They must be approaching Vernon by now. Perhaps he should take a nap until they arrived. He saw the sign blur by outside the half-open window-VERNON-too fast to make out the number of miles. We must be getting close to Vernon, he thought again; his attention was lapsing with drowsiness, and he found himself reviewing that same thought yet again as if he were trying to make sense of an abstruse passage in some philosophy text. Vernon, he said to himself. Vernon. NoVern. Ca-vern. Cave. He closed his eyes to think more clearly and was suddenly enfolded into the warm comfort of sleep.
RED STREAMERS OF finest Cathay silk billowing in the wind. A banshee howl over the vast desert, the breath of a god so fierce the flying sand could flay a camel down to its bones in no time. What is this unholy place? Red streamers quieting in the muting breath and now they are no longer silk but hair, human hair, passionately red-glorious. Glory’s hair. She is facing the wind with her arms outstretched, and in her hands she holds the Artifact as if she were offering it to a lover. The wind is still fierce, and yet some irresistible attraction draws her forward, something like the power of scent over an animal in must. Her nostrils flared, her expression intense, her radiant green eyes even more beautiful in their squint, she sniffs at the air and strides forward, her mouth slightly open, her full lips warm with the force of her breath. There is a romantic, almost ethereal, quality to the tableau, and Glory recalls, though it hardly seems possible, the delicate, smooth-skinned models of the Pre-Raphaelites, their soft, creamy innocence, the willowy curve of their naked shoulders, the youthful budding of their half-clothed breasts. But all that innocence waiting to be stripped. Dark potential longing, with full, red lips, to be bared, exposed. Calumnious emotions ready to slip out of their civilized pretenses. Unseemly underbelly, slick and wet with a prurient perspiration. Naked, corpulent pink flesh burning to be touched. Touched by infernal heat.
Lovecraft’s consciousness could not penetrate this tableau. He tried to push his way into Glory’s thoughts, to insert his own mind into hers, to somehow push her uncontrolled impulses aside with the force of his own will; but it was for naught. Round and round went his consciousness, in and out of touch with Glory’s. He pressed against her, his will rigid with power, until he felt her begin to yield. She let out a yelp of surprise, a cry of pain, and then, suddenly, Lovecraft felt a stab of agony shooting down the ridgepole of his spine, a clawing pain like the sensation of nails raking across his flesh, and the pain moved up and down, faster and faster, pulsing ever more rapidly until it grew white-hot and exploded through his head, leaving him hollow and powerless, full of shame at his failure to stop her. Glory continued to walk forward to that unseen thing, her arms reaching out, beckoning, it seemed, and Lovecraft watched with disgust, though avidly, as she advanced, step by step, toward that unclean and unholy thing just beyond the range of his imagination. To give it the Artifact would be the most unpardonable sin. To surrender to its will would be to demean all of humankind, a sin no one could repent. A sin with no penance, for there would no longer be a God of man to make penance to.
Her body was wet with perspiration. He could feel its slick, sticky texture in his mind. Unpleasant. Pungent. He felt the odor seep into his olfactory canals, into the caverns of his sinuses, where it clung to the vulnerable tissues, which he knew, with an odd certainty, were a small fragment of his brain making direct contact with the outside world. Suddenly he was preoccupied with this idea-that it was only in smelling something that his brain actually touched the world. Odors, infinitesimal molecular fragments of the thing itself, filling the air like an aura, and the brain poking itself tentatively forth inside the protection of the sinus cavity, most cautiously touching the world. And here, the world, most unpleasant and horrific, and the thought caused his head to fill, rapidly, with a protective mucus. He must eject this intrusion out of his brain, out of his mind, out of his thoughts. The mucus began to flow copiously from his nose, and then, in the fringes of his consciousness, Lovecraft heard Howard’s distant voice say something about Vernon, and he felt himself convulse with a violent sneeze.
“WHY, BLESS YOU,” said Glory.
Lovecraft opened his eyes wide and drew back in alarm. The off-white of his jacket was covered with a large yellowish white glob of mucus which he had just ejected from his nose. It was still dripping, but moving as if it were stretching a hesitant tendril down his jacket. He fished for his handkerchief to clean himself, but then he sniffed the air in the car. He was more alert now, the last webs of sleep wiped aside, and it was not dust as he expected. It was something else-the unspeakable fishy odor of Dagon’s degenerate spawn.
EVEN BY THE TIME they reached Vernon, Lovecraft was ill at ease, and the Artifact felt like a bruise on his side. The images from his dream still lingered with him. He knew they were strong portents to be ignored at his own peril, and yet he was loath to say anything to Glory and Howard because he knew that now, especially with the presence of the woman, Howard would merely ridicule him. He would wait until she was gone to tell him, but then what about her role in the dream? Was it merely symbolic? He wished he had been more attentive in his reading of the dream book by Dr. Freud-it had contained useful insights into the dreaming mind-but he had found the old Jew’s fixation on sex and genitals and bodily functions so distasteful he had put the book aside.
VERNON. VERNAL. VENEREAL. Veneration. They were there, just past the outskirts of town, and Howard, after Glory’s offer to ask directions for him, had grudgingly pulled over to the curb. Through the open back window, Glory was talking to a passing man, reviewing the turns they would have to make to get to the bus station.
“Ain’t it a shame,” said Howard, his voice low.
“And what is this shame?” Lovecraft asked.
“We’re done with her so soon, HP. She’s a purty woman as you can see.”
“What are we done with, Bob? Are you imagining what your Conan would do with her? Or perhaps one of your two-fisted Texian roughnecks? Are you so close to confusing fantasy and reality that you’re unable to control your own baser instincts?” Howard widened his eyes at this, and Lovecraft drew back, shocked by his own vehemence.
“Just pullin’ your leg there, but now I’d say you’re a jealous man, HP. Jealous and righteous like many a red-blooded minister, huh?”
“I beg to differ.”
Glory pulled her head back into the car, waving a friendly good-bye to the pedestrian. “A left, a right, a left, and a right,” she said. “I’ll call out the turns when I see the streets. You just drive, okay?”
Howard tipped his hat and lurched forward, pushing her against the backseat. He followed Glory’s directions without a word, and within a few minutes they had made their way down Juniper Street and Eleventh Street, over the railroad tracks and through the dilapidated part of town to the bus terminal.
“Well,” said Glory, “I’m so very glad you boys came to my rescue. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“We coulda got here with just one turn,” said Howard, not meeting her eyes. “That bum gave you a runaround.”
“Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, I reckon so.”
“Thank you, boys.” Glory leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on each of their cheeks, and before Lovecraft could offer to unload her bag, she was out, the door shut. And before he could say even a cursory good-bye, Howard gunned the engine and pulled a violent U-turn and accelerated away. Lovecraft craned his neck to look out of the back window. He could sense Howard’s dark mood, and he was loath to say anything at the moment, but something caught his attention, and he waved his left arm at his companion to slow down.