Of Mi-Go and Men

The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Thanks for reading and I hope you like this tale. Please do leave a comment as I read all of them and take them all onboard.

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OF MI-GO AND MEN.

CHAPTER 1. THE SACRAMENTO VALLEY.

The Sacramento valley in northern California is usually greener and lusher than the San Joaquin to the south. Under hot blue skies, almond and walnut orchards together with orange and lemon groves give the wide valley a distinctly Mediterranean appearance. Distant mountains, sere and shimmering brown in the heat haze, look like the ancient Spanish Sierras that were home to the conquistadors of old. Many workers on the farms and ranches are Mexican, partly descended from those tough and hardy explorers, and their Spanish language and customs make the valley often seem more like Spain than America.

Cattle ranches take up much of the land not given over to orchards and, although they do not breed the toro bravo fighting bulls needed for bullfights, in all other respects the ranches resemble their Spanish counterparts even down to large haciendas with thick white-washed walls, terracotta pan-tiled roofs and small windows to keep out the summer sun. It would only need colorful posters advertising bullfights to make the illusion of being in Spain complete.

Even the name, Sacramento, is Spanish. It is thought that the valley was named by Gabriel Moraga in 1799 when California was a distant province of the Spanish Empire. Its beauty somehow reminded those hard-bitten explorers of the Holy Sacrament.

It all seemed very hot and exotic to at least one passenger on the little train trundling westwards along a line owned by the Southern Pacific Transportation Company. It had been three years since he had last been here as he had been studying at far distant Miskatonic University in Massachusetts, completely at the other end of the continent. Now his studies were finished, he was going to spend a few months relaxing at his Aunt Carol's while deciding what to do with his life before returning east.

He folded his copy of the Kansas City Star that he'd picked up midway on his transcontinental journey. The editorial was still fulminating about last year's Wall Street crash and the impact on the mid-west economy. The editor wanted Federal funds and was complaining that President Hoover wasn't doing enough to help. A traveling salesman sitting opposite looked away nervously as a frown crossed the newspaper's owner's forehead. The man was a giant with wide, sloping shoulders, standing at least six foot four in his socks. He had unruly, sandy hair and usually a round, friendly face with pale gray eyes. However, when he scowled, his sheer size made him look threatening and dangerous.

Now he was approaching his journey's end the man had been thinking about his family. He didn't really like to recall them, although he loved Aunt Carol deeply, the only member left, for she had been good to him. His mother had died during the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918 when he had been an infant of eight years. His father had been devastated and the man remembered his old man's tears of grief.

That said, six months later, his father had recovered enough to run off with a Negro showgirl whom he later married in Paris. Attracted by raucous honky-tonk jazz music, their wedding had been attended by many American expats. The last anyone had heard of him, his father was scratching out a living selling badly painted daubs on the Left Bank.

However, before leaving, his father had sent the boy to live with Carol and the boy had enjoyed an idyllic childhood playing in the woods of the California countryside. "Benny," she called him fondly as she raised him. To Carol, he was the son she'd never had. The man smiled, much to the relief of his fellow passenger, as he recalled tending rabbits on her patch of land. He liked the rabbits the best; they were so soft and warm and gentle.

As it approached an outpost of civilization, the train slowed and its whistle shrieked, waking those passengers snoozing away in the somnolent afternoon heat.

"Willows," the guard called. "Next stop Willows. All those for Willows, next stop!"

The man, Benjamin Smallwood, or as he preferred to be called, simply Benny, stretched and clasped his straw boater to his head then fetched down his valise from the overhead rack. The train jerked to a stop in a cloud of steam and smoke.

"Willows," the guard called out again. "Willows."

Benny stepped down onto the small platform and watched as his trunk was fetched down from the guard's calaboose and placed onto a trolley. Outside, the heat struck him immediately. Not the dry heat of the mountains but here a more humid, sticky heat in the valley. Sweat prickled under his arms and immediately his shirt stuck to his back. Taking out a red handkerchief, he mopped his wide forehead.

From the awning's shade, a tall, thin Negro stepped out from around a group of loafers to greet him.

"Mister Benny, sir, it's sure good to see you again. You haven't changed one bit," the man said.

"Neither have you, Johnson. You're keeping well?" Privately, Benny thought the man had aged over the last three years. There was more gray in his hair and more lines and wrinkles on his face; the result of working under the harsh, unforgiving sun.

"Fine, sir. My back aches sometimes but I have nothing to complain about, praise Jesus."

Together, the two men took the trunk and loaded it onto a mule-drawn buckboard. Benny's immense strength made light work of it but he noticed Johnson wincing. That was understandable, Benny thought, the old man was at least sixty years of age.

The elderly black took the reins in both hands, made a clicking noise, and the buckboard set off towards Aunt Carol's place on the outskirts of the town of Willows. On the way, the old man filled Benny in on all the local gossip; who had died, who had gotten married, and who wasn't right with God. As the small town was the county seat of Glenn County, there was no shortage of tittle-tattle and scandal. However, his main story was about the O'Driscoll family who lived up in the foothills of the Mendocino National Park.

Benny was only half listening as he looked at the familiar scenery, trying to spot any changes when something Johnson said caught his attention. He repeated it.

"They all vanished?"

"Yes, sir, all of them one night. The first we knew of it was when Roberts, the postman, called to deliver a parcel..."

"Probably they were deep in debt. Ran away to Sacramento or 'Frisco or somewhere one step ahead of their creditors."

"Oh, no, sir. Mr. Brooks at the bank, he said in the barber shop that week they had better than $350 in the bank and they hadn't withdrawn it."

That was one of those things about small towns. There were no secrets. Everybody knew everybody else's business. And kept it for them.

"Perhaps they went on vacation? Or a sudden family emergency?"

"They never left word with the post office. And their jalopy was still standin' in the barn."

Benny thought for a moment. "In that case, I take it the sheriff checked for hidden bodies? Maybe bootleggers or gangsters from out of the city?" He grinned as he spoke. There were very few murders in these rural parts.

"Yes, sir, that he did. But he didn't find nothing. Nothing at all, not even a sign of any struggle. Their dinner was all laid out on the table and no valuables was took. The search posse took out the Jennings brother's bloodhounds but they found not a hint of a trail. No, sir. It's like they flew away, sir."

"Well, I'm surprised at you, Johnson, not coming up with some reason. There must be a perfectly logical explanation."

"Don't know nothing, me, sir. But no way would you catch me anywhere near the O'Driscoll's farm after dark, sir." The old man lowered his voice. "Our pastor says it's haunted and that's good enough for me. Haunted by cruel demons with wings."

Benny wanted to laugh at the old Negro's superstitions but he liked and respected the man too much for that. They turned down North Butte Street and westwards onto French Street. In the distance, the forested slopes of the Mendocino Park loomed above the valley.

"Last time I saw the O'Driscolls was when they were riding back home," Johnson said, pointing at the forest ahead. The sun was still high in the sky but it wouldn't be long before it dropped behind the mountains. The buckboard carried on, shortly after swinging off the road and down a rutted track leading to Aunt Carol's place. Dust billowed up around them as they passed white painted picket fences then Carol's farmstead came into sight. It was compact and sheltered under a shade oak in the front yard. Aunt Carol herself was pumping water from a well. She stopped when she heard the buckboard's approach and hurried over as Benny swung down.

Benny smiled. Aunt Carol had raised him after his father ran away to Paris. She was short, plump with a friendly, round face with sun-wrinkles around her kindly brown eyes. Benny lifted her up and kissed his Aunt.

"It's good to be back," he said, hugging her.

"It's good to have you back," she responded. "Come and see the old place."

Leaving Johnson to unhitch the mule and lead it to the stables, Aunt Carol showed Benny around her small farm.

Looking at her, Benny saw more grey in her hair and realized that, like Johnson, his Aunt was getting no younger. "What help do you have?" he asked, in between her flow of words.

She looked up at him. "Johnson, of course, and my housemaid and cook...," Johnson had been on the farm since before he was born, "...and I've taken on a new hand, a man called Jorge Molinero. He's out in the orchards at the moment."

"Good worker?"

"Yes. One of the best. He wants to save up enough to buy his own little smallholding one day." She smiled. "Though I think that's a pipe-dream. He never seems to hang onto his wages."

By now, they were coming back around the back of the farmhouse. Aunt Carol looked up, shading her eyes against the westering sun. "I've got something for you, Benny."

In an open fronted shed, sheltered from the sun, was a row of rabbit hutches. Dropping Carol's hand, Benny ran into the shed, crossing from light into shade. He unlatched the nearest hutch and lifted out two bundles of fur. Gently, he stroked the young rabbits, running his finger tip along their backs, while making soft crooning sounds. The rabbits snuggled down, dwarfed by Benny's giant hands. Finally, he replaced the rabbits in their hutch.

"Can I tend them? Please, can I look after them?" he asked, his face soft and gentle.

"Of course. I got them for you."

"Thank you."

After washing his face and hands under the pump, Benny entered the farmhouse and sat at the table. An elderly lady, even older than his Aunt, brought in a roast of beef, potatoes and gravy and set them down before him.

Following on from his long journey, Benny was famished and said little until his stomach was satisfied.

"I like to see a man enjoying his food," Carol remarked.

Eventually, Benny pushed back his chair and lit his pipe, the smoke wreathing around his head. The sun had long since sunk behind the forested slopes of the western Rockies and darkness stretched over the land. Carol lit the oil lamps and placed one on the table. They chatted companionably; about the worsening economic situation, his studies in far off Arkham, his future plans as well as the farm itself.

"What happened to the O'Driscolls?" Benny enquired lazily during a lull in the conversation, stretching out his long legs.

Carol looked up and smiled. "So you've already heard the gossip then? It's the most exciting thing to happen around these parts for ages."

"What do you think happened?" Benny asked.

"As they left money in their account, they weren't running from the bank. I think a family emergency cropped up and they had to leave suddenly. The lease has expired now, I think, so I guess the landlord will be looking to move someone else onto the land."

That didn't sound quite right. What emergency was so pressing that they couldn't leave a forwarding address?

"Perhaps I should have a go at farming," Benny mused aloud to fill the silence.

"You could do worse; but I think you'd be better off going back east and getting a job in the city. Put your degree to good use."

It was late by then and Benny didn't want to keep his Aunt up too late. With an exaggerated yawn, he stretched out his arms and retired to his own room. As he drew the drapes he gazed out over the flat farm lands to where the black bulk of the western Rockies loomed high against the night sky. The slopes were completely dark apart from a few pinpricks of light from widely spaced farmhouses or hobo campsites.

What had happened to the O'Driscolls, out there in the darkness, Benny wondered as he got undressed.

CHAPTER 2. EARLY TREMORS.

Over the next few days Benny didn't have time to ponder too much about the O'Driscoll's fate as Aunt Carol kept him busy. The morning of the following day, he met her hired man; a small, nimble, quick-witted chap who was good with his hands. Jorge Molinero told him he'd traveled throughout much of northern California. However, he liked it here at Willows and Benny soon appreciated why Aunt Carol kept him on.

This time of year, the two men mostly kept the fences in order and repaired the barns but soon, Jorge reminded him, they'd need to contract lots of temporary Mexican laborers to pick fruit from the orchards.

"You'll see," said Jorge with a quick grin. "We'll be rushed off our feet then. We'll have to meet the workers at Willows, bring them here and show them the ropes."

Benny nodded. Just then, movement caught his eye as a battered old truck turned off the county road and up their drive. Steam billowed from under its hood mixing with wind-blown dust. The truck's bed was loaded, overloaded, with mattresses, boxes, sacks and trunks. Tools hung over the side and children and a rust-colored coon-dog sat on top of the mountain of gear. A boy wearing biballs and a tattered straw hat tossed an apple core at the mule.

With a grinding explosion, the truck stopped by the well. A man, sunburned, and like his son, wearing patched and faded biballs swung out of the cab. Seeing Benny, he held out his hand. Benny saw that the man was in his mid thirties and had straw-blond hair and sharp, pale blue eyes.

"'Scuse me, mister. Could you let us have some water? As y'all can see the radiator's got more holes in it than a miner's sieve."

"Sure," Benny said. "This well never runs dry. Fill her up; and take a drink as well."

"Thanks, mister," the man said as he unscrewed the radiator cap. "Mighty neighborly. Name's Huston; Ted Huston."

More people piled from out the truck, glad to take an opportunity to stretch their legs. From the cab came a young woman, also wheat-blonde underneath her headscarf, who Benny guessed was Ted Huston's wife and an older woman who was a grayer, more care-worn image of her daughter.

"This is Mary-Beth and her mother, Mrs. Finnan." He whistled and the children gathered around. There were two boys of about twelve and ten years old. "Don and Pete," he introduced them as, and Benny noticed the pride in Ted's voice. He rested his hand on his eight year old daughter's shoulder. "And this is Harriet." The girl, straw-blonde like her parents, smiled. Benny thought the girl would break more than a few hearts when she grew up and before she settled down.

"We're taking over the old O'Driscoll place," Ted said as he poured a bucket of water into the thirsty radiator. The hot metal hissed and fumed. "Moving up to this part of the valley; been too many droughts down south."

"That's a fine place up in the hills," Jorge Molinero said as he came up.

"So I believe. Got it for a good rent. Guess some people don't like hard work and that's why the other lot left. That's what the realtor said."

He drew more water from the well, dipped a ladle into it and passed it to Mary-Beth. "That said, the realtor told us the O'Driscolls have fixed the place good and planted seeds. All we have to do is harvest them," Ted said with a broad grin. Something struck him as wrong and his smile faltered. "Though if they were that lazy, they wouldn't have done that... Say, you don't know the real reason why they upped sticks, do you?"

Jorge shook his head. "Nope, sorry. Only found out after they'd gone. Nobody knows."

"Their loss is our good fortune. Praise the Lord," Mary-Beth said from behind her husband.

"Amen," Ted responded. "If you're ever passing, come up and say howdy, mister." He shooed his children back on board, checked directions on his battered road-map with Jorge and then, in a flurry of waving children, the truck backfired, turned around and headed off.

"Nice people," said Benny to Jorge. "Hope they make it."

***

The two men and Johnson were rushed off their feet for a few days and had no time to think about the Huston family. The heat became intense, well into the nineties, pressing down like a hand and Benny was kept busy watering thirsty vegetable plots. That evening, Jorge had headed out into Willows and Aunt Carol was visiting with her nearest neighbor, the widow Irene Straub.

Benny sat on the porch, a glass of tea next to him listening to cicadas chirping in the bushes. A book, rather sensationally written in his opinion, about his alma mater's disastrous 1916 expedition to Baffin Island lay open on his lap. From fragments of documents recovered from their devastated base camp, the scientists thought that they had found pre-Ice Age ruins of a civilization that may have been linked to the lost land of Lomar. That expedition had been before his time but it was still talked about in hushed whispers at Miskatonic. Oddly, the only survivor had met a strange end himself a few years later in Miskatonic's infirmary during a freak blizzard. It all seemed far-fetched to him.

Every muscle ached but in a good way as a result of all the hard physical work he'd done over the last few days. He yawned and was thinking about turning in when, from the western mountains, a purple light leaped into the air. On this cloudless night, it shone like a column seeming to reach up to the stars themselves. Except for its color, it looked rather like a Great War searchlight he'd seen on old newsreels and he peered up into its light, half expecting to see a Zeppelin trapped in its beam.

Then, a minute or so later, the house shook and his glass toppled off the side table, falling to the ground and splashing tea over the porch floor. Behind him, his Aunt's china tinkled and rattled in its display cabinet. A broom fell over. The floor trembled and felt like jell-o under his feet, treacherous and not solid. And then the tremor stopped and everything returned to normal. Moments later, the cicadas resumed their chirping and shortly after the normal night time sounds returned.

"Only a small one," Benny said to himself, picking up the broom and setting his glass back on the table top. Living in California as a boy, he'd experienced numerous minor earth movements and this was very minor. All the same, old-timers still talked about the 1906 quake that had flattened San Francisco and they all said it was only a matter of time before another big one struck.

Putting the tremor from his mind, he looked over to the forested hills and saw the purple light had stopped. Everything was back to normal. Soon after ten, Aunt Carol returned. Mrs Straub dropped her off at the end of the drive in an ancient Model-T pick-up, tooted the horn and turned around with a squeal of tires, her headlamps swinging around in the darkness. Standing, Benny walked down to meet his Aunt.