Calling on his reserves of stability and fortitude, Tarleton pulled up at the junction of Parsonage Street. He stood, gasping, panting, his heart pounding in his chest. A wagon loaded high with tea-chests rumbled past. The carter called to one of his friends on the far side of the street. Normality. Nothing to remind Tarleton of that horror north of the Arctic Circle. Just an ordinary, everyday street scene with people walking to and fro. A group of schoolgirls with their heads together laughing and giggling. Shopkeepers leaning against their door frames enjoying a few minutes quietness.
"I thought I was all right," Tarleton whispered to himself, his mind still shocked by the experience. "I thought I was completely cured. Perhaps it was the shock of coming back to Arkham on top of such a long journey; maybe I should have stayed down at Austin. No – it was just a one-off. The doctors at the hospital told me there might be relapses if I got overtired but they would dwindle with time. No, I need to ignore this incident. Put it behind me."
Saying which, Tarleton tried to reassure himself as he walked along College Street to the higher ground of French Hill. Nevertheless, Tarleton was upset and unnerved by his reaction to something as innocuous as a block of ice.
All the same, he'd never had any problems with seeing ice down in Texas so he was surprised that it should happen now. It could just be the mental association of the Miskatonic University with that disastrous survey expedition. Perhaps he should see 'Old' Waldron, the college doctor, get something to settle his nerves, but on second thoughts, Tarleton rejected that idea. He didn't want his mental health discussed amongst the professors. If any were having doubts or second thoughts then he didn't want to give any of them a handle to find ways of getting rid of him.
Also, Tarleton was glad to be back in Massachusetts. It was home. Sure, he'd enjoyed his time in Texas but Massachusetts was where he belonged. "My family's from Arkham – we've lived here for almost one hundred years and Miskatonic has the best research facilities in the country," he thought.
Looking up from his thoughts, Tarleton saw he was home. He stood before his parent's mansion on the exclusive Saltonstall Street – a large neo-Grecian built some fifty years before. His grandfather had served on the staff of Major-General Benjamin Butler's occupying force in New Orleans and on his return from the Civil War, he had torn down the old colonial and rebuilt in an antebellum Louisiana style.
The house was a gracious, classically proportioned home, freshly whitewashed and it shone brightly in the late summer sunshine. With a smile, Tarleton walked between the gateposts and up the driveway, passing a stand of shade-oaks. He didn't need to knock on the door before it was flung open.
"Master Jack! Welcome home!" Cartwright, the family's old retainer greeted him. He shook Tarleton's hand and guided him into the marble-floored atrium. A double staircase swept upwards to the second floor gallery; another design feature his grandfather had insisted upon. Tarleton's earlier worries were forgotten when he saw his mother sweeping down the staircase, her skirts swishing as she walked. Although not yet fifty, she had not taken to modern dress and looked like a Victorian matriarch in her black dress with a jet brooch at her throat.
Tarleton sadly realised that his mother had not yet got over the death of his elder brother, Thomas, who was killed by German artillery whilst fighting with Canadian forces at the maelstrom of St. Julien. Thomas had survived the horror of chlorine gas only to be blown up during a counter-attack. A terribly sad end but not unusual in the carnage of the western front.
Thomas had earned the respect of his father and the tears of his mother by not waiting for the United States to declare war but had slipped across the border shortly after the Great War had broken out in order to join up with the Canadian First Division. At the time of Thomas's enlistment, his mother had been upset and had locked herself in her room for a week but his father, although pretending anger, had made no secret that he was proud of Tom.
However, both Tarleton's parents had been equally devastated when the telegram arrived notifying them of Tom's death. That terse note was followed a week later by a letter from the Colonel giving more details and enclosing Tom's few personal effects. His mother had read that letter so many times she knew it off by heart.
Tarleton waited in the centre of the entrance hall for his mother to embrace him. Eventually they broke apart and his mother looked him in the face.
"Are you keeping well, Jack?" she asked. "You look tired."
There was no way he was about to alarm his mother with details of that earlier incident. "A long journey, mother. But I'm very glad to be home."
He just had time to ask about his other brother, Daniel, who was working on reconstruction projects with the American occupying forces in Haiti, before Cartwright led Tarleton up to his old bedroom. Very little had changed. Crossed Varsity football pennants took up one wall, his old baseball bat and catcher's mitt lay on the dresser, where he'd left them before going to Baffin Island... he turned his mind swiftly away; and on the bookcase, rows of books, the gilt writing on their spines sparkling. His trunks had arrived on an earlier train and Cartwright had already unpacked.
Tarleton ran himself a bath, as hot as he could stand, and relaxed. His earlier fear washed away in the steaming waters until it had no more force than a half-forgotten nightmare. A reaction to stress, he told himself. That's all it was.
Giving himself plenty of time, Tarleton dressed for dinner as he knew his parents expected that courtesy and he knew they would have invited business friends and neighbours. One of the undecayed Whateleys, from a different branch of that infamous family; also the Baxters who owned a broker's house in New York together with the Middletons – cloth manufacturers from the mill town of Bolton.
During the dinner, the senior Middleton talked about the illegal prize-fights the workers of that town indulged in. The bouts had died down during the Great War but since demobilisation and the return of the men from the Western Front the fights had started up with a renewed vigour. They regretted that Dr. West had gone onto Boston after the War ended instead of returning to Bolton.
"A very great medic, a big loss to our town, Dr. West had a way with the mill-hands and took such care of them," Mr. Middleton said.
The Middletons had brought their daughter, Olivia, and she sat directly opposite Tarleton. Once there had been an understanding between them. Nothing had been said but both families expected the pair to announce their engagement at some point. But then had come Baffin Island and Tarleton's collapse so their affection cooled. The two had corresponded during his time in Austin, mostly about events in Arkham and mutual acquaintances. Tarleton heard that Olivia had been going out with one of the younger Baxters for part of the time he'd been away but that had also broken up.
Tarleton looked across the silver table decoration in which fruit and vine leaves were artfully arranged. Olivia looked across at him and her lips raised in a little smile. Olivia was beautiful with long ash-blonde hair and pale blue eyes showing her mother's Swedish ancestry. She wore a light-blue silk gown which complemented her complexion to perfection.
Looking at her, Tarleton was reminded of a Nordic Ice-Queen, cold and imperious. He shivered but returned Olivia's smile. In Texas, Tarleton had come to appreciate the southern charms of the Latina girls. Most especially those from the old Mexican families who owned land there long before the coming of the Anglos.
Under Cartwright's supervision, the hired waiters removed the dishes from the fish course and then placed lemon sorbets before the diners to cleanse their palates. Tarleton looked at the small dish of flavoured ice. He shuddered and tried to restrain that sense of overpowering horror which had gripped him earlier in the Italian restaurant. His eyes widened as he watched the others eat their sorbets. Didn't they know what they were eating? Ice – frozen water.
The total soul-chilling cold of frozen ice. Ice from thousands of years ago, ice that had lain undisturbed for millennia, covering long forgotten peoples and realms. Ice spreading with the centuries, burying the world with terrible blinding whiteness, the glaciers expanding crushing civilisation beneath the Arctic floes.
"Excuse me," Tarleton mumbled. He stood, carefully, making sure he didn't draw unwanted attention to himself and left the dining room. He crossed the atrium, opened the front door and stepped out into the grounds. Whippoorwills were chirping in the undergrowth, their familiar, well-remembered song helping to clear Tarleton's mind of its confusion. He leaned against one of the Doric pillars supporting the portico and looked out over the darkened grounds.
Eventually, his breathing returned to normal, his heart slowed. Where had all that nonsense about glaciers and the end of long-lost civilisations come from? The desserts were only sorbets, harmless little dishes. Nothing else. Realising that he was being rude, or at least eccentric, Tarleton took a last breath of night air and then returned to the banquet his parents had laid on. However, everybody was too polite to comment on his temporary absence.
By now, the sorbets had been cleared away and the waiters were serving roast beef with potatoes and steamed vegetables. The rich smell of the roasts filled the room. A waiter poured Tarleton a glass of Merlot and the full-bodied sweet wine helped him relax further. He stretched his legs out under the table. Yes, it was just the stress following the long journey up from Austin and returning back to Arkham.
Tarleton enjoyed the rest of the meal and took part in the conversation with his father and the other men over port and cigars before rejoining the ladies in the drawing room. The men were eager to hear news from Texas. Finally, at long last, the evening ended, the last guest left and Tarleton was glad to go to his room.
He had no nightmares that night.
* * *
September slipped into October. Tarleton was busy at Miskatonic. He taught some classes of freshman students in both geography and geology. His speciality was the ancient igneous rocks of the northern United States and Canada. He collated the rock specimens and photographs brought back by Professor Atkinson from his trips to Mexico and Central America. He imagined the sun warming these rocks, so very different from the barren Arctic wastes of..., no his mind skittered away from those terrible images. Also, he marked papers and did a little research into volcanism and the new theories of plate tectonics.
He spent some time in the library but kept well away from those locked doors leading to the basement. Those subterranean vaults containing, according to repute, those tomes that the Chief Librarian, Dr. Henry Armitage, only allowed certain trusted researchers permission to access. Like many fellows and students, Tarleton had heard rumours as to the names of some of those books but even the boldest students spoke of them only in whispers. Officially, of course, the very existence of these books was denied.
Massachusetts' fall foliage was spectacular and from his room in his parents mansion high up on French Hill he could see the forests in the distance. The vivid reds, oranges and yellows with a dash of plum brightened the vista but as the month progressed, more and more the browns dominated. A clear portent that another New England winter was on its way.
* * *
Halloween was on a Friday that year. That always made that evil day worse. Those more sensitive to atmosphere made sure they kept in good company that day – and especially during the evening and night. The saloons and beer-cellars did a roaring trade as men drowned their fears. The poorer people, mostly Italian and Polish immigrants, kept their children close and whispered about the unholy rites taking place on that unhallowed witch-island on the Miskatonic.
All the same, they couldn't keep an eye on all their numerous children and two small boys, on their way back from school took a short-cut through the wooded cemetery on Hangman's Hill and were never heard of again. Three Polish labourers out late at night delivering things they were reluctant about declaring to the Revenue reported that a light, a hideous greenish-purple light, shone like a wartime searchlight from the hills to the north.
The men had been drinking and many people, especially ignorant newcomers, put it down to the amount of moonshine slivovitz plum brandy they had consumed. Especially when they tried to replicate the deep, booming chant they heard as soon as the greenish-purple light hit the clouds. "Fhunglooi maglaw'naf Cthuloo Rllyh wga'nagel fhtagt," was the closest the two men got with the inhuman syllables.
However, those who had lived in Arkham all their lives, especially those from old families living in the area for generations, understood the significance of that misheard chant and crossed themselves.
Tarleton sauntered along College Street to the University. It was a fresh, crisp autumn morning bringing the tang of wood smoke with it. Tarleton enjoyed the walk and, although he noticed the hurrying footsteps and furtive looks of people around him, that didn't spoil his stroll.
Looking up, Tarleton appreciated the beauty of the ivy covering the clock tower. The leaves were a deep rich red, shading towards purple. He walked under the archway, checked his mail at the lodge and then around the quadrangle and up to Professor Bamford's rooms. The door was ajar and so Tarleton let himself in. There was no sign of Bamford himself but an untimed note left on his desk said he would be back in half an hour.
Tarleton moved a stack of papers covering the seat and sat in a well-worn armchair. He placed the papers on top of a book about eastern Anatolia and the Armenian dispersal. The mound was unsteady and the papers slipped off onto the carpet. Leaning over, Tarleton picked them up, leafing through the papers out of curiosity as he did so.
The young man gasped in shock. The University was planning another expedition to Baffin Island next summer. Tarleton collapsed back in the chair, his breath catching in his throat. The papers fell from his nerveless hands, fluttering to the floor. It was as if the last three years had vanished. In an instant, Tarleton was back on Baffin Island.