The Rite of the Open Sky

Something inside me snapped at that moment, but it would be some time before I had any further recollection of our encounter.

(Filled in from later recollection, and stories from my associates pieced together):

Apparently at that precise moment, I suspect to at long last grasp what might be my only chance to see for myself what these lunatics claimed to see, I tore the shawl from Tshombe’s chest – revealing exactly what I had both expected and was terrified to see: a green, bloody mouth.. grinning.. grinning with rows and rows of teeth.. bleeding.. and making a noise I can only describe as a “meep”.. grinning, mocking me, smiling at me….

The villagers did not take kindly to my unveiling this .. thing! which was apparently sacred to them. I don’t know that I expected any other reaction, really, but in that moment I suspect I put my fear past my need to really and truly see one of these monsters for myself. I regretted it immediately, but only for the sake of my companions whose lives I had very much put at risk to satisfy my own curiosity, however overwhelming it might have been.

I recall a strange wind blowing as we made our way hastily from the tent, and the feeling of the heat striking me in the face.. and then it was all chaos. Many voices shouted in a tongue I could not understand, Quincy ran faster than I could have believed possible, losing his hat to the desert sands….

The next thing I knew, I was calling Howard “George”, of all things, and we were running for our lives from the mad and self-abusive villagers, chasing us down with knives and what weapons they could find to hand. We struggled to mount our camels, it being difficult enough to do when not in haste, and so had to face off with the few villagers who managed to crest the hill.. They were trying to kill us, so despite any regrets, we took their lives to spare our own. I know I killed one, and heard the shots fired which felled the others. We nearly lost Erik to one, but he finally went down after my third shot.

I staunched Erik’s wound, but would need more time to get the knife’s broken blade out of his shoulder. We had to get to Iron Point, and soon! Fortunately, when we arrived, the train was there and the villagers seemed to have given up their pursuit. They were right, we shouldn’t have gone to Dallol. It was akin to HELL itself, if such a place exists. (Although, I admit, I am more like to admit as much today than I was only a few days ago, living in my blissful ignorance.) I tried my best to assist Erik, but my hands shook and my nerves were frayed.. I was in no position to perform such a delicate operation.

We decided to go further, to Kalluli, to seek help from Matthai and Muhoho. I rode my camel in a daze, trying hard not to remember all I had seen, even though I knew at some point I must face it. I focused on the searing heat of the desert, grateful for it, knowing we had survived. Matthai graciously offered Erik the treatment he needed when we arrived, and I told her the bits and pieces my tongue could form. She and her brother muttered phrases like “perhaps it rises again” and “is it happening again?” and even “how can just two of us stop this?” but I caught little else of their conversation.

But I knew I had to tell her all. Sleep would not come for me that night, nor would I let it, until I had spoken to Matthai again. I sought her out, knowing she – of all people I had met – would believe what I had to say. Only in telling her my tale aloud, could I safely relive it and hear it myself. She listened, but had little enough advice to offer but for one offer – let them deal with Dallol. Of course, that meant leaving us the bigger problem of facing this down in the world at large. If this same curse – this mouth with all the teeth that Henslowe had gone on about at length, and drawn so disturbingly in his journal – had truly also been summoned in California, there could be more of them. And, as had been mentioned before, if there were a mouth – many mouths – must there not also be a stomach?

If I had not seen it for myself, I would think myself mad. Perhaps I am. Perhaps the desert heat has touched my mind and rather than dreaming of an oasis, I am living the shared nightmares and delusions of those in Dallol. Could it all be a fabrication, a mirage? I needed time to rest, to consider, to heal. The others felt much the same. I may have pulled the veil, but the others no doubt saw what I saw. We each needed time to process this terrible sight, or shared delusion.

And so we returned to Mersa Fatma and then to Massaua and spent the better part of a month there. It had been early December, but the days turned to weeks, and before we knew it we had passed the Christmas and New Years Holidays with little fanfare. In the desert there are no White Christmases, no snowmen or pine trees. We did not exchange gifts, but we did share a sumptuous meal of roasted lamb and a few trimmings. The natives would not celebrate Christmas until after the New Year, but we were invited to join the Italian Officers in their celebration. We drank heavily that night, and sang carols in many languages.

The next day (after a long and necessary morning of sleeping in) we (all but Otto, who claimed he was much too old to carry on with children’s games) did join a few of the native young men who were playing ball with a stick. New Years was much the same as Christmas, only with more drink and less singing. A few days before we would leave Massaua again, we observed the native Christmas traditions, their holiday known as Ganna, and were welcomed to join in a feast of their Christmas stew. For more than a month the natives had fasted, eating only one sparse and meatless meal per day, and so this was a break of their fast. We have become much better accustomed to the food here, and the native stews are actually very fine indeed.

Much of their church service had begun long before we rose for the day, and the women attended a separate church from the men. There were no gifts exchanged, and holy services took up much of the day, but then the young men played more games. Neither speaking the language nor being of a particular religious mind myself, I did not join the women for their worship. But I did find the entire tradition comforting. I found myself thinking that if evil had indeed come to this land once before, that they seemed to have come out of it well enough.

When not celebrating holidays or drinking ourselves into a stupor (which I admit I participated in far more than befits my gender), I spent nearly all my free time poring over the book from Echavarria’s library – The Rift of the Maw. I made many notes and cross-referenced every common theme and name, but I will need access to a proper “occult” library to further define and understand much of what is it contains. I also sent George a telegram, but received no response.

January 7th, 1935 (Monday)

The morning of the 7th, the doctor was finally able to join us downstairs for breakfast, and agreed he was ready to set off once more (if naught else, to be once and for all done with his time here in Massaua). With Howard’s help, we began re-provisioning immediately, all in agreement we would have done with the desert and return to the US as soon as was possible.

January 8th (Tuesday)

We left for Kolluli on the train, having left our camels there in our haste to leave. We met with Muhoho when we arrived, who told us there are now occasionally skirmishes between the people of Kolluli and those of Dallol. It is as if something has stirred him – and we knew that something was us, me in particular. My guilt stirred in me, but I suppressed it for now. It was only since the passing of the holidays that a sense of normality had begun to settle in again, and I could not afford to lose it now. Too much was at stake.

January 9th (Wednesday)

We left Kolluli with a different guide, off on a mission to talk to George Ayers. No longer did we have the comfort of the rail line as a guide through miles of nothing but sand and shrub. We trudged along on our camels, scathed once more by the scorching desert heat. Erik and Otto suffered the most and we broke at mid-day to give them some respite. We waited a few hours, but then carried on, determined to make it as far as we could. The sooner we got there, the sooner we could turn around.

As we pitched the tents, in the distance both Howard and I took note of what we believed to be a figure near a dune to the South, perhaps a half mile away. Howard set off in that direction on camelback, and came back to report spotting footprints but not their maker. We set watches for the first time that night, Howard, myself, and our guide.

January 10th (Thursday)

Neither Erik nor Otto are doing well, but we pressed on. The desert is mesmerizing, hour after hour of scenery that all looks near-identical. It gives one the disheartening feeling they make no progress, and we ceased most efforts at conversation. The water reserves are running low, and we must make it to our destination soon or we’ll be forced to turn back with nothing to show for our effort.

January 11th (Friday)

The desert and the slomping of the camels’ footsteps are lulling. We trudge on and on and on, but our guide says we’ve only half a day to go which brings us some small hope. As we reach mid-day the guide suddenly halts, calls out, and points. As we reach his side we can see what he sees – canyons and caves built into a great ridge of rock – promising shade! The grunts of our camels now seem to echo throughout the various geological formations, and a figure stands in a beam of sunlight, silhouetted against the rock. The figure is profoundly lean, heavily tanned, unkempt, and completely nude with skin akin to leather. He wears no protection from the sun, and seems almost to bask within it.

As we grow closer, Erik waves his hat, hoping to give the impression that we are friendly. But as we grow even closer, sheer horror washes over me once more. For once more I see one of these mouths, at the center of the figure’s belly. This time, the mouth is half-open, shaped in almost a sneer, dusty, still… pacified? I recall the “Rite of the Open Sky” and feel almost a glimmer of relief or gladness as my mind once more begins to reel and shuts down.

For the first bit of conversation with the man once called Ayers, I can listen but find myself unable to speak. Otto takes the lead and confirms the man who hosts this horrific creature at his waist is indeed George Ayers. He asks Ayers for hospitality, and we are lead into blessed shade.

I see my father-in-law, my mentor, George, precede me inside and know it must be safe to follow. I notice small puddles of water, but see no well or other source. How does anyone survive here? Surely not from these “rituals” alone. George stops, however, and I hear him cock a shotgun.. George is going to shoot Ayers! I cannot imagine anything more a crime, than shooting the man who is our only witness and might give us some real answers! Otto too talks him down, and conversation with Ayers begins.

It was probably my FBI training which allowed me to recognize the sound of the shotgun and brought be back to myself. George wasn’t George, of course, but Howard. And who could blame Howard for wanting to end the existence of this abomination. But I am grateful that he too could see sense.

Ayers told us many things, but I don’t know that any of what he spoke were the all-encompassing wisdoms we hoped for.. needed. He told us the mouth was dormant, but still speaks to him, that he is able to suppress it. The “Guardians” had told us there was a great evil within Ayers, but I expected it to be just that – more “within”. He could not tell us where the stomach might be, but admitted the question was significant. He said he never got to find out.

He told us he atones for all his sins by living here, in peace, that the rituals are difficult. Echavarria said the mouths were interconnected, spread around the world, that we would have to find the source. He called the evil the Liar From Beyond. He told us he purifies his body, himself, and admits he led a terrible life. He admits Echavarria knew someone in Thailand, but claimed to know no more. Ayers told us that Tramell was just a deviant. He told us you don’t make the nectar, but that you cultivate or extract it from a source.

He spoke of Edgar – calling him a clever boy, never understood at University. He says he never understood why Echavarria was so interested in Edgar. For him it was about finding the truth to the Lie, Echavarria and his great big lie.

All throughout Ayers seemed to be struggling with an internal pain… the mouth no doubt, telling him to keep quiet or just increasing his suffering. He stopped and said he must complete the rites again. But we don’t know how long it will take? An hour? A day? Or perhaps even longer? We know we cannot stay if there is no source of water here to sustain us.

Was this all we would get from him? Had we come all this way to talk to a man who knew no more than we did? What questions aren’t we asking?