The Wind Beyond the Walls of the Mind: Chapter 22 - part 1 - The Summoning
by Gaius Petronius
The Wind Beyond the Walls of the Mind

Chapter 22 - part 1
The Summoning
by Gaius Petronius

DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the characters that appear on the show are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, the WB, Fox and Mutant Enemy, Inc. This story can be read on its own or as a sequel to H. P. Lovecraft's "The Haunter of the Dark" from which the Ancient Ones, the Shining Trapezohedron and the character of Robert Blake are derived.

The Wind Beyond the Walls of the Mind is set roughly in mid-season four shortly following the death of Doyle but before the creation of Adam and the death of Maggie Walsh.

Content Note: This part is rated PG-13 for a little raunchy language.

Giles sat bent over at the kitchen alcove table. Around him, both on the table and scattered about the floor at his feet were dozens of books. He scribbled frantically on a pad of paper as he copied sections from the volumes that lay open before him. The ever present tea cup that usually accompanied his bouts of research had been replaced by a large mug filled with black coffee.

Spike, still flopped on the couch watching soap operas, whined, at the same time not taking his eyes from the television screen.

"Rupert, I'm getting a little thirsty, you know. Be a good Watcher and pop me a bottle of that cow swill you've got in the fridge?"

"Go bite yourself," Giles snarled back, never looking up from his books.

At the New Age Curiosity Shop downtown, Cordelia still sat by Faith's side. The former cheerleader chattered merrily away, partly to Faith and partly to herself, while Faith remained completely unresponsive.

The Slayer's breathing was slow and measured, her face still ghastly pale. Cordelia tried hard not to look too closely at Faith so as not to lose her composure.

". . . but no one dares challenge me for the bitch award!" Cordelia rattled on, "Not you and especially not Buffy. . . . I mean I can see why you wanted to kill her. Well, not really 'kill' kill her but . . ."

Suddenly the door to the shop flew open, and Xander barged in pushing a large box shaped piece of machinery on wheels. The object had a gas powered motor attached to it, similar to an oversized lawn mower motor. A pull rope for starting dangled from the metal housing. Dials on the top and electrical cables with huge 220 volt plugs sprawled from the back. Anya followed behind Xander. From the look on her face, it was clear she had been arguing with him all the way. Nevertheless, like a bull oblivious to all in its path, Xander pushed the machine over to the side of his control panel for the lighting.

"Xander . . . what the hell is that piece of . . . shit?" Cordelia asked as she stared in amazement at the commotion at the other end of the shop.

Anya glared at Cordelia for a moment as the former demon recognized her own words.

"He made me help him steal it from a construction site!" Anya snapped.

Listening to Anya was bad enough, but Xander suddenly realized that he wasn't going to be able to withstand the assaults from her and Cordelia combined. An explanation was in order. He stopped, straightened up and addressed both Cordelia and Anya.

"Listen, ladies," he announced as if he were instructing particularly difficult children in his charge, "I just got a real bad thought and nobody is gonna say the Xandman is not prepared for all contingencies!"

He patted the dark blue metal cover of his latest "acquisition" as if it were a new pet he had brought home without permission.

"This baby is a little . . . insurance!" he stated proudly.

* * * * * * * *

The afternoon sun moved rapidly across the sky and headed for the horizon. It only took Tara a few minutes to run across the Quadrangle from her dorm to the UC Sunnydale Library. She stopped on the stone steps, glanced nervously at the fading sunlight in the advancing afternoon and then firmly marched inside.

The rare book storage room looked more like an underground detention cell at the Initiative than a repository for ancient volumes. It was cramped and in one corner, a small chamber with a chain link cage door housed a single wooden table and a chair. Another cage door separated the entrance to the room from the staircase leading down from the world above. Old worn books, some large, some small, stacked up on dark green metal shelves lined the white cinder block walls. In one corner sat a heavy iron safe, its door shut and locked. Several bare incandescent bulbs screwed into obsolete porcelain light fixtures provided a stark and unsettling illumination.

An echoing clop clop of footsteps descended the stairway leading to the storage room. Tara, lead by the Curator of the rare book collection, stepped out from the concealed staircase at the entrance to the room. The Curator, a tall, extremely old gentleman in an oddly outdated and rumpled suit, fumbled momentarily with a ring of keys as they both stood before the caged entrance door. He spoke with a stilted formality reminiscent of an earlier time.

"This is highly irregular, young lady," he fussed as he finally inserted the correct key into the door.

"I know," Tara answered meekly.

"In the sixty-three years this 'thing' has been here," the old Curator rambled on as he finally found the key he wanted and unlocked the door, "I know of no more than four people who have requested to see it before you. And all I've turned away because they were unsavory characters who didn't know the pass words. For two I had to summon campus security to have them removed. . . . and I won't hesitate to do the same with you!"

"I promise I won't cause any trouble," Tara said earnestly.

"Hmm! You'd better not!" the Curator huffed. He turned to Tara as if he were required to subject her to one final test before entering.

"Just how did you know the pass words?" he asked slowly.

"I don't know. I just knew to say 'A friend of Randolph Carter's has need of the book.'"

"Who taught you to say that?" the Curator scowled, still unconvinced.

"I told you . . . no one . . . I just knew it," Tara answered innocently.

"And what purpose have you for the evil this thing possesses?"

"What need have you to ask so many questions?" Tara answered, finally growing impatient, "There's little time as it is."

The old Curator stared at her for a moment. What he saw, Tara couldn't tell but he finally nodded his head.

"So . . . it is the end time then," he said quietly, "Howard truly must've sent you. In his last letter, he said a young woman would finally come in the end time. She would know the words although she would not know how. She would read . . . and then finally destroy the Res Profana."

Tara was confused by his ramblings.

"What . . . what are you talking about? Who's Howard?"

"But then how could that be?" he mused, "And how could you have known him? Old Lovecraft's been dead these sixty-three some odd years."

The Curator shuffled over to the safe, spun the dial and quickly selected the combination. The door swung open on silent hinges. The Curator withdrew a large black calfskin bound volume. It was actually thin and wide with pages that appeared to be of a skin rather than paper or some other kind of parchment. The Curator walked over to the caged room with the small table and chair, opened the door, set the book on the table and motioned for Tara to come in.

"You will have to read it in here," he said apologetically.

"That's okay."

Tara entered the caged little room and sat down behind the table. The Curator turned to leave, closing the cage door behind him. Startled, Tara looked up.

"I'm sorry, young lady," the Curator stammered as she locked the door, "I cannot let it leave this room under any circumstances. I'll be at the head of the stairs. Just call out when you're done. I'll hear you."

Tara nodded nervously. The Curator walked towards the stairs. He stopped one more time before he ascended and turned back towards Tara.

"Oh, and before I forget. . . ." he said almost in a whisper, "Tell that young fellow, MacDuffie . . . old Jameson's son . . . that my prayers are with him. . . . They're with all of you."

"Thank you," Tara replied smiling.

The old Curator nodded, began climbing the staircase and disappeared from view. Immediately, Tara turned her attention to the black volume lying before her. Slowly, she reached out one hand and touched the cracked and curled leather cover with her fingertips. She suddenly closed her eyes and shuddered as she sensed the ancient evil that rested waiting in the pages beneath her hand.

"Dear Goddess," she whispered, "Give me strength to confront what I am about to see."

She carefully turned back the cover of the Res Profana, paused, leaned forward and peered at the yellowed page in front of her. Scrawled in little bunches at odd angles across the parchment were bits of handwriting, almost like graffiti. Tara recognized them as short notes and comments scribbled about the blank page by previous readers of the Res Profana.

One particularly caught her attention. The writing was brief and in a faded red color but the angles of the letters were jagged and the words out of alignment as if they were scratched on the page with great rapidity and under desperate circumstances. Tara read them aloud to herself.

"Dei Lucis Deaeque, salve me!"

She then translated the words.

"Gods and Goddesses of the Light, save me!"

Tara's eyes widened with fear. She scanned the page and spotted another block of commentary. She stopped in amazement. It was the only one in English and was quite lengthy. The handwriting was controlled, the penmanship careful and neat and the ink only slightly faded with the passing of the years. Tara read the first line silently. As she did, the hair rose on the back of her neck as she heard in her mind the voice of the writer. It was that of a man, calm, peaceful but with a sense of urgency.

"My dearest Tara." the first sentence read, "As you are reading this now, the end time must be near."

Tara gasped, jumped up from the chair and quickly slapped the book shut. She backed away in fear from the Res Profana to the edge of the cage door. She almost called to the Curator to come and let her out but something caused her to pause and stare back at the black volume once more.

Cautiously, Tara returned to the table and slowly reopened the cover. She read again, and the Voice spoke to her in her mind.

"Do not be afraid," it said from the writing on the page, "For my physical presence is no more. I am sharing with you on this page what I have seen in my time as I know it will be of great aid for you in yours. Because of what you are, only you have the strength to gaze upon this Damned Thing."

"The incantation you seek is on the twenty-third page. It is in a language never spoken or heard by human kind. It is of the Ancient Ones and the Void and may only be used once in the final moments to aid the Slayer. You will need to use Necror's key on the eleventh page to decipher the symbols (Yes, my dear, he is the same one who unleashed the Haunter of the Dark against ancient Alexandria.) Memorize it. When you have it committed to memory, destroy the Res Profana once and for all. Then use those words together with the powers of your life partner to hold the Void open in the last seconds so that the soul of the Slayer may escape . . . "

". . . Willow . . ." Tara murmured.

She returned her attention to the message.

". . . You must work quickly and accurately. Use of the Res Profana acts as a beacon to the Haunter. Much of the strength and power of the Ancient Ones in this universe is derived from the spells contained in it. The Haunter will seek it out. You will be safe during daylight but your task must be completed and the book in ashes by nightfall. I have spoken enough as the minutes remaining to you are precious. The hopes and prayers of all the Guardians through time are with you and with all those who will do battle by your side before the Gates of Dawn. And although we have never met, I humbly remain, Your dear friend, Randolph Carter - HPL"

Tara, barely able to comprehend what she has just read, stared blankly at the page. At the bottom of the message, the name "Randolph Carter" was carefully printed in the same size letters and penmanship as the body of the text. However the last three letters, "HPL," while clearly the product of the same author, were in a flowing script as if they were an abbreviated signature.

Fearfully, Tara turned the pages until she reached the twenty-third indicated by "HPL." As she leaned forward, she suddenly winced in pain as if the obscure symbols on the page were burning her eyes. She almost cried out but finally took control of her body and suppressed the impact of what she saw. Her breathing was deep but steady as she leaned forward again and studied the cursed writing on the page in front of her.

Outside the UC Sunnydale Library, the sun slid closer and closer to the horizon.

* * * * * * *



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