MMCM - The Doom That Came to Sarnath

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MMCM - The Doom That Came to Sarnath

H.P. Lovecraft; The Doom That Came to Sarnath
(written 3 December 1919; published 1920; The Scot, June 1920, amateur magazine)

The story is presented as a solemn ancient chronicle. In the land of Mnar, a proud people build the city of Sarnath beside a great still lake. Over centuries, Sarnath becomes wealthy, powerful, and complacent. Its people take pride in their stone walls, their temples, their festivals, and the sense that time itself belongs to them.

Near the lake stands the older city of Ib, inhabited by strange grey beings who worship a small stone idol. The people of Sarnath fear and despise Ib for being different, quiet, and ancient. That fear turns into violence. Sarnath destroys Ib, kills its inhabitants, and carries the idol back as a trophy. The conquest becomes tradition. The stolen idol sits as a symbol of victory, and each year the city celebrates what it did.

A thousand years pass. Sarnath grows decadent, and the story emphasizes the way prosperity turns into entitlement. On the thousandth anniversary of the fall of Ib, Sarnath holds a massive feast, confident that it has outlived any consequences.

During the celebration, a green mist rises from the lake and spreads through the streets. The air turns unnatural. The stone marker by the shore sinks. People see faces at windows and movement where there should be none. Panic replaces laughter. The city’s proud certainty collapses into helplessness.

When morning comes, Sarnath has vanished. Where towers and palaces stood, there is only marsh and silence. The lake remains calm, as if nothing happened. The stolen idol is gone as well, no longer in human hands. The chronicle ends on the chilling idea that time does not erase guilt; it only delays the reckoning.
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By the lake in Mnar they built bright walls.
They mocked the old grey stones of Ib,
and stole the idol from its broken shrine,
and called the theft a victory song.
They carved their names into clean stone,
and taught their children to grin.

The lake is tame.
The past is dead.
Tonight we eat.
Tonight we stand ahead.

Raise the cup, name the feast.
We rule the water and the shore.
The past is ash beneath our feet,
no fear at all, no more.
No more.

A thousand years made them soft.
Gold piled high.
They wore silk in summer storms,
and slept through thunder.
Then green mist rolled off the lake at dusk,
and the stone marker sank in silence.
The air went sweet and wrong,
and dogs refused to bark.

A window fills with faces.
A hall fills with wet breath.
A torch dies in a hand.
A laugh stops mid step.
The streets turn slick.
The doors turn thin.

Lower the cup, break the song.
The lake has come to settle score.
Windows fill with faces we erased,
and we are here no more.

Morning finds only marsh,
and a god returned to its own hand.
No wall.
No name.
Only water.