Canticle of the Maw

"Montadru, Montadru, Montadru..."
I recall those words, now twisted into a waking nightmare: Montadru! How could I forget Montadru, when the pallid, woeful shadows that lay upon his bloated belly and the jaundiced temples haunted my mind, compelling me to kneel ceaselessly before his temple at every hour of peace? He who is numbered amongst the cosmic gods-those ethereal powers forbidden to wander forth whilst we yet dallied in the exploration of whispering planets and sentient waves, revealing secret knowledge to laggard generations! None remember his advent as the fearsome apparition that, in an instant, besieged the tranquil dreams of the night's peaceful hours; in the chronicles, only Montadru himself knew-he, the God or the Harbinger of the Last Prophecy. Yet the masses put faith in him amid the tumultuous ruin following the stagnation of wisdom endured for half a decade.
Before I could fully convince myself, I resolved to behold him with mine own eyes, as the invocation of his name wrought a magnetic transition upon my mind. It was in winter, on the 2nd of February, in the year of our Lord 1969-mere days ere another ill event, the nor'easter tempest. I sat alone in my abode, having but finished the opening three paragraphs of the manuscript that inveighed against Montadru, penned at the behest of the pulpit. To mine own sight, it seemed trivial, though my cousin, Adam, oft regaled me with tales and utterances concerning Montadru, wrought in such manner as to confound my imagination-his long-winded, labyrinthine rants described forms strange, singular, wondrous, and maddening alike, till my head ached and I forsook him, leaving my typewriter behind.
I stepped away briefly to brew a cup of scalding tea; through the square frame of the window, I beheld the storm's fury, no worse than usual, though the snow did conspire to heap a small hill behind the house, while fallen flakes assailed the feeble electric lamp-posts striving to endure. Nothing amiss yet, though my thoughts strayed to the congregations of Montadru; and was it not fitting? How could I not muse upon them, whilst my manuscript lay unfinished upon my desk? The tea brewed, I sipped it lightly-not solely to warm my chilled frame, invaded by the biting cold seeping through the wooden walls' pores, but to quench the thirst wrought by an hour's neglect. My arm trembled as I raised the cup, yet I drank deeply, and bore it to my chamber.
Before reaching it, I paused at Adam's door, agape and spilling faint, bubbling murmurs from within. I inclined my head to catch his voice more clearly. Then, like a bolt, blood surged against my nerves as Adam opened the door. He was swathed in heavier winter raiment than usual, his form swollen, grotesque in its bulk. His arms clasped something behind his back; when I gently entreated him to reveal it, he refused, stammering. I thought he had glimpsed part of my manuscript's opening while I was below, vexed by its abstruse words about his dread deity.
I cared not for convoluted thought and retreated to my chamber, setting down the cup, seating myself to resume my toil.
Unbeknownst to me, a strange relief-carved terracotta statue had been placed upon a bookshelf scarcely a cubit from my reach. When I glanced back, the object seemed to kindle a spectral flame, beckoning me forth. My fingers trembled upon the keys, halting their weaving of words for the script.
Soon after, Adam burst through the door with clamor-more fiercely than before-causing me to start and nearly topple from my chair. Still clad in that cumbersome winter raiment, which in truth vexed me, he spoke no word, spurning my greeting, and staggered with arms crossed over his swelling belly toward the terracotta monolith. His gloved fingers gripped it as bronze, raising it to chest height; he examined the long, talon-like digits carved therein, then turned slowly to me. His gait was sluggish as he uttered, in a deep, unfamiliar timbre:
"God."
"God," he repeated. "God, Montadru, God Montadru."
His voice deepened still. For a moment, revulsion crept over me at Adam's visage-cadaverous, slit-like eyes piercing mine-but soon I perceived the disgust stemmed not from him but the statue he held, clad in thick gloves, reminding me fleetingly of the effigy of Our Lady of Christerlundgresn... I mourned the terrible form it bore. Turning from the idol, I smiled faintly, which soon curdled into laughter. Rising, Adam retreated several paces; I heard the pattering snow against the window, the storm's roar mounting outside. Clutching his statue, he hastened to speak anew.
"This is the God." Adam proclaimed. "Why do you laugh?"
I averted my gaze, bowed my head, and as I moved toward the switch, he followed behind. I lit the lamp; his eyes traced the ceiling, beholding the cascade of light as if for the first time.
I bade him return to my desk; I sat, he stood. I bade him cast off his cumbersome vestments to ease our shared vexation-but he refused with halting words. I yielded, returning to my manuscript while Adam lingered beside me, steadfastly refusing rest. His stubbornness was well known; thus, I compelled him not further.
Unbidden, my fingers quaked fiercely above the keys; when I glanced up, he remained there, standing close as though shrinking my chamber to his dominion. I paused mid-strike, turning to him with restrained ire: "What is it?"
"Nothing. I thought you had ceased interest in Montadru. But I was wrong... you write for him."
I rose; he rose likewise as my hands fell from the keys. For a moment, silence reigned; perhaps the chill of the icy tiles beneath us caused his shivering.
I explained my reasons for writing-endeavoring patience, hoping to prolong his presence, yet craving his swift departure.
"No, Adam, no! I write for the pulpit, understand? The pulpit?" He nodded with a broken breath. I continued:
"The pulpit-a sacred place to deliver... messages. Messages like Montadru... Montadru..."
"Yes, Montadru..." he echoed briefly, then fell silent. "God, Dream, Terracotta, Montadru..." he added after a pause.
We held our silence; no word passed between us save the scraping snow upon the glass, the ticking clock, and the soft glow of the lamp's pillar-light.
"This... this is the hour of peace." Adam intoned solemnly, shattering the quiet. Lifting the embossed terracotta monolith before his chest, he staggered toward the door, pausing on the threshold. When I asked again, "What is it?" he answered not, but slowly retreated down the hall, closing the door softly until his presence was but a muted shadow.
I turned back to my script; though Adam had vanished, my fingers still trembled. I forced them to crawl across the keys once more-silent, thoughtful-pondering Montadru, Adam, and the dreadful things beyond.
When the pulpit beholds this travail, they may deem it but a retelling of an ancient, long-standing complication-one that ought have been entrusted to a newer enigma, especially this monstrous Montadru (though to me, loathsome), depicted as a being of ancient Sapiens habilis lineage, with slender chest yet bloated belly; a colossal blue koala-faced god, seated upon cold tiles, awaiting foolish men who squander the hour of peace... shaping dreams with hands skilled to forge and engineer the skies, heavens, and their own existence.
I recall it was near half-past nine in the eve; my manuscript nearly complete, fingers poised above the keys; word-count 7023. The clock struck-Tuk! Tuk! Tuk!-those tranquil moments around me. Yet hunger compelled me to forsake my task and seek sustenance.
I left my chamber, passed Adam's room-no sound issued forth, so I knew not his deeds within; yet I hoped he did not worship Montadru at the private altar he had fashioned. I had glimpsed it once: returning from St. Romulus church, I saw him stagger across the threshold, shouting, "I know something! A great secret!" He seized my arm and dragged me into his chamber, where a stage was draped with cloaks embroidered with relics, foreign scripts-Chinese or strange Greek, hieroglyphs, and more. He advanced toward his altar and explained, though now I believe he merely babbled.
Montadru had imparted prophecy through dreams-long and cryptic-which he alone understood; none reached my ears. On that day, I thought he had merely suffered a nightmare, coinciding with news of the messenger arriving at Tribeca, following Manhattan before Harlem. Not ill, I deemed.

That day marked the first time he fervently uttered Montadru's name, as if summoning a fiery blood-circle around his hair via counterfeit rubies sewn in his right ear; a supernatural phenomenon that to this day haunts the side of his head near the terracotta monolith statue, evoking shudders.

As afore said, I passed Adam's chamber, entered the dining hall, lit the bulb, opened the fridge, smiled at seven uneven slices of strawberry and blueberry jam bread, sticky honey smeared beneath their plates. I took them to the table, sat, extinguished the lamp, and ate in dim twilight, the snow's soft crackling barely audible outside. Though cold and cloyingly sweet, I consumed all.
Returning to my chamber, I noted Adam's eerie silence; no snoring, no restless footsteps. Then, as I prepared to resume writing, a bubbling hiss rose from Adam's room-then vanished, replaced by snow's whisper, clock's ticking, faint muffled laughter and stifled cries.
I called out, "Adam! Adam, are you well?"
But no answer.
Rising swiftly, I staggered to the door, leaning against it; I pounded frantically, heart seized by dread. My hand shook as I pushed the door. "Adam! Open this door! What are you doing inside?"
No reply; the door was barred. I broke it down once more, nearly falling but steadying myself. The altar blazed a sudden, blinding greenish light that seared my eyes. I stooped, struggling to stand, when a scream shattered the stillness-Adam's, though unseen-accompanied by a guttural gurgle as something ejected from his throat, landing on the tiles.
My eyes opened wide; green light blossomed from my brother's eyes! I screamed, "Adam, stop!"
Too late. His shattered remains were cast against the hallway wall as the door slammed shut. Adam was gone-vanished without a trace.
Pain surged in my spine; I staggered to the door, leaned in agony, then forced it open. The chamber lay intact: television aglow with weather forecasts; open books upon a cushioned chair; remnants of jammed bread upon the floor; bed untidy as ever. His altar still glowed with plaintive green light, encircling the raised monolith surrounded by clipped pale-green grass blades with blunt tips.
But Adam? Gone.
Vanished. I could scarce believe it.
I approached the grotesque statue warily, heart pounding; the altar's upper part resembled a strange garden, though its model was unknown to me.
My wrath surged-I seized the cruel idol, lifted it, screamed mad curses, intent to hurl it from the chamber. Yet a strange force seized me; one thought invaded my mind with raw nerve, beckoning me to press my brow to the upright monolith, flanked by two terrible, razor-sharp hands.
I trembled in terror. I resisted, struggling fiercely! But the otherworldly impulse would not relent.
My forehead struck the monolith, and all I deemed impossible became manifest. Pale shadows surrounded me, eyes small and skin thin, guiding me gladly to meet God Montadru.
There stood Adam, transfixed; a shimmering aureole of gold, bronze, and silver hovered before him. I approached the towering figure, who spoke only long, indecipherable murmurs.
I denied him, yet heavier presence descended, compelling me to stand erect.
From the temple's six columns-once unseen-I crawled backward, yet could scarcely move, bound by unseen will.
I shouted in rage, "I fear thee not!" though true terror gripped me.
When the fiery halo ignited above Adam's head, a stranger form appeared; filthy slime devoured him whole in a single gulp.
My narrow mind could not accept it-could not!
My head ached; the devourer turned, looked at me, screamed for rescue!
Here, I have gone too far; what remains of my consciousness is barely enough to recount this personal torment, lest it consume my soul and sanity utterly.
When I returned half-wakened, I found myself in a hospital chamber, attended by Father Melus of St. Romulus Church, Chief of Public Order Ismael Rich, Brigadier General Crosby, Deputy Inspector of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Tribeca Police, Colonel Camerovo, and others I barely knew.
Few sat; Father Melus beside me prayed, first to sense my waking, then summoned doctors and nurses.
Doctor MacElwee and Nurse Orianne hurried to my side: checking pulse, listening with stethoscope; I sat upright at their urging.
The doctor declared my condition improving and granted leave for outpatient care.
As they departed, General Crosby questioned me; Father Melus restrained him; Chief Ismael reassured the general I was found unconscious before the terracotta Montadru statue.
I could not comprehend.
Slowly, I related the tale: Adam, the manuscript, the dreadful realm that chilled me.
Chief Samuel then mentioned the naked, disfigured corpse found near the altar.
When I asked, "Was that Adam?" Colonel Camerovo replied:
"No! We believe your brother is alive. An agent spotted evidence of his movements near New York last night. We have contacted him, informed him of your state..."
"But he was with me-yesterday, in the snowstorm... with me!" I protested.
"Forgive us," said General Crosby, "But do you bear a criminal record, Mr. Peltier? We found evidence-"
"What?"
Father Melus gently touched my arm; the others looked on in sombre silence.
General Crosby added:
"There is a compelling thread linking this to the disappearance of Cecil Riverty, Count of Itania-based on the location of a birthmark on the right rib cage, and-"
He paused, glancing at Father Melus, who met his gaze silently.
When the priest averted his eyes and spoke:
"Mr. Peltier, rest now. Later, we may discuss this at the Church."
He coughed harshly and resumed.
"And do you know of the Count of Itania-?"
I lifted my gaze, attentive.
"Count of Itania," Father Melus repeated solemnly.
General Crosby, Colonel Camerovo, and the others awaited my reply.
"Do you know him? The Count disappeared nigh two months ago!"
Yet my heart rebelled at those words; if they knew, they would not dare ask such again. I smiled, calm, low-voiced, striving to veil the piercing pain in my chest as my soul whispered fiercely: "Not the Count of Itania... but Montadru. Montadru hears all."