H.P. Lovecraft - The Transition Of Juan Romero

H.P. LOVECRAFT

THE TRANSITION OF JUAN ROMERO

Written September 16, 1919
First published in Marginalia, 1944

THE TRANSITION OF JUAN ROMERO

Of the events which took place at the Norton Mine on October eighteenth 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 laborer 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 formations;
speculating on the probable extent of the chain of caves, and estimating the
future of the titanic mining enterprises. He considered the auriferous 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 attracted thither from
the neighboring country, he at first attracted attention only because of his
features; which though plainly of the Red Indian type, were yet remarkable for
their light color and refined conformation, being vastly unlike those of the
average "greaser" or Piute of the locality. It is curious that although he
differed so widely from the mass of Hispanicized and tribal Indians, Romero
gave not the least impression of 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 surroundings. He had been found as a child in a
crude mountain hut, the only survivor 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-
fissure 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 undoubtedly commenced
through the quaint and ancient Hindoo ring which I wore when not engaged in
active labour. Of its nature, and manner 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 observed 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 before. Within a few weeks after his advent, Romero was like a faithful
servant to me; this notwithstanding the fact that I was myself but an ordinary
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 premonitions.
Though the man Romero had interested me, and though my ring had affected him
peculiarly, I think that neither of us had any expectation 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 Superintendent that only solid rock
would be encountered, had led to the placing of a prodigious charge of
dynamite. With this work Romero and 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 Superintendent of their
failure. Firmly though respectfully, they signified their refusal to revisit
the chasm or indeed to work further in the mine until it might be sealed.
Something beyond their experience was evidently confronting them, for so far as
they could ascertain, the void below was infinite. 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 vapors. 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 visible 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!"

And now I also heard; heard and shivered and without knowing why. Deep, deep,
below me was a sound—a rhythm, just as the peon had said— which, though
exceedingly faint, yet dominated even the dog, the coyote, and the increasing
tempest. To seek to describe it was useless—for it was such that no description
is possible. Perhaps it was like the pulsing of the engines far down in a great
liner, as sensed from the deck, yet it was not so mechanical; not so devoid of
the element of the life and consciousness. Of all its qualities, remoteness in
the earth most impressed me. To my mind rushed fragments of a passage in Joseph
Glanvill which Poe has quoted with tremendous effect [1]:

"... the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a
depth in them greater than the well of Democritus."

Suddenly Romero leaped from his bunk, pausing before me to gaze at the strange
ring on my hand, which glistened queerly in every flash of lightning, and then
staring intently in the direction of the mine shaft. I also rose, and both of
us stood motionless for a time, straining our ears as the uncanny rhythm seemed
more and more to take on a vital quality. Then without apparent volition we
began to move toward the door, whose rattling in the gale held a comforting
suggestion of earthly reality. The chanting in the depths— for such the sound
now seemed to be—grew in volume and distinctness; and we felt irresistibly
urged out into the storm and thence to the gaping blackness of the shaft.

We encountered no living creature, for the men of the night shift had been
released from duty, and were doubtless at the Dry Gulch settlement pouring
sinister rumors into the ear of some drowsy bartender. From the watchman's
cabin, however, gleamed a small square of yellow light like a guardian eye. I
dimly wondered how the rhythmic sound had affected the watchman; but Romero was
moving more swiftly now, and I followed without pausing.

As we descended the shaft, the sound beneath grew definitely composite. It
struck me as horribly like a sort of Oriental ceremony, with beating of drums
and chanting of many voices. I have, as you are aware, been much in India.
Romero and I moved without material hesitancy through drifts and down ladders;
ever toward the thing that allured us, yet ever with a pitifully helpless fear
and reluctance. At one time I fancied I had gone mad—this was when, on
wondering how our way was lighted in the absence of lamp or candle, I realized
that the ancient ring on my finger was glowing with eerie radiance, diffusing a
pallid luster through the damp, heavy air around.

It was without warning that Romero, after clambering down one of the many wide
ladders, broke into a run and left me alone. Some new and wild note in the
drumming and chanting, perceptible but slightly to me, had acted on him in a
startling fashion; and with a wild outcry he forged ahead unguided in the
cavern's gloom. I heard his repeated shrieks before me, as he stumbled
awkwardly along the level places and scrambled madly down the rickety ladders.
And frightened as I was, I yet retained enough of my perception to note that
his speech, when articulate, was not of any sort known to me. Harsh but
impressive polysyllables had replaced the customary mixture of bad Spanish and
worse English, and of these, only the oft repeated cry "Huitzilopotchli" seemed
in the least familiar. Later I definitely placed that word in the works of a
great historian [2]—and shuddered when the association came to me.

The climax of that awful night was composite but fairly brief, beginning just
as I reached the final cavern of the journey. Out of the darkness immediately
ahead burst a final shriek from the Mexican, which was joined by such a chorus
of uncouth sound as I could never hear again and survive. In that moment it
seemed as if all the hidden terrors and monstrosities of earth had become
articulate in an effort to overwhelm the human race. Simultaneously the light
from my ring was extinguished, and I saw a new light glimmering from lower
space but a few yards ahead of me. I had arrived at the abyss, which was now
redly aglow, and which had evidently swallowed up the unfortunate Romero.
Advancing, I peered over the edge of that chasm which no line could fathom, and
which was now a pandemonium of flickering flame and hideous uproar. At first I
beheld nothing but a seething blur of luminosity; but then shapes, all
infinitely distant, began to detach themselves from the confusion, and I saw
—was it Juan Romero?—but God! I dare not tell you what I saw!...Some power from
heaven, coming to my aid, obliterated both sights and sounds in such a crash as
may be heard when two universes collide in space. Chaos supervened, and I knew
the peace of oblivion.

I hardly know how to continue, since conditions so singular are involved; but
I will do my best, not even trying to differentiate betwixt the real and the
apparent. When I awakened, I was safe in my bunk and the red glow of dawn was
visible at the window. Some distance away the lifeless body of Juan Romero lay
upon a table, surrounded by a group of men, including the camp doctor. The men
were discussing the strange death of the Mexican as he lay asleep; a death
seemingly connected in some way with the terrible bolt of lightning which had
struck and shaken the mountain. No direct cause was evident, and an autopsy
failed to show any reason why Romero should not be living. Snatches of
conversation indicated beyond a doubt that neither Romero nor I had left the
bunk-house during the night; that neither of us had been awake during the
frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus range. That storm, said men
who had ventured down the mine shaft, had caused extensive caving-in, and had
completely closed the deep abyss which had created so much apprehension the day
before. When I asked the watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty
thunder-bolt; he mentioned a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind
—nothing more. Nor do I doubt his word.

Upon the resumption of work, Superintendent Arthur called upon some especially
dependable men to make a few investigations around the spot where the gulf had
appeared. Though hardly eager, they obeyed, and a deep boring was made. Results
were very curious. The roof of the void, as seen when it was open, was not by
any means thick; yet now the drills of the investigators met what appeared to
be a limitless extent of solid rock. Finding nothing else, not even gold, the
Superintendent abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally steals
over his countenance as he sits thinking at his desk.

One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after the
storm, I noticed the unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from my finger. I
had prized it greatly, yet nevertheless felt a sensation of relief at its
disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners appropriated it, he must have been
quite clever in disposing of his booty, for despite advertisements and a police
search, the ring was never seen again. Somehow I doubt if it was stolen by
mortal hands, for many strange things were taught me in India.

My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight,
and at most seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but
sometimes in the autumn, about two in the morning when the winds and animals
howl dismally, there comes from inconceivable depths below a damnable
suggestion of rhythmical throbbing...and I feel that the transition of Juan
Romero was a terrible one indeed.

THE END

* [1] Motto of A Descent into the Maelstrom
* [2] Prescott, Conquest of Mexico