object:1f.lovecraft - The Transition of Juan Romero
author class:H P Lovecraft
subject class:Fiction
genre class:Horror
class:chapter
Of the events which took place at the Norton Mine on October 18th and
19th, 1894, I have no desire to speak. A sense of duty to science is
all that impels me to recall, in these last years of my life, scenes
and happenings fraught with a terror doubly acute because I cannot
wholly define it. But I believe that before I die I should tell what I
know of the—shall I say transition—of Juan Romero.
My name and origin need not be related to posterity; in fact, I fancy
it is better that they should not be, for when a man suddenly migrates
to the States or the Colonies, he leaves his past behind him. Besides,
what I once was is not in the least relevant to my narrative; save
perhaps the fact that during my service in India I was more at home
amongst white-bearded native teachers than amongst my brother-officers.
I had delved not a little into odd Eastern lore when overtaken by the
calamities which brought about my new life in America’s vast West—a
life wherein I found it well to accept a name—my present one—which is
very common and carries no meaning.
In the summer and autumn of 1894 I dwelt in the drear expanses of the
Cactus Mountains, employed as a common labourer at the celebrated
Norton Mine; whose discovery by an aged prospector some years before
had turned the surrounding region from a nearly unpeopled waste to a
seething cauldron of sordid life. A cavern of gold, lying deep below a
mountain lake, had enriched its venerable finder beyond his wildest
dreams, and now formed the seat of extensive tunnelling operations on
the part of the corporation to which it had finally been sold.
Additional grottoes had been found, and the yield of yellow metal was
exceedingly great; so that a mighty and heterogeneous army of miners
toiled day and night in the numerous passages and rock hollows. The
Superintendent, a Mr. Arthur, often discussed the singularity of the
local geological formations; speculating on the probable extent of the
chain of caves, and estimating the future of the titanic mining
enterprise. He considered the auriferous cavities the result of the
action of water, and believed the last of them would soon be opened.
It was not long after my arrival and employment that Juan Romero came
to the Norton Mine. One of a large herd of unkempt Mexicans attracted
thither from the neighbouring country, he at first commanded attention
only because of his features; which though plainly of the Red Indian
type, were yet remarkable for their light colour and refined
conformation, being vastly unlike those of the average “Greaser” or
Piute of the locality. It is curious that although he differed so
widely from the mass of Hispanicised and tribal Indians, Romero gave
not the least impression of Caucasian blood. It was not the Castilian
conquistador or the American pioneer, but the ancient and noble Aztec,
whom imagination called to view when the silent peon would rise in the
early morning and gaze in fascination at the sun as it crept above the
eastern hills, meanwhile stretching out his arms to the orb as if in
the performance of some rite whose nature he did not himself
comprehend. But save for his face, Romero was not in any way suggestive
of nobility. Ignorant and dirty, he was at home amongst the other
brown-skinned Mexicans; having come (so I was afterward told) from the
very lowest sort of surroundings. He had been found as a child in a
crude mountain hut, the only survivor of an epidemic which had stalked
lethally by. Near the hut, close to a rather unusual rock fissure, had
lain two skeletons, newly picked by vultures, and presumably forming
the sole remains of his parents. No one recalled their identity, and
they were soon forgotten by the many. Indeed, the crumbling of the
adobe hut and the closing of the rock fissure by a subsequent avalanche
had helped to efface even the scene from recollection. Reared by a
Mexican cattle-thief who had given him his name, Juan differed little
from his fellows.
The attachment which Romero manifested toward me was undoubtedly
commenced through the quaint and ancient Hindoo ring which I wore when
not engaged in active labour. Of its nature, and manner of coming into
my possession, I cannot speak. It was my last link with a chapter of
life forever closed, and I valued it highly. Soon I observed that the
odd-looking Mexican was likewise interested; eyeing it with an
expression that banished all suspicion of mere covetousness. Its hoary
hieroglyphs seemed to stir some faint recollection in his untutored but
active mind, though he could not possibly have beheld their like
before. Within a few weeks after his advent, Romero was like a faithful
servant to me; this notwithstanding the fact that I was myself but an
ordinary miner. Our conversation was necessarily limited. He knew but a
few words of English, while I found my Oxonian Spanish was something
quite different from the patois of the peon of New Spain.
The event which I am about to relate was unheralded by long
premonitions. Though the man Romero had interested me, and though my
ring had affected him peculiarly, I think that neither of us had any
expectation of what was to follow when the great blast was set off.
Geological considerations had dictated an extension of the mine
directly downward from the deepest part of the subterranean area; and
the belief of the Superintendent that only solid rock would be
encountered, had led to the placing of a prodigious charge of dynamite.
With this work Romero and I were not connected, wherefore our first
knowledge of extraordinary conditions came from others. The charge,
heavier perhaps than had been estimated, had seemed to shake the entire
mountain. Windows in shanties on the slope outside were shattered by
the shock, whilst miners throughout the nearer passages were knocked
from their feet. Jewel Lake, which lay above the scene of action,
heaved as in a tempest. Upon investigation it was seen that a new abyss
yawned indefinitely below the seat of the blast; an abyss so monstrous
that no handy line might fathom it, nor any lamp illuminate it.
Baffled, the excavators sought a conference with the Superintendent,
who ordered great lengths of rope to be taken to the pit, and spliced
and lowered without cessation till a bottom might be discovered.
Shortly afterward the pale-faced workmen apprised the Superintendent of
their failure. Firmly though respectfully they signified their refusal
to revisit the chasm, or indeed to work further in the mine until it
might be sealed. Something beyond their experience was evidently
confronting them, for so far as they could ascertain, the void below
was infinite. The Superintendent did not reproach them. Instead, he
pondered deeply, and made many plans for the following day. The night
shift did not go on that evening.
At two in the morning a lone coyote on the mountain began to howl
dismally. From somewhere within the works a dog barked in answer;
either to the coyote—or to something else. A storm was gathering around
the peaks of the range, and weirdly shaped clouds scudded horribly
across the blurred patch of celestial light which marked a gibbous
moon’s attempts to shine through many layers of cirro-stratus vapours.
It was Romero’s voice, coming from the bunk above, that awakened me; a
voice excited and tense with some vague expectation I could not
understand:
“¡Madre de Dios!—el sonido—ese sonido—¡oiga Vd! ¿lo oye Vd?—Señor, THAT
SOUND!”
I listened, wondering what sound he meant. The coyote, the dog, the
storm, all were audible; the last named now gaining ascendancy as the
wind shrieked more and more frantically. Flashes of lightning were
visible through the bunk-house window. I questioned the nervous
Mexican, repeating the sounds I had heard:
“¿El coyote?—¿el perro?—¿el viento?”
But Romero did not reply. Then he commenced whispering as in awe:
“El ritmo, Señor—el ritmo de la tierra—THAT THROB DOWN IN THE GROUND!”
And now I also heard; heard and shivered and without knowing why. Deep,
deep, below me was a sound—a rhythm, just as the peon had said—which,
though exceedingly faint, yet dominated even the dog, the coyote, and
the increasing tempest. To seek to describe it were useless—for it was
such that no description is possible. Perhaps it was like the pulsing
of the engines far down in a great liner, as sensed from the deck, yet
it was not so mechanical; not so devoid of the element of life and
consciousness. Of all its qualities, remoteness in the earth most
impressed me. To my mind rushed fragments of a passage in Joseph
Glanvill which Poe has quoted with tremendous effect—
“—the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which
have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus.”
Suddenly Romero leaped from his bunk; pausing before me to gaze at the
strange ring on my hand, which glistened queerly in every flash of
lightning, and then staring intently in the direction of the mine
shaft. I also rose, and both stood motionless for a time, straining our
ears as the uncanny rhythm seemed more and more to take on a vital
quality. Then without apparent volition we began to move toward the
door, whose rattling in the gale held a comforting suggestion of
earthly reality. The chanting in the depths—for such the sound now
seemed to be—grew in volume and distinctness; and we felt irresistibly
urged out into the storm and thence to the gaping blackness of the
shaft.
We encountered no living creature, for the men of the night shift had
been released from duty, and were doubtless at the Dry Gulch settlement
pouring sinister rumours into the ear of some drowsy bartender. From
the watchman’s cabin, however, gleamed a small square of yellow light
like a guardian eye. I dimly wondered how the rhythmic sound had
affected the watchman; but Romero was moving more swiftly now, and I
followed without pausing.
As we descended the shaft, the sound beneath grew definitely composite.
It struck me as horribly like a sort of Oriental ceremony, with beating
of drums and chanting of many voices. I have, as you are aware, been
much in India. Romero and I moved without material hesitancy through
drifts and down ladders; ever toward the thing that allured us, yet
ever with a pitifully helpless fear and reluctance. At one time I
fancied I had gone mad—this was when, on wondering how our way was
lighted in the absence of lamp or candle, I realised that the ancient
ring on my finger was glowing with eerie radiance, diffusing a pallid
lustre through the damp, heavy air around.
It was without warning that Romero, after clambering down one of the
many rude ladders, broke into a run and left me alone. Some new and
wild note in the drumming and chanting, perceptible but slightly to me,
had acted on him in startling fashion; and with a wild outcry he forged
ahead unguided in the cavern’s gloom. I heard his repeated shrieks
before me, as he stumbled awkwardly along the level places and
scrambled madly down the rickety ladders. And frightened as I was, I
yet retained enough of perception to note that his speech, when
articulate, was not of any sort known to me. Harsh but impressive
polysyllables had replaced the customary mixture of bad Spanish and
worse English, and of these only the oft repeated cry “Huitzilopotchli”
seemed in the least familiar. Later I definitely placed that word in
the works of a great historian—and shuddered when the association came
to me.
The climax of that awful night was composite but fairly brief,
beginning just as I reached the final cavern of the journey. Out of the
darkness immediately ahead burst a final shriek from the Mexican, which
was joined by such a chorus of uncouth sound as I could never hear
again and survive. In that moment it seemed as if all the hidden
terrors and monstrosities of earth had become articulate in an effort
to overwhelm the human race. Simultaneously the light from my ring was
extinguished, and I saw a new light glimmering from lower space but a
few yards ahead of me. I had arrived at the abyss, which was now redly
aglow, and which had evidently swallowed up the unfortunate Romero.
Advancing, I peered over the edge of that chasm which no line could
fathom, and which was now a pandemonium of flickering flame and hideous
uproar. At first I beheld nothing but a seething blur of luminosity;
but then shapes, all infinitely distant, began to detach themselves
from the confusion, and I saw—was it Juan Romero?—but God! I dare not
tell you what I saw! . . . Some power from heaven, coming to my aid,
obliterated both sights and sounds in such a crash as may be heard when
two universes collide in space. Chaos supervened, and I knew the peace
of oblivion.
I hardly know how to continue, since conditions so singular are
involved; but I will do my best, not even trying to differentiate
betwixt the real and the apparent. When I awaked, I was safe in my bunk
and the red glow of dawn was visible at the window. Some distance away
the lifeless body of Juan Romero lay upon a table, surrounded by a
group of men, including the camp doctor. The men were discussing the
strange death of the Mexican as he lay asleep; a death seemingly
connected in some way with the terrible bolt of lightning which had
struck and shaken the mountain. No direct cause was evident, and an
autopsy failed to shew any reason why Romero should not be living.
Snatches of conversation indicated beyond a doubt that neither Romero
nor I had left the bunkhouse during the night; that neither had been
awake during the frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus
range. That storm, said men who had ventured down the mine shaft, had
caused extensive caving in, and had completely closed the deep abyss
which had created so much apprehension the day before. When I asked the
watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty thunderbolt, he
mentioned a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind—nothing more.
Nor do I doubt his word.
Upon the resumption of work Superintendent Arthur called on some
especially dependable men to make a few investigations around the spot
where the gulf had appeared. Though hardly eager, they obeyed; and a
deep boring was made. Results were very curious. The roof of the void,
as seen whilst it was open, was not by any means thick; yet now the
drills of the investigators met what appeared to be a limitless extent
of solid rock. Finding nothing else, not even gold, the Superintendent
abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally steals over
his countenance as he sits thinking at his desk.
One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after
the storm, I noticed the unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from
my finger. I had prized it greatly, yet nevertheless felt a sensation
of relief at its disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners appropriated
it, he must have been quite clever in disposing of his booty, for
despite advertisements and a police search the ring was never seen
again. Somehow I doubt if it was stolen by mortal hands, for many
strange things were taught me in India.
My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad
daylight, and at most seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it
a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn, about two in the morning
when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from inconceivable
depths below a damnable suggestion of rhythmical throbbing . . . and I
feel that the transition of Juan Romero was a terrible one indeed.
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