Polaris
By H. P. Lovecraft
Into the north window of my chamber glows
the Pole Star with uncanny light. All through
the long hellish hours of blackness it shines
there. And in the autumn of the year, when
the winds from the north curse and whine,
and the red-leaved trees of the swamp mutter
things to one another in the small hours of
the morning under the horned waning moon,
I sit by the casement and watch that star.
Down from the heights reels the glittering
Cassiopeia as the hours wear on, while Charles’
Wain lumbers up from behind the vapour-soaked
swamp trees that sway in the night-wind. Just
before dawn Arcturus winks ruddily from above
the cemetery on the low hillock, and Coma
Berenices shimmers weirdly afar off in the
mysterious east; but still the Pole Star leers
down from the same place in the black vault,
winking hideously like an insane watching
eye which strives to convey some strange message,
yet recalls nothing save that it once had
a message to convey. Sometimes, when it is
cloudy, I can sleep.
Well do I remember the night of the great
Aurora, when over the swamp played the shocking
coruscations of the daemon-light. After the
beams came clouds, and then I slept.
And it was under a horned waning moon that
I saw the city for the first time. Still and
somnolent did it lie, on a strange plateau
in a hollow betwixt strange peaks. Of ghastly
marble were its walls and its towers, its
columns, domes, and pavements. In the marble
streets were marble pillars, the upper parts
of which were carven into the images of grave
bearded men. The air was warm and stirred
not. And overhead, scarce ten degrees from
the zenith, glowed that watching Pole Star.
Long did I gaze on the city, but the day came
not. When the red Aldebaran, which blinked
low in the sky but never set, had crawled
a quarter of the way around the horizon, I
saw light and motion in the houses and the
streets. Forms strangely robed, but at once
noble and familiar, walked abroad, and under
the horned waning moon men talked wisdom in
a tongue which I understood, though it was
unlike any language I had ever known. And
when the red Aldebaran had crawled more than
half way around the horizon, there were again
darkness and silence.
When I awaked, I was not as I had been. Upon
my memory was graven the vision of the city,
and within my soul had arisen another and
vaguer recollection, of whose nature I was
not then certain. Thereafter, on the cloudy
nights when I could sleep, I saw the city
often; sometimes under that horned waning
moon, and sometimes under the hot yellow rays
of a sun which did not set, but which wheeled
low around the horizon. And on the clear nights
the Pole Star leered as never before.
Gradually I came to wonder what might be my
place in that city on the strange plateau
betwixt strange peaks. At first content to
view the scene as an all-observant uncorporeal
presence, I now desired to define my relation
to it, and to speak my mind amongst the grave
men who conversed each day in the public squares.
I said to myself, “This is no dream, for
by what means can I prove the greater reality
of that other life in the house of stone and
brick south of the sinister swamp and the
cemetery on the low hillock, where the Pole
Star peers into my north window each night?”
One night as I listened to the discourse in
the large square containing many statues,
I felt a change; and perceived that I had
at last a bodily form. Nor was I a stranger
in the streets of Olathoë, which lies on
the plateau of Sarkis, betwixt the peaks Noton
and Kadiphonek. It was my friend Alos who
spoke, and his speech was one that pleased
my soul, for it was the speech of a true man
and patriot. That night had the news come
of Daikos’ fall, and of the advance of the
Inutos; squat, hellish, yellow fiends who
five years ago had appeared out of the unknown
west to ravage the confines of our kingdom,
and finally to besiege our towns. Having taken
the fortified places at the foot of the mountains,
their way now lay open to the plateau, unless
every citizen could resist with the strength
of ten men. For the squat creatures were mighty
in the arts of war, and knew not the scruples
of honour which held back our tall, grey-eyed
men of Lomar from ruthless conquest.
Alos, my friend, was commander of all the
forces on the plateau, and in him lay the
last hope of our country. On this occasion
he spoke of the perils to be faced, and exhorted
the men of Olathoë, bravest of the Lomarians,
to sustain the traditions of their ancestors,
who when forced to move southward from Zobna
before the advance of the great ice-sheet
(even as our descendants must some day flee
from the land of Lomar), valiantly and victoriously
swept aside the hairy, long-armed, cannibal
Gnophkehs that stood in their way. To me Alos
denied a warrior’s part, for I was feeble
and given to strange faintings when subjected
to stress and hardships. But my eyes were
the keenest in the city, despite the long
hours I gave each day to the study of the
Pnakotic manuscripts and the wisdom of the
Zobnarian Fathers; so my friend, desiring
not to doom me to inaction, rewarded me with
that duty which was second to nothing in importance.
To the watch-tower of Thapnen he sent me,
there to serve as the eyes of our army. Should
the Inutos attempt to gain the citadel by
the narrow pass behind the peak Noton, and
thereby surprise the garrison, I was to give
the signal of fire which would warn the waiting
soldiers and save the town from immediate
disaster.
Alone I mounted the tower, for every man of
stout body was needed in the passes below.
My brain was sore dazed with excitement and
fatigue, for I had not slept in many days;
yet was my purpose firm, for I loved my native
land of Lomar, and the marble city of Olathoë
that lies betwixt the peaks of Noton and Kadiphonek.
But as I stood in the tower’s topmost chamber,
I beheld the horned waning moon, red and sinister,
quivering through the vapours that hovered
over the distant valley of Banof. And through
an opening in the roof glittered the pale
Pole Star, fluttering as if alive, and leering
like a fiend and tempter. Methought its spirit
whispered evil counsel, soothing me to traitorous
somnolence with a damnable rhythmical promise
which it repeated over and over:
“Slumber, watcher, till the spheres
Six and twenty thousand years
Have revolv’d, and I return
To the spot where now I burn.
Other stars anon shall rise
To the axis of the skies;
Stars that soothe and stars that bless
With a sweet forgetfulness:
Only when my round is o’er
Shall the past disturb thy door.”
Vainly did I struggle with my drowsiness,
seeking to connect these strange words with
some lore of the skies which I had learnt
from the Pnakotic manuscripts. My head, heavy
and reeling, drooped to my breast, and when
next I looked up it was in a dream; with the
Pole Star grinning at me through a window
from over the horrible swaying trees of a
dream-swamp. And I am still dreaming.
In my shame and despair I sometimes scream
frantically, begging the dream-creatures around
me to waken me ere the Inutos steal up the
pass behind the peak Noton and take the citadel
by surprise; but these creatures are daemons,
for they laugh at me and tell me I am not
dreaming. They mock me whilst I sleep, and
whilst the squat yellow foe may be creeping
silently upon us. I have failed in my duty
and betrayed the marble city of Olathoë;
I have proven false to Alos, my friend and
commander. But still these shadows of my dream
deride me. They say there is no land of Lomar,
save in my nocturnal imaginings; that in those
realms where the Pole Star shines high and
red Aldebaran crawls low around the horizon,
there has been naught save ice and snow for
thousands of years, and never a man save squat
yellow creatures, blighted by the cold, whom
they call “Esquimaux”.
And as I writhe in my guilty agony, frantic
to save the city whose peril every moment
grows, and vainly striving to shake off this
unnatural dream of a house of stone and brick
south of a sinister swamp and a cemetery on
a low hillock; the Pole Star, evil and monstrous,
leers down from the black vault, winking hideously
like an insane watching eye which strives
to convey some strange message, yet recalls
nothing save that it once had a message to
convey.
