Carl Ellis October 1928 - Diary

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Monday, 1 Oct 1928, morning; back at Newhaven

Tony called me this morning. Cold; distant; a brisk professional veneer thing covering desperation and despair. I do not know what it was that he did not say, but it spoke volumes in its absence – and what he did say was bad enough.

They hit the Boston house after a week’s worth of watching. Labs; manufactory, and four or five people, led by one of the Avowed. Not KR (note - Katyana Rasmul) – but someone like her. All dead now save one prisoner. Prisoner?! What are we to do with prisoners? We are not prepared to handle such things, even if I thought it a good idea. Which I do not. But G (note - Antonio Grimaldi) has him now, for good or ill.

Proof at last, of the Dark-Trained.

The Black Man has used his own as traps. Traps! Triggered by questioning-? They tear themselves apart. Does he know? Lord God in Heaven, how can we possibly touch this fiend!! Beautiful soaring melodies, indeed!! Oh, lost, lost, lost and afraid…..!

And Tony! I am losing you too, aren’t I? I watch you, feel you slipping away …. One of the best, more lost by the hour; and what can I do? You will not touch me, will not let me touch you! Helpless! I can do nothing if you will not let me help you …. Oh, how sad and bitter it all is.

They say he never laid blame or condemned his people; and so I shall try to do the same. To stay silent is easy; but not to TRY-! That is hard, so hard.

I am afraid. So afraid.

Is the whole fragile family dying?

I have NO TIME to learn how to heal! The whole delicate edifice may be in shards before the Gathering, which once seemed so close!

How can the face of things change so fast?

Be careful, Tony! Oh, how I dread your works to come! California may be our undoing; I have no reason to feel that way, I merely do. Oh, please – step softly! We need that link so badly, let it not be shattered! Desperation leads to blindness, Tony; and blindness can kill. Beware!

Now I have done it to myself. My hand shakes as I write; my chest is cold with sorrow. What will happen? WHAT?

GOD DAMN YOU, CLOCK: MOVE ON! MOVE ON!

I will have to speak with G, when I go east. But I cannot think of what to say or ask. Hmm.

Reminder. Talk to Alex about populating the house. The children are so happy here.



POSSIBLE REDACTION

There is a section of the diary missing just before this entry.

Tuesday, 4 October 1928; Dinnertime, Arkham

Everybody is gone! This is irksome. Carl has not yet returned; Mrs. Williams has not yet returned; Lazlo has not yet returned …. And now it seems they are all in the same place! Cuba? Why Cuba, why now? Is there something going on that I missed completely? Dear me. And now G is missing too. I cannot talk to him. Or his ‘prisoners’. I confess I am relieved …. But what happened? What have they done with him? What happened in California? No. I will not make a fuss. Tony knows how to reach me, if there is a report to make.

Arc’s place is, if anything, more lovely now than it was when I was last here two years ago. Or is it just me? In the event, the turning of the leaves adds a poignant beauty to everything that is both exhilarating and softly tragic. But I digress, as always. And the place is all over maple trees! I did not know what they were, last time; but one of the servants pointed them out this morning.

This is going to be a lovely place for the party.

Harper (one of the staff) tells me that Arc wired a few days ago, says he is on his way. Good! I want to speak to him.

Funny about the servants. They are quiet, discrete, competent, and oh-so-professional; but after Straight …. Well, it is not the same.

Julian loves it here. I do not think she has been here before, and like me she finds it magnificent. At the same time, however, she constantly makes it clear to me that the place is nothing next to the French Estate. I surely am getting curious about that big old House! The kids …. Ah, the kids. I feel like such a heel, dragging them all over kingdom come and then leaving them with nothing to do when we get there.

But it is hard to please them both. Poor Rachael is in love with Newhaven. Truly, she is blossoming, under the care of Straight and the peace of the estate there. It broke her heart to leave; I was really tempted to let her stay awhile …. But I promised her there were nicer places ahead, and I do want to get all four of the kids together.

Hmm …. I suppose I shall have to stop thinking of them as children soon. It’s not right, I know, Lord knows they have been denied childhood long enough! But otherwise there is a present danger that I/we will come to think of them always as children, merely because of their appearance.

Think of them as patients involved in a cure. No, wait …. Students. Students of life. That is Better.

I have gotten awfully fond of those two. Even Adam, despite his spikiness. He was not reluctant to let go, dear me no! He is bored. Needs something to do. That is what started me off on this train of thought, after all …. He is a doer, not a thinker. Passive study does not sit well on him.

So. Tonight or tomorrow, with Julian’s help, he and I will go to Stockton. Check the house, feed the cat, fill the water tanks, and so forth. A good hour or two’s work; something to do. Right. And I must talk to him about his future.

Letters. One from Lazlo, one from Carl.

I did not realize that Lazlo and his young lady were so cozy already. Yet here she is, cooking him breakfast in his home. Dare I be salacious? Me, of all people? (Snicker) Ah, well. It could be innocent; and these are, after all, the ‘twenties.

I wonder what he is thinking, right now?

He seems to be in a musing state of mind. Catching the edges of the Principle, as it were – or perhaps merely skirting the edge of danger is making him hold more dearly to everything simple and beautiful? A lesson for me.

I must write to him. What are they up to down there?

Carl’s letter is more recent. A post-mortem on Kentucky, some chat. He has not received my most recent one.

Lots to say about Rebecca, especially her influence on Tony. Hmm …. Influence …. In view of the changes I have noticed in him, is it safe to think that she is bad for him? Not enough information yet, I think … but something to ponder.

She DOES need training and experience. A leader’s role in a hothouse environment has not prepared her for the variety of scenaria which she may face.

Morenotes on the Glory Hole and its activity. I have long thought that they did some of their first Gate work there … but could the others be right? Might those folk have broken through to other tunnels, or Something Else? I must not dismiss this out of hand. They will not abandon the site.

Some comments on Pierre. They sadden me.

More stuff on Faigon.(note - aka Boyer Rulininov) Hah! Oh Carl, if you only knew what I know! Why the Devil aren’t you home? And in King, as well. Ex-vampire? Oh, dear boy, you are in for a sur-prise!!

And, last Gathering. Delight – and loneliness. He strives to come closer even as he pushes me away. “It is a lonely job, how lonely I don’t think you know and will never know.” Why does he think that? Is is something in him he speaks of, or something he sees in me? A puzzle.

But there is real warmth in his closing.

Dinnertime – and I have written far too long.

Friday, 5 October, 1928; afternoon, Arkham

This morning, early, Julian, Adam, and I went into the basement and through the Door. Uf! What a feeling! Unpleasant – I do not like it, at all! – but not so bad as that awful thing we went through to and from China. I do not believe I shall ever enjoy using these Doors. Ever. Even putting the unpleasantness aside, it just does not feel RIGHT, somehow. Like cheating, in a way.

(But, says the small voice, just look! See how amazingly CONVENIENT they are…!)

Well, they are that, surely. Draining, though. Julian went back to Arkham, after pointing out the way; and I dithered a bit. Did not really want to use the Doors again, nobody likes discomfort; but the real reason was a sly compelling need to Go Upstairs and Look! There I was – in France! – within sight, perhaps, of the Big House! Should I peek?

No, I decided. If I was going to go to the Estate, I was going to WALK!

Adam was getting impatient. Through the door, then, to Stockton.

A hottish, dry day in California – real Indian Summer weather. The house is still in order, merely looking a bit run-down after nearly a month’s disuse. Tony has evidently been through; a few things are moved, the documents I left for him are gone, the flowers have been watered even though the tanks are dry. Nice of him to do that for us. Peanut was sunning Itself on the back porch, sassy as ever and, if anything, larger than before.

Adam was ecstatic. Something to do, at last! He has been frustrated and increasingly bored – one reason for this trip. So we filled the flower tanks, topped off the cat food machine, and he spent a happy couple of hours in the morning cool (the time difference is noticeable!), puttering around the yard, cutting grass, and so forth while I performed a few tests and gathered some things.

The Doorway is …. Interesting. Unfortunately, it is draining for me to use; equally unfortunately, when I attempt to activate it with energy from one of my discharge units, though it does fill up as before, the flip-flip is erratic and the image dim or distorted. I do not know why; but I would not want to put my safety into a Doorway that behaved like that!

Also pulled a few textbooks out of mothballs – different ones this time, calculus and physics – and have decided to give him lessons every day or two. Who knows? Perhaps he will enjoy it – and then maybe I shall have someone around to talk of my hobbies with. Sometime this week I shall have to look for others: a book on astronomy, lens-grinding, radios, & electricity. Fun things. We shall see. He has been bored long enough!

I showed him how to use the Doorway for himself, at which he quickly became adept; and we returned to Arc’s around one-thirty ... And here we are! The home house is all locked up; and I pressed the iron doors mostly closed and left a note of warning to others not to enter. We shall see if they believe it; but I truly do not want my home used as a railway terminal!

Saturday, 6 October 1928; 2 PM, Arkham

Our passports are here! They’re lovely: I do enjoy official documents. Always so stiff, with seals and such …. I feel as though a thousand bureaucratic ritual mysteries lurk behind each still-lipped page. Nice. Very.

Then came dinner – and Arc (note - Arcturus Rand) arrived.

He looks well. Strong and tan from his travelling. He came through the Portal from England, having received my letter. We worked for a while, putting some of his odder mementos into storage (that big fish’s head on the wall in the den was a Deep One!) and packing away some of the more unsettling books. And we talked.

And talked. And talked. And talked.

There was a lot to catch him up on. China. San Francisco. The search for the Black Man. Eveling. The Children. Buffalo. Silver Twilight. The Disease. Boston, Redmun, London.

And, at last, the Treaty.

I suppose it is fitting that he be the first; after all, he was the first to openly answer my questions. There were things I did not tell him – the Exchange, and the name of our Ambassador candidate – but all of the rest, yes. And the results were as good as I ought to expect.

Arc is tentative. He agrees that it could work, but does not wish to commit himself to an opinion on the subject until after all the facts are clear. He has grave doubts, but allows that they are in the main irrational, and is willing to try to set them by if necessary.

But he did promise me this: That, even should he decide against this thing, he will not actively oppose this treaty or me, but will merely withdraw.

I respect him; I am grateful for that much.

I was thinking just now about my letter yesterday to Alex Chase. Did not realize that, for all my professions of camaraderie and forgiveness, I still have not asked him to come to gathering. Well. I can justify it in the privacy of my own head …. But it still looks pretty hypocritical when considered from without.

So hard to control! The party is getting bigger and bigger – already I see I have lost the intimate beginnings I so urgently sought when we began this. But even now, even now, there are those I wish to begin with, and those to whom I hope to show a completed beginning. The Gathered will be special – they will be the first, present at the opening and the rebirth. Yet, with each new voice, each new desire added to the consensus, the chances of a harmonious whole become smaller and smaller.

Fie! It is out of my hands. Let the games begin!

Sunday, 7 October 1928; still at Arc’s, 10 PM

More and more; we are picking up speed! Called Tony back this morning with my “revelations” about the Gregory House. Seventeen eight four, hah? How convenient.

Not much of a Place of Refuge. But useful.

Now my mind is awhirl. If the plague is really being tested or disbursed here, then this place is likely to be very dangerous.

Right. No kidding. They know. Calm down.

Tony has changed. He seems a lot more relaxed, more in control of himself. Why, we actually managed to have two complete talks without anyone clamming up or marching away furiously! Makes me feel a lot better about this whole thing.

So….. once I was up, there was nothing to it but to set about the business of the day.

Morning trip out of town to visit Cassandra Felion (note - once a model for the painter Jeremiah Lambert). Poor woman. I am very disheartened. The place she is kept is nice enough … for a hospital. That is to say, the staff is no doubt quite comfortable. Her room, however, is white and sterile; and she is in no position to appreciate any of it.

Miss Felion has become a cause célèbre amongst us; but as I sat and looked at her haggard dreaming face, I was overwhelmed with a sense of futility. I cannot help her. There is nothing in my power to perform that will ease her burden.

Yet, here she lies; mirror and symbol of one possible future.

Julian? Perhaps. Though I wonder about that as well. Hers is a delicate talent, for all its power; and I am reluctant now to try and put it to the test on that poor girl.

I scarcely even considered the painting. She would have to be awake to see it, for one thing; and she would begin her tirade long before becoming fully conscious. Not to mention my reservations about the thing’s effectiveness.

Poor Meagan. Well, she is happy now.

I wonder if Zigfried … but he too has places to go.

So. Afternoon we all bundled off to New York City, to Emerson’s house on Copeley Road. The kids were quietly delighted to see one another, and quickly closeted themselves away together. Even Rachel is chipper – talking to them all, smiling a bit in an easy way she never has with us. O well.

I spent some time speaking with the staff who take care of them; then Julian and I went out into the city to buy a few things. Toiletries and travel supplies; several books for each, including more texts and an ephemeris for Adam; and (o treasure!) a telescope. Not a big one; but quite enough for he and I to explore the sky. Expensive! I had not thought. Ah, well.

Back home an hour or so ago, and the kids to bed, sleepy and happy. And here I am.

Good luck, Tony.

Just as I finished the above, the telephone rings. Lazlo, from Cuba! And boy – does he have a lot to say!

This vacation of his has not been a lot of fun.

Lazlo, Carl, Andrew (?!), Pembrook (!!), and their respective young ladies all meet at the home of Andrew White, near Havana. For some reason, local Voodoo cultists are very interested in them: Images of Carl & Lazlo made into dolls (!!!) and a lovely white woman named Chiennie Faraday, a ‘priestess’ from Jamaica, is interested in them. She, it seems, has come to the island a few days previous on some business of her own.

There is also a seedy planter named LeFarb who shows too much interest in the ladies – and then, a few days later, several of the women and Lazlo are attacked by bandits and zombies at White’s house, while the others are away fighting a (convenient?) fire!

They escape; they run; the women are carried off by big black things that almost have to be night gaunts (!!!!); and a long chase follows, to a cave up in the mountains where the women are being fed to some sort of “tumescent, white and beige, slimy, tentacular, sluglike thing.”

Messy. The women are rescued; the cultists are all killed (sigh); lots of elder symbol glows; and they march back to the coast.

Lazlo says that all of the women are in deep shock, and have confused memories of some alien, ethereal beauty that fade by the hour. They also have, on the hands that were enclosed by the Thing, fine scars across the knuckles and the joints, very thin, like razors!!!! Familiar?

Terrible terrible. Lazlo says his Julia is often unaware of him. “She leaves this world and enters another,” he says. Glowing madonnalike perfection. “All so bright and beautiful.” Massive blood and life-force loss; she has dropped 15 lbs. since the incident.

This is horrible! Our people – THEIR dear ones! – grabbed up and WRENCHED like this! Horrible! I feel so powerless – yet what can I do? Lazlo and Julian are preparing to leave …. The rest of the others have headed to LeFarbe’s plantation for some answers. I do not think they will be gentle about getting them!

What about the White Lady? What about Jamaica? What connection does she have with the zombies and LeFarbe? Why was she here? The mask, the shopkeeper … what does it mean? And those scars, so like HIS …. What is the connection?

Of special interest is Lazlo’s description of the Faraday woman – the Lady in White. She had a glamour, he says, very strong, alluring, primal. Familiar? He says it is like J’s, “but different.”

Could there be a connection between this Jamaica group and the Islanders??

Wait – wait – wait. My God. I am remembering a description.

On Sandoo – ruins – and bright-white, invisible snakelike things. Loigon. Guardians of the Lady? Or echoes? Or aspects of the Lady herself?

Could there be a connection?

Loigon – Loa? My God!

“Like – yet different.” Hmm! So few things on this earth are unique and alone … it seems possible that there may be others.

Loa. Baby Ladies? O dear o dear o dear. Time to start studying voudun!

Dear Heavens – How can I ask anything of her now, after all this? How? I cannot – but who, then? Shall I speak to Carl first? Yes – he has been around, and he knows her – he will know what to do.

Balderdash. This is my plan, my burden; I must not try to put it off on him! We shall go on as before, and the Lady will make her own choice.

But oh, oh, oh. I do not LIKE this!

<Dammit, it TIES TOGETHER!>

Another few minutes. J is rousing the kids for their trip to France. She will be back tomorrow evening; and we shall go to New York.

Wednesday, 10 October 1928; At sea

It is Anchors Aweigh at last! There is something quite special about setting sail. Like a ritual turning away from the old, facing about to look upon the new. When the dock is left behind, the band stops playing, and the bow points cleanly toward an unbroken horizon, salt air upon my cheeks, I feel a lifting; washed free, for a time, of burdens behind us. Set forth to face the wonders of the new.

The last couple of days have been busy ones. After the three of them left I sat and thought for a bit; then slept. The following day, that I had thought to spend in idle tourism, was instead turned to research on voodoo.

Interesting stuff. I had time only to skim the surface, of course – and the subject is quite complicated. As with all such things, the closer one gets to the particular, the more the seeming similarities are obscured by detail; but again and again there are hints of similarity, of a basic sort of familiarity between the one and the other.

One difficulty lies in the stripping of fact from folklore. Voodoo lore contains elaborate explanations of why things are as they are; but these differ strongly from tribe to tribe, cult to cult; and they do not present a coherent picture of the sort I am seeking in any case.

Serpent mages appear throughout the religion, in connection with most of the powerful loa. Too, loa influence is passed through the blood – and the feminine loa pass through the women, as the male ones do through the men! The practice of ritual possession is ubiquitous; the spirits are said to wind down a pole from the sky, or enter the body from the earth; and always first there is a distancing between the man and the world, a setting back and withdrawal from control.

The tie between loa and Earth is very strong and pervasive. Even those loa associated with the sky or the cosmic forces appear in conjunction with the earth in rituals and histories. There is something primal, something fundamental about this association that should not be ignored.

I wonder if there is any information about voodoo at the Big House? It will be interesting to see what they thought important.

So … That night, Julian came back, tired but happy, and reported success. The kids were settled in, not without some distress, but safely. We took the evening train back to New York.



POSSIBLE REDACTION

There is a section of the diary missing just before this entry.

The poor dear had been up for more than a full day and night; she nodded off on the train, and practically had to be poured into bed when we arrived at the hotel. But a night’s sleep works wonders for the young, even the forever-young, and we were on the road in a rented car, bathed and fresh, well before noon.

Charot is a tiny town on the North Jersey coast, and Mrs. Harden’s home is a white Gull Cottage sort of affair set about a mile back from the beach. The sky was high but grey, and there was a constant cool breeze off the water. Good Easter October weather – a nice day for sailing. The gulls seemed happy too, far away.

I have no idea of Lisel Harden’s true age; but if she married young, say eighteen, and appeared right after at Gathering in 1852, that would make her born in 1834 … and her age somewhere around ninety-five! Remarkable. She is still a lovely woman, even now; but sadly she shows every one of those years.

I did not know how coherent her thoughts would be, after Tony’s comments. She was charming. She has a grim and defensive housekeeper who guards her ferociously, and whose name I fear I have already forgotten.

We talked for perhaps a half hour. I introduced myself as a compatriot of Ceryous Outt’s, and said I had come by to pay my respects. I admit to a bit of a shock when she mentioned that Benjamin (note - Lisel Harden's deceased husband) was not home but would return shortly, and would we care to wait? But this, and a slight tendency to be a bit time lost, not having been apprised of the terrible events of the past few years, were the only barriers to what might otherwise have been a gracious and effortless visit.

Poor, dear woman. She does not know all that has happened. If she did, it would break her heart. That, more than anything else, was my reason for cutting the interview short. I could not bear the thought of shattering her fragile gracious world.

I was immensely moved by her love and devotion for her husband. One could hear it in her voice when she spoke of him. “Dear Benjamin has been very quiet lately,” she said. “Sometimes I hear him downstairs, when he thinks I am asleep.” So much. So much. It wrenched my heart, so I felt I wanted to weep.

I do not think she will live much longer. Her housekeeper said her strength has failed much in the past few months. I left my card with them: I hope she will get my letter, but if not … perhaps I shall hear in time to attend the funeral.

Benjamin will be home soon. Dear God.

Julian was nearly as distressed as I, though for different reasons. She had never met a very elderly person before. The tragedy of mortality has never made an impression on her life until now.

We drove to the seashore, walked on the beach, and ate the picnic lunch I brought, and talked. In a while, things got better. The edge of sorrow eased.

I shall send her a scarf, from Paris.