Ralph Bortenson was lost. Not only was he over an hour late in meeting his friend Whitley Corworth, but he had spent at least that amount of time becoming thoroughly disoriented in the depths of Knobby Woods. How Ralph hated this place! It was always a twisted mess of brambles, side paths and wickedly tall trees. The lack of guiding moonlight only exacerbated the matter, causing Ralph to use his rapidly dimming flashlight. "Whitley better have something interesting planned for this poetry reading," grumbled Ralph, "you think he’d have chosen a night with a full moon at least. Much more appropriate, I’d say."
Ralph reviewed, again, the instructions Whitley had given. Whitley told him to show up alone at the old blessing stone at 10:30 PM bringing nothing more than a flashlight and macabrely inspiring reading material. Normally this might be considered an odd request to Ralph, but since it was suggested during an October session of a Comparative Poetry class attended by both the boys, not as odd as it could have been. Actually, Whitley and Ralph frequently discussed the nuances of things horrible, including the spooky old woods and the stone landmark placed oddly near its center. So extensive were those conversations that it was a bit of a joke between them that, due to their mutually bizarre tastes, they should try to form their own little cult together and base their operations in Knobby Woods. With a gleam in his eyes, Whitley was first in proposing the idea of visiting the rock during an October night. Ralph liked the idea but countered with the suggestion of not attempting the journey on Halloween itself, citing rumors that misguided souls claiming to be Satanists made periodic use of the giant slab as reason against that particular date. Making light of his concerns, Whitley finally agreed to the request, choosing this particular night as a suitable replacement. Personally, Ralph hoped the rumors about the supposed Satanists weren’t true. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to contend with the possibilities of meeting any uninvited guests that might show up on a Halloween night, regardless of their personal religious beliefs. Perhaps the rumors held some grain of truth, for surely there must be a reason why the large rock was named "the blessing stone". Ralph could never discern the origin of the name, other than to speculate that the locale was old enough to have been used by Druids centuries ago.
He had visited the old place on two previous occasions, however. Both times not really paying attention to the route there, so much as the person leading him. For, in spite of any sinister rumors about the vicinity, an air of solitude surrounded it. It was remote enough that one had to be committed in their decision to visit, but the journey didn’t take so long as to be prohibitive. This gained it favor as a sort of make-out spot amongst the boys’ small circle of friends, mixing the proper levels of danger and secrecy into a powerful aphrodisiac, making the area quite appealing for such activities. Ralph suppressed a smile as he fondly reminisced about his last visit to the blessing stone. Then just as quickly, he cursed himself under his breath for not having paid attention to details concerning those previous journeys. Being late was forgivable, but being lost was embarrassing.
At last, perhaps as a result of his jaunt down memory lane, he came across a recognizable trail and followed it. Relief washed over him at finally stumbling upon the proper path to his destination. As Ralph continued traversing the eldritch, leaf strewn ways, he dwelled upon another enigma puzzling him. Whitley had made reference, more than once, that a surprise was in store for Ralph. After several dogged inquiries, Whitley let slip that the surprise involved an experimental form of Japanese Renga he was working on. This piqued Ralph’s curiosity, as he knew the Renga to be an extended version of the Haiku. Haiku was a very simple three lined poem with a syllable structure of approximately 5, then 7, then a final 5. Ralph knew that the Renga, however, alternated verses between unrhymed syllable sets of 5, 7, 5 and then two separate lines of 7 syllables each. The problem was, Rengas went on for 36, 50 or even 100 verses, and each verse followed a seasonal theme which required words that reminded the reader of the proper season! Additionally, Renga poetry was not the easiest to understand as each verse formed a complete poem with the verse that immediately followed it, and another complete poem with the one that came before it. And of those three there may be no relationship at all between the first and last. Often the meaning of a particular verse changed as it was considered first with the one preceding it, and then with the one succeeding it. The boys studied and admired Renga in their Comparative Poetry class, and both had done well with writing their own Haikus. However, the intense structure of the Renga form eventually left a bitter taste in Ralph’s mouth, even though Whitley had found the rules to be quite challenging.
Flickering evidence of a fire ahead jarred Ralph from his thoughts. Quickly moving towards the hollow where he knew the blessing stone to lie, he unsuccessfully dodged some low lying branches, which caused him to stumble into the clearing. Surveying the surroundings, he noticed that nobody else seemed to be there with him. The fire was burning low, producing little heat to fend off the chill of the mid-October air. The place smelled odd, like incense or something had been burning recently. The scent of damp wood and maybe even freshly excavated earth was also prevalent. Ralph decided to approach the huge slab of stone, which was slightly elevated off of the ground, stopping about waist level. It had a fairly smooth surface, perhaps unnaturally so. There was some sort of writing on it, scrawled in red liquid. An aged sheet of parchment with scarlet discoloration could also be seen on the stone. Uneasiness crept into Ralph as he wondered if this was Whitley’s idea of a joke. Moving to a position facing where he had just been standing, Ralph thought he heard the sound of stirring leaves. He couldn’t tell if it might be his friend, or just the wind. Inspecting the scribbles on the ‘altar’, he noticed that the ‘ink’ was dripping off of the sides onto ever moistening dirt. Ralph was definitely hoping that Whitley’s macabre sense of humor was fueling this scene. Turning his attention to the actual message, he discerned the text to read "Chant the poem aloud to summon me…". The request didn’t look exactly like his friend’s handwriting, as it seemed to have been applied by a thick tree branch or something similar. However, the absurdity of the whole situation broke the tension for Ralph.
"All right Whitley, you can come out now. I’m not going to chant anything you goof!", croaked Ralph, a little too nervously. The only response was the crackling of the dying embers in the fire before the stone. "You hear me Whitley? I said I’m not going to chant the damn poem!!" Glancing around and spotting no one, he decided to pick up the sheet of parchment. It was frayed and yellowed around the edges, with spidery wisps of handwriting on it. Ralph was impressed at the amount of effort Whitley had put into the whole charade. There were even fresh red splatters on the paper. The viscosity of the solution certainly didn’t remind him of paint. Maybe Whitley managed to acquire a small quantity of real blood to top off the effect? Contemplating only for a moment longer, Ralph read the contents of the sheet:
Iä Shub-Niggurath Black Goat of the Woods with 1000 Young Though countless leaves have fallen look upon us with favor Beneath a black moon we intone these sacred words that Thou may hear us Thy humble servants rejoice harvesting this sacrifice Tracing bloody lines symbol of The Dark Mother the Three Headed Goat On consecrated altar within the heart of the woods Visions descending beyond Kadaths icy wastes unknown to Tcho-Tchos Yaddiths Nug-Soth cry askance cold world left dead by Thine word Rituals performed we summon Thee to this place mindful of Thy will Awaiting Thine children’s wails suckling on tender morsels Recalling Father He Who Is Not To Be Named Thy demon lover Renewing our faithfulness through these orgiastic rites Committing foul deeds while Humanity slumbers beneath gentle skies Ominously haunting chants echo through Harag-Kolath Aided by Sakkuth Ajar-Alazwat beckons the Great Ripening Plucking the fruits of our souls savoring such sweet rewards Devouring wholly all who welcome Thine dankness satiating lust Inhuman transformation within puckered, throbbing wombs Expectorating bilious afterbirth blossoms metempsychosis Offspring borne of a new age where wooded darkness prevails
Ralph was a bit dazed by what he had just read. It was certainly nothing like he would have expected from Whitley. This was much more than a simple poem, in places more like a summons, at times feeling provocatively pornographic! Who the hell was this Shub-Niggurath, and what did she have to do with the woods? Foul deeds, orgiastic rites, ripening, transformations within wombs? Had Whitley gone mad? Before Ralph could continue wondering, something startled him back into awareness of the world around him. It was getting hard to breathe. The air smelled of something loathsome, and the stench assaulted him from all sides. Covering his nose with his shirt sleeve he tried to discover the source of the malodor. That’s when Ralph heard his name being called out. More than a single voice was doing the calling, yet all of them vaguely reminded him of Whitley’s.
"Whitley, is that you?" he blurted, not caring if fear showed. Only the sound of a zephyr blowing through crisp leaves answered. Panicking, Ralph dropped the poem. The parchment got caught up in a sudden, chilling wind and fled the scene completely. Ralph barely noticed, concentrating instead on the haunting cacophony of oddly familiar voices.
"Fool! You should’ve chanted the poem aloud as instructed," came the sound of a thousand shattering glasses, " I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for you, as my Mistress has other needs for you now." Ralph shuddered as his spine became a prickling mass of electric needles. One of the trees near him swayed in a rising gust. Dazed, he gaped up at its branches, only to discover that they looked more like bizarrely intertwined vines. Large ropy things, encrusted in a greenish black sap. Ralph was simultaneously fascinated and horrified by the sight. The bark of the tentacular bough was of an indescribable texture, somewhat like decaying wood mixed with a dried, cracked sponge. Ichor started to ooze out of the branch, running towards the end. Ralph’s attention was drawn to the branch’s apex, where it terminated in a bloated nodule. Before curiosity gripped him any further, the strange knob began to move of its own volition and exposed a small, sharp set of serrated teeth. Blackish fluid was dripping off of the now moving mouth while faint, grating whispers escaped its lips. Ralph’s legs buckled in abject terror of the sight before him. Falling nearly prostrate, he realized he needed to get out of there, and now! A giant blackened hoof, attached to the same dark sponge-bark material as the gibbering mouth, thudded next to him. He heard the rustling nearness of the pseudo tree, and the cracking of branches as the thing carelessly brushed against its less blasphemous brothers.
Realization dawned on Ralph that this unnatural monstrosity might not be immobile. A fear, unlike any he’d ever known before, tore through his innards. Bounding backwards, he managed to land supine. His eyes locked upon what was directly in front of him. The next image shocked his brain so terribly, that he succumbed to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. For the last thing to ever register in Ralph’s sight was a horribly grotesque parody of Whitley’s face, writhing into an evil sneer, on the tree-thing looming over him.
All Things Dark and Dangerous is Copyright © 2000 by Corey Whitworth "The Supplicant" Copyright © 1998 Philip C. Robinson Poem by Philip C. Robinson with Corey T. Whitwort Copyright © 1998 by Philip C. Robinson