The Red Brain_Great Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dark Regions Press
Published: 2017-11-29T05:00:00+00:00

THE PEDDLER’S TALE; OR, ISOBEL’S REVENGE

Caitlín R. Kiernan

“If you are very sure that’s the story you wish to hear,” said the peddler, the seller of notions and oddments, to the tow-headed girl child who called her Aunty. They were not related, by blood nor marriage, but very many people in Ulthar called the peddler Aunt or Aunty or the like. Few people living knew her right name or her history. Most felt it impolite to ask, and she never volunteered the information.

“You should be certain, and then be certain you’re certain, before I begin. I’ve come a long, long way. And tomorrow I leave the city and will not soon return. So, be sure this is the tale you wish to hear.”

“Aunty, I very certain,” said the girl impatiently, and the other two children—both boys—agreed. “I have no doubt whatsoever.”

“Well, then,” said the old woman who wasn’t her aunt. She sat back in her chair and lit her pipe, then squinted through grey smoke at the youngsters who’d arranged themselves on the floor between her and the crackling hearth fire. Also, there were five cats, none of whom seemed the least bit interested in peddlers’ yarns.

She took a deep pull on her pipe, then began.

“You’ve all heard the name of the King of Bones, and you’ve heard the tales of how he came to power. And of his Queen, his twin sister, Isobel.”

The children nodded eagerly. And the peddler paused, because she knew that the making of beginnings is, as many have noted, a matter not to be undertaken lightly. And, too, the girl had requested of her a very grim tale, which made the beginning that much more delicate an undertaking. The old woman watched her audience, and they watched her right back. She was well versed at hiding exhaustion, disguising an aching back and sore feet behind a pleasant demeanor, not letting on how her weary sinews wished for the rare luxury of a soft mattress. Duty before rest. This tale was the price of her night’s lodging and board, and she was a woman who paid her debts.

Shortly after dawn, the peddler had led the strong draught pony that pulled her wagon over the ancient stone bridge spanning the River Skai, that wild path of meltwater gurgling down from the glaciers girdling Mount Lerion and flowing northwards towards the Cerenarian Sea. She’d lingered a while on the bridge, admiring the early autumn sunrise, the clean smell of the river, and the view to the east. This was always a welcome sight, the cottages and farms speckling the hills beyond the bridge. Behind her lay Nir and Hatheg, neither of which had proven as profitable as she’d hoped. With so many merchants and craftsmen—and it seemed there were more every year—few in the villages and cities had use for a traveling tinker and a seller of oddments and notions, a peddler of medicinals and salves, a woman up to almost any menial job for a few coins. She’d

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