No Light in August: Tales from Carcosa & the Borderland

By R.L. Robinson

From depression era America, to fantasy worlds similar and yet different from our own. Journey into the realm of the Yellow King.
There are many roads to Carcosa, which one will you take?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.L. Robinson
• Release date: Jan 14, 2015

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No Light in August: Tales from Carcosa & the Borderland

Copyright © 2014 by R.L. Robinson & Pedro Elefante

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Art: Pedro Elefante (All images copyrighted by Pedro Elefante)

Editor: Christine Clukey

Acknowledgements

The collection would not be possible without the help and contribution of Karen Gubbins and Robert Cano.

Karen is perhaps the best beta reader I’ve ever encountered. Her help and critical eye proved invaluable in the creation of this collection.

Robert Cano is one of the best writers and readers it has been my privilege to meet and talk with. His support in this work has been invaluable.

Special mention must also go to Christine Clukey, an editor and friend who is second to none.

My thanks to you all.

Dedication.

To Andrew, Louise, Natalie, Levi, Andy (Welshy), Andy, Dave, Maria, Iain and Nick. To Polly, Steven, Carmen, Jenny, Ciaran, Peter, Ewan, Christopher, Tom and Michael and Martina. My friends, who remind me there are good things in this world.

To my mother and father; although separated, both of you were there for me when I did well and when I messed up.

I’ll never forget that and I can never repay it.

Introduction

As I write this introduction, the collection isn’t yet finished, but I write it for the day it will be.

              Growing up I read a lot and nothing enticed my imagination more than horror, the supernatural and the weird; hence this collection.

              The stories here span time, space and worlds. Carcosa and the King in Yellow are with us everywhere and everywhen. To me they exist across all time and space, have always existed and always will. They represent something elemental and primal; the place where all is possible, even if you don’t want it to be so.

              It exists as a reflection of us; the place where all devils come from. It is a hell where the devils exist not for us, but because of us.

              This is easily the darkest work I’ve attempted to write and the decision to have it illustrated was always foremost in my mind. To me illustrated collections have a special, nostalgic significance.

              Not all of the stories here will appeal to everyone; perhaps the artwork will be the best thing about it for some readers.

              Nonetheless, I invite you to take a trip through the borderland to Carcosa and spend some time with the King’s subjects. Who knows…you might find you belong there with the rest of us after all.

-Vienna, July 2014

Contents

Part One: The Borderland

Carnivale

Otherwhere

No Light in August

Part Two: Carcosa

A House of Nothing

All We Have

Borderland

Doors

Part Three: The King’s Subjects

Art Terroir

Where Gods Hunt

Down with the Sickness

Part One: The Borderland

Carnivale

Whent looked up, startled from his cleaning work as three men banged the door open and strode into the tap room.

              My name is Haran, one said and gestured to the two behind him. This is Foss and Iayn. We need ale and food and our horses stabled and fed for the night.

              Hurry up there, Iayn said, sliding a chair noisily across the boards. We’ve ridden hard.

              Of course, of course, Whent said hurriedly and ducked around the bar. He filled three tankards, tipping the keg forward to drain what was left. Where have you come from, sirs?

He placed a tankard in front of each. Friendly chat was often the best way to deal with men carrying good steel and the potential for violence.

              North of here, said Foss. We sold our swords to Marshal Cray.

              You were hunting the mutineers from the River Fort?

              We were, said Haran, taking a mouthful of ale. Found some, but the rest have turned brigand and scattered across the country.

We heard, though we’ve not seen any sign of them. Nor did Whent think the town would stand much of a chance if they did. A merchant passing through the day before said he’d come across a village all burned out and with the townsfolk crucified along their makeshift palisade.

              Damn fools, Iayn put in. But then, the River Fort ain’t the best place to end up soldiering. Fuck all there, for one thing.

              Like as not to break a man’s spirit and make him think about other uses his skills might be put to, said Foss.

              Whent looked the three men over before leaving for the kitchen to see what he could scrounge up from the pantry. As he was raking the shelves for what he hoped the three would find a satisfying meal, he thought about what his father had said and what passed through the village days before.

Here in the north, things are older, he’d said. Whent was just a boy then, not much older than four or five, but he remembered it.

The towns, the stories, and the memories all speak to an elder time, when people feared what lurked in the night. Aye, that was true enough, and Whent knew many still did — and perhaps they were not wrong to never stop.

Things do still crawl near the frost fens because they, like the people, remember they are supposed to.

              Perhaps they could explain it — they seemed like men of the world, and doubtless men who sold their edged steel had seen and done much. Perhaps they would laugh at his superstition and take him for a northern bumpkin who jumped at shadows.

              Either way, it would provide some entertainment and perhaps make up for any disappointment they might feel about his cooking.

              Something on your mind, innkeep? Iayn asked as Whent lingered close to hand after handing the plates over.

              Well, sirs…it’s maybe nothing, but I have a story to tell you…thought you might have heard something about it, he said as he twisted his apron between his hands. Might be nothing, but it was right strange, so it was.

              Haran stared into his tankard as if expecting more ale to mysteriously appear. A lot of strange things happen up here, but why not give us a refill and tell us, he said, picking up a sausage from his plate. Distractions are hard to find.

              Whent did as he was bid, and he poured a half for himself while he was at it. Pulling a chair up, he took a drink to clear his throat before beginning.

              It was about a fortnight ago, you see…

Whent could say nothing much happens in town. The odd passing wagon or rider, but little else besides; about all the most regular visitors came from the farms roundabout.

              The mutiny to come at the River Fort was only a rumor, talk of grumblings among the garrison carried back to town by the men who supplied the soldiers’ food. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard such things, so they paid them no mind.

              Then one day, a wagon man returning south told them there was a strange procession coming down the road.

              They’ve put in at the garrison, he said. Like as not, it might quiet ‘em down and set ‘em at ease.

              What kind of procession? someone asked.

              Looks like a carnival, if ever I saw one.

              Where’d it come from? Everyone knew there was precious little beyond the River Fort, save the mountains and the savages who lived there.

              Who knows? he responded, gobbing some of his chew into the dust as he climbed into the driver’s seat. But it should be here by tomorrow. He flashed a toothy grin. Strangest fuckin’ sight I ever laid eyes on.

              As the wagon man said, they did indeed arrive in town the next day. They were heard before they were seen — a jangle and creaking of wheels loud enough to carry ahead of the procession.

              A scattering of townsfolk made their way into the thoroughfare to watch the approach and were joined later by most others. When the carnival drew close enough, it let out a blast of trumpets, together with a rhythmic drumbeat underscoring the blaring horns.

              The line it formed wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small either. A thin man rode at its head on a great horse, most likely bred for war.

              He wore a cloak that looked to have been ripped up and stitched back together, only with different-colored cloth mending the tears. Red seemed to be his favorite choice on that score, and as he rode into town, Whent saw his face was covered in dark ink.

              None of the shapes and patterns made the least bit of sense; it was all swirls and whorls. Underneath the ink, the man’s skin was an angry red, especially around his eyes.

              Six men trudged behind the rider; tall and wiry, they had a wolfish look about them and seemed to stare hungrily at the crowd. But they weren’t the strangest sight, not by a long way.

              Pulled by more men, each in harness, the center of the parade was taken up by a huge cart. Though cart didn’t quite describe it — it was more like a wooden platform on wheels, enclosed by iron bars. There was no roof, so the bars wobbled about as it moved along.

              Men and woman capered around it, wearing grim parodies of carnival costume. Jesters in black, with necklaces of bone trinkets dangling about them; dancers wearing almost nothing, save for pelts.

              The wagon man was right. It was a strange sight.

              A fire breather tossed a pair of small birds in front of him and burned them from the sky, the flames licking over the heads of the audience. He produced the same birds again, seemingly from thin air.

              Hanging from the cart’s iron bars, or else secure on top, were all manner of weird things. Masks and shoes, a pair of woman’s gloves, and the bleached ribcage of what could’ve been a child for its size and shape.

              There were other bones too, all mismatched around it to make a bizarre and grotesque skeleton.               Someone had fixed a pair of rotting wings, pulled from some great bird, to its back.  A dog, or maybe wolf’s, head was transfixed onto the bar above it all. Its tongue hung between its lips, frozen in something that might have been a snarl.

Hanging from the cart’s iron bars, or else secure on top, were all manner of weird things.

Is that it? asked Haran, now on his third ale.

              More or less, but that ain’t the strangest thing ‘bout it.

              Iayn and Foss exchanged a look. Go on, then, Foss offered.

              Well, they performed somethin’, though I’d not claim to know what…seemed like a bit of theatre and a bit of magic. The usual stuff; dancing, juggling, fire eating, and the like…but it was all darker somehow.

              I don’t see where this is going, said Iayn.

              Well, it’s hard to put into words.

              Then don’t try, put in Haran. Just say whatever comes and don’t mind if it’s right sounding. The story and the ale had lulled them, but it looked like it wouldn’t hold.

              They camped outside of town for a night and moved on. They never took any payment or food or nothin’, just left.

              That was strange, Iayn thought. In his experience, performers of most stripes would have the gold out of your teeth given half a chance. He saw that Foss and Haran agreed.

              And there’s been a strangeness in the air ever since, Whent said, spreading his arms at the empty taproom. I’d be full on any normal night. People’s stayin’ away, and they’re snappin’ at each other more ‘an usual. Why, last night, Malick — he’s the smith — he beat his wife half to death for no good reason.

              Are you saying they worked a spell? asked Iayn.

              I’m a god-fearin’ man, so I’d rather not say. Whent hummed and hawed about mentioning the tracks, then decided he probably should.

              What sort of tracks? Foss leaned back and belched, dumping his empty tankard on the table.

              Weren’t like none I’ve seen…there weren’t no shape to them, but they were too regular-like to be anythin’ else. Whent rose and went to the mantle over the fire. He returned with a bottle of brandy and poured a tot into each of their empty tankards. There was a mark on Malick’s door, near more of ‘em. He traced a vague shape in the air. Made me think of the ink on the thin man.

              If we see them, we’ll give them a wide berth, Iayn reassured him.

              Whent wanted to say that wasn’t why he was telling them about the carnival, but the drink only served to muddle his head more than he’d intended.

They rode out the next morning, heading south first before turning north again.

              You were right, Foss said.

              Iayn didn’t reply, just kept looking straight ahead. Sad to hear you doubted me.

              Can’t blame a man for asking questions.

              There’s truth to that, I suppose.

              "You think