Haggopian and Other Stories

In 1977 I was the DI at the RMP HQ. As stated elsewhere, time was short. I’d even had to give up hang-gliding—something I had done for kicks all over the Scottish hills from my base in Edinburgh—and I’d sold my “kites” to other Military Policemen who were equally crazy! A sad state of affairs; I missed the rush of adrenalin, but at least I had managed to purchase myself some spare time in which to write. “Mylakhrion the Immortal” was one of a handful of stories written in that spare time. It’s another tale set in the Primal Land; for by then (and ever since the not unreasonable success of The House of Cthulhu) I had decided to write an entire bookful of them. Not a bad idea, because, as elsewhere stated, in 1984 Paul Ganley would publish that very book in both paper and hardcover, with the obvious title, The House of Cthulhu.

There was a time when I, Teh Atht, marvelling at certain thaumaturgical devices handed down to me from the days of my wizard ancestor, Mylakhrion of Tharamoon (dead these eleven hundred years), thought to question him with regard to the nature of his demise; with that, and with the reason for it. For Mylakhrion had been, according to all manner of myths and legends, the greatest wizard in all Theem’hdra, and it concerned me that he had not been immortal. Like many another wizard before me I, too, had long sought immortality, but if the great Mylakhrion himself had been merely mortal…surely my own chance for self-perpetuity must be slim indeed.

Thus I went up once more into the Mount of the Ancients, even to the very summit, and there smoked the Zha-weed and repeated rare words by use of which I might seek Mylakhrion in dreams. And lo!—he came to me. Hidden in a grey mist so that only the conical outline of his sorcerer’s cap and the slow billowing of his dimly rune-inscribed gown were visible, he came, and in his doomful voice demanded to know why I had called him up from the land of shades, disturbing his centuried sleep.

“Faceless one, ancestor mine, o mighty and most omniscient sorcerer,” I answered, mindful of Mylakhrion’s magnitude. “I call you up that you may answer for me a question of ultimate importance. A question, aye, and a riddle.”

“There is but one question of ultimate importance to men,” gloomed Mylakhrion, “and its nature is such that they usually do not think to ask it until they draw close to the end of their days. For in their youth men cannot foresee the end, and in their middle span they dwell too much upon their lost youth; ah, but in their final days, when there is no future, then they give mind to this great question. And by then it is usually too late: For the question is one of life and death, and the answer is this: yes, Teh Atht, by great and sorcerous endeavour, a man might truly make himself immortal…

“As to your riddle, that is easy. The answer is that I am indeed immortal! Even as the great Ones, as the mighty furnace stars, as Time itself, am I immortal. For ever and ever. Here you have called me up to answer your questions and riddles, knowing full well that I am eleven hundred years dead. But do I not take on the aspect of life? Do my lips not speak? And is this not immortality? Dead I am, but I say to you that I can never truly die.”

Then Mylakhrion spread his arms wide, saying; “All is answered. Farewell…”And his outline, already misted and dim, began to recede deeper still into Zha-weed distances, departing from me. Then, greatly daring, I called out:

“Wait, Mylakhrion my ancestor, for our business is not yet done.”

Slowly he came back, reluctantly, until his silhouette was firm once more; but still, as always, his visage was hidden by the swirling mists and only his dark figure and the gold-glowing runes woven into his robes were visible. Silently he waited, as silently as the tomb of the universe at the end of time, until I spoke yet again: