Dreamlands Read Online Free Page A

however, when I saw that my valise had
shifted its position slightly.  Also, all of its buttons had been fussily
fastened.  The snaps resisted my clumsy fingers, maliciously I was sure, as I
opened the case to confirm a terrible fear.  My little brown bottle was gone.
    “Mrs.
Caddock,” I called from the top of the stair.  Worry was creeping into my voice
as I called a second time, and rolled the drinking glass in my hands.  She
appeared from an unused guest room on the first floor, her expression one of high
spirits.
    I
jogged downstairs, and though I hadn’t yet articulated my complaint she
produced my beloved bottle from her apron pocket and placed it on the bannister
between us, empty.
    “I
know what this is,” she said smugly, going so far as to rock slightly on her
heels.  “We don’t have narcotics in this house, Mr. Sloan, lest they are
accompanied by a script.  And we both know you have no script for that.”
    I
do not say this proudly, but if that glass tumbler hadn't shattered in my hand
I would have struck her full in the face.
    * * *
    I
paced the perimeter of my room for an hour, watching it shrink with each turn,
but however much I debated myself I knew my problem would have no remedy before
morning.  When the room had become too small to orbit any longer, I cinched the
sash of my robe and went to look in on my uncle.  He would probably lie awake
nights, I thought, with mortality lurking so near.
    “Uncle?” 
A half-dozen candles lit the room, flames dancing in cheerful disregard of the
man’s deathbed. “I’m not disturbing you?”
    From
the mound of pillows where he lay like a discarded marionette, he gestured me
in.  I shifted a great wingback chair close to the bed, and to the bottle of
imported whiskey on the bedside table.  Seeing my interest, he waved once more
and I poured myself a generous portion.  I gulped it down, sloshing some of it
in my lap.
    “Are
we both invalids now?” he said, gesturing at my nightgown.  “A man your
age should be out tomcatting around on a Friday night, not spending the evening
with an old shut-in.”
    “I’m
not likely to find a woman out in Arkham at this hour,” I replied with a laugh.
    “No?
 Depends where you look, I warrant.”
    He
sipped his whiskey, and I drank mine more carefully.
    “How
about a story?” he said.  Eamon had spent much of the 1870’s and 80’s in the
merchant marine, both in war and peacetime, and in better days had never tired
of recounting his adventures before a leaping fire in the parlour.  That fire was
no longer used, in order to save on the cost of fuel.  “Did I ever tell you
about the pirates we encountered off the coast of Spain?  Fearless!”
    “No,
I don’t believe you did,” I replied, arranging myself within reach of the whiskey. 
“Let’s have it.”
    “In
the days before the Spanish-American War,” he began, growing animated, “the Andalusian
coast was absolutely lawless.  Our captain, Jules Bromm, was widely known and
feared.  Everyone knew him on sight, for a great curving slash from one side of
his mouth gave him a demonic grin.  He was a good friend sober, but a dangerous
man when in his cups.”
    Uncle
Eamon launched into a tale of his service under Captain Bromm, of swindlers and
pirates, exotic ports and dangerous horizons.  Both the story and the liquor
relaxed me, yet he clutched my arm as a drowning man clutches a spar.
    “Didn’t
you have firearms?” I asked, when he spoke of sailors armed with long knives
and clubs.
    “Guns
have their uses, but on a ship’s deck the fight is too close for rifles, and a
good pistol was too pricey for a sailor.  Now hist!  There was a seagoing
Arabic cult which harried us for months.  The madmen got the drop on us outside
of Circo, a pretty little place just north of Cadiz.  I’ve always wanted to go
back there.”
    He
fell silent for a minute.
    “You
called them a cult?” I prompted him.
    “They
were moon worshipers,” he