Bridgeman’s treatment of the more conventional mythological figures was less romantic; he remained solidly within the framework of accepted anthropology. For example:
“The Babylonian storm-god, Enlil, was designated ‘Lord of the Winds.’ Mischievous and mercurial in temperament, he was seen by the superstitious peoples of the land to walk in hurricanes and sand-devils….” Or, in yet more traditional legend: “Teuton mythology shows Thor as being the god of thunder; when thunderstorms boiled and the heavens roared, people knew that what they heard was the sound of Thor’s war-chariot clattering through the vaults of heaven.”
Again, I could not help but find it noticeable that while the author here poked a sort of fun at these classical figures of mythology, he had not done so when he wrote of Ithaqua. Similarly, he was completely dry and matter-of-fact in his descriptive treatment of an illustration portraying the Hittite god-of-the-storm, Tha-thka, photographed from his carved representation upon a baked clay tablet excavated in the Toros Mountains of Turkey. More, he compared Tha-thka with Ithaqua of the Snows, declaring that he found parallels in the two deities other than the merely phonetical similarity of their names.
Ithaqua, he pointed out, had left webbed tracks in the Arctic snows, tracks that the old Esquimaux tribes feared to cross; and Tha-thka (carved in a fashion very similar to the so-called “Amarna style” of Egypt, to mix ethnic art groups) was shown in the photograph as having star-shaped eyes of a rare, dark carnelian…and webbed feet! Professor Bridgeman’s argument for connection here seemed valid, even sound, yet I could see how such an argument might very well anger established anthropologists of “the Old School.” How, for instance, might one equate a god of the ancient Hittites with a deity of comparatively modern Eskimos? Unless of course one was to remember that in a certain rather fanciful mythology Ithaqua had only been banished to the North following an abortive rebellion against the Elder Gods. Could it be that before that rebellion the Wind-Walker strode the high currents and tides of atmospheric air over Ur of the Chaldees and ancient Khem, perhaps even prior to those lands being named by their first inhabitants? Here I laughed at my own fancies, conjured by what the writer had written with such assumed authority, and yet my laughter was more than a trifle strained, for I found a certain cold logic in Bridgeman that made even his wildest statement seem merely a calm, studied exposition….
And there were, certainly, wild statements.
The slimmest of the three books was full of them, and I knew after reading only its first few pages that this must be the source of those flights of fancy that had caused Bridgeman’s erstwhile colleagues to desert him. Yet without a doubt the book was by far the most interesting of the three, written almost in a fervor of mystical allusion with an abundance—a plethora—of obscure hints suggestive of half-discernible worlds of awe, wonder, and horror bordering and occasionally impinging upon our very own.
I found myself completely enthralled. It seemed plain to me that behind all the hocus-pocus there was a great mystery here—one that, like an iceberg, showed only its tip—and I determined not to be satisfied with anything less than a complete verification of the facts concerning what I had started to think of as “the Bridgeman case.” After all, I seemed to be ideally situated to conduct such an investigation: this was where the professor had died, the borderland of that region in which he had alleged at least one of his mythological beings to exist; and Judge Andrews, provided I could get him to talk, must be something of an authority on the man; and, possibly my best line of research yet, Bridgeman’s widow herself was here now in this very town.
Just why this determination to dabble should have so enthused me I still cannot say; unless it was the way that Tha-thka, which Being Bridgeman had equated with Ithaqua, was shown upon the Toros Mountains tablet as walking splayfooted through a curious mixture of cumulonimbus and nimbo-stratus—cloud formations that invariably presage snow and violent thunderstorms! The ancient sculptor of that tablet had certainly gauged the Wind-Walker’s domain well, giving the mythical creature something of solidarity in my mind, though it was still far easier for me to accept those peculiar clouds of ill omen than the Being striding among them….
II
It was something of a shock for me to discover, when finally I thought to look at my wristwatch, that Bridgeman’s books had kept me busy all through the afternoon and it was now well into evening. I found that my eyes had started to ache with the strain of reading as it grew darker in the small library room. I put on the light and would have returned to the books yet again but for hearing, at the outer door of the house, a gentle knocking. The library door was slightly ajar so that I could hear the Judge answering the knocking and his gruff welcome. I was sure that the voice that answered him was that of Bridgeman’s widow, for it was vibrant with a nervous agitation as the visitor entered the house and went with the Judge to his study. Well, I had desired to meet her; this seemed the perfect opportunity to introduce myself.
Yet at the open door to the Judge’s study I paused, then quickly stepped back out of sight. It seemed that my host and his visitor were engaged in some sort of argument. He had just answered to some unheard question: “Not me, my dear, that is out of the question….But if you insist upon this folly, then I’m sure I can find someone to help you. God knows I’d come with you myself—even on this wild-goose chase you propose, and despite the forecast of heavy snow—but…my dear, I’m an old man. My eyes are no good anymore; my limbs are no longer as strong as they used to be. I’m afraid that this old body might let you down at the worst possible time. It’s bad country north of here when the snows come.”
“Is it simply that, Jason,” she answered him in her nervous voice, “or is it really that you believe I’m a madwoman? That’s what you as good as called me when I was here earlier.”
“You must forgive me for that, Lucille, but let’s face it—that story you tell is simply…fantastic! There’s no positive proof that the boy headed this way at all, just this premonition of yours.”
“The story I told you was the truth, Jason! As for my ‘premonition,’ well, I’ve brought you proof! Look at this—”
There was a pause before the Judge spoke again. Quietly he asked, “But what is this thing, Lucille? Let me get my glass. Hmm—I can see that it depicts—”
“No!” Her cry, shrill and loud, cut him off. “No, don’t mention Them, and please don’t say His name!” The hysterical emphasis she placed on certain words was obvious, but she sounded calmer when, a few seconds later, she continued: “As for what it is—” I heard a metallic clinking, like a coin dropped on the tabletop, “just keep it here in the house. You will see for yourself. It was discovered clenched in Sam’s right hand when they—when they found his poor, broken body.”