Dreams of Yith
Duane W. Rimel
(The Fantasy Fan, June 1934)
I
In
distant Yith past crested, ragged peaks;
On far-flung, islands lost to worldly eyes,
A shadow from the ancient star-void seeks
Some being which in caverns shrilly cries
A challenge;
and the hairy dweller speaks
From that deep hole where slimy Sotho lies.
But when those night-winds crept about the place,
They fled—for Sotho had no human face!
II
Beyond
the valleys of the sun which lie
In
misty chaos past the reach of time;
And brood beneath the ice as aeons fly,
Long waiting for some brighter, warmer clime;
There is a vision, as I vainly try
To glimpse the madness that must some day climb
From age-old tombs in
dim dimensions hid,
And push
all angles back—unseal the lid!
III
Beside
the city that once lived there wound
A stream of putrefaction writhing black;
Reflecting crumbling spires stuck in the ground
That glow through hovering mist whence no stray track
Can lead
to those dead gates, where once was found
The secret that would bring the dwellers back.
And still that pitch-black current eddies by
Those silver gates of Yith to sea-beds dry.
IV
On
rounded turrets rising through the visne
Of cloud-veiled aeons that the Old Ones knew:
On tablets deeply worn and fingered clean
By
tentacles that dreamers seldom view;
In space-hung Yith, on clammy walls obscene
That writhe and crumble and are built anew;
There is a figure carved; but God! those eyes,
That sway on fungoid stems at leaden skies!
V
Around
the place of ancient, waiting blight;
On walls of sheerest opal rearing high,
That move as planets beckon in the night
To faded realms where nothing sane can lie;
A deathless guard tramps by
in feeble light,
Emitting to the stars a sobbing cry.
But on that path where footsteps should have led
There rolled an eyeless, huge and bloated head.
VI
Amid
dim hills that poison mosses blast,
Far from the lands and seas of our clean earth,
Dread nightmare shadows dance—obscenely cast
By twisted
talons of archaean birth
On rows of slimy pillars stretching past
A daemon-fane that echoes with mad mirth.
And in that realm sane eyes may never see—
For black light streams from skies of ebony.
VII
On
those queer
mountains which hold
back the horde,
That lie in waiting in their mouldy graves,
Who groan and mumble to a hidden lord
Still waiting for the time-worn key that saves;
There dwells a watcher who can ill afford
To let invaders by
those hoary caves.
But some day then may dreamers find the way
That leads down elfin-painted paths of gray.
VIII
And
past those unclean spires that ever lean
Above the windings of unpeopled streets;
And far beyond the walls and silver screen
That veils the secrets of those dim retreats,
A scarlet pathway leads that some have seen
In wildest visions that no mortal greets.
And down that dimming path in fearful flight
Queer beings squirm and hasten in the night.
IX
High in
the ebon skies on scaly wings
Dread bat-like beasts soar past those towers gray
To peer in greedy longing at the things
Which sprawl in every twisted passageway,
And when their gruesome
flight a
shadow brings
The dwellers lift dim eyes above the clay.
But lidded bulbs close heavily once more;
They wait—for Sotho to unlatch the door!
X
Now,
though the veil of troubled visions deep
Is draped to blind me to the secret ways
Leading though blackness to the realm of sleep
That haunts me all my jumbled nights and days,
I feel the dim path that will let me keep
That rendezvous in Yith where Sotho plays.
At last I see a glowing turret shine,
And I am coming, for the key is mine!
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