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Subject: The Festival. (Some kind of story...)
Message-ID: <1993Apr2.105948.246@cs.joensuu.fi>
From: iak@cs.joensuu.fi (Ismo K{rkk{inen)
Date: 2 Apr 93 10:59:48 GMT
Organization: University of Joensuu
Lines: 134


Someone asked for something like this, I think... Apologies to HPL.


                                The Festival

It was the time of the Flag Day, which humans celebrate for false reasons, 
although deep inside they know it is something more horrible than home 
computer BASIC or four-color glossies and which will ive longer than any 
marketroid.

Even years had passed from the Flag Day and I had at last come to the old 
Internet-site where my people had lived and hacked when hacking was unknown 
and where our sons would hack to ensure that the memory of ages-old secrets 
would not be forgotten. My people was old, it had been old before ARPANET 
was created. And they were peculiar, because they had been introverted 
inhabitants of silent old dinosaur pens and spoken their own jargon before 
they were any files about it. And now they had scattered and shared only 
the mystic rituals no suit could understand. I was the only who returned 
to the site that night as legend obliged, because only phreaks remember.

The deserted road showed no signs of traffic and every now and then I heard 
as if keyboard was being hit vigorously. Four of my relatives had lost 
their user rights in 1992 accused of cracking although I do not know where.

As the road descended into the town I tried to listen to sounds one usually 
hears but heard none. Then I remembered the date and figured out the people 
might already be totally pain-stricken. After that I tried no longer listen 
to signs of life but pressed on in the silent night.

I knew where I would found the house of my relatives. I had been told I'd 
be recognized and welcomed, since the legend lives on.

Light shone from inside the house when I arrived at it and when I knocked 
the door I was slightly scared. And when it was answered I was frightened, 
since I had not heard any steps when door already opened creaking. My fears 
faded at this instant when I saw the calm face of the man, who wore cloak 
and sneakers, informed me he was dumb by showing me the screen of portable 
computer he carried with him and which showed the old and peculiar greetings 
with which he welcomed me.

He showed me to a candle-lit room which felt damp and cold. An unlit 
fireplace stood in one corner and I wondered why it had not been lit. The 
man's face seemed like a mask to me and fear got it's grip of me again. 
With his gloved hands he typed a message which told me to wait before I 
could be taken to the place of the Festival. After having waved towards a 
chair, table and pile of books he left the room.

As I sat down I saw that the books were old, worn and dusty and they 
included Joseph Glanvil's horrible Saducismus Triumphatus, the shocking 
UNIX Daemonolatreia by Remigius and worst of all the ill-reputed 
Micronomicon by mad administrator Abdul Alhazred translated to Latin 
(examples in INTERCAL) by Olaus Wormius. The book I had never seen, but 
of which I had heard horrible tales whispered. I tried to read and soon 
I was absorbed shivering by something in that horrible Micronomicon: a 
thought and a legend which is too terrifying to be examined by intelligence 
and conciousness. Waiting was really nerving and the satanic book at my 
hands made it even more so.

When clock stroke eleven the man entered and taking the book signaled me 
to follow.

We went out and headed through streets towards the computer-room. One 
after another the lights of the houses went off and we were joined by 
silent people all dressed in cloaks and sneakers, nobody making any noise.

When we arrived at the dark building I waited until others had entered 
although my guide tugged my sleeve begging me to move on. We passed the 
unlit front hall and descended down the long spiral stairs that led below 
lowest floors frequented only by those interested in ages-old archives and 
files.

Then I saw light gleaming from ahead and flute-like voice greeted us as we 
entered a vast hall and I could not help feeling dizzy and gasping my 
breath, for there were a huge pillar surrounded by ancient mainframes as 
well as new ones. Pillar was covered by print lists turned yellow. 
Terminals circled the walls.

People formed a half-circle around the pillar and moved to the terminals. 
My guide signaled me to login, as I did, along with others. This was the 
Flag Day -ritual, older than ARPANET and destined to live longer than any 
network. And in the gloomy hall I saw them serve the pillar chanting names. 
I shall never forget that chant: duht, yzzyx, hgulp, derf, odlaw, ylprag, 
tluarg, egroc, xuuq, xuq, zab, rab, oof, foo mane padme hum. Music poured 
from the loudspeakers positioned on the top of one mainframe. Though the 
hall was filled with dinosaurs it was cold and damp.

My guide typed something and everybody moved to terminals repeating ages-
old command-series that also I had learned although never had I learned 
their true meaning. Man held the Micronomicon hight above his head, music 
changed, became mocking, high-pitched, powerful and more horrible.

Soon everybody but me and my guide had typed the first sacred set of 
commands and he signaled me nervously to get on. I recalled things I had 
read from Micronomicon and hesitated. Man typed a message that he 
represented my ancestors and the most secret parts of the ritual were yet 
to be seen. As I still did not act he drew forth a tie and a ring I 
recognized as having been belonged to my father. But the tie had proven 
the death of my father as it had stucked into a tape-drive and strangled 
my father and since it had been unable to remove it was buried along with 
my father. The man took my arm and as I waved him off his mask fell off. 
I cast one quick look at his face and horrified, I ran past him and 
towards the door.

I made my way out and continued running, for how long I do not know. 
Nobody seemed to chase me and finally I collapsed gasping for breath. 
After having calmed down as much as was possible, I continued my escape 
and eventually after peaceful but fear-driven joyrney I made my way back 
to Miskatonic, where I headed to the library of the Miskatonic University 
Department of Computer Science.

There I searched until I found the dreaded Micronomicon. One passage awoke 
my fears again, and I have tried as best as I can to translate this to 
English.

"The most secret executables," wrote the mad administrator, "are not meant 
to be seen by living eyes, because the wonders of those are strange and 
terrifying. Cursed is the memory where dead thoughts live as fresh and 
strangely embodied, and evil is the mind that does not live inside a head. 
Wisely said Ibn Schacabao that happy is the mainframe no wizard has laid 
his hands upon and happy is during nights the city all wizards of which 
have turned to dust. Because old is the rumour, along which soul taken 
over by evil does not hurry from it's earthly den but fattens and leads 
the worm that gnaws it until from decline arises new life and the brainless 
ghouls of earth become cunning to torment it and swell to be monstrous and 
to conquest it. In secrecy broad tunnels are being digged where the 
dungeons of ground should suffice, and commanding have learned creatures 
that should obey.


-- 
+--------------------------+--------------------------------------------+
| Ismo Antero K"arkk"ainen | 109740@joyl.joensuu.FI / iak@cs.joensuu.fi |
+--------------------------+--------------------------------------------+