Laws, Good & Bad

 

Razorhurst was predicated upon a series of legislations, nobly-intended but poorly thought through. The object of these laws was to eradicate the problems of vice, drugs and violence from the streets of the city; in effect they solidified the bulkheads of the criminal elements already at work.

The first of these laws was one which forbade any man from obtaining an income from the efforts of any woman engaged in the sex industry. The simple ‘work-around’ for this restriction was for a woman to set up her own brothels, independent of any man. This is best exemplified by the actions of Tilly Devine, who used this loophole repeatedly to evade legal repercussions.

 

In 1924, the Government of Australia made it illegal for any person to carry a handgun without licensed permission. After this law came into effect, many criminals hid their guns in secure stashes and went armed with razors, which could be explained away in the face of a legal enquiry.

After Prohibition came into effect in the United States, many temperance and other groups lobbied the Australian Government for a similar proscription. The culture of the time was not quite ready to impose this sort of blanket ban upon the populace, so they enacted a 6.00pm closing time on all licensed establishments. The reality of this ban saw the opening of a great many ‘after-hours’ liquor providers who served their patrons after the notorious ‘six o’clock swill’. These ‘sly grog’ shops conducted a roaring trade, paying huge amounts in protection and bribes to stay in business. Foremost among these operators was the notorious Kate Leigh.

 

The extreme focus on anti-drinking policies meant that other forms of intoxication were allowed to slip between the legal cracks. Cocaine, heroin, marijuana, opium: all of these were weighing in a murky jurisprudential limbo, awaiting judgement. In time they would all be proscribed and dogged by the police; for now they took a backseat to the glitz of booze and gambling and circulated relatively freely throughout Sydney.

Like many other countries, Australia posted laws against the manufacture, importation and distribution of cocaine, heroin and other similar substances. These drugs were still available to medical practitioners of the time however, and there were few regulations in place to enforce its distribution. Doctors and dentists were free therefore, to sell off their stock to whichever criminal representative paid the most, according to the limits of their conscience.

 

Gambling was completely entrenched in the public psyche at this time and the government tried woefully to enforce the regulation of winnings in this regard. One means was to prevent the announcement of winning horses over public broadcasting systems until after the races had been completed. This meant that anyone betting accurately upon a horse had to actually be at the race course. The unscrupulous punters could go to local bars where Starting Price, or ‘SP’ bookmakers, with byzantine connexions to the racetrack would take bets in flagrant disregard of the law.

About this legal framework, Razorhurst was constructed: prostitution was alright as long as it was conducted by a madam; alcohol was okay as long as you drank it in a licensed premises before 6.00pm – and okay later if you knew the right places to go to; police agents could not arrest you for carrying a straight razor, or a razor-blade embedded in a cork; betting could take place anywhere as long as you trusted your bookie and his network; and cocaine was obtainable from those in the know and for the right price. This was the modus vivendi of Razorhurst – a life totally outside the law but with a full and complete working knowledge of its complexities.

Dead Man Walking - Part 1

“...denn die Todten reiten schnell.”

-Dracula, Bram Stoker

There was a dead man living amongst us; we just didn’t know it to start with.

I say “living” but you know what I mean. Actually, at that stage, he was more like a Schrödinger’s corpse, neither dead nor alive, and we wouldn’t know the answer to that question until someone lifted the lid on the box where he’d been mislaid. The first I knew about it was when his girlfriend came into the store.

I have people come in all the time looking to put posters up in my windows. These are usually A4-sized photocopies advertising local events like piano recitals, auric healing workshops or weekend fairs. I draw the line at commercial activities such as French language lessons or car sales – anything that’s a blatant plea for a quick buck or a career advancement; I aim for things that front good causes, or which have a community focus. Sometimes, just out of curiosity, I let someone put up their notice just to see what happens – like Michaela the self-professed shaman (barista by daylight), who offers drum and smoke-lodge workshops to enable people to “self-heal” by getting into contact with their spirit animals. Tom almost snorted his coffee when he saw the sign.

‘Self-healing through spirit guides?’ The sneer on his lips was palpable in his tone.

‘I’d run the notion past Louise before I strapped on my bovver-boots if I were you,’ I cautioned. Tom and Louise had been going out together for a little over a year now and spirit guides to Louise were like honey to flies; a casual dismissal could rain down domestic disharmony.

Tom had changed somewhat in the face of his new lifestyle arrangement. Gone were the faded black t-shirts displaying the logos of serious musos past, like Depeche Mode and The Joy Division; nowadays, he wore lurid tie-dyed and rainbow-printed explosions sourced from the many alternative lifestyle shops that pepper the ‘Mountains. Today he was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt with a hyper-colour image of Ganesha, probably taken from some Hare Krishna literature of yore. I clearly saw Louise’s hand in this, along with the futile ponytail that Tom was cultivating at the nape of his otherwise bald head; that he still wore his black leather jacket and stovepipe jeans I cheered as his line in the sand against a complete makeover.

‘Seriously?’ Tom turned from the window as I finished pricing a stack of Roger Hargreaves kid’s books at a dollar each for the front sale table. ‘She claims here that her workshop will enable the dedicated believer to find success in their workplace. What: is some phantom gerbil going to whisper stock tips in their ears?’

I winced at the facetious ghost reference – they make me think of things I’d rather not poke at too much. ‘Probably not,’ I replied, ‘but people like to align themselves with clans and teams: your totem is a kangaroo? Guess what? So’s mine. Snap! We feel good about each other. It’s like football; or astrology...’

‘You’re using pseudo-science to justify New Age fruitiness?’

I waved my stack of Mr Men books dismissively. ‘Not at all. I’m just saying that we’re social creatures and we like to belong: I read William Faulkner; you read William Faulkner; we get along. Maybe that’s how we understand the world, by grouping ourselves within it.’

‘So, if my totem is a brown snake, I should get together with other brown snakes and form a book club, to better understand the universe?’

‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘All I know is that Michaela believes in it, other people believe in it, and she thinks that she can better peoples’ lives with her workshops; she’s not simply out to make money from other peoples’ gullibility...’

‘...at $35 a head,’ Tom cut in.

‘So, she has overheads.’ I fanned my stack of Hargreaves’ booklets and held them out to him.

‘You know who buys these most of all?’

‘Mr Men books? Dunno: kids?’

‘Adults do. Grown-ups.’ I held them out: ‘go on, take your pick. Which one do you like best? Mr Bossy? Mr Happy? Which one is your totem?’

Tom looked at me coolly, then swigged his coffee. ‘Touché,’ he said.

A ginger blur zoomed across the floor from the shelf of books on pregnancy issues and coalesced as a husky cat on the doormat, anxiously circling. Seconds later, the bell above the door jingled and Louise pushed her way in.

‘Ooh!’ she chortled, her poncho flapping and filling the shop with her patchouli perfume, ‘you have Michaela’s poster in your window! Tom! We should do this course!’

Fortunately Tom had his back to her, otherwise she couldn’t have missed the expression of distaste that crossed his features. As she moved to the counter, the Marquis jumped up beside her and gratefully received his dose of ear-scratching, his purrs thundering across the room. The Marquis is inscrutable in all things save this: he will drag himself across broken glass for a fondling from Louise.

‘Oh!’ she cried, riffling through my book stack as I poured her a cup of herbal tea, ‘do you have Little Miss Chatterbox? She was always my favourite.’ I cocked an eyebrow at Tom; he gave me a black look.

There was a squeal from Louise: ‘You do! You do! Can I have this one?’

‘It’s yours,’ I said. ‘What are you guys up to today?’

Tom drained his mug and thumped it down on the counter, causing the Marquis to dart him an annoyed yellow glare. ‘We’re off to talk with the publisher,’ he said, ‘we have to finalise the cover artwork for the book.’

We’d had an – incident – last year which closed the book on several unexplained deaths and disappearances in the local area. Tom and Louise had penned a narrative of those events and it had been enthusiastically snapped up by a big Sydney publishing house. Tom, an old hand at the True Crime genre with a couple of respectable titles under his belt, was au fait with publishing, but was thrown a little by the caveats and conditions which Louise had brought to the process. The insistence upon paper sourced from renewable stocks and the use of soy-based inks were complications that had bewildered everybody involved for awhile.

I rattled mugs back onto their tray. ‘What was wrong with the last image? I kind of liked that one.’

‘Too negative,’ said Louise flatly, putting her cup on the tray next to the coffee mugs, ‘I wanted something more uplifting. After all, this is a story about closure and the resolution of grief, not just a ghoulish police procedural...’

I could see how the blurry photograph of a woman’s fallen body criss-crossed with police tape might not convey that impression.

‘...And the model was a Capricorn,’ said Tom staring pointedly at his watch.

‘Was that an issue?’ I said.

‘Well, this book has more of a Gemini flavour to it,’ began Louise earnestly, ‘and her Earth energy was giving off a conflicting vibe for the project...’

‘Whoops!’ said Tom, ‘train’s almost here: we’d better get going. Don’t forget the house-warming tonight. See ya!’ They bustled out and I was left to get on with my day. I stroked the Marquis whose gaze was trailing in Louise’s wake: he offered me a look that indicated I was the least of lesser options, and hopped down to stalk off into Modern Literature.

‘Don’t you forget who buys the cat food ‘round here,’ I muttered after him.

The doorbell jingled again and someone walked into the store. I stood up from stashing the tray under the counter and turned to see who it was.

It was a woman in her mid-twenties, or thereabouts; she was dressed in leggings and a large, chunky white jumper of the cable-knit variety. She had clunky gym boots on her feet and she carried a plastic bag, like the ones that supermarkets dispense. She looked tired, as though she’d just missed out on a good night’s sleep. The main thing I noticed though, was that her long blonde hair hadn’t been brushed. If a guy comes into the shop with unbrushed hair, it says one of two things: he’s lazy, or this is some kind of hipster statement; when a woman hasn’t brushed her hair, something is up.

She stood looking around the store for a beat, then turned to face the windows. She shoved her hand into the bag she was carrying and pulled out a sheet of paper as she turned to look at me for the first time.

‘Can I help you with something?’ I asked.

‘Would it be alright...?’ she started, then closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, then started again. ‘Could I put one of these in your window? It’s very important.’ Her voice cracked a little as she handed me the piece of paper that she held.

On it was a large photo of a smiling young man. He was in a joyful mood, his sunglasses pushed up to the top of his head and sunlight playing across his features. He was unshaven and there was a glint of gold in his left ear, echoing another which ran along the side of his neck to disappear into his t-shirt. It was a cocky face; its owner sure of himself, in full-swing party mode, slightly flushed from too much beer and sun. His hair wasn’t brushed. In large letters above this picture was the word “MISSING”. I looked up at her.

‘Boyfriend?’ She nodded, pressing her closed hand to her mouth, her brows crinkling. It wasn’t a difficult guess: the photo had been cropped pretty harshly, but it couldn’t hide the curve of a woman’s cheek pressed against his; the upwards corner of smiling lips; a hint of flowing blonde hair; the same features belonging to the woman in front of me now. There was text at the bottom of the page which I scanned quickly, a phone number and some other details.

‘It says here that he went missing last night. He’s been unaccounted-for for, what? A little over eight hours?’

She nodded jerkily. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and that’s just so not like him. Josh wouldn’t have left me alone for so long without letting me know how he was doing. The police...’ She finished lamely.

‘You’ve spoken to the police?’

‘Yes,’ she waved vaguely towards the back of the shop. ‘At the Ridgemont. They’re...’ she trailed off again.

‘I’m sure they’re doing whatever they can,’ I said reassuringly. ‘In the meantime, leave this with me: I’ll have to move some stuff around in the window in order to put it up.’

‘Thank-you,’ she said nodding and switching her plastic bag to the other hand. ‘Anything you can do to help.’

I held open the door for her as she left: she ducked nervously through onto the pavement and walked towards the take-away shop. Huynh, the owner, was sweeping and putting out his signs, getting ready for the day’s trade. I watched as she pulled another page from her bag and passed it to him telling her story once more. There had to be at least two reams of paper in that bag.

I looked at the impudent young face on the page again, as I let the door jingle shut. Then, watching Huynh shake his head and try to give the poster back, I folded my copy in half and went back to my daily duties.

*****

That sounds a little harsh, I know.

I’m aware that the whole “24-hour wait before announcing that someone’s missing” thing is a load of codswallop; but even still, an eight-hour absence didn’t seem to me to be worth the drama. I sat on the poster while I went about some trivial tasks: dusting; sending off a CD order; organising a couple of sales that came through the website. Whilst sweeping the footpath outside later on, I noticed that there were a few posters on display in my front window advertising events which had come and gone. There was also the poster that Dylan had asked me to display for him, the one which showed a blurry humanoid object beneath the legend “Have YOU seen this CREATURE?” I don’t know what Dylan and his friends are smoking on a regular basis, but they’re convinced that Yowies stalk the surrounding bushland and they’re keen to document one in action. Like I said, sometimes I put up posters just to see what will happen. At that point it seemed a bit churlish of me to have a “wanted” poster up for imaginary beings and to not display one for a real person so, just after lunch, I reorganised the window and Blu-tacked up the poster of ‘Josh Henley: MIA’.

(The cynical side of me still thought that Josh was currently waking up in some stranger’s bed with a massive hangover and a lot of explaining to do.)

I allowed myself the luxury of closing ten minutes early that evening. Friday nights are a little slow: I normally sell a lot of DVDs through the afternoon then everyone packs off for pizza or fish and chips and beer and heads home to stay warm. There are the odd mopokes who have nowhere to go, so they try to see how long it will take before I insist they leave and close the doors. Today however, there was no-one to give the boot to. The Marquis had found a comfy spot on a high shelf on a stack of two Chronicles of the Twentieth Century: when I called him, he stared at me, yawned ostentatiously, then curled up once more. That was the signal that he’d be spending the night here, so I opened a tin of cat food and left him on guard duty.

As I locked the back door behind me, I could feel a chill rising in the air. The sky was heavy with thick cloud that piled up along the horizon; the fading sunlight was a dull silver gleam beyond. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and rattled my keys as I loped across to where my bike was parked, chained to a steel pole which supports the stairs of the neighbouring building. Trundling down the asphalt slope of the delivery dock I skirted Huynh’s rubbish bins and rolled onto the road: across the way were the wetlands surrounding the stream that winds its way past the village shops and down towards the valley beyond. My home lay a short distance across the highway and I pedalled quickly to build up some warmth against the chill dampness that was being carried on the rising wind.

Our village lies like a three-armed starfish on a rise at the mid-point where three valleys meet. The highway and the railroad keep pace with each other before parting company at our shops and moving either side of the western-most lobe of the township, meeting up again beyond. This was my part of town, the oldest bit of the settlement. Tom and Louise had moved into a house together on the easternmost limb of the disabled starfish, a section where the buildings were newer and pushing out into wilder tracts of the surrounding bush. They were having their house-warming this evening and, while I could have ridden my bike out to their joint, I had decided to bush-bash my way through the intervening gully and swampland: the difference between a 40-minute bike ride and a 20-minute hike made the choice a simple one.

(It’s not actually as difficult as it sounds: there are hiking trails all through the bush around here and they’re well-maintained by the National Parks people so that the tourists don’t get lost; at night, if you’re familiar with the terrain and carry a good torch, it’s a fairly easy walk.)

It was a stunning evening. The air was still and cool; cold enough so that a steady tramp wouldn’t raise an awful sweat. The sky quickly darkened overhead and a scattering of stars turned into a myriad as I got further away from the intermittent streetlights and the solar-powered garden lights that seem to have become a fad amongst my neighbours. The clouds were building and creeping slowly from the west, but I’d be well and truly arrived by the time they caused any major change to the weather. I turned left off the ragged edge of bitumen that served as a road and hopped onto the dirt trail that led down into the darkened gully beyond.

Flicking on my torch, I hopped down two sets of stairs made from rough cut logs, a half-dozen steps in each. On either side, dense foliage sprang up, hardy ti-tree and knotty banksias and grevilleas. I came to a choice of ways: left would take me into the village where my shop was; right would take me deeper into the bush and off towards Tom and Louise’s new place. Directly ahead of me – unseen but distinctly heard – was the stream winding its way towards the Jamison Valley to the south: this was a continuation of the waterway that ran behind the village and under the highway. For the next part of my journey, we would be keeping each other company. I took the right-hand path.

Every now and then, the trail would change its nature, from a hard-packed dirt track, to a walkway of thick planks, sunk into concrete moorings; sometimes there would be a bridge and I would pass over the chuckling water to stride along the opposite bank. I was deep now in what the local environment experts call ‘vertical swamp’: on either side of the stream, heavy stands of heather-like foliage clung tight to the steep sides of the gorge; this tight-knit undergrowth caught all the shed vegetation of the overhead canopy and formed a kind of natural sponge that held water suspended in its grip. The environment was damp and spiky, lush with a multitude of floral plants and a heaven for little birds and reptiles.

Of course, all that moisture meant that the path needed constant upkeep and there were stretches that had gone from dirt to black, squishy mud. These required a bit of smart jumping and hopping, and I was glad for the light of my torch.

I soon reached a point where I could hear the falls in the distance. The placid little stream I was trotting alongside, turned into a massive overflow up ahead, throwing itself off the towering cliff top and into the valley below. The spectacle of all that plummeting water brought tourists all year ‘round and, to give it its due, it certainly is an impressive sight. I stopped and pointed my light straight up: the branches and leaves of the gum trees shone eerily pale in the glow, backed by the blackness of the sky; clicking off the torch made them vanish to be replaced by the cold, indifferent sparkle of stars. A high breeze had picked up, and those distant lights winked on and off as invisible limbs moved across them.

I clicked my torch on again and flashed it along the trail: ahead there was a low, white-ish stone by the path and I headed towards it. Once there, I stepped from the track and moved carefully towards the bank of the stream, ducking beneath the arms of a bottle-brush tree. Below, the stream had widened and spread out at this point into a shallow pool, a waiting area before the final rush towards the cliffs. Several rocks thrust their heads up through the water and these formed a natural bridge across the pool to the far bank. This wasn’t part of the tourist walk; this was a short-cut known only to the locals.

The opposite bank was a bit tricky but I managed to make (semi) dry land without falling backwards into the water. From there it was a bit of a bush-bash up the slope but I was soon on a much overgrown track that didn’t see much use, by humans at least. I rattled my way up a scree slope and was soon standing on a jeep trail, used mainly by fire trucks and the National Parks service. From here it was only a quiet stroll in the starlight and a short detour along a fire-break before getting to Tom and Louise’s place. A pale golden moon began to lift above the tree line as I marched on, silvering the gum leaves as they flickered in the night breeze. The road shone white in the darkness and soon there was enough moonlight to orientate myself without the need of my torch.

On either side of the road, walls of ti-tree stood at head height, moaning as the wind soughed through them; distantly to my left, taller eucalypts nodded in the rising wind, their leaves crackling like faint static. I began playing an old Eighties tune in my head as I rounded a bend, when suddenly I saw it.

It had frozen - no doubt surprised by my sudden appearance - as I did the moment I clapped eyes on it. It was tensed ready for action and every line of it spoke of coiled strength. I couldn’t see its face because of the pervasive shadow but this also served to heighten the impact of the creature’s rough, shaggy hide. From what I could tell, its arms were held low in front, possibly helping it to rise up from the ground in response to my entrance; long strands of lighter-coloured hair thrashed around its head in the wind. I was in no doubt: I had just encountered...

*****

‘...A Yowie?’ Tom’s voice was incredulous. We were sitting in the backyard of his new house, at a picnic table under a wattle tree, its limbs be-jewelled with prayer-flags and tinkly wind-chimes, courtesy, no doubt, of Louise. The windy night air was alive with the buttery astringence of early wattle blooms.

I leaned forward and re-filled my glass with wine. ‘Scoff all you like,’ I said, ‘but for a moment there, that’s exactly what it looked like.’

‘A dead grass-tree?’ He cocked an eyebrow at me looking unconvinced. In the background, Marc Bolan was carrying on about a “hubcap diamond-star halo”, something that had never made much sense to me, and Louise and her friends were dancing energetically – if not skilfully – to it on the backyard patio.

‘I know now that it was a dead grass-tree,’ I said, ‘but at the time I didn’t. I had this instant, visceral response to it; something told me absolutely that it was a fellow being, but at the same time my brain was telling me that what I was seeing was something very, very wrong. Somethiong utterly inhuman...’

‘Uh-huh,’ Tom sucked at his beer bottle. ‘You been dipping into your Lovecraft section recently?’

‘Of course, it was dark,’ I went on, ticking off points on my fingers, ‘I didn’t have my torch on. But I wasn’t psyching myself up for an encounter, or daydreaming about monsters. It just looked – absolutely looked – like a human-shaped being, stopped suddenly while rising up off the ground. The lines of it; the shape of it, was one-hundred percent on the mark...’

‘Apophenia,’ Tom cut in.

‘Gesundheit,’ I responded. ‘What the hell is that?’

Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched the dancers having fun.

‘Apophenia is the ability of the human mind to make meaningful images out of random data. It’s how we see shapes in clouds, or Jesus on a tortilla. You get a suggestion of something and your brain fills in the blanks, making you see something that isn’t really there.’

‘Okay,’ I said putting down my glass, ‘plausible theory. But even with the torch on it still looked real; even when I could see it for what it was. Creepy!’

Tom put down his beer bottle and stood up.

‘So what? Are you saying it was a Yowie that has the ability to turn into a dead grass-tree when surprised? You were taken in: end of funny story. Now are we going to let them have all the fun at this shindig?’ he jerked his thumb over to the patio as “Dancing Queen” began to break over the backyard to shrieks of delight.

‘Apophenia it is then,’ I conceded, standing up and following him across the lawn. I made sure my phone was handy as I walked: what Tom refers to as his “dance style” is nothing less than a kamikaze nose-thumbing at the genetic crap-shoot that landed him with haemophilia. Add a couple of beers and the risk factor goes through the roof...

*****

More soon!

Sydney, 1920s

Sydney, Australia: a forsaken city; a colony; a penal settlement. This is a land where the brave and the bold come to stake a claim. Those who cannot bear the climate, the remoteness, the harshness of environment and spirit, are doomed to fail. Those who live here are notable for their dryness, their cynicism and the asperity of their wit: charity is by no means absent; however, it is rough and grudgingly offered. This is a place where only the tough survive, in accordance with, and in spite of, the spirit of the land.

In the minds of its founders, Sydney was never intended to be a place of culture and art. From the earliest days, the settlement was supposed to be a place where hardened criminals came to serve out a pitiless existence, then die. Those in charge of this ‘Hell on Earth’ implemented ways to capitalise on the settlement’s manpower, location and infrastructure; but they, too, never saw the city as being a place where culture could thrive, nor civilisation spread.

This penal attitude has informed every stage of Sydney’s development (and so too the rest of the nation). By the 1920s, a watershed was reached where the Rule of Law and the power of the Lawless almost matched each other, strength for strength. Short-sighted changes in legislation and the collapse of the world economy saw the creation of a criminal kingdom, where the lawless battened on the cowering populace while the police forces of the day struggled to gain ascendance.

Sydney became a criminal capital: the oldest parts of the city became the hideouts of the most ruthless villains, who dwelt side-by-side with Sydney’s most renowned aristocrats; glittering nightspots nestled cheek-by-jowl with some of the most appalling slums in Christendom; while some people starved in the streets below, others cavorted in high-rise havens of alcohol and drug-soaked splendour ... although the following day could see their positions reversed.

The police tried their best to alleviate things, often resorting to brute force to obtain their desired ends. To compensate, the villains stockpiled guns and carried straight razors to tackle their opposition, forming together into ‘razor gangs’ to promote their agendas. The focus of all this activity was a series of inner-city suburbs whose residents knew to a hair’s breadth the sub-fusc boundaries of their domains. The Rocks, Woolloomooloo, King’s Cross, Potts Point, Paddington, Darlinghurst, Surry Hills, Redfern: all of these villages were grouped under the one nickname, which held a special and deadly resonance for the populace:

“Razorhurst”.

 

Written in Stone...

Carved Insane...

Many sources of Mythos knowledge are culled from the demented scribbling of madmen, or from the obsessive notes of scholars who have pushed the envelope of their understanding far beyond where they should have. Much of this information comes from encounters with unholy, blasphemous beings or through the agencies of dreams or visions; to paraphrase Sir Isaac Newton, if some individuals have seen beyond the limits of what Mankind was meant to know, it’s because they have stood upon the shoulders of giants – titanic, squamous and, possibly, rugose giants.

However, while there has certainly always been cosmic pus dripping down from the stars to imperil worlds, there have not always been books. In the earliest of times, crazies and cultists had to use what they had to hand in order to pass on their ghastly insights to those who would come after them; most often they etched their ramblings onto rocks. Mythos lore is littered with tablets, fragments and shards and these represent the most difficult to access sources of Mythos knowledge in the whole canon. These texts are often located in places which are hard to get to or are locked away in high security vaults; they are most often singular objects with a commensurately high price (if on the market) and which, if destroyed, are irreplaceable. There are books written about them, interpreting them and translating them: as is usual, these transcriptions are not as powerful as the originals but will serve in a pinch.

Along with these horrible stelae, are examples of similar texts from our pitiful ‘real’ dimension, giving insight as to how these pieces have been dealt with historically and which will serve as inspiration for Keepers who wish to devise their own hideous carvings.

For now, read on: the stones are about to speak!

*****

Aklo Tablets

What little is known about this text comes from two sources – E. A. Hitchcock’s Remarks upon Alchemy and Alonzo Typer’s Diary. Hitchcock refers to the “secrets” contained on the tablets as “now unattainable” but provides no further elaboration as to why. Typer mentions seeing several “Aklo formulae” in his 1908 notes on the examination of the van der Heyl Mansion in New York State and describes the third of these as a means whereby invisible enemies may be revealed; this begs the question that the whereabouts of the Aklo Tablets, or at least their text, may be recorded in the Book of Hidden Things. Until these questions have been resolved however, the ‘Tablets must be considered lost ... if they existed at all.

(Source: The White People, Arthur Machen)

*****

The Book of Mormon

The Book of Mormon: An Account Written by the Hand of Mormon upon Plates Taken from the Plates of Nephi, to give it its full title, is the holy text of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, otherwise known as the Mormon faith. The text was given to the religion’s founder – Joseph Smith, Jr. – after four years of tutelage by the Angel Moroni, in the form of a set of golden plates bound together by gold wire. According to Smith, the Book was originally written in “reformed Egyptian” and he was blessed with the ability to translate this language by his angel guide.

Getting the Book to print was not without its issues: Smith enlisted his neighbour, Martin Harris, as a scribe in the process and Harris’ wife connived to steal, and lose, the first draft of the initial 116 pages. As punishment for this indiscretion, the Angel Moroni took back the golden plates and withdrew Smith’s gift of translation until after he had observed a fitting penance. When this had been performed, the ‘plates were returned and the work began once more, although without the help of Harris, who nevertheless, mortgaged his farm to help pay for the publishing. When the ms. was ready to go to the printers, the golden plates went back to Moroni to be hidden away once more and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was good to go.

The golden plates consist of several sections: the Small Plates of Nephi; Mormon’s Contribution, comprising his Words, his Abridgement of the Large Plates of Nephi and the Book of Mormon; and additional material provided by the Angel Moroni. There are also copies of signed affidavits by those who saw and handled the plates during the translation process called the Testimony of the Three Witnesses and (post Harris) the Testimony of the Eight Witnesses. Certain sections of the engraved text according to Smith were ‘sealed’ and could not be translated; these along with the stolen 116 pages are the only sections of the plates unrecorded.

The plates tell of the lost tribes of the Children of Israel who wandered to the North American mainland around 600 BC and established communities there along lines similar to those of the Middle East at the same time. These communities grew and alternately fought and lived in peaceful harmony, especially during a phase when Jesus Christ miraculously appeared among them for an extended period. The tribes converted and integrated with existing Native Americans, even with indigenous Christians who had arisen some 2,500 years before the arrival of the Israelites. One of these, Mormon, was chosen to be the keeper of records of the lost tribes and it was he who hid the gold plates in a stone box buried beneath a hill in Manchester, New York. His son Moroni was chosen to guard this cache after his father’s death.

The debate as to whether a Levantine society once existed on the North American mainland has been long and heated and, as can be expected, boils down to a matter of faith. Of interest to Mythos aficionados is the notion of a “subterranean” (or at least, sub rosa) society, able to hide its presence (K’n Yan, anyone?), and the presence of powerful artefacts hidden in the US. According to the Book, the Ark of the Covenant is supposed to be buried in Sanpete County in Utah, and guarded by the Three Nephi, descendants of the Nephite tribe, indigenous American Christians blessed with this immortal duty by Christ himself. The construction of the Book itself – the gold plates – also has interesting implications for another Mythos work: the Turner Codex.

*****

The Broken Columns of Geph

“Let him who calls The Black,

Be aware of the danger.

His victim may be protected

By the spell of running water,

And turn the called-up darkness

Against the very caller...”

-Brian Lumley, “The Calling of the Black”

The Broken Columns of Geph are immensely ancient pillars located deep in the coastal jungles of Liberia. Attempts to destroy them have been made at various times throughout history and now the Columns are protected by local tribes who revere them as objects of worship. The carvings on the Columns depict many of the Great Old Ones along with warnings about the use of black magic against one’s enemies. Adherents of several Great Old One cults have defaced the Columns and references to their particular deities but much of the original text still remains.

(Source: Brian Lumley, “The Calling of the Black”)

Hyperborean; Elders of the Ptetholites; 1d6/2d8 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +10 percentiles; 40 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Brew Dream Drug; The Calling of the Black (requires the Nyhargo Dirge – not present in this version – to be effective); Contact Yibb Tstll; Contact Cthonian; Curse of Darkness; Power of Nyambe

Geph Transcriptions

In the 1950s, Titus Crow engaged the services of Gordon Walmsley of Goole to translate the Column scripts, working from rubbings which Crow had obtained. Walmsley managed to accomplish this task and published the results in an extremely limited vanity release, in an octavo format, simply called The Geph Transcriptions. Exact numbers of the print run are unclear: Crow definitely had a copy in his library before it was destroyed, but certainly others exist elsewhere. Interestingly, no copy was found in Walmsley’s office or house after his murder.

(Source: Brian Lumley, “Name and Number”)

English; Professor Gordon Walmsley; London 1955; 1d4/1d8 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +7 percentiles; 20 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: None

*****

Celaeno Fragments

The Great Library of Celaeno is found on the fourth planet orbiting the star Celaeno in the Pleiades. It is said that the Library is the repository of all the knowledge which the Great Old Ones stole from the Elder Gods before they were cast down. The method of storage of this knowledge is not entirely clear – some researchers claim that the information is stored inside living alien beings grown just for this purpose. We know from the studies of Laban Shrewsbury however, that at least some of the lore is inscribed upon stone tablets.

The Celaeno Fragments is a transcription by Shrewsbury of several broken stone carvings which he recorded whilst visiting the Great Library. The work comprises about 50 pages of disjointed text which deals mainly with the “King in Yellow” and the city of Carcosa, as well as some minor information regarding the Deep Ones. The original manuscript for this work was deposited at Miskatonic University Library after Shrewsbury’s disappearance and presumed death and has not yet been published, although photocopies have been circulated.

In recent times, stone shards have been excavated on Earth which correspond closely with the images of the tablets depicted in the Fragments and with matching information. These carvings date from Earth’s Triassic Period and are the subject of heated archaeological debate.

(Source: August Derleth, “The House on Curwen Street”)

English; Dr Laban Shrewsbury; 1915 (1938); 1d4/1d8 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +9 percentiles; 15 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Brew Space Mead; Call Cthugha; Elder Sign; Enchant Whistle; Summon/Bind Byakhee

*****

Elder Keys

The Elder Keys (also known as the Elder Key, Elder Records or The Tablets of Destiny) are a series of carven stone blocks around which is draped the protoplasmic menace which is Ubbo-Sathla, “The Unbegotten Source”, a cosmic entity said to be the mindless twin of Azathoth. So powerful are said to be the incantations writ upon these tablets that the most minor of them – a one line inscription –brought our earth into this dimension and caused life to appear upon it. Many wizards and other hard-metaphysical investigators have attempted to locate and transcribe these carvings however none have ever returned – victorious or otherwise. The Mi-go, it is said, have the Keys as their ultimate reason for being on Earth and it is this which keeps them travelling to our planet from Yuggoth. Alternate theories suggest that Ubbo-Sathla excretes some arcane substance which is vital to Mi-go technology and it is this, rather than the tablets, which attracts their interest. Still another theory is that the presence of Azathoth’s twin on this planet is the cause of the Great White Space’s terminus on our home world, thus providing a rationale for our planet’s infestation of dire divinities and their associated misbegotten agents. There have long been rumours that another copy of the ‘Keys exists on this planet – bringing the total number of copies to two – but this has not been verified: it is more likely that the other copy is something completely different, with the same name.

While the rewards of obtaining the Elder Keys would seem to be obvious, the greatest danger to accessing them is Ubbo-Sathla itself, whose 100 attacks per round inflict instant death upon any living substance with which it comes into contact. Robotic or automated platforms for gathering information from the Keys may achieve greater benefits in future but this begs the question as to why the Mi-go, or the Great Race of Yith, or even the Elder Things – beings with more highly advanced technology than our own – haven’t explored these possibilities already. The shoggoths have long been said to have been created from the essence of this being. Ubbo-Sathla is sometimes equated with the being known as Abhoth who has similar qualities; it is likely that ‘Abhoth’ is a derogatory name applied to the creature by a subsequent civilisation who derided the worship of their precursors. And just maybe, Ubbo-Sathla isn’t as mindless as has been reported...

(Source: Clark Ashton Smith, Ubbo-Sathla)

Unknown language; Primordial Extra-Dimensional Hard-Metaphysicians; a time prior to the Big Bang; 1d100/100d100 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +100 percentiles; 208 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: None, any, or all as the Keeper rules

*****

The Kensington Runestone

“8 Geats (or Goths, or Gutnish, or Gotlanders) and 22 Norwegians (Norsemen) on a [?] journey of exploration, from Vinland west of. We had a camp with 2 shelters, one day's journey north from this stone. We were at fishing one day, after we came home found 10 men red of blood and dead. AVM (Ave Virgo Maria) rescue from evils.

[Side of stone] “Have 10 men [by/at] sea to look after our ships, 14 day journey from this island. Year 1362”

-Inscription on the ‘Stone

The Kensington Runestone was discovered wrapped in the roots of a poplar tree whilst being cleared from a field. It was named after the nearest large town to its discovery in Douglas County, Minnesota. The year was 1898 and the discoverer, Olof Öhman, was drawn to the markings on the rock by his 10-year old son: they thought at the time that they had discovered some kind of ‘Indian almanac’.

The rock was moved to the local bank in Kensington and rubbings and photographs were sent to many institutions with tenured experts in Scandinavian languages: every one of them declared the slab to be a forgery. Nevertheless, the stone (30 x 16 x 6 inches or 76 x 41 x 15 centimetres, in size and weighing about 200 pounds, or 90kg) was taken to England for further investigation. Based upon stylistic usage, anachronistic statements about the composition of the adventuring party and inconsistent rune combinations, the stone was again declared a hoax (incidentally the invocation “AVM” is in perfect accord for a Swedish inscription, the Swedes being mostly Catholic at that time).

Öhman received the ‘Stone back from its travels and used it as a step to improve access to a barn on his property; he also used it as an anvil to straighten nails. It is noteworthy, that at no time did he try to make money from his discovery. Since his death, the ‘Stone has been moved to a place of greater prominence within the Kensington community, who continue to believe in its accuracy.

Despite the research already done on the rock, every so often another academic tries to explain the discrepancies and reveal it to be an authentic artefact; if later research proves the ‘Stone to be a genuine inscription by lost Scandinavian adventurers on the American mainland, it will cause the Viking history of North America to be extensively revisited.

*****

R’lyeh Text (aka the “Urilia Text”)

“Mglw’ nafh fhthagn-ngah cf ‘ayak ‘vulgtmm vugtlag’n...”

-Chant to Locate the Dead from the R’lyeh Text,

Robert M. Price, “Beneath the Tombstone”

This book was originally carved onto stone tablets by the spawn of Cthulhu itself and outlines the correct form of worship of the Great Old One: it is considered by adherents of this cult as their holiest of books. The book existed in Hyperborean times and copies at least fifteen-thousand years old are hidden somewhere in China, probably in the keeping of the ‘Hidden Ones’: the writing on these scrolls looks like Chinese script but is of no known human tongue. Chinese copies of the scrolls have been periodically smuggled out of China.

Chinese; Author unknown; c.300 BC; 1d8/2d8 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +15 percentiles; 54 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Call Cyaegha; Contact Deity: Cthulhu; Contact Spawn of Cthulhu; Contact Deep Ones; Contact Father Dagon; Contact Mother Hydra; Breath of Dagon; Curse of the Stone; Grasp of Cthulhu; Wave of Oblivion

Copies made their way along the Silk Road to the Mediterranean and, in time, a version in Latin was issued around 200 BC:

Latin; Author unknown; 200 BC; 1d6+1/2d6 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +12 percentiles; 45 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Call Cyaegha; Contact Deity: Cthulhu; Contact Spawn of Cthulhu; Contact Deep Ones; Contact Father Dagon; Contact Mother Hydra; Breath of Dagon; Curse of the Stone; Grasp of Cthulhu; Wave of Oblivion

In 1647, Lord Rochester translated the ‘Text from its Latin version into English; he probably did this as a favour for a libertine associate, or as a means to pay back a debt, since the manuscript was never published. The translation moved through many occult circles and was widely copied and covertly distributed. The translation is severely truncated from the Latin version and contains only one spell. These copies are extremely rare to unearth nowadays and are usually in poor condition.

(Source: August Derleth, “The Return of Hastur”)

English; John Wilmot, Lord Rochester; unpublished, 1647; 1d3/1d8 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +6 percentiles; 6 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Contact Deity: Cthulhu

In the 1700s, a German translation was produced in a limited run of only 400 copies, which used the Chinese translation as its source. This version is notable for containing an analysis of the content along with author commentaries. The title of the work was changed to Liyuhh, a strange word which has defied translation but which may be an attempt to transliterate the sound made by some of the creatures mentioned within the text.

(Source: Eddy Bertin, “Darkness My Name Is”)

German; Author unknown: Liyuhh; 1700s; 1d6/1d10 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +10 percentiles; 40 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Call Cyaegha; Contact Deity: Cthulhu; Contact Spawn of Cthulhu; Contact Deep Ones; Contact Father Dagon; Contact Mother Hydra; Breath of Dagon; Curse of the Stone; Grasp of Cthulhu; Wave of Oblivion

R’lyeh Text Commentary

This work, in Chinese, is an extended commentary on the R’lyeh Text dissecting and explaining several of the most convoluted and difficult passages. Interestingly the Commentary does not contain the Breath of Dagon spell from the original text; it does however, contain a rough sketch map of the corpse city R’lyeh.

(Source: Larry DiTillio, Lynn Willis, et. al., Masks of Nyarlathotep: “Shanghai”)

Chinese; Author unknown; Liao Dynasty; 1d8/2d8 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +15 percentiles; 40 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Contact Deity: Cthulhu; Contact Spawn of Cthulhu; Grasp of Cthulhu; Wave of Oblivion

*****

Rongorongo Objects

Easter Island is the source of this strange style of writing which remains indecipherable after many years of investigation. First discovered in the Nineteenth Century by visitors to the island, there are now only about two dozen objects currently extant which provide examples of the writing style. Most of these objects – which include a ‘chieftain’s staff’ and a wooden statue of a bird-headed man – are carved from pieces of driftwood picked up from beaches. Many of the items have been partially burnt, having been rescued from fires lit by uncomprehending sailors. On the island itself there a several examples of the text carved into stone, and these have been thought to be abbreviations of the more extensive writings on the wooden articles. It is believed that rongorongo is one of only three or four writing systems in human history arising independently of any outside influences.

Most of the texts are thought to be of genealogical interest or may simply be calendrical in nature. The writing style is unique in that it follows a pattern called ‘reverse boustrophedon’, that is, it alternates line to line from left to right to right to left, turning 180° at the end of each line. The glyphs are abstracted outlines of human, animal, plant, artifact and geometric forms. Many of the human and animal figures have strange protuberances on each side of their heads, which may represent ears or eyes. The few remaining examples of these texts have led to a complex identifying system: each object is tagged with a capital letter and a short title, such as “Tablet C: the Mamari Tablet”, while others are simply known as – for example – “The Oar”, “The Snuffbox”, “The Small Santiago Tablet” and “The Santiago Staff”. All of the known items are in museums or in private collections; with the exception of some limited petroglyphs, there are no longer any examples of this writing left on Easter Island.

*****

The Rosetta Stone

The Rosetta Stone was discovered by the French in Egypt in 1799, was captured by English forces and returned to London in 1802, where it has been on display in the British Museum ever since. It is a stele, or proclamation etched on stone for public viewing, which is written in three distinct languages – Egyptian hieroglyphs, a form of the hieroglyphic style called Demotic and Ancient Greek (at the time that the ‘Stone was created, Egypt was ruled by a Greek line of kings, known as the Ptolemaic rulers). The stone discusses the repealing of certain taxes by Ptolemy V and is, of itself, not completely edifying reading; but it is the fact that all three writing styles were used that makes the ‘Stone so incredibly important.

Research was conducted by the French linguist Jean-François Champollion and British Scientist Thomas Young. Champollion’s input was of the greatest value since he was able to read Coptic – a later derivation of the Demotic style – and could ‘reverse engineer’ Coptic back into the Hieroglyphs and compare these to the Greek. In time, the riddle of Hieroglyphic writing was solved.

*****

Tablets of Nhing

These stone slabs are located upon the planet of Yaddith, a world which circles five suns and which occupies the same region of space viewable from Earth which contains the constellation Deneb. Yaddith was once inhabited by the nug-soth, tapir-snouted beings who shared more similarities with reptiles than with humans, which they vaguely resembled. The nug-soth were ruled by a leader known as the Arch-Ancient who led them in the worship of Shub-Niggurath. The nug-soth were great researchers whose thirst for knowledge crossed many boundaries of research including sorcery and science. They mastered a form of inter-stellar travel known as the “light envelope” and were highly capable Dreamers.

Ultimately, the nug-soth were destroyed when Yaddith was invaded by dholes which proceeded to devour their homeworld. Monumental efforts to rid the planet of this infestation availed them naught and only a handful of the nug-soth managed to escape the dying planet, taking with them their most potent text, the Ghorl Nigral, the only known work which references the Tablets.

It has been more than a million years since human eyes have seen the Tablets of Nhing and, given that Yaddith is the home of a puissant avatar of Shub-Niggurath and its servitor dholes (who, ironically, also worship this being), the likelihood of seeing them again – if they still exist – is exceedingly remote.

(Source: H. P. Lovecraft & E. Hoffman Price, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key”)

Yaddithian; The Arch Ancient, Buo; more than 1,000,000 years ago; 1d12/2d20 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +18 percentiles; 75 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Unknown, but likely to contain the following - Contact Deity: Shub Niggurath; Call/Dismiss Shub Niggurath; Summon/Bind Dark Young of Shub Niggurath; Summon/Bind Dhole;

*****

Voormish Tablets

The Voormis were subhuman beings created – some say – by Tsathoggua and who colonised the land of Hyperborea, modern Greenland, defeating the unspeakable Gnoph-kehs in order to do so. Over time their culture declined and they welcomed human settlers to their lands by whom they were largely wiped out. Voormi magic was considered most powerful and the bulk of it was recorded on several tablets in an attempt to prevent it being lost forever. Wizards such as Eibon and Haon-Dor were known to have consulted them and incorporated their mysteries into their own studies. The texts are known to have discussed the offspring of Cthugha, Aphoom Zhar, as well as the creatures known as the ‘Fishers From Outside’. Apart from these snippets the remainder of the lore must be considered lost.

(Source: Lin Carter, “The Acolyte of the Flame”)

Hieratic Naacal; Author(s) unknown; Pre-historic timeline; 1d10/3d10 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +20 percentiles; 70 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Contact Aphoom Zhar; Contact Cthugha; Contact Gol-goroth; Elder Sign; Summon/Bind Shantak; Gate

*****

Yellow Codex (aka Xanthic Folio)

Rumour suggests that the Yellow Codex was unearthed at Niya in Sinkiang, north of Tibet; since the exact location, or the fact of this city, is still in question, the validity of these rumours cannot be verified. Either way, the original documents have passed from view and the text, in low circulation as it is, is all that remains. Even here, with different translations claiming ‘authenticity’, the accuracy of the work must be held as speculative at best.

The matter of the text deals with the city of Hastur and the nature of its treaty with the nearby inhabitants of Carcosa; the original text is said to be written in the difficult language of ‘Pnakotic A’ and etched upon several stone tablets. It is said that the text of this work pre-dates its own discovery and forms the background for the cursed play The King in Yellow; however, this could simply be a fiction generated by poor scholarship.

(Source: Paul Bastienne, “The King in Yellow”)

‘Pnakotic A’; various authors; various dates; Sanity Loss: 1d2/1d4; +4 percentiles to Cthulhu Mythos; average 10 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: None

*****

Zanthu Tablets

These tablets were apparently given to Harold Hadley Copeland during the Copeland-Ellington Expedition by a wizard called ‘Zanthu’, although it is unclear whether they were handed to him by that entity or if he took them from Zanthu’s tomb. Copeland was rescued in Mongolia after the expedition disappeared in 1923; he was the sole survivor. When located, the ten tablets were in his backpack; they are made of black jade and written all over in what Copeland described as hieratic Naacal, the written language of Mu. The tablets now reside in the Sanbourne Institute of Pacific Studies.

Hieratic Naacal; ‘Zanthu, Wizard of Mu’; prehuman timeline; 1d6/1d10 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +6 percentiles; 60 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: Contact Deity: Cthulhu; Contact Deity: Ghatanathoa; Contact Deity: Lloigornos; Contact Deity: Ubb; Contact Deity: Zoth-Ommog; Enchant Bell

“The Zanthu Tablets: A Conjectural Translation”

The text of the ‘Tablets is most readily encountered in this monograph written by Copeland just prior to his commitment to an asylum and suicide. There are no spells in this translation; however their presence and function are alluded to. There are claims that, in later years, more copies of the ‘Tablets have been found by fisherman around the Pacific Rim.

(Source: Lin Carter, “The Dweller in the Tomb”)

English; Harold Hadley Copeland: The Zanthu Tablets: A Conjectural Translation; 1926; 1d3/1d6 Sanity loss; Cthulhu Mythos +3 percentiles; 8 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: None