dean took me out into the cloisters to survey the well.

Though I had seen it before I had not examined it at close quarters because, as notices proclaimed, it was forbidden for ordinary mortals to tread the lawn of the cloister garth. The Dean led me boldly across it.

“There you see,” he said. “Not a thing of beauty and a joy forever.”

I had to admit he was right. The “thing” had been built, rebuilt and repaired over centuries. There was no unity in this strange circular wall. Some of the stones were large, some small, some rough-hewn, a few dressed. I noticed that there was a section at the base on the south side that was not made of stone at all, but brick, and Roman bricks at that. I recognised their flat shape and the excellent quality of the mortar. I mentioned my discovery to the Dean, who merely nodded.

“Yes. That is known. Quite late Roman, I believe. Fourth or fifth century.” He seemed unimpressed. I also noticed that some of the Roman bricks had a crude drawing of an eye scratched on them: a so-called “apotropaic eye” of the kind you see on the sides of Greek fishing vessels, designed to ward off evil. This I did not mention to the Dean.

When the Dean asked my opinion, I told him that the well was of no architectural but of great archaeological interest. I said that there would need to be a thorough archaeological survey of the well before anything was done to it and that, to expedite matters, I would, with his permission, discover all I could about the well from the Cathedral archives.

The Dean took all this in with a kind of weary resignation, as I suppose it was the answer he was expecting. The cloisters had been deserted when we entered them, but just as we were about to leave we heard a voice.

“I see you!” It said. The voice was a man’s; the tone was mocking with a hint of menace about it.

We looked around. Finally we saw a face poking over the wall of one of the open Gothic arcades. On the head was a battered sombrero. It was Cutbirth.

The Dean started violently when he saw him, executing a little involuntary jump which made Cutbirth laugh as he got up off his knees, lifted a long leg over the cloister wall and stepped through the arcade onto the cloister garth.

“You may not walk on this grass!” yapped the Dean.

“Why not? You do.”

“What are you doing here?”

Cutbirth began to walk lazily towards us over the manicured lawn, removing his hat as he did so. He must have been about forty, but age with such a strange creature was hard to assess. He was long and loosely built, with abnormally large hands. His skin was a yellowish colour, coarse and porous in texture. His head was a large, virtually hairless oval, but the features were small, strangely caught together in the middle of his face, like those of a horrible baby. He was trying to exude an air of insouciant mockery, but the eyes—green, I think—were full of rage.

“I might ask you the same question,” said Cutbirth. His accent was odd. He spoke with the languid drawl of the upper classes, but some of his vowels were pure rural Morsetshire.

“It is none of your business,” said the Dean raising his voice and sounding petulant.

“I think it is, Mr. Dean. You do realise that this has been a sacred spot long before your psalm-singing milk-white Christians started erecting their pious monstrosities over it? I know what you want to do. You want to obliterate the sanctity of centuries. You want to banish the Old Gods forever. And for what? For some damned, provincial little water trough to slake the putrid tongues of cheap charabanc tourists!”

“Who told you that?”

“Never you mind, Mr. Dean.” Then turning to me, with disdainful a glance at my sandals, he said: “And what’s your little game, my Communist Friend?”

“Don’t answer him!” said the Dean. To tell the truth, I was so shocked at being denounced as a Communist on account of my footwear that I was incapable of speech. “Will you kindly leave forthwith, or I shall be forced to summon assistance and have you thrown off.”

Cutbirth laughed harshly: “I warn you, Dean Grice—” he pronounced it grease “—the House of Dagon will suffer wrong no more! The Old Gods are awaking from their long sleep and you would do well not to despise their help in the gathering storm. Soon the rivers of Europe will run with blood. You will bleat for the Nazarene to help you, but he will not come, and the tide of blood will advance till it engulfs even Morchester. I warn you, Grice!”