The domed building proved to be our destination – a strange mixture of tea-house or cafe, theatre, and temple. We were seated inside a large lounge area, and furnished with drink and an assortment of small mezé appetizers – although the selection of gelatins, meats and preserved fruit were all completely foreign to me. Around us, the crowd filtered in, and soon the room was overflowing with tattooed faces. No masked, mute slaves were present, and evidently their presence was forbidden here.
Then the Priestess ascended to the stage, and sat in a kneeling pose upon a satin cushion, in a manner similar to the vajrasana or seiza. A teapot and an empty cup was brought to her, and she dutifully mixed my tea of tongue into the provided water, and at long last I bore horrible witness to the perverse ritual whose preparations I had begun so long ago.
A hush ran through the audience, as the Priestess signalled her intentions. She drank the tea, and a startling change overcame her: she shook as if beset by seizure, and her face became pale and pallid, and I thought she must be suffering the effects of some terrible poison or fever.
Then she seemed to recover, and spoke as if in a trance, but her voice was no longer her own, but rather a voice I recognized as belonging to one of the dead men whose tongue I had taken for my potion. She was speaking in his voice! She was speaking the tongue of the dead!
“I am Richard...” she began, for she had called up the dead man’s soul from beyond, in seance, and now acted as his spirit medium. Yet this was no mere possession, or blind groping into the dark reaches of the afterlife for scant answer or pointed sign upon the Ouija board.
The Priestess was in full control, and through thought and suggestion, she commanded the dead man to speak, as a master might order his dog to bark.
It was terrible to behold.
The dead man’s soul was stripped naked for display, all secrets and shames laid bare, all was dragged into the light for the amusement of the audience, his intimate joys, private worries, sins and sacrifices, hopes and dreams; and as I listened to this gross and obscene violation of a man’s sacred privacy, his innermost self, I felt a profound disgust, bordering on physical revulsion, for my part in this mockery.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
For had I not selected the dead man’s tongue myself? And acquired the wretched organ with my own hand and scalpel? Had I not purchased the chemical reagents and exotic herbs? Pickled the tongue, preserved it, and reduced it to powder? I blanched to think of my own shameful deeds.
After the show, the Priestess led me to a private chamber and entreated me:
The tea ceremony I had just witnessed was a favourite among the citizens of this strange city, but due to a strange and esoteric quirk of their holy book, the practice had become taboo, and only confirmed members of the priesthood were permitted to perform the ceremony. Furthermore, even they, the clergy, were forbidden from preparing the tea of the tongue of the dead – and this necessitated an outsider or foreigner to gather the required materials and concoct the dread powder – as I had done.
Therefore, when by spell and witchcraft they became aware of my possession of the Necronomicon, and of my intentions, the Priestess and her clergymen had been dispatched to recruit me as a potential tea-master. Serendipitously, I had done exactly what they wanted.
Then too, the Priestess revealed her secret to me:
“It is I, Brigand, your old friend and mentor, Eliza, although I am no longer the frivolous old woman you once knew and trusted. I was given new life, Johnathan, my youth regained. The old flesh was discarded and new flesh granted. A life of science and research has led me to this strange country, just as it has led you here (although by a circuitous route), and I have lived two hundred years under alien stars and a foreign sun, for time flows differently in the lands that THEY have blessed, and in which THEY dwell. Join us, join me, and cast aside the malaise and boredom that has plagued your life thus far. Together we will partake in delights and pleasures unknown to the ignorant, common man, and reach the upper echelons of this great civilization, and obtain for ourselves true knowledge and eternal wisdom.”
It was an intriguing offer – in exchange for making tea, I would be granted asylum, and a small apartment, and live a life of comfort and ease in their ancient city as an indentured servant and, after a time, be permitted to sign the enigmatic black book of Nyarlathotep, and become a fully fledged member of their society, just as the Professor had done.
Kidnapped, abducted to this alien land, which the locals called R'lyeh Nouveau, what choice did I have?
