An expedition specifically to investigate them returned with the results that one was covered with tiny thorns, another had the tensile strength of uncooked bread dough, a third was a fortuitously mild-tempered snake, and a fourth felt like weathered electrical cable. Of this last he harvested as much as he could find and dragged it back to the cave, leaving strange tendrilled tracks in the sand behind him.
It was slow, tedious work, and Cabal’s mind wandered as he plaited the creepers into lengths of makeshift rope that he would tie or splice together when the time came. He thought of the future Nyarlothotep had shown him, of himself as an old man, and she still as young as when it had all begun. He remembered the pity in her face when he had said his last goodbye to her, the walk back to the house, his ageing knees, ankles and hips complaining. He remembered the taste of the gun in his mouth.
A strange flicker appeared at the corner of Cabal’s mouth. An uninvolved and disinterested observer might have thought it was a twitch of amusement, a ghost of a smile. To anyone who knew Cabal, however, that was clearly nonsense. Unless Nyarlothotep, for all his vast intelligence, for all his wiles and experience, truly was not ever able fully to understand the shadows and light within the human heart. Unless Nyarlothotep had somehow missed a nuance in his dealings with Cabal that he simply could not comprehend. Unless Cabal had somehow pulled the wool over a god’s eyes.
But no. That was not the case.
In truth, Cabal had pulled fully two layers of wool over a god’s eyes.
The great problem with being a trickster god or, as in Nyarlothotep’s case, the trickster god, was that anyone who deals with one from a position of knowing that one is a trickster is necessarily expecting to be tricked. The true trick that had been played upon Cabal was of such passing subtlety and arcane significance that, apart from the waste of time it constituted, he didn’t mind greatly. His main intentions when agreeing to accompany the Fear Institute expedition had been to gain the Silver Key, and to reconnoitre the Dreamlands, and he had achieved both of these aims. He had never been convinced by the Institute’s claim that such an entity as the Phobic Animus actually existed, and become increasingly cynical as clues and happenstance led them on a path that had been obscure to all others previously. Where others had paranoia, Cabal had a sense of self-preservation that bordered on the supernatural; it gathered every inconformity, every non-sequitur, every coincidence, and built deductions from them, as others might build models of the Eiffel Tower from discarded matches. Every such theoretical construct was measured against the metric of likelihood, and where it fell short, it was ignored for the time being.
On entering the Dreamlands Cabal had unconsciously lowered this metric, and it had served him well. Where the others had disregarded their unexpected appearance in the Dark Wood as some sort of Wonderland experience to be accepted without question, Cabal had filed it away under Suspicious Occurrences, and had been adding to the file ever since. Bose’s great revelation had, therefore, been anticipated. This much has already been stated, but Cabal’s guard against deceit was not lowered when Bose’s true colours had been unfurled. So, when Bose – Nyarlothotep – had so obligingly given him the basic principle of perfect resurrection, he was already deeply suspicious. As has famously been noted, ‘There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.’ Thus, he had regarded Nyarlothotep’s great banquet with particular caution.
When Cabal had first embarked upon the quest for the Phobic Animus – this most boojumish of Snarks – he had naturally considered where he might be most vulnerable to its tenebrous wiles. Physical injury and pain he regarded as unpleasant, but commonplace. Unless one lived one’s life wrapped in kapok and under sedation, then injury and pain were certainties to be expected and dealt with rationally and promptly. He did not look forward to them, but neither did he fear them. He spent no time at all considering the more fanciful phobias: a man who is used to facing down the walking dead and battling ghosts as part of his job description is unlikely to be utterly unmanned by the sight of ducks or the sound of whistling. This left the quieter internal fears. The psychic cancers of doubt.
Among these Cabal’s greatest was failure, but it was a clear and obvious one and he had long since armoured his heart against it. If ultimately he failed, then there was little he could do about it. Sometimes it still tormented him, but no great endeavour goes without the possibility of its coming to naught, a truism that no longer galled him as much as it might.
Nyarlothotep, however, was wilier than that. He had settled upon the fear of success. Total, absolute success in all respects save timeliness. This was something Cabal had no defence against except pointedly ignoring it and hoping it would not be so. The phantasmal personation of such a future that had been visited upon him was therefore perfectly pitched, and unimaginably cruel. It was also expected, given Nyarlothotep’s reputation for unimaginable cruelty. Thus, Cabal settled down for several subjective decades of play-acting, carrying out experiments that he knew were useless in the real world. These were the experiments based on the core mechanism that had been provided to him on the parchment, in a forgery of his own hand. There were other experiments, however, apparently arranged as confirmatory or deductive exercises to support the central thesis. These were scattered over the years in an attempt, apparently successful, to hide their true nature as a single coherent line of research. Cabal knew that, for all their power, none of the Great Old Ones was truly omnipotent or omniscient, even if at least Yog-Sothoth managed the party trick of eternal omnipresence. The likelihood was that Nyarlothotep did not actually know what was happening in Cabal’s false future beyond the planned sweep of it, but caution seemed wise all the same. Thus, it was not a complete waste of time at all. In his vanity, the Crawling Chaos had gifted Cabal several very useful years of research in the space of a single second.
This was the first layer of wool. The second was less involved, but far more important to Cabal. If its nature is enragingly opaque to the reader, who is likely to belong to the human race, then it may be understood how entirely incomprehensible it was to a mind as alien as a god’s.
Cabal worked steadily and diligently on the vines to create his rope. He noted that they were drying as they were braided, and he hoped that this would increase rather than decrease their strength. Certainly, it would reduce their weight, which could only help. Even slightly dried out, the rope would have a formidable mass, and the possibility of it snapping under its own weight was a very real one. What might happen when his own weight was added to it was a concern. He would make a few experiments using rocks to simulate him, but he still had the baleful impression that his safety margin would be a narrow one. This wariness resulted in, over the next few weeks, the construction of a large balance scale on to which Cabal placed himself on one side and different quantities of rocks on the other until he had a pile that equalled his own mass, plus a little extra to allow for impulse strain caused by the act of climbing upon it, and a little extra more for safety.
Then his line of experimentation moved to dangling a woven sack of rocks on varying lengths of rope. Sometimes the rope snapped, or separated at the splices, and Cabal would swear volubly for a minute or two, and then get back to the project.
Every day, however, he made a point to give himself a moment or so in the domed room, just to say, ‘You little bastard,’ to the empty throne before getting on with his rope work.