THE PLAGUE JAR

by ALLEN MACKEY

Damn! barked Professor Henry Winwood after he had slammed his

office door. Idiots! Obscurantists! He ranted for several minutes, as
if to an unseen audience, stalking furiously around his desk, waving a
thick sheaf of papers with one hand, until there was a brisk knock at
the door.

Yes, what is it! the professor harshly called out.

The door opened hesitantly and a youthful face peered inside. Er,
Professor Winwood? I wanted to ask about... my paper... The
speaker paused as he read the professors features. If this is a bad
time

"No, no, come inside, Jamison.

Trent Jamison, a student in the professors afternoon seminar on

Middle Eastern cultures, had never seen the usually stolid instructor
so upset before. Jamison felt almost ashamed to disturb Winwood; he
felt that he had interrupted the man at a private moment. He then
decided that his business could wait.

Sorry about the disturbance, Dr. Winwood. Its really not that
important; Ill come back some other time, he said, embarrassed,
edging back the way he had come.

Nonsense, come in, Winwood urged, more his normal self. He then
realized the source of his students trepidation. Oh, Jamison, never
mind my anger of a moment ago, he began by way of apology,
though he was still fuming on the inside. Its just that those damn
fools at the university press have rejected my latest manuscript, a
work entitled The Plague Jar. Too controversial, they said. It
violates the established theological doctrines, they whimpered. The
university would never live it down, they muttered.

His initial purpose forgotten, Jamison entered the small office, firmly
closed the door behind him, and seated himself on one of the pair of
wooden chairs before the desk. He gave the office a cursory glance; he
had been inside on only three other occasions. The room was
unremarkable: tall gray metal filing cabinets stood against one wall, a
small set of book shelves along the wall opposite, with a paper-littered
desk in the middle of the floor space. Directly behind the professors
chair was a large window shaded with Venetian blinds.

The professor sat behind the desk and thumped the computer-
printed sheets on top of the paper landscape. He wearily closed his
eyes and inhaled deeply for a moment.

Are you okay, Dr. Winwood? asked Jamison, genuinely concerned.

Ive been better, replied Winwood, resting his elbows on the desk.
He had taken off his glasses and began rubbing his temples;
apparently he had a tension headache. What did you need,
Jamison?

Nothing, sir. Look, forget what I need. What do you need? I mean, is
there anything that I can do for you?

Professor Winwood glanced up with narrowed eyes, studying his

pupils face as if he were gazing into the depths of Jamisons soul.
Yes, you are a gifted student, Winwood slowly began while
massaging his weak chin, speaking more to himself than to Jamison.
Perhaps you would be able to understand...yes, he concluded with
gravity. With that Winwood resolutely pounded the desk with an
open palm. He then began sorting through the disheveled manuscript
before him. With the pages he was searching for in his hand, he
turned and looked his student squarely in the eyes.
"Jamison, you seem to be trustworthy. Youre bright, soft spoken,
prompt with assignmentsnot like the other grad students, he
added with mild irritation directed toward those he felt didnt take his
class seriously enough. Plus, he returned, you have an uncanny
knack at things Middle Easternyoure a natural antiquarian. What I
have to say will probably very much interest you.

Jamison was pleased with the professors evaluation of his character

but tried not to let it show. He said: Thank you for the kind words,
sir. I would be honored to hear what you have to say.

Winwood nodded his balding head, relieved. It was as if a great

weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a ponderous pressure that
he had felt for over a year. It was one thing to have your soul bared on
a computer file, to write about the secret of the ages, but it would be
much more effective to tell another person. Jamison might
understand, even if those imbecilic directors did not. Right now he
needed someone to understand.

You must know beforehand, Jamison, that what I will discuss is,
shall I say...explosive? You may not want to hear this if you are
Christian or religious in any way... He watched Jamison carefully.
The student merely shook his head, indicating that he was not easily
offended. Good, Winwood pronounced. Now, then, let me tell you
about my apparently never-to-be-published book, The Plague Jar...

Everything to do with The Plague Jar began, for me, in this very
office. Noting Jamisons confused look, he said, Dont worry,
everything will shortly be explained. With your enthusiastic penchant
for Semitic lore and antiquities, Im certain that you know of the story
that caused much excitement in archaeological circles a few years
back, the one about the expedition that uncovered the ruins of Irem,
the City of Pillars

Jamison gasped with disbelief; he had been waiting to learn more

about the curiously silent details of that expedition since he first
heard of the discovery. However, it seemed that the records and
findings of the expedition had been buriedbeneath red tape. Of
course I know about Irem, he heartily replied. In fact, thats one of
the things that cemented my interest in the Middle East!

Winwood nodded. Anyway, a few months after the initial reports of

the expedition leaked into the scholarly journals, I received a bulky
package in the mail from Professor Gordon Qualt, who teaches at
Bedford University in Massachusetts. Among other things, he sent no
less than six notebooks and first generation photographs that he got
from Saudi Arabiafrom one of the last survivors of that fated
expedition!

"Last surviving...fated? Jamison uttered, perplexed. But from what

little I read in the journals, the expedition was a total success! I mean,
Irem was long thought to be mythical, although it was mentioned in
the Koran and the Arabian Nights and many other old books; its
discovery

Yes, I know, Winwood interrupted. Listen, almost all legends are

based on fact. Havent you wondered why the site wasnt exploited by
the international media?

I always assumed that there were political factors involved, Jamison

honestly stated.

There were, evidently. But there was more to it than that. The
discovery of Irem should have been one of the most important
archaeological events in modern times. Instead it was hushed up. And
I have the answer to the obvious question. This manuscript, he
stated, holding the relevant portion in his hands for Jamisons
inspection, "outlines the details of the Irem expedition.

Jamison was duly impressed. But you said earlier that your book was
rejected by the university press directors. Surely a book about a
missing piece of history would be widely received and highly praised!

Be patient, Winwood urged with a smile, holding his hands up,

palms outward. Ill get to that.
Jamison sat in place, listening to Winwoods narrative without
comment, nodding his head occasionally. Winwood spoke for fully an
hour and a half, pausing now and then to redirect his train of thought.
His words utterly engrossed Jamison, who absorbed them with
something akin to religious awe.

It all began with Professor Ali Yaquud, director of Archaeology at the

University of Riyadh. Riyadh is the capital of Saudi Arabia, and the
university is the most modern in the country. The Archaeology
Department was renowned for its work in uncovering elder
antiquities. Yaquud himself was one of the leading researchers in the
Middle East. He was a well-versed manperhaps overly well versed,
for his drive for knowledge led eventually to his downfall. He had
studied under

Professor Yuni Abdalmajid of the University of Baghdad, and some

said he had perhaps learned too much from his Iraqi mentor.

Professor Abdalmajid was known as an eccentric; his colleagues

tolerated him only because of his large body of scholarly
accomplishments from earlier in his meteoric career. All brilliant, but
comfortably conventional in assumptions as well as results. It was
Abdalmajid who had scried the secrets of the pre-Sumerian Rawson
tablets from Ur and thereby filled in curious gaps in the early
Mesopotamian history. Ali Yaquud was a zealous student; like his
young peers, he was mesmerized by his teachers every word, until
one day in 1967 Abdalmajid did not appear for his classes. Two days
later he was still unaccountably absent. The police were eventually
called in. To everyones complete shock, investigators discovered that
in his study blood had been splashed on the walls, floor and ceiling.
He had been deciphering an unidentified manuscript at the time of
his disappearance. The blood samples matched the professors own,
but as no corpse could be found, no one could rule out the unlikely
possibility that Dr. Abdalmajid himself had scattered the blood,
presumably not his own, during the reconstruction of an ancient
ritual detailed in the mysterious text.
Yaquud spent years after the death of his mentor studying his chosen
field with fervor. He eventually obtained a position at the University
of Riyadh, where he would be reasonably close, geographically, to his
main goal. It was Yaquuds ambition to one day uncover the ruins of
Irem, the City of Pillars, and this he actually accomplished. Before
that, however, he confided to certain colleagues, including one
Hassan Zeez, that he had gleaned clues to various half-mythical sites
from the yellowed pages of the more dubious volumes stored in the
Cairo Museum. Yaquud claimed to have spent months on leave from
his academic duties searching the most desolate regions for lost relics
of the past. Some suggested that these delvings were far from
fruitless, but that Dr. Yaquud dared not displayor even disclose
what he found.

That Yaquud was not quite sane was widely whispered, but the man
was indisputably a genius. He was tolerated as Abdalmajid had been
by his colleagues; he was Saudi Arabias greatest savant, a reputation
won early in a precocious career and invulnerable to later suspicions.
Irem had been a fascination of his that quickly grew into a fanatical
obsession. He claimed to have owned photostats of rare, hitherto-
unknown passages from moldering scrolls and codices concerning the
many-columned city. Based on the findings of an earlier American
expedition which had employed infrared satellite photography to
trace ancient caravan routes, Yaquud knew the general vicinity where
Irem must be, if it still existed, but he did not wish to lead a team of
diggers there until he was fully prepared. Or so he told Hassan
Zeez, who was not certain of what he meant.

For the span of seven years, Yaquud voraciously studied everything

he could find that concerned Irem, including ancient maps of Arabia
and eldritch astrological/astronomical charts. He also consulted so-
called sages and wise men in Riyadh and other cities, asking for
information and guidance, all of which served to fuel his desire to find
the city. With great excitement Yaquud spoke of some coming event
of tremendous import. The pending expedition was highly
anticipated, for Yaquud had long since chosen his team of experts and
promising doctoral students.

Using certain vague connections with highly placed individuals in the

Saudi oil industry, he obtained permission to dig in the Rub al-Khali,
the little-explored and rarely crossed body of sand, one of the most
desolate regions in the world. The desert is generally restricted from
public exploration, though to little point, since few have any desire to
venture into the region. Plans for the official expedition were rapidly
finalized. A dozen team members were present, most of whom were
former students of Yaquuds, with one notable exception, Professor
Kashan, a contemporary of the esteemed professor who had on more
than one occasion expressed doubts concerning his rivals wilder
theories.

The team members had a fortnight to prepare; then, on the first of

May, they left Riyadh. They were equipped with three outdated trucks
of government issue, their gear piled haphazardly in the long beds.
The men were cramped but relatively comfortable. Their fist objective
was to reach Laila, roughly two hundred and fifty miles south of
Riyadh, where they would pick up more supplies. The expedition
proper began after this stop. Heavily laden with equipment, they left
early in the morning, before the worst of the heat. Within four days
they had entered the Empty Quarter. According to Yaquuds
calculations, Irem lay somewhere in the southwest portion of the
trackless waste. He had more specific coordinates, but these he
refused to divulge, even to Kashan.

The caravan slowly wormed its way into the burning land. The
monotony of the trek grew evermore apparent; during the day all that
could be seen was the endless ocean of sand, and during the night, a
black star-filled expanse overhead. Nothing seemed to change. For a
week the expedition crawled deeper into the uncharted void.

On the first day of the third week a sudden sandstorm ravaged the
party as soon as they had set camp. In the morning it was found that
one of the trucks had been partially buriedsand had seeped into its
motor, rendering it inoperable. Although the caravan was crippled,
Yaquud refused to return to Riyadh empty-handed. They salvaged
what they could and continued. For the next few weeks mysterious
things happened at night when the caravan stopped to make camp.
Several men complained of seeing fleeting shadows and other strange
hallucinations. Yaquud carefully listened to their words, plainly
worried. It almost seemed as if they were being followedbut by
whom, or what? Small objects were invariably found missing in the
mornings, like pots and pans, electric torches, and, in one instance, a
hand pistol. With each successive night the thefts became more
numerous.

It was on the second night of the fourth week that Dr. Kashan awoke
to see a shambling, emaciated figure kneeling over his knapsack,
rifling through its contents. Kashan let out a yelp of alarm and the
thing loped off into the sandy wilderness, lurching with a peculiar
gait. Kashan immediately informed Yaquud, who muttered something
about ghouls." Ignoring his nonplused colleagues stammered
protests, Yaquud produced a khaki-veiled glass container that he had
ordered from a glazier in Riyadh just for this purpose, it seemed. He
set out into the night carrying the curiously shaped container, almost
manshaped, like a hollow glass doll, and came back five hours later,
empty-handed and depleted of strength. I have paid the price; we
shall have safe passage from here on, he announced. True to his
word, the thefts stopped after that.

For another two weeks the caravan straggled onward, fatigued by this
time. A depression had settled over the party, numbing each member
to the rigors of the journey. The bleak surroundings seemed to drain
them of vitality; the desert waste is empty. It erases. It is rightly said
that no man may dwell for too long in the Empty Spaces and not be
changed.

Throughout the journey, Hassan Zeez silently wondered about the

real objective of Yaquud. Surely it was not merely archaeological, he
reasoned. Zeez rode in the back of the second truck, shaded from the
brutal sun by a canvas top. The only thing for him to do was to
constantly think.

On the third night of the sixth week, Zeez finally approached the
enigmatic team leader as he sat to one side of the camp fire. Yaquud
was wont to brood alone, as far away from the others as possible.
Zeez bluntly demanded to know the source of Yaquuds information
concerning the location of Irem. For a minute it seemed as if Yaquud
would not respond, then he muttered something about an ancient
manuscript owned by a private collector in Baghdad. When asked
what manuscript this might be, Yaquud again waited, then shrugged
his bony shoulders and said, "The Kitab Al-Azif, the author of which
spent much time in the many-columned city. Of the matter he would
speak no more. Confused more than before, Zeez made his way to the
tent that he shared with three others. Silently he shook his head at his
colleagues apparent gullibility at an imposture which had now
implicated the whole party in a fools errand.

The next day was when the momentous event occurred: The ruins of
Irem were discovered. In the false dawn the expedition broke camp
with a keen feeling of expectancy in the air. They had traversed little
more than two miles when Yaquud, who rode in the cab of the first
truck, sighted the ruins from afar. The sky by then blazed with
dazzling brilliance.

At first glance the City of Pillars seemed like a shimmering mirage

skeletal ruins half buried under the shifting sands. Immediately Zeez
was struck with a wave of emotion, a strange mixture of elation and
menace. An eerie quiet settled over the party, intensifying as they
drew closer.

At close range the brooding ruins proved to be faded red in color,

webbed with cracks from centuries of weathering. Crumbled piles of
titanic masonry, baked clay blocks weighing many tons each,
comprised the inner foundation of the eroded city. Encircling these
were massive broken walls and battlements. The empty gates were
flooded with sand.
Yaquud bleated with insane exhilaration; the rest of the party was still
gripped by the strange hush. The leader hopped out of the truck
before it had come to a full stop, fifty yards from the nearest tumbled
wall. He scurried away toward the city, notebook in hand. Without
hesitation he ran unerringly through the maze of debris to a colossal
mount of stone, a building that had not completely crumbled.

The rest of the men shortly followed, stunned by the dark atmosphere
of age that radiated from the fallen city. Sand choked the ancient
streets and huge, fantastic, half-hidden columns lay scattered about.
As the men wove their way through the debris, it seemed as if
something sinister lurked nearby, unseen.

Yaquud was within the vast central edificethe only structure still
standingscouring the walls, searching for minute inscriptions. Once
aware of other presences in the chamber, he feigned minimal interest.

The remainder of the day was spent on surveying the site, with two
teams dashing about recording their findings. According to certain
elder texts, Irem was a square of ten parsangsor leagueson each
side, i.e., thirty miles; the walls were of red Cyclopean bricks, 500
cubits high and 20 broadapproximately 11,000 feet tall, 440 wide;
with four gates of breathtakingly ornate grandeur. It was further said
that Irem contained 300,000 kasrpalaceseach with a thousand
pillars of gold-bound jasper. The old tales had been exaggerated with
each translation, of course; the palaces were considerably fewer in
number than supposed and showed no signs of precious metals. The
measurements for the walls, however, were fairly accurate.

Before long a rough map of the site was sketched out, although much
of the southern section was blanketed with sand. Much work had
been accomplished by the time night fell; despite the oppressive
silence of the ruins a celebration was held in honor of Yaquud and the
discovery. Zeez was torn; he was frightened by a nameless dread and
elatedwhat they had done was secure proof of a myth, the existence
of which would insure the teams fame and prosperity for the rest of
their days.
The night passed slowly, abnormally cold. Yaquud had erected his
tent next to the central structure while the others had made camp
beside the broken walls. Zeez stayed awake, conscious of the nearly
suffocating mental miasma of age that emanated from the city.

The morning came quickly. The aura of dread lingered on the dry air,
though not as strong as the previous day. Zeezs duties included
digging for relics and listing the visible remnants.

The first finds were prosaic enoughinitially. Nine immense broken

pillars were uncovered, ringed about the central edifice. They
appeared to be composed of stones not native to the region; indeed,
Professor Yarib, a geologist/mineralogist, could not identify the
stone. Further digging revealed grotesque baked clay images that had
squatted on the tops of the columns while they stood. Yarib and Sabi,
one of the diggers, brushed sand from the statuettes. As they did, the
other team members gathered around, fascinated.

The images represented non-human figures with bizarre symmetry

and configurations. Zeez, standing on the outside of the rough circle,
felt an immense surge of undiluted apprehension. The carven images
were evil. Of this Zeez did not doubt, though never before would such
an emotional reaction to an ancient artifact have even occurred to the
archaeologist. From the reactions of those around him, this
impression was not his alone. Yaquud, however, excitedly shoved his
way through the small crowd to examine the finds. Eyes wide and
gleaming, Yaquud gathered the fragments of the statuary and carried
them away to the research area he had marked out by the central
structure, where he remained for the rest of the work day.

Later more pillars and statuettes were found. Apparently Irem had
been home to a vast forest of stone monoliths, each with its own
hideous guardian. Ancient lore had made of Irem a center of
idolatrous pilgrimage foreshadowing Mecca. From all points of the
Arabian peninsula (and, some hinted, farther), the faithful and the
superstitious would converge on the many-columned metropolis
seeking out any and every debased idol and blood-stained effigy
known to Semitic demonologyand no doubt many that were not.
Had not the Prophet warned Mecca that it, too, stood to reap the fate
of Irem, destroyed for its blasphemies by the vengeful hand of Allah?

When informed of the new discoveries, Yaquud hastily ordered each

to be sent to his quarters. Yaquud was trembling with obvious
anticipation, affecting the team members. He was absent from the
evening meal. He was absorbed in cataloguing his finds when
Professor Kashan consulted him about the morrows activities.
Kashan came away from Yaquuds tent ashen-faced. When asked the
source of his trouble, Kashan fearfully whispered, Yaquud merely
stared at the statuary and said It is even as the mad Arab wrote.
Kashan retired early, leaving the others bewildered.

Zeez remembered what Yaquud had told him in private about his
information and wondered if this "mad Arab was the one who wrote
the Kitab Al-Azif. The nameor title, ratherstruck a chord in the
murky depths of his memory, but the information stubbornly refused
to be recalled. With all the legends and folklore that Zeez had
studied, it was easy to forget names.

A quick glance in Yaquuds general direction showed that he was still

awake; his silhouette as he sat at his small table could faintly be seen
against the canvas wall of his tent. He seemed to be studying the
pieces of statuary.

Zeez wearily responded to the wake-up call. It seemed as if

somethingperhaps the bleakness of the regionhad been draining
him of vigor. Zeez groggily assisted with the excavation of more
monoliths and fallen buildings, carefully photographing each one for
documentation.

Yaquud and Achmed, his assistant, were working in the colossal

central edifice, leaving no stone unturned in their search for useful
specimens. Toward midday an amplified howl of triumph tore from
the interior of the structure, bringing the scattered men running to
investigate. Inside, Yaquud was lying on his side, his face pressed
against the rubble-strewn ground.

See? There! he exclaimed, pointing to a long, thin crack in the stone

floor. I did not notice it beforea concealed trapdoor!

Working with renewed fervor, Yaquud and three others cleared the
area, brushing sand away with their hands. An irregular flat stone
soon lay uncovered.

What can it lead to? A tomb? Achmed asked.

No, I think not, Yaquud absently murmured. After a moments

pause in which he seemed to eye his companions suspiciously as if
regretting he were not alone at the moment of revelation, Yaquud
called for a spade. With the tool firmly in hand, he wedged its blade
into the crack. Achmed joined him with a spade of his own. With
assistance from the others, they succeeded in prying the lid from the
ground, releasing a rush of stale air. After giving the edifice several
minutes to air out, they returned to the edge of the aperture. With the
dim light cast from an electric torch they saw crude steps leading
downward.

The find caused a great deal of excitement among the workers, but
Zeez, watching Yaquuds countenance flash with ulterior triumph,
felt chills travel up his spine.

Yaquud stood and announced that he would descend the stairs,

followed by any volunteers. Despite the general excitement, no one
offered to accompany him. At this he appeared not disappointed but,
rather, relieved. Yaquud found a heavy coil of rope and tied one end
around his waist, securing the other end under a large chunk of
masonry. He selected a fresh flashlight and entered the opening,
stepping cautiously to determine if each eon-untrodden step would
bear his weight. A moment later he disappeared. Only the uncoiling
rope indicated that he was still moving.

Twenty minutes slowly passed. During the last five of these, the rope
ceased to feed out. Worried, Achmed called out to Yaquud, who
answered a minute later, his voice distant. I am fine, his voice
trailed up. The stairway is fifty yards deep. I am presently before a
large bronze?door adorned with curious inscriptions. I am
transcribing these into my notebook.

The group erupted with fanciful discussion. Young Achmed said, It is

a tomb!

Kashan differed. No, in the Arabian Nights this city was likened to
Paradiseit is a treasure room!

The speculation continued until Yaquud climbed out of the tunnel,

covered with dust. Here it is, he wheezed, producing his worn
notebook. Several sheets were decorated with elaborate sketchings of
bizarre characters. The origin of the writing was unknown, yet
strangely familiar to Zeez. The hooked glyphs were arranged in
narrow rows and bore a slight resemblance to Sanskrit, but this was
only an analogy; he could think of no language, ancient or modern, to
which such gibberish might be akin.

After taking a long draught from his canteen, which he had

thoughtlessly left behind, Yaquud said: I have just the book to
translate the writing. He retrieved his notebook and rushed to his
tent, where he shuffled through a box. He at length pulled out a
battered copy of Professor Gordon Walmsleys Notes on Deciphering
Codes, Cryptograms, and Ancient Inscriptions.

I must have silence, Yaquud instructed the jubilant men who had
followed him into his quarters. The various discussions trailed off. A
few of the men left. The rest watched as Yaquud flipped through the
smudged pages of the book until he had found a chart. Then the long
process of translation began.

An hour later all the men had drifted away, as if feeling themselves
intruders upon an intimate moment, waiting patiently outside in the
shade. All thoughts of work were far from their minds. Only Achmed
stayed by Yaquuds side. That evening, after dinner, a haggard-
looking Yaquud made his way to the workers, holding the notebook
once again. It was plain that he had succeeded in his task; his gloating
features said as much.

After reading over the translation and making a few minor

corrections, I came out with this message:

Beyond the beyond is chaos. The gate/door lies not here but in the
great tower which is elsewhere but near. Here is the jar. The jar
brings plague, famine and death. The jar is plague, famine and death.
The jar is the scourge of doom, the breath of chaos, molded by the
very hand that smites. Carried by those who fled from the (north?) it
was and here it rests, waiting until the time is right to open.

Intrigued by the message, Zeez listened silently as the others

discussed its possible meaning. No conclusion could be reached. It
was readily decided that four men would accompany Yaquud to open
the bronze door in the morning. Zeez experienced that tingling
sensation in his spine again; he was of the opinion that the matter
should be forgottenhe sensed danger ahead.

Icy fingers of dread caressed Zeez throughout the bitter evening. He

shivered under his bedding for an indeterminate amount of time,
worried about the turn of events. Irem was eerie enough with its
toppled monoliths and ugly statuary without this new development.
The translation, with its references to chaos, the tower and the jar,
was disturbing. A black depression settled over him, clouding his
thoughts. He was aware of strange forces gathering in the City of
Pillars...

He gradually swam into awareness under the steadily increasing glare

of the sun. Looking around, he saw that he was outside the tent...
outside the city, in fact. He espied the ruins, shimmering in the dawn
light, not too distant. Apparently he had been walking in his sleep.
This revelation in itself was not as alarming as the thoughts that
crowded his head. He had dreamed of a massive black tower
protruding from the sands, jutting skyward like a skeletal finger for
over a mile. This tower was older even than Irem, undecorated except
for a huge symbol embossed on one side: an immense spiral design
with jagged lines, like lightning, extending outward from the hazy
center.

Zeez hastily made his way back to the encampment. He assumed that
the nightmare and somnambulism had been initiated by Yaquuds
reading of the inscription and its mention of a tower. However, once
with his companions, he heard talk of shared dreamswhile only he
had seen the black tower, six others had dreamed of the unsettling
symbol; all the men had felt a formless dread. For reasons that he
could not explain, Zeez kept the details of his own nocturnal vision to
himself.

Yaquud and his hand-picked team prepared for their descent into the
subterranean passage. Armed with picks and shovels, the men
somewhat reluctantly trailed Yaquud, who was plainly eager to
embark on the mission. To his relief, Zeez was not chosen to go
under.

Rashim, one of the men behind Yaquud, later described the descent.
The way was slow, the gloominess of the narrow, high-ceilinged
tunnel stifling. Centuries of dust layered the bulky, roughly hewn
steps. Their passage caused motes to linger in the musky air, bringing
coughing bouts. Rashim was consumed with the thought that
hundreds of tons of earth were above his head; he was convinced that
the passage would collapse at any instant.

At length they stood before the gigantic bronze door. It was fifteen
feet in height, ten wide, adorned with a series of crude bas reliefs and
the same inscriptions that Yaquud had copied the day before. The
intrepid explorers footprints from the previous day were deeply
etched in the dust.

One of the men began to take photographs of the spacious alcove,

while the others minutely examined the door for a means of ingress,
but to their dismay, no hinges of any kind were visible. There were
also no hidden levers of similar devices. Yaquud impatiently ordered
the door pried open with the shovels.

For ten grueling minutes the men toiled, shovels wedged in the
hairline cracks that bordered the barrier, with no discernible results.
With a final burst of strength, Rashim heaved all his weight onto his
tool, breaking its long wooden handle. A grating rumble began,
reverberating against the earthen walls. Suddenly Rashim
understood: Grinding against the walls, the door began to topple
outward. Three of the men had time to react; one, Balili, did not. The
mammoth door landed with a ground-shaking clang!, slapping
choking clouds of dust into the air.

Balili was crushed in an instant. The others barely had time to cross
the alcove to the passage; still, they were assailed with severe
coughing fits and, in one case, vomiting.

The third survivor fled to the surface when he was able. Yaquud and
Rashim waitedthe latter against his will, for Yaquud had tightly
gripped him by the armin the passage. When the dust settled they
gingerly ventured back inside the alcove. There was no chance of
lifting the heavy, foot-thick door to retrieve Balilis remains, Yaquud
decided. He then stepped over the edge of the door and entered the
dark chamber beyond. Rashim wanted desperately to return above
ground, but Yaquud called out to him, bidding him to follow. Rashim
hesitantly did as he was told.

The chamber was vast and empty. Or almost empty. No treasure

carpeted the floor, no bodies resided in sarcophagi. The only object
present was shockingly prosaic: a rather large, gray jar, which stood
in the center of the room. Yaquud was already kneeling before it,
running his hands over its surface. It is smooth, he observed,
plainly expecting otherwise. He released a hiss of tension when his
hands found something. There it is, he breathed. Wiping dust from
the area, he indicated the same spiral symbol that Zeez had seen in
his dream.

The rest occurred in quick succession: Yaquud, his voice more fervid
than ever, bleated commands to Rashim. They carried the ancient
five-foot-tall earthen jar out of the chamber and, with considerable
difficulty, up the stairs. Several diggers dutifully assisted,
summoned by the sounds of exertion. Once above the ground they
carefully cleaned the artifacts surface. The discovery did not impress
the men; they were upset about Balilis death.

This is it! Yaquud ranted to himself. The jar of plagues, older than
mankind; indeed, older than time! His eyes were feral, his voice
strained. He dragged the jar into his tent for closer examination.

Rashim, that night at the camp fire, related the events of the day, how
he and Yaquud had found what the leader called the Plague Jar. He
trembled when he said that the clay was cold and damp to the touch,
though the subterranean chamber had been utterly dry. Furthermore,
the jar did not seem to have contents; at least, Rashim felt no shifting
weight. Perhaps the jar had once contained spices or diseased
clothing that had long since deteriorated to dust.

All throughout his tale, Rashim absently scratched his hands. When
this was brought to his attention, he mumbled something about them
itching like a mangy dog. He went on to explain that his flesh had
been numbed by the disconcertingly smooth clay of the jar. Most
ancient relics were rough and grainy; the jar was neither.

As for the jar itself, it stood five feet off the ground, and was two feet
wide at its base and top with a tapered neck. Its middle section bulged
outward. Its mouth was sealed with a dark gray plug and a
translucent layer of wax. Under the wax a star-shaped design could
faintly be seen. Unnoticed before was a series of minuscule
ideoglyphs, below the embossed spiral symbol on the jars surface.
Yaquud was engaged in deciphering the glyphs.

Young Achmed related how Yaquud had spurned his assistance with
the new translation. He did, however, inquire if Yaquud recognized
any of the writing. Yaquud stared at the symbols for a minute and
replied: Yes, I can identify the glyphs that represent jar and plague
often. That is of course chaos, he pointed to the spiral design, while
these seem to be measurements for constructing a new form of
metal, he concluded, indicating the lower dot-group lines.

When Yaquud made his way to the main camp to eat he was asked
about his progress. Shaking his head, he refused to reply. His sullen
mood affected the men; one by one they went to their tents. Zeez saw
the opportunity to question his eccentric colleague.

Yaquud was exhausted. He, too, scratched incessantly at his skin,

Zeez noticed. He promptly took advantage of Yaquuds discomfort,
plying him with inquiries. First he askeddemandedto know who
the mad Arab was and what his book had to do with the expedition.
Abdullah Al-Hazred, it seemed, had lived during the time of the
Ummayad Caliphs, circa 700 A.D. He was a poet, a collector and
chronicler of forbidden lore. His only surviving work, the Kitab Al
Azif now known as the Necronomicon, had been translated into
various other languages. This book contained an account of Al-
Hazreds sojourn in Irem. Using elder astrological maps to
correspond with certain clues left by Al-Hazred, Yaquud was able to
plot a course to the City of Pillars. Astrology is an exact science, one
that requires precision and patience to utilize.

Yaquud continued, seemingly relieved to talk at last about his dark

knowledge. Zeezs flesh crawled as the expedition head spoke. He had
heard of the Necronomicon. There is an incomplete copy in the Cairo
Museum, he had heard. It is a forbidden book, fearfully whispered of
by learned men and peasants alike. As for the exact reason the book
was considered blasphemous, Zeez did not knownor did he want to.

He did ask what this mad Al-Hazred had done while there at the City
of Pillars. Yaquud eyed him shrewdly and replied: "The mad Arab
made the Red Sacrifice here, to open a gate." The way he said the
word gate sent chills up Zeezs spine.

How does the jar fit into the scheme of things? Zeez asked.

That puzzles meit does not fit in, as you say. Al-Hazred never
mentioned it. But it makes sense..., he mused. Something else only
now starts to make sense. As you know, the library of the Jebel Druze
Institute in Syria contains what purports to be the only pre-Uthmanic
manuscript copy of the Koran to survive the Caliph Uthmans
standardization of the canonical text. Having commissioned his
scholars to produce an official recension, he had all the earlier,
variant versions burnedbut this one escaped the conflagration,
carried to safety by heretical savants who cherished certain of its
unorthodox readings, Surahs dismissed as Satanic verses' by the
conventional authorities. Among these is a passage in which the
Prophet speaks of the doom of Irem in terms something like this, as I
remember: Recall what doom thy Lord did visit upon Irem, the
many-columned, how he did smite them with the devils of the jar and
did feed them with the bitter clusters of Zakkum. Most of those who
know of the passage at all make it a corruption of the text, a copying
blunderbecause it makes no sense to them. One or two connect it
with tales of genies in lamps and bottles.

Zeez had followed all this attentively. Most of it was indeed familiar
to him, as Yaquud had anticipated. Yes, I believe the passage is
paralleled in a unique hadith peculiar to the Zaidi sect in Yemen. But
even that tradition sheds no further light on the matter.

True enough, Yaquud agreed, one of the few times the two scholars
had agreed on anything for many years. But I should say this,
indicating the newly unearthed artifact, does shed some light on the
matter. With that he fell silent again, lost to a new train of thought.
The interview was at an end; Yaquud stood up and meandered back
to his quarters, leaving Zeez with more questions than before.

The night was unaccountably cold. Zeez considered the low

temperature to be an ill portent of things to come. He exhausted
himself by worrying and shortly fell asleep. He woke at noon. Five
party members were sick; Rashims skin was by now inflamed,
covered with tiny pustules. The days digging had been canceled due
to the outbreak of sickness.
The sky darkened prematurely that afternoon; a sandstorm was
approaching. The men were secluded in the slight shelter of their
tents for the remainder of the day, eating only tinned foods. The night
was again cold with what Yaquud had once called the spectral wind.
By morning the sandstorm had stopped but the sky remained
overcast.

Unrested, Zeez ventured outside the tent to find the majority of the
ruins buried, with new dune formations looming on the horizon. The
canvas tents were torn in many places; one was little more than
tatters flapping in the warming breeze. Only one truck was visible
the other had been lost beneath the sands.

The brooding atmosphere and bleak weather proved too much for
several team members minds. One had fled into the desert, never to
be seen again, while another had slit his wrists. Rashims skin was
sticky with yellowish discharge from the pustules. He had loosely
wrapped himself in a blanket. A loud report was heard: He had placed
the barrel of his rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The two
men who shared Rashims tent were mentally unhinged by the event.
In a matter of perhaps five minutes they had managed to kill each
other.

The survivors, with the exception of Yaquud, gathered to discuss the

immediate agenda. They agreed that they should depart from the
doomed city with hastewith or without Yaquud and his damned jar.

Dr. Kashan led this new faction. He resolutely marched to Yaquuds

tent, pulled the flap asideand let out a bark of disgust!

Once at Kashans side, Zeez and the others saw Yaquud sprawled half
across his small table. His skin was worse than Rashims: bubbly with
pestilence, obscenely decorated with seeping sores. His left hand
feebly clutched the plug of the jarhe had opened the Plague Jar!

They entered. The sickly stench of the tents interior was almost
overwhelming. Kashan lifted Yaquuds oozing face from the table; the
fluids had congealedit pulled clear with a loathsome sucking sound.
His face was gaunt, lined with deep-set grooves, as if he had aged
twenty years in as many hours. His mouth gaped idiotically, revealing
empty tooth sockets with bleeding gums. Only the rapid heaving of
his bony chest proved that he was still alive.

"Yaquud! Yaquud, what happened here? Kashan shouted. Frantic, he

shook Yaquud by the skeletal shoulders, causing his head to loll
jerkily from side to side, until his eyes popped open. They were glazed
with milky cataracts.

Aghast, Kashan sharply withdrew his hands and stepped back with
one fluid movement. Yaquud, standing of his own accord, positioned
his head as if listening. A distant low-pitched rumbling could barely
be heard. A smile tugged at the corners of his cracked lips. The next
instant a high cackle rose from his wiry frame, piercing the interior of
the quarters, finally ebbing away to a faint echo. Kashan, is that you?
I cannot see clearly...

Yes, we are here, Kashan hoarsely whispered. What did you do to

the jar...?

Opened it! Called for the Demon-Sultan

Youre mad! I shall destroy the jar! Kashan shouted.

Away! Away, fools! Back from the jar! It is mine, he bleated, rudely
shoving the men aside. I had hoped to open a gateand it appears
that I have! But not as I ever dreamed! No, not as I thought...

The rumbling brewed outside, increasing with each passing second.

Fool that I was! he now screamed at himself, bloody spittle flying
from his frothing mouth. Fool! The Blind Idiot God is bereft of mind,
it cannot be bargained with

He continued to rage, while the distant rumbling grew in crescendo,

cloaking his ravings. He groped the air in front of him, grasped the jar
and hauled it against his chest with maniacal strength, still
screaming. Back bent, he stumbled out of the tent and into the empty
waste, clumsily but doggedly dragging the jar behind him.
Outside the darkened sky had become gauzy. High in the sky a
churning vortex had formed, half-luminous in its slowly rotating
center, with stabbing lightning bolts that lanced forth. The shape was
convoluted, rolling erratically, horrifying in its sheer immensity. The
swirling cloud of negativity crackled with dark undercurrents, drifting
lazily across the skydirectly above the fleeing Yaquud!

An electric tension tingled Zeezs flesh. He watched alternately

fascinated and terrified by the blooming spectacle. The others had
fled, for the exodus had begun.

Kashan emerged from Yaquuds tent with the latters papers,

notebooks and a handful of undeveloped 35mm film. Documents,
he wheezed, racing toward his tent for his own belongings.

Meanwhile, Yaquud zigzagged wildly across the debris-strewn sands.

The nebulous sky-shape followed, multiplying in girth, suspended in
the supercharged atmosphere like a malignant thunderhead. As its
mass increased it seemed to lower itself to the earth.

Zeezs terror-blasted mind tried to grasp the tableau. What had

Yaquud done during the night? What had he unleashed?

The gyrating sky-shape had assumed a semisolid state, with

multitudinous tentacles whipping about, while in the center blazed a
luminous circle, almost like a vast staring eye. Thin, elongated feelers,
pale gray and glistening, reached down to clutch their prey. It looked
for all the world as if the Andromeda Galaxy had taken on the flesh of
a single creature.

A glimpse was all Zeez witnessed, for he turned away to flee, running
for his life. Kashan and three others were already in the truck.
Together they sped from the scene of madness. Behind them came a
tremendous earth-shaking explosion and a brilliant burst of light,
then the worst hail of sand yet experienced by the men. The sudden
blast nearly overturned the truck. There was a casualty: One of the
men, Jafara, was permanently blinded when he turned to gaze at the
source of the inferno.
Zeez remembered nothing of the journey to the outskirts of the
Empty Waste, where four men of the returning partyone had died
en routewere found by a nomadic tribe. The battered truck had
been lodged in a sand dune, devoid of fuel. Zeez regained
consciousness to find himself in a hospital ward, isolated from other
patients. Only the burn scars on his body, from that last encounter,
attested to the fact that he had ever been in Irem.

Zeez did not recover from his severe malnutrition and heat stroke; in
fact, his condition worsened. He requested writing materialhe
wanted to transcribe the account of the expedition before the details
faded from memory. In four weeks he had filled two notebooks.
During that span of time, he received a bulky package from Dr.
Kashan, who had died a few days before, in another ward of the
hospital.

Jamison blinked his tired eyes. His head hurt from feverish
concentration. Dr. Winwood had concluded the narrative. He glanced
at the wall clock; the time was half past seven. A sheen of sweat
coated his skinthe account had disturbed him more than he cared to
admit.

"My God! he croaked, his throat dry. The story of that expedition
was entrancing! Rather fanciful, though, isnt it? I mean, it cant be
true... can it?

Winwoods countenance bore a serious expression. It can and it is,

he replied, almost regretfully. The veracity of the story has been
proved beyond a reasonable doubt, as far as Im concerned.

But Dr. Winwood, Jamison protested, the narrative ended

abruptly, unresolved. What happened to Hassan Zeez?

His fate is more fully described in my book, but to summarize, he

died, but not before he had a friend smuggle the notebooks and
Kashans package out of the country

You mean, Jamison interjected, "that the package Professor Qualt

sent you was the same one that Zeez mailed?

Yes. Old Qualt was this countrys leading scholar on pre-Islamic

antiquities back in the seventies. He had a bad experience with
ancient Persian magic onceanyway, he wanted nothing to do with
the Plague Jar, so he forwarded the package to me.

By the way, Kashans contribution was nothing less than Professor

Ali Yaquuds personal notebooks and undeveloped film, which
Kashan had taken from Yaquuds tent before the flight from Irem.

Jamison gasped. You mean?

Photographic proof! Winwood exulted. But, he continued, more

soberly, only five pictures came out. The rest were blurry or
altogether blank, due to exposure toI dont know what. Well, only
five photos survived. Winwood maneuvered his rolling chair to the
second filing cabinet and pulled a drawer open. He withdrew a thick
folder and selected a group of eight-by-ten inch black and white
glossies and handed them to his student. Here they are. You are the
first person to see these, other than myself.

Jamisons head swam as he accepted the pictures. He was indeed

privileged! The top photo showed the City of Pillars from afar, just as
Zeez described; the second depicted a close-up shot of a pillar lying
on its side, capped with a grotesquely squatting eidolon; the third was
of a man of medium build, standing before a defaced wall with
notebook and pencil in hand; the fourth was of the colossal central
edifice, constructed in a manner unsuggestive of earlier
Mesopotamian cultures. Where was the fifth photo?

Jamison handed the evidence of Irems existence back to Winwood.

Noting the puzzled expression of his student, Winwood anticipated
the next question.

Yes, there is a fifth photo, of the jar itself, but it is too disturbing. I
never take it out of the file.

After I got the package I sent letters to Saudi Arabia in an attempt to

locate Hassan Zeez. Finally, after two months had passed, I received
an anonymous letter from that unstable country, informing me that
my inquiries of Zeezs whereabouts were not welcomed by the
authorities, who did not want further details of the Irem expedition
leaked to the media. The writer, however, implied that he was a friend
of Zeezs, possibly the very same that smuggled the package through
customs, and offered the final piece of information concerning him.
Zeez had died of the same wasting disease as had his teammates. The
official cause of death was attributed to AIDS.

AIDS! Jamison exclaimed.

A flimsy excuse if Ive ever heard one. My Saudi research appeared to

end in a cul-de-sac before it had truly started. Instead, I concentrated
on the subject of Irem and jarsand was amazed by the sheer volume
of information I obtained, though admittedly, much of it was useless.

For instance, Jamison, did you know that there was another city, in
northern Saudi, the Hejaz, that was found back in the 1930s and was
thought to be Irem? Without giving Jamison time to respond,
Winwood continued, Yes, a Nabataean site, RM, twenty-five miles
east of al-Aqubah, was thought to be the ever-elusive city but was
since provedby Yaquuds mentor, Abdalmajidnot to be. And
anyway, most old records state that Item is in the southern sector.

"Then, with Professor Qualts gracious assistance, I investigated the

antique lore of jars. Most references we found, though interesting,
were worthless to my purpose. Frazers Golden Bough was
particularly disappointing.

In the end, however, I found that, with the foreign notebooks, I had
enough material for my book and immediately set forth with it,
placing things in their proper order. Just two weeks ago I completed
it and submitted it to the university press directorswho had, mind
you, published three of my books previously. Winwoods face grew
red with returning anger.

What was so objectionable about it? Jamison innocently asked. He

had heard nothing overly offensive in the account, however bizarre
some might deem it.

"In Yaquuds notebooks there are repeated mentions of certain taboo

books. With a great deal of trouble I received photostats of the
relevant portions of the Al-Azif. The librarian at Harvards Widener
Library had to call the FBI to inform them that I had merely inquired
about the book! Just standard procedure, she assured me. Still, it
made me feel like a criminal! I was eventually given clearance for the
pages I needed.

Anyway, I conducted a voluminous amount of research into

unbelievably eldritch myth-cycles that supposedly predate man
Jamison twitched as a shudder abruptly rippled through his body
and discovered the true nature of the so-called Demon-Sultan, the
Blind Idiot God that is said to exist at the center of infinity: Azathoth,
the nuclear chaos!"

The words instantly chilled Jamison. He harbored no doubts

concerning the professors mental state; Dr. Winwood seemed stable
enough. Instead, he asked a question that had been on the tip of his
tongue for the past few minutes, an idea that Dr. Winwood had
apparently not taken into consideration: Couldnt you submit The
Plague Jar to another publisher?

The professor began, Its not that simple, my young friend. You dont
yet grasp the politics of academic publishing... But by this time,
Jamisons mind was already off on a tempting tangent.

Trent Jamison couldnt sleep that night. He meditated over Dr.

Winwoods story and conversation. It was consuming him! He had to
know more about the Plague Jar and this Source Winwood had
mentioned. Before long he had a definite plan. He waited till Friday,
when the university would be unattended during the night...

Breaking into Winwoods office was easy. The professor himself

wasnt abouthadnt been for the last couple of days. Campus
security was laughableJamison knew that the officer in charge of
night patrol spent much of his time in the womens dormitory,
partying with girls young enough to be his daughters.

Making sure that the blinds were completely drawn, and after placing
his jacket on the floor under the door (which had no window), he
turned on the overhead light. Rifling through the second metal
cabinet, Jamison quickly found what he was looking for: the folder
and notebooks.

He intended to peruse the collection in the office, so as not to be

bothered with returning it later. He first flipped through Yaquuds
enigmatic notebooks; Winwood had laboriously translated the Arabic
into readable English in the margins of each sheet.

In one notebook was a sketch of what was presumably the Plague Jar.
It was unremarkable enough; just an old ceramic jar, Jamison
thought. Beside it read: "Must check Al-Hazred on jar. Dont recall
one. In all the annals of pre-history, only one race on this world
actively worshipped Azathoththe reptilian Gnophkehs. It must have
been them that crafted the jar. It is a link to Ultimate Chaosthe
Source!

An intricately detailed sketch of a hazy spiral with radiating lightning

bolts was next. It was labeled Sign of Azathoth.

The next few pages were occupied with Yaquuds renderings of the
Plague Jars inscriptions. The dot-groups resembled nothing that
Jamison had seen before. On the last page of the enlarged dot-groups,
Yaquud had written: See Ludvig Prinn on Azathoth. Must compare
Fission formulas. Winwoods own observations were scribbled in the
margin: Markings similar to dot-group formations from the Gharne
Fragments and Pnakotic Manuscripts. See Walmsleys book.

Yaquuds second notebook contained similar citations and related

material. Most were hastily written technical information: very
complicated, from the look of Winwoods translations, now typed and
placed by the originals. The following paragraphs caught Jamisons
eye.
Yog-Sothoth and Azathoth twin Old Ones in angled space. In
quotations "Yog-Sothoth IS the Gate by where the spheres meet.
Literally, when a place-gate is made, two spheres, two planets
(spheres are planets) meet. The place-gate is a bridge or short-cut.

Yog-Sothoth is the Gate in the matter time references. Azathoth is the

Gate in anti-matter time references.

Azathoth WAS the Big Bangthe nuclear chaosbut he (?) existed

before, in a bivalvular shape, according to Al-Hazred, before the war
with the Elder Gods. He (?) led the rebellion against the Elder Gods
and was punished, thereby creating this universe and the laws that
govern it...

Jamison wasnt interested in reading more. He skipped over the other

notebooks and opened Winwoods folder.

Within were copies of sections from old Orientalist texts, the same
ones that Jamison was already familiar with, such as Al-Hamdanis
Antiques of South Arabia, which spoke of a treasure hidden in
Irem. Included with the historical material was a photostatic copy of
something called Azathoth and Other Horrors, by one Edward
Pickman Derby. Flipping through the ink-smudged pages, Jamison
saw that it was a collection of macabre poetry. He laid it aside with
the intention of returning to it later.

The next group of stapled clippings was evidently from the taboo
books that Winwood had mentioned. Jamison carefully read the first
section, excerpts from the Necronomicon:
... concerning Irem, the City of Pillars, I spake of the Elder Days and of the four
nations that had ruled this land of old, Thamood of the north, and Ad of the
south, and Tasm, and Jadis; and I spake of many-columned Irem and of Shaddad
the Accursed who had raised up its walls around an Elder central obelisk and who
did build therein an Thousand pillars to Those better left unnamed.

Jamison read on. It seemed that Al-Hazred claimed to have opened a

"gate with a Red Sacrifice to Yog-Sothoth, causing the pillars to
topple. Astounding! Al-Hazred had a near perfect description in his
book, written over twelve hundred years ago! Many more quotes from
the same book followed, but Jamison skipped past them.

The next xerox was from a book called Cultes des Goules:
There is a Terror lurks in carved stone: not without reason do the children of the
wastes shun horrible and thousand-columned Irem, whereof each pillar bears up
an eidolon of Those Who Dwell Afar...

The following sheet was devoted to an excerpt from the Mysteries of

the Worm, by Ludvig Prinn. Winwood had scrawled See Yaquud in
the margin.

THE SUMMONING OF AZATHOTH

To Call upon that Sultan an ensorcelled metal needs be devised with utmost
caution, which may be found only by the most powerful use of extreme and
dangerous thaumaturgies. To raise the Ultimate Chaos would be foolhardy,
indeed suicide, and not less so even for the practiced delver into the forbidden of
the forbidden Arts. The invocation and its shield are of but temporary duration,
for the opening of a Gate to the Blind Idiot God brings only destruction...

On the side, Winwood had written, in small characters:

Of course! Azathoth here in the matter universe would result in an

explosion! Like the one that blinded Jafara! Azathoth is nothing but a
nuclear explosionthe Big Bang, at the center of infinity, bereft of
mindthe blind idiot god! The primal Power, Godhead, Chaos!
Whats more, the cryptic Prinn formula details the manufacture of an
unspecified metalin actuality a critical mass of extremely fissionable
material! And Prinns book was printed in 1490!

There was something that Jamison felt he should understand, an

elemental connection that he was not making. He considered the
situation. Something had happened at Irem; agate to Chaos
Azathoth?was opened. How? The Plague Jar! He recalled Yaquuds
translation of the inscription from the bronze door: The jar brings
plague, famine and death. The jar is plague, famine and death. The jar
is the scourge of doom, the breath of chaos...
What contagion was contained in the ancient clay? What timeless
plague waited to be released? With dawning comprehension, skin
prickled with cold sweat, Jamison began to understand...

The Plague Jar was a link to Chaosthe Source!

The illness that infected Yaquud and the rest of the expedition was
radiation sickness! Radiation was "the breath of chaosstill active
after untold millennia within the jar!

What the hell was this? People didnt have nuclear energy thousands
of years ago! Its a hoax, he decided, it must be... Then he
remembered Von Danikens unorthodox theory of Sodom and
Gomorrahs destructionby nuclear explosion! What untold story lay
behind the events related in the Bible?

Mind spinning, he began to believe the account as Dr. Winwood

related it, Azathoth and all. Just as he was ready to close the file and
replace it in the cabinet, his fingers found the fifth photograph,
behind a batch of clippings from archaeological journals.

With shaking hands he moved it before his face. He couldnt see what
was so disturbing about it. It was just a view of the top of the jar,
apparently shot through some sort of heavy filtering lens. It was
empty, but then radiation would not have been visible. The rim of the
jar was pale, the inside deep...the inside...was hazy, the yawning
opening beckoned...

Bewildered, Jamison looked closer and saw small flickering lights,

swirling in a funnel-shaped vortex. Vertigo instantly seized himhe
felt himself being drawn out of his body through his eyes, leaning
toward the spinning lights. Spinning? But it was a still photograph...
Then, with a glaring magnificence, he passed the weirdly hued lights
and was engulfed by folds of blackness.

The darkness of the jars interior multiplied, became more dense, the
dark beyond the universe, pulling Jamison into a narrow lightless
tube of negative energy that writhed sinuously, leading to a black hole
that pulsed in the center. A cacophony born in the howling pits of
nightmare bellowed in his mind: raging star-winds and discordant
pipes and flutes, blaring at once, with no sane rhythm. Jamison was
falling, tumbling head over heels toward the mindless Khan of the
Ages, the Creator, an amorphous blight of nethermost confusion
which bubbles and blasphemes at the center of all infinity!

Trent Jamison was discovered early the following morning by a

janitor, sprawled face down in Dr. Henry Winwoods office, with files
scattered around him. He was in a comatose state. After being rushed
to a nearby hospital and placed on life-support machines, his family
was notified. Similar efforts to contact Dr. Winwood proved fruitless.
No one had seen him in days, not since his heated dispute with the
directors of the university press.

After staying by their sons side for two weeks and seeing no
improvement in his condition, his parents held a family conference.
They discussed the options and tearfully decided to pull the plug, to
terminate Jamisons life-support equipment. Sobbing, his mother
turned to the doctor in charge and said: I know hes not coming
back. Hes with God...

First published: The Azathoth Cycle (Chaosium, 1994).