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The Transition of Juan Romero
Lovecraft, Howard Phillips
Published:
1919
Categorie(s):
Fiction, Short Stories
Source:
http://en.wikisource.org
1
About Lovecraft:
Howard Phillips Lovecraft was an American author of fantasy, horror
and science fiction. He is notable for blending elements of science fiction
and horror; and for popularizing "cosmic horror": the notion that some
concepts, entities or experiences are barely comprehensible to human
minds, and those who delve into such risk their sanity. Lovecraft has be-
come a cult figure in the horror genre and is noted as creator of the
"Cthulhu Mythos," a series of loosely interconnected fictions featuring a
"pantheon" of nonhuman creatures, as well as the famed Necronomicon,
a grimoire of magical rites and forbidden lore. His works typically had a
tone of "cosmic pessimism," regarding mankind as insignificant and
powerless in the universe. Lovecraft's readership was limited during his
life, and his works, particularly early in his career, have been criticized as
occasionally ponderous, and for their uneven quality. Nevertheless,
Lovecraft’s reputation has grown tremendously over the decades, and he
is now commonly regarded as one of the most important horror writers
of the 20th Century, exerting an influence that is widespread, though of-
ten indirect. Source: Wikipedia
Also available on Feedbooks for Lovecraft:
•
(1926)
•
(1931)
•
(1928)
•
(1934)
•
(1931)
•
(1936)
•
(1930)
•
(1927)
•
(1938)
•
(1932)
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Of the events which took place at the Norton Mine on October eight-
eenth and nineteenth, 1894, I have no desire to speak. A sense of duty to
science is all that impels me to recall, in the last years of my life, scenes
and happenings fraught with a terror doubly acute because I cannot
wholly define it. But I believe that before I die I should tell what I know
of the - shall I say transition - of Juan Romero.
My name and origin need not be related to posterity; in fact, I fancy it
is better that they should not be, for when a man suddenly migrates to
the States or the Colonies, he leaves his past behind him. Besides, what I
once was is not in the least relevant to my narrative; save perhaps the
fact that during my service in India I was more at home amongst white-
bearded native teachers than amongst my brother-officers. I had delved
not a little into odd Eastern lore when overtaken by the calamities which
brought about my new life in America’s vast West - a life wherein I
found it well to accept a name - my present one - which is very common
and carries no meaning.
In the summer and autumn of 1894 I dwelt in the drear expanses of the
Cactus Mountains, employed as a common labourer at the celebrated
Norton Mine, whose discovery by an aged prospector some years before
had turned the surrounding region from a nearly unpeopled waste to a
seething cauldron of sordid life. A cavern of gold, lying deep beneath a
mountain lake, had enriched its venerable finder beyond his wildest
dreams, and now formed the seat of extensive tunneling operations on
the part of the corporation to which it had finally been sold. Additional
grottoes had been found, and the yield of yellow metal was exceedingly
great; so that a mighty and heterogeneous army of miners toiled day and
night in the numerous passages and rock hollows. The Superintendent, a
Mr. Arthur, often discussed the singularity of the local geological forma-
tions; speculating on the probable extent of the chain of caves, and estim-
ating the future of the titanic mining enterprises. He considered the auri-
ferous cavities the result of the action of water, and believed the last of
them would soon be opened.
It was not long after my arrival and employment that Juan Romero
came to the Norton Mine. One of the large herd of unkempt Mexicans at-
tracted thither from the neighbouring country, he at first attracted atten-
tion only because of his features; which though plainly of the Red Indian
type, were yet remarkable for their light colour and refined conforma-
tion, being vastly unlike those of the average "greaser" or Piute of the loc-
ality. It is curious that although he differed so widely from the mass of
Hispanicised and tribal Indians, Romero gave not the least impression of
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Caucasian blood. It was not the Castilian conquistador or the American
pioneer, but the ancient and noble Aztec, whom imagination called to
view when the silent peon would rise in the early morning and gaze in
fascination at the sun as it crept above the eastern hills, meanwhile
stretching out his arms to the orb as if in the performance of some rite
whose nature he did not himself comprehend. But save for his face,
Romero was not in any way suggestive of nobility. Ignorant and dirty,
he was at home amongst the other brown-skinned Mexicans; having
come (so I was afterward told) from the very lowest sort of surround-
ings. He had been found as a child in a crude mountain hut, the only sur-
vivor of an epidemic which had stalked lethally by. Near the hut, close to
a rather unusual rock fissure, had lain two skeletons, newly picked by
vultures, and presumably forming the sole remains of his parents. No
one recalled their identity, and they were soon forgotten by the many.
Indeed, the crumbling of the adobe hut and the closing of the rock-fis-
sure by a subsequent avalanche had helped to efface even the scene from
recollection. Reared by a Mexican cattle-thief who had given him his
name, Juan differed little from his fellows.
The attachment which Romero manifested toward me was un-
doubtedly commenced through the quaint and ancient Hindoo ring
which I wore when not engaged in active labour. Of its nature, and man-
ner of coming into my possession, I cannot speak. It was my last link
with a chapter of my life forever closed, and I valued it highly. Soon I ob-
served that the odd-looking Mexican was likewise interested; eyeing it
with an expression that banished all suspicion of mere covetousness. Its
hoary hieroglyphs seemed to stir some faint recollection in his untutored
but active mind, though he could not possibly have beheld their like be-
fore. Within a few weeks after his advent, Romero was like a faithful ser-
vant to me; this notwithstanding the fact that I was myself but an ordin-
ary miner. Our conversation was necessarily limited. He knew but a few
words of English, while I found my Oxonian Spanish was something
quite different from the patois of the peon of New Spain.
The event which I am about to relate was unheralded by long premon-
itions. Though the man Romero had interested me, and though my ring
had affected him peculiarly, I think that neither of us had any expecta-
tion of what was to follow when the great blast was set off. Geological
considerations had dictated an extension of the mine directly downward
from the deepest part of the subterranean area; and the belief of the Su-
perintendent that only solid rock would be encountered, had led to the
placing of a prodigious charge of dynamite. With this work Romero and
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I were not connected, wherefore our first knowledge of extraordinary
conditions came from others. The charge, heavier perhaps than had been
estimated, had seemed to shake the entire mountain. Windows in
shanties on the slope outside were shattered by the shock, whilst miners
throughout the nearer passages were knocked from their feet. Jewel
Lake, which lay above the scene of action, heaved as in a tempest. Upon
investigation it was seen that a new abyss yawned indefinitely below the
seat of the blast; an abyss so monstrous that no handy line might fathom
it, nor any lamp illuminate it. Baffled, the excavators sought a conference
with the Superintendent, who ordered great lengths of rope to be taken
to the pit, and spliced and lowered without cessation till a bottom might
be discovered.
Shortly afterward the pale-faced workmen apprised the Superintend-
ent of their failure. Firmly though respectfully, they signified their refus-
al to revisit the chasm or indeed to work further in the mine until it
might be sealed. Something beyond their experience was evidently con-
fronting them, for so far as they could ascertain, the void below was in-
finite. The Superintendent did not reproach them. Instead, he pondered
deeply, and made plans for the following day. The night shift did not go
on that evening.
At two in the morning a lone coyote on the mountain began to howl
dismally. From somewhere within the works a dog barked an answer;
either to the coyote - or to something else. A storm was gathering around
the peaks of the range, and weirdly shaped clouds scudded horribly
across the blurred patch of celestial light which marked a gibbous
moon’s attempts to shine through many layers of cirro-stratus vapours.
It was Romero’s voice, coming from the bunk above, that awakened me,
a voice excited and tense with some vague expectation I could not
understand:
"Madre de Dios! - el sonido - ese sonido - oiga Vd! - lo oye Vd? - señor,
THAT SOUND!"
I listened, wondering what sound he meant. The coyote, the dog, the
storm, all were audible; the last named now gaining ascendancy as the
wind shrieked more and more frantically. Flashes of lightning were vis-
ible through the bunk-house window. I questioned the nervous Mexican,
repeating the sounds I had heard:
"El coyote - el perro - el viento?"
But Romero did not reply. Then he commenced whispering as in awe:
"El ritmo, señor - el ritmo de la tierra - THAT THROB DOWN IN THE
GROUND!"
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