Tales from the Bell Club

Edited by Paul Mannering

www.knightwatchpress.info Tales From The Bell Club

Published by KnightWatch Press This edition published 2012 Copyright KnightWatch Press 2012 All rights reserved This book is a work of fiction. The characters and situations in this book are imaginary. No resemblance is intended between these characters and any persons, living, dead or undead. Conditions of sale. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Edited by: Paul Mannering

Cover art / design by: David Naughton-Shires www.theimagedesigns.com Formatted by: The Mad Formatter www.themadformatter.com ISBN 978-0-9878747-3-3

Contents

A Letter From The Editor - Paul Mannering … 05

The Kiss - Jason Nahrung … 07

The Adventure of the Laboratory - Kathleen Dale … 30

The Quarantine Station - Lee Clark Zumpe … 48

The Widow Dotridge - Douglas J. Moore … 75

Sayuri’s Revenge - Helen Stubbs … 90

Divine Providence - Robert J. Santa … 110

Tell Tom Tildrum - Edward M. Erdelac … 141

Fluke - Lynne Jamneck … 170

Spawn Of The Crocodile God - John McNee … 181

Life and Limb - Andrew Freudenberg … 204

The Girl In The Cabin - Richard Barnes … 221

The Wager - Jeff C. Carter … 236

The Shrieking Woman - Doug Manllen … 260

About the Authors … 271

A Letter From The Editor

“Welcome to the Bell Club,” he said. “Commiserations on your membership.” ~ Helen Stubbs, Sayuri’s Revenge

It is with great delight that I present to you the culmina- tion of a labour of some wonderful minds. Herein you will find answers to a simple question. The genesis of Tales From The Bell Club was a favourite childhood memory of listening to LP recordings of old radio shows with delightfully eerie titles and stories. A particular pleasure was a dramatic presentation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Suicide Club where the young, rich and bored gentlemen of London would risk it all in the hope of rising above the malaise and lethargy of their pampered lifestyle. Many of the very best horror stories were written or told in those tumultuous years of the 19 th and early 20 th Centuries. Edgar Allen Poe, HP Lovecraft, Algernon Blackwood, Robert Louis Stevenson, Bram Stoker, Robert E. Howard, the list goes on. So by revisiting that wonderful time when horror was becoming a force in mainstream publishing I asked myself the simple question, ‘What sort of stories would be told in a mysterious club where those who have gazed into the abyss would be invited to share their story?’ The concept of a nascent support group where one could recount a true story of an experience so horrific, so terrifying that to speak of it to any normal person would drive them mad, or have them declare the teller himself to be insane, had an irresistible appeal. The Bell Club would differ from the usual Gentleman’s clubs of the era. This is no place for adventurers to boast of their safaris, or for

the lords and gentry to indulge in idle gossip over French brandy. This place would be a refuge for those who cannot bear to speak of their experience, and yet must share it with fellow penitents, who, by their own psychological branding are less likely to disregard the truth of the story told. The members of The Bell Club offer no solace, nor counselling. They do not promise salvation, absolution or forgiveness. They simply provide a place where a voice can be heard. A story can be told and perhaps, an inner demon can be exorcised. In practical terms I invited all contributions to take the simple premise: A club, in the style of a Gentlemen’s Lounge, set between the years 1850 and 1940 where the requirements of membership were that each initiate would tell a story of a personal horror they had experienced. Any other rituals, layout, styles, requirements, other factors and personalities of the club were entirely open to the interpretation of the various writers. To my delight they took the ball and ran with it. In this collection you will find a varied selection of stories by some fine writers in the horror genre. Many are disturbing, some are terrifying, but all will make you appreciate the special place The Bell Club has in the lives of the protagonists. Some stories make no mention of the Bell Club at all. Yet every story is included because of the harmony its single voice adds to the choir of the horri- fied. My thanks to David Naughton-Shires of Knightwatch Press and Shawn Riddle for their support and expertise applied to this project.

Paul Mannering, Editor, January 2012.

The Kiss Jason Nahrung

Terror knows no boundaries. That is the raison d’etre of your august gathering, so I am told. You are but an eye behind the peeping slit, but I have your interest, I believe: your stare is fixated, your pupil a tunnel opening before me, the gush of your breath audible even through the door. Protestant or Jew, black or yellow, male or female: admission is earned by the horror shared. Blink if I am told aright. Aha, the lash of acquiescence! Then I shall continue. What’s that? No, however kind, dear gatekeeper, here on the stoop suits my purpose eminently. A chill night, indeed, the breath of winter still upon the cobbles, but spring is just around the corner, though from your observation post its first warm exhalation might be easily over- looked. Besides, my tale is one of doorways: these fine marble colonnades, these steepled timber doors – mahogany, sir? And these poor lions – brass, do you suppose? The poor creatures, gagged by rings, through the mouth in their instance, such noble beasts rendered to the most basic function of decoration and service. Yes, this edifice frames my narrative perfectly, but I thank you for your consideration. So, to my tale – it began by happenstance, only last month. We were gathered at the studio on Mariahilfer- straße, a few of us, talking fabric and art, of course, but assembled there to farewell some friends bound for Swit- zerland. And Oskar, the dear, crazy genius, struck upon the notion: Gustav and I should also accompany them. Poor Bettie – she’s an English girl, a dancer of some

7 Jason Nahrung small renown, quite elegant and charming – Bettie is afflicted, and her companion, the architect Loos—Do you know him? Yes, quite well known. They were headed to Leysen for her treatment. Would we come, Oskar asked? “The more the merrier, Emelie,” he said. Merry, said I? For sure, he said, Licht und Luft was not only for the consumptive, and after a full winter here in Wien, were we not all due such an injection of nature’s own best remedy? Ah, if only you could have seen that devilish glint in his cheeky eye, that promise of mischief that makes him such a delight. That is Oskar Kokoschka – you do not know him, sir? Not even by reputation? I take it not, for your gaze has wandered again to where this bitter breeze presses the cloth of my Reformkleider so hard against my frame, as though to infuse skin with fabric or vice versa. One of my own designs. Can you see how the layers catch the light of the lamp here by your lintel? From brilliant white to darkest black, the shadows always moving? My story is like that, sir. From brightest hope to darkest despair. It could be a metaphor for life itself, don’t you think? So, enchanted by the notion, and indeed somewhat swayed by the sudden glint of hopefulness in Bettie’s eye, I found myself saying yes even as Gustav was saying no. Never much a one to travel, dear Gustav, no farther than Attersee in summer, leastways, but I dissemble yet again. Poor Bettie, I said, how could we refuse. Gustav’s model would wait, Oskar told him, and would be the more receptive for the delay. Oh, he likes to tease, as though I care. My friendship with Gustav is far stronger than any such passing whimsy. The flesh is but the least of our attractions, don’t you agree, sir? What is the frame compared to the heart or, indeed, the mind?

8 The Kiss

The spirit of intelligence and fancy, of endeavour and in- sight? My sisters would mind the salon, I said, adding my voice to Oskar’s argument. I had no reason not to go. “The stricken, Gustav,” Oskar said – I apologise, I do not do his voice near so well and will refrain from poor emulation. He held up his hands as though framing the scene. “The brutal truth, no sparkle of sun on surface but the darker shades of the muddy depths.” He has a cunning tongue, does Oskar. And Gustav, while still remonstrating about the time lost to feckless endeavour, nevertheless buckled to our dual entreaties of curiosity and sympathy. Hm. I see your eyes, sir, that tell-tale crinkle around the edges, that narrowing, that suggestion of nod, that you consign these traits of curiosity and sympathy to be the preserve of the femme fragile , or perhaps, indeed, the territory of the artist. But is it not also the preserve of your erstwhile gathering, the curiosity at least; the sympathy perhaps to follow on the heels of folly and misadven- ture? Come the morning, we found ourselves aboard our train and on our way. How Gustav grumbled that the car- riages were not sold out and his path not so denied! Oskar, Loos and Bettie occupied their carriage and we, being late to enjoin, rode nearby in ours, but shared our company freely between the two as the fancy took us. Bettie’s cough was not so unbearable as I might’ve imagined; we passed the time mostly fair, and her gratitude, however veiled behind her kerchief and apologetic demeanour, overwhelmed any misgivings or discomfort. And is it not always an excitement, sir, to give oneself over to the sudden call of adventure? The unplanned tryst

9 Jason Nahrung

with fate? I wonder, sir, how many of the stories told behind this very fine door begin with such fancy! Ah, curiosity: it is the great strength and the great weakness of the age, one whose bounds are now drawing to a close, wherein having mapped the globe and brought it to the heel of knowledge, we must look inwards to satisfy our yearnings, with science and with art, therewith to understand the very force that compels us to explore. I fear I am something of the femme savante – how could I not be, in the presence of such company? Poor Bettie, there is your fragile , kind sir, rendered so by the flesh rather than the spirit, the blood spotted upon her cloth, the fever grip, the pale and shadowed flesh. Our journey passed pleasantly enough, the food being fair and the window view of snow-covered country eminently agreeable. Linz and Zurich were rendered not unlike paintings as we passed through, divorced behind our walls and wheels, and then finally we came to the quaint rattle of the cog railway up the mountain, the last leg of our journey. Our spirits lifted with the elevation, until we alit, already feeling the better for our impromptu treatment of sunlight and fresh air. And yet, arriving within that frosted village, I felt a sudden darkness bloom, not unlike the spot of red soaking through the virgin cotton kerchief of the consumptive, for there was such a weight of misery contained within those walls. The omnibus transferred us to the hotel, a mighty building of several stories that rules over the valley like a medieval castle standing guard. A splendid view it affords of the neighbouring Alps; the very sight of sublime Mont Blanc is enough to inspire good cheer. Once settled, we escorted with the verve of daytrippers, feigning brightness while fully aware of the clouds around us, our Bettie to

10 The Kiss her adjacent sanatorium. In truth, hotel and sanatorium were as twins, both tall and dominating and bearing a decoration of carven ivy, like a drunkard wears a smile to hide the hollowness of their despair. Both buildings sat enveloped by snow, the roads and walkways dug through the drifts. As we approached, the sanatorium took on the appearance of a jail, its stone stark against the snowy slopes of La Riondaz made dark with firs and bruised with boulders here and there, pressing out through the smooth cover like boils through flesh. There was no wall; the inmates were here of their own desire, after all, and who but those who loved them would otherwise risk entrance to those diseased halls? We know from the work of Herr Doktor Koch that the infection is passed unto the other by the fluids of the body. All signs of intimate human companionability, sir, the kiss – of both the lips and the nethers, if I may be so forward – transmitting corruption along with the affec- tion. Bettie took my hand as we approached, and Loos, ever the gentleman, offered her his words of comfort as the porter took her valise and we followed an attendant inside to await the administrator in the warmth. And how our esteemed companions took note, heads together discussing the architecture. We perused the photographs on the walls of male patients soaking up the sun clad only in white underwear and broad straw hats, even while they stood to the ankle in snow. We joked about the fashions, then Bettie and I found a chair on which to wait, it having fallen to me in these last moments, by dint of sharing our sex, to be my sister’s keeper, as it were. Oskar, rapscallion that he is, found a receptionist to ask about his acquaintance from whose family he’d re-

11 Jason Nahrung ceived this sanatorium’s recommendation. When Count Verona was brought forth to meet his old kamerad in ca- rousing and discussion, well, Oskar, he shuddered—his friend, I took it, was not as he remembered. And then, no sooner had the tremor passed, than Oskar was appraising him with that artist’s eye I know so well. Shape, form, shade, emotion. The person rendered down to pigment, yet somehow captured there amid the hues. The magic of the artist’s transmogrification, sir; have you beheld its power? And what of literature, sir – are you perhaps acquainted with the work of one Abraham Stoker, an Irishman? I swear to you, sir, the count was the very image of Stoker’s inhuman creature: pallid, sir, the disease manifest in his withered flesh, his teeth protruding as consequence with a certain rattish quality, and eyes in- flamed and ruddy. The poor dear’s shoulders were rounded as though borne down by the weight of his infirmity. Will you think me, sir, all too female, femme fragile indeed, if I confess to not just having a sense of misgiving but a certain frisson of fear? My artist’s fancy, perhaps, most at home amid draperies and couture, could not help but fly to think that, were I of such inhuman dispositions as the ilk of said Dracula, that in just such a place might I find my hunting ground. Though I daresay the pickings would not be much to my taste; what good the blood, sir, if the sufferer himself or indeed herself is all too willing to shed? But what of the nursing staff, all hale and isolated here in this snow-bound eyrie with none but the ill and delusional to watch out for them? And what, sir, of their visitors? Or the villagers, spread along the slopes below, ignorant of the threat within their midst? Were I of such a

12 The Kiss disposition, what contagion might I spread from this den of illness with no more effort than the most tender of kisses? On seeing the count, dear Bettie grasped my hand almost to the point of pain, and in her grip was the unspoken message, “there but for the grace of God go I”. It was all I could do to pat her hand, to return her pressure; to assure her that the regimen of rest and sunlight, of mountain air and healthy diet, would spare her this withering of her person. To bolster her confidence in the face of such monstrosity, I had Gustav promise to paint a portrait of we two friends. My faith in her future seemed to offer some small measure of hope. She was not the first to anticipate the pleasure of a sitting in the intimacy of Gustav’s studio. We spent the remainder of the day in Oskar’s ingratiating wake, meeting patients of varying disposition and robustness and finding reassurance for our dear Bettie. Our little party, even I with my own slight reputation, were of some celebrity and the time passed almost pleasantly. But as the day faded, I felt the chill of night creeping along those halls. If sunshine was the healing agent, what then of its absence? Were these blighted souls doomed to lose by moonlight what they gained by day? And so it came that, with Bettie settled in and we four at leisure over dinner, that Oskar told us of his most extraordinary invitation, which he extended by dint of our friendship and our artists’ eyes, to delve into the human condition. The count, with whom Oskar had been much ensconced, sketch pad in hand, had revealed to him a clandestine cabal within the sanatorium who were embarked on a distinctly non-traditional course of treatment. Led by a certain Alexander Rakoczy, a raconteur with

13 Jason Nahrung claim to uncertain noble heritage, they were using the exploration of esoterica to seek relief for those for whom fresh air, rest and nutrition were proving ineffective. Gustav waved the notion away; bad enough to be here in this village of strangers with their whispers and gawking demeanours, but to embrace such superstition? He slapped his rumpled copy of Essays on the Theory of Sexuality : such practices flew in the face of modern science, he said. “But might there not be science within the madness, if you will?” Oskar asked. I suspected he already had visions of the sketches he might produce. Looking back, I am still uncertain what drove me then to speak out. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the need to act – to do – to be alive when all around me was the evidence of life’s fragility. Would they, I asked, allow me in Gustav’s place, and was rewarded with Gustav’s snort of incredulity. “Not overtly, Emilie,” Oskar said, “but if Gustav is to be sequestered and we were to find you suitable garments, you might pass for him in the night.” I stroked my chin, coiffed my curls, the contrast to Gustav’s balding scalp and hirsute jaw quite obvious. Some gum, a few locks of hair and a pair of shears would suffice, Oskar assured me. It was bound to be dark, he added, for that was the natural preserve of such endeavours. A disguise, assisted by neck scarf, hooded cape and a mute voice: what a challenge! I could not refuse, and ignored Gustav wringing his hands like Pilate washing his. I do like dressing up; my sisters and I used to do it all the time. It has stood us in good stead, that exercise of

14 The Kiss our creativity, combined with the fabrics available to us from the Wiener Werkstätte. And so Oskar and I prepared during the day that followed, Gustav shunning the notion and Loos, amusedly, begging out, preferring to spend time with his lover. By nightfall, Oskar and I called success. We bound my breasts and suborned Gustav’s suit and jacket – how fortunate that he is so much more robust than I – and ignored Gustav’s rapprochement – what would happen if they discovered I was a woman, he asked, all gruff, and I said, “but Gustav, that will be the best fun of it”, and he said, “you assume they will see the funny side”. There was no train out till the morning and we were unlikely to find a carriage at this “ungodly time of night”, he pointed out. Oskar promised to protect me, and I promised to protect Oskar, and finally Gustav acquiesced or, rather, surrendered, albeit with much gesticulation, like a man throwing flowers and hope over his head to see where they might land. So it was that, as the witching hour approached, my belly filled with butterflies, my pulse drumming with excitement, we set off like debutants to carnivale. Oskar and I, guided by moonlight, ploughed through fresh snow the short distance from the hotel to the sanatorium. The building loomed like a passenger liner on a sea of drifts, the hill behind not unlike a bank of cloud. She was running with bare lights at this time of night, though, and save for lamps over the main door and in the occasional window, the building’s white edifice seemed almost blurred against that background, a ghost ship cloaked in fog. A side door opened as we approached, lantern light spilling sickly yellow on the ground.

15 Jason Nahrung

A guide awaited us, tall and broad shouldered inside his midnight suit, hair cropped tightly to his scalp, lips lush through a black trimmed goatee and moustache. But his eyes, oh, those rapacious orbs, so vulpine; how they raked us with naked hunger and wariness. I would not have been surprised had a serpent’s tongue issued from his mouth to test our flavour on the air; perhaps from our very skin. I shivered at the thought. “Esteemed guests,” he said by way of greeting, there being an air of Paris about his accent. “Your presence is appreciated to round out our circle but this is not grist for your creative mill. Respect our privacy – that is, the nature of the words we speak. There will be repercussions should you seek to unveil the hidden.” The warning was obvious; my joie de vivre waned. What had I got myself into? “Privacy respects privacy,” Oskar said, and I bobbed my head in unabashed agreement. “Indeed,” said the count. “But a portrait betrays no one,” Oskar suggested, ex- ercising all his considerable charm, for our guide would indeed have made a most engaging subject. But the man waved away the offer as though it were no more than a moth batting at his lantern. “I have no desire to have my features so rendered. Posterity holds no promise for me. It is the everlasting present that fires my curiosity.” And so with accord arranged, we followed our guide. He did not remark on my hood and cape, perhaps deducing my presumed reputation as cause for additional ano- nymity. Oskar, of course, had no such inhibitions, and asked many questions, few of which were answered with little

16 The Kiss more than variations on “wait and see”. But it did keep our host from inquiring too hard of me. A basement door, bound in iron and lost in shadow, opened with an owlish screech, setting my heart to tripping like that of a doormouse. My hand flew to my chest, as though to constrain my erupting heart. Our guide looked to me and I quickly returned my hand to the shelter of my garments. Had he noticed Gustav’s oversized mitts on my slender hands? If our host had noted any disparity, he passed no remark. Down stairs into dank and dark we crept, and I was once again reminded of Stoker’s count and his relic home, so abandoned and cobwebbed and ghostly, more a part of history than its current day, where even its master drew no breath and the only fresh blood to inhabit its walls was that of his unsuspecting victims. How the sorrow seeps into the structure; who would think that stone could be so porous? So absorbent? Yet there, in that narrow stair, the low ceiling pressing down on even my slight frame, I could feel the sorrow of the diseased settling like a miasma. The rooms above might, in day, be open to the warm and healing sunlight, but no such hope had ever shone upon these stones which now entombed me. The air grew cold, so that I felt the stygian reach of the con- sumption invading my lungs, choking my life from the inside out. My breath rasped, short and desperate. Down we went, shadows leaping like damned souls sliding down into the underworld without so much as a copper to pay their way. We arrived in a crowded chamber, the size of a small salon, perhaps. Arches outlined in brick on either wall suggested secret spaces, untouched by the feeble orange light of the torches burning smokily in several sconces.

17 Jason Nahrung

“Our guests,” he announced to those there assembled, then told we two, “With you amongst us, we number thirteen for the first time, and on such a propitious night. Let us not dally, for the evening grows old and the wardsmen get nervous if we are away too long.” The others wore trousers, shirts and jackets; some faces were covered by kerchiefs as though this was some masque. Others, as did I, concealed their identities within the shadow of hooded cloaks. Feverish eyes stared out of yellowed flesh like hot embers. Bent backs and pale, wraithlike flesh gave them the appearance of revenants. I felt like a rabbit entered into a circle of vultures; they ra- diated a desperation, a rapaciousness, and I pulled my clothes about me like some kind of carapace, hearing again Gustav’s warning of what such as these might do should they discover my deception. I shrivelled under the heat of those curious stares. Such disappointment they would feel were they to know it was not the controversial artist, but the spinster seam- stress of wayward repute, who sat with them upon the cold, hard floor. I quailed to think of how they might demonstrate their displeasure. Our host bade us sit within a circle of powder on the floor as he lit four candles at the cardinal points. He then chalked symbols of arcane meaning that brought to mind the text of ancient Egypt rendered by a childish hand. It was only when he occupied the northern vacancy that I realised he was Rakoczy himself, the orchestrator of the cabal. From a blanket spread picnic-like with bottles and books and implements, he plucked a brazier and a packet of herbs, and shortly after the dusty air grew pungent with the cloying scent of whatever concoction he consigned to the flame. The heat, rising with our prox-

18 The Kiss imity and no doubt stoked by the fever of the sufferers around us, caused the air to grow close. My lungs la- boured. Perhaps I should have added a face mask to my costume; one of those long-snouted disguises that saw such popularity during the dark days of the plague. Would any have looked at me further askance than they did now – me, a healthy body in this company of the dying? Another pinch of material hit the burner, resulting in a pop that made me flinch, its burst of brilliant flame leaving after-images of white lightning on my eyelids. A conjuror’s trick, I felt. What next? To hold hands and call upon some lost soul to tell us of their life in the thereafter? Certainly, such a thing might offer a measure of comfort to those fighting the disease. But such an entertainment I could have indulged in in greater comfort back in Wien. “Sacrifice, gentlemen,” Rakoczy said. “Nothing can be gained without cost. Are you willing to pay the cost?” Was it to be money, I wondered? Was Rakoczy a charlatan, playing on the desperation of the afflicted? Or were we to be treated to some common titillation, some stage show to help them while away their hours of indolent convalescence? I awaited the arrival of an in flagrante maiden and I was ready to leave then, to call down the curtain upon the production. But it was not a woman “sacrifice” to be produced, nor the money purse, but rather, something far more sinister. “In older times,” Rakoczy said, his voice the whisper of cloth, the slither of a serpent’s scales upon stone, “upon this date, there would be the blood of dog and goat, and we men would run like hounds and flagellate the women to imbue their fertility. But we seek the heal-

19 Jason Nahrung ing power, the cleansing power, for ourselves. And so we must be the device of our own healing.” Fertility? Now there was horror, sir. My station and my success have earned me a degree of latitude, as you are probably aware. “To every age its art and to art its freedom,” as the Secessionists espouse in marble upon their lintel. And beyond art, I say, sir. The thought of this … this posse of men seeking to whip me into some kind of ovulatory fervour? I did not know whether to be amused or terrified! Given the circumstances, however, I felt unable to find my grin, but rather, did my utmost to control my grimace. Such was my unease, I tried to get Oskar’s attention, to suggest with furtive movement that we should depart, but my hood blocked my attempts, and Oskar was in rap- ture, soaking up the amenity. No, I would have to hold firm and hope my anxiety proved unfounded. From the collection of objects at his feet, Rakoczy retrieved a chalice of copper and a blade of steel, double edged, the dark metal glimmering like oil in the torch light. Now that was a sight to vanquish even the hardiest of grins. But still Oskar defied my attention, and I was, I confess, too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of re- porting to Gustav that I broke and ran at the sight of that wicked knife while he was otherwise engaged in mental sketching. “The circle will be made in blood,” Rakoczy said, “for the disease is of the blood, and with the blood it may be cured.” So, a cure was it, I thought. How would giving up yet more of their vitae aid them in keeping it? Even now, as the first drew the blade across his palm

20 The Kiss and dripped his blood into the chalice, a cough broke out, chesty and wet and rattling, echoing around the chamber with all the fatalism of the scurrying of rats. I felt the air grow still and suddenly colder, so that my breath clouded. I felt the presence of evil, sir. Like spiders creeping from the walls, spinning dread to trap us all. I barely dared to breathe, not only for fear of inhaling some noxious air, but for fear my feminine exhalation might yet betray me in this company of desperate strangers. Rakoczy came with the blade and the chalice. He muttered in Latin, the words issuing sibilant from his tongue. “Wait,” Oskar’s friend the count said as Rakoczy approached us. We were not like the rest of them, he complained. “They are not consumptive.” He went to say something about our blood, but Rakoczy cut him off. “You invited them to witness, you cannot change your mind now,” Rakoczy told him. “To witness, not to partake!” the count remonstrated. Our untainted blood would strengthen theirs, Ra- koczy said. It would “complete the circle and bring forth the spirit”. Now, those were terrifying words, sir. What spirit, I desired to ask. What madness is this? But I held my tongue and braced against the cold and the dread, determined to see out this rite and laugh at the childishness thereafter. The count, under threat of expulsion, sat, grumbling, and coughed; there was a dash of hand and kerchief to catch the spray. “Don’t waste it,” someone said, and there was a chuckle, and Count Verona scowled all the more. Rakoczy resumed his progress about the circle.

21 Jason Nahrung

Gladly, I noted that he wiped the knife after each incision to reduce the risk of cross-contamination. I took heart that this meant that we were not to imbibe the collected blood, but rather that it was to be used for some other arcane purpose. I summoned my courage as he gestured for my hand. I held a nervous breath as I removed the mitt. We had smeared my hands with dirt and soot against just such an eventuality, but there was no hiding the physical evidence. Though my fingers were calloused from my profession, Gustav’s were those of the workman, wide and blunt – hardly the hands one might expect of so fine a craftsman able to conjure such gentle visions. Perhaps it was the expectation and not the reality that protected me; Ra- koczy’s finger traced a line in my left palm with no suggestion of anything untoward. I kept my eyes down, rely- ing on the cloak to shield my features. His nail scribed across my flesh, and the blade followed. I did not flinch! When the last of the occultists had dribbled their es- sence into the noisome chalice, Rakoczy invoked in earnest. On to the brazier of smoking herbs he flung some blood, and then he came about the circle once more. He carried a twig bound with straw to make a tiny broom. He dipped it into his chalice, using it to anoint each of us with a dab of blood like some Semite Passover seeking protection from avenging angels. The smoke clouded, the temperature dropped to the very heart of winter. My palm pained where the blood still oozed through my fisted fingers. And then a stench, a carrion stench, clouded the chamber, and how they breathed it in, those earnest gentlemen, as though the scent alone could somehow drive the disease from their congested lungs and render them

22 The Kiss up, as fresh and light as mountain air. The abattoir reek thickened. The torches flickered. Shadows grew long and heavy with menace. The cut on my hand turned cold. The blood dripped slower than the second hand marking time on a clock. The cold grew, invading my palm, my fingers, my wrist, my forearm... Icy tentacles stole up my arm and through my chest and down, down into my gullet. My breath grew thin and choked, misting in front of me like ghosts. “Woman,” I heard a voice say, the rasp of stone on stone, jarring through me. Those tentacles of ice bunched inside my belly, seeking purchase in my organs. My skull swelled with the pressure of my rising dread; my eyes pained deep back in my head as though a force there within my skull sought to evict them from their sockets. I screamed, “No!” My disguise unveiled, I staggered to my feet, aware of all those men staring at me in shock. What did they see? Treachery? Deceit? The not-so-virgin sacrifice? “No,” Rakoczy shouted in echo. His hands pawed at the air, bidding me to sit like a panicked man in a rocking canoe fearing a capsize. “Don’t go—!” “Out,” I screamed, hands to my forehead. “Get out!” I refused – refused – to be so consumed! Those freezing worms burrowed into me, flowed through me, seeking purchase. Seeking life! And my anger rose, dredged up deep from within, burning white-hot and furious. Engaged in a battle for my very self, I stumbled outside the chalked circle. “No,” Rakoczy shouted again. “Come back, come back!” But it was too late. Already, the presence was abating,

23 Jason Nahrung somehow trapped within Rakoczy’s mystical perimeter, expunged from my flesh like sifted flour. The men, breaking from their shock, erupted in a chorus of outrage. Oskar darted forward as I, suddenly weak, floun- dered, desperately groping for support where there was none. He saved me from the fall, caught me above the stones and propped me up upon his shoulders. “A woman, a blighted woman,” Rakoczy screamed, hands flapping like a rabbi who had discovered a sow in his temple. The men were a’dither, asking frantic questions, not knowing what to do. Oskar and I fled. But as he helped me clamber up the stairs towards the sensible light of the moon and the crisp, clean air, I noticed his friend, the afflicted Count Verona, sitting, legs calmly crossed, the very picture of stillness, save for his head which turned to follow us, turned so that he looked over his shoulder where a man ought not to have been able, and his eyes were the colour of the fireplace, fully aflame. When I reached the safety of my lodging, Gustav was still awake, sketching half-heartedly at the easel. Gustav stood, his charcoal laid aside as I ran in and slammed the door, locking it behind me. What had happened, he wanted to know. “Where is Oskar?” “Downstairs, with the concierge, seeking to arrange our immediate departure!” I told him as I made for the drinks trolley. “Departure?” he asked. “What the Hell? What about Bettie and Loos?” I had no more words, my shaking hands making the decanter clatter on the tray like teeth chattering in a bliz-

24 The Kiss zard. Gustav gripped my upper arms with enough strength to bruise as he sought answers. A knocking at the door interrupted. We stood, frozen in our panicked pose. “Is that you, Oskar?” Gustav said, clearly reluctant to leave me, though he relaxed his grip. But I could tell that it was not Oskar. The stench of rotting flesh penetrated the timber and pervaded the air. I saw again Verona’s eyes, watching hungrily as I staggered from the ritual chamber. The door handle rattled. The timber shivered again. I retreated a step, drink forgotten. “Don’t,” I said, but Gustav ignored me as he crossed to the door and unlocked it. “Come in and tell me what the devil this is all about,” he said, wrenching the door open. “The devil indeed,” I muttered. The count stood in the doorway, hunched and yellow, but possessed of a manic energy so fierce that Gustav stepped back. “What is the meaning of this interruption, sir?” he demanded. The count ignored him. His gaze was fixed on me. The heat evaporated from my body, the very breath left my lungs, and I stumbled, would’ve fallen were it not for the fortunate happenstance of a chair nearby upon which to catch myself. Said the count, his voice like the crackle of flames, “My dear woman, join with me and I will show you sights unimagined. From the beginning of creation to its end. There will be no secrets. All for the price of a kiss!” “But where would be the fun in that?” I asked, finding breath in desperation. “Without exploration, with all

25 Jason Nahrung things known, there is no life. There is no art.” “My dear woman,” he said, and those words were like a poker in the fire pit of my anger. I was not any one’s dear woman ! “I was not asking,” he continued, slinking forward, a fox approaching the hen, his eyes locked in the stare of mesmerism. “I need you to see these things. To carry these things.” He sprang! He was surprisingly fast for a man so infirm of body. He brushed past Gustav and backed me up against the wall. His breath wafted brimstone. His eyes were the fires of damnation. And his fingers – those claws – scrabbled at my jacket. How fortunate that I still wore the many layers of my disguise and not a dress of flimsy cloth such as I now wear before you! Oh, the sound of those nails, scratching across the wool, tearing into the material, looking to hook into the flesh beneath. A dreadful happenstance? Indeed, sir, to be so set upon in my very own chambers. And I confess, I was un- equal to the task. His strength was that of a tiger, of a beast. I could feel him, pressed upon me, his fevered flesh, his rampant member. I screamed. I screamed fit to summon angels. My darling Gustav overcame his surprise. Like Gabriel himself, he swept down upon the count. No flaming sword at hand, but he turned to his own tool of the divine. He thrust at the count with the clumsy legs of the easel. One steel tip tore into the count’s flesh. The count turned from me – he leapt and spun in the air so that he landed facing Gustav, who stabbed at him again. Such fury! I had no idea my darling painter was a repository for such violent emotion.

26 The Kiss

It was, sir, not unlike the moment in the circus ring when the tamer does hold forth with the chair to hold off the lion! For Verona, too, was fearsome, snarling like a savage dog. His skin bubbled like the surface of a muddy spa; his lips spat rabid froth. He snatched the easel from Gustav’s grip and smashed it to splinters on the floor. Then he dealt Gustav such a blow – he tumbled backwards into the wall and slumped, quite dazed, onto the floor. “I will have the she-wolf,” said the count. “Within her flesh, I will be born anew, and all the delights of this age will be mine.” I hit the count with the chair. The impact almost jarred the timber from my grip. He whirled once more, arms reaching, bloody foam emitting from his tattered lips, his flesh like boiling rubber. I struck him again with the chair, more clumsy and desperate than purposeful. The count knocked the chair away and hurled me down. His weight pinned me to the floor, crushing my breath. His talons – for what other word can describe such lecherous limbs, such vile and violent weaponry – clawed at me. His lips sought mine, drool splashing my chin and cheek, his tongue questing. I thought for certain my day was done. No more dress making, no more parties, no more long walks and boat rows with my darlings. My grasping hand found a weapon. Another might say that there, in my hour of need, God came to my aid, but I, who have no room for such a compromise, must instead look inside to my own self. Some instinct – call it courage, call it terror – drove me to find strength I did

27 Jason Nahrung not know that I possessed. I stabbed that creature, sir, with all my desperate might. The count jerked back, his knees straddling me like a man in prayer, hands clasped before him where the broken timber projected from his chest. For a long moment he sat thus, poised, as much a statue as that of Beethoven with his heavy brow in the foyer of die Sezession . But the count, he looked neither noble nor possessed of that weighty brilliance, just surprised. Just … disappointed. And then he fell, slack jawed and loose limbed, a marionette with its strings cut. Verona sprawled forwards and sideways, so that I had to shuffle to avoid his collapse. He lay there, unmoving, a stake of broken easel protruding from his torso, the angle such to pierce his heart. I go to pains, here, sir, to say, that the manner of his defeat in no way points to a creature of Herr Stoker’s device, but merely, that an object thrust through the heart will render most earthly creatures undone. But I did see the hellfire dull so that the count’s eyes were a clear summer’s blue, pained and confused; the eyes of a mortal man once more, one unaware of the displacement of his soul even at its passing. There may be some comfort in knowing that he died ignorant of the sins committed by his autonomical hand. Oskar arrived shortly thereafter, pale and frightened, with word of having arranged a very hasty, very costly sleigh ride down the mountain. How he quailed, to see his old friend thus! How he berated himself as we helped Gustav to his feet. And how I remonstrated, saying, once a shot of schnapps had steeled my vocal cords, that it had been my decision to inveigle; the guilt, such as it was, could be shared.

28 The Kiss

We packed in haste, leaving all but the essentials behind, those and the body of Count Verona. We trusted that to make a body disappear in this surround was of no consequence, and that our darlings Bettie and Loos would suffer no repercussion through association. And so it transpired, much to our relief. Rakoczy, you ask? There has been neither word nor sign, so our friends report. Ah, I see your eyes, sir, moon-wide and round, and hear your breath, sir, huffing not unlike the steam loco- motive that brought us home to Wien. So, good sir, mon- sieur, Mein Herr: do I pass? Have I titillated? Have I en- tertained? Have I edified? Please, stay your hand upon the knob. The city clock has struck the hour and I have another meeting. In truth, my intent was not to enter, but rather, to invite you and your worthies to join me. You see, I already belong to a club, one dedicated to fighting the forces of possession, something at which you might agree that I am proven adept. You need not entertain, nor don disguise, but simply come forward with an open mind. The group? Why, we are the suffragettes, sir, and we are legion.

The Adventure of the Laboratory Kathleen Dale

The Bee and Bulfinch , despite its unassuming name and location on Lower Charbotham Street, is one of the finer watering holes in the metropolis. It has long been my cus- tom, along with several of my chums, to go there every second Wednesday. Though blustery and chill in the ex- treme, this Wednesday was no exception. Our first health was always to the Queen, and the second to our boys overseas, holding down their end of the Empire. After that, it's a case of every man for himself. We had Sepperling's remembrance to his son, sent down from Oxford and taking out his shame on the Colonies. Then old Arthur's glass was lifted to his now deceased bulldog. I may have named a cause or two, and Putneyham another. All in all, we were feeling rather ele- vated by the time Whitney “Whit” Shuttleford, son of the newly appointed Lord Yaxleyton, came in. Every time the front door opened, a sort of chorus of the damned rose up from those unfortunate enough to sit in the way of the howling gale. Sepperling had, as usual, secured the back table for our lot, so there was less moaning and wailing and gnashing of teeth among us, at least until Whit arrived. The barman had just been signalled for another round, and Arthur beckoned to Whit, just coming in as announced by the aforementioned. “I say, old man, you needn't drip so,” said Putney- ham, leaning back. Whit, looking ghastly, shrugged and planted himself beside me instead, still wearing his overcoat. A tall chap with myopic blue eyes and a weak chin, Whit isn't the best-looking among us on his better days,

30 The Adventure of the Laboratory but he did look like something the cat dug up this evening. “Where have you been, Whit?” I prodded. “We've missed you at the races, you know.” “Races?” He blinked at me as if he'd never heard of them. “Oh, the races. Simply no time. Working.” We denizens of the back table exchanged a long, concerned look. Just then the barman rolled up and began to pour. Poor old Whit grasped his like a life preserver. He sucked it down and held up the glass before the barman could get round the table. “Working?” Arthur spoke with unwonted gentleness. “What's caused this reversal in your fortunes? Do tell us.” The rest of us leaned in, looking compassionate. I'm not sure Sepperling didn't go so far as to pat Whit on the shoulder. Whit shook him off and glared round generally. “Don't be a lot of fatheads,” he snapped. “It's all right for you. You haven't anything more weighing on your souls than whether you tipped the gateman enough last week. But a real, human life depends upon me, and I've spent the last two weeks in some of the worse places I've ever seen. I dare say I've combed every back street, charity poorhouse, churchyard and lunatic asylum in this city!” We drew back from him as from a raging tiger. “You do rather look it, old thing,” said Sepperlings. “But whatever for?” I asked. “For love, of course,” Whit said, with more bitterness than I think I've ever heard in his voice before. “It's all for love.” “Not still your uncle's assistant?” “Yes, still my uncle's assistant, and her name is

31 Kathleen Dale

Gladys, if you want to know! Just because I don't flit from woman to woman like a wasp from fruit to fruit, you... you lot of flitters!” He banged his glass on the table. “Steady on,” I said, and joined Sepperling in the ranks of the shoulder-patters. “You're among friends here, lad.” “I'm sorry,” he said. He was moodily silent while the barman, attracted by the glass-banging, filled him up again, and we respected his evident desire to say nothing till he had finished half the glass. Somewhat restored, he then looked up and glanced round us. “I am sorry, fellows. I didn't mean to come off as a loony. It comes from hanging about with them so much. It rubs off.” He heaved a sigh, fountaining rainwater on all sides. “You deserve to know the whole story, I suppose. It began a few weeks ago...”

* * *

My mother's brother, Roger Staunton, is a bit of an odd egg, as you know. He's always been the one to cry “All for science!” and damn the cat who died of curiosity. In fact, of late he's become something of a recluse, hardly ever coming back to the homestead, practically living in the lab and even doing his own experiments by hand. Never could convince any woman to marry him. If it weren't for his assistant Gladys, he could go to hell in his own way and never a peep from me. But I met her, you see, at that function he went to, all about funding the sciences. He’d got to give a speech. Poor old Roger hadn’t anyone else to escort him, and he does need someone to look after him, so he dressed Gladys up in some castoffs from his sister’s wardrobe and took her along. She only had to carry his papers and make

32 The Adventure of the Laboratory sure he didn’t get too sloshed, and that. I thought she was the girl for me from the moment I met her. Yes, all right, I won’t tell it again. Anyway, even after I found out she was only a shopgirl till she went to work for Uncle Roger, I still felt the same way, and all I must do is talk my father round and we’ll have an understanding. And find the blasted girl, of course. But that comes later. The point is, I used to spend lots of evenings when I’d nothing better on up there in Roger’s laboratory, along Spenser Street. I was there two weeks ago, on Monday night, with rather a rotten head from the previous night’s revels, but in there, pitching. You chaps wouldn’t believe the laboratory if you’d seen it. You’ve never clapped eyes on anything like it. It’s huge, for a start. Uncle Roger knocked out the walls of this perfectly hideous old warehouse, and put in sound- proofing, and wiring, and grounding, and I don’t know what else. Right in the center of it is this contraption of his. I don’t know exactly what the thing does, of course, but he told me the end result is that between the central unit, which is about twice my height and fizzing and sparkling away like anything, with green goop in its cylinder, and the five auxiliary units, which are like little ones around the big one except they have blue goop, it does it. He talked in a wild-eyed way about universes and deci- sions and more universes being created all the time and I don’t know what. I couldn’t follow half the things he said. I can see I’ve lost you. All right, chaps, here are the basics as he explained them to me. Every time someone makes a decision, like when Lady Stiltoun decides to have the fish instead of the mutton for supper tonight, a whole new world splits off and exists by itself, somewhere else,

33 Kathleen Dale

where she had the fish. And here in our universe she had the mutton. But they’re both real. Make sense? No? Well, to be perfectly honest, I’m with you. But that’s what Un- cle Roger said, and he told me this boggling contraption of his was designed to look into the other worlds, and show us what they were like. I said, “Uncle Roger, why would we want to see Lady Stiltoun having mutton for supper?” and he shouted a few things at me that I won’t repeat. In the end I realized what he meant. There were places where the French won the war, for example. Or where the Colonies didn’t try to break away. I asked if we could go there--I’m bound to admit that one sounded intriguing--but he said no. Some- thing about walls between the universes, except they weren’t walls, they were reality phases, or something. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Gladys very sweetly piped up at this point and asked if he couldn’t show me. Heavens, it was a long process. He and she positively ran about like ants, adjusting the time-place markers on Device Number Four, pushing the test buttons on Device Number Two, defining the pa- rameters on Central Unit, and so forth. I stood back and let them have at it. I confidently expected the whole thing to go phut, but the more I watched, the more nervous I became. Bubbles kept rising and expanding in the goo, and colors kept shifting, and there was a horrible whine like having a mosquito caught in your bally ear. The whole thing looked like it would explode at any moment. I quite wanted to gather up Gladys and leg it, but I couldn’t look cowardly in front of her, could I? Next moment Uncle Roger was handing round the goggles. They were darkened, and I was glad enough to put them on. Sparks and lightning were dancing from the

34 The Adventure of the Laboratory outlying units to the central device, and the effect was nothing short of blinding. Roger tucked us into a rather small observation booth with glass windows and a doorway, and threw a lever on a pedestal there. “There will be a ten second window,” he yelled over the noise. “Look carefully during it!” The most appalling whispering sound began, like a million chappies saying their Scripture lessons under their breaths over and over again. It was coming from the central unit. Through the goggles I could see a sort of fan of light--look, if you fellows are going to laugh, there’s no point in telling this at all. No. No, I won’t stand for it. All right, buy me another round and hush your noise, and I’ll try and give you the feel of the thing. Silent respect is what you’re going for. Got it? Right. Where was I? The fan of light. It was about the size of a carriage, right in front of the central device, and it moved in time to the whispers. At first it was blank, and then it was suddenly like a window--just as Uncle Roger said--looking into another place. It wasn’t Lady Stiltoun’s, either. I’ve been there, and she mostly goes in for life-threatening amounts of ruffles. This was more austere, grey and heav- ing. It was, in fact, the ocean’s surface. There were two ships, drawn up next to one another, one flying the British flag, and seedy-looking sailors were being marched across to it at sword’s point. They were mostly barefoot, and hideously starved. There were lash marks showing through the rents in their shirts. Though I could see their mouths opening and closing, see the waves sloshing away like anything at the sides of the ships, there was no sound from them. It was a martial and desperate scene, neither side ap-

35 Kathleen Dale pearing triumphant. I suppose I babbled quite a bit, once the fan of light had failed and the whispering had gone down to a dull roar and the lightning’s stopped. I know Uncle Roger beamed rather. Gladys looked at me with a fond smile. It was a shock to my system, to know she had been keeping all this to herself during our conversations-- that a girl can have depths, you know, that you’ve never seen, no matter how much her soul seems to be in her eyes. Oh, don’t talk rot, Sepperling. You’ve never been in love. Roger announced that it was a true vision of our history from seventy years gone, and that he could bring me an image of two hundred and seventy years gone just as easily. In fact he began to adjust the mechanisms at sight of my incredulity, until Gladys brought him away with a touch on the arm. He began talking wildly of my own an- cestors appearing to me through his device. He waved his arms a goodish bit and stamped his feet like a child. I didn’t think for a moment he could actually do that, of course. I don’t believe in spiritualistic mediums and all that. No, it doesn’t matter what you say, Arthur. Oh, don’t let’s get into another of your long arguments about it, or we shall be here all night. “Would you like to see another?” Gladys asked, and I conceived an idea that she did so because of the close quarters we would have to stand in, in the observation booth. I suppose you all think that’s funny, but I don’t anymore. I would give my left arm for another such moment with her now, simply standing near, not even touching, with her uncle as chaperone. “I’d like that very much,” I said vaguely, still dazed in my mind and with my heart going like a rabbit. I kept wondering if the man had drugged me--my own uncle!

36 The Adventure of the Laboratory

After numerous adjustments and a few mutterings about historical events that I didn’t fathom at all, Uncle Roger readjusted his levers and once more fired up the sparks and lightning. “Roger, you’ve forgotten to switch off the calibrator,” Gladys said just then. I didn’t understand why she sounded so alarmed, or why Uncle Roger jumped like a scalded cat. I mean to say, the object so named was little more than a dial sort of thing on the side of the main cylinder of green slime. But nothing would do but that he rush out onto the floor and fiddle with it at once. “It’s where the whispering noise comes from,” Gladys said, taking my hand in hers. I pressed her fingers closely, for we are on good terms. If only I knew where she was now! But we had only moments left, though I didn’t know it at that instant. “Roger will tell you differ- ently, but I believe they are the voices of those people we see, calling to us--” She broke off with a little shriek. And well she might shriek. Uncle Roger had vanished entirely. There was no fanfare--not a spark from the machine, or a bolt of lightning such as it had let go earlier, not a sound. But we’d been looking right at him, chaps, as sure as I’m sitting here with an empty glass. Looking right at him. And he was gone. I spoke somewhat forcefully to my darling Gladys then, for she made to hurry out there. I didn’t want her going anywhere near those hellish cylinders now. Once we understood one another, and she had given her promise to stay right there in the observation booth, I went myself. I mean, my own uncle, don’t you know, I could hardly let him vanish without even looking. It put my hair up on end, I will tell you. Positively on end. Standing near the thing, I could still hear the whis-

37 Kathleen Dale pers. I could hear words, even sentences. I almost thought I could understand what was being said. I almost saw how to narrow the calibration down, with the big dial that raised the years and the months, the medium dial that lowered the weeks and the days, and the deceptively small dial that phased the chaos level... I’m just telling you what it was like, being next to the machinery. It was almost easy to understand. If I stood near enough. In another moment, something might have happened, and I thank God that I don’t know what it was. But I chanced to look back just then, and I saw Gladys vanish out of existence like a soap bubble. Switch off the calibrator, she’d said to Uncle Roger. I remembered, or knew, which part was the calibrator: the dials before me. There was a single ceramic box underneath them, with a knife switch standing out of it, and I threw that. The whispers died, my head cleared, and I was left standing all alone in the big warehouse, without another soul to comfort me. I ran about calling, and looking behind things, and opening doors, and shouting and stamping, until I was breathless. None of it did me one iota of good. Uncle Roger was gone, my beloved Gladys was gone, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of the whole affair. I had just conceived the notion of summoning the police when I heard a crash or clang from the back of the warehouse, where there were three offices in a row, only one of which was in use as an office. The others were for storage of equipment and failed devices. I ran that way, calling out for Gladys, though I had glanced into those rooms on my first search. Crouching in the corner, poorly lit by the flickers of green and blue from the main room, was the form of a woman. I called Gladys’ name and went for-

38 The Adventure of the Laboratory

ward, but it was not my darling. Whoever she was, I frightened her. She leapt to her feet and shoved past me, and I got a good look at her. She was short, ugly, with rotting teeth bared and matted hair pinned back with a leather thong. And what she was wearing! It was a shift or dress of coarse, brownish cloth, with a darker kirtle thing over it, and no footwear. She cried out in words unfamil- iar to me, a savage and unrecognizable dialect. I believe she was a white woman, though her skin was so filthy it was hard to tell. A man does not speak ill of the gentler sex, but there was nothing about this creature that was gentle. She reeked of unwashed humanity and worse things. She was a fright to look at, simply an assault on the senses. And she carried a rusty kitchen knife, to which scraps of something unmentionable still adhered. She brandished this as she fled. Lads, I know you will understand when I say I have never been knocked so off-kilter in my life. I was out of my mind with fear for my Gladys, and worried about my uncle, and generally terrified by the man’s machinery, which I had previously had no inkling was so disastrous. I was all alone in a warehouse that was somewhat creepy, let me tell you, and my only companion a raving mad- woman with a kitchen knife, crouching in the far corner of the dim laboratory and babbling away in her infernal language. “Hush, now!” I said, bringing in a touch of the old authority in the hopes it would calm and soothe her. “Be quiet, woman, and explain, starting from the beginning, what it is you’re doing here.” Far from being calmed and soothed, she shouted louder and flashed the knife some more as I approached.

39 Kathleen Dale

I stopped a fair distance away and we had some more fruitless discourse. Then she dashed past me, found the door and threw it open, and shielding her eyes from the sun, she ran out. For a moment, so disturbed in my brains was I, I could have believed my uncle and Gladys had taken the same route, though I had clearly seen each of them disappear from view right where they stood. At any rate, I followed her. She had discarded her knife, and I still have that, in a box at my flat. But though the fallen implement showed which way she had taken, she had run away at such speed that I could not catch or find her, and the good Lord alone knows where she lurks now. At that terrible moment, I heard a low sobbing from my left. Now, this warehouse is surrounded by bushes of a grim nature, mostly thorns, which run down narrow alleys between this building and the next. It was from these bushes that the sobbing came. It sounded like a child, and I peered in carefully, leaving the kitchen knife where it lay. My primary emotion now was a sort of em- battled anger. What now, I kept thinking, what now? But when I saw the waif, my impatience melted. A schoolboy, it seemed, wearing a uniform of some antiq- uity - you know the sort of thing, with a ruff and stock- ings, like they used to when my old Dad went off to war. He was in a frightful state, torn by the thorns and terrified. At least he spoke English, though broken and strangely inflected. He whined about his papa, and about the headmaster, and how they would miss him at tipcat after classes, and how came he here? It is here that I come to the most grotesque and astonishing portion of my narrative. I will forgive you, lads, if you flatly refuse to believe in anything I have said till

40 The Adventure of the Laboratory now. From here on, I will be surprised indeed if you credit a word of it. But all I can do is relate it to you as it happened, and relieve my feelings before I must go back out into the cold air and resume my searching. For I tell you I will not give up, not until death. But I go ahead of the facts. Please forgive me. Another round, yes, this time on me. Faith, I’ve left my pocket book somewhere. Thank you, Sepperling. Very well then. I took the lad out of the bushes, at some cost of skin and blood, and brought him into the lab. He shrieked in fear at sight of the dormant contraption, which was quite understandable, I thought. When I had calmed him down again, and given him a boiled sweet from Uncle Roger’s office, and sat him in Roger’s own chair, and generally wiped away his tears, he confessed that his name was William Claggart and he had his own pony. He could not tell me how he had arrived in the bushes, but swore he had been on his way to the boys’ house from the last class of the day, to change and meet the lads for sports. He was most insistent that he’d lost his books somewhere and they cost a shilling, and that he was sure to be whipped for that. This seemed to exercise him more than his current state of friendless abandonment in a strange place, presumably from superior experience. His papa, also named William Claggart, was an hotel manager, but had been forced to close down when so many of his patrons were impressed or called up, and that the man himself had gone off to war. He only wept when I asked after his mama, and I could get no more useful information about her from him. I determined to call the police and turn the child over to them, so that the Clag-

41 Kathleen Dale garts could be found and whatever archaic school they sent their son to, which still forced their children to go about in that getup, could be reprimanded for losing a client. But then something occurred to me that quite stopped me in my tracks. I have never been very much in the brains depart- ment. When the job calls for courage, fortitude or stead- fastness, the cry rings out far and wide to send in Whitney Shuttleford. But when it comes to intelligence, some other bird is brought in, every time. Nevertheless, a strange correlation had begun to weigh on my mind while I comforted this rotten infant. Two had vanished. And two had appeared. Let me take you through it once more. My Uncle Roger had disappeared some twenty minutes ago. At about the same time, going by the number of injuries sustained in the struggle, this young shaver had appeared in the thorn bushes. Then, not five minutes later, my Gladys had become lost to sight and another woman had myste- riously arrived in the storage room, where she had crouched in confusion until I arrived and frightened her. That, it seemed to me, was the sequence of events. Uncle Roger had perhaps been a shade off in his calculations, and whether through time, space or some bizarre combination of the two, his machine had in fact replaced him with this schoolboy from seventy years ago. And Gladys, my Gladys! She was wrenched from me, only to be cruelly replaced with the knife-wielding, filthy changeling who had fled! A cold, calculating idea filled my head at that moment. I was not myself, lads, simply not myself, and I can provide no other justification for my actions. Promising the lad shamelessly that his papa and his pony awaited

42 The Adventure of the Laboratory him, I drew him after me to the central cylinder. There he shrank against my side while I drew the knife switch from one side to the other. The lightnings and the sparks began to scale up to a higher pitch. The muck in the cylinder began to glow. The sound of a thousand voices whispering arose all around us. The boy shrieked and I grasped him by the collar. With my other hand I placed the dials back as closely as I could remember to the positions they had been in when Gladys vanished. I know what you are thinking, my friends, and I feel the same. It was a reprehensible act. But I ask you, what else could I do? This boy did not belong here, and Uncle Roger and Gladys did. True, there was no way to know what would happen, and to this day I do not truly know. But it was all I could do, simply the only thing my fevered brain could offer. I pressed him down into a crouch and shouted into his face with the full authority of my race, class and age: “Stay there!” And he did. I could not stay and listen closely to the whispering, or it would twist my thoughts as it had before. Shouting promises that he would soon be reunited with his family and his schoolmates, though I don’t know if he could hear me, I hurried to the observation booth and snatched up the dark goggles. Since Gladys had vanished from this very spot, I could not call myself safe, but I had an idea that the proximity and constant closeness to the effect was the danger. Gladys and her employer had long worked with the lightnings and the stuff in the cylinders, and thus it had taken Uncle Roger, its inventor, first, and Gladys, his assistant, afterward. The boy had come through it somehow, therefore it would take him before me.

43 Kathleen Dale

Thin, lads, very thin. But perhaps I was not altogether wrong, as you shall see. When I threw the final lever inside the booth, the roaring, crackling whisper flooded out, the lightnings flared and the fan of light opened. It showed a scene of children, wearing the foppish clothing of a past age, hitting a bar of wood with a stick to make it flip up from the ground and fly away. The boy cried out and reached toward this vision as toward a long-lost Heaven. The ten seconds passed, the fan of light died, the lightnings eased away. I ripped off my goggles and came to the door of the booth. The weeping child was still there, poor mite! But even as I, with my soul tearing itself in two, crossed the floor toward him, he was there no longer. My heart leapt, and I rejoiced to hear, from the far corner of the dim warehouse, a thump and a timid cry of fear. I hurried thither, only to find, to my eternal rage and sorrow, that an unforgiving Providence had returned to me, not my beloved, but my Uncle Roger! He lay against the wall of the warehouse. His glasses had gone, his waistcoat and jacket were in a terrible state, and his hair was simply frightful. He blinked up at me without a word, eyes wide and staring. Indeed, I believe his mind has gone entirely, for he has spoken not a syllable since, but only wept and calmed alternately. Almost, I committed the further crime of turning the machinery back on and trying to catapult him through the ether in hopes of recovering my bride to be. But reason prevailed. Only Uncle Roger can explain the device well enough to be certain of its use, if he recovers his senses. I pray that he might. Every day that he lies in Hanwell, unable to speak his own name or recognize his relatives, my Gladys might be in the most frightful danger, or her mind

44 The Adventure of the Laboratory ravaged by whatever passage through the worlds that hellish machine allows for! And I can do nothing, nothing! That very hour I forced Uncle Roger to come with me, into my car. I swore my driver to utmost silence and released Roger into the woods around his home. I gave him ten minutes by the clock, and then went and captured him again, well scratched and covered with mud and tree roots, and brought him to Hanwell Asylum. Oh, come now, gentlemen, if you have heard my tale, you know why I hid the truth of his madness, why I did not involve the police. They would have locked up the warehouse and smashed the machine, and my last hope of recovering Gladys would be gone. No, only one hope remains, lads. I have been searching, searching day and night, ceaselessly prowling the asy- lums, the churches, the poorhouses, looking for a woman who speaks in a savage language and has bad teeth and mousy hair, a woman who, though she had no weapon, might well have attacked someone. For I know, now, whence she came, from two hundred years ago or there- abouts, a servant woman from a great stone castle, perhaps a shepherd’s wife or a scullery maid. I have been listening to Uncle Roger’s infernal device. By the hour I crouch by it, the lightnings whickering around me, the whispering voices clearer and clearer. I turn it on, I twist the dials, and I listen. I understand it so much better now. I know how I can bring Gladys back--if it is willing to take the strange woman, I am willing to sacrifice her on the altar of my love. After all, I have already thrown away a ten-year-old boy, who might have returned home safely to his pony, or who might have become the youngest lunatic of his times. Love is a terrible thing, lads, a terrible thing.

45 Kathleen Dale

And if the machinery decides it is happier with my soul, and takes me instead of the poor woman from an older time, in the last moments of my sanity I will be grateful, if only it will return Gladys to her own world, with her mind intact. And now I must go. There was news yesterday of a new inmate at Lincolnshire. It may be fantastic to expect the poor woman, whether mad or simply estranged, could have gotten so far, but such scraps of hope are the fare on which I subsist, these days. And so farewell.

* * *

To a silent, uncertain audience, he rose, tipped his hat, and walked away. He left a quarter-inch of amber fluid still in his glass, and I collared it at once. I am ashamed to say that only a few minutes after his departure, we laughed at the absurdity and romance of his story. One by one, we denounced it as the most fantastic rubbish, even Arthur assuring us it was too much for him. I can only say that in the presence of one another, we had little choice--it was that or all rush out together to disrupt our comfortable lives and take on Whit’s search. We should have aided him, I now believe. For since that day, some months ago, neither sight nor sound of Whitney Shuttleford has been reported by any who knew him. I believe it was Sepperling who noted that Roger Staunton’s assistant, Gladys Barrimore, was said to have given notice and left the country a few days before the events recounted. Roger himself is taking the waters in Paris, he was told, a story that many of the better families put about when a relative is a good candidate for the cure, or a nervous condition threatens.

46 The Adventure of the Laboratory

I myself looked into the records of purchase of the warehouses on Spenser Street, and discovered the one owned by Lord Yaxleyton, let to his brother in law Roger Staunton. It stands dark and locked up, with chain and padlock. I banged on the door, feeling futile, but there was no answer. And there my investigations came to a close. And so there is no corroboration to Whit’s tale, and all his friends can do is lift a glass to him when we get together at the Bee and Bulfinch. If, somewhere in this great city, there exists still a woman who speaks an outmoded early English, whose linen sheath and bare feet excited comment and whose frantic manner brought her to an asylum for the insane, then Whit has perhaps flung himself through the ether alone, in search of his Gladys, if you believe his account. If that is the case, I can only hope that he found her, and that they have made their way as best they can in whatever strange place and time they found themselves. Love, as he said to us with burning eye and pale cheek, is a terrible thing. I find, nowadays, that so is hope.

The Quarantine Station Lee Clark Zumpe

1. The Taint of Plague

At the time of my arrival in Smithville, I believed it safe to assume my ongoing affiliation with Dr. Herbert West had finally come to an end. I felt confident that the professional and social stigmata I suffered due to my rela- tionship with West would soon pass, and that gradually I would be able to regain the respect and amity of my peers. Still, a part of me secretly anticipated – and dreaded – the day West would arrive on my doorstep once more, zealously proposing to resume our research and revisit our investigations into that most morbid avenue of bio- chemistry. Though West’s perversions of science often nause- ated me, I knew ultimately my unrelenting intellectual in- quisitiveness would forever enslave me to his advanced aptitude and his tenacious resolve to press onward with this most distasteful work. His singular objective to rein- troduce that vital spark into the mortal remains of the deceased at once fascinated and repelled me. My assignment to the small, sleepy seaside village of Smithville had come as an indirect result of my past par- ticipation and support of West’s early experimentation. An embarrassment to some, I found myself now impelled to follow the whims of academic administrators in order to win their approval. Dr. Alistair Malick, a senior faculty member at Miskatonic University in Arkham, had appointed me to lead the relief efforts in his hometown

48 The Quarantine Station

where a particularly fierce strain of smallpox had infected hundreds of fishermen and their families over a three month period. The mission was two-fold: First, I was to provide medical assistance in treating the infected and stemming the further spread of the outbreak; and, second, I was to monitor and record the unfolding events from a scientific standpoint, discovering the source and dissemination of the malady while documenting its progress and its limitations as a detached observer. I embraced the undertaking as a personal and professional challenge, eager to demonstrate my willingness to partake in legitimate medical endeavors and predisposed to applying my skills to the benefit of society. While I understood the gravity and the hazards of the situation, I felt myself well-equipped to carry out the mission. Neither my educational background, which included an extensive exploration of various disfiguring ailments accentuated in grainy photographs and vivid, hand- colored illustrations collected in an assortment of descrip- tive textbooks; nor the awful events I beheld as a volun- teer with the Canadians during the Great War; nor even the long string of unsettling, appalling, and, by most standards, unethical experiences I witnessed as West’s ac- complice could prepare me for the horrors I would face in Smithville. I discerned shortly after my arrival that something more sinister than commonplace pestilence had afflicted the dwellers of seaside fishing cottages and the pallid, soft-spoken townsfolk who cowered behind locked doors. Even at its peak, the typhoid scourge that befell Arkham some 20 years earlier did not dispatch such great numbers with such speed and strength and cruelty. Smithville is a quiet North Carolina coastal commu-

49 Lee Clark Zumpe nity situated along the northern shore of the Kaldetseenee River near where it empties into the Atlantic Ocean. Up the coast from Little River and southwest of the mouth of the Cape Fear River, the town was founded twice: Originally established in 1697, the settlement burned to the ground in the mid-18 th century only to be rebuilt in 1792. Unable to compete with Wilmington, the seaport gradually accepted a less consequential and less ambitious role in colonial commerce. Eventually, the harbor began attracting less reputable traders – those banned for various reasons from the major hubs along the Atlantic coast. Exports included nothing more extraordinary than turpentine, rosin, tar, pitch, cotton and peanuts. Imports, however, came from far-flung havens of questionable repute, with vessels arriving from Costa Rica, Capetown, Port Said, Tunis, Zanzibar, Durban and Shanghai carrying contraband cargo, opiates and spices, and, on occasion, even more ghastly stowage. It was widely rumored that even now, well into the 20 th century, ships ferried slave labor and indentured servants into the country for exploi- tation in coal mining, Appalachian logging camps and other grueling drudgery. It was reasonable to speculate that the smallpox had originated on one of these incoming merchant ships, had been introduced to the indigenous population through casual contact and had developed into an epidemic due to a lack of proper diagnosis and corresponding preventive measures. Because of its isolation from surrounding communities, and because of its reliance upon a strict quarantine for all incoming vessels, Smithville had not recorded an episode of smallpox since the turn of the century. Unfortunately, this blessing made the town far more vulnerable to an outbreak since few of its members

50 The Quarantine Station had developed lifelong immunity. Smallpox – traditionally considered a childhood disease – could decimate a virgin population. A tenth of the townsfolk had succumbed to the demon plague by the time I arrived, their fresh graves still awaiting tombstones in the old cemetery on the edge of town. Hundreds more had been infected and lay in various stages of infirmity, bodies defaced and identities obscured by blisters so densely clustered they overlapped. By day, the streets remained still and empty as the unaf- fected recoiled from all contact; by night, the village filled with the nightmarish shrieks of the sleepless tormented, trying ineffectually to distance themselves from constant agony. My initial meeting with the mayor of Smithville was brief and awkward. Bertram Sellers’ daughter had passed the previous evening. His wife was inconsolable and wept audibly in some far corner of his humble home. At my request, he provided me with ample documentation, including original copies of arriving ships’ manifests. He also told me where I could locate the town’s only surviving physician. Sellers – a proud, religious man who clearly earned the respect and admiration of his citizens – found it difficult to discuss the tragedy that had beset his community and his family. His voice cracked frequently during the interview, and stubborn tears hung from the corners of his eyes. He tried desperately to cloak his overwhelming grief, to remain at all cost in control and effectual as a leader as he described to me the chronology of events comprising the abominable epidemic. The first signs of infection, he indicated, arrived in the form of severe muscle pain and great tenderness in

51 Lee Clark Zumpe the lower back and joints. Fever soon followed, and in some cases death occurred before the telltale rash appeared. For the rest, the disease played out more slowly as the scarlet rash and tiny blisters progressively annexed every bit of flesh across the body. The disease had initially appeared among the crews of pogie boats, spreading through the families of fishermen who lived in shacks and lean-tos in the marsh east of town. Sellers blamed them for bringing smallpox into Smithville. He dismissed any suggestion that the disease had come into the town from arriving vessels, insisting that the quarantine had been rigorously enforced. Though I still could not discount the possibility, I found no evidence in the records that there had been any breech or wholesale abandonment of Smithville’s quarantine practices. Such a failure would have seemed particularly peculiar since the town had been blessed with an ex- traordinarily elaborate offshore quarantine station by an unknown benefactor in the years following the Civil War – or, as the locals preferred, the War of Northern Aggres- sion. This station, as viewed from the docks along the waterfront, had been built upon a shoal in Kaldetseenee Sound, about a quarter of the distance between Smithville and Lawley’s Island. A sprawling complex set atop wood stilts, the station had its own water tower and infirmary, a kitchen capable of serving dozens of hungry sailors, a dockmaster’s quarters and a customs office. Sellers assured me he had spoken with the station’s chief attendant and physician who swore he had seen no traces of smallpox in the weeks prior to the epidemic. All arriving vessels remained in quarantine for a period of 15 days – long enough to detect the presence of any devious plague that might lurk among crewmembers, using them

52 The Quarantine Station as ignorant hosts to gain a foothold in an untouched population. Following my interview with the mayor, I visited the residence of the town doctor. I rapped on the door repeatedly, waiting patiently for reply. Though I thought I sensed shadows stirring behind the drawn curtains, and though I perceived the faintest hint of anxious whispers fluttering from hidden rooms down long corridors within the mansion, no answer ever came and at length I took my leave. I allowed myself the presumption that the doctor had been called away, and that his responsibilities during the epidemic kept him out and about at all hours of the night and day. Walking about the town, I found every store bolted, every government office closed and every avenue vacant. The air was still and heavy, mournful of the scarcity of gentlemen’s conversations, ladies’ gossip and children’s laughter. Smithville had become a ghost town, and as the light of day began to fade, a spectral mist crawled across Kaldetseenee Sound to haunt the abandoned wharves beneath dim lamplight. I had stowed my belongings in a hostel overlooking the harbor. The innkeeper had attended to my needs ap- prehensively, clutching a kerchief to his face to check the spread of germs. I assured him that I had been vaccinated years earlier and that I could not infect him, but his fear was insurmountable. I suspect that he provided me with lodging only at the insistence of Mayor Sellers. Before retiring to bed, I noticed through my window an eerie glow piercing the fog – a dull ruddiness that pulsed with hypnotic monotony, emanating approxi- mately a quarter of the way between Smithville and Law- ley’s Island. I watched the flickering light for some time,

53 Lee Clark Zumpe

weariness increasingly undermining my concentration until, at last, I fell asleep. At some point just prior to losing consciousness, I believe I witnessed a secondary source of light detach itself from the first, moving slowly but dis- cernibly toward the shore.

2. Amidst Freshly Dug Graves

I woke long before dawn, and, finding myself sufficiently rested, dressed and ventured out into the early morning twilight to walk the mist-shrouded streets of Smithville. The somnolent plague-sufferers, shunned by Morpheus and deprived of the luxuries of hibernation and dream, vented pitiable cries from their sickbeds where they wres- tled to find a moment’s reprieve from constant torment. Their disheartening wails painted vibrant portraits of their malady, calling to mind the tiny, pus-filled blisters swarm- ing over once gentle flesh, forever altering appearances and mercilessly scarring beauty. It was on the outskirts of town that I made the first startling discovery of that day. A row of freshly dug graves crowned by temporary wooden markers provided an indication of the plague’s most recent victims. A sparse scattering of flowers blanketed a few of the plots, though none boasted the fitting memorials seen in less perilous times. The lack of attendance and consideration clearly grew from fear and panic, not callousness or apathy. As a man of science, I had no tangible fear of loiter- ing amongst the dead – at least, not under the current circumstances. Yet, as I strolled along the weedy avenues in that old cemetery beneath a sliver of the moon, I sensed a

54 The Quarantine Station growing apprehension in my veins, an unsubstantiated accretion of juvenile fears I had not fallen victim to since that night in Boston when unspeakable things had transpired in the secret chamber beneath the tomb of the Averills. I found myself scanning the shadows amidst mold- draped, centuries-old monuments, scrutinizing the copi- ous and impenetrable pitch that always seems to accumu- late in the last hours before the dawn arrives to wash away the ebon night. Perhaps the collective restlessness of the townsfolk infected my professional lucidity, or perhaps the half-buried memories of the consequences of my work with Dr. Herbert West suddenly resurfaced and culminated in an instant of frantic exasperation. I cringed like a child at some unseen horror, frozen with fear and left clinging to the shadows at the base of an old oak at the very heart of the cemetery – a tree whose ancient arms stretched mightily to provide a gentle, leafy canopy to an ever-expanding necropolis. Then, I saw them: Two lumbering figures came shambling out of the hedgerow toward the rear of the boneyard. Though one carried a torch, I could only roughly perceive their hideous, disease-ridden features across the distance. Both had been left badly mutilated by smallpox, with scars twisting and distorting their knotted, gristly faces into monstrous facades. Their long, brawny arms rippled with scabs and drained pustules and, even in the darkness, seemed permanently tinged with a crimson taint. In the eyes of one, the torchlight flickered – the reflected red radiance revealed only crude intimations of a base intellect, with no suggestion of individuality or emo- tive thought. On each forehead appeared an unnatural

55 Lee Clark Zumpe protrusion – a bulbous swelling encircled by bloody, in- flamed tissue. So far removed, I could not identify the cause of this protuberance and wondered if it was an un- documented symptom of smallpox or a subtle sign the disease had developed into a new and more deadly incar- nation. With little consideration, the two unwieldy brutes selected a recently positioned grave and set about their de- praved occupation. The sound of shovels thrusting earthward, violating both the soil and the sacred, conjured up images I had entombed years earlier and which I had hoped would nevermore see the light of day. Their present enterprise recalled that distant night when West and I had, by the light of oil dark lanterns, set our spades in the unsettled loam of the potter’s field and worked feverishly to uncover and liberate the contents of a recently placed pine box for our own dubious and selfish purposes. What followed in the black hours at the old Chapman place beyond Meadow Hill is history, if only recorded and evoked in our own secreted notes. It remains a blurry haze, an exercise that culminated in both success and failure – an undertaking resulting in equally profound academic exultation and moral deterioration. I could not afford to lose myself in tenuous specula- tion or draw premature conclusions based upon my own biased perceptions corrupted by long-standing, salient fears. In all likelihood, the loathsome creatures engaged in the ghoulish act of unburying the dead were nothing more than common grave robbers, devoid of principals and desperate enough to disturb a victim of unspeakable pestilence for a few gold trinkets. The two made fast work of it, accomplishing more in minutes than most would complete in an hour. I clearly

56 The Quarantine Station remembered with shame the arduous, backbreaking task of grave digging – a charge I wish upon no man. It took West and me hours to secure our cadaver; yet, the scarred men of Smithville placed their hands on the intended corpse with dawn still an hour away. In the moments that followed, I ascertained they were not interested in filching the final possessions of the deceased – their objective was more complicated and gruesome than simple theft of property. After removing the body and depositing it into a canvas sack, they gathered their belongings, shoveled the displaced dirt back into place and restored the gravesite to its previous appearance. Their meticulousness in returning the plot to its former condition contradicted their earlier haste in abducting the carcass and bordered on obses- sive behavior. I watched with trepidation as they vigilantly patted down the soil, straightened and tidied the marker and placed dislocated blossoms on the ground with solemnity and considerable thoughtfulness. Their uncharac- teristic concern suggested an intimacy with the deceased or a kinship of some unimaginable derivation and con- flicted with their otherwise unemotional, disconnected malaise. With dawn threatening to spill over the eastern horizon, the two corpse thieves retreated into the dense foli- age at the precise point where they had first appeared at the edge of the cemetery, hauling their plunder into a tangled thicket of brush. Regaining my composure and once more incited to action by the same intellectual inquisi- tiveness that had habitually led me into dangerous and ethically ambiguous adventures, I felt pressed into an ill- conceived pursuit. Caution and prudence governed my initial footsteps, but I soon found myself speeding

57 Lee Clark Zumpe through the dense undergrowth, enveloped by darkness, scored and scratched by jagged twigs and thorny vines, striving earnestly not to stray from the poorly marked trail and to remain oblivious to those whom I trailed. The rising, malodorous miasma around me and the sodden ground beneath my feet ensured me that I had ventured into the marsh lands encircling the city, the very grounds from which Mayor Sellers believed the scourge had besieged Smithville. In the gloom, I perceived faint outlines – blackened silhouettes framed with straight lines and perpendicular angles, contours too tidy and seamless to be the work of nature. Though wholly obscured from identification, these hidden forms I guessed to be scattered fishermen’s hovels, dilapidated and aging huts wherein generations of sea-faring families had been reared and raised. I detected in my progress the moderate sloping of the soggy floor beneath my feet, falling steadily toward the nearby water’s edge. Dawn now lent an indistinct shimmer to the skies, an almost invisible radiance that spread across the gray firmament but failed to cast out shadows from the marsh. A faint tang in the air which I realized I had uncon- sciously perceived at intervals since my arrival in Smith- ville became increasingly more pithy and pungent as I drew closer to Kaldetseenee Sound. The putrid odor reminded me initially of rancid corpses freshly plucked from the grave and half-devoured by ambitious worms. This stench, though, eclipsed even the reek of human pu- trescence with an overpowering and stomach-turning element of brine and sewage coupled with swamp vapors of the most deleterious fen imaginable. Now, too, I noticed a disconcerting noise from every

58 The Quarantine Station quarter. From the pools of pitch at my feet came an unnatural flip-flopping and smacking sound, along with an occasional pop and puff of air. The shadows betrayed only a hint of motion, so the source of the clatter remained veiled in darkness patiently awaiting disclosure when the morning sun finally penetrated the dense marsh vegetation. The tardy dawn found me on the edge of the marsh overlooking Kaldetseenee Sound. A rowboat silently slipped through the tides, pulling away from the shore with great haste and disappearing gradually little by little into the folds of sea mist. Its occupants never looked back to notice they had been followed, never bothered to conceal the closing stages of their ghastly industry. On board I saw the two brutes I watched earlier in the cemetery, the light of morning now making their deformities all the more evident. Between them, a slouched, canvas- covered corpse awaited some unfortunate fate inside the remote walls of the quarantine station. Indeed, I did not have to guess at the pathetic thing’s future. I knew, now, my old associate had taken up residence in that station and had recommenced tinkering with the edicts of nature. The morning light provided abundant evidence to establish his involvement. The dawn had illuminated a grotesque assemblage of bony, decaying fish carcasses scattered across the marsh floor – each one clearly diseased and scored with lesions; each one half-eaten by water fowl and dissected by insects and swamp vermin; each one long dead, netted weeks or months earlier by fishermen prior to the onset of the plague. I stood in that awful graveyard, watching as the dead fish writhed and thrashed about against the muddy ground.

59 Lee Clark Zumpe

3. An Unanticipated Reunion

I spent the balance of the day assisting in the treatment of the infected, helping the town’s doctor provide medical assistance and reassuring his patients that the outbreak had already peaked and would soon recede – though I could not convince myself of that comfort. Fear I found in every face, young and old, wealthy and impoverished, pious and sinful. Unexpected and uninhibited disease often caused such despondency, introducing into the population it plagues the harsh veracity of uncompromising death. With explicit clarity it illustrates the transience of our limited immortality and ultimately underscores the vulnerability of both the individual and the species. Dr. Bryant Monroe Willetts welcomed my services and apologized for not making himself available the previous day. His experience with smallpox was limited, though his own immunity was assured due to a childhood bout with a less lethal strain. I found Willetts a competent enough man of medicine, somewhat old-fashioned in his diagnostic aptitude and approach to healing, but refreshingly gracious and well-mannered and unpretentious. His knowledge of folk remedies seemed limitless. Willetts spoke highly of Mayor Sellers and his leader- ship throughout the epidemic, but his hesitation to answer my repeated inquiries regarding the quarantine station and its custodian – who he described as being “recently appointed with disputed credentials,” assigned without his consent or endorsement – added to my compounding fears. I spoke to no one about my suspicions. Had I informed the mayor, providing even a veiled glimpse as to

60 The Quarantine Station the things potentially transpiring under the orchestration of my former scientific colleague, he would have labeled me a madman and dismissed me with a letter of disgust and censure that would have ruined my career. Only a handful of academicians comprehended the theories Dr. Herbert West proposed, and fewer still managed the courage to assign an ounce of confidence in them. To confess to anyone my first-hand familiarity with the proc- esses by which reanimation might be achieved and to admit to both my complicity and my faith in successful experimentation supporting West’s conjecture was to tan- tamount to blasphemy in the eyes of my peers. I decided that I had to confront West, to describe the nightmare he had somehow set into motion in Smithville and to induce him into considering the ramifications of his present line of research. As I tended to the victims of the scourge that afternoon, I tried to persuade myself that West was guilty of nothing more than criminal negligence, allowing the disease to burn its way through the weakest members of the isolated population until it waned, providing him with an abundant supply of fresh, albeit diseased, corpses for his experiments. I wanted to know that he had not unleashed the plague in the first place – that he had not allowed his obsession to permanently supplant compassion and culpability. Late in the afternoon, I joined Mayor Sellers and his weeping wife on the edge of the old cemetery. They laid their daughter to rest in a freshly dug grave while a disillu- sioned pastor muttered a few utilitarian words to serve as a condensed tribute to the child’s untimely passing. The preacher’s listless eyes and unanimated sermon betrayed his inner turmoil, paralyzed by helplessness and questioning his own faith. I understood the betrayal he felt even

61 Lee Clark Zumpe though my academic background distanced me from his theological interpretation of the epidemic. I had insisted that henceforth all victims should be cremated and that mortuary workers should be vaccinated to prevent further infections, and the mayor agreed to my request – but his wife would not allow it for their daughter. As she was lowered into the ground, I remembered her face from a family portrait I had seen in the Seller’s parlor – young, fair-complexioned, a brimming smile that compressed all the wonder and innocence of childhood into a hopeful and optimistic moment lost to time. I had not seen her body after death, after the scourge left its hideous mark. I hoped that she would rest undisturbed in the earth and that I would never chance to see the disfigurement both death and disease had wrought upon her. As we left the graveside, though, I felt greedy eyes fall upon the recently turned ground. Nightfall would soon arrive and instill West’s minions with courage enough to do his bidding. As dusk neared, I noticed a distinct change in the weather. The winds had increased, dispelling the fog which blanketed the harbor the previous evening. A cold gale swept the Carolina lowlands carrying legions of long, ragged gray clouds that grew increasingly menacing as they sailed across the sky. A black wall formed on the western horizon, swallowing the sun an hour before dusk and erupting frequently in flashes of brilliant lightning that reached toward the Atlantic. Willetts had warned me he felt a storm coming, attributing his prophetic meteoro- logical capacity to tender, aching joints and sinus inflam- mation. With whitecaps crawling across the harbor as dark-

62 The Quarantine Station ness descended, I made my way down to the neglected docks where it took little time to appropriate a rowboat that would suit my purposes. Light rain had begun to fall as I struggled against the wind, the surf and the stubborn tide, determined not to allow the inconvenience of nature to obstruct me from the unanticipated reunion fated to take place that evening on the offshore quarantine station. I barely managed to secure the rowboat to a floating dock at the station when the swollen storm-clouds overhead split and unleashed a brutal deluge that removed the little town of Smithville from view and made Kaldet- seenee Sound seem as vast and unforgiving as the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Rising waters inundated the dock as waves pounded the pilings and swamped my small ferry. Winds lashed the station with appalling ferocity and belligerence, and I scrambled up a nearby ladder in search of safety. Two figures snatched me out of the weather, dragging me through the darkened halls of the quarantine station past empty cabins and rooms cluttered with laboratory equipment. I recognized much of the paraphernalia as stolen goods, long lost from classrooms at Miskatonic. The brutish forms which forcibly towed me deeper into the recesses of the station conveyed me in such a way that I could not see their faces; their much maligned hands, however, were all too evident as they clutched my soggy clothing – their blistered flesh, crimson-hued and slick with rain-diluted pus, strained against tense and brittle bones while the disease continued to tear away tissues and corrupt vital internal organs. And then there was West. Initially, he ignored my arrival, believing me to be no more than another corpse secured for what he believed to be his noble enterprise –

63 Lee Clark Zumpe his continued experiments into the reanimation of recently extinguished life. In those moments before he identified me – before he tore himself from his calculations and computations to study the prize his two under- lings had delivered to him – I saw the same glut of con- viction, the same elitist arrogance, the same narcissism that had shaped and warped his life’s work. His genius was rivaled only by his madness. When the spark of recognition finally distracted him from his intricate, convoluted calculations, he immediately dismissed his contaminated toadies, relieved himself of his bloodied gloves and lab coat and approached me with a genuine air of relief and congenial reminiscence. In those first moments, words proved too cumbersome to convey his delight at my very presence and he approached and embraced me as though we were brothers connected by blood. “What fortuitous favor brings my confidant and colleague to my side whenever the need is greatest,” he said, and for an instant I thought he might break down in tears. “Such providence lesser men may not acknowledge, but fate – defined as some cosmic engine driving the steady advance of science – has seen fit once more to align us on this ultramodern undertaking.” “Not this time,” I said, interrupting his salutations. Though I fully intended to question him regarding the scourge that had disastrously beset picturesque Smithville; though I planned to reprimand him for conducting irre- sponsible experimentation clearly responsible for ad- versely affecting the immediate environment, I already felt my resolve beginning to ebb, displaced as always by some uncontainable academic covetousness. “We must,” I continued, “put an end to the suffering of these villag-

64 The Quarantine Station ers.” “Yes, yes, of course.” West, incurably overconfident, chronically smug, shrugged off my concern as if he had the power to end the affliction with the flick of a switch. “Everything will be fine. Only today I’ve completed work on upgrading a vaccine based on this new and virulent strain of the disease. Take it back to the town, inoculate the population.” He directed me to a specific table in the lab upon which rested a wooden crate filled with vials of serum. “But the weather is far too treacherous to permit safe passage now. With sweeping tidal currents, the sound is difficult enough to navigate by day in the fairest weather. To set you off in these present conditions would be criminally careless.” West knew he had a captive audience, knew he could count on my sympathies, knew I he could convince me and implicate me in his deviant diver- sions. “Postpone your departure until morning. We have much to discuss.”

4. From the Dark Water’s Depths

As the storm pummeled the exterior of the facility, I re- acquainted myself with West as he providing a brief tour of the quarantine station, detailing the existing procedures adopted to prevent the kind of outbreak that presently was giving local grave diggers a grueling and strenuous season. The self-sufficient station boasted men’s and women’s barracks, a bathhouse, laundry, boiler house, disinfecting chamber and crematory. While its design provided enviable efficiency and practicality, the Spartan accommodations felt drab and dreary and induced an in- timidating sense of impotence and suppression.

65 Lee Clark Zumpe

The dispiriting atmosphere and aura of foreboding surrounding the fabricated island in the middle of Kaldet- seenee Sound played perfectly into West’s ambitions. His continuing studies demanded a certain clandestineness that in these prosperous years could not easily be ob- tained along the burgeoning Atlantic seaboard. The town, desperate for an educated physician not opposed to service in such an isolated outpost, had assured West that rarely would his services be required. Even in the busiest time of year, only one ship a week utilized the disadvan- taged port, opting to travel a few extra leagues to Wil- mington. Still, West’s disreputable past created obstacles to ob- taining any job, no matter how unpleasant, in his home country. Fortunately, he had made a modest fortune abroad in a series of recent pursuits he refused to describe in detail but which he referred to as “opprobrious, shameful and sordid.” Thus, his placement at the facility had been cinched by way of a substantial endowment made to the town’s elders, an inducement that ensured both his tenure and his privacy. Their covenant apparently had been so lucrative that even though the epidemic coincided with West’s arrival, neither Smithville’s mayor nor its chief medical practitioner felt obliged to mention the correlation. “I am not certain that the townsfolk are capable of deducing the cause-and-effect interrelation between the two events,” West said, reaffirming his persistent ten- dency to disparage those with an academic deficiency. “But I will not deny the role I played in the unfolding of this tragedy, even though I could not have foreseen the repercussions of my well-intentioned deeds.” My silence coupled with an expression of incredulity

66 The Quarantine Station disarmed the habitually stoic West, and, for a moment, he shed his gall and hubris and espoused a more conciliatory tone. “How could I have imagined the series of events that led to this disaster? Even now, I cannot with any certainty point to the mechanism by which this malady was able to infect the residents of Smithville – I only know that my ambition, as always, clouded my judgment.” His admission of guilt clearly taxed his fixed convictions. West, a man of unshakable principals, had finally confessed to being misguided by personal aspirations. “When we strive to achieve our dreams, we are sometimes blinded by the light of our own burning passions.” With that, West began to recount all that had transpired, and together we tried to piece together the chain of lamentable misfortunes, mishaps and missed opportu- nities that led to the execrable scourge. An aging schooner had arrived late one moonless evening, the majority of its crew either dead or dying. From the ravings of the surviving crewmen, West determined they had set sail from Loanda in Angola and that they carried with them contraband from the Belgian Congo. Realizing that no one in Smithville had detected the arrival of the vessel, and knowing that he could not save the lives of the few remaining passengers, West made a reckless and inappropriate decision: He quarantined the doomed men in the station’s barracks and then boarded the ship carrying with him varying doses of a redesigned, refined elixir he believed could restore life to the deceased. Methodically, he injected the formula into each corpse he came across in the shadowy depths of the schooner. He timed the experiment carefully, believing that if

67 Lee Clark Zumpe the reanimation of flesh were to occur, the serum would take no more than 60 minutes to facilitate the process. I cannot begin to imagine the excitement, the tension and the anticipation he must have felt standing on the deck of that ship beneath the wary twilight, waiting to detect the faintest sounds of reinstate life wafting up from the cabin below. In his veins, too, running concurrently with that bloated expectancy flowed undiluted, unadulterated dread. West could not predict how many corpses might respond to his treatment, could not divine the emotional attributes they might display upon meeting the orchestrator of their resurrection. Not one came crawling into the starlight that dark evening, and West – acting on instinct – set the boat adrift on the outgoing tide long before dawn. Before dis- embarking, however, he started a fire in the hold. The doomed ship burned along the shoals where the harbor empties into the Atlantic. As to the survivors, West possessed neither the time nor the resources to cure them – so he experimented on them even before the moment of death. Of the six, only two could be resuscitated after their hearts stopped beat- ing, and these two had served him ever since. However, since their demeanor had been somewhat less than docile, West had been forced to relieve them of various bits of prefrontal cortex, extracted quite effectively through holes drilled in forehead. Following the operation, he had inserted small corks in the opening of each man’s skull, providing him with a decidedly expeditious method of destroying each reanimated servant should their behavior grow inauspicious. These plugs accounted for the unnatural protrusions I had observed the previous night.

68 The Quarantine Station

Nothing in his tale, though, offered a direct link to the outbreak of smallpox in Smithville. “Is it possible that someone onboard the schooner slipped by you and reached the shore?” “Impossible,” West said, pounding his fist on a table- top in the station’s central laboratory. The entire facility lurched under a barrage of undulating swells. The storm had churned up the dark waters of the sound transform- ing the usually tranquil harbor into a seething tumult. I wondered how the decades-old construction had been fortified to withstand such fierce weather – wondered how many such squalls it had already survived during the course of its lifetime. West ignored the howling gale, the frothing seas, the roar of thunder and the relentless deluge that sent streams of water pouring through the threadbare roofing. His mind could not tear itself from the mystery at hand. “They were all too far gone. How they even managed to navigate the narrow passage into the sound I can’t imagine.” “Yet, we both now somehow the disease reached the mainland.” I gazed at the two reanimated brutes who had settled into quiescence in the corner of the room. “What about them? I spotted them in the cemetery last night, engaged in that despicable profession which once occupied us.” I paused, hoping he would provide a logical explanation, hoping he could swear that their ghastly industry had a less terrible catalyst. “With the horrors the townsfolk already face, I would hate to think that you had so quickly surrendered to your scientific aspirations and resume experimentations before the outbreak had been contained.” “Of course,” West answered, and I allowed myself to accept his response without further inquiry. “In this in-

69 Lee Clark Zumpe stance, I am free from reproach. The bodies I have collected enabled me to develop the vaccine that will finally end this nightmare.” “Perhaps, then,” I said, still unable to determine the vector by which the contagion reached the nearby popu- lace, “we should concede the fact that we may never know how this came to pass. Our energy would be better spent on seeing that every soul in Smithville is inocu- lated.” We concluded our discussion with this agreement. West, still concerned for my safety, led me to his private quarters and a comfortable bed. I initially refused his offer, not wanting to put him out; he, however, said he usually slept during the daylight hours and worked through the night. Sleep came gradually as the passing storms finally subsided. My dreams I found littered with disfigured faces, scarred survivors and mourning parents gathered alongside hastily dug graves. West oversaw the grim calamity, detached and unresponsive, all but inaccessible upon his remote island. On and on he toiled, his dedica- tion and determination so paramount that the peripheral consequences of his actions, no matter how significant, remained unnoticed. Though I believed in his vision and though I shared his dispassionate outlook, I could not pledge my services to him as I had often done in the past. In the morning, I decided, I would return to the mainland to proceed with a meticulous vaccination agenda. Once completed, I would return to Miskatonic. My contribution to his research on this occasion would be my silence. I would not reveal his secret undertakings to the local authorities. I would not implicate his negligence as a source of the outbreak. I would report neither

70 The Quarantine Station his whereabouts nor his illicit enterprise. I had slept for several hours when the sound of a soft voice startled me. I lay on my side, my back to the doorway. I felt a gentle touch on my neck just beneath my ear, heard a woman’s whisper as she leaned close to me. “We must hurry. It is no longer safe here.” I turned toward the source of the admonition but she was already half way across the room. In the darkness, I could not make out her features. Her figure, though, appeared delicate and vaguely immature. She moved with the poise and grace of a patrician’s ghost. “Who is it?” “Quickly,” she said, her voice more determined now. She held out her hand, urging me to follow. “They’re coming for him – they’re coming to kill the reanimator.” All of the lights throughout the station had been dimmed, and the corridors grew thick with the familiar stench of decomposing deep-sea creatures washed ashore following some tropical cyclone. The girl directed me through a labyrinth of passages until finally we emerged on the small floating dock where my rowboat awaited. Nearby, the wooden create containing the vaccine had been stowed pending my departure. “Take it, see to it that the town is saved.” Lingering clouds concealed the moon and stars leaving only the lamplights along the waterfront to guide me. Then, for a moment, the heavens pierced the overcast skies and shed enough light to illuminate my immediate surroundings. Frightened, the girl backed away from me, fearing my reaction to her appearance. I recognized her at once, recalling the family portrait in the Sellers’ parlor. “You’re the mayor’s daughter.” Her alluring loveliness and striking features had by and large been spared the

71 Lee Clark Zumpe ravages of physical deformity. Death must have come swiftly for her, a merciful end from an illness rarely known for clemency. In the shimmering twilight, I perceived the mildly bluish tint painting her complexion, the paleness of her quivering lips, the eyes devoid of tears though sadness clearly consumed her. In death, she remained the embodiment of elegance and beauty; in death, she offered irrefutable proof that West’s theories were sound and that his methodology had evolved dramati- cally. I reached out, touched her cheek with the back of my hand. Beneath my caress, her face felt smooth and icy. “You remember everything, don’t you?” “Yes,” she said, nodding. Sorrow poisoned her eyes. Though I could only guess as to the source of her anguish, I suspected that her chemically-induced restoration had somehow deprived her of something cherished and irreplaceable. In her suffering, I sensed that what West would claim as a miracle of science had in fact been an inexcusable curse. As if unseen gods acted to reaffirm my revelation, the dark waters of Kaldetseenee Sound stirred as creatures from the depths emerged. “You must go.” “What’s happening?” “They’ve come for him, all those he disposed of because their resuscitation took longer than he anticipated. All those he weighted down and tossed beneath the waves.” I stared at the girl, shuddering, trying to envision the initial thoughts of those who awoke to find themselves fathoms deep. “My father knew what had transpired and he did nothing. He knew if the townsfolk learned of the arrangement he had made they would likely lynch him over it.” Crawling out of the water, the revived dead shambled single-file into the quarantine station. Their bodies had been marred by disease, then further

72 The Quarantine Station mutilated by ravenous sea fauna. Somehow, the disease had passed from these undersea lurkers into the local aquatic life. Fishermen caught the infected fish and consumed them, contracting the mutant strain of smallpox. “He’s suffered enough, now – we’ve all suffered enough. Tonight, it ends.” Without another word, the girl turned and followed the macabre procession as it drifted inside the station. West must have known they were coming for him, must have prepared some kind of defense. Loyalty to my old colleague could not overcome my fear. I loaded the vaccine and set out for Smithville. Before I even reached the docks, flames had engulfed the quarantine station. I heard sporadic gunfire, shouts and curses and indescribable screams. As the situation deteriorated further into relentless chaos, I realized that in all our noble endeavors, the closer we come to achieving the powers we ascribe to the gods of creation, the more intimate we become with the blind apathy and deleterious madness which most probably accompanies omnipo- tence. Through the wanton manipulation of unobstructed science, Herbert West had all but emulated divinity only to find himself at the condemned by his own creation. I grieved that the world may have been deprived of his genius that night, though from his former miraculous es- capes, I believe that any confidence in his demise is hollow. As the morning sun began its slothful climb on the Atlantic horizon, a ribbon of smoke drifted south along the coastal flats of North Carolina, tied to the ruins of the quarantine station set a quarter of the way between Smithville and Lawley’s Island. With no active fire brigade

73 Lee Clark Zumpe in town, the debris would smolder well into the day, eventually leaving nothing more than a few charred pilings jutting from the dark waters where surging tides might trace tiny whirlpools in sea foam. West had suggested some inconceivable alien design had repeatedly reunited us for the benefit of scientific ad- vancement and, ultimately, for civilization and mankind. I could not help but wonder if in fact such unnamed forces conspired to impede our progress and ultimately invali- date our innovations. Though as a man of science I recognized the notion as equally implausible and immature – the thought of some cosmic counterbalance concealing cruel universal truths from the ill-equipped and unsuspecting eyes of mere mortals provided me with a satisfy- ing sense of security. Perhaps the pace of progress would slow for the balance of the century.

The Widow Dotridge Douglas J. Moore

That lanky fellow who comes around to fill the coal bin and haul away the garbage, well, that’s Reed Daniels. Nope, he’s not owner, just caretaker. By deed and ledger the Widow Dotridge claims the property The Bell Club is renting, though she hasn’t lived around here for more than thirty years now. Fact is, she moved back to Ply- mouth when that Bourbon fool Cleveland beat the Con- tinental Liar for the presidency. I remember her departure quite well. Still, you might make her acquaintance since she comes down once or twice a year to check on her property and then stroll the beach. If you do meet the Widow you’re not likely to forget her, with her mourning clothes and black veil a startling sight. Oh yes, she still dresses all in black like she did when she lost her husband some fifty years ago. By now Dotridge must be well past 70, she’s at least five years older than I am. With her teeth gone and her pallor running rancid she hasn’t aged gracefully. But, when she was younger she was a real beauty. I remember she had a narrow waist and she smelled like lilacs. Her hair was always up in those sweet curls like a good Gibson Girl. She made a fine wife for Jeremiah Spotford when they married. They were the happiest couple I’d ever seen. You’ve never heard about Jeremiah Spotford and Dotridge have you? Well, I’ll tell you about them if you’d like. Certainly they weren’t the oddest folks roaming the docks around Paddocks Cove when I was captain to five and stayed out in all weather.

75 Douglas J. Moore

I’ll set off best by starting where I remember. The Spotford family settled in East Paddocks in 1780, late arrivals to the Cape according to some. Of course, they survive like all of us did, from the bounty of the lea and the sea. Jeremiah was born in 1858, and he was a class ahead of me in primary school but we both suffered under Mr. Sanderson, the cruelest Head Master in all of Barnstable County. Jeremiah built that property where you’re staying. He laid the foundation and squared the beams by his own hands. He was nearly finished working on it when he carried Dotridge over the threshold in 1870. You’ve noticed that rotten old Elm in the backyard? The one that looks like it might crash down in a gale and stove the roof? Those two married under that exact tree, Minister McWorth presiding. Their wedding was the big social event of that year because Dotridge was a pastor’s daughter from Plymouth; a proper girl raised right and moral inside the church. Fact was that she’d been courted by a number of fellows from Sandwich before Jeremiah won her. How he took her hand I’ll never guess. Perhaps it was his polite dress and his piety, I can’t say. All I know is that the two were faithful, religious folk, Dotridge more church going than Jeremiah on account of her upraising. I remember she could well recite scripture, her favor- ites, “He that believeth not is condemned already,” and, “The heavens do declare the majesty of God, the firma- ments show forth his handiwork abroad.” I didn’t consider such zeal wearisome, though a number of people about here did. Consequently, some folks never took to calling Dotridge “Mrs. Spotford.” Nope, they always referred to her as Mrs. Dotridge. Later on everyone called her “The

76 The Widow Dotridge

Widow,” or simply “Widow Dot.” Those who disliked her outright called her foul words I won’t repeat, to do so would be impolite. Likewise, such cursing might lend some dangers to a fellow like me. Remember, I still have the reason and the occasion to go fishing, and both the sea and the Widow are peculiar entities I wish no wrath from. Really, hardly a soul called Dotridge by Spotford- I guess she never came to belonging amongst us in Pad- docks Cove. Now, when Jeremiah was living he worked the cod and haddock fishery, trap lining one hundred or so miles out and making George’s Banks when possible. As you know, fishing is a tough lot. It makes for a precarious living. Hazards are numerous and hardship frequent. You’re far from home and always subject to the fickleness of fate and fortune. Being a keen minded mariner Jeremiah knew the sea, and as a freshly minted married man he’d grown wary. After thinking on it he decides that he’ll quit the fishery and try life as a shop keep, Dotridge and him joining together selling cut and whole fabric out in East Paddock. Naturally, Dotridge was overjoyed with his decision, praising God for Jeremiah’s wisdom and foresight. Fact was I’d never seen a woman happier to have her husband coming home. With such designs readied Jeremiah went full out, fishing longer and harder than the rest of us. He droves his crew too, and every mate I knew who sailed under him complained of low lays and long voyages. As you’d imagine our local fellows didn’t care for such treatment, and right fast it grew difficult for Jeremiah to hire any workaday mates. Pretty soon no one

77 Douglas J. Moore

would sail for him at all and the old skinflint was scuttled, crewless. Right rapid Jeremiah starts into desperation, and near alarm he takes to New Bedford to drag up fresh hands. Day and night he walks the landing asking for free men, and unable to find a soul he heads down to that cursed saloon the Spouter-Inn. Here he’s wanting bargains, and with ready ink he signs the most indolent scoundrels one might ever ship with. Oh, that miserable tavern, curse it! Such an assorted, lawless lot you’d never seen. Men so villainous and damned they’d even been rejected from the whale fishery! As harmless as a newborn lamb Jeremiah picks the worst gang of criminals for mates. Here I’ll tell you as I know. Come a gray dawn Captain Spotford goes out with his new crew, a lumbering fellow from California named So- noma and a gap toothed Manhattan man named Van Velt. Now, no one’s certain about what happened on out, but within three days Jeremiah’s vessel returns to port. A quick search and lo, the captain is missing! Sonoma and Van Velt each chime the same tale- Jeremiah was dragged over the fore by a loose line and drowned, his body lost. Sherriff Dudley from Hyannis checks the ship, and discovering no foul play or reason for murder Sonoma and Van Velt haul up and off, a week’s pay and a quarter season bonus jingling bright as they make the first train. With a sailor lost we all go into mourning, and before the funeral is finished we’ve a tidy sum for a bronze for Captain Jeremiah Spotford. I still recall that service, a dismal affair. The Widow was there all dressed in black and crying a tumult, her despair overwhelming. Once again Minister McWorth held

78 The Widow Dotridge the pulpit, giving a lengthy sermon and prattling on about the dangers of the sea and God’s mercies. I guess grieving was too much for the Widow because as McWorth was addressing all of us she jumped up howling, “My sweet Jeremiah be no more! What merciful God would do such a thing! To steal from the bosom of life his innocent soul! Minister, it matters not what you say. Hereby and forever I leave your flock! I pray, hell now command me!” The Widow then took her once cherished Bible and cast it down between her feet. She then stomped square upon it, her outburst roiling the entire congregation. That exact afternoon she went into seclusion, locking her door and pulling all the curtains. She wouldn’t see anybody, turning away her father, mother, and sisters. From here on she was rare in the village, appearing occasionally and for necessities, coming and going in her black crape and veil all the while muttering quietly to herself. The only other time anyone ever saw her was during the full moon. It was under such light that she’d appear to wander the tide line, her dark silhouette a strange shadow against the moonlight, her hand lantern bobbing lonely and low against the murky water. Occasionally, you could hear her anguished sobs, “Lord, I forsake you for taking my Jeremiah! Dear God, how you mock my faith and love! Damn you!” I remember one evening when I heard her bone chilling dirge, the crying so harrowing that as the breeze ebbed I swore she stood right beside me expel- ling her resentments. For a number of weeks life went on like this, and eventually the inconsolable Widow slipped from our short memories and indolent chandlery gossip, her sor- rows recognized by all. I too returned to my own affairs, much forgetting the

79 Douglas J. Moore

Widow until she appeared at the docks on one cold morning. Here she emerged from a thick predawn fog, hobbling along the pier at her own whimsy, clicking her heels and tongue as she passed us working men all making for voyages. “Avast all you headed to sea today!” She cackled. “Listen fast, and hold my council well.” With the pier so bustling the men were slow to attend, and Arlen Davis, ever scornful piped up, “Widow Dotridge, be gone! We’ve work to do and the likes of you ain’t wanted here. Take your crooked back and shove off- foul hag!” Come Arlen’s outburst all hands slipped silent, and those in sight of the Widow held still awaiting her reply. “Fools!” She screeched as she cocked a curved finger at us. “I now know the sea better than all of you! I’ve swum the narrows and the deep, marveled at wrecks fifty fathoms down, chastised mermen, gamed squid, and mas- tered schools of scrod! Heed me sailors of Paddocks Cove, I know all the worlds sliding waters! Captain Whitcomb, a poor haddock catch for you today! Old Ba- rnaby, you’ll return late with a full hull, running aground on Phipps Bar. Here you’ll lose half catch. John Foster, your lines are rotten, your gears lost for certain!” A murmur then raced about the men, but the Widow wasn’t done. She’d reserved her most foul prophecy for the disdainful Arlen. “Davis,” she spat, her eyes fluttering. “I’ve come to aid all and you rebuke me much like you dismissed my beloved husband. You remain as cruel ever as Jeremiah warned a full moon past. For such words you best watch your fingers, ropes bite quick!” It was then that she vanished, slipped back into the fog as if she was part of it.

80 The Widow Dotridge

By and large most mariners are a superstitious, silently faithful lot. On land many favor sins of the flesh and pew dodging but when a spar breaks or a mighty gale rolls high all believe and beseech a merciful providence. However, that morning few knew what to make of the Widow’s horrid pronouncements, and as sails furled and boats made way many went out absent a worry, her divinations lost upon us. Sure enough though, the Widow’s predictions came to pass. On the day Arlen Davis made port Dr. Johnson took his pink, ring, and middle fingers, his hand mauled betwixt the works during an unwelcome spot of bumpy seas. Thereafter, Davis was forever stumped and frightened of the Widow. Evermore, and in all weather, the mariner would cross the street to avoid her path. Like- wise, he’d not travel past her home during the day or night, complaining his hand ached each time he came within sight of the place. It was right then that folks started whispering that the Widow had become a water witch. That she’d betrothed herself to a sea devil to discover the awful truth about her husband’s death, the brine alone the solitary witness to his fate. As was said, she’d lured a fish tailed devil to her by walking the shoreline and blaspheming God, her curses traveling deep to tickle the barnacle encrusted ears of a sea devil hungry for sin. Under wicked moonlight the two struck a horrible compact; her eternal soul to know of Jeremiah’s final moment and for her vengeance upon So- noma and Van Velt. Thereafter, she’d come down to the pier and wander about as she saw fit, her presence unsettling. Now no one muttered a syllable to the Widow, all of us cautious as her

81 Douglas J. Moore lame gate clacked against the wooden planking. Likewise, no one once commented on her belly, the obvious girth indicating she was carrying a child. The birth of Sumner, the Widow’s boy, came as an unlikely surprise. We’d known she’d had no suitors and most considered her barren. Jeremiah had been stone dead for more than a year by then, and no man from Paddocks Cove now or since has come forth to claim the boy for a son. Dr. Johnson, who birthed my Mary, conducted the delivery, and one time when he was blind drunk I heard him remark that as a newborn Sumner Spotford had sal- lied from the womb with the peculiar odor of rotten fish and salt water about him, his hands and feet speckled green and for certain, webbed. I remember seeing the Widow and the boy in Crocker’s Grocery. She was measuring flour while he gawked at the salted cod drying from the rafters and the whole fish heads sitting on ice. An odd lad for certain I thought, with the clumpy hair atop his head as shiny and wet as sea lettuce. That afternoon beside the fish case that boy looked right through me, my heart fluttering as he gave me a ma- lign smile, his sharp, crooked teeth as jagged as a sharks. Sumner grew fast, and it seemed that before he was five he was bigger than a ten year old, though lanky, and perpetually ashen. He was man enough to run daily er- rands for Dotridge, picking up her victuals and laundry all by himself, though he hardly spoke if doted upon. All the time too you’d see him beside the shoreline, just watching the rolling waves as if listening to a phonograph or waiting on some watery news. The boy was as regular of a fixture about here like a

82 The Widow Dotridge seagull, until one day he’s was just gone-vanished. Poof! Of course, nobody wanted to bother Dotridge about it, and later, when she was asked, she said she’d sent him off to visiting her parents in Plymouth. With trepidation our common elixir life continued on, the boy a quiet memory of yesteryear like king sized Atlantic Sturgeon and nets brimming with mackerel. It was a few days after Sumner disappeared when the Widow again walked the docks, her veil aside so you could see her deeply furrowed brow. This time she ignored all and came straight to me. “Whitcomb!” She hissed. “The sharks are up, hunting for prey – beware them! You’ll lose more than your asking if you’re not careful. If you’re far off you’ll be finished for certain. Stay in sight of land or you’re welcom- ing calamity.” I didn’t know what to think of her warning, but I well recalled Arlen’s fate. “Widow Spotford,” I said. “I’ll consider your advice and thank you. Jeremiah was good man, my sympathies for your loss.” Then, with the spanker and foresail unfurled we took a game wind and luffed out past Phipps Bar, a course south by south east toward Edgartown. The sail was proper and fine, the shallow line of the Vineyard out towards the port fore. It was a quick pass between the is- lands, with Nantucket gloomy in a low fog, the sea long and slow. Under my orders we reefed southwest just in sight of Chilmark, my mates Samuel and Martin setting trap lines as I held the helm. Nerviness beset us all, and Samuel, not even twenty quaked, his hands fluttering like a boy new to the gaff. “Worry not lads,” I comforted. “Sam, we’ll fare well, and Martin, according to Franklin’s Almanac the winds

83 Douglas J. Moore and water will shine today. We’ll fish sun to set and heave away. Mind the Widow’s remarks though; we’ve no need to tempt fate. Sharks are perpetually hungry. Careful with yourselves and stay alert, we want for no impairment or requiem.” The day ebbed along, and near mid-afternoon a dark, rolling cloud set in, the flying scud moving fast yet dainty. That billow lingered atop the horizon like a Dutchman’s pants, and I knew a squall would soon be on us. I ordered hooks stored and lines drawn, braces up and fish down, we were bound in. Samuel and Martin were smart mates and they followed along, each keen to the Widow’s warning and the moving weather. With the vessel all commotion and myself busied it took me a moment to notice them, their long fins cutting through the waves as easy as you please. As the Widow warned here were the sea tigers, fin upon fin. I tried to figure the number weaving about but there was too many. Following fifty I quit, the water about the gunnels sizzling as the sharks bristled through their own snowy foam. “Watch your hands now mates!” I shouted. “Keep the lines steady! Draw ‘em up slow and stay careful! “ “Captain Whitcomb, God save us! We’re beset by man eaters, they’ll swamp the lines! We’ll lose all for sure!” Martin cried. “Mates,” I commanded. “Work starboard as best you can, haul away. If all is lead- cut loose. Gear be gear and man be man. We make for Edgartown, the squall leans a’mighty.” “Aye Captain,” The boys agreed and I made portside, the lines fewer and easier to haul as the sea drew a mighty chop.

84 The Widow Dotridge

From the west lightning flashed and thunder followed, a spattering rain striking the decks. With my hands busied I drew up a number of feet, my sight keen to the darting fins and snapping jaws coursing so near. The sea was bumpy and the wind swift, and with so many lines about I figure one of us was soon to be snatched away. It was then that a peculiar form appeared, the outline cutting a horrible run through the white caps. The creature moved fast, passing through the waves as if the sharks were no presence. I feared that the beast would ram us and stove the bright waist so I drew up the top maul and prepared to have at the brute, warn him off after a strike. Only, the animal drew no closer, he waited a foot or more out near my lines, floating along as if he was studying the gear and works. A heavy shower then bore down, and through the milky foam and tussled brine I glimpsed the monster. A strange beast I thought, snowy pale with green speckles on all sides, his stubby fins and forked tail unlike any I’d witnessed. No, this here was something different. By the Lord’s hand this wasn’t a shark at all, and studying the monster closer I saw a more human form, a pair of hands and feet- the fins vanished. A face then appeared, the crooked mouth filled with jagged teeth, a weedy patch of green hair- the Widows boy! By Christ I shuddered, Ezekiel springing to mind. “Thou art a lion of the waters, and as a dragon of the sea.” Aghast, I dropped the line and slipped backwards, the boy staring at me. “Away devil!” I shouted, brandishing high the mallet. The boy then shrugged his face an impious grin. The water bubbled when he dove, a spiralling bank of mock- ing white foam his wake.

85 Douglas J. Moore

From a mighty thunderclap I flinched, and as if the threshers had never been circling us the sea suddenly went silent, the rain halting as I made way to Samuel and Martin. “All hands fair?” I requested, my mates responding with their aye, ayes. Commands follow, “Make haste, the tempest may yet threaten.” We worked the sides again, traveling helm to forecas- tle to reach the area where I’d seen that horrid boy. The lines were a cocked bunch, one tight atop the other, and together we three couldn’t draw up the collection, my palms bloody from the pull. “Hold mates. I’ll ready the windlass.” I ordered. I drew out a long twine and manned the winch, the yard blocking my vision. From the high tension the top arm creaked and I wondered what was so affixed to the line below. “Captain Whitcomb, she’s coming. Slow up, I’ve got the swivel.” Martin shouted, and I halted the crank. A trap then landed the deck. No bait and no cod, the pulley shuddering. I advanced the winch a few turn until Martin gasped, “By God-Captain, come quick, a wicked curse!” Upon making the gunnels I saw a sight. Here two corpses dangled from the line, the rope bandied around the neck of each man as if he was fresh from the gallows. “By Saint Peter!” Cried Samuel as his hands signed the cross over his chest and forehead. It was wicked; the dead men naked and dangling there atop a slate colored sea. I recognized the two immediately. Jeremiah’s men, the lumbering Californian and the gap toothed Manhattanite. “Bring them aboard and astern. Cover each with an

86 The Widow Dotridge oil skin. It’s unholy to have them dangling so. Pray we make port this evening. I prefer no night out with the dead.” A feeble wind then shrugged us on to port, no gulls following as we broke the waves. Before we tied I could see the Widow pacing the end of the pier, her black figure a terrible sight against the lowered sails. “Make haste Whitcomb- where are they?” She sput- tered as we bumped the piling, Samuel and Martin quick for the hitches. “Mrs. Spotford I’m sorry, but what’s aboard my ship isn’t your business.” I replied. “Watch your tone, dolt! I care not for your wishes Whitcomb or your mates. Bring me the dead men! I know you’ve got them above boards.” She coughed. “Samuel, send word for Sheriff Dudley and then get Undertaker Wilkins. Stop for none. Martin, no one aboard except those I name.” I ordered, at which Samuel bolted down the dock like lightning. “Away Martin, a pup like you has no business here!” The Widow proclaimed as she strode the gunwale and made the deck, the poor lad trembling as he slipped backwards and away. “Stop there Mrs. Spotford! You’ve no claim here. These two are for the law and the law alone, leave be.” I commanded, but the Widow waved me aside as she made for the corpses. With the oilskin aside she bellowed a deep, smug laugh, and standing above the big Californian she twisted open the dead man’s maw. It was then that a ghost crab the size of a Liberty half scuttled out, the pugnacious animal calm in her hand while she cooed, “I’ll miss you my sweet one. I’ll never want another. Farewell my love,

87 Douglas J. Moore till we meet again among the spinning brine.” The Widow then kissed the crab before carefully dropping the little creature overboard, its pale carapace lost amid the dark water. “It’s settled. Jeremiah now rests now. What’s mine has been returned.” She muttered, her fingers playing atop her palm. I glimpsed her hand, and though a bit dull and covered by seaweed a wedding band glinted against the setting sun. “Widow,” I said. “You shouldn’t take that.” “And why not? I gave it to Jeremiah when we married, and now it’s returned. By common and law and the laws of nature it’s mine. Besides, you’ll not stop me.” She spat as she strutted down the dock and into the darkness. She was right. I didn’t stop her I let her go, the dead men my main concern. True, I could have held her fast but I thought wiser of it. I’m no lawman, and the weird day had made me skittish. I’m not superstitious, but I prefer not to invite misfortune to dine at my table. The following morning the Widow’s boy was found wandering the tide line as naked as the day he’d been born. He was shivering, wet and weak, as hungry as a wolf. No one knew how he’d gotten there but he was quickly returned to her, gossip spreading about her wretched parenting and neglectful nature. Soon after her father and sister appeared, the pastor quick with a green switch to get the pair to Plymouth. In their haste they stowed too much cargo in their little buggy, the springs sagging low and heavy as they made full out. It just happened that they passed by me on their way, that ash colored carriage creaking like new planking as

88 The Widow Dotridge they came around the bend. I held my ax when I saw them. The fall cord could wait I figured, and besides, my shoulder was prickly from swinging. I spied the Widow’s shadowy figure there just hidden beneath the hood, her disposition secreted by her veil. However, Sumner did stick his head out from the carriage and gawk right at me, his unhealthy pallor and jagged maw drawing up my fear. Here the pastor snapped his whip and the bay jumped ahead, a trail of dust their wake. As I told you, I was more than happy to see them go.

Sayuri’s Revenge Helen Stubbs

Evelyn glanced at the distant gas lamps on the street. Light floated around them in misted spheres. The air had a putrid tinge, for the stinking river was just beyond this row of houses. Evelyn’s fingers were cramped from clutching Howard’s case too tightly. The street was silent except for Sayuri snivelling behind her and the small clacking sounds Evelyn’s boots made as she walked. Sayuri’s feet moved silently along the cobbled path. A night-bird called from the nearby marsh. Evelyn paused at the letterbox of a tall house. She drew her Ronson Wonderliter from the pocket in her sleeve and struck a flame, illuminating the number on the box. Fifty-six. She glanced back at an approaching carriage. It rolled past and a man poked his head out the window and called an obscene offer. Evelyn glared after him, muttering that his head should meet with a passing lorry. Evelyn rubbed Sayuri’s back as the girl cried beside her. Tonight might be hard on her adopted daughter, but Sayuri was stronger than anyone would guess. A rough beginning to life, and then this , had hardened her like fire had tempered the sword hidden beneath her skirts. A speck of rain landed Evelyn’s hand as she extinguished the liter. ‘This is the place,’ she said. Sayuri met her eyes and Evelyn looked away from her dark pupils. ‘Please carry this now.’ Evelyn said, handing her the case. She adjusted the leather folder tucked under her arm. Sayuri reached out and took the case. Evelyn turned

90 Sayuri’s Revenge and examined the clubhouse. The lower windows of the two-story building glowed an ominous orange. She wished they shined with yellow light, which would have meant they were well-lit within. Evelyn’s shoulders tensed as she gathered her skirts and led the way up the steps. Ignoring the knocker on the large door, she knocked seven times with her knuckles. The door opened a crack, then a little more. A grey- haired man peered out. He was well dressed and met her eyes at the level. ‘Good evening, madam,’ he said. Evelyn observed his neatly tailored dark suit. She scanned his greying cheeks then looked into his eyes. The lines of his eyelids told her he had suffered at the hands of someone, but the shape of his mouth said his compassion had not been entirely destroyed; nor did he have the spark in his gaze that shewed evil had burrowed into his soul and set up keep. ‘Evelyn Martinez,’ she said, offering her gloved hand. ‘Chairman Gaynor,’ said he, opening the door wider. ‘I received your letter. A quorum discussed your matter this evening.’ ‘This is my daughter, Sayuri,’ Evelyn said, making room for the girl. Sayuri uttered a quiet moan and held the case in front of her. ‘The process is,’ the Chairman said, lowering his chin as he spoke. ‘That we must hear your story first and then decide if we can comply. It is a complicated matter—’ ‘Complicated,’ Evelyn said, narrowing her eyes. That did not begin to describe the recent weeks. ‘I am not making myself clear,’ Gaynor said. ‘Please come in, Mrs. Martinez. You are most welcome here tonight.’

91 Helen Stubbs

Gaynor stood back and ushered them into the foyer, then led the way down a short hall with a tiled floor. On either side the doors were closed. When they reached an open door to the right he stepped to the side. ‘This way, please.’ Evelyn entered. A hearth-fire provided little light, but she could make out heavy furniture and people sitting around the room. She checked that Sayuri was close behind. The carpet was green and the ceiling was decorative plaster. A large floral oval and bows were moulded around the light fittings. The lights were off and the white curtains were drawn. All eyes shined on Evelyn and Sayuri. Some faces were partly obscured by hoods. From one young woman’s dress, Evelyn guessed she was a prostitute. Eve- lyn scanned each face and posture, seeking anyone she knew. Two of her acquaintance would derive particular joy what went on here. Evelyn was dreading recollecting the awful details. But she needed these people. They were the only ones who might – might – help her. Chairman Gaynor touched her back. ‘This is your seat, dear,’ he said, indicating a stool before the fire. ‘We’ll need one for Sayuri,’ Evelyn said. ‘Yes,’ said Gaynor, frowning. ‘Her...continued emotional response – is she always like this?’ ‘Only in company.’ ‘Could she not wait in another room?’ ‘Certainly not.’ Evelyn needed Sayuri wherever the case was. ‘Here,’ Sayuri said, indicating a vacant seat by the door. She sat down and placed the case by her side then

92 Sayuri’s Revenge began to sob again. Evelyn took her seat and opened the folder. She scanned the crowd with her eyes. ‘My name is Evelyn Martinez,’ she said. ‘This is the first letter I received from my husband. He’d been gone for two days.’ She cleared her throat. Dear Evelyn, I hope that you and Sayuri are well. I am sorry to tell you that I will not be home on Friday, as expected. I have been detained in the factory I was sent to inspect. According to the foreman (whose acquaintance we are already both familiar with) there is much more for me to see. He is sending you a souvenir. I am not certain what. I hope you like it and I look forward to returning home as soon as possible. Yours, Howard. Evelyn looked up. ‘I did like what they sent me with the letter.’ Her gaze travelled along their faces and to the floor where the chair’s shadow danced. ‘But I liked it better on his head. He had long brown hair which he tied in a ponytail. They had cropped it off and sent me that.’ She scanned the audience but they gave no reaction. The second letter crinkled in her fingers and she began read, noticing how his script had become shaky. It was unlike Howard to make mistakes and scribble them out. Dear Evelyn. She sensed that time had lapsed between his beginning and the first paragraph. His pen had touched down several times then finally begun. Love, they want me to participate in an experiment. I don’t feel that I can decline. I will do as they say and perhaps we can get it over and I can come home. They have not said that, exactly. They are to send another part of me to you.

93 Helen Stubbs

‘He didn’t sign this one,’ she said. ‘They sent me the clipped ends of his fingernails and toenails. I found myself dreading the next letter. I couldn’t think of anything more he had to spare.’ She withdrew the next letter from the folder and began to read. Evelyn, Remember that I will always love you and Sayuri. Kiss her for me. I am not sure if I’ll be able to write again. I am required to attend to some inventions here. I wish I could come home instead. Howard. ‘He was coming home,’ Evelyn said, her voice raw. ‘In pieces. This package came with a lump of his flesh bound in cotton. It neither bled nor rotted.’ Evelyn heard one of her listeners swallow. A chair creaked as someone shifted. A gentleman sitting at the back of the room near the window spoke up. ‘Mrs. Mar- tinez, may I inquire as to your husband’s line of work?’ ‘An engineer,’ she said. ‘I believed he’d been sent to the factory by his employer.’ ‘You were disabused of this notion?’ said a lady with strands of grey hair falling around her face. ‘I was to learn otherwise.’ Evelyn said. ‘As will you. If you allow me to proceed.’ Evelyn drew out the next letter. Dear Evie, I’ve learned a little more of their plan. You might think that knowing what will happen might be a comfort but it is not. They require small parts of me to incorporate into new inventions. The parts alone are not enough. They say my contributions are much more efficient with the addition of pain, and they have some plan for my blood. God Help me.

94 Sayuri’s Revenge

Evelyn put this one down with shaking hands. ‘That was the last of the letters written in his hand. It arrived with ten toes, each individually wrapped. The next one came with his hands and it was written by the perpetrator. Dear Mrs. Martinez, Your husband wishes that we inform you that he is alive and well. He says that assisting us is an experience the like of which he has never heretofore enjoyed. He is making extraordinary contributions to our work. Kindest regards, B. ‘Who was B?’ asked the young woman Evelyn had assumed worked in a whorehouse. Her red hair fell past her shoulders in shining curls. Evelyn looked down. ‘In good time. This next letter came from the tanner.’ Dear Mrs. Martinez, Accompanying this letter is a case which I was asked to tailor from an unusual skin. I have never worked any skin so soft. The delivery boy brought a note that said you adore this sort of thing, or that you once did. It was a pleasure to work this leather. Yours sincerely, Mr. K. Higgins. ‘Was the case made of Howard’s skin?’ asked the gentleman near the window. ‘Yes,’ Evelyn said. ‘And I thought it had a kitten inside, for a mewling came from within. But when I opened it I found the lower half of my husband’s face, wrapped in cloth and bound in string. When I unwrapped it, it clamped its toothless jaws upon my hand. I shook it off and ran from the room. Sayuri heard my screams. She rewrapped and tied it. We have not unwrapped it since.’ The listeners turned to the girl who sat quietly near

95 Helen Stubbs the door. Her black hair was tied in a pony-tail. A long fringe fell either side of her eyes. She had ceased sobbing. Evelyn closed her eyes as they listened to the mewling case. ‘When I visited the tanner he knew nothing of the bag’s contents nor the name of the man who had com- missioned this piece,’ Evelyn said. ‘This is the last letter.’ She placed it above the others on her pile. Dear Mrs. Martinez, Despite Mr Howard’s invaluable role in this project, we feel that he has contributed all he has to offer. We will release him at the river at 9pm, from the dockyards of the southern bank into a waiting vessel if one is passing by. Sincerely, B. Evelyn held the letters loosely in her fingers and stood them up vertically. She tapped them into alignment then slipped them back inside the folder on her lap. ‘I studied the dockyard map and found there was only one road that led to the dockyard. Sayuri and I lay in wait.’ ‘Two women?’ asked the man by the curtain. ‘A woman and a girl,’ Evelyn said staring across the room at him. ‘Sayuri mounted the carriage and broke the driver’s neck, but she kept him breathing by certain tech- nique. I searched the carriage and there was nothing but an empty cage. He directed us to the factory from where he’d come. And he confessed his superior’s name. Blaine Ducray.’ ‘Who is he?’ Chairman Gaynor asked. ‘He is my sister-in-law’s brother. We had not met in many years, but when we had he had behaved inappropriately.’

96 Sayuri’s Revenge

Evelyn watched her audience digest this information. ‘Sayuri allowed our informant to die and then she dis- embarked and hid before I knocked on the factory door. Mr Ducray opened it. He was startled. He said he’d not expected me.’ ‘“You mean uncaged?” I said and warned him that if he stepped closer to me he would die. I demanded my husband’s remains. He said that to get them back I must exchange them for another young male. I would not do that.’ ‘There’s more to this than young males,’ the prostitute said. ‘This is personal.’ Evelyn nodded. ‘Yes. My sister in law, Majella, staggered to the door. She’d been drinking and hung off Blaine. She said she was touched by my loyalty. That it was a pity Howard hadn’t shown the same devotion to me. That she’d taught him a lesson.’ Beside Sayuri the case gave an anguished moan. ‘But why would I believe her? I would rather kill her.’ Evelyn said. ‘She warned me to leave. All the evidence was in my possession, she said. If there was to be an in- vestigation, who would be accused?’ Chairman Gaynor cleared his throat. ‘That is good advice, Evelyn. With people like this...’ He coughed. ‘You must not get involved.’ ‘I’m already involved!’ Evelyn cried. ‘I don’t care what Howard did. He was a good man in his heart and he didn’t deserve this.’ She shook her head. ‘There are things I must do. There is a doctor in Romania I will take How- ard to.’ ‘A doctor?’ asked the prostitute. ‘He’s not dead,’ Evelyn said. ‘But I need the rest of him. There is more, Majella offered it to me. She said I

97 Helen Stubbs could have the rest if I would only go in.’ ‘But you’re not stupid,’ said the man by the curtain, scratching at thread that had strayed from its fabric. ‘I will go, but in stealth. I need someone to look after what I have of him, in case the Police become involved.’ Evelyn said. ‘Sayuri and I must plan and prepare.’ ‘You said he’s not dead,’ said the grey-haired woman. ‘He moans,’ said the prostitute, sadly. ‘He’s not dead,’ Evelyn agreed. ‘We will show you,’ Sayuri said, with a hint of accent from her native Japan. She held up the case. ‘Mother speaks the truth. They have used him, poured his blood into the oil of their machines. When this case is near an automobile, the parts become frenzied. He screams.’ ‘Hence your sobbing,’ said the young lady sitting at the back of the room. Her hood had fallen back a little, showing a lady with blonde hair. ‘Open the case,’ she requested. Evelyn stood as Saruyi moved gracefully across the room. She placed the case on the stool. As her fingers worked the locks some people drew away, others leant closer. The lid rose and Howard’s components were displayed like hocks of Christmas ham, neat in cloth and string. A piece began to shake then tumbled sideways. The largest chunk moaned its signature sound. ‘ Hu- huuaaw .’ Evelyn could see Sayuri’s face, illuminated by the firelight so brightly that it showed the scar on her forehead— usually invisible. Sayuri frowned and brought her hand up to her face as though it ached. ‘Who will take them for me?’ Evelyn asked. ‘Keep him safe ’til our work is done?’

98 Sayuri’s Revenge

The prostitute rose and walked forward. She laid her hand upon a piece as though to gauge its feelings. ‘Poor man,’ she whispered, taking it in her hands and raising it to her chest. She bowed her head and kissed it, cupping it in her palms like a bird. She looked at Evelyn. ‘I’m Clara, ma’m. I’ll take good care of one piece. But only one.’ Evelyn tried to smile her gratitude, but she didn’t remember how. The others moved forward and selected from How- ard’s butchered body, until only the moaning jaws in the case were left. Chairman Gaynor sighed. ‘I suppose this piece falls to me.’ He closed the case, muffling Howard’s moans. ‘Keep them warm,’ Evelyn entreated. ‘They are alive. And I will return for them, when Majella and Blaine are dead.’ Evelyn stood and took Sayuri’s hand. The ache in her neck seemed lighter with the burden of Howard’s body dispersed. ‘There is one matter, first,’ Gaynor said. ‘I move that we make Evelyn Martinez a member. Your daughter...her age?’ he asked. ‘Sixteen,’ Evelyn said. He nodded. ‘She may be admitted as your child, when you come to our meetings. If anyone protests, speak now.’ He looked around the room. All were still. ‘Welcome to the Bell Club,’ he said. ‘Commiserations on your membership.’

* * *

Clara looked to the fire after the door closed behind Eve- lyn Martinez and her little Japanese daughter. She stroked

99 Helen Stubbs her piece of Howard then brushed a red lock of hair away from her face. ‘I don’t think we’ll see our new member again,’ the blonde lady, Mrs. Hurst said, holding up her piece of Howard and examining it. She was known among them as having the gift of prophecy. ‘But I might be wrong.’ ‘You mean I have to keep this for good?’ Chairman Gaynor asked. ‘No. I think we’ll see the little one. I look forward to hearing her tale.’ ‘If they weren’t coming back,’ said Clara, speaking her thoughts. ‘We could chuck these bits and pieces away.’ ‘Would you really try to discard such a thing?’ asked Mrs. Hurst. Clara considered it. She would be tempted, but she suspected Mrs. Hurst was right, and trying to lose her chunk would not be as easy a solution as it seemed.

* * *

A week later, Sayuri’s clothes were torn and her hair hung about her face in filthy strands. Her tired feet moved along the moonlit street, toward the Bell Club. Smudges of bruise and dry blood coloured her skin but her sword was still strapped to her back. She was too tired to be scared as she strode along the dark street, refusing to let her fatigue slow her down. When she reached the clubhouse she took the steps one by one then knocked seven times on the large door, just as her mother had done. Gaynor opened it. His expression said they were not expecting anyone, but when he recognised her he smiled. ‘Miss Sayuri, how wonderful to see you. Or is it Miss Martinez?’

100 Sayuri’s Revenge

She stared at the old man. ‘I don’t care what you call me. I’ve come to get him.’ ‘Who?’ She knew how her dark eyes could disconcert. She waited for the old man to recall her father. ‘Oh. Howard’s...pieces.’ Sayuri nodded. He stepped back. ‘Then you must come in.’ She glanced both ways down the street, checking if anyone had seen her. As she crossed the threshold her gaze scoured the ante-room. Only Gaynor stood within. He closed the door behind Sayuri and hesitated. ‘What’s wrong?’ Sayuri asked. Gaynor made a pyramid with his hands. ‘You see, dear, there’s a problem.’ What did this old fool want from her? She would offer him one thing – to be skewered on her steel. ‘I want the pieces,’ she said. ‘Are they all here?’ ‘You look like you’ve been to Hell and back,’ Gaynor said. ‘Can I offer you a coffee? Hot chocolate, perhaps?’ Sayuri kept her lips sealed. She wanted her father and then to go. ‘The problem is, dear, you are not a member here. You can attend at your mother’s side. I hope she’s well, wherever she may be. But to enter the club alone and make a request of the members, you must attain membership status in your own right.’ Sayuri clenched her teeth. She had known her mother’s decision to meet with these people was a mistake. They were leeches that fed on other people’s misery. ‘I will tell them what happened,’ she said. ‘But first, Father must be assembled and accounted for. After I tell you what happened I will take him and leave.’

101 Helen Stubbs

Gaynor drew in a shaky breath. ‘You don’t seem to understand, Miss Martinez. You have no power to make demands.’ Sayuri raised her head, drawing herself up to her full height. She shifted her feet a fraction and moved her weight onto the balls of her feet, raising her heals enough that a piece of paper could slip between them and the floor. She softened her focus, preparing for fast strikes and counterattacks, though she was unlikely to need de- fence against him. Perhaps he sensed that she was about to draw her sword and fight for her goal. Gaynor reached for her shoulder but Sayuri stepped away before he could touch her. His hand curled and his features drooped in disappointment. ‘You’ve had a hard time, dear. I can see that. You shall have your way.’ Gaynor indicated that she should proceed but Sayuri would go nowhere if not behind him. So he went first down the hallway then stepped to the side and indicated that she should go in. Sayuri looked at the people seated around the room. Last week she’d studied them while her mother had spoken. They were mostly the same faces. Some were absent; others had taken their places. The old woman with grey hair hanging down the sides of her face sat in the same seat as last week. The young blonde lady at the back was again hidden within her hood. The man who often interrupted with questions sat by the window. Tonight it was open. The prostitute had shifted to the other side of the room. Her long red hair was memorable and tonight she wore a white dress with thin red stripes. Gaynor placed the case on a table which was new to the room. Did that mean they had been expecting her?

102 Sayuri’s Revenge

Sayuri heard Father’s moans from within. Joy to be re- claiming him intermingled with an ache that echoed in her heart every time she heard him cry. ‘Would the members please return the pieces of Howard in their care?’ Gaynor requested. People rose and brought a piece forward. Some carried two or three par- cels. The hooded lady gave her piece to the talkative man. Sayuri’s gaze remained fixed on the lady, she sought her features within the shadow of her hood. The lady tilted her head and Sayuri found her sparkling eyes staring back. The members returned to their seats and Sayuri counted the cotton wrapped pieces, including the toes. He was all there. Hello Father, she thought, standing by his case. She could not bring herself to touch the pieces if not absolutely necessary. ‘This is Sayuri Martinez,’ Chairman Gaynor addressed the listeners. ‘She will tell us her story, tonight.’ ‘Where’s your mum?’ asked the old woman. Sayuri ignored her. It was her story and she would tell it. The room was dark again, but for the firelight which cast dancing shadows on the walls. The curtains were open letting the moon’s pale light wash in. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. She rose and drew her blade. A collective inhalation swept the room. Sayuri smiled at their fear; the way it froze them. She had wiped her blade many times, but if any treatment might purify it, moonlight would be the only one. Sayuri carried her weapon to the diamond of light that lay on the carpet. She knelt and laid her blade there, then stood. Without it she felt naked. She could not leave it here and return to the front the room, though she sensed no

103 Helen Stubbs danger from the man who sat by window. She could allow him to be closer to it than she was. ‘I’ll sit here,’ she said, taking a chair between him and the hooded lady. She placed her palms on her thighs and began to talk. ‘Mother and I went to find the rest of my father,’ she said. ‘I was armed with poison darts and my sword. Mother wore a knife. ‘It was night when we snuck in the upper doors at the back of the factory. Mother moved down through the factory as I remained in the loft and waited. ‘I heard crashing as she fell through a false floor- board, down to a cement floor. She hit the ground with a crack and a moan. She had broken her ankle as she fell into their cage.’ ‘A trapdoor,’ said the old lady. ‘Yes. She could not climb out and I could not see how I could help her. Blaine heard the clatter and came to see his catch. How he laughed.’ ‘Mother cried with the pain, but ranted that he must let her go. She performed a convincing act, for she knew he would never do that. She gave no sign that I was there. Perhaps she thought I had left. She’d instructed me to flee, if her situation grew unsalvageable. But I would never have left her there. I would have killed her first.’ Sayuri’s gaze ran along the blade of her sword and back, seeking the new nicks, noting how the tiny move- ments of her eyes made the moonlight dance on the blade. ‘What did you do?’ Clara asked. ‘I waited. Majella, my aunt, returned in the morning. She admitted having envied my mother since the day they had met. She said Howard would be delighted to see her.

104 Sayuri’s Revenge

If he couldn’t see her, for they were unsure if his eyes still worked, he would at least touch her, or hang on her—’ ‘Isn’t this Howard?’ asked the man at the window, waving at the case. Sayuri closed her eyes, ignoring his interruption. ‘They took mother from the cage. They found her knife and promised to use it on her. They tied her to a large wheel-shaped thing. They cut of her hair and fingernails. As they did so they promised to bring her no pain that day. Majella said Howard should be present–what remained of him in the factory–when they began. I latched onto that. I decided that when Howard was brought out, I would fight.’ ‘Where were you hiding all this time?’ the blonde lady asked. Her hood had fallen back. Sayuri could see her nose, her mouth and one lock of hair. ‘There were large beams above the second floor, wider than my body. I lay on one of those. That night I slept, when all was quiet. I didn’t risk an attempt to convey a message to Mother.’ ‘You could have gone for help,’ Gaynor said. Sayuri looked at him, sitting on the stool in front of the fireplace. ‘Where should I have gone for help? Here?’ Sayuri stared into the fire behind him until her eyes watered. ‘When I woke I drank the last drops from my water-skin and waited. The rising sun reddened the sky, visible through the top shutters of the factory. I swore to myself that by the time I saw red sky again, we’d all be free or dead.’ Sayuri smoothed her down skirt. ‘When Majella arrived they took my mother to the wheel and fastened her on. I thought she should look more frightened, for she was calm. But when they brought Father out she began to

105 Helen Stubbs weep. ‘There was little left of him; he was a string puppet tied to a small frame on wheels, but the strings that suspended him were his own veins and sinews. He still had eyes, though they did not seem to see. A star-shaped thing followed him, like a piece of dancing liver. It jumped and wheeled around; a merry contrast to its gore. ‘Majella kicked it away. “Haven’t you gotten rid of that yet?” she said. ‘“It’s indestructible,” said Blaine. When he tried to kick the thing, it leapt away. Mother was sobbing, of course, seeing what they’d done to my father. ‘“Here’s the rest of him,” said Blaine, retrieving a canister that fit neatly under his arm. Majella opened a cup- board and removed knives and the large pair of scissors that they’d used the day before. I could not delay any longer. I drew two poison darts and fired one at Blaine and one at Majella. ‘Perhaps I shifted my aim too quickly, because Blaine’s did not hit. When his sister fell to the ground he went to her and shook her then found the dart in her shoulder. He went to his desk and seized his pistol then scanned the factory, but I was invisible where I hid. The liver-starfish bore his wrath and he kicked it against the wall. It slid to the ground. ‘I drew the next dart from my pouch but he fled out the main door. Then I waited for hours but he did not return. My only option seemed to be to climb down and free them so we could escape. I considered going for help, but I didn’t know where he was hiding outside. And nothing would stop him killing my mother while I was gone. ‘I climbed down and followed Mother’s footsteps

106 Sayuri’s Revenge across the second floor, avoiding the hole. I climbed over the railing and went down the stairs sideways, holding on to the rail, to avoid other traps. Blaine must have been watching, for as I untied Mother he returned to the room. ‘He had his gun aimed at us. When he saw my face he smiled and that triggered painful memories. I knew him from the years before my parents found me. As that torture returned to my mind, I collapsed. ‘My parents had had no interaction with Blaine since they had returned from overseas, but he must have been the one who invited them to Osaka. They had found me hiding beneath a wharf; dirty, friendless, alone. They did not know I had escaped from his factory of torture. ‘He said something about loose ends whipping back to sting him and then he fired his gun. My mother must have thrown herself in front of me. The noise shocked me to action, as my mother fell backwards over me, saving my life. She fell to the ground, a flower of blood blooming on her belly. The liver-starfish leapt towards the wound and covered it, then burrowed through her skin. Mother lay, maybe dying, but that piece had stopped the blood-flow. ‘I drew my sword. Howard raised his gun. I looked into his evil eyes and I knew that he would never hurt me again. I might take a bullet in the head, but that would be the end of it. Even his strange arts would not bring me back to life. But I thought I should not die. I thought he should die, for he had done enough to us. ‘As he fired, my body remembered the pattern of his torture. My sword moved to protect my breast, my belly and my thigh. Each of his bullets were aimed where I’d guessed. I deflected each one. Then came one for my mouth, one for my eyes. His last bullet was never fired,

107 Helen Stubbs for I’d sent the fifth back to his heart. He looked down- ward, shocked, blood bubbling from his mouth.’ Sayuri paused for a breath, while they all shared her victory. ‘Mother and I waited. Such as we were, we could not leave the factory yet. Mother slept long, wrapped in a blanket on the floor. As night fell, this evening, she woke. We found that she could limp on her broken ankle. ‘I unhooked what was left of Father from his frame and packed him into another case. I carried that and the canister under my arm as we left. ‘Mother tidied herself as best she could and bought us two tickets to sail. She waits for me at the dock.’ Sayuri stood. ‘Now I will take what is left of my father and leave.’ Gaynor turned on the stool and closed the case beside him. The man by the window leant down and lifted Say- uri’s sword. He admired its sheen and weight then handed it to her. ‘Warrior Sayuri, I’m sure I speak for all of us when I confer full membership upon you,’ Gaynor said. Sayuri sheathed her sword and lifted the moaning case. She walked across the carpet then paused at the threshold of the room. ‘I do not want it,’ she said.

* * *

Clara’s heart was heavy as the front door closed behind Sayuri. She rose and scampered around the chairs and down the hall. She pressed her hands against the front window to catch a last glimpse of Sayuri. Her sword was hidden. Where had it gone? In amongst her skirts? Sayuri’s head hung low and Clara

108 Sayuri’s Revenge guessed that she was pretending to weep, again. Clara wished she could hold the girl, kiss her brow, stroke her smooth black hair, and tell her that all would be well. But Clara knew, just as well as Sayuri, that was a lie.

109

Divine Providence Robert J. Santa

The first time I met her, she walked through the main door of Touro Synagogue and cleared her throat. “Excuse me?” she said. Fourteen men all looked towards the door. To a one, their mouths froze partially open. “Is Benjamin Simmons here?” asked the woman. She stood just inside the doorway. Her beige dress shimmered in the reflected light of the building behind her. A square hat fringed with beaded lace perched atop her at an angle that seemed precarious. White gloves covered her to the wrists. She would have been pretty had she not been standing beside the bimah. I turned so that he could look past the torah on my shoulder. “I am he.” “Mr. Simmons,” she said, “pardon the interruption, but I must speak with you.” She took two more steps deeper into the sanctuary. An old man beside her spat as he cursed. He tried to stand and failed, which only increased his vehemence. His grandson took his arm to help him rise. “Aaron,” I said to the boy, “perhaps you would be so kind as to show this young lady the flower garden. I will be along presently.” The boy let go of his grandfather's arm and stood. The woman met my eyes, hers expressing a question left unsaid. Then she turned and allowed Aaron to escort her outside. The rabbi looked down from the platform and recovered his voice. Blessings were soon finished, and I re-

110 Divine Providence turned the torah to the ark. A moment later, I stood and left. As I walked outside, I gave a sharp look to a different boy who sat on the wall. I joined the woman by the flower garden and dismissed Aaron. “Not a friendly group,” she said, clearly annoyed. “Meir Cohen has attended shabbat services here for seventy years.” I spoke in soft tones that held no animosity. “Touro is an orthodox synagogue. Women are not permitted inside; you're probably the first he's ever seen on the sanctuary floor. Considering what I know of him, I would categorize this reaction as mild.” “I didn't know. I feel such a fool,” the woman said. “Think nothing of it.” I gestured to the small boy still sitting on the wall. “He should have showed you the other entrance to the second floor reserved for women attendees. I gather he was distracted, no doubt by an interesting bug or plant; the perils of handing responsibility to someone so young. What may I do for you?” “I'm Emily James. I've brought a letter of introduc- tion.” She handed me an opened envelope. I took it and read the letter inside, dated only the day before.

My Good Friend Benjamin,

This letter is to introduce Miss Emily James. She came to me recently with a story I found, at first, incredulous. After careful questioning and diligent research, I discovered that her story is justifiably incredible. My recommendation, as a fellow scholar and acquaintance, is to listen to her. I was unable to help her in the way that she needs, nay, that we all need. Your special expertise is something

111 Robert J. Santa few men possess. It should be put to good use swiftly. I believe her, Benjamin. If you cannot help her, then only God can. Whether yours or mine, I care not.

Hieronymus Bishop September 24, 1925

“I have known Professor Bishop for forty years,” I said, “since he was the headmaster of my preparatory school. Together we have seen much strangeness. I gather you and I are going to see more.” “I've taken the liberty of hiring a motor car. We can be there in a few hours.” “Where, and for what purpose?” “The capitol,” Emily said. “We'll be monster hunting, and we only have eight days until the end of the world. The answers, I believe, are here in Rhode Island, and I need your help.” I looked her face over for more clues, yet her dead- pan expression offered none. “I'll pack a bag,” I said.

* * *

“I didn't want to speak in front of the driver.” “Entirely understandable, Ms. James.” “Please call me Emily,” she said. “Only if you stop calling me Mr. Simmons.” “Deal. Besides which, it is easier to show you the source of my studies than try to explain them without evidence.” “Lead on,” I said. We walked the remainder of the block on College Street, facing the grand campus of

112 Divine Providence

Brown University, then turned onto Prospect Street and climbed the steps leading into the John Hay Library. “Have you been here before?” asked Emily. “Many times. I'm delighted that the library collections are now being housed in a way that allows scholars access to them. Nineteen hundred ten was a red letter year for researchers. Before that, we had to pore through the Uni- versity's basements. Nothing was cataloged. It was nightmarish.” “I never would have made my discovery if it were otherwise. More importantly, I can't believe this information sat here for fifteen years without anyone noticing.” “If there is one thing I've learned about our field of study,” I said as we entered the building, “is that most people don't notice what we do.” “I would hate to think what would happen if they did.” “Indeed.” Emily lead us through the main library and to a short corridor. She opened a door with the confidence of someone who had reserved the space. The archival reading room was inappropriately named, for it was certainly not meant for casual reading. Two wide tables dominated the room's center, with one piled high with manuscripts of Egyptian origin. A wide, clay tablet rested on folded cloths on the second table. Four overhead lights burned brightly, chasing all trace of shadows from the tables. While plush, overstuffed chairs decorated the main library chamber, this room held spartan furnishings as if academicians did not require comfort. “Recognize anything?” asked Emily in a way that sounded as if she were testing me. “This is part of the Lysander Dickerman collection.

113 Robert J. Santa

He was a graduate of Brown - class of 1851, I believe. Very influential reverend who also happened to be fascinated with ancient civilizations. These and twelve hundred other documents were bequeathed to the university after his death. In fact, I helped translate many of them, including that scroll at the top of the pile.” “Excellent, since we'll be referring to that later. How quickly can you read hieroglyphics?” “I should be able to keep up with you,” I said politely. Emily moved to the tablet. “What is this?” she asked, pointing at a string of glyphs. I could tell from her inflection that she already knew the answer to the question. I stood beside her and read aloud then looked at her. “It's a fairly standard introductory line,” I said. “A lot of messages begin with it, blessings from the gods and notification that something important follows.” “And this line?” said Emily, pointing to the next one. “It is a warding.” I picked out several glyphs. “These are animal signs, used to protect the message. These two here are split because Egyptian belief held that drawings of animals could spring to life and attack the one who made them.” “A pretty straightforward solution.” “It has been the accepted translation for decades. But you disagree?” “I do. Please read the remainder of the text.” I studied the tablet. It appeared to be a history, with clerical documentation of several inventories. “It seems like a business proposal,” I said after a while. “There's a lot of amounts and what seem like cargo shipments. Phonetically this reads like a list, but it's jum- bled, like the author didn't know how to make proper

114 Divine Providence sentence structures.” “Hieroglyphics is all about phonetics. Each symbol is a sound, like our own letters. The Chinese make characters to represent entire words. Egyptians wrote like we do.” “I am aware of all this. What have you discovered?” “We are reading from right to left,” she said, starting with the introductory blessing. “Why not up to down or left to right?” “We could, since hieroglyphics can be written in all directions except down to up. Right to left is the only way that makes sense of the phonetic symbols.” “Yet this tablet is laid out in perfect rows and columns. It seems like it could be read up to down.” “Yet it would be nonsense.” “In Egyptian, perhaps.” Emily retrieved writing paper and slid it in front of me. I took a pen from my coat pocket. “Now look at the warding line. This symbol and the one below it.” “The first is like an English H, with a long A underneath.” “Write them down.” She waited while I marked the letters, one on top of the other. “And this?” “Those are like Y and D.” Emily indicated the paper. I wrote the letters to the left of the others. Emily stood back while I transcribed the remainder of the sounds in the two lines. “Now read the couplings,” said Emily when I was finished. “Right to left.” “Hay. Yed. Leff.” I stopped, my eyes wide with recognition. “He . Yod . Aleph . Emily, this is Hebrew.” “I know.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “I've already had it translated in bits and pieces; I didn't want any

115 Robert J. Santa one person reading it in its entirety. Some of the couplings bled into others because of two-syllable letters like lamed and gimel . These letter strings turned out to be un- translatable so I assumed they were the numbers indicated on the tablet. The top part shows the phonetics. The middle is when they're pulled into Hebrew words, with the script above it.” I read the page aloud, translating into English:

LET RISE THE KEEPER WHO IS NAMED...ON THE ALIGNMENT. LET THE KEEPER WHO IS NAMED ...DESTROY ALL IN PREPARATION OF THE HOWLING. ...FTAGN

I fell silent for a long while. “You are aware of the meaning of the last word?” I said. “I am. Assuming the number preceding it is supposed to represent Cthulhu, I could only come close to a transliteration by utilizing the mispar gadol method of Gema- tria.” She handed me another sheet of paper. “Kof , tet , lamed , he . The first three letters spell the word 'kill,' as in a war or in some unsavory way. The last letter, taken alone, means 'behold.' Pronounced together, it is a close approximation of Cthulhu. More exactly, it means 'look upon death.' Did you transliterate the other numbers?” “That's why you're here. I could hardly show this material to another scholar versed in Hebrew. I would be laughed at.” “This is no laughing matter. Any time the rising of the island of Ryleh matches a cosmic alignment, it spells grave danger for the human race.”

116 Divine Providence

“I don't believe this is referring to Ryleh,” Emily said. She walked over to the stack of ancient papers and drew out two scrolls. She unfolded them at preset marks. “These histories, separated by almost six hundred years, tell of the devastation brought by,” she moved her finger over a series of glyphs, “a 'lining of the gods in the sky.' Upheaval on a planetary scale was averted by the inter- vention of dozens of 'smaller gods with no name.' They locked away a 'Keeper of the Awakening' by flinging it 'across the world, over the seas,' until it 'struck the icy coast and was killed.' The 'lining of the gods will re- awaken' it, according to this other text.” “What alignment are we going to see in eight days?” I asked. “The planets from Earth to Neptune.” “And the last time this happened?” “Thirty-four hundred years ago.” “The 'howling' on this tablet undoubtedly refers to Nyarlathotep calling to Cthulhu. So what awakens The Faceless One?” “These numbers are its name. I also believe that these two numbers represent different methodologies for arriving at the same name. The numerology I can figure out, but the letters will have no meaning to me.” “You are hoping they are in Hebrew?” I asked. “The hidden message was in Hebrew. The Gematria solution created a variant of Cthulhu, the only word I have ever seen that belongs in a phrase next to 'ftagn'.” “I'm convinced. Let's get to work.” “Exactly. All we have to do is crack this code, discover the location of a dormant Elder God, get to it before it releases Nyarlathotep and ultimately Cthulhu who will ravage the world until no life exists, and figure out

117 Robert J. Santa how to keep it from awakening. In eight days.” “You make it sound like it's going to be difficult,” I said with a smile. Emily smiled back. Four hours later, a knock sounded on the door. A library aide poked his head into the room. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but we'll be closing the library in just a few minutes.” “Thank you,” replied Emily, and the aide shut the door behind him. Then Emily violently crumpled the paper she'd been working with and hurled it across the room. I leaned back in his chair and rubbed my eyes. “I'm getting nowhere,” said Emily. “Every time I think I've got the right combination, the second number disproves it. Maybe it's two different names after all.” “I'm frustrated also,” I said. “The worst part is, it seems like the answer is right before my eyes, and I just can't see it.” “Exactly. It's obvious we're working with only a few enumeration methodologies because the numbers are so big. But I can't seem to make them work. We could be months at this.” Inspiration bolted me up in my chair. “What if the numbers aren't big?” I said. “Of course, they are. You can read the glyphs as well as I. They're in the thousands.” “Mispar katan method truncates all the zeroes off the standard values. This value of twenty-four thousand could just be twenty-four.” “That's still a lot of letter combinations. And the other number doesn't end in zeroes.” I looked at the first number. “Ninety-thousand, one hundred twenty-three. I think

118 Divine Providence you're right. It has to be mispar haperati . No other method uses numbers that big.” “It's still too many numbers. My brain hurts.” “Wait, wait. Let's break it down. Shin is a big number all by itself: ninety-thousand. If that's one of the letters, there's only one twenty-three left.” Emily grabbed a book. “Yod is one hundred,” she said. “What can make twenty-three?” “Nothing,” I said after a few minutes. “Not unless we're going to have a lot of alephs or bets . “I have it!” Emily jumped out of her chair. “Two he characters makes fifty. With seventy-three left, that's a perfect fit for chet and gimel . And when we use the katan method! Shin , he , he , gimel , chet . Twenty-four. It's a match! Tell me those letters make a name we've heard before.” I moved a pen around the page as Emily sat at the edge of her chair and stared at me. I stopped suddenly and froze. The pen fell out of my hand, as if it had fainted onto the paper. “What is it?” she asked. “What does it say?” “He , shin , gimel , chet , he . Hashgacha . It means the will of God.” “The will of God?” My throat dried as if rags had been shoved in my mouth. I found my voice after a moment. “Providence,” he said.

* * *

“Benjamin? Are you asleep?” “No,” I called through the adjoining door. “I am dressed. You may come in if you like.”

119 Robert J. Santa

Emily entered the suite. I sat at the desk, wrapped in a robe over heavy pajamas, a single light burning in the lamp. Three of the Egyptian texts lay open, and a notebook in my lap was covered in my handwriting. “What have you found?” she asked, dressed as I was even down to the white slippers. “Not much. I keep finding references to Keepers, but none seem to be referring to any kind of Awakening. The Egyptians knew Nyarlathotep well, especially the later dynasties that assigned the hippo-goddess cartouche to him. I find many references to him, and nothing that re- quires him to be freed by some dormant entity. It is the Faceless One that awakens Cthulhu from Ryleh; nothing awakens Nyarlathotep. You?” “Pretty much the same.” She crossed the room and dropped into the short couch. “I need to tell you something.” “I suspect a confession,” I said, and she nodded. “My father was the Grand High Wizard of the Order of Dagon.” Emily said it matter-of-factly, as if she had said her father's profession was that of an accountant. “I am a High Priest. Our only mission is to prevent the return of the Great Old Ones. We will use all of the powers of the oceans if needs be.” I remained silent. “This does not surprise you?” she asked. “Not much. I assumed something of that nature. The average person - even the average occult scholar - does not actively look for clues about dormant Elder Gods, let alone take part in stopping them. Where are the rest of your church members?” “We are all over the North Atlantic, both in America and Europe. The information we sought was too widely

120 Divine Providence spread. We needed one of us to be near the Keeper when it was discovered so we could act.” “You mean to destroy it?” “If I must. I have the ability to cause a wave that would bury the flat plains of New England's coast all the way into Massachusetts and Connecticut. I would rather not resort to such drastic measures. An ideal scenario would be for the Keeper to remain dormant until the next alignment, eighteen hundred years from now.” “Agreed. At least you've solved one riddle for me.” “What is that?” Emily asked, genuinely curious. “The half-man, half-fish symbols associated with Dagon did not automatically mean it was an ocean cult. Many, including myself, believed it to be an agricultural religion.” “It's never been that. The symbol refers to our ocean- dwelling brothers, the Deep Ones.” “Well, you learn something new every day.” “Seems you've got a month's worth of that since this morning.” She smiled. “So, the Church of Dagon has known about this threat for how long?” “Centuries. We've known about something massive in southern New England since the late fifteen hundreds. One of the driving forces behind the Mayflower expedition was to get a foothold here. When Roger Williams was kicked out of Massachusetts, it was for speaking about the Old Ones, not for speaking against Puritan Christianity. They would have burned him at the stake if he weren't one of our Grand High Wizards.” “Add that to the list of new things,” I said. “My thesis was on occultism in colonial Rhode Island. I always thought the witchcraft accusations against Williams were

121 Robert J. Santa based on truth.” My brow crinkled. “Would Roger Wil- liams have known Hebrew?” “I wouldn't doubt it. He was very powerful and a voracious student of all things. He meant to use that knowledge to bring more members into the Church, but he was the only one in America until after the Revolution.” “He did name Providence, after all. If the Church of Dagon knew about a slumbering Elder God in New Eng- land, he could have been telling everyone right where it was.” Emily's mouth drifted open. “Are we that stupid?” she said. “My church has known of this threat for ages, and it's been right under our nose the whole time. Professor Bishop suspected Greenland, north of Kulusuk. He's with one of our priests right now.” “No doubt enjoying the balmy weather. Hieronymus has many theories about Eastern Greenland, and I like to think a good many of them are grounded in truth. Even though we have grabbed the brass ring, so to speak, he will certainly not waste his trip there.” “But to know about a dormant Old One, the same one discovered by one of our High Priests more than two hundred years ago...” “Hindsight can be brutal in its clarity, Emily. Don't cause yourself undo stress because of it. Our main concern now is, suspecting that Williams knew of the impor- tance of this Old One, what would he have done to prevent it from rising? At the very least, it does not take a planetary alignment to affect an awakening; it is merely a time when the dormancy can be shaken without assistance. How could this particular Old One remain dormant for millennia?”

122 Divine Providence

“It must be underwater,” she said. “Our whole church revolves around the sinking of Ryleh. If the Old One were submerged, it would stay there until something powerful enough could shake it free.” “Grab your coat. I have an idea.” On the rooftop, I squinted against the glare of giant letters. I found an electrical box and forced the fuse lever up. The Biltmore's neon name darkened. The city glowed for miles, touched with the full moon's reflection and speckled about with windows burning electric lights. Few cars crawled along the road- ways; those that did lent firefly movement to the dark background of concrete. I pointed at the bay. “The water's deep enough,” I said. “How do we find it if it's there?” “It's not.” “How do you know?” “I've been down there.” I looked directly into Emily's face. “We have a sort of ceremony in the bay,” she continued. “Survival underwater is an integral component of Dagon priesthood.” Emily shrugged as if it helped her explanation. “We've spent days at a time on the river bottom. If there was a dormant Elder God in the bay, we would have found it by now.” “So where else could it be, if it's underwater?” I spun and pointed toward the northeast. “The Providence and Moshassuck Rivers are certainly large enough, but with all the travel on them I figure every square inch has been seen by thousands of eyes. Directly north is the West River, more like a stream than anything else. And running west from here is the Woonasquatucket, again, not a par-

123 Robert J. Santa ticularly enormous body of water. The only thing they have in common is that they all join right under our feet.” I suddenly stopped. “You've thought of something,” Emily said. It was a statement, not a question. “I think I know where the Old One is.” I moved to the southern edge of the roof and looked at the distant Narragansett Bay. I raised my arm again and indicated the river's borders. “Look how the coastline meanders. The lower bay is wide open, like a small sea. The upper bay - here, over there, and there - you can see the inlets and the way that nature shaped the edges. When it becomes the Providence River, the coastline runs straight as an arrow for almost two miles. It's exactly the same length across the entire way.” Emily immediately grasped my line of thought. “Like an impact trench,” she said. “When the Keeper was flung here from Egypt.” “Exactly. And without consulting a globe, the generally northwestward direction of the river seems consis- tent.” “Whatever this Old One is, it must be gigantic.” “We're looking for the Keeper lying somewhere in Providence.” I walked back across the roof. Emily joined me, and together we looked at the heart of the city. “I think we're standing on it,” I finally said.

* * *

I joined Emily in the hotel's main dining room. The mag- nificence of it was lost on me, seen through blurry eyes. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked. “Not a wink. You?” A waiter came to the table and

124 Divine Providence poured coffee into a china cup. “Perhaps five minutes. I've been struggling with the revelation of last night.” “As have I.” Emily nodded. “I believe we need to test your theory,” she said. “How do you propose to do it? Drilling? Investigate the sewer system?” I sipped at the scalding hot coffee then leaned back in the chair. “What if we nudge it awake?” I coughed as coffee trickled the wrong way down my throat. “That may not be prudent,” I said. “Why not? The Keeper would still be surrounded by the rivers. Without the additional influence of the alignment, it would probably not be able to do more than issue a complaint.” “I was a young man when the last earthquake to hit Rhode Island occurred. This was forty years ago. Build- ings weren't reaching for the sky as they are today, so when the few that collapsed did, the casualty rate was low. If the Keeper so much as shudders, all of Providence would be lost. No, I don't believe we need to confirm that the city was built upon a slumbering Old One. We'll know for certain at the end of the week. I suggest we take measures to find a way to prevent it that don't include several hundred billion gallons of sea water.” “Back to the library?” Emily asked. “Back to the library.”

* * *

“You know,” I leaned back in the chair and fixed my gaze

125 Robert J. Santa on Emily, “I'm beginning to suspect we won't be able to find any way to stop this from happening. A tidal surge may be an eventuality.” “I have considered it.” “Do you feel we should do something to evacuate the city?” “It's not just Providence, Benjamin. Once the casting is made to summon the wave, it won't stop at the Old One. Everything on either side of Narragansett Bay will be flooded, plus the flat plains north of the city. Newport and Aquidneck Island, Jamestown, none of that is ele- vated beyond a hundred feet or so. It will be buried. What can we say to the governor that would make him issue an evacuation for the entire state?” “We could tell him a tidal wave is coming.” “Based on what? We know it's coming because I'm going to make the casting.” I sighed. “I suppose I'm looking for other options in the face of pessimism. Speaking of which, are we one hundred percent certain the message on the tablet is authentic?” Emily stood and walked to the table. She pointed to the broken bottom edge of the stone. “One of the Dagon symbols is here, beside the artist's mark.” I stood and saw the glyphs she indicated were only partly revealed. “Not much of the symbols there,” I said. “Can you be certain this was recorded by a member of your church?” “I would recognize even the smallest fragment of this glyph. It is the half man, half fish sign you mentioned last week.” I leaned in and stared.

126 Divine Providence

“We've been translating that as a Coptic shai ,” I said. “In fact, I remember working on a series that had dozens of those glyphs.” “Dozens?” “It's what made the transliteration so difficult. Every time the symbol came up we figured it as a shai . Once we accepted it as a line break it made the translation possible, though not much easier.” “Where was this?” asked Emily. “On the wall of a burial chamber. A secondary room in a minor crypt. We figured it was a spousal chamber because it looked added onto the first.” “Do you still have the notes?” “No, but I can show you the crypt.” “How so?” “It's right here in Rhode Island,” I said.

* * *

“Mr. Ives is unavoidably detained,” the butler said as he took our coats. “He suggested you wait in the study, immediately through those doors. It will only be a moment.” “Thank you,” I said. Emily and I crossed the marble floor of the foyer. When I opened the study door, Emily froze in mid-step. The study took up the entire eastern wing of the Ives mansion north of the main city. A small section was de- voted to the furnishings of a typical, upper class room meant for entertaining: leather sofas and chairs, tables, a side bar with crystal decanters of liquor despite the Vol- stead Act. The remainder of the room rivaled even the best museum displays on the currently fashionable study of Egyptology.

127 Robert J. Santa

I had seen many pieces in private homes, curiosities purchased by the very rich that occasionally held serious value to historical and occult scholars alike. Payton Ives was a dedicated collector. One entire wall had been trans- formed into the grand entranceway of a pharaoh's burial chamber. Where less interested collectors would have broken apart the frescoes so that they fit the design of the room, Ives had had new windows constructed above the wall, adding light diffusers that protected the ancient paint. Columns and statues, carvings of all sizes, an entire funeral barge, glass covered cases filled with jewelry - the study alone could earn a committed scholar a doctorate. Emily marched across the room and stared at the long wall of hieroglyphs. She immediately pointed to a symbol identical to that of the stone tablet at the library. Her eyes scanned the wall, and she pointed at four more, spaced apart in what seemed randomness. “The glyphs represent a story,” I said, “the account- ing of a great king who is not a pharaoh. The king leads an army into what can best be described as hell to rescue the king's twin son and daughter. It is a masterwork of carving and painting.” “It is more than that, Benjamin.” “I see that now. What more can you translate?” “Nothing yet. I need time.” “You may have all the time you wish.” Payton Ives was a tall, not very handsome man who carried himself as if he were perfectly comfortable with the fact. His impec- cably-tailored suit screamed of wealth in a way that was paradoxically subtle. He extended a hand and shook with me. “Good to see you again, Mr. Simmons,” he said. “This is Emily James,” I said. “We spoke of your col-

128 Divine Providence lection, and she professed a desire to see its grandeur firsthand. I hope this is not too much of an intrusion.” “The pleasure is all mine, Miss James.” Ives bowed his head as he shook her hand. “On the contrary,” said Emily, “it is my pleasure to see what you have accomplished here. Outstanding pieces, especially the collar over there.” “I daresay the Boy King's funerary collar is more im- pressive. Still, this one from the early Seventeenth Dy- nasty caught my fancy in a way that all of Tut-Ankh- Amen's gold and gemstones hasn't. “Ra-hotep?” Emily asked, and Ives' eyebrows went up. “You have an excellent eye, Miss James,” he said. He smiled and turned to the wall. “What do you make of this story? Thirty-five centuries have passed since this writer put chisels and brushes to stone. While not a truly significant archaeological discovery, I am fascinated by the thought that this could be the earliest example of fiction writing in the spirit of Messrs. Wells and Verne. Not with their visionary imagination, to be sure, but it nevertheless holds me enthralled.” “Benjamin has told me so much about this collection,” she said. “I hope it's no imposition to you if I spend some time with it.” “Not at all. It would be my honor to have a fellow en- thusiast around with which to compare theories. Please help yourself to the study. My servants will get anything you need. I'm afraid I cannot stay. Rhode Island Hospital is having a function; as the grandson of the man who helped build it, my presence is something of a foregone conclusion.” Ives shook hands with us again. “Miss James. Mr. Simmons. Have a good evening.”

129 Robert J. Santa

“And you as well,” said Emily. “Good night,” I said. Ives turned and left. In the foyer, the manservant put a dark coat over Ives' shoulders and handed him a formal hat. Emily did not speak until she heard the front door open and close. “The glyphs are everywhere, Benjamin,” she said. “They must form a message other than the story. Cer- tainly their presence with the rest of the symbols is mean- ingless.” “Let us find the message, Emily. Perhaps we will have luck on our side for once and make a discovery quickly.” An hour later, poring over the symbols, Emily jumped to her feet and clapped her hands with a loud, accompanying aha! “I gather luck is with us,” I said. “End of one word,” she said, pointing high up on the wall, “with the transitional Dagon symbol, then the beginning of the next word. The combination of the two symbols forms a second word phonetically. There are some crude elements, but so far the deciphering works.” Benjamin flipped a page on his notebook and began to transcribe symbols. “It's not in Hebrew this time,” I said. “I know. It's straightforward Egyptian, hidden only by the separating glyph.” “'Bury the Keeper in water,'“ I read, “'and forever will it remain dead.' I'd say that's fairly straightforward.” “Downtown Providence is already surrounded by water. We saw it ourselves from the hotel roof.” “One little break in the flow may be all that's needed to release the hold on it. Cthulhu himself is too powerful; his crypt island of Ryleh needs to be sunk thousands of

130 Divine Providence feet. This Keeper, since we've never heard its name before, may be weak to the point of helplessness. A stream could spell the difference between dormancy and rising.” “Then we have two days to walk the borders of the city,” said Emily, “and make certain the water still flows.” “I trust you are enjoying yourselves,” Ives said from the doorway, his basso voice causing both Emily and I to startle. “Why, yes,” said Emily, who recovered her wits faster than me. “A most fascinating collection you have.” “Thank you, Miss James.” Ives bowed his head, but I saw his eyes remained on the both of us. Deep inside the pupils, there was a glint of something predatory. “I didn't mean to disturb you. The function at the hospital required less of my presence than I thought. I have no doubt the attendees will enjoy the foie gras more than my company. Please don't hesitate to call on me. My house is yours.” Ives turned away without waiting for a response and stalked out of the room. “Should we start tonight?” asked Emily. “Will you be able to sense a break in the water in the darkness?” Emily considered it. “Maybe not,” she said. “It would be easier in full daylight, with the power of the sun to assist my castings. I would hate to miss something as obvious as a sidewalk.” “Do you think the break could be so insignificant?” “I don’t believe we can take the chance, Benjamin. Let’s return to the hotel, though I anticipate another sleepless night.” “As do I. And to think, I made my home in Rhode Is- land because of its history. Who could have thought the history extended back another three millennia?”

131 Robert J. Santa

“Would you have it any other way?” Emily smiled. “Except for the destruction of the world?” I smiled back. “Probably not.”

* * *

“I should warn you, Benjamin: I've made the preparations for the casting that will generate the flood. It is a small matter to complete them.” We walked along the river's edge. “I understand,” I replied. “We still have time. The Dog Star won't be at its zenith until two o'clock. Every casting I've read about involves this key element.” “Four hours is not much time.” “We just have this last stretch, Emily. We've looked at everything on the north, west, and south sides. Some call this part the Seekonk, but it's more an extension of the Moshassuck and Providence Rivers. Both are so wide we couldn't miss a blockage. Even in the dark, we'd see it.” “You may want to get out of the city.” I stopped walking, looked deeply into Emily's eyes and saw the sincerity of her words. “I can't,” I said. “Not until I know we've done what needs to get done.” “I'm not certain I will be able to protect myself from the tidal surge. I know I won't be able to protect both of us.” “Emily, if it comes to it, don't worry about me. We are saving the world tonight. One more person doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.” Emily nodded. We continued walking. At one point, I felt Emily was going to hold my hand, but she quickened her step instead.

132 Divine Providence

An hour later we found ourselves at the foot of Col- lege Hill at the easternmost edge of downtown. We walked together to the midway point of one of the streets that formed a bridge over the Moshassuck. I leaned against the stone railing and looked north. As far as I could see, moonlight glimmered on the surface of the unbroken river. The only disturbance was a wide barge lazily drifting south. “That's it,” I said. “We've circumnavigated the city. It's completely surrounded by moving water.” “It doesn't make any sense,” Emily said, standing beside me. “This must not be the site of the Keeper. We've made a terrible mistake.” “No, you haven't,” said a man's, deep voice. When Emily and I turned away from the railing, Payton Ives stood further up the bridge. He sighed heavily and took two steps forward, never removing his hands from the pockets of the overcoat that enshrouded him. “Twenty years,” he said. “Twenty years of digging for the truth. Twenty years of planning and waiting for today, only to have the two of you come along at the literal elev- enth hour to mess everything up.” “What have you done, Ives?” I said. “Merely returning the Earth to what it once was. Once the Keeper is released and causes the Faceless One to utter the Howling, Great Cthulhu will not be far behind. Cthulhu ftagn !” “Where is the break?” asked Emily. “You will soon see.” “It is nearby?” Emily looked up and down the river and saw what I saw: unbroken, flowing water. “Nearer than you think.”

133 Robert J. Santa

The bridge rocked. I looked into the water and saw that the barge had turned sideways and collided with one of the roadway's support columns. I also saw that the barge was loaded with stone debris. As if it were only a toy in a bathtub, something lifted the barge onto its side. It immediately sank, depositing the great chunks of stone in the space between the supporting columns. The gentle current pushed the barge the rest of the way and blocked the river. “Perfect,” said Ives, displaying teeth that were all too reminiscent of canines. The bridge trembled again. I heard dogs barking in the distance and knew it was more than just the roadway that was shaking. “The Keeper rises!” Ives threw off his coat. His nude body was painted with whorls of sordid colors that seemed to ripple across his skin. Centered on his chest was a circular tattoo; inked inside the border of tiny letters and symbols was a warped pentagram. Emily lifted her arms. “The casting is complete, Benjamin,” she said. Ives burst into manic laughter. “The Deep Ones are prepared for your trifle,” he shouted over the sounds of chaos sweeping the city. “They will stop your little wave before it ever sees the coastline.” “Why would they help?” asked Emily, her utter shock as transparent as if it were written on her skin like Ives' tattoos. “Because I have prepared them, fool.” “You're mad, Ives,” I said. “Until I saw the way of Great Cthulhu, I was blind. Now, before you present any further difficulties...” Ives

134 Divine Providence lifted his arms over his head and spread the fingers of his left hand. “Benjamin, get down!” Emily took a step forward and made as if to push Benjamin down a flight of stairs, though her hands missed him by three feet. I dropped to the roadway an instant before energy crackled over my head. I felt the impact of what seemed like dozens of sparks as they dropped onto my neck and burned. I rolled over and over until I was on the opposite side of the street. Then I stood and watched the mystic battle rage. Blue lightning ejaculated from Ives' palms, scattering the air before him until it focused on a spot roughly arm's length from Emily's face. The lightning struck an invisible circle. The electric energy rebounded from the shielding and dissipated. Emily stood with her hands against the shield. She pressed as if against a wall. Clearly she struggled, for her face displayed the strain of someone who was trying to move a building. Ives giggled as he attacked her. His muscles seemed to move behind the distortion of the electric air, and it gave me the feeling that hundreds of tiny vermin were underneath Ives' skin searching for a way out. The shield cracked. A heartbeat later, an explosion pounded the space before Emily. She flew backwards as the force of the discharge also slapped me to my knees. Emily hit the pavement hard and did not rise. Ives roared with laughter, an animalistic wailing. “Rise, Keeper!” he shouted over a gusting wind. “Cthulhu will destroy us all,” I called across the street. “I am protected by the sign of the Old Ones,” replied Ives. He pressed his palm to the five-pointed star drawn on his chest.

135 Robert J. Santa

“That's not an Elder Sign, Ives. It's a Homing Circle.” I raised my voice and spat out the alien syllables as if they offended my palette. “Gog-namagog. Ya a had-bat uu. Ha- agog Thoth-zaa .” The circle of tiny symbols on Ives' chest lit like a fuse. His laughter turned immediately into a grunt of confusion, followed by shrieks of pain. He clawed at the tattoo that was now aglow with radiance. The pentagram faded as the entire circle brightened. Inside the glowing ring, I could see fire. Ives shrieked again, incoherent as he tore open his chest. His fingernails dug into the ribs and pulled out sec- tions of bloody flesh, but the fiery circle remained untouched as if it were no longer a part of his body. The flames grew to white-hot intensity. I could see them threatening to burst through the doorway. I sprinted across the roadway and drove my shoulder into Ives' belly. The burning circle scorched my arm and head, yet I lifted Ives up and over the concrete railing. Ives' tortured wails continued as he dropped down onto the barge. They changed neither in pitch nor volume as his limbs and back broke on the stony rubble. The flames finally forced through the circle. The skin of Ives' chest stretched so that it looked like he held a bonfire below his chin. I threw myself behind the railing and heard the release of the flames as an explosion that shook the bridge. A section of the roadway collapsed, and I covered my head with my arms and curled into the fetal position as shattered pieces of stone rained down around me. I only moved my face to see if Emily had been struck. She hadn't. I rose on shaky legs and looked back into the river. The barge's hull was broken, and the water that had swal-

136 Divine Providence lowed Ives' flaming body flowed beneath the roadway. All around me, the noises of the panicked residents of the city of Providence continued. Sirens wailed and people variously screamed or shouted or both. But the city itself was silent. More specifically, the Keeper returned to dormancy, and the city that had been built over it was only that again. Emily groaned and rolled onto her side. I went to her. Blood flowed from a gash on her temple that exposed bone, and her face bore a burn that looked as if she had been repeatedly brushed with a torch. Still, with these and certainly other injuries, she tried to sit. I helped her up until she rose to her knees. “'What happened?' is going to sound like a stupid question,” she said, lisping through a split upper lip. “Nevertheless, what happened?” “I called Azathoth through the Homing Circle on his chest,” said Benjamin. “Azathoth? He Who Lives in the Sun?” “That's the one. It was the only thing I could think of to destroy both Ives and the barge. I was hoping he wouldn't be strong enough to overcome the whole river.” “And if he was?” “Compared to Cthulhu, I figured he was still the lesser of two evils.” “I'm supposed to be the High Priest, Benjamin. Where did you learn a casting like that?” “Professor Bishop taught it to me as a freshman. I'm surprised I remembered it.” “And what would he be doing teaching you something like that?” Emily asked, rising to her feet and standing with her fists on her hips. “His words were 'just in case you ever need it.'“ I held

137 Robert J. Santa up a palm. “Honest.” More sirens sounded, closer than they had been before. “Let's get out of here,” said Emily. “I couldn't agree more. Are we leaving the city?” “Yes, please. I think I've had quite enough of Provi- dence for a while.”

* * *

“This is a proud day to be leading the State of Rhode Is- land and Providence Plantations.” “Governor Gainor!” shouted one reporter. “Do you feel this water system will provide potable water, not just to the current residents of Providence, but also to the future residents?” “The extensive system of pipes and drains that circles this city will flow for decades, possibly even centuries. There will be water for every man, woman and child that decides to reside in this city and its neighborhoods.” Emily and I left the throng and walked away from the Capitol Building steps. “That should keep things safe for a while.” Emily turned and smiled at me. Her face bore no trace of the injuries she had sustained only a year before. Twice I was certain she had caught me staring at her, searching for impossibly non-existent scar tissue. “How did you manage to get the project accomplished so quickly?” I asked. “Governor Gainor is a lay member along with a few other influential people.” “So much for being alone in Rhode Island.” “I haven't been for a while.”

138 Divine Providence

“Can I tell you a secret?” I asked. “I'd love to hear it.” “I did a little something to help with our dormant Old One issue. There's a true Elder Sign buried a few hundred feet in the ground that should hold our beastie even if a break forms in the water again.” “Where is it?” “Post Office circle.” Emily furrowed her brows. “The War Memorial?” she asked, and I nodded. “I know the artist from a trip to France. He had no trouble altering his plans. I'm sure the construction crew wondered why they were tunneling channels into the ground, but all went well. The memorial itself forms the tip of the Sign. I doubt even if it were moved would it do anything to the underground part.” “Excellent. Well, it was good to see you again, Ben- jamin. I'm off to join several of my colleagues.” “Whereabouts?” “Innsmouth, Massachusetts. We're going to have a chat with the Deep Ones colony off the coast there and see if we can't come to an understanding about what to do in the future should someone try to raise Ryleh again.” “Good luck with that. I hope to see you again soon.” “As do I. Give my regards to Professor Bishop when he gets back from Antarctica.” “I will.” “And if he finds any frozen fossils, I want to know about it.” “Hopefully, no one will know about it,” I said with a grin. We shook hands, and I held the taxi door open for her. I saw the driver's reflection in the mirror and noted his drooping mouth and bulging eyes that marked him as

139 Robert J. Santa an Innsmouth native. I figured the poor man was in for a tough drive.

140

Tell Tom Tildrum Edward M. Erdelac

“Were the squabs to your liking, Captain Howe?” Ber- trand asked, dabbing the grease from his lips with his napkin. In truth, they had not been. I have never much appreciated the philosophy behind pigeons à la crapaudine, squabs masquerading as frogs. It’s a silly French concoction, a holdover from the old days when papists insisted that their fish be made to look like beef to ease the Lenten fasts. I’d had it once before, the first time I’d dined with the Prestons at Mundui on Lake Navaisha. A preposterous dish. I like my swine arse up and my pigeons on their backs. I’d said so before. That was why Kiki had taken such a liking to me. The American infatua- tion with plain speaking, I suppose. The claret however, was to my liking, and I said so. Bertrand smiled indulgently as the servants cleared the long white table, ridiculously empty with just the two of us seated in the opulent dining hall. As usual, there was nothing behind it. His eyes were dead as a plugged bushbuck’s. They never smiled. He seemed such a soft handed fellow. Certainly he had never known hunger or war. What had earned him his spot in the Bell Club, I wondered? He rose and gestured for me to do the same. “Shall we?” I followed him out of the dining hall, musing on the strange requirements of this, the only club that had so far not blackballed me from prospective membership due to my nefarious exploits with the more colorful members of

141 Edward M. Erdelac the infamous Happy Valley set while working as a hunter and guide in Kenya up until a year ago. Bertrand Grammercy, to whom I had been introduced as ‘a character’ via letter by the graciousness of my friend and benefactor Lord Delamere, had taken an interest in my Happy Valley days that bordered on the unsavory. He was especially inquisitive about the more seedy aspects of my associations with the notorious Lady Idina Gordon, who regularly received callers to her palatial valley estate Clouds in a great green onyx bathtub, wearing no more than the suds. Long hours he spent listening to my tales of drunken orgies and narcotic hedonism, even getting out of me some of my more bloody excursions with the King’s Af- rican Rifles prior to my settling in Wanhoji Valley. He smirked behind his hand when I confessed how Colonel Meinerhatzgen and I had broken the Nandi resistance against the Uganda Railway by inviting their chief to tea and then murdering him and machine-gunning his dele- gates, and he was similarly amused with my numerous Jerry-killing stories about the War. I told him how the Colonel introduced me to Lord Delamere in the interven- ing years, and how I took it in my mind to settle on Lake Naivashu and hire myself out to the rich young expats as a safari guide. That had led to my crapulent period, sharing jacks and tinctures with the woman the papers called The Girl With The Silver Syringe , and burning native villages on a champagne whim or passing opiate notion with Raymond de Trafford. I do not know whether I told him these things out of any burden of conscience which my sober mind was perhaps unaware of, or if, like any old soldier, I just liked a willing ear, but Bertrand plied my reserve with bottle after bottle of port, until one blurry

142 Tell Tom Tildrum evening I happened to relate to him the tale of the slaughter of the watusimba. At that time his perpetual expression of wry curiosity had flattened, and his whole leisurely demeanor toward me had changed. I remember he leaned in on the sofa and proposed in all seriousness that I share my story with the members of the Bell Club and so secure myself a membership. “Remember, Captain,” Bertrand said as we reached a set of ornately carved double doors with brass handles, “confine your talk to the story you told me.” “May I smoke?” I asked, feeling in my jacket pocket for my tobacco and Meerschaum. “Certainly,” Bertrand said. “Make yourself as comfortable as you like. But do not address the other members, except to tell your story.” Damned foolishness. “Don’t worry,” Bertrand said. “I guarantee you’ll be on equal terms with them after tonight.” The morning after I had told Bertrand about the Watusimba I had quite forgotten, and only remembered at his prompting. I endeavored to dismiss the whole thing as make believe, but Bertrand insisted he knew it was true as I had showed him the trophy and my scars, affirming the whole affair. I could scarcely deny it. And now, three nights later, here I was, being ushered like some medical oddity into a parlor full of morbidly curious strangers to recite the tale again. I felt a bit like a schoolboy delivering a vaguely memorized report to a room of my peers. Though I could not readily see them, mere silhouettes as they were, seated in a semicircle in the surrounding dark of the room, I could practically smell their curiosity. It was like Ber- trand’s. Sort of hungry. Eager, like the feel of some

143 Edward M. Erdelac predator lurking unseen in the bush. In my securing Ber- trand’s sponsorship, they perhaps understood that whatever I had to tell them, it was not likely to be boring. “Horror,” Bertrand had said. “The Bell Club’s members have all experienced some great horror which the greater body of citizenry can never understand. Some- times it is simply too unspeakable, and sometimes it is inexplicable. But in all cases, it is terrible.” Well, hold onto your long johns, you great pack of ghouls, I thought. I have a tale to tell. The parlor, as I said, was strictly hearth-lit, there being no light but what was cast by the great fireplace that yawned like a hippo’s jaws, and the dim nocturnal blue that sifted through the heavy red drapes over the panes of the tall window overlooking the benighted grounds. The fireplace cast a reddish glow on its own accompanying iron implements, the poker and shovel in their stand and the copper wood bin, and also on the grand Turkish rug struck through with winding curly cue designs that covered the wood floor. A chair had been made ready for me, a high backed lordly red leather affair that sat facing the rest, appropriately enough on carved mahogany lion’s feet. There was a columned table with a marble top beside it, and a silver tray with a single tumbler of ice and a carafe of what appeared to be plain ordinary water. Propriety and mumbo jumbo be damned, I was not about to tell what I had to tell without a stiff drink. “I say, Bertie,” I said, grimacing at the water as I settled in. “How about something fit for a man to drink?” “Of course, Captain,” Bertrand said as he took his own seat among the other waiting shadows. They were all of them just beyond the firelight, sitting

144 Tell Tom Tildrum in their chairs, judging me already. I’d been around my so-called betters before, and I’d learned early on you wouldn’t get anywhere with them if you just knuckled under and took whatever scraps they gave you. You’ve got to grab that sort by their turned up noses and bring them eye level or they’ll piss down your back. The Colonel had taught me that in India, not to look away even from a maharajah’s gaze, not to take guff even from a Sultan, who was just an ordinary man who could bleed and die the same as any London street urchin once you get under the silks. This pack wouldn’t get the best of me. Out of the shadows stepped a light skinned Negro in a red sash and black tails with a fez upon his shaven head. He had a bottle of something appropriately dark in his hands, and a white towel in the crook of his elbow. He came before me and bowed at the waist, waiting for me to hold up the glass. I let him wait a bit. Let them all wait. Because the Colonel had taught me too that just as you don’t let your betters talk down to you, you don’t miss an opportunity to grind your foot in the face of your own inferiors. A place for everyone, he used to say, and everyone in their place. After he’d held the posture for a bit, I picked up the glass, but I made him lean in further to pour, and I watched his dark eyes as I did for a hint of insolence. He had a look about him, reminded me of somebody. Maybe a wog I’d known in the KAR, or a gun bearer I’d once employed. “You African, boy?” I supposed I wasn’t bending any rules by speaking to the help. The servant’s eyes flitted up to mine, but he

145 Edward M. Erdelac didn’t miss his pouring, good monkey that he was. “Yes, b’wanna .” “Kikuyu?” I asked. “Yes, b’wanna .” My arse. He didn’t look like a Kikuyu. Too finely fea- tured. Too short and broad to be a Maasai though. Somali maybe? They were fashionable as servants, but you didn’t see them much this far from Africa. “Well…Nzuri kumtia, kijana .” He held my look a bit, bobbed his head, and finishing up, straightening at last to withdraw. “Just a minute,” I said. And I let him stand there while I fished out my tobacco and took my time packing the bowl. It was a game we officers used to play in the KAR, a game I’d taught the men in Happy Valley, to see how far you could push these golliwogs. Pretty far, in my experience. Then I put the pipe stem in between my teeth and raised my eyebrows at him. He took a lighter from his jacket pocket and held it out, lighting my bowl while I puffed. I nodded and smiled. “Good boy.” He didn’t like me, that one. He returned the lighter to his pocket and backed away into his black element, and his eyes held mine until they disappeared. “What did you say to him?” asked one of the shadows. A woman’s voice. Bertrand had told me they let birds in this ‘fraternity.’ Well, beggars can’t be choosers. “I said he was a good boy.” “I mean, in Swahili. You speak it?” I followed the sound of her voice to a delicate shape in the dark and I smiled around my pipe.

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“Oh that. Yes mum, you pick up a bit of the old gut- ter talk living in Africa. I told him he was doing a good job. That’s all. And you’re making me break the rules aren’t you?” I winked at her. She shifted in her seat. I like to see ‘em squirm like that. “When you’re ready, Captain,” said Bertrand. “Ah right. My story. Well, here we go.” I filled my lungs and let the smoke spill from my nos- trils, floating over my eyes. The smell of it took me back, and when I took a drink of scotch it was 1926 again. I was there on the wide veranda of Clouds with all the old gang. There was our wicked madonna Alice playing In The Good Old Summertime on her ukulele, making fists with her toes in the fur of her tame lion cub Samson, the lazy thing tongue-lolling drunk with scotch thanks to her husband the Count, who was passed out beside it, one arm flopped over its neck like a lover, his mustache salted white with cocaine. The Earl of Erroll and Raymond were both fondling Alice’s breasts and kissing her long neck as she played, while Lady Idina giggled into a champagne glass and played with Bernice’s hair and Gerry and Mal- colm took turns tossing grapes to the monkeys on the lawn and then blasting at them with my big howdah pistol. That was the afternoon I went into the kitchen to re- place a broken glass and found Frank tying off Kiki’s thin, pale arm, that sweet smell in the air. He’d excused himself then, the obnoxious old peddler, slunk out like the rat he was, leaving me to stand there watching her loosen the hose and plunge the heroine into her blood. Then she’d smiled at me coquettishly and lay back on the

147 Edward M. Erdelac table like a lazy cat and tented her knees beneath her dress and said, “You like your pigeons with their legs up don’t you, Cap?” After that it’d been one party after another, me jumping between the girls like a honeybee. We were all friends. No one cared about bands or vows or God. “To hell with husbands!” Joss used to say. “Captain?” I must have been smiling, thinking about it. “Right. It was 1926 and I’d been living in the Wanhoji Valley since the end of the war. I worked out of the Muthaiga Country Club, hiring myself out as a sort of guide to the local expats. Little fishing, little hunting. Mostly waterbuck and serval, sometimes Black Rhino and elephants.” I puffed and considered my next words. “Li- ons on this occasion. “It was an intimate party. Only myself, two gents with their wives, eight askaris …ah, that is, guards, culled from the Maasai, and about fifty Kikuyus, including the cook, bearers, and horse trainers. Quite a small entourage, really, for a hounding party.” “Huh-huh-hounding pah-pah-party?” asked another of the unseen audience, this one a man, younger than Bertrand, it sounded like, and a bigger stutterer than Moses. “Yes sir,” I said. “Like your fox hunt, but we use gundogs. African Lion Hounds. Bloody beautiful animals, stiff ridgebacks and fine red coats, like proper British soldiers, bred for the purpose. They flush ‘em out, keep ‘em at bay till we can come up with our Express Rifles and blast ‘em.” I guess there was nothing in the club charter about

148 Tell Tom Tildrum not speaking to members when spoken to first. I took a sip of scotch and went on. “Anyway, the dogs had surprised a lioness with her kill, and they surrounded her. You could hear the barking and her roar way at the back of the train, a real hullabaloo boiling over. She killed two hounds by the time we got to her. Big, yellow thing she was, magnificent, her shoulders and her whiskers painted red with blood. Gerry shot her first with his .404 Jeffrey, right there,” I said, pointing to my own left shoulder. “Clipped her just enough to make a blood trail for us to follow, really. Of course, most of the Maasai wouldn’t follow. They’re against killing a lioness unless out of necessity.” I recalled arguing with the Maasai, when Kiki and her husband Gerry and Malcolm and Bernice rode up to see what was the bother. It was barely noon, but we were all of us drunk already, and Kiki and Bernice were giggling as Gerry sloshed most of a bottle of gin over the lip of her glass, it being deucedly hard to pour on horseback. “What’s all the hubbub, bub?” Gerry snickered. I waved my hand dismissively at Leebo, the headman. “Ah, these black devils don’t want to chase her. Something about the area they don’t like. They’ve just got a thing against killing females.” “Aw, that’s so chivalrous of them,” Bernice remarked, pouting her lips. She reached down and patted one of the bearers’ heads, even though it was the askari who were refusing. “Yeah, knights in shining loincloths,” Gerry remarked. “Won’t kill females,” Malcolm grumbled. “How little they understand the fairer sex, eh Ger?”

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“I think it’s sweet,” Bernice said, now twisting her finger in the African’s curls. “Tell b’wana ,” she cooed silk- ily, to the man’s obvious embarrassment. “It’s bibi , for you, you numbskull,” Gerry snickered, shaking his head. “Bea, you’re scandalous. What’s it gonna take to get them moving, Cap?” “Well the bearers’ll stick with us,” I said, “but half the Maasai won’t go.” “Bullshit!” Gerry snarled suddenly. “We’re payin’ them aren’t we? Listen up, you apes….” “Oh, let ‘em be, Gerry,” Bernice said, knocking back her glass and wiping the hand that had been stroking the Negro’s head on her khaki riding pants. “They wouldn’t be any help anyway.” “She’s probably right, Gerry,” I allowed. “No help at all’s better than reluctant help in this case.” “Oh but I so wanted a lion skin for the sitting room,” Kiki whined. “I don’t know, tootsie wootsie,” I said. “Going into the bush after a wounded lioness with half the askari …” “Can’t you all just see me laid out on a lion skin in front of the fire?” she mused, stretching suggestively in her saddle and lacing her fingers beneath her chin like a calendar girl. “Can’t I!” I grinned. “Oh brother,” Bernice said, rolling her eyes. “Theda Bara over here.” “Well let’s send these wogs packing, and press on, chums,” Malcolm said, draining the last glass and tossing it over his shoulder. As I explained to Leebo the headman that I was dis- charging him, Kiki let out a wail. “What’s the matter?” We all of us asked at once.

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She was rifling through her bag and I knew right away what it was, because the hard little velvet lined case that contained her famously silver syringe was already in her hand. “I don’t have anything! Not a bindle!” she screeched, throwing things out of the purse. “Aw, daddy’s little hop-head can’t get snowed for the big bad lion?” Bernice sneered. “Shut up, you bitch!” “Now now,” said Malcolm. “Kiki,” I said, “you don’t really wanna go after a lion on that stuff do you?” “That’s easy for you to say, Cap, you’re already plas- tered,” she snarled. “Oh and you’re not?” Gerry prodded. I knew I was. I had lost count of the bottles we’d left lying in the bush behind the train. Wine, scotch, absinthe, vodka... “Well I’ll just have to go back and get Beryl to fly to Nairobi and get some more,” she said, turning her horse around. “Hey Kiki, what about the lion?” I called. “Oh bring it back for me won’t you, Cap? I’ll give you a big kiss!” she called over her shoulder as she bounced away. “Better give me more than that,” I called after her, watching the swell of her hips. “Hey, that’s my wife you’re talking about, you limey profligate,” Gerry grinned, his eyelids wavering. “I’m surprised you got that word out in your condition. Go catch her before she rides off a cliff,” I said. He smiled and winked at me as he turned his horse toward the back of the train.

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“Bag her for me, Cap.” “Clean up your mess, you mean,” Malcolm shouted after him as Gerry joined the sacked askari heading home with their spears over their shoulders. “Yes,” I chimed in, “if you’d of shot straight to begin with we’d be back at the Count’s laying around playing sheik and Sheba right now.” “Gimme a break, chum,” he said in parting. “I’m drunk.” “Well,” said Malcolm, once they’d gone. “A hunting we will go.” I finished my pipe and knocked it on the heel of my shoe, sprinkling ash on the rug. The African came forward with a copper dustpan and brush. As he knelt before me I continued. “It wasn’t hard to track her. She was bleeding like a stuck pig from the .404 and I figured she’d bleed out before we even found her. I went ahead of the train with the four askari who’d remained and my gunbearers and the dog handler. Malcolm and Bernice came behind. They weren’t as serious about hunting as Gerry and Kiki, which wasn’t saying much. It was all a day trip for them, maybe a little blood to make it interesting, lots of booze if it wasn’t. The bush was thick with plants and tsetse flies. The lioness had climbed up into the foothills, a place I’d never been. You couldn’t see far in front of your face and the Kikuyu were jittery. I was considering ditching the horses or just turning round. The hounds were straining at the leash and I bad the handler let them go. There were four dogs left and game as their breed is, they dove right into the bush. Could hear them barking a ways ahead, and I expected to hear either the lioness

152 Tell Tom Tildrum again or nothing at all shortly. But what I heard was a woman’s scream. Well, I don’t know what I thought. The booze you know, and the needle I’d had for breakfast, thought maybe I was hearing things, but one look at the bearers and the askari and I knew they’d heard it too. Woman screaming like you’ve never heard a woman scream, and the dogs snarling and snapping like they were tearing into her. Never knew Lion Hounds to attack a man or woman. They’re as loyal to humanity as they come, and as I said, they’re gundogs, so they don’t really hunt by smell. No chance they’d got the scents mixed up somehow. I thought maybe this woman had been out in the bush for some reason and been attacked by the lioness, but I didn’t hear the lioness, you see. Just her and those damned dogs.” I rode the way the dogs had gone, crashing through with the four Maasai and the gunbearers close behind. The dog handler was lagging. I guess he thought whatever his dogs were doing, he was going to be blamed for it, and he was thinking of turning tail. The sounds got closer, and we burst through a tangle of brush and found them at the edge of a clearing in the forest. The woman was turtled up on her belly, knees tucked in, arms over her head, and the dogs were all over her. I saw one tear a chunk of flesh from her calf in a splatter of blood. She cried out, and the other three were trying to work their long noses into the soft space between her ears and her bare, bleeding shoulders. I pulled my howdah pistol out of my belt and dis- charged it into the air. The dogs all flinched and backed away like they were trained, looking around for their mas-

153 Edward M. Erdelac ter. “Get up here!” I yelled to the handler. “Get up here and get ‘em, you bloody fool!” He came over, nodding his head and blowing the whistle around his neck, calling the dogs to him. Just as they had overcome the woman, they ran across the clearing and swarmed all over him, licking and wagging their tales as if they were to be rewarded. “What the hell got into ‘em?” I demanded, tucking my pistol away and going to the woman. She was a Negress, and naked, fine formed but for the blood and ragged bite marks in her flesh. She was high toned, not the dark sort of steam engine black you usually see in Africans. Her skin was golden, like honey, and her hair was short and I suppose dyed a light blonde color against her scalp. I spoke to her in Swahili, low, soothing. I didn’t want her damned village blaming us for this and getting unnec- essarily ugly. I explained about the lion, and apologized for the dogs, and said we’d get her a doctor and remu- neration for her ordeal. I waved the others over to bear her up. “And that was when I saw her shoulder,” I said. The woman who had asked about my Swahili lit a cigarette, and for a brief moment I caught a glimpse of her face in the light of the match. She wore a scarf beneath her hat, and half of it was draped across her left eye. She had a young, pretty face up to the point where the scarf obscured her. The skin there was mottled and wrinkled, as if from a fire. She looked up at me, her one eye glistening, and then there was only the afterimage, and the pinpoint ember of her cigarette. I swallowed another glass of scotch.

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“A .404 slug would blow a girl’s joint apart, take her arm clean off. No question as to her running away either. The shock, you know, not just of the wound, but of the force of impact. They’re manufactured to take down charging elephants, and I had seen Gerry’s bullet hit that lioness as she threw off one of the hounds. A glancing shot, true, but it had taken a good portion out of her shoulder. This native girl had a wound in the very same spot. That was the first thing I noticed. Then, when the bearers turned her on her back, and we saw her face. That face . It was like something out of a damned nightmare. Her eyes were gold, the irises…narrow like a snake’s. Like a cat’s. Her mouth, her damned teeth. The canines were pointed, and her mouth was all wrong. Just…all wrong. The nose was mashed into the upper lip, which was...malformed, split like a harelip but…,” I jammed my tongue behind my upper lip and pushed out, flattening my nose to demonstrate. “Like that. The dog handler was the first to run. He let go of his dogs and ran amongst them, like one of them, for the back of the train. My bearer dropped my Holland & Hol- land and ran after him, the devil. I remember thinking if he’d damaged my gun I was going to flay its value from his black hide. The four Kikuyu that had taken hold of her fell away like somebody had lobbed a grenade in their midst. Only myself and the Maasai didn’t run. I can’t speak for the Maasai, but I was full of liquor and heroine. She ran though. She flopped on her belly when they dropped her and sprung up and sort of half-ran, limping away on her bloodied leg. Then she tripped and fell to her hands and that was how she went into the bush, on all fours, or rather three, loping away like an animal on her

155 Edward M. Erdelac hands. The four Kikuyu ran back to the train, shouting something in Swahili, and it was like a brushfire the way it caught on. Up and down the train the word traveled, echoed in every black mouth, until all our goods were being dumped and the whole party was running pell mell back down the hill. I could hear Bernice shrieking. She had these fantasies about the blacks all coming after her at once. She must have thought it was coming true.” “What word?” the woman asked. “Watusimba. Watusimba.” “Lion People ?” Malcolm repeated, watching the bearers scurrying away like frightened children. “What the hell are they talking about?” “I don’t know, some local mumbo jumbo,” I said. “Does b’wana not know of the Lion People?” one of the Maasai, a mean young buck called Sabore asked me. “No we’re not acquainted,” I chuckled, taking my hip flask of bourbon out and tapping it. “But did b’wana not see the woman’s face?” “I don’t know what I saw, goddammit,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and feeling the burning swell in my belly climb up to my sweating forehead. I picked up my Holland & Holland and checked the action, satisfied the fool hadn’t broken it in his womanly panic. “What are you two babbling on about?” Bernice said. She was annoyed. The absinthe had run dry. “Let’s just kill this thing and be done with it.” “I don’t know,” I said again. “You don’t know you don’t know,” Malcolm taunted drunkenly from his horse. “Either it was a woman or it

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wasn’t.” “Well, it couldn’t have been.” “Right. And if it was, well, I want to see it.” “Me too! Me too!” Bernice giggled like a cow. “But there was a woman….” “Well then if she ran off into the bush bleeding, it’s our goddamned duty as English gentlemen to see she’s alright,” Malcolm said. “Ain’t it?” “Bleeding bush!” Bernice exclaimed, and shook so hard in the saddle she nearly fell. “B’wana,” said Sabore to me, low so they wouldn’t hear. “Killing watusimba will bring you great honor. But these…,” he said, gesturing with his eyes to Malcolm and Bernice. “These will get you killed.” “Come on, Cap,” Malcolm pushed. “Are you a man or not?” That boiled in my ears, this Oxford blue blood pansy saying that to me, when I’d had his silly little wife six ways from Sunday because he couldn’t do the job. “Alright, Malcolm. A hunting we will go.” “We left the horses and went ahead on foot. Bernice complained the whole way. She complained about leaving her horse with one of the Maasai, she complained about having to lug her gun about herself. Mostly she complained that we had no booze. Sabore wanted to kill her and leave her, but I gave her my hip flask. That quieted her some. The Maasai still went pretty far ahead of us, and I thought they’d ditched us, but after about a half hour one jogged back and told us to be very quiet, that they’d found the…I don’t know the word they used. It was like pride, but it was like village too.” I reached for the bottle and poured the last of it into my glass.

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We were crouched in the brush overlooking a cleft in the forest, into which was nestled a collection of mud and thatch huts. The villagers below all seemed to be gathered in the communal plaza, and we could see the girl we had pur- sued lying in their midst, a sort of witch doctor in a lion hide cape leaning over her. I don’t know what I had seen back when we’d gotten the dogs off of her. She looked perfectly normal now. Some trick of the rubbish in my veins or the rot in my belly. They were a striking bunch, all the same honey colored hue, the women all with their hair short and dyed blonde. The men however, had cultivated their hair into these bushy manes that stood a full foot out from their heads, and were almost the same color as their hides. “Marvelous looking bunch of buggers aren’t they?” Malcolm whispered to me. “Yes.” “Where are the lions? I don’t see any bloody lions,” Bernice hissed. The Maasai had been silent, but now the three of them murmured some prayer in Maa. I could only catch a word of it. It was to the Red God, their god of vengeance. “Oh there’s one,” said Bernice. I don’t know just when she’d got her rifle out. In truth I didn’t even know she had the capacity to ready and fire it, but there was all of a sudden a great boom that bounced off the walls of the little valley, and the lion caped witch doctor’s head burst into a bloom of brains, blood, and bone. A palpable shot, no less. Well, I wasn’t about to be showed up by that cow Bernice, and anyway once civilian blood was shed, they all

158 Tell Tom Tildrum had to go. No witnesses. The Colonel had taught me that as well. There were about thirty villagers down below, and at the first sound of gunfire they scattered to a man. Mal- colm and I poured bullets down into the village and the Maasai let loose with their bows. It was quite like the old adage about shooting fish in a barrel. They had apparently planned their village trusting to its hidden location to de- fend them. But now surprised, there was no escape. Bernice was cackling as she fired again and again, and Malcolm encouraged her, as if we were shooting at a flock of pheasants. I don’t know how many I killed. Men, women, even the children. The Maasai were just as merciless. I’d never known them to exercise such unscrupulous efficiency. They ex- terminated the villagers, as though they hated them. Then, not satisfied with the distance, they drew their seme swords and their orinki clubs and slid down the escarp- ment, howling excitedly. Something in their enthusiasm enflamed me, and I followed. Malcolm too, followed slowly by Bernice, who lost her pith helmet on the way down and had to go back for it. “Mind where you shoot now, dear,” Malcolm called in parting as he and I touched the bloody valley floor, the Maasai already ducking into the huts, weapons whistling. Of the original thirty, half their number looked to have died in the surprise onslaught. We stepped over half naked bleeding bodies of the young and old, loading our rifles as we went. The smell of death was thick in the air. “Champion fun, eh, Cap?” Malcolm remarked, tucking his rifle under his arm and reaching into the breast pocket of his shooting jacket to retrieve his cigarettes.

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Something in what we were doing penetrated my addled mind, and I slung my rifle and drew out my howdah. The Maasai were slipping in and out of the huts, strung with gore. I was still amazed at how quickly they were enacting this, and without question. I wondered what sort of intertribal feud had sparked such vehemence in them. They were even killing the children. “Listen Malcom. This is bloody business,” I said. “I’m up for it, but I’ve got to know that you and Bernice are too.” “Sure sure, old man,” Malcom said, lighting his cigarette as Bernice came up behind him, adjusting her blouse. “Where’s my lion?” she asked cheerily. “It is mine, isn’t it? I shot it. Kiki can…” That was when there was a tremendous lion’s roar, closer than I’d ever hoped to hear one, and suddenly there was a blur of yellow. I think it came from the nearest hut. It knocked Bernice flat, and I heard Bernice scream, the sound muffled as if she were yelling into a pillow. Muffled because its jaws had covered her face. “What was it, Captain Howe?” asked the young man in the shadows. “It was a lion. Or rather, I thought it was. Huge beast, a male with a great wavy mane. It was strange though. Its shoulders and its forelegs, more like a man’s arms. A very strong man. Biceps, elbows, wrists, but they ended in a lion’s paws. I remember the claws in her shoulders, to the cuticle. It happened so fast there was no blood. It had a man’s legs too. The knees, you know, where up on either side of it, like a man perched on something. I saw the muscles in its jaws flex beneath the fur. It raised its head, and the whole front portion of her skull came away. Just a

160 Tell Tom Tildrum bloody shell left behind, with her hair all around. I could see her brains, bitten in half. Ghastly.” Maybe not so ghastly as what some of these others had seen, for no one excused themselves from the room. I saw a couple of them lean forward in their chairs. The woman with the burned face. “It sprang at Malcolm next. The damned fool never knew what happened. I think he mumbled something through his cigarette. He’d only just turned in time to see the thing tear his wife’s face off. I saw the cigarette drop out of his lips and then it knocked his head right of his shoulders. Just batted it off with one paw, like a man knocking another man’s hat off.” I reached for the glass, but the bottle was empty. I looked at it a moment, then put the glass back on the tray. It was a loud sound in the stillness. They waited for me to go on. Malcolm fell, blood spurting from his ragged stump of a neck. I thrust my howdah at the lion thing and gave it both barrels in the face. It reeled backwards, and then Sabore and one of the Maasai rushed past me and leapt full on its chest, hacking and clubbing it. I backed away, feeling sick. Underneath their black limbs I saw the carcass of the thing begin to shrink, the hair to fall away. Sabore spun and taking his knife, hacked at the tail, which appeared to be retreating like a scared python, sliding up toward the body somehow. Severed, the tail lay, but the stump kept shrinking, bleeding only a little. Sabore laughed and picked up the tail. It was a traditional trophy of the Maasai, but this one was entirely bare. A sickly thing, like a snake, or a big brown skinned rat’s tail. But he held it up and shouted exultantly to his fel-

161 Edward M. Erdelac lows. Me, I watched its previous owner. As Sabore’s companion stood, I got a better look. It was not a lion. It was one of the villagers, a honey colored man, his face mauled to blood and bone by my howdah pistol, his body perfo- rated and broken by the two Maasai’s assault. I stumbled backward as the other Maasai crowded around Sabore and began to leap and call out in their victory dance. “I didn’t really understand what I’d seen, you see,” I said, folding my hands in my lap, rolling my thumbs, wanting to call for the Negro to fetch another bottle. “I didn’t know if it was the heroine or the liquor, or perhaps the cocaine I’d shared with Malcolm in camp. But there Malcolm and Bernice were, dead, and there was Sabore hoisting up that damnable hairless tail. Then we heard the roaring. All around us. The Maasai’s celebration had been quite premature.” I smiled bitterly and closed my eyes. The Maasai instantly ceased their jumping and formed a back to back circle, spears at the ready. Sabore issued orders. I didn’t speak much Maa, but I knew the sound of an officer yelling for his rattled subor- dinates to buck up. I stuffed my howdah into my belt and unslung my rifle. I was outside of their circle, and I turned warily all around, so jittery my hands shook. I’d never heard the sounds of so many lions together. One roar began before another ceased. They all blended together. It was like they were issuing their own commands and assertions, sounding their own war cry. Then they came out from behind the huts. I couldn’t count them. They moved too quick. Some of them ran

162 Tell Tom Tildrum out on two feet like men, and like the girl had done, fell to running on all fours, the wind pressing back their manes, those that had them, for some were females. I knew they were for I could see their quite human, fur covered breasts, their rounded haunches, and all of them with their terrible jaws bared and snarling, their weird, half human half lion faces contorted in rage. The Maasai held their circle, gamely maintained their ground. I bolted for the nearest hut, firing my big H&H as I went. I dove into the shelter as the front line of the watusimba threw themselves on the Maasai spears with such force some of the weapons snapped in two. I landed in something like a wet bag of kindling, the corpses of a pair of small children. Too small to think about, really. I retreated in horror from the grisly bodies and rolled on my belly, taking aim through the open doorway with my Express. The Maasai struggled to free their spears from the dying watusimba, and in the meantime those in the rear sprang over their fellows and fell full upon them, rending and tearing their black skin, freeing the pink and red and the white bone beneath. Drifting fur and blood and screams hovered over the horrible tangle of men and beastmen and beastwomen. There were five of the creatures left alive, but only two Maasai standing. One of them was Sabore. He flung his orinka at one of the leaping females and it broke against her forehead, then he whipped out his seme short sword and desperately began to lay about him, howling like a madman as they closed in and shredded his red garment and jewelry and slashed the skin from his shining shoulders.

163 Edward M. Erdelac

I used their preoccupation with the warriors, blasting them in rapid succession, my sweaty hands slippery on the bolt but sure in my aim. As the other Maasai fell, so too did the watusimba, in my sights. Now the largest and last of the lionmen had reared up its two legs, pinning the bloodied Sabore’s arms to his side in a bone crushing embrace that made him scream and drop his weapon. I sighted him in the same instant that his great head swiveled on his muscular shoulders and his big yellow eyes saw me. I fired, and the smoke was thick at the end of the barrel. Too thick to see through. Then the thing plunged right through the cloud at me. It had closed the distance in a matter of seconds, discarding Sabore for the greater threat. I managed to drop my Express and turn, its broad shoulders smashing through the doorway of the hut, its claws sinking into the earth instead of me. I pulled my knife and jabbed it into the thing’s bris- tling shoulder. It yowled and rolled over on me, pressing me down with its bulk, and proceeded to drag the fabric and flesh from my torso with quick, vicious strokes of its terrible claws. In answer, I drove my knife into it again and again, striking furiously, with no regard to target, no thought but to stop its burrowing into me. It became a race of sorts, a race to see which of us could do enough damage to kill first. I could only hold its snarling maw back with my left hand and strike and slash with my right. I tried to draw my legs up to protect myself, but I couldn’t lift my attacker. Our blood mixed, and our struggle brought the flimsy straw structure down around us, the mud crumbling and the thatch collapsing as our flailing limbs and my kicking feet battered the walls.

164 Tell Tom Tildrum

“I don’t know just how I killed it,” I said, gripping the arms of the chair. Sometimes the old wounds pained me when I thought on them, like a burnt finger sings near the stove that afflicted it. “But I know when it died as the face sagged against mine, and my hand, my hand that had been gripping its jaw, felt the bones shifting and popping. The hair began to shed through my fingers, and the face became like the girl’s, and then wholly a man’s.” I noticed that my knuckles were white on the arms of the chair. Damn, why didn’t they bring me something to drink? Talk about something else. Anything else. “Sabore bore me back to the horses, the two of us dying, leaking so damn much we thought any normal cat in the forest would set upon us soon.” I chuckled nervously. Did they believe a word of it? “After that, I recuperated at Lord Delamere’s. That was the end of Kenya for me. Spent months at his spread at Soysambu, got clean of the drugs and the company I’d kept…” “That’s enough, Captain Howe,” said Bertrand, and he reached over and pulled the chain on a small lamp on a marble table beside him. The light cast a shaft down that illuminated only him. I noticed there was a small bell on the table, such as a schoolmaster might use to call his classroom to order. Bertrand took it and rang it. A tinkling little sound like a girl’s giggle. To his right, where the scarred woman who had asked me about my exchange with the servant sat, a second light snapped on. The woman sat revealed, if one could call it that. She was well dressed, and as I thought, quite beautiful but for the disfigurement only partially hidden by her head scarf.

165 Edward M. Erdelac

She picked up an identical bell and rang it. The process was repeated for each of the shadowy listeners. They turned on their lights, and rang their bells, citing their silent, unanimous approval of my candidacy. The bells and the loss of the dark eased me somewhat. The sweat that had been building up at the base of my back dried. The light changed the previous mystery and gloom, complimenting the cheery hearth light. Kenya and the watusimba seemed far away as I contemplated the interesting visages of my new companions, some, like the fetching scarred woman, bore the marks of their personal ordeals plain on their bodies, in missing limbs or wheel- chairs. I found myself wondering about each of them in turn, and when I would hear their tales and if they held a candle to mine. Then the time came for the last corner of the room to be lit, for the last member of the Bell Club to ring his bell and put aside his mask of shadow. It was the young man who had spoken to me. But now he said nothing, and he did not ring his bell or make any sound. “Cyril?” Bertrand prompted after an awkward moment. “Do you wish to raise some concern?” This Cyril said nothing. I found myself a little per- turbed. “Do you doubt my veracity, sir?” I snarled. No answer. “Is it proof you want? I have my scars, but maybe this will settle things for you.” Bertrand had told me I didn’t need to bring any proof, that despite the weirdness of my story I would be believed, but I’d brought it as insurance anyway. I’d only

166 Tell Tom Tildrum ever told Lord Delamere the story of what really happened in the bush that day, and he’d attributed it to my addictions. Even when I showed him the tail I’d cut from the big lion man, the strange, hairless tail flattened and dried and beaded by the Maasai, a trophy of a great hunter, he’d only smirked. I remembered that damnable smirk now. Superior, aloof, like a father listening to his son’s wide-eyed embel- lishments. Was this pampered fool now smirking at me in the dark? I took it from my pocket now and held it up for them all to see, but especially for this young pup Cyril. “Well go on,” I said. “Take a good look. You know what this is?” The only answer was a deep chuckle from the dark. That put me to the boiling point. How dare this up- start question me! I flung the watusimba tail down on the rug. “Laugh at me? Step into the light you wetnosed little punk, and I’ll show you what for!” The figure rose from the chair, still chuckling, and emerged from the covering dark. It was the Negro manservant in the fez and tuxedo. I was too thrown off by his cheek to be angry just then. Besides, there was something about his eyes. They were bright yellow, luminous as the sun through a dollop of honey. “Forgive me, b’wana ,” he said, without a trace of obei- sance. “But I do well know what that is,” he said, gesturing to the beaded watusimba tail lying on the rug as he advanced. “It belonged to my elder brother,” he hissed, and his

167 Edward M. Erdelac teeth were feral and sharp, and even as he spoke quivering whiskers slid like knives from his cheeks. “And when you took it, you made me king. But a king without a people. It took me some time find your scent. I chased your Maasai lackey across Africa. He fought bravely, yet in the end he was but the morsel before the meal. Longer and farther have I sought you, O great hunter. ” The next instant he was leaping at me. I thought to back off and reach the poker in its stand. I think I started to, but my eyes were fixed on the Negro as he came across the carpet, the tails of his jacket flying behind him. For his fez fell away, and his shaven head sprouted lustrous hair before my eyes, wavy, tawny hair, and the same sort of hair burst the buttons on his shirt, and sprang from the cuffs of his jacket. His hands swelled like a pair of balloons, hair flowing across the backs, the big fingers curling over, the nails lengthening to claws, the claws catching the light of the room in an obsidian gleam as they came at my throat. He let out a fearsome roar, deafeningly close. It filled the parlor, drowned out the shrieks of the Bell Club members as they knocked over their chairs and flew from the room. In that surreal instant I saw a lamp tip over and reveal the body of a well-dressed young man in the corner, lying in a pool of blood. The real Cyril, I presume. My hand found the poker behind me, but it was too late. He moved faster than belief. My eyes filled with blood, my ears with roaring and my own screaming. I was on my back and I couldn’t move and I saw him smashing through the drapes and the big window and loping off over the grounds, the whole thing upside

168 Tell Tom Tildrum down. There was blood running across my eyes. No, I was standing on the big veranda at Clouds in my uniform, and Lady Indina and the rest of the party were singing In The Good Old Summertime in the parlor . I was thinking of a nursery rhyme from my youth. Something about cats. The African sun was full of blood. It was bleeding into the Anhoji River waters, and the dust kicked up by the red robed Maasai driving their cattle in the road was red with it, as though the earth had soaked it up and each billow of the stuff plumed like a new head wound, and Kiki’s lips were fine and red with it..

169

Fluke Lynne Jamneck

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Everyone thought it was a bad idea. Me, woman alone, aboard a whaling ship headed for the Antarctic. I had already ruined the Blackborrow name by getting myself a university degree instead of falling pregnant. My mother thought the whole idea infernal and pestered me for weeks on end about supposed nightmares that made her fear for my safety. It was not the weather or the sea she thought would do me in, but the company of twenty- eight men, “uncivilised” as they were. In reality, the ship's crew had cared less about my presence or my sex than my cautionary family and friends back in London. I suppose the men thought me a curiosity, at least at the start, but after they found out I would be eating the same ship-slop and sleeping in an uncomfortable bunk identical to theirs they quickly forgot about me. They did wonder about my reasons for travelling with them. I told them the truth, though a somewhat truncated version, which included that I was a meteorologist from the University of London. I tried to explain one morning in the ship's mess that I had come to study the properties of Antarctic ice. This was true, though again, not the truth in its entirety. A recent study by a young graduate posited the notion

170 Fluke that our rampant industrialisation could lead to catastrophic changes in weather patterns. The paper had been rejected by all the major journals. From what I have been able to deduce it was not due to any lack of evidence or quality control. Tesla had vanished, seemingly, leaving Edison and Westinghouse to battle for control over the lighting in every English home on the motherland. Pro- gress could not be stopped. The young graduate had found himself a victim of the Enlightenment. Nevertheless, that had not stopped the Dean of Sci- ence at UL, who showed up at my doorstep late one night to enquire whether I would like the opportunity to experience the South Seas. The university would sponsor the trip as long as I was willing to get there without certain comforts. As for my rather winded explanation to the ship's crew over burnt coffee, they told me ice was frozen water and laughed when my faced remained serious. They were not laughing, however, when the Leigh- Anne fell victim to unusually thick sea ice after we had left port from the New Zealand coast. No one was worried, not at first. The Leigh-Anne was a decommissioned ice- breaker, one of the first of its kind, modelled after a Rus- sian polar vessel. The ship had been turned into a whaler, and a successful one at that. Sperm whales steered clear of the icy Antarctic, but the Leigh-Anne could challenge the sea ice in search of giant Bowheads. There had been a catch the day before we stopped moving. The crew was kept busy with the task of process- ing down the giant mammal. I learned a bit about the procedure, because when I grew tired of making notes about changes in the wind, and the stark glare from the ice started to hurt my eyes I would watch the crew despite the barbarous nature of their task. Flensing the whale

171 Lynne Jamneck consisted of stripping the blubber, which then had to be boiled down into oil. Despite the ever-increasing preva- lence of electricity, the oil was still profitable, particularly in trade with Polynesian colonies in return for fur skins and other goods. It was, however, the baleen inside the mouth of the enormous bowheads that was the most valuable the captain and crew of the ship. These giant slabs of bone were extracted, bundled up together, and stored below deck. Later, they would be used for scrim- shawing, and sold off to English merchants for making corsets, jewellery, parasols, brushes, whips, and a host of other accessories. Watching the dark blood stain the ship's deck, I remember being relieved that I had never worn a corset in my life. It may have been the stillness and the lack of colour, but I quickly discovered that the Antarctic made one feel as if the cold had crept under your skin. It was unsettling, as much as the image of a whale's tail above the water and the inevitable shout of “Fluke, flu-u-u-ukes!” By the time the bowhead had been butchered and stored below deck, the Leigh-Anne was still stuck. A sense of apprehension now began to settle over the ship. Not far in the distance we could see cracks in the floating ice and beyond those, emerald-coloured icebergs that would tower over the ship had they been closer. The build-up of ice against the ship's hull was increasing and no matter how hard the captain tried to push the whaler she refused to move. Twice a group of crewmembers got off the ship and onto the ice armed with pickaxes, hammers and other tools still caked with blood. Their efforts were in vain, however. The dry, compressed ice would not budge against the iron hull. We were cut off from open water. It was strange, be-

172 Fluke cause it was mid-December, and the weather should have been fine. The dean would have been happy to know that maybe there was some kind of truth to the young graduate's theory after all. I had been making notes about the wind and the temperature and the sea ice, but a host of samples had yielded nothing untoward. On day ten, I detected a serious unease among the crew. A fight broke out in the mess between the cook and one of the engineers. According to the engineer, a man named Rickinson, the cook had given him excrement for breakfast. This was later found out to be untrue. Rickin- son had in fact hallucinated the contents of his bowl. This did not stop others from making jokes about not noticing the difference. Later that day, there was a commotion on deck. I had been curled up in my bunk, trying to stay warm while getting some sleep when I heard the shouts up top. What had happened was strange. Whalers know the sea. I have listened to them talk around the mess tables and on deck as they stare into the horizon. Those three men had no reason for doing what they did that cold afternoon. By the time I came up top, the surgeon and the navigator were pulling at the shirt of a fourth man, trying to keep him from climbing over the rail of the Leigh-Anne . The three who had already jumped before anyone had noticed were slowly walking into the distance, toward the cracked ice, their backs turned toward the whaler. Everyone shouted, but it seemed their attention could not, or would not, be had. It was as if we did not exist. We watched them walk straight off the sea ice and into the freezing water without stopping. The captain told me that what happened to the three men was a common affliction amongst those who feel themselves lost at sea. A kind of cabin fever induces hal-

173 Lynne Jamneck lucinations that seem so real, nothing or no one can convince them otherwise. He said they probably thought they saw a rescue ship. On the seventeenth day, it began to get significantly colder. The wind had died down completely. The silence was unnatural. The intermittent cracking of sea ice, sometimes soft, other times deafening, was the only sound to be heard. The crewmen had fallen silent. They were not even arguing with one another anymore. Perhaps I was wrong, but I felt we all harboured the unspoken belief that something was after us. On day twenty, it began snowing. The ship was stuck solid. The stokers had stopped feeding the boiler, which chewed up coal at alarming rate and still refused to move the ship an inch. Thomas, one of the engineers, expressed concern about the integrity of the ship's hull and demanded the captain resist pushing the ship further. We simply had to wait out the weather. The food would last another couple of months. If provisions ran low, there was always whale meat. The captain sent word to New Zealand of our position, but we all know that sending a ship into the thick Antarctic ice for a possible rescue would be madness. We were stuck. In the days after, we lost more men. Several abandoned ship to meet the same fate as those first three. An- other, Worsley, who was had been an expert whaler for more than twenty years, was shot by the cook after Worsley threatened the captain for refusing to dump all the whale meat overboard. It seemed the whaler had lost his mind out there on the ice, claiming to have been visited by “bright white men” in the night who told him that his dead friends burned better than whale oil. In my own way, I tried to solidify the crew's spirits

174 Fluke with the suggestion that we were caught in a freak storm, and as soon as the weather improved, the ice would melt and the captain would be able to get the ship moving. Then the captain died. Hypothermia. One of the crew found him on deck. No one was supposed to know, but the boy who found him—he must have been no older than sixteen—was at the end of his nerve. The only non- sworn member of the crew, the boy told the cook, who had come upon the kid just as he had stumbled across the captain's body, and had promptly taken him to the can- teen. Probably to get something warm in him. What the cook told whom is unclear, but someone had to help him remove the body and it was not long before the remaining men knew that the captain had been found on his knees below the ship's hunting claw, his hands folded in prayer. The same man who had picked his entire crew on the condition they spurned all faith in any god. “The only higher power you lot answer to is me.” To which his crew would always respond to in unison, “That and the call of the wild!” Forty-two days (I think) after the Leigh-Anne ran afoul of the ice, the crew began seeing their dead captain. Mostly, he was spotted near the harpoon gun and sometimes below the claw. More men were lost over the edge of the ship. Sometimes the events aboard the whaler blurred in my mind and I think that I might be mistaken, that my recollected memories have been distorted. The snow had stopped, and the weather was getting colder. Even I was now convinced we would all die out there. The cook did his best to keep everyone warm. The coffee tasted vulgar, but there was a lot of it, and everyone suddenly stopped complaining about the slop. In unspoken agreement, everyone still alive had decided not to touch

175 Lynne Jamneck the whale meat. One night I woke up in the quiet cold and saw that the boy—his name was Parker—had crawled into the bunk opposite me. It had been unoccu- pied up until then; I assumed because the men, in their own way, were trying to give me some privacy. The next morning—by my count around day forty- eight—we woke to a thick fog. The air was strangely warm and there was a peculiar smell to it that no one risked identify. Despite this, the crew seemed somewhat buoyed by the change in the weather. There were only eleven of us left. We had lost Clarke, the biologist, during the previous night. Cheetham, the First Officer, found him; he had hung himself and left a note on the blanket covering his bunk bed. I saw them . No-one said it but we all knew what he meant. The white men. I kept taking notes, because regardless of what was taking place on board the Leigh-Anne , the weather proved astonishing in itself. I would like to be able to tell you what exactly it was I was documenting, but some of my notes during those last days appear to have gone missing. Scientific reason kept letting me down during that god- awful imprisonment on the ice. Within the walls of the university, it had served me well and had given me easy answers. Out in the Antarctic, the white unknown, my reason fell apart and I felt myself slowly drowning with it. It had felt like forever, but if I am right, it was more or less two months after the ship got stuck that the ice began to melt. No one could explain why. The weather was still reasonably cold, with snow flurries coming and going. That was the first time in days anyone had talked to me. I had been standing amidships, along the line of the keel with a blanket wrapped tightly around me when the cook appeared next to me. “See? That's all you need

176 Fluke to know about ice—when it gets warm, it disappears.” His voice and his smile was both hollow. I remember looking out at the horizon again; thinking of something to say, but my nerve failing me. That is when I suddenly realised that the cook was gone. And he was, for at that moment Parker appeared above deck, his face a mask of anguish. The cook was dead. He had poisoned himself with arsenic. I cannot say with much clarity how the days pro- gressed from there, but the weather stayed mild and the ice slowly continued to disappear. There was a terrible accident, however. I suspect that fatigue and frostbite were to blame. The decision had been made to dismantle the harpoon gun and throw it overboard, along with other equipment to make the ship lighter. Parker had already taken it upon himself days before to put every last piece of whale, meat, and oil, back into the freezing water. I had been sitting near the prow, reading my tattered copy of Coleridge's Mariner when a bone-chilling shriek came from the stern of the ship. I ran, and as I cleared the last masthead on the port side, saw the pierced body of one of the whalers disappear into the distance, carried along by the harpoon line. Parker was the only one who would go near the gun after that. Somehow, he managed to attach the claw to it, ripped it loose, and dropped it into the ocean. When I crawled into my bunk exhausted some time later, he was there, crying. What happened the next morning has imprinted itself on my mind so clearly, yet any attempt at reason breaks down when rational explanations are sought. I am lucky to have you as my audience. We may be few, but all of us know that the motivation of this enlightened age we live in will only go so far in explaining certain things.

177 Lynne Jamneck

I had slept in late, the first time since the Leigh-Anne had found herself aground. I felt refreshed and curiously hopeful. I was convinced I was finally succumbing to the same fate as the rest of the crew. There is a certain amount of peace to be had in resignation. Then more than ever I needed to feel like I was not an outsider. I wanted to belong, even if it meant being part of something horrific. Almost all of the remaining crew had by then confessed to seeing the spectre of their dead captain. All of them, that is, except Parker. I had not seen him myself. Sailors were superstitious. They may not have believed in god but more often than not, they believed in his minions. Sailors are probably liars, just like the rest of us. On deck that day, I noticed that the ice had melted a significant amount during the night, unnaturally so. The ship seemed now almost entirely free. The water was beginning to lap gently up the side of the keel. There was a soft breeze in the air. My good spirits felt vindicated. I looked around, trying to find someone I could share the good news with, but the deck was quiet. My feelings of good will evaporated and the breeze suddenly felt as if it wanted to take me with it. A sense of dread filed me. I walked toward the stern of the ship but no one was there. The gentle sway of the hunting claw, high above jingled the chains attached to it. I turned around and headed toward the prow. What I saw there made me go cold inside. The lap-lap-lap of the water and the jangling chains continued. It was an albatross. A few feet away stood the three remaining crewmen. Murray, Jameson, and Brewster. I used to think it odd, how I remembered their names when, in the beginning, I seemed to never be able to recall the names of any of

178 Fluke them. Before all this strangeness had overtaken us... Parker was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to say something but was afraid of breaking the spell. Everything we had endured thus far seemed to hang in the tenuous balance of the moment. Brewster turned to look at me then. His eyes were dark and blank but his voice sounded sane when he said, “It's the captain.” Superstition of the sea included the notion that the dead could come back as animals. My mind flashed back to the mad poet Coleridge's Mariner . I could not remember a word of it now. Brewster spoke again; too late, I saw the revolver in his hand. “He's come for us. We must pay, for we have sinned.” I could do nothing, it happened too fast. He shot Jameson first, then Murray and then himself. The gunshots were deafening. The albatross never moved. As the echo dissipated, I felt the slight tilt of the ship beneath my feet. The loud flap of the albatross' wings startled me but I dared not move. I watched it until it disappeared on the horizon. Then I went looking for Parker. Though he had not known it at the time, the captain's call for help had been intercepted by another whaler, the Nantucket . The ship's captain confessed that the message had sounded less urgent than what our circumstances eventually revealed, and that he would have made an effort to arrive sooner had he known about our misfortune. Apart from myself, Parker was the only other soul to survive the final journey of the Leigh-Anne . He seems to have lost his appetite for the sea, and in particular, the blood- thirsty ropes he was well on his way to learning from the perished crew. On our way back to London aboard the Nantucket, he told me that I had saved his life. He did not say how he thought I had done that, and I am at a loss to

179 Lynne Jamneck think of a reason. If anything, it is likely he saved his own when he disposed of every piece of whale that had been stored in the ship's hold. I do wonder what made me resist the strange sickness that had taken the rest of the crew. In superstitious moments, I want to believe that my partial surrender to fantasy had brought me back to London. I have since studied the graduate student's theory in detail, and have found some unsettling evidence in my notes to support some of it. But my data is incomplete. I will have to go back. I only wonder if I will be able to. Sound of mind as I seemed to have escaped my ordeal, I do not know if my sanity can stand seeing the blood and bones of those animals exposed so brutally again. And yet, it is also the one thing that keeps me contemplating my return. That, and the dreadful call I still hear in my nightmares— ”Fluke, flu-u-u-u-kes!”

180

Spawn Of The Crocodile God John McNee

Gentlemen – I would trust you to take it on faith when I tell you that I know the ways of madness. I have seen men and women, the elderly and infants brought low by ravages of the mind and I have seen causes chemical, bio- logical and diabolical. I know the ways of madness. So please understand that when I tell you I doubted my own sanity at the closing of these events... that is no exaggera- tion. It was in the autumn of 1904 that I received corre- spondence from my friend, Captain Henry Fletcher, saying that he was in dire need of my services and urging me to come at once. The wording of the note was so strong, in fact, that I chose to completely forego the formality of a reply and almost immediately arranged a cab to take me to the railway station. It had been some years since I'd seen Henry in person, though we had exchanged the occasional letter. This was, however, the first contact I'd received from him in over a year. I was not even aware he was in the country, presuming, rather, that he was still exploring the darkest regions of Africa – such was his life's ambition. His estate in the country was far from grand – which is to say that it hardly tested the limits of his wealth – but it was quiet, well-maintained and refreshingly close to town. After alighting at the railway platform it was just a short walk through the thoroughfare and across the river, and I was at his door. I was greeted by a tall negro in the typical uniform of a footman, who looked me up and down and demanded

181 John McNee to know – in the rudest possible terms – why I was there. I informed him of the letter and Henry's request, noticing as I did that the man also wore a revolver on his hip, holstered in a gun-belt of the kind more normally associated with cow-hands out on the American prairies. “Captain Fletcher did not write to you,” he told me, his tone aggressive. “He made no request of you.” “Is that so?” I replied, incredulously. “I personally handle all of Captain Fletcher's corre- spondence,” the man told me. His accent was thick but his grasp of English was perfect. “And he has posted no letters this month. Nothing to any 'Professor Bloodsore'.” “Blood saw ,” I corrected him. “Professor Abelard Bloodsaw. And I can assure you that he did send for me. But I'm sure we can clear up any confusion by taking me to the man himself.” “No-one sees Captain Fletcher without my say-so,” the man barked. “Are you his jailer?” He took a step forward and placed a hand on the butt of the pistol. “Test me,”he growled. “And I will show you who I am.” A woman's voice from the end of the hall interrupted us. “Stop it!” she cried. “That's enough.” Fletcher's armed guard turned to view the woman, clearing enough room for me to get my foot in the door and catch sight of her. She was a young, dainty thing, dressed like a chambermaid. “My name is Agnes Doyle,” she said. “It was me sent for you. I wrote the letter.” “But...” I said. “I forged the Captain's signature,” she admitted, face visibly aching with guilt as she did. “I pretended to be him. I didn't think you'd come otherwise. I've heard him

182 Spawn of the Crocodile God talk about you on many occasions and I just thought... He does need your help, Professor Bloodsaw. He's in a bad, bad way. Won't you... won't you help us?” I looked from Agnes to the negro. He stood stoic and silent, with his back to the wall and one hand on the door. It was clear he wasn't happy about any of this, but I didn't think he would be throwing me out of the house. Or shooting me. I removed my hat and stepped all the way into the hall. The door was closed behind me. Addressing Agnes, I asked: “Where is he? Where's Fletcher?” She led me upstairs, staring down, afraid to look me in the eye, such was her shame. I hadn't yet formed a judgement on her actions, however deceitful. Whatever Fletcher's state, it was clear to me on stepping into that house that there was a heavy atmosphere. A sinister chill had invaded the Captain's home, lending every feature and furnishing a deathly gloom. To begin with, I was inclined to identify the African manservant as the architect of this sickness, but I'd wager that was disappointingly typical prejudice on my part. It was plain to see that he was as terrified as the rest. Agnes led me to Fletcher's study and tapped on the door, which stood slightly ajar. I could hear movement within and saw the flash of shadows on the carpet. Then Fletcher's voice: “Who goes there?” He sounded strained, hoarse. “Mhambi? Is that you?” “It's just me, sir,” Agnes replied, wringing her hands. “I... I've come with a guest.” “Agnes?” Fletcher's voice rose in pitch. “Agnes? I heard someone come to the door. Did you... Who was it? Who came?” I replied: “It's me, Henry!” It seemed ridiculous to be

183 John McNee shouting at each other through the door. I took a step forward, meaning to stride into the room. But then I heard metallic sound that I recognised as the bolt of a rifle sliding into place. “Identify yourself!” he screamed. “Friend or foe! Identify yourself this instant!” Agnes, eyes wide, cried out: “Master, please! It's Pro- fessor Bloodsaw!” There was a pause. “Abelard?” I nodded, though he couldn't see it. My eyes bore into the door's oak panelling. “That's right, Henry. It's me. May I come in?” Another pause followed, longer than the last, and the sound of something heavy sliding to the floor, then: “Well yes of course you can. Come ahead.” I looked first to Agnes – her eyes were closed, hand over her mouth – then pushed the door open and stepped through. “Hello Henry,” I said. “Abelard!” Fletcher grinned to see me and threw his arms wide. Despite his enforced joviality his face looked lined and tired. He was thinner than when I'd seen him last. His hair and moustache had greyed. And though he was shaved and washed, there was something strangely unclean about him. “My dear fellow,” he said, slurring his words a touch. He was drunk. “Won't you take a seat and join me for a drink?” There were two armchairs in the room, facing each other by the hearth, in which a fire blazed. The heat was powerful and I could only imagine he was missing the African climate. There was a writing desk in one corner, a sideboard in the other and a military-style cot against the wall on my right. There were books and papers strewn everywhere, maps and pictures pinned to the walls,

184 Spawn of the Crocodile God sketches on the wallpaper of thin men with misshapen, elongated heads, empty bottles, dirty clothes, dirty dishes... I had to hope that the servants would have put things in order if they'd been allowed. Perhaps they were too afraid to enter. In any case, it appeared that Fletcher was now living out of this one room. I walked towards the armchair nearest me, noticing as I came that a hunting rifle was resting at Fletcher's side, by the window. His blood-shot eyes stayed on me, mouth still grinning. “Just throw your coat anywhere,” he told me. “We don't stand on ceremony. I can offer you port, brandy, maybe some Scotch?” I had to clear a pile of notebooks and journals from the seat, gathering them up and placing them on the floor. “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe just a cup of tea?” “Yes I think we can do that,” he said. “Agnes!” “Sir?” she answered from the hall, too afraid to even step into the doorway. “Tea and whisky,” Fletcher replied. “Bring us the bottle.” He looked to me, lowered his voice. “Have you eaten? I'm sure she could...” “That's quite all right,” I said, throwing my coat over the back of the chair and undoing the button on my collar. The heat was stifling. I heard Agnes' departing steps. Fletcher crossed towards the door. “Lovely girl that,” he muttered. “Yes,” I agreed, sitting down. “Yes she seems very capable.” “Very,” he said, drawing the door closed. “Very capable.” It clicked shut. “Do you suppose she's a virgin?” The question startled and appalled me. “I... Well, I...” “Oh come on,” he hissed. “We're both men of the world.”

185 John McNee

“I... hardly see that that's relevant.” “It is relevant!” he barked, face flushing with colour. “It's all relevant.” He marched back across to the sideboard, picked up a bottle of gin and a dirty glass and filled one from the other. “So,” he said, forcing cheerfulness. “What brings you out to the country? I presume someone's told you I'm mad now, is that it?” “Not... not in so many words.” “Oh I wish,” he said, placing a palm against his forehead. “Would that I was mad. Better to be mad and safe than sane and... hunted.” He took a long drink. “Hunted?” I said. “Like a rat,” he gasped, set the glass down and topped it up. “Vermin . With nowhere left to hide. Just waiting here to be caught out. Waiting to die like all the rest. Waiting...” He took another drink and smiled at me. “Madness would be a comfort.” “Henry, I'd like to help,” I said. “But you have to tell me what's...” “He's here,” said Fletcher, staring out of the window, into the darkness beyond. “He's been out there for days now, waiting, wearing me down. I can sense him. I can smell him. Mhambi knows it too. Don't let him tell you any different.” “Mhambi? Is that the name of your butler?” “A loyal man. You don't find enough of those. I brought him back with me from Africa. God, but if only he was all I brought back...” “What do you mean?” He turned, stared at me in silence for a moment, then came and sat down, setting his glass on the table between us. “You're a man of science, Abelard,” he said. “You don't even believe in a Christian God...”

186 Spawn of the Crocodile God

“That's...” I shifted uncomfortably. “That's not exactly...” “What hope have I of convincing you of the unholy, supernatural horrors that stalk the earth? A man like you...?” His eyes were watery, glimmering in the light from the fire. I leant forward. “Just tell me,” I said. “Tell me who it is that's hunting you.” He swallowed twice, parted his lips and for a moment seemed to be choking. It was a struggle to speak the name. He had to force it out of his throat. “The... Sobex !” he gasped, and grabbed for the gin glass, taking another drink. “The Sobex?” I repeated. “What is that?” He almost laughed, then waved his arm about the room. “Everywhere,” he said. “He's all around you.” I looked to walls, to the pinned paintings and the charcoal sketches of thin men with strange, deformed heads. “There's a way out of course,” Fletcher said. “I'm sure of that. If I could only find the will...” I turned back to him. His eyes were downcast. I followed his gaze and for the first time noticed the straight razor on the table between us. The thought of what he might be contemplating chilled me even in the burning warmth of that room. “Henry...” Suddenly he bolted to his feet. “You'll stay here tonight, of course,” he said. “I won't have you walking back to town. Not after dark.” “Well... yes,” I said. “Certainly.” “You'll need a weapon,” he said. “For your own protection. I can arrange that.” He marched past me and out the door calling for Mhambi.

187 John McNee

As soon as he was out of sight I sprang into action, taking an envelope of sleeping powders from my waistcoat pocket and emptying it into his gin glass. I had to stir it with my finger. However underhanded, I was certain this was the best course of action. If he wasn't yet insane he was certainly hysterical. He had been awake for days, he was unfocused, irrational. It was possible he had been hallucinating and almost certainly had been contemplating suicide. He was clearly a danger to himself and others and the very first thing to be done was to sedate him and put him to bed. A more detailed examination would have to follow in due course. When Fletcher re-entered he was followed by Agnes, carrying a tray with tea and whisky. “Mhambi's fetching you something,” he told me. “Hopefully you won't need it, but you can never be too careful. You can have your pick of the bedrooms. There's plenty of room. I sleep here mostly. It's the most defensi- ble room in the house, you see.” “Thank you,” I said. “Your hospitality is very generous.” I picked up a glass of scotch and raised it. “Your health.” “Oh!” Fletcher grinned and picked up the drugged gin to join the toast. “Cheers,” he said, and drained the glass. Ten minutes later he was asleep. I finished the drink Agnes had presented. The scotch was good and I was glad of it. With Fletcher now slumbering peacefully on his cot I hoped to go through some of the papers scattered about the room to see if I could uncover some clue to the source of his mad ramblings. For a time, however, I just stood there, gazing around, wondering where to start.

188 Spawn of the Crocodile God

“He is asleep then?” The voice surprised me. I turned to find Mhambi in the doorway, a rifle slung over his shoulder and a pistol in his hand. “Yes,” I told him. “He's resting.” Mhambi nodded, taking a deep breath. “That is probably best,” he said. “I must keep watch. Patrol the grounds. I will be back before dawn. Here...” He held out the pistol. “He asked me to give you this.” I thanked him and took the weapon – a heavy Broomhandle Mauser. As he turned to leave I said: “Mhambi, can you...? Would you know... what a 'sobex' is?” He nodded grimly and without a trace of humour informed me: “It is a beast with the body of a man and the head of a crocodile.” He turned away again as if to leave, but stopped at the door, where Fletcher's coat hung on a hook. He went into the pocket and produced a battered leather-bound diary. “Here,” he said, pushing it into my hands. “It is all in here.” Then he left. I turned the weather-beaten book over in my hands and turned to the first page. The handwriting was Fletcher's – small, neat and tightly packed into every corner. I recognised it almost immediately as an account of his latest African expedition. I picked up the bottle of scotch and my glass and took all three down to the drawing room to read. I have carried the diary with me ever since that night, read it and re-read it. And I have it with me tonight. It is not my intention, gentlemen, to keep you here forever. But if you will indulge me, I should like to read to you just a few extracts...

189 John McNee

Day 44 - September 29 th , 1903

We have crossed the Limpalanga at last, though not without casualties. One of the boats was buffeted on the crossing and Holtz stumbled and went into the water. Whether he drowned or the crocodiles got to him I can't say. Either way it's a bloody stupid way for a man to die. We've already been through his belongings, dividing up the per- ishables between us. I've taken responsibility for the personal effects that he left behind. When I return to Burundi I'll endeavour to find someone who can forward them on. The pistol, especially, is a lovely piece. It should be returned to his family. In spite of the tragedy, I am elated. Livingstone never made it across the Limpalanga – too dangerous by half. I can't blame him. I've never seen so many crocodiles as on the banks of that river. They are vicious, devilish beasts and it perplexes me that there could be enough food nearby to sustain them. Our camp is not nearly far enough from the river for me to feel quite safe bedding down. Stranger still, Mhambi seems to think there's a village nearby. He's seen evidence of tribal scouts here and there. I should be very surprised if that's the case, but the man knows his job. We intend to investigate further tomorrow.

Day 47 – October 2 nd , 1903

The Nyambara have welcomed us with open arms. I have never met the like. Nor has Forbes. After two days skirting the sidelines, wondering how best to approach them, it emerges that we were able to just wander in, men, women and children rushing up to greet us. Their chief has been remarkably ingratiating. He was the second man to shake my hand. That perplexed me at first, that such a western greeting should grow organically among a tribe of less than a hundred, cut off from the rest of the world by the Limpalanga.

190 Spawn of the Crocodile God

Forbes, however, seems to think that we are not the first white men to come here. If that's true it is disappointing. The chief held dinner in our honour tonight, even providing us with a little “bran-dee” as he calls it. It is an alcoholic drink made from local fermented vegetables and is utterly repulsive. After just a few sips the world seemed to glow and shimmer all around me. I'd wager there's something more than alcohol in it and intend to refrain from consuming any more.

Day 48 – October 3 rd , 1903

We are not the first white men to come here. It has been con- firmed. A group of Swiss missionaries came to the village almost twenty years ago. Today we were shown some of their trinkets. I don't know what became of them all, but the chief took one of the women for a wife. She lived out the rest of her days here. This information puts a different slant on things, of course. Forbes and Carstairs say they want to remain in the village for a while. They claim to be fascinated by the customs and beliefs of the Nyambara. They call the tribe a remarkable discovery. However, the fact remains that they are not our discovery. As such, my interest has flagged. Before lunch I was considering setting out north with Mhambi and the others, leaving the two professors to their studies. I have since decided against this. We will stay.

Day 54 – October 9 th , 1903

Mhambi and I went hunting today with a young chap by the name of Eeku. Forbes has accused me of spending too much time alone, isolated from the rest of the group. I reminded him I am not an anthropologist, but pledged to make more of an effort. Mhambi seems to have no problem communicating with the Nyambari, but tells me he's always had a natural talent for lan-

191 John McNee

guages. We had to cross a stream to get to the hunting grounds, which of course meant crocodiles. They seem almost to patrol the outskirts of the village. Eeku, however, was unafraid and the animals themselves let us pass without incident. I had Mhambi ask why we didn't hunt a crocodile, seeing as there are so many. But he seemed not to understand our question.

Day 56 – October 11 th , 1903

We have run out of gin. In fairness to myself, it lasted longer than I thought it would.

Day 59 – October 14 th , 1903

The professors were unbearably pleased with themselves this evening. They claim to have unravelled the Nyambari belief structure. Apparently, they worship the crocodiles of the Limpalanga, believing them to be gods. They pray to them, make offerings, sacrifices and the like. The way Forbes puts, if the crocodile Gods are pleased, they bless their homes with glad tidings and long life. Displease them and they are liable to eat you. To the Nyambara, there is no creature in Heaven or Earth more wise or powerful than the crocodile, fickle as they sometimes seem. I confess it does seem a unique culture. Lincoln and Moon are eager to be moving on. I have asked them to remain a while longer. We are safer if we stay together. And there is plenty of “bran-dee” to go around, after all...

* * *

…I must write of the girl. I don't know why I have refrained for so long, except perhaps censoring myself so as not to appear foolish, but

192 Spawn of the Crocodile God she deserves more than to be ignored in this account. In truth she is the very reason I have chosen to remain in the camp so long. I would have headed north long ago had I not set eyes on her beauty. She is the chief's daughter. Born out of the marriage between him and the missionary. I have seen a small, framed picture of the woman – petite, blonde, attractive. The girl is her dark-skinned, dark-haired equal. More than equal. She is a powerful beauty and if I could bring but one treasure back to England it would be her. But she is already betrothed to Eeku. I must break free of her spell. I have been drinking too much. Her name is Nitha.

Day 60 – October 16 th , 1903

Will we ever be free of this contemptible village and these blasted heathens? Their prayers sicken me. I have seen them gather to bow before a crocodile skull, chanting and wailing to their grotesque idols. I can't bear much more of this. I shall go mad.

* * *

...You can't understand Africa. There is no hope of that. You can't comprehend its strangeness, its power. It is a land of impossible beauty and limitless horror. The most sane of men could be driven mad in its clutches. The most pure and selfless could be driven to commit unspeakable acts...

Day 65 – October 21 st , 1903

Lincoln has warned me I must stop drinking so much. There is only the local liquor and we are not accustomed to it. But how, I ask you, is one to become accustomed without indulging? For my own part, I find I have a taste for the “bran-dee” at last. It helps

193 John McNee clear the mind, I think. It provides me with moments of lucidity among the pounding heat-mess jumble. And it helps me to relax around the locals. Eeku and I are now firm friends. We've arranged to go hunting again.

* * *

…I am set on a course. I know that I am propelled towards some kind of destiny, but I have no comprehension of what it can be. I am not in control. Sometimes I think I am no one man but many, all inhabiting the same frail form. I am beginning to lose track of the days...

***

...There are conversations that I do not remember having. There are things that I remember doing that have not taken place. There are scars on my face that I do not recognise. There are passages in my journal I did not write...

Day 70 – October 26 th , 1903

I awoke today outside Nitha's hut with no memory of my actions last night. I do not believe I would have acted in an untoward manner. Mhambi carried a message from Carstairs asking that I rejoin the others. Apparently they are worried about me. I have no desire to rejoin them. I am happy in my own tent. I am at my happiest when I am with her.

Day 73 – October 29 th , 1903

It is with a heavy heart that I must report of Eeku's death.

194 Spawn of the Crocodile God

Such a fine, noble young man – Mhambi informs me now that he was only 17 years old – it was a dreadful thing to witness. We went hunting, the two of us, as we have been out on numerous occasions and once again we had to cross that stream. Even I was fearless this time, following his example. But on this occasion, luck was not with us. I was first onto the opposite bank. I heard a great commotion and, turning, saw an explosion of movement, mud and blood as a serpent burst from the water and ripped into Eeku, tearing him down, clamped in its jaws. He never stood a chance. It was my duty to inform the chief, through Mhambi. Nitha was distraught. My heart broke for the poor girl, to be so suddenly and violently deprived of her love. I urged the chief to lend me a few men, to go back and destroy the beast, but he refrained. As is often the case with zealots, in the face of any serious crisis, he will only pray harder.

Day 74 – October 30 th, 1903

Mhambi brought them all to see me today – Forbes, Carstairs, Lincoln and Moon. Their belongings were packed. They urged me to pack mine and go with them – leave, immediately. How the tables have turned. They all want to be free of this place as soon as possible. I told them it was a bad idea. I reminded them all that their work was not complete. And, in any case, I care too deeply for Nitha to leave her here, before she has recovered from her grief. Forbes then told me that we were in danger. In fact, he says, I am in the most danger of all. There are rumours, he says, flying around the village, that I killed Eeku. That it wasn't a crocodile, as I said, but that I had viciously murdered him. Such ridiculous talk from these ignorant savages disgusts me, but I tried not to display my anger. I kept my temper and presented the men with the logical

195 John McNee argument that to flee the camp so soon after Eeku's death could appear to some like an admission of responsibility and they could soon catch up to us. I told them it is vital for our own safety that we remain as long as we can, that we allow things to settle down before heading south. I made a good argument. Somewhat reluctantly, I think, they agreed.

Day 75 – October 31 st , 1903

I killed him. I confess it here, because after all why maintain the pretence? I am not ashamed of my actions. I killed Eeku and I would do it again. It had to be done. She is all that matters. What right had he – that jumped-up little heathen – to a beauty like her? The sight of them together made the bile rise in my throat. I know why God led me here. It was for her. It was to rescue Nitha. It had to be done. And if the tribe elders do not believe my story then I must go to her – now! I cannot prolong this courtship any further. For her own sake, I must act now with courage. I would risk my own life and the lives of all the men in my expedition for her. If I die in the attempt, this diary will be a testament to my bravery and the things I did for love.

* * *

That is the last entry for quite some time. The next picks things up on September 22 nd , 1904 – almost a full year after the events in Africa and a few weeks before my arrival at Fletcher's home. It reads: I am drunk. I have to be drunk. Were I sober, I could not bring myself to write of the things I have done. And I must write. I must confess. There needs to be some record when all this is over and I am dead. Firstly, there is Nitha. Her death weighs most heavily on my

196 Spawn of the Crocodile God conscience. I was drunk when I went to see her that night, drunker even than I am now... and mad. I have very little recollection of what happened, only that she misunderstood my intentions and in trying to regain control of the situation I was a little too rough with her. Much too rough. Our love story ended with her death by my hand. It was the dead of night. There were no witnesses. I must have run to Forbes' tent because the next thing I remember I was sitting among them, Nitha's blood drying on my hands, and they were all arming themselves. Forbes took charge immediately. Always a very practical man, he recognised the danger we were in and the only way to tackle it. We had weapons. Rifles, pistols, blades... Though the Nyambara outnumbered us, we had the advantage in arms. We went to the chief's hut first and killed him. We killed his bodyguard. Then we shot the tribal elders. We made our escape, shooting and killing as many of the men as we could see, on Mhambi's advice, to leave the Nyambara without any potential leaders or soldiers. No-one to formulate a hunting party and pursue us through the jungle. It was a slaughter. We did what we did because we didn't want to die. We convinced ourselves that we were taking the only course of action that would save our skins, but they hardly put up a fight. We encountered almost no resistance whatsoever, in fact, till we were crossing back over the Limpalanga that night, the screams of women and children ringing in our ears, and Lincoln and Moon capsized. It was the crocodiles who did for them. The rest of us made it back to England and went our separate ways, Carstairs back to London, Forbes back to Surrey. Neither of them, I think, wanted to ever see me again. Mhambi, a good, loyal man, stayed at my side and I employed him as footman. We all of us thought we had escaped the worst, with only our memories and crushing guilt to hound us across the years. But we were wrong. We have awoken something much worse.

197 John McNee

The Sobex is coming. It claimed Forbes first, I think. Just a few days after returning to his estate. He was walking the grounds alone and they all insist that he must have just fallen into the creek there and drowned. They say the reason his body was so badly mangled was because the current pulled him into the water mill. But I know the truth. So did Carstairs. He could smell the signs. He could sense what was stalking him, waiting in the shadows. He tried to tell me at Forbes' graveside and I wish now that I had listened to him. At least then we'd be in this together. Instead, my fear made me blind and now he too is dead. Word reached me today. Apparently, he'd been drinking with friends and fell into the Thames. They all witnessed the accident. One even claimed he saw something leap out of the water and drag him in, but such claims are dismissed as the ramblings of a drunk, confused by shadows. I know better. I see the beast each night in my dreams. I can hear the tribal drums and chants echoing on the wind. Patrolling the grounds with Mhambi I have caught the animal scent of the demon on the breeze. The Sobex is coming for me. It will not rest till it has claimed me. My only hope is appeasement and I do not have the stomach for such a task. I fear this is how it will all end and I can do no more than beg God for his forgiveness.

* * *

I closed the book with trembling hands and reached for the whisky glass. My friend was gone. There was not one entry within that journal that, prior to that evening, I would have attributed to Henry Fletcher. His deterioration had done

198 Spawn of the Crocodile God more than depress me. It had frightened me. There was nothing I could do for him, I realised. Nothing at all. I jolted at the sound of a bell, then heard Agnes' hurried footsteps and realised it was Fletcher ringing for her. Looking about me I saw that the faintest of dawn's light was filtering through the curtains. I checked my watch and saw that hours had passed since I had sat down to read the diary, so dense was the text, so all-consuming its portent. I heard the front door close, more footsteps in the hall – Mhambi, returning as he said he would, from his evening patrol. I had no idea what to say to him or any of them. I thought of retiring, giving my haunted mind some rest, but a nagging thought still troubled me. Even after poring over the diary all night, beyond Mhambi's childish description I had no idea of what this mythical beast – the Sobex – actually was, or how it related to Fletcher's current predicament. Fighting back the crushing weight of sleep, I re- opened the diary and turned to the back pages. Sure enough, here was a catalogue of busily-scrawled, undated passages. I quickly identified them as notations about the Nyambaran belief system, probably dictated to Fletcher by one of his companions. I searched for the relevant entry and found it, headed and underlined: SOBEX The legend of the Sobex, recounted as fact by the elders, concerns the King of the Crododile Gods who, every 40 summers or so, is said to enter into the camp to chose a mate from the women of the tribe. This woman will then sire his offspring – a demi-god, half crocodile and half man. This creature, the Sobex, dwells neither in the village nor along the river, but in the jungle. He is a brutal, un-

199 John McNee questioning killer. An assassin, only ever to be summoned forth as the tribe's protector or agent of vengeance. Any man who provoked the wrath of the Sobex, however far he ran, however hard he fought, is guaranteed, so they say, a vicious, painful end. The only way to appease this spirit is with the very highest of sacrifices – the blood of a virgin woman... Agnes' scream echoed through the house and shattered my studies. I leapt from the chair and stumbled drunkenly into the side-table, knocking the whisky bottle and glass to the floor, realising only as I did so how much I'd consumed. I lurched to the door and threw it wide, only to col- lide with Mhambi's palm as he shoved me back to slip and collapse on the floor. “What are you doing?” I cried. “Fletcher! He's going to...” “He will do what he has to do,” Mhambi answered in monotone. His eyes were cold. “What must be done.” “You're mad,” I spat, clambering back to my feet. “You're both mad.” The sounds of struggle continued from upstairs. I could hear Agnes' muffled pleas for help. I started towards Mhambi, but halted when he drew his pistol. “You must not interfere,” he warned, levelling the weapon at me. “It is the only way.” In all honesty, gentlemen, I cannot tell you what I would have done if that moment had played out. Whether I would have bravely risked my own life – and doubtless lost it – trying to rush Mhambi, or if I'd have stood by and waited as Fletcher murdered another helpless girl... It's impossible to say and I never got to find out. A tremendous crash from Fletcher's room shook the house and stole Mhambi's attention and my own away from our confrontation. There followed a great animal

200 Spawn of the Crocodile God roar as of some grotesque beast, and a scream which I recognised, in the midst of my own dawning terror, as Fletcher. Mhambi turned and ran to the stairs, charging up with gun in hand to face down whatever evil had hold of his master. I followed, but halted on the first step, realising that I had left my own pistol behind in the drawing room. I ran back, laying my hands on it just as two shots rang out from the upstairs hall, followed by an almighty commotion that rattled the walls and ended with a crumpled thud above my head. Now armed, I ran back into the hall and up the stairs, unprepared for the sight of chaos that awaited me. Mhambi lay sprawled out in the hall, his head propped awkwardly against the skirting board. His neck was all but gone, torn away in ferocious rage, leaving a gaping chasm that gushed blood across the floorboards. Though his wide eyes were glassy, his limbs continued to twitch feverishly, as the last vestiges of life ebbed away. His revolver sat clenched in his fist, a thin wisp of smoke spiralling up from the barrel. Holding the Mauser out before me, I stepped around his body and into the doorway of Fletcher's study. The room was in chaos, as though shot through with a cannon ball. The window had been torn out, taking most of the wall with it, leaving an open wound in the side of the house. I approached the frayed edge and peered out into the misty morning below. Fletcher was nowhere in sight. “The... the Captain...” A timid voice spoke from the corner of the room. I looked there and found Agnes, curled into herself. She seemed unhurt, but her face was a mask of panic.

201 John McNee

“What happened here?” I asked her. “He... came at me with a razor,” she whispered, eyes staring through me. “Said something about a sacrifice. I couldn't... I couldn't stop him... And then... Then...” “Yes?” I urged her. “What happened, girl?” She closed her eyes. “It came for him. It took him.” I would have asked her more, had Fletcher's voice not sounded outside, bellowing from across the grounds. I gave chase then, going out through the shattered wall and leaping down to the soft earth. By the time I returned, Agnes would already have retreated into herself from the shock. Though she would, in time, recover, no amount of interrogation from me or any number of doctors and police officers would ever yield any more detail about what she had witnessed. “Henry!” I called into the fog. It was dense, obscuring the way ahead and all around me. The morning sun, too, had not yet risen above the hills, only adding to my difficulties. I squinted and ploughed on through the gloom, following a set of muddy tracks to the main gate and out to the road. “Henry!” His answering cry was a bitter howl of despair from what seemed like a few hundred yards ahead. His assail- ant, whatever it was, seemed to be dragging him back to town. I broke into a run, waving the pistol before me, yelling Fletcher's name and each time hearing a dreadful wail in reply. I followed the road back the way I had come to reach the house and soon reached the low wall that ran alongside the river. I could hear him closer now, but still could not see him, could hardly see a foot in front of my face through the billowing vapours. Then, at last, the clouds drew back, as the great shadow of the bridge came into view. And there, perched

202 Spawn of the Crocodile God at its mid-point, was Fletcher, a greyish outline from this remove. I called his name and he turned his head in my direction, though I could not make out his features, and gave a last, pitiable whimper. Then he was gone, over the ledge, plunging down to the icy waters below. He sank far and fast. “Henry!” I yelled again, running now towards the bridge, my eyes on the waters into which he had disappeared, never to resurface. I can tell you now that they found his body some days later. I reached the bridge, calling for him still and collided with a gentleman in long raincoat and hat. In all my panic I hadn't seen him. The impact nearly knocked me to the ground, but I managed to stay upright, only peripherally noticing as he tipped his hat and said: “I beg your pardon.” So all-consumed was I with desperate concern for Fletcher that I nearly ignored the gentleman and continued on, but suddenly realised he could assist, so turned back to address him... and froze in mortal dread. It is true, gentlemen, that I caught no more than a glimpse. I will freely admit that it was for a mere fraction of a second that we were face to face and that I glanced only the smallest portion of his visage, before he was gone, turning away as the mist rushed in to consume him and leave me in terrified solitude. It was, however, quite enough. And I shall swear to you, gentlemen... I shall swear until the day I die that between that upturned collar and the broad, tipped brim of his hat... I saw a leathery green snout and impossibly wide grin.

203

Life and Limb Andrew Freudenberg

Dearest esteemed members of the Bell Club, first let me extend my heartfelt thanks for allowing a much dimin- ished individual such as myself to appear before you this evening. Suffice to say that I’m honoured and hope you will forgive me if I should become unsettled in the telling of my tale. My experiences have not bought me any great sympathy in the past. Indeed many of those whom I once considered to be my closest friends no longer wish to have anything to do with me. My own beloved brother has disassociated himself from me as a result of hearing that which I experienced and my wife can no longer bear to look at me. I hold no animosity towards them or any others who have reacted similarly. In life it is not often considered desirable to fill one’s head with such horror and should I be in a position to choose, I too would not wish to know what I know or have seen what I have seen. My name is Hector Maxwell and I am a Doctor of medicine, a surgeon to be precise. I was born in London in eighteen seventy-nine and have spent the majority of my life so far there. Before the Great War I was a resident at St Thomas specialising in matters cerebral. My expertise was well respected and I can truly say that I was content with my lot. I had a beautiful young wife, Phoebe, and two small sons of whom I was most proud. We lived in a townhouse in Hampstead and were fortunate to enjoy good friends and wealth enough to ensure a high reputation in local society. Then the death of the Arch- duke cast its shadow over us and darkness began to de- scend.

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Within a year Phoebe’s only brother had died in a gas attack in France and not long after that I found myself in the trenches, desperately attempting to repair the constant flood of ravaged young men that the war machine tore to shreds on a daily basis. Dear listeners, it would be easy for me to simply describe to you that which I saw every day in that terrible place. Perhaps you may consider my application merely by hearing of the rotting bodies, the faces torn from young men’s skulls or the endless screaming that filled my mind both day and night. Some might think that a life of eternal fear and sickness were plenty enough for one man’s sanity to bear. I could suggest to you that month after month of cold and hunger knee deep in the gore of boys, barely free of their mother’s apron strings as they say, were sufficient to allow me to become an associate of this fine fellowship. It may be an indubitable truth that you would be a monstrous gathering if you did not do so. However if this was all that I had to relate then perhaps I would not be here. Perhaps I would not have driven my poor wife from me and I could have returned contentedly to my former life. Still, I am not here to earn your compassion. I shall continue with my tale that you may understand the true nature of dreadfulness and of the vile sights I have endured. Doubtless many of you have heard of the Battle of the Somme. We were engaged in some of the most intense fighting that this planet of ours has ever seen. The casualties were in the tens of thousands on a single day when things were at their worst. As a front line surgeon I was required to labour without pause, resting only when I could no longer stand or see. The majority of my time was spent with a dripping bone saw in hand, severing smashed and useless limbs in an attempt to save lives.

205 Andrew Freudenberg

The stench of cauterised flesh mingled with the acrid stink of gunpowder was my constant companion. More often than not the hellish visions before me were blurred by the bloody tears that filled my eyes. It was here in a low ceilinged room hewn from the dirt that my nemesis found me. Of course at first I thought he was my saviour. He took one look at me, coated as I was from head to foot in other men’s essential fluids, and smiled sternly. “Captain Maxwell I presume?” I turned from the human wreck that I had been examining and squinted at my inquisitor. He was tall and clean shaven and, astonishingly, he was wearing a spotless Major’s uniform. To say that he seemed out of place would be an understatement. To my exhausted psyche, an angel may as well have fallen from heaven. Wearily I half raised an arm in a parody of a salute. “Sir, yes sir.” Grasping my raised arm with a leather-gloved hand he gently pushed it back down. “You’re finished here Max- well. Just leave everything here and follow me. We have other work for you.” I must have been slow to decipher his meaning because he seized my elbow and led me gently towards the exit. We emerged into the trench. Night was falling and it was relatively quiet save for the odd howl or distant gun- shot. Several Tommys lay comatose in the mud. Another leant against the trench wall, smoking a miserable looking cigarette and shivering. He glanced at us without any ap- parent interest. Realising that I still gripped my saw I let it drop to the floor and followed the Major. Gentlemen, at this point I should rise and salute you all as this was nearly the end of my time as a member of the British Army. Not having the limbs to do so I shall

206 Life and Limb simply nod and continue with my tale. Naturally I had no knowledge of what was to come. Never could I have imagined Major Hamilton’s purpose in taking me from that place. In fact very little was going through my mind as we trudged through the bloody sludge towards the exit trench that would take us to our staff car. The front had exhausted me and destroyed my enthusiasm for life. Bet- ter to think nothing than dwell on the hellish existence that had become my everyday routine. Perhaps I was shell shocked, if I had to put a name to my condition, but as I was not actually fighting I wouldn’t allow myself such a badge of honour. Suffice to say I was in a dark place and could not have ever dreamt that worse things could possibly lie in my future. As we drove away from the front under a starlit night, with the occasional bursts of fire and screams of pain fad- ing away, I slumped back in my seat and closed my eyes. A cold wind blew over me and for the first time since my last leave I could smell myself and the rotten miasma that coated my body and clothes. Month old corpses have had a sweeter odour. For a moment I imagined myself to be a cadaver undergoing its final journey to a worm infested resting place. I have to admit that there was something comforting about the feeling. To be removed from the madness of men forever, whatever it took, appealed to me hugely. Sadly it was not to be and, as you can plainly see, I carried on living. Eventually we passed through a silent village, little more than shadows on this cold and gloomy night. Finally we stopped outside a small mansion house with the Brit- ish Flag billowing pathetically on a flag pole outside. A young soldier greeted us and the Major ordered him to give me a bed for the night and insisted that I should be

207 Andrew Freudenberg provided with a hot bath immediately . “Get some rest Maxwell. You’ll be briefed in the morning.” With a tip of his cap he nodded thoughtfully at me, scratched his chin, and climbed back into the car and was gone. The soldier who had adopted a position upwind of me looked around for my bags, of which there were none, and beckoned for me to follow him. Suffice to say I was provided with a brass bath full of hot water and allowed to soak for a good hour. By the time I emerged the water had taken on much of my rank coating and was of a crimson hue. I staggered to my bed and fell into a deep sleep. Nightmares ravaged my soul throughout the night. I imagined that my wife and children were my patients. How they screamed and pleaded for mercy as I put my faithful saw to what seemed a never ending parade of limbs. “It’s for your own good my loves” I reassured them as I hacked my way through muscle and bone. “You’ll thank me for it later”. So it was, at eight the following morning, I found myself once more on the road with Major Hamilton. My new uniform was clean, like myself, but a night away from the trenches was not enough to wipe the heavy black bags from under my eyes. No normal person could have failed to recoil from my sallow complexion and sunken cheeks nor missed my despondent countenance. At that moment I might have considered myself the most miserable wretch on the face of the planet had I not been introduced to John Whelk. He was waiting for us outside a large grey warehouse which crouched within a high wooden wall topped with barbed wire on the outskirts of the town. Apart from the two slouching guards who straightened up quickly on spotting the Major, he was the

208 Life and Limb only sign of life in this desolate place. He must have been about thirty years of age although he had the posture of someone twice that. His uniform hung on a skeletal frame and his officer’s cap was in his hand rather than on his head. He passed it from one side to the other nervously as he watched us approach. I could see immediately that he shared many of my woes but his deterioration seemed more advanced than mine. Where my skin was of a pallid appearance his was distinctly ashen, more akin to one of the departed than that of the living. It clung so closely to his face that he had the appearance of a well boiled skull. His eyes were black at the centre and shot through with red streaks elsewhere. As we got closer I could detect a slight shake in him, a mild palsy unusual in one so young. Major Hamilton seemed oblivious to his ills and greeted him enthusiastically. “Doctor Whelk”, he began, ignoring the stripes on the man’s shoulders, “Thank you for meeting us this morning. How are you today?” Whelk struggled to find the energy to reply but needn’t have bothered as the Major didn’t pause for breath. “As I promised I’ve found you a new associate. Please allow me to introduce to you one of London’s finest surgeons, Hector Maxwell.” Whelk looked at me dolefully and I returned what was no doubt a similar expression. I shrugged. “I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea...” “Whelk will fill you in. There’s little point in me trying to explain.” The Major inclined his head towards the warehouse. “Simply let me inform you that anything you see in there is top secret. You can mention it to nobody. You’ll stand court martial if you so much as whisper a word outside of those walls. Understand?”

209 Andrew Freudenberg

Of course I didn’t but I managed a weak salute and a faint affirmation. “Right, then I’ll leave you medical chaps to get to work.” He fixed me with a peculiarly intense stare. “The best of British luck to you Maxwell.” Then he hopped back into the car and sped off just as the grey skies began to drizzle. Whelk’s voice was thin and quiet and tinged with some sort of Northern accent that I couldn’t place. Ac- cents have never been my strong point. “So, how much did they tell you?” “Nothing at all” I replied, shaking my head. “I was in the trenches yesterday. Today I’m here. That’s all I know.” Whelk spat a bolus of phlegm onto the ground and sighed heavily. “Jesus.” “So what is this place?” “You’d better see for yourself”. He turned to go inside before pausing and turning back to me. “Brace yourself.” Inside the warehouse was dimly lit and smelled of what I can only describe as excrement. My eyes watered as they readjusted to the gloom in the large open space. The only opening that had not been boarded up was a skylight and it offered little luminescence on this over cast morning. “Why is it so dim?” I enquired. “So they can’t see each other” Whelk replied. Before I could ask who he was referring to there was an ungodly screech from the other side of the warehouse. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and my heart raced. My companion allowed himself a slight smirk at my discomfort and grasped my elbow surprisingly

210 Life and Limb firmly. “Don’t worry. They’re well secured”. Releasing me he took a gas lamp from a hook on the wall and lit it. “Fol- low me.” We followed the perimeter for no more than twenty feet before we came upon what looked like a corpse in German uniform chained upright to the wall. Naturally my medical instincts caused me to approach the figure in order to get a better look. Once more Whelk grabbed my arm. “Don’t get too close”. His warning came not a moment too soon as the creature’s eyes snapped open and it began to wrench at the restraints. A low growl emanated from its throat all the while. Its head shook wildly from side to side and spittle flew from its mouth. As it grew more agitated its eyes rolled up in their sockets. Taking a step back I shook off Whelk’s grip. “This man is having a seizure. Why in God’s name is he chained to a wall?” Whelk said nothing but motioned for me to follow him further into the darkness. As we approached the corner of the room I saw another man, similarly affixed. Where the previous victim had seemed uninjured this one had an enormous chest wound that clearly exposed ribs and fleshy tissue. Several flies were dining on this fine offering. In addition his left eye socket was empty and the surrounds blackened. I imagined that this one must surely be dead but precisely as his associate had done, he opened his eye and began the low growl. “Gibt mir dein fleisch” it barked with a voice so fierce that I swear that I actually jumped backwards. “Dear God man”, I demanded of Whelk, “Why are

211 Andrew Freudenberg you keeping these men alive?” He gave me a pitying glance. “Alive? Alive? You fool. You just don’t get it do you?” With that he stormed off into the darkness, returning with an enormous knife. I took another step back. “What are you...?” Before I could stop him he had grasped the handle with both hands and plunged it into the man’s heart. Im- mediately he pulled it out and repeated the attack. His victim sneered and growled but otherwise seemed not to suffer any ill effects from the blade that now emerged from his lacerated chest. “I don’t understand.” My mind reeled. “Is it some kind of trick?” “This is no trick. These men are not alive as we know it. Follow me.” We walked by two more men, little more than silhouettes in the gloom, who clanked their chains and growled at us as we passed. In the far corner of the room we came across a table. Whelk placed his lamp on it and said nothing, leaving me to look closer. My eyes moved upwards following what appeared to be a spinal column, and trust me gentlemen I’d seen enough of those by then to recognise it, until they rested on the impossible. At the top of this bloodied backbone was an undamaged head. I grasped the light and looked closer at what had to be the remains of an inanimate corpse. As I leant in its eyes blinked open and the head began to shake from side to side. There was very little remaining of any connecting muscle so it was a desperate erratic movement. This only served to add to the deviance of the scene. I believe it would have screamed had it a windpipe to do so but as it could only rage in silence.

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When I could finally tear myself away I saw that Whelk was watching me intently, waiting for my reaction. For a moment I could say nothing. My mind was a whirl- wind of black confusion. Eventually I managed to croak, “Is that everything?” Whelk pursed his lips. “Not quite. I have one more thing to show you.” He led me to a large stone sink across which had been laid a substantial wooden cover. With a grunt he heaved it off and it fell to the floor noisily unleashing an unholy stink. I confess that I would have thought that I had suffered nasal insults sufficient that nothing could disturb my system but sour bile rose in my throat. Swallowing I took a step forward and peered guardedly in to the basin. I was greeted by a sight most foul. Within was a vile assortment of severed body parts. Amongst simple torn pieces of flesh lay an assortment of detached appendages and organs. There was a hand, here an eyeball. I saw lips, ears, a heart and feet. Across all of them a snowfall of white maggots had made their home. This should have been enough were it the whole truth but it was not. Everything within this plasma pond moved, twitching and pulsating with a grotesque reflection of life. The hand opened and closed. The lips parted and the heart beat slowly. Gentlemen, I struggle to verbalise the pestilence that squirmed within this lagoon of filth. Without waiting to be questioned, which was very well as I could not have spoken at that moment, Whelk explained. “About a month ago a company of our boys were moving through a deserted village, securing it as a base of operations. They had encountered no resistance and were preparing to call it a day as dusk fell. As they were gathering in the main square, eight of these beasts

213 Andrew Freudenberg attacked without warning. Some forty men were slaughtered before they could be subdued. The fiends were armed only with knives, axes and their teeth. Hamilton and his lot bought them here.” “For what possible purpose do you suppose?” “Why do you think? Eight men slaughtered forty. He wants soldiers like this for himself.” “How did they get this way? These things are...” I struggled to define them. “Unholy?” offered Whelk. “Look Whelk, I’m not a believer. Are you telling me there’s something supernatural about this?” “I’m not telling you anything. I’ve poked them, burnt them... sliced pieces off and looked at them under a mi- croscope. I have no idea what they are or how they got this way. That’s why you’re here. To help me find out.” He gave me a peculiar look and spat into the basin. “Do you have any theories Doctor Maxwell?” “None whatsoever. Nor do I intend to help in creating anymore. I shall speak to Hamilton this evening and tell him to send me back to the front.” Whelk snorted. “It won’t do any good. I’ve tried that. Believe me, I’ve begged and pleaded to be relieved.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “It’s nothing for a man like that to have you labelled a deserter and put in front of a firing squad.” “He wouldn’t dare.” “Look Maxwell, far be it for me to burst your bubble but I wasn’t the first one here.” I fell silent. There was nothing to say. Suddenly I felt so tired that I could hardly stand up. A strangled voice rang from the darkness at the other side of the warehouse.

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“Du wirst sterben mein Freund. Du wirst sterben.” A wave of choked laughter followed the outburst. Outside the rain had picked up pace and a cold shudder ran through me. I slumped and would have fallen if Whelk hadn’t dropped his lantern and grabbed me under the arms. “Steady Maxwell, steady.” He lowered me gently on to the floor and knelt down beside me. “I have a plan.” I looked up at him through a swirling mist, quite unable to lift myself from the floor. His face was swimming before me. “A plan?” I muttered doubtfully. His eyes shone with a new evangelical vigour I would hardly have considered him capable of. He threw back his head and laughed the laugh of a man possessed. “Oh yes. I have a plan. Listen...” So it was that two days later I found myself running towards the Warehouse guards, a glutinous mixture of tomato sauce and paint all over my chest and hands. I stumbled theatrically as I approached before beginning my short performance. “It’s HQ. We are under attack. You’re needed. Now!” These two world weary men looked at each other for a split second before looking back at me and my coating of fake blood. “You’re injured sir...” hesitated one of them. “Never mind me”. I waved my hands frantically in the direction of headquarters, a good couple of miles away. “Go, before it’s too late...” I watched as they lumbered down the road, waiting until they turned into a side street and were out of sight. Quickly I approached the gates, already ajar a crack, and pulled them wide open. Almost immediately I heard the straining of an overworked engine as Whelk came haring

215 Andrew Freudenberg down the road in a battered looking truck, slowing only slightly to swing in towards the warehouse. Narrowly avoiding being run over I threw myself back against the perimeter wall. Whelk and his cargo of stolen fuel, hand grenades and ammunition roared past me. Stealing this preloaded vehicle from its righteous driver had been key to the success of our sabotage. Despite Whelk’s assurance that it left daily like clockwork to supply the front line, and that its driver always stopped for a cup of tea with his friends in the guard house, it was this that had filled me with trepidation from the moment he had explained the plan to me. To see it now filled me with a deep joy. This tran- scendent feeling lifted me for the split second it took me to realise that Whelk was not going to jump out as he had promised me that he would. I saw it now, the darkness in his eyes that I had been willing to ignore, blinded as I was by my urge to burn this accursed place to the ground. This was always how it was going to end for him I thought as the vehicle slammed into the buildings front doors. It seemed that it would end for me too as the vola- tile contents of this motorised bomb exploded immediately igniting the dense cloud of propane gas that had been seeping into the structure’s interior ever since we had left the previous evening. The ensuing fireball felt like the raging fires of hell had come to earth, like everything had come to an end in a cleansing blaze of our making. A fist of flame struck me in the face, stripping my cheek to the bone and melting my left eye. I was spun around by the blow and fell unconscious to the floor. I must have only been dead to the world for a few minutes but when I came to everything had changed. In place of the warehouse was a pile of burning rubble and

216 Life and Limb the bright morning sky had been obscured by a pall of thick and noxious smoke. The pain in my eviscerated eye and charred cheek was intense and my ears rang as they struggled to recover. It took me a moment to realise that there was something extremely amiss with my leg, so varied were the sources of agony demanding my attention. I pulled myself up so that I was leaning against the rem- nants of the peripheral fence and looked down. Had I been able to hear my own scream I could perhaps describe it to you today but I could still hear nothing. My limb was torn open to the bone and there, with its teeth firmly embedded in the bloody wound, was the bodiless head tearing and ripping at my flesh. Its spinal column curled out behind it. Without thinking I grasped this wretched backbone and hurled it from me. Being seated I could only manage to heave it several yards and like some sickening serpent it immediately started winding its way back towards me. Desperately I used the fence to haul myself upright, a not inconsiderable task considering the useless state of my right leg. Still grasping the fence I slammed my boot down onto the top of the thing’s skull. The rotten skin split open and a crack appeared in the exposed bone. I repeated the action. This time the skull shattered and my foot sank into the blackened brain within. I shook the twitching but harmless remains from my footwear and barely had time to catch my breath before I realised that I was still not alone. It was the one eyed creature with the mutilated chest and another that I had not seen previously. This second soldier’s face was untouched by injury but one hand had been entirely stripped of meat and was now a blanched claw. He wore the tattered uniform of an officer and held a burning piece of timber in his good hand. Both of them

217 Andrew Freudenberg

were swathed in black soot and smouldering slightly. They lumbered slowly towards me. “Du wirst sterben,” sneered the officer brandishing his flaming torch. I realised that my Webley was still in its holster and pulled it out. My first shot went wild but the second struck one eye in the face tearing off his lower jaw. He paused for a moment and I squeezed the trigger again. This time the bullet found his forehead and exited through the top of his skull leaving a gaping hole. With a roar he took a step towards me before falling to the ground. He lay there, his whole body racked with uncon- trolled spasms. Summoning my last strength I pointed the revolver at the officer. My hands shook and the gun wa- vered from his head to toes and back in a moment. “Don’t move,” I croaked, “I will finish you.” A strangely angelic smile passed across his face and he continued to walk towards me. I pulled the trigger. Noth- ing happened. A second attempt produced the same result. By now he was on me, knocking the pistol aside and thrusting the burning brand into my face. I grasped it with both hands as I fell and incredibly I took it with me. I had just a moment to thrust it up between his legs from my prone position. His trousers began to crackle and burn. With incredible strength he lifted me one handed and threw me flying across the yard. I hit the ground hard with a loud crack as the exposed bone in my leg snapped. The pain was immense. I sprawled across burning debris with my one remaining eye attempting to focus on what was happening. For a moment I thought I was seeing double. The officer, whose lower half was now consumed with fire, had been joined by another figure. This one seemed to be

218 Life and Limb constructed entirely of flames as it staggered towards me. I looked around for help but there was none forthcom- ing. The newcomer grasped my right arm with his fiery grip, his fingers burning into me as he did so. A moment later the officer grabbed the other and before I knew it I was the living rope in a tug of war between two blazing monsters. Smoke and the familiar odour of scorched flesh filled my nose. By this time I was too weak to fight back. A black shadow was creeping over my consciousness and I was aware of little except agony. The newcomers grip weak- ened as his body was eviscerated by the heat but as he fell away he took my arm with him. The officer roared with triumph and with the last of his strength swung me round by my remaining arm, snapping bone and tearing muscle. “Du wirst sterben,” echoed in my mind as the darkness claimed me in its cooling embrace. I woke up in London a week later, awash with mor- phine. I was one legged and had no arms. Burns covered my body and the only thing I could be thankful for was that I only lost one eye. My surgeon, an old friend who could no longer look at me without a shudder, told me that it was a miracle that I had survived. Of course I knew that, I’d seen hundreds of men die from less on the front, but strangely I didn’t feel blessed. That whoreson Hamil- ton came to see me, naturally, full of bluster and threats. There was little he could do though if he wanted to avoid me talking to a court martial. Were I not in a busy ward I’m sure he would have used a pillow to put me out of harm’s way, such was the fury in his expression. It was not to be though and he left me with the worst punish- ment possible. Life, gentlemen. Life. So here I perch before you, esteemed members of the Bell Club, a pretty

219 Andrew Freudenberg picture for all to see. I await your judgement.

220

The Girl In The Cabin Richard Barnes

My name is Grant Palliser. Sounds strange for me to say those two words; I haven’t used them in a long while. I keep myself away from most folks and those I do get close to, they don’t need to know my name. I was born in New York, in 1880, but my story starts in 1899. As to when my story ends, that don’t really de- pend on me. Maybe being here, telling you folks might bring my story to an end but I doubt it. I was nineteen years old, a smart-mouthed, smooth- talking kid from the east coast. I’d gone out west seeking adventure and fortune with a head filled with cowboys and Indians and lawmen and outlaws. By the time I arrived the days of the real, old west were gone, if they were ever real at all. I earned a few bucks here and there lending my muscle to farmers but I blew more than a few bucks here and there on liquor and gambling. It didn’t help none that I was quick with my mouth, quick to anger and quick with my fists. It was luck that kept me out of jail. Usually I got out of town before a Sheriff ran me out. In 1899 I ended up in a dusty hole called Dorado, just over the border in Mexico, and I ended up in my usual trouble. As always, I met a girl. And it was always a girl that I should have had the sense not to be meeting. She’d be the sheriff’s daughter or the preacher’s daughter or some tough guy’s sister. Looking back, I reckon I was always after some girl who I could never be with. I could have my fun but I knew, somewhere back in my mind, that

221 Richard Barnes sooner or later I’d have to quit town and go off looking for the next one, leaving all the trouble behind me. Not anymore though. There’s only one woman in my life now. Maria Valez was the sweetest girl in Dorado; beautiful she was, with dark eyes and golden skin. She told me she loved me and hell, I almost believed I loved her back. She took time with the old folks and looked out for the kids on the streets. Hard to believe that her brother was Corto Valez, the meanest son of a bitch on the border. Corto, he ran booze, he ran guns, he ran tobacco; anything that was bad, he’d run it over the border and woe betide anyone who might cross him. He’d kill you but it wouldn’t be quick. No, Corto took his sweet time and made sure that folks knew about it. So how did he take to some smart-assed yankee kid courting his sister? I found out from some rancher’s wife, who looked like she was going to be sick as she told me about Maria. Corto couldn’t get hold of me but, with him being who he was, he had to do something. Poor Maria was who he could get hold of. She was his flesh and blood so he didn’t kill her. Maria had been the beauty of the whole damn county but not after Corto was through. I never did see Maria again, but the look on the rancher’s wife’s face was enough. She had seen Maria and what Corto had done to her. I’m sure there are men who would have rode into town, guns blazing and Corto would have been dead in the street by sundown, but I wasn’t one of those men. Hell, I wasn’t any kind of man, not that day. I told that lady that I was going to get some men then come back and make Corto pay. I think there was some

222 The Girl in the Cabin small part of me that even believed that. See, since them times I’ve come to realise that a man can be thinking one thing but can be doing something else altogether, all at the same time. Yeah, I rode away north pretending to myself that I was going to be a hero. But I was just chicken-shit scared and if I gave any real thought to poor Maria, I can’t say I remember much about it. I crossed the border and headed north to the mountains to lie low. Figured I’d earn a living round the silver mines and move west to California in the spring. I settled for a few months in Silverton, Colorado, and forgot Maria; forgot her enough to smooth-talk some other girl. Same old story; she was somebody else’s girl. Turned out she was engaged to the Sheriff’s son. Time to hit the trail again. I left town early one morning to ride down the Silver- ton ravine before the Sheriff or his son got out of bed. I was wearing pretty much every bit of clothing I could lay my hands on. Coming from New York, I thought I knew cold. I was wrong; up in those mountains it gets real cold. After an hour or so on the trail, the wind was coming at me thick with snow; I could hardly see where I was going and one side of the trail was a sheer drop into the ravine. I rode round a corner and the wind hit me hard enough to throw me off my horse. Another blast of wind brought more snow. I heard the horse scream and it was gone. So there I was, flat on the ground, looking over the side of the ravine. The straight drop was below me and there was only icy boulders and the cold grey waters of the Silverton River to break my fall. I pushed myself back

223 Richard Barnes and the wind dropped for a moment. In that moment, just up the trail, I saw a timber cabin. Seeing that cabin gave me hope. I’ll tell you, by the time I’d got to my feet I was practically sure that I’d be welcomed by some pretty daughter who had a nice hot pot of stew on the stove and no-one else at home. In my mind, all I had to do was knock on the door and I’d soon be warming my feet in front of the fire, warming my belly with the stew and warming my heart and soul with that pretty daughter. In that blizzard, getting just up the trail to that cabin was nearly enough to kill me. I’ve seen folks go crazy with the heat. There was this bastard, name of Pietra, down in Dorado. One time, after a bout of it, he told me how he could see what he was doing but his body and soul were in two different places. I found that cold can work like that too. I was just clinging on when my body fell into a drift and my head hit a wall. Maybe I could just find a door and let myself in. Maybe I’d find that pretty daughter and hot stew here. My head knew what it wanted to do but my body was going nowhere and pretty soon, I just slipped away down into darkness. When I woke in that cabin, I was sure I’d gone to heaven. I opened my eyes and looked upon a slim girl with blonde hair standing over a warm range and stirring at a steaming pot. Hell, I must have died and had my prayers answered. There was that pretty daughter and that pot of stew. I was lying on a wooden bed, wearing only my long johns but covered in a heap of blankets. The iron range was giving out plenty of heat.

224 The Girl in the Cabin

The girl turned. Her eyes were grey and her skin was pale. I wouldn’t say her smile was the warmest but it weren’t unfriendly either. “Oh Mr Palliser, you’re awake,” she said. “I was wor- rying about you but I guess you can’t be too ill after all.” I asked how she knew my name. “Palliser is your name then?” she replied and that smile turned a little further up at the corners. “You were babbling when Pa brought you in so I wasn’t sure it would be right.” I pushed myself up. “Palliser’s the name alright,” I said, “but you can call me Grant. And who should I be thanking for my good fortune?” “You can thank my Pa. He’s the one that found you out there and dragged you in. My name’s Lucy, Lucy Kin- cade. And you can call me Miss Kincade.” She turned back and dipped a ladle into the pot and poured it into a bowl. She picked up the bowl and a spoon and carried them over to me. “It’s just a broth,” she said, “but it should warm your innards.” I took the bowl and spoon from her and leaned forward to start slurping it up. But then I saw the murky grey slop that was in the bowl. “If you’re worried it’s a small bowl, there is plenty more,” she said with a hint of a laugh. It looked foul but I needed something. I dipped the spoon into the broth and brought it up to my mouth. I’ve poured the roughest tequila down my throat without flinching but, by glory, I near choked on the sickly smell coming up from that spoon. My stomach turned and I had to fight to keep down a gutful of bile. “Come now, Grant,” said Miss Kincade, this time

225 Richard Barnes

with no joking, “you drink it up, it’ll do you good. It may smell a little strange but that’s just some special herbs. When you near die of cold you need more than just soup inside you.” I took a deep breath and lifted the spoon to my lips. The broth may have been steaming but when it touched my mouth it was barely lukewarm. I flicked my eyes sideways and caught the stern glance of her cold, grey eyes. I forced the whole spoonful back. It slipped down my throat and left a chalky scum on my tongue. “Drink it all, Grant,” said Miss Kincade, “it’ll do you the world of good.” It was vile but I forced another mouthful down and then another. The whole bowl was gone in a few gulps. I sat there panting and shivering with the empty bowl and spoon in my hands. Miss Kincade took them off me. “You see,” she said, with a broader smile now, “I knew you’d get the taste for it. Everyone does.” I watched her walk back to the range and dip that ladle back into the pot. Another load was slopped into the bowl. I wanted to refuse, to slap it away but I just sat there while she brought it over. Five bowls. That’s how many I drunk before she let me stop and I swear I would have drunk more if she’d have kept them coming. She took my last empty bowl away and dropped it in a big tin pail in the corner. She came back over and half sat on the side of the bed, her body up close against mine. I was shaking and covered with sweat. I was warm inside, alright, but not that homely feel of a belly full of hot food. More like the sick ache of the last dregs of a bottle. “That’s better Grant,” she said, running her fingers

226 The Girl in the Cabin through my damp hair. She moved closer; her body pressed against mine. Even through the covers and Miss Kincade’s skirt, I could feel the firmness of her thigh. She placed her head on my shoulder and I felt the warmth of her breath upon my neck. Her other hand ran along my outstretched legs. I do believe that I did start to feel much better. “Say, Miss Kincade,” I asked, “I’m curious to know where your Pa is, so I may thank him. When do you think he’ll be back?” “No time soon, I’m afraid,” she whispered. Her smooth cheek slid close to my mine. I turned my head a little and suddenly her lips were upon me. Maria, she had the sweetest kiss, at least before Corto got hold of her. But that kiss from Miss Kincade was like nothing I had ever dreamed of. It was all fiery, unholy passion. My heart pounded and my loins burned. Even now, after everything, it makes me sweat to think of it. Her hands pulled my head to her and I wrapped my arms around her waist. I was near pulling her on top of me when I heard the banging of a door, the sudden howl of the wind and heavy stamping of feet. We broke apart. I fell back on the bed, stunned. Miss Kincade was on her feet and once more cool and proper. “Pa,” she called, “is that you?” “Who the hell else, Miss Kincade?” shouted a rough voice from the outer room, “any other fool out in this storm would be dead.” Pa shoved the door to the kitchen open and stood there, looking at the pair of us. I felt cold air come spiralling in. He was a big man, as tall as me but broader in the

227 Richard Barnes shoulder and with long, heavy arms. His head was bald with white skin tight across the scalp. A purple scar ran from the left side stopping at his right eye. That eye was just a milky blur that twitched from side to side. His left eye was brown and sharp and fixed on me. He grinned, showing yellow teeth with his red tongue lashing in and out between broken, chapped lips. “He’s alive then,” he spat, “though he’d best make sure his hands keep away from you, Miss Kincade, if he wants to stay that way.” “Oh Pa,” said Miss Kincade, “There’s no need to make accusations.” She stepped further away from the bed as she spoke. “I’m mighty grateful to you, sir,” I said, hoping that none of my feelings were showing, “and mighty grateful to your daughter here. I can assure you that I’m in your debt and have no improper intentions.” His good eye glared at me and I was certain that all he could see was improper intentions. He stepped into the kitchen and padded nearer to me. The sound of the wind could still be heard in the outer room and the lamp-light flickered in the draft. “You’d best get your goddamn clothes on then,” he growled. “Of course he should,” said Miss Kincade. She grabbed my clothes from a chair near the range. “I think they’re dried off now.” She put them on the bed. My guns were in the pile. “Well get gone while the man dresses, girl,” shouted Pa. She scurried past him and I noticed a furious glare at her father once she was behind him. She caught my eye with a more concerned look before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

228 The Girl in the Cabin

As soon as the door shut I reached for my pants and started to pull them on, followed by a shirt, and then another shirt. It would have been nice to get to know Miss Kincade a little better but it was clear that Pa was none too happy with me and I had no wish to be thrown back out into the blizzard. He looked at my pistols. “Fancy weapons there, kid,” said Pa, “where did you get them?” “Down in Mexico, sir,” I replied, “it’s a rough place. You get the best guns you can down there.” As I fumbled with my shirt buttons he crouched down in front of me. His twitching right eye froze and joined his sharp left eye in staring at me. I stopped fum- bling with my shirt. “Did you drink the soup?” he whispered. As he spoke, his head jerked round to glance at the door then back to me. I froze. What the hell was the right answer to that one? “Quickly, fool,” he hissed, “did you drink the soup?” “I did sir,” I stammered, “I was freezing and it would be impolite to refuse.” “Too bad for you, son,” he said. “I didn’t lay my hands upon your daughter,” I lied, “I swear it sir.” His head jerked up and it was furious eyes that glared back at me. “But you drank the soup. You’ll feel it soon.” I was about to protest when I felt a lurch in my guts. That sick tequila feeling had returned and was twisting like a desert snake. The old bastard started grinning and that gammy right eye was soon wandering back and forth again. “You’re feeling it, son. It’s you and me now, boy,” he

229 Richard Barnes growled. “Pa,” came the shout of Miss Kincade, “What are you at in there?” He leapt up and staggered back towards the door. He ripped it open and Miss Kincade was right there. Grab- bing her by the arms, Pa pulled her close to him. “Pa,” she said, pushing back but his big hands stayed clamped to her arms. “Let me go. You’re hurting. Noth- ing happened between me and Mr Palliser. I swear it.” She shoved him and they broke apart. They weren’t touching but he still loomed over her, his body trembling with anger. “He won’t have a chance for anything to happen,” growled Pa, “he’ll be out of this house right now.” “Goddamn no,” she said with hard force. Miss Kin- cade stepped around her father and towards me. Despite my squirming guts, I stood, pulling my gun belt around my hips. “Pa,” continued Miss Kincade, “it’s still furious cold out there. If Mr Palliser goes outside, he’ll be dead in minutes.” Pa grabbed her again, pulling her right up close. His arms wrapped around her and clamped across her shoulders. I could see drool on his lips as his face moved within in an inch of hers. She winced as spittle flecked out with his darting red tongue. “You sent me out there, though, you little whore,” he growled, “You sent me out to die so you could have your young lover-boy here instead.” My hand found itself wrapping its fingers around the butt of my gun. My head was pounding while my guts squirmed. I took another step and started to draw my weapon.

230 The Girl in the Cabin

“Pa,” she squealed, “it weren’t like that, you know it.” “I know nothing, whore, nothing,” he spat, then thrust his face at hers. His vile, cracked lips crushed against those same lips that I had kissed just a while before. My stomach churned as one of his big hands grasped her head and forced his lust upon her. His other hand gripped her rear and he shoved his leg between hers. Out in the cold my body and soul were in different places. Right there I felt it again. I swear I watched myself draw my gun and cock the hammer. I watched as I jabbed the barrel into Pa’s neck. I heard my voice. It was cold and stony. It wasn’t me. “Step away,” I heard myself say, “I’ll blow your head clean off, so I will.” He broke off from his kiss. His one sharp eye was filled with blazing fury and there seemed to be blood bubbling between his teeth. From somewhere else, I saw myself pull the trigger. The sound of cannon filled the room and a red spray filled my vision. When it cleared, I blinked a couple of times to find myself back in my body, with a blood- stained gun in my hand and a dying man in front of me. Pa let go of Miss Kincade and took one step back before slumping to his knees. His throat was a crimson mess and blood was pumping out soaking his shirt and coat. His last, desperate, rattling breaths were coming from the ragged gash in his neck rather than his mouth. Both of his eyes went still to look at me. He gasped a couple more times and slumped forward, face down on the floor. I took a couple of shaky steps back and sat on the bed. I blinked as I looked at my gun and then up at Miss

231 Richard Barnes

Kincade. The pale white skin of her face was sprayed with bright red blood. Her dress was decorated with a crimson streak. Her expression was not shock and horror, but calm resignation. A trail of blood trickled down her cheek and to her lips. She licked at it. “Oh come now, Mr Palliser,” she said, “that can’t be the first man you’ve killed, surely.” My gun was a dull, heavy weight in my hand. I let it drop to the floor. I felt more numb than when I had been lost in the blizzard. “Oh hell, Miss Lucy,” I said, “that was your father.” She looked at the body on the floor, curled over in the circle of blood that had finally stopped spreading. “I may have called him Pa but he wasn’t half the man my Daddy was,” she replied, “and he only got to do half the things my Daddy did to me. But I got my Daddy in the end, like I got him on the floor. Like I’ll get you.” Miss Kincade stepped over the body and across the kitchen, leaving bloody footprints behind her. She reached to the corner and pulled out a big axe. She tossed it to me. “On your feet Mr Palliser,” she said, “Help drag this carcass through to the other room. I don’t want you to be chopping up the body in the kitchen.” She gave me a smile. “It just don’t seem right, do it?” I looked at the axe in my hands as if I’d never seen such a thing. “Chop him up?” I said. She bent over, grabbed one arm started pulling. “C’mon, get that other arm and we’ll pull it through.” I did as I was told and soon we had the body in the other room, laid out flat on its back, staring at the rafters. With her back to me, she said, “Start by taking off its

232 The Girl in the Cabin arms at the shoulder and legs at the hips.” The light was dimmer here and the blood on her face was now a black slash. “What the hell are we doing?” I asked. Miss Kincade turned to look at me and said. “That storm out there will be raging for at least three more days. Pa failed to bring in any fresh meat.” She smiled again. “Well, I guess that’s not entirely true, but it didn’t turn out quite how he was expecting it.” “You want to eat him?” I said, “You’re fucking insane.” “Mr Palliser,” she said, “You’re thinking of slamming that axe right in my pretty face, but let me tell you something. You drank my broth and you won’t be doing a damn thing that I won’t let you do. Now later on, after we’ve both filled our bellies, I might let you do plenty. You’re just a man after all, same as my Daddy was, same as this lump of flesh was, same as all of them have been.” She took a couple of steps closer. Her face was barely inches away from mine. That splatter of blood was still wet on her pale skin and dribbling to the edge of her mouth. Her hard grey eyes bored into mine. “I can see through you, Mr Palliser. You got a story about something you did, someone you hurt. Some girl you hurt. And I’m going to find out your story. It might take a while. Might mean I’ll have to do things that neither of us will like very much, but I will know your crimes.” She saw through me alright. Saw all the way to Maria. She saw the fear in my eyes then just smiled. “But first of all,” she said, “hack up this goddamn meat.” I hacked up the meat. I helped bring it all through to

233 Richard Barnes the kitchen and helped her put into pots and skillets. And through the four days that the storm raged, I helped her eat that flesh and felt sick to my soul with every single bite. And when we were done feasting on Pa, she’d take me to the bed. What we did there certainly wasn’t making love and I wouldn’t even call it lust. We did what we did and in the middle of it, when I was holding her down and she screamed my name, I felt even sicker than when I was eating another man. She kept me there for four more weeks. Over that time, she got my story, she knew everything, every girl I’d hurt or used and left behind. And she knew all about Maria. She sent me back to Dorado. I was scared, very scared. Corto was down there and he didn’t forget and he didn’t know what forgiveness was. I feared Corto, but I feared Lucy Kincade much more. So I went back to Mexico; at least, I thought, I’d be away from Miss Kincade, her unnatural desires and the sick feeling in my gut. The nearer I got to Dorado, the more I realised that she knew just what she was doing. My guts got sicker, my cravings got worse. I wasn’t craving revenge, I was craving something else. I took it real careful and real slow but I got Corto in the end. Knocked him out, tied him up and dragged his ass out of town and somewhere that we wouldn’t be disturbed. It took me four days. Four days, just me and Corto in a beaten up shack in the Mexico heat.

234 The Girl in the Cabin

One mouthful at a time, I killed him. I got sicker and sicker as it went on, but the fear of Lucy Kincade and the sick cravings that she put in me kept me going. By the time Corto died, we were both screaming for mercy. It’s been ten years now. Ten years of wandering and craving. I keep myself quiet and I keep my ears open. I listen out for the bad folks, so that when the hunger becomes too much, I can do something to hold it back a little. And Lucy Kincade? Sometimes, I think I see her. In the corner of my eye, I see a beautiful woman with the fairest hair and grey eyes. But I turn and there’s no-one there. And I feel cold again, cold with fear and cold with hunger. I believe she’s still in her cabin. At the same time, I hope and fear that one day she’ll call me back and end it. Some other bastard will kill me, take my place and send my soul to whatever pit it’s meant for. Until then, I hunger, Lord knows, I hunger.

235

The Wager Jeff C. Carter

Charles stood in the unlit dining room peering between locked double doors into the darkened parlor beyond. He was quite content to dwell in darkness, watching the wide hearth fire flicker and throw its sparks. From the corner of his eye he saw a serpentine shimmer of dark blue. It was the high cheek bone of a black servant in a black coat. The man emerged from the shadows of the hallway and hurried to the heavy main door of the Bell Club. For some reason Charles had not been permitted to use that entrance, despite the fact that this was not a secret club. Still, it was certainly… mysterious. All well and good , Charles thought. He was there to discuss mysteries. The club members began to arrive, shuffling past in a parade of superstitious customs. Some touched the me- zuzah posted next to the door and kissed their fingers, others genuflected by the crucifix on the inside wall and others rubbed the upturned horseshoe mounted above the entrance. They made a mess as they came, spitting between forked fingers to thwart the evil eye or sprinkling kosher salt in their wake. The servant dutifully swept up behind them. As they shed their overcoats and top hats Charles noted their peculiarities extended beyond their behavior. More than one member had the halting gait of an artificial leg, while pinned back sleeves and eye patches marked other misfortunes. The most disturbing sight was a young lad of no more than eighteen years, his hair stark white, doddering like a palsied old man. Once they had reclined into their shadow draped

236 The Wager chairs, a face appeared at the double doors. Bertrand Grammercy pulled open the doors with a flourish. His eyes were as black and lifeless as the abyss, but the doughy face around them was lifted into an ingratiating smile. Charles swallowed and stepped into the parlor. Mr. Grammercy had been the only person to reach out to Charles after his expulsion from the Los Angeles Zoological Society. He said that this association, the Bell Club, would be willing to hear and accept the unique dis- coveries and disturbing experiences that his peers would not. Charles was content to relate his tale to the eager ears of Mr. Grammercy alone, but the man had insisted that it be shared with his open minded cohorts. Charles agreed, on the condition that he was afforded the chance to do so post-haste. Bertrand indicated a tall red leather chair positioned opposite the fire place before slipping into a dark corner of the parlor himself. Charles imagined the club members presumed themselves hidden in the shadows. My eyes have grown accustomed to a darkness you could not fathom, he thought. He watched the glimmer of firelight wash over their features, around the whirls of intricately carved wall panels, and along the gilt brass candle sconces decorated with the horned titan Oceanus. Charles did not to sit or remove his jacket, but stood behind the back of the tall chair like a man reluctant to deliver bad news. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. My name is Charles Beebe, a name some of you may perhaps recognize from the papers. I appreciate the chance to tell my side of the story, as well as the unique sympathy your society graciously extends. But I digress, and time is fleeting. Where shall I begin?”

237 Jeff C. Cater

He unbuttoned his coat and reached into a small vest pocket situated over his heart. He pulled out a dirty and broken peanut shell and held it flat on his palm with rev- erence. “I suppose it all began with a wager,” he said, setting the peanut shell down tenderly on a silver tray perched atop a marble table. “The wager was about a woman, and in deference to the ladies present and the late hour I will not trouble you with the details. My best friend Dewey had won the bet, and in forfeit, I was obligated to push this peanut the entire length of the Pickering Pleasure Pier… with my nose. Never let it be said that I am not a man of my word. “Those two insufferable hours were almost worth it to hear Dewey laugh for so long. I do not want you to think he was a cruel sort of fellow, quite the opposite. He pleaded with me to stop but I would not hear it, for when I set out to accomplish a thing I see it through. “When I reached the end of the pier Dewey pulled me up by my splinter-filled hand and presented me with a Topsy maltless. He had slyly filled the bottle with Cana- dian whiskey, and by the time the sun had quenched itself in the San Simeon Bay my splinters and sunburn were all but forgotten. “We were inseparable in those days, mirror images in appearance as well as fierce curiosity. To see me before you now, lean and bald as I am, is to see Dewey. Of course, he was younger than myself and always more carefree. We were like brothers, and that meant the world to me. I have never been an easy fellow to get along with, which people have often attributed to my being an only child. In truth I had a brother once, albeit briefly, but he did not survive infancy. I know this is a common tragedy

238 The Wager and I will not dwell on it, but sufficeth to say my household was a melancholy one. The better part of my life was spent in the shadow of my departed brother, until the day that I met Dewey. “Whereas I grew up looking to the organic world as an inexhaustible source of spiritual and esthetic delight, Dewey had the keenest mechanical intellect. Whether we tarried in pursuit of a common goal or just spent the day in idle conversation, it seemed as though the cosmos could be charted and each thing in it illuminated and understood. Again, I digress… Dewey was the first to spot the old Indian man walking down the beach. “Charleston, will you look at that?” “Dewey started calling me ‘Charleston’ ever since the dance craze hit our golden shores. The grey haired old man was bare-chested, wearing nothing but a deer skin skirt strung with feathers, a few beaded shell necklaces and red and white stripes painted on his leathery skin. He had an authentic look about him, not like the performers from the ‘Wild West Show’ on the neighboring Kinney Pier. He walked into the ocean without breaking stride and soon his long grey braids were floating on the surface. “The Santa Anas aren’t blowing, are they?” Dewey wondered. “There is a local legend that the Indians drown themselves when the wind blows in from the deserts, but I did not believe this was true. “We waited for the old man to surface and take a breath. When he did not, we assumed he had come up under the pier, or that our eyes had failed under the con- fluence of twilight and strong drink. “When we finished our whiskey Dewey proposed the

239 Jeff C. Cater second wager. He was willing to bet his life that not only was there oil at the bottom of San Simeon Bay, but that we could build a vessel to claim it. The fact that oil was abundant in southern California was never in doubt. There were over 400 oil wells in neighboring Venice alone, but every square inch of land was accounted for by either Standard Oil or J&M Petroleum. The ocean was fair game, but the shoreline dropped off steeply and straight down for nearly a mile. “I was delighted by this prospect, but I had no aspirations of being an oil baron. Far from it, I am an explorer and scientist by trade. The study of life under the sea held the heart of my mental interest, but the physical means of getting at my subject had taxed all the ingenuity I could bring to bear. Oceanography may be called the most modern of sciences; however, I was limited to peering through rubber bound goggles and holding my breath to grope about the shallows for organic treasures. When it came to studying life further down, I could only dissect whatever sad specimens my nets could pull from the depths. I was ready to wager anything to behold the un- discovered creatures living at the bottom of the sea. “We debated the merits of various diving helmets, diving bells and windowless submarines. Dewey wisely pointed out that the tremendous pressure of the deep would crush these designs like bugs. He proposed a sphere of thick steel that could distribute the force across the vessel evenly. I worked at the Los Angeles Zoological Society at the time and figured that they would be keen to provide capital if they could lay claim to those first specimens collected from the ocean deep. “Dewey leaned on me as we staggered back down the pier and I watched my own clumsy feet cross the rough

240 The Wager hewn boards over the water. Mankind's brief existence strutting upon the surface of the earth was nothing compared to the ancient history of the ocean. We would be ambassadors to a time and space inconceivable, a place without day or night, summer or winter, for billions of years. “I remember Dewey shouting, “By Jove, Charleston! We’ll load ourselves into a cannonball and blast ourselves into the darkest of mysteries!” We were giddy and elated with what we’d hoped to find at those unplumbed depths. If we had known what actually awaited us we would have never again dared to leave the cradle of dry land.” The servant quietly stepped up behind Charles and set down a sweating glass of ice water. Charles peered at the translucent chunks of ice swirling in the water for a long moment. Finally, he reached into his inside coat pocket and flinched. His eyes flicked upward guiltily and he reached across to his opposite pocket. He withdrew a large flask and drained it in one swallow. “The venture came together swiftly if not cheaply, and after a few false starts we had our ship. Dewey called his invention “the tank” and described it as “rather like an inflated and slightly cockeyed bull frog.” Being trained in a more arid system of taxonomy, I combined the Greek for ‘deep’ and ‘sphere’ into the term ‘bathysphere’. “In its final design the sphere was quite a simple affair. It was not as tall as a man, measuring only four feet nine inches in diameter, but its walls were everywhere an inch and a quarter thick of solid steel. There was neither room for an engine nor any need, as down was the only direction of interest and the sphere weighed over five thousand pounds, making us confident it would find the bottom.

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“There was a thick window made from a fused quartz cylinder, as it is the strongest transparent substance known. The other window housed a moveable 300 watt searchlight to illuminate the sunless depths. Our power supply was a rubber lined wire next to the thick steel cable that would suspend and retrieve the craft. “It was in August that we loaded the bathysphere onto a small tug named the ‘Izanami’ and sailed into the San Simeon Bay. Dewey believed we owed our oil rich soil to the asteroid impact that had formed San Simeon Bay. In the process, he theorized, oil-impregnated sedi- ments were pushed up from the earth. He wanted to de- scend to the deepest part of the bay, the epicenter of the crater. Once we discovered a top layer of oil sand he planned to detonate a depth charge to ‘shoot the well’ and unleash the trapped crude. “The bathysphere was by no means a pleasure yacht; its entrance was so small we had to squeeze in headfirst. I crawled painfully over the steel bolts and fell inside; curling up so Dewey could climb in after me. After we disen- tangled our legs there was not much room for two inside the sphere, and the longer we were in it the smaller it seemed to get. A 400-pound latch was hoisted over the entrance and secured with ten large bolts. If either of us were going to be nervous, this would have been an excellent opportunity. We were carrying out Edgar Allan Poe’s idea of being sealed up, not all at once, but little by little. “Dewey did panic briefly, but only when he could not find his leather skull-cap. He had come to look upon this greasy leather skull-cap as a mascot of sorts, and when he could not find it the door latch was unscrewed so that he could shout out directions for the crew to search the Izanami. After a thorough and exhaustive hunt, Dewey

242 The Wager found that he had been sitting on it all along. “Dewey pulled on his skull-cap and bid the crew to secure the latch once more. Never for a moment did either of us worry about the unthinkably instant death that would result from the least fracture of glass or collapse of metal. Dewey was sustained by his thorough knowledge of the mechanical margins of safety, I by my hopes of discovering an entirely new world of life. There were tools aboard to deal with minor leaks, although at greater depths drowning was the least of our worries. Under the immense pressure of the deep the first few drops would shoot through flesh and bone like steel bullets. “To that end the bolts of the latch had been tightened by wrench, after which they were pounded with sledge hammers to take up any slack and ensure the best possible seal. It was the most infernal racket I had ever heard, and if our sanity was questionable before we entered the sphere our senses were undeniably addled after. “Our initial dives proved the basic seaworthiness of the bathysphere but were of wholly repercussent value to oceanography, probing little further than diving helmets or the stiff leaden suits favored by the French. It was in October that we set our first depth record. “Dewey opened the canister of portable air and I remembered what I had read of Houdini's method of remaining in a closed coffin for a long time, so we both began to regulate our breathing and converse in low tones. “I remember watching the surface world slip from view above the quilted ceiling of water above me. As the winch lowered us to 100 feet the only change was a slight twilighting and chilling of the green. This was a familiar landscape, a transitory, swaying reef with waving banners of seaweed, long tubular sponges and lustrous bubbles of

243 Jeff C. Cater air. As we descended beyond the familiar epipelagic we lost the yellows and reds of the surface world. This added a melancholy light, for although these colors are only one- sixth of the visible spectrum all the rest belong to chill and night and death. “At 500 feet I glimpsed near our small window a transparent fish, three inches long, with food conspicu- ously suspended in its crystal clear stomach. Long strings of siphonophores drifted past, lovely as the finest lace, and schools of jellyfish throbbed upwards on their aim- less path through life. A small puffer-fish appeared, quite out of place at this depth, but with much more reason he probably thought the same of me. “We passed through clouds of transparent larvae and pale shrimp, their transparency almost removing them from vision. I saw for the first time in history a school of living silver-hatchet fish heliographing their silver sides. I wrote all that I observed as meticulously as possible to create accurate records of several fish wholly new to science. It was a world of life almost as unknown as that of Mars or Venus. There were constantly recurring constella- tions of bioluminescent light which defied classification even as to phylum. “At last we reached the depth of 600 feet, and I shivered to know that since the first boat sailed upon the open ocean only dead men had sunk below this point. We were the first living men to look out at the strange illumi- nation of this twilight realm. It was of an indefinable dark yet luminous blue quite unlike anything I have ever seen in the upper world, and it excited our optic nerves in a most confusing manner. It was beyond the eerie illumina- tion of a full eclipse or the white hot core of a flickering bolt of lightning. It was a wholly new kind of mental re-

244 The Wager ception of color, and I apologize that language is so utterly inadequate to translate vividly the feelings and sensa- tions unique to this depth. “The creatures here had evolved in the permanent midnight of the ocean’s creation and had known no following day. As we plunged deeper I had fleeting glimpses of strange, ghostly forms hovering in the distance, forms which never came nearer. At 700 feet I saw one again, a great cloud of a body moving in the distance that was uni- formly pale and may have been a squid or fish of great size. How I longed for a single near pass, or telescopic eyes which could pierce the murk. I felt as if some astonishing discovery lay just beyond the power of my vision. Dewey did not share my enthusiasm and rather vehe- mently hoped that we did not meet the mysterious creature again. “We plummeted through gradations of darkness and the sparks we had seen earlier became larger and more abundant. I turned on the searchlight and it cut a swath almost material across my field of vision. A huge pale ribbon of transparent gelatin undulated past our window with only two iridescent eyes to indicate its existence. I could see its outline faintly until a dull green light issued from its sides, and the effect on my eyes was such that the fish vanished as if it had dissolved into water. The searchlight showed not a trace and once again I had no idea what kind of creature it was. More and more complete severance with the upper-world followed as we continu- ally plunged into strange and unpredictable new vistas until our vocabularies were pauperized and our minds drugged. “At 12,000 feet I spotted the largest specimen of As- tronesthes Abyssorum I have ever seen. This fearsome

245 Jeff C. Cater and voracious black fish uses a glowing light on a tentacle beneath its chin to lure in its prey. It hung motionless in the beam of my searchlight, apparently not immune to its own devices. Its Latin name translates into “eater of the stars from the bottomless pits” and it looked like it had been eating well indeed. “I turned off the switch and revealed that we had arrived at the border of a vast and terrible emptiness without a single spark of light or organism to be seen. To be suspended like that in the cold void between the surface world and the bottom of the sea was to feel a complete isolation no man has ever experienced. Had Dewey not been by my side I fear my sanity would have ruptured. I could feel him tremble slightly in the dark, and knew that it was not just the cold that had set him shivering. Any foolish pride or bravado I had left was outshined by my desire to set him at ease, so I reached again for the light switch. “With our oxygen low and our resolve depleted, I blinked the light switch three times. This signal was mirrored aboard the Izanami and soon the seven-ton Arctu- rus winch began to reel in the half mile of steel cable that would deliver us from the barren realm of the abyss. “We had scarcely broken the surface before the Los Angeles Zoological Society notified the press to boast of our record setting dive. There followed a tremendous sensation in the papers. I was called upon to give inter- views as well as a series of lectures before the Society. Dewey made me promise not to mention his oil prospects, and I in turn made him swear not to venture beyond that bleak dead zone alone. “I naturally expected my peers to be skeptical of the fantastic creatures I had seen, but I did not anticipate the

246 The Wager scorn and derision that petty jealousy could engender. I was rebuked in the papers by scientists claiming the lights I saw were merely the mist of my breath from my eagerly pressed face upon the window. Others said that it was fraudulent, even contemptible, for me to describe and assign species names for animals faintly seen and not captured. One popular critic suggested that my entire account be filed as fiction. “I am ashamed to admit that even with the chance to rebut these charges my lecture series fared little better. Audiences were packed to the rafters with naysayers and when I tried to describe my unique experiences, like the nameless hues of light in the abyss, I stumbled and stut- tered like a fool. The Los Angeles Zoological Society was keen to distance themselves from their involvement with the bathysphere and also with me. “With my reputation in shambles and my career prospects uncertain, I returned to the crew of the Izanami to prove my claims beyond a doubt. As soon as I saw the bathysphere I knew something terrible had happened in my absence. The impregnable quartz plug window had been blown inward. “The Captain of the Izanami told me that when Dewey saw me slandered in the papers he insisted upon taking the bathysphere down to retrieve some of the specimens we had discovered. He ventured farther down alone than we had together, and when the sphere came up with the broken window it held nothing but icy sea water. “It was like losing my little brother all over again, worse somehow, the two heart aches dovetailing and compounding my misery with their echoes in my chest. I burned through the last of my money and friends in my

247 Jeff C. Cater attempts to drown my grief in alcohol. I was completely unmoored and adrift, even my constant companion, the ocean, was abhorrent to me now. I spent my days at the end of the Pickering pier, staring down into the greedy, ever-clutching fingers that reached out to seize me. “I was there one damp January night, seeking the bottom of my last bottle of whiskey, when I spotted an In- dian woman on the steep bluffs overlooking the coast road. She stumbled down the cliff wall and staggered blindly across the street. Miraculously spared by traffic, she continued across the shifting sands of the beach along the pier. This time, perhaps through some symmetry of despair, I sensed her goal and called out to stop her. “I ran down the pier fast as I was able in my besod- den condition. She was trudging into the frigid black water when finally I intercepted her. I grabbed her arm, and was once more struck with a strange unity of will. I felt her desire to go under the sea and behold the abyss. She was following a light beneath the water, a shimmering moon of molten silver that ensnared my eyes like fish hooks. It did not illuminate the beach or pier, it was only a glow of the cognitive sense, a queer synchronicity of the warped glimmers dancing across the dark surface of the water, a scintillating path of starlight reflected and re- fracted beneath the waves. Onward and deeper were the only thoughts observable in the spotlight of the mind; all other deliberations were cast into pitch black shadow. “I released her and she stumbled forward into the chest deep water. I fell in line behind her, our heavy steps leading us away from the sky and closer to our doom. A large wave broke and swallowed her completely. “As I was a few steps behind the Indian woman the wave swept me off my feet and roughly deposited me

248 The Wager back into the shallows. I struggled to regain my footing so that I could finish my journey to join Dewey in his black and watery grave. The thought of Dewey stung my mind like the nettles of a jellyfish. I was content to slip beneath the water and vanish but sweet Dewey deserved better. If his remains were in fact still below, I was the only one who could possibly retrieve them for a proper burial. That heavy regret was the anchor that kept me from washing out with the night tide. “It took a few days for me to dry out and make myself presentable to call upon the captain of the Izanami. He was sympathetic to my cause and took me to the wreckage of the bathysphere. The mystery of the broken quartz window had weighed heavily upon him. Before the cylinder was installed it had passed a pressure test of over one thousand pounds to the square inch. When he in- spected the vessel after its doomed voyage, the only anomaly he had uncovered was on the inside; one of the window bolts inside of the shell had been over tightened. Dewey had always been adamant that the bolts around the window required equal tension, lest shearing strains cause the quartz plug to fracture. “The captain installed the backup quartz plug in quiet saturninity while I loaded the air canisters and checked the lights. We loaded the bathysphere onto the Izanami that very night and set a course for Dewey’s final resting place, the prehistoric crater beneath San Simeon bay. “I climbed into the bathysphere and felt the chill of the steel hull seep into my bones. The air would last longer now that I was alone but the overwhelming absence of Dewey alongside me was suffocating. I was relieved when the captain mounted the heavy latch because I could no longer hide the tremor of my hands. I desper-

249 Jeff C. Cater ately needed a drink, but dared not dull my senses for fear of missing Dewey’s remains in the abyss. The pounding of the sledgehammer began and I had a strange premoni- tion of an unseen beast smashing against the steel skin. Each frayed nerve in my body was taut and taxed to its breaking point. “At last I was falling, breaching the dark surface of the water and slipping through arrows of pale moon light that pointed me on my way. I thought of the catatonic Indian woman and wondered if the synchronized emo- tions and visions of radiance we had shared were genuine or simply the byproducts of a mind deluged with grief and whiskey. I ignored the common fish that floated past me and I peered down, longing to go deeper, even though the abyss yawned wide like the black pit-mouth of hell. Perhaps I yearned to sink down into it for that very reason. “At last I returned to the dark and desolate void of the dead, where the sunless water was not blacker—that was impossible—but its utter darkness seemed somehow more tangible. I was surprised to find a school of distinctly strange and wholly new fish waiting for me. They were remarkably grotesque even by the purely utilitarian standards of the abyss. Their incongruous faces looked almost human, with curiously anthropomorphic skulls glaring beneath their transparent gelatin flesh. When they peered into the bathysphere we locked eyes, and I swear I saw a spark of cognizance. “Suddenly they began to attack the ship, thrashing in the cone of my searchlight and battering their bodies against my window. They each took turns distending their jaws and vomiting forth clouds of luminous mucous. When their repeated attempts found no purchase against

250 The Wager the impenetrable window or steel hard skin, the monstrous fish wriggled away with expressions of withering malice. “No sooner had they left when a large shadow carved across the beam of my spotlight, its serpentine silhouette and large pelvic fins marking it immediately as that of the rare frilled shark. It passed through the light and continued to glow, its skin evenly illumined by means of an epi- dermal phosphorescent slime. It turned suddenly and rushed straight towards the window, its dead black eyes and open jaws of twisted needle teeth looming wide. The shark snapped its jaws shut and curled away at the last second, circling around the sphere. The sudden shift from light to darkness burned an afterimage onto my eyes, a ghostly visage of a drunken leer strangely reminiscent of my father’s. “The frilled shark came around in a tighter arc and through its translucent skin I saw the contents of its stomach: what appeared to be a partially digested child! I gasped as the child seemed to flail and twist as if possessed of some lingering vitality. A peal of sorrow rang through me as though the ship had been struck with a funeral bell. I waited for the ghoulish shark to pass back into view but it was gone. As I looked out at the empty darkness, I was suddenly quite certain that it had never been there at all. “My hands quivered and I cursed myself bitterly for not bringing my flask along. Withdrawal would be more catastrophic to me and my quest than any amount of whiskey. I knew that the steel skin of the bathysphere would not succumb to the pressures of the deep, but I had no such faith in my mind. “I looked through the window and let out a piteous

251 Jeff C. Cater moan as my worst suspicions of madness were con- firmed. There, on the bottom of the ocean, sat the ruins of a house, a squat bungalow much like the one I grew up in. The sloped and sagging roof was encrusted with bar- nacles and its cracked beams were encased in muck, yet it remained undeniably a house. I dimly recalled that winter storms had washed homes from the shoreline in years past, but it was inconceivable that they could persist in any recognizable form. “I swiveled my searchlight to examine the ruin and caught the sloping arch of a ship prow resting in the mud. The corroded green frigate thrust a broken mast out from the sea bed like a grasping limb. The beam glanced off the edge of yet another shipwreck beyond the frigate before expiring in the gloom. This place was a necropolis, stocked by gravity or the downwelling of some deep ocean current with drowned debris. There was none of the tranquility, however, that I associated with a proper cemetery. I would rather Dewey drift forever than end up trapped in this forlorn pit of Tartarus. “On the opposite side of the ruined bungalow was a thickly clustered grove of petrified trees, dimly lit with phosphorescence. A sinuous shadow sliding across the glow of a stump caught my eye, and I hit it with the searchlight. The dark form coiled up into itself and I saw it was some manner of eel. The hollow trunk had curving white gaps around its base above a feathery brown growth, the first complex living vegetation I had seen in this realm devoid of sunlight. I was pondering if the lu- minescent layer of algal muck on the dead tree sustained photosynthesis when abruptly the dreadful picture jumped into stark focus. “This was not a fossilized tree stump at all, but rather

252 The Wager the husk of a human corpse! The vegetation was in fact a feathered deer skin skirt, and I soon surmised that this was the very same old Indian man I had seen walk into the sea so long ago. His corpse had become lodged upright in the soft sea floor and served now as a burrow for this opportunistic eel. It was a gruesome sight, yet somehow intrinsically more natural in aspect than the alien house on the sea floor. “I was saddened but not surprised to see the body of the Indian woman next to him, also lit in luminous mucous, with the addition of a halo of grey detritus wreath- ing her head. Spiny white appendages were excavating her brain one claw full at a time and my training got the better of me. I tried to identify the species of crab scaveng- ing the poor woman’s cranium, but I could not locate it with the beam of my searchlight. It seemed as though her skull itself had sprouted misshapen antlers that were engaged in an orgy of self cannibalization. With great diffi- culty, I dragged my gaze from the cloudy spectacle of autophagia and directed the spotlight elsewhere. “I would have recognized Dewey’s clothes and leather skull-cap anywhere, even in the abyss. Although I had come seeking his mortal remains, the sight of them made his death at last concrete. The mass of grief, so long suspended in my heart, now plummeted into my stomach where I had no choice but to absorb it. I crumpled against the cold unyielding shell and let my keening echo off its walls. My chest shuddered and heaved so recklessly that I taxed the air supply, but I no longer cared. I put my hand against the cold quartz window and whispered Dewey’s name. His body twisted languidly towards me as though he had heard. “The searchlight flared off his pale flesh, and through

253 Jeff C. Cater the jaundiced haze he seemed to look into the sphere and smile. A feathery red crinoid was nesting in one eye and his lips had been eaten away, giving him an eternal wink and grin. I was overwhelmed with nauseous panic and began to hyperventilate once more, when a movement outside paralyzed me. The stygian current that had turned his body around must have curled back, for now his remaining arm floated up and waved, as if beckoning me to leave the bathysphere and join him. I switched off the light to remove the horrific pantomime from my vision, leaving only the dull glow of his body under its cloak of luminous mucous. “I pushed my grief and horror aside with the purely logical concerns of how to retrieve his body now that I had discovered its location. Hooking or netting a fish at these depths had proven beyond my capabilities, how was I to acquire and transport a body from the bottom of the ocean under such tremendous pressure? “The overwhelming logistics calmed my mind with their dry, linear progress. I reached back for my pad and pencil when there came a rapping at the window. I nearly jumped up and cracked my skull on the steel roof. There was something pressed against the round quartz window bleeding its pale green iridescence into the claustrophobic darkness of the sphere. It looked like a bony hand, although it may also have been a crab, partially obscured and clambering against my window. “I reached for the searchlight switch but could not bring myself to turn it on. I slid back from the window as far as I could manage and shut my eyes, unwilling to see what was truly outside. I endured that self-imposed blindness for as long as my tortured imagination would allow, and when I reluctantly squinted outside I saw the

254 The Wager dim lights receding into the distance. Wondering if the current had snatched up the bodies or if the Izanami above was drifting, I steeled my nerves and switched on the spotlight. “I swept the beam from side to side and found the three corpses floating away, still upright in a cloud of silt. My eyes fell prey to the illusion that Dewey and the Indi- ans were walking towards the crater’s center, while my mind protested that it was only that execrable current at work. The Indians continued while Dewey stopped, turned again, and waved me closer with a wink and a smile. I shrieked in hysteria as the bathysphere moved forward. “The Izanami was certainly drifting and I watched helplessly as the bathysphere swung closer to the pit, passing Dewey first and then the Indians who now stood in the forest on the sea floor. With my mind drunk on horror, I could no longer deny that the trees circling the crater were corpses. Grotesquely decayed bodies of every description, preserved in luminous slime, extended so far into the distance that even their glow faded into darkness. There were hundreds of Indians, gold trimmed Cali- fornios and children too numerous to count. I saw a rotting octopus quite clearly among the mesmerized throng, as well as skeletal dolphins swimming here and there. All were aligned towards the center of the pit, watching mutely beneath their blankets of glowing slime. “Dewey had been correct; there was oil here in the crater. It floated up in nebulous black clumps and hung roiling like a sunken storm cloud. The spotlight strobed in silent rhythm with the flickering corpses, a pattern that drew my eyes deeper into the pit. I tried to close them but they were transfixed, and my thoughts locked into a sin-

255 Jeff C. Cater gular direction like iron filings to a magnetic pole. “I pressed my face against the cold quartz window and felt once more that crushing self-destructive urge to plunge into the abyss. The viscous sludge issuing from the crater began to contract with a quickening cadence until a creature emerged from its black womb. It was dull green and reptilian, with powerful limbs terminating in wicked clawed feet. Black spines ran down its dorsal line, its bright red eyes burned with hunger and vicious fangs crowded against crooked teeth inside its mouth. The strange simian crocodile swam free from the ebon ooze and turned south. “Next a large squid slid up from the inky well. It too was unlike any species I had seen in any ocean or book. It had eight lamp-like eyes, course white hair and chitinous joints. One look at the segmented hairy legs and thick mandibles called to mind a tarantula or a king crab, yet as it floated upwards I could clearly see rings of suckers along its limbs. It pulsed its first jet of water and soared several feet before shimmering and disappearing from the visible spectrum. “The oily mass churned and I eagerly waited to see what new species or blasphemous chimera would appear. I understood these things were being displayed because that is what I wanted most to see. The thing in the pit was luring me in, just as it had the drowned corpses that ringed the crater. Dewey, trapped inside the bathysphere, had used his engineering acumen to get through the window and take his place among the silent audience of the deep. “The entity in the crater had arrived with the asteroid many millions of years ago. It did not hunger for my flesh or covet my soul; it required only psychic energy. It

256 The Wager

would consume my mind to fuel the endless broadcast of its corrosive alien dreams. This was the true ‘Eater of the stars from the bottomless pits’. It is of a piece with the infinite and unsympathetic waste of electrons and nebulas of time and space. It is proof of a vast cosmos filled with incomprehensible powers and inhabited with insatiable Things which lurk at the edge of a horizon, beyond which lay the sickening abysses of the unknowable. “I knew all of this because my mind was being swallowed, digested and dissolved into its ebon spectral mass. There was no singular cunning intelligence lying in wait, merely the reactionary vegetative state of the crawling, sprouting and flowering fungi I had studied in the jungles of Guyana. “I longed to crack the quartz window and let the crushing pressure eject my pulped remains. I yearned to be suspended in luminous mucous, to stand on the rim forever and behold the horror and the glory. I wanted to join my friend, in the silence and darkness as eternal as the vacuum of space. “The last dregs of my will were nearly drained when that old mental anchor dug in. As I said before, I might deserve such a fate, but sweet young Dewey did not. The pull of the crater on my mind blinded me, but my groping fingers found the light switch control. I pictured Dewey’s face the way it had been, that carefree look on his upturned face, the unspoken trust of a little brother. I willed my finger to turn the switch off three times. There was a moment of silence, and then the steel cable rasped tight. The Izanami reeled me up from the abyss.” Charles pulled his gaze from the depths of the rip- pling fire and looked at the assembled club members in the parlor.

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“Thank you for being so generous with your time and attention. As a pariah, I did not know who to tell about what had transpired or what must follow. I cannot abide the thought of my friend lingering in everlasting darkness. I never conceived how I might retrieve his remains, but Dewey himself devised a method for delivering TNT to oil deposits on the sea floor. I have gathered the explo- sive material; and soon I will convert the bathysphere into a massive depth charge. I cannot bring Dewey home for burial, but I can scatter his ashes far and wide from that accursed pit. “I am under no illusion that such a paltry discharge will wound the entity. Quite the opposite, I wager that the thing in the abyss is so ancient, so vast and so alien that it will not even stir from its torpor. My confidence could be misplaced however, and the entity may awaken ravenous. It may even lash out in shock, in ways we cannot comprehend. But I am a man of my word, and I will see this wager through.” The club members exchanged glances; a tall silver haired woman in a mahogany corner chair twisted the handle of her cane. A squat man in a black double breasted suit crept silently through the shadows to block the door. Charles pulled a pistol from his inside jacket pocket and swept it across the room. Everyone in the parlor froze, only their eyes moving as they tracked him with intense focus. “Please remain seated; I do not want to hurt anyone.” Charles snatched the peanut off the table and fumbled it back into his vest pocket. He backed slowly towards the door, covering the room with the trembling pistol. He looked at them imploringly as he pulled at the heavy

258 The Wager latches and chains. “I understand your trepidation and I know your mo- tives are just. You do not care to gamble with the stakes that I am proposing. Unfortunately, this is not up to you. I sincerely apologize for my actions and I thank you again for hearing me out. Good night.” Charles yanked open the heavy wooden door and fled out into the street. The club members watched him sink from view until he was lost completely in darkness.

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The Shrieking Woman Doug Manllen

“Monstrosity exists in many forms,” Gerald’s voice rose hardly above a whisper and his hands commenced to shake with such a violent tremor that he was barely able to grip the glass of brandy pressed upon him by David- son, who was seated to his right. We waited in a silence broken only by the crackling of coals in the fire until Gerald regained his composure. “My tale must be told, for to keep it within myself any longer will surely drive me mad,” he said. We merely nodded and acquiesced with our eyes. The members of the Bell Club were united by the tempering fires of horrific experience. We each had a tale to tell. Each of us carried the burden of a story of the macabre, the fantastic and the unbelievable. The purpose of our strange association was to find some measure of inner peace through the recounting of our personal horrors. None here would pass judgement on their fellow members. It was this acceptance of the truth of our telling that gave us strength and solidarity. Gerald sipped hastily from the brandy snifter before setting the crystal down on the table beside him and regarding the dark liquid within. With a fingertip gently kissed, he stroked the rim of the snifter and made a note that sang with a resonant eeriness through the quiet room. “The human voice can shatter glass, when it resonates at a particular frequency. It is a simple matter of the science of acoustics.” The ringing tone from the glass vanished as he lifted his finger, as one might lift the needle

260 The Shrieking Woman arm from a gramophone. “In my youth I paid court to a young lady whose name was Estelle. She was a rare beauty, with blue eyes and hair as dark and rich as loam. She had agreed to accompany me this summer evening to walk the promenade of a travelling carnival that had set up tents, lights and cacophony in a field on the edge of the town of Law- rence. In this county my family had long resided in lordly status as landowners and farmers of cotton and cattle since before the Civil War. I was eager for an opportunity to distance myself from the endless ledgers and texts of my study of law. My companion made a delightful diver- sion. Fine ancestry gave her an extraordinary comeliness and she was possessed of a sharp wit that both delighted and challenged.” Gerald again dabbed his finger to his lip and resumed producing the dirge like resonance of the crystal goblet. “We traversed the delights of the carnival, amusing ourselves with sideshow delights and games, until we came to the brightly lit entrance of that foulest of com- pulsory gala edifices, the freak show. “A man with a tin horn hailed all who passed by, be- seeching them to come and gaze upon the wonders that lay within the canvas walls of this pavilion. Inside, he assured us, were wonders of teratology and human misfortune that would cause the most devout man to question God’s reason. “Strengthened by the success of our outing and eager to impress the lady on my arm I paid the admission fee, and we stepped to the threshold only to have our progress impeded by the sudden stroke of the showman’s walking stick. “Gentlemen only,” his face was stern, and he would

261 Doug Manllen not be moved on this matter. “There are such horrors within that I could not allow a lady to witness,” he said. “My companion demurely retreated and waved me forward on my expedition. With a final wave and cheerful farewell, I passed within. “Beyond that initial cleft in the painted canvas I came to a corridor of stretched tarpaulin which guided me to the right. I turned and passed deeper into the chambers of the marquee. “The close passageway reeked of livestock and paint applied in a multitude of haphazard coats. The lighting was dim, and I turned to my left and traversed a further passage before reaching the inner chamber of the exhibi- tion. “Lanterns turned low hung from hooks, providing shadowed recesses in the cages that were arranged in a near circle about the perimeter of an area of sawdust car- peted ground. I glanced about and could not discern any other presence here, nor in the dim light could I see the contents of the cages. In my arrogance I adjusted the wick of the nearest lantern, and then opened its shutters so that the space was filled with a warm yellow light. “If there is a God, he reserves his harshest judgement for the innocent. Each cage was occupied, and the raising of the light triggered a performance of sorts. Each wretched inhabitant conveyed themselves to the fore of their cell. I turned in slowly mounting horror, settling my gaze on a dishevelled man, naked and filthy, a child cra- dled in his arms. “I stepped forward for a closer examination, unsure as to what the nature of this freak was. I then observed the lower limbs of the smaller figure were lost in the ab-

262 The Shrieking Woman domen of the larger. Siamese twins, each forever bound to the flesh of his sibling, the lesser brother reduced to a vestigial limb that erupted in a ghastly growth from greater’s pale flesh. The man regarded me with soulless eyes, and I was forced to press my handkerchief to my face against the stink of the gruesome pair. “My thirst for the bizarre was slaked, I backed away until I stumbled and would have fallen if the showman had not been at my back.” “Best to wait for the tour to begin sir,” he said amica- bly and gripping my arm in an inescapable vice he began to guide me around the exhibit. “Each cage was indicated with the point of his cane, and he recounted the details of the occupant’s misery. They were trained, like dogs, and at most it took a single rap upon the bars of their cage to rouse them into a slow shuffling dance. All the better to display the full visage of their grotesquery. “The filthy wretch and his infant twin each turned to face us, the face of the lesser was hideous and misshapen, and the palate cleft deeply exposing the raw nasal cavity from which drool and a sibilant whistling accompanied each shallow breath.” “The major and the minor,” my guide declared. “Two bodies, unseparated within the womb. Their mother was a whore, she lay with two men in one night and the seed of both left her with child, but within the close confines of her belly they grew together as two trees bound.” “My educated mind rejected this fantasy. Though the greatest shock was the influence of human hands upon the travesty’s that suffered here in. Handkerchief pressed against the smell, I peered closely at the conjoined pair. The scarring around the abdominal flesh where they were

263 Doug Manllen merged bore the slight, but undeniable scars of surgical stitching. “What devil would bind human flesh in this way?” I turned to demand an explanation from the showman.” “God alone is the architect of their tragedy,” he said with theatrical solemnity and guided me to the next display. “The simplest of the wretches were merely malformed in the womb, creatures to be pitied. My gorge and ire rose at the mounting evidence of malicious injury causing deformity. Skin had been excised, and stitched, the scars blurred by application of fierce heat that melted and warped flesh and bone. The agonies suffered by these unfortunates had shattered their minds. Close examination was hampered by the gangrenous stench that hung over their corpulence in a miasma that would have been abhorrent to a leper. “A sexless figure crippled by terrible scarring and yet without recognisable facial features, hobbled in a slow circle. The ravaged stump of its tail was given as the reason why an enraged mob of Mexican villagers had burned this supposed devil. The intense heat of the flames had blurred its features and left a smooth featureless silhouette with a ragged hole for a mouth, and milk-white eye sockets that constantly oozed a yellowish ichor. “Each monster was a tragedy, at best mindless sim- pletons that raved or moaned in response to the striking of their cages with the cane. Each seemed to fear the showman. I did not dwell before them, indeed shocked and appalled by what I was witnessing, I wished nothing more than to be away from this ghoulish showcase of suffering. “The seventh and final assault on decency was a boy

264 The Shrieking Woman in a cage, hirsute to the point of being bestial. He leapt and cavorted like a monkey and clutching a hand to his rear he collected a handful of his own motions, which he flung at us as he shrieked and hooted. “Having had my fill of the suffering of these wretches, I bade my host a grim adieu. “I advise you sir, to break camp and traffic yourself and your establishment well beyond the borders of the town and county of Lawrence, for I shall endeavour to bring the force of the law upon you for the mistreatment of these poor souls. The showman merely smiled and regarded me with eyes as bright and hard as polished stones.” “I’d advise against such a rash course sir.” “My distaste for his disdain drove me from his presence. I marched out of the tent, and reclaimed the arm of Estelle and together we departed the carnival. I gave scant regard to the uneasy feeling of the showman’s glare at our backs.” Gerald paused in his narrative and we waited, watching in silence, serenaded by the constant lamenting mel- ody of his finger stroking the rim of the crystal goblet. One did not interrupt or question a fellow in the telling of his parable. With a shuddering breath Gerald spoke again, “My life, till that night, had always been fortunate. Estelle praised my bravery and took notice of my demeanour upon my return from the tent. Wisely she did not question me regarding what I had witnessed. “I saw Estelle home and then presented myself at the residence of the local sheriff. An honest man, solid and committed to the upholding of the twin pillars of peace and justice. He assured me he would investigate the car-

265 Doug Manllen nival and if there was evidence of ill-treatment of any souls, action would be taken. “The following evening I attended a recital at the house of Estelle’s father. This angel whom I adored sang delightfully, her soprano range was astonishing, her control and ear for a note was unsurpassed. I applauded wildly as she took her curtsy and upon receiving her most bashful smile in reply, I knew my heart was lost. In the manner of a parlour game she was presented with a small mirror, set upon the most rudimentary wooden frame, we were encouraged to watch the true power of her voice. Up the scales her delicate voice rang, lightly tripping from note to note as a doe in a spring meadow. Finally her aria reached such a pitch that the mirror quivered and shattered there upon the frame.

* * *

“It was with a grim satisfaction that I noted that the field hosting the carnival Gypsies was empty when I passed that way in the afternoon of the next day. You see gentlemen, I had decided to throw my humility on the pyre of love, and was preparing to seek the fair Estelle’s hand in marriage. “Her father’s house was in an uproar when I arrived. Estelle had vanished during the night, leaving no trace of her passing. A thorough search was underway, and I joined those walking the fields and river banks for hours until the utter darkness of moonless night brought us to a frustrated standstill. “It was only when the many searchers had gathered again in grim silence on the porch of the house that I was approached by the sheriff.

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“I paid a visit to the carnival. Gave them notice that they were not welcome here. Didn’t see any sign of a freak show. They packed up and moved out last night. Good riddance.” “In my report to the law the evening before, I had made no mention of the threat in the showman’s voice. I felt a great fear rise up within me and I sprang to my horse and rode the beast to a bloody lather down the road in search of the departed carnival. I felt sure that they were somehow responsible for the disappearance of my Estelle. “I cannot say how the carnival eluded me, I found no trace of their passing, and throughout that dry and withering summer I searched. I did not attend the memorial service for the lost Estelle, where the gathered families of Lawrence prayed for her deliverance into the Lord’s embrace. I was wracked with guilt and a nameless terror that I had somehow been the composer of her fate. “Estelle was never seen again by the people of Law- rence. The months that followed were a dark time in my life. I lapsed in my study of law, slept little and drank a great deal. Alone and in silence I bore the torment that the ghouls of the carnival had taken Estelle in a dreadful revenge against me. Every day I rode out seeking some sign of their passing. I travelled the length and breadth of the state to no avail; it was as if the very earth had swallowed them up. “Two full years passed, during which my mother died of a brain fever and in his grief my father passed away in his sleep. The house and land left to me in my substantial inheritance including the household chattels were auc- tioned off according to the written instructions I provided in my extended absence.

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“I was in pursuit of a gaily coloured caravan of de- mons that had become my consuming obsession. My sweet Estelle would not have recognised me in my frenzied state. Clothes worn by hard travel, hair and beard unkempt, I travelled across seven states, always searching. “My quest took me down many false trails, I quar- relled and searched a dozen travelling carnivals, circuses and once in a fit of drunken rage I put a huddle of wretched tents to the torch. “I was in the grip of an incurable fever when I came to the town of Long Ridge, Texas. Three days earlier I had found a weathered bill indicating the wonders of the travelling fair would be appearing there. “My horse fell underneath me and I covered the last miles on foot unheeding of the blood that percolated up and over the edge of my broken boots from scourged flesh. “It was with ragged breath and burning feet that I approached my goal. After two long years of agony, I would know the truth. I would place my hands about the thick neck of the showman and throttle him till he confessed to the murder and disposal of my sweet Estelle. “The passage of eight seasons had not been kind to the marquees and caravans, the paint was more faded and the vendors and hawkers of puerile delights had evolved gaunt and feral aspects as they accosted the few locals who had ventured out to sample the evening’s entertainment. “In my own wretched state I was unrecognisable, and no doubt appeared drunk or mad, as I stumbled along the thoroughfare between the tents, always casting my eye about seeking the showman. “The garish paint of the freak show pavilion had at-

268 The Shrieking Woman tracted the biggest crowd. I recognised the voice, the summoning, encouraging demonic pitch and call of the showman. “By the time I reached its source a band of men were passing into the tent and I hurried forward, and thrust a scattering of coins at the attendant who was collecting admission fares and hurried into the familiar stench of the painted canvas of my nightmares. “Most of the cages were empty now. The tragic twins, the man and his miniature brother were still there, watching the crowd with sad empty eyes. The feral monkey boy had become a dry husked statue, his dead skin tanned and stretched over a wooden dummy. “I pushed my way into the crowd, the showman’s voice was extolling the virtues of the eighth wonder of the world. A creature of myth and legend fished from the warm and magical waters of the Galapagos Archipelago. “Horror such as that which I have never imagined engulfed me as I forced my way to the fore, determined to have my revenge upon this devil’s throat. “There was a cage, bare except for a female figure lying on her side with her head covered in a dark sackcloth bag as if she were ready to be hanged. The arms that clutched modestly over her bare breast were smooth and pure as porcelain. In stark contrast the lower half of her body had been warped into a hideous parody of a fish. Through application of torturous hellfire and macabre binding surgery the legs were fused, flesh had melted against flesh, creating a single thick limb that ended in distorted flukes where her feet had been crushed, rolled flat and thin as a lady’s fan. The green ink of a tattooist had stained the skin of this horror, creating an illusion of scale and brachian complexion.

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“I stopped, astonished and shocked to my core at this blasphemy. The showman raised his stick and addressed the crowd with a practised banter. “The legends say that sailors were lured to their deaths by the song of the mermaid, well gentlemen I now invite you to witness the power of the mermaid’s spell for yourselves!” “With this an attendant lifted a square of mirrored glass and inserting it into the cage, he positioned it upright against the bars. At a nod from the showman, the attendant reached in as far as he could and snatched hold of the sackcloth bag. With a jerking motion he ripped it from the creature’s head. “Only the eyes were true. Of deepest blue and framed in long dark lashes, they stared out of a face scarred and disfigured by the caress of flesh melting flame. The lady’s eyes touched the crowd beyond the bars, her ravaged mouth opened and no sound came. The showman gave an angry curse and lashed her emerald flank with his cane. The figure recoiled and from those blasted lips came forth a sweet aria that I only heard in my heart these long months past. “Struck dumb with horror I staggered forward, the wreckage in the cage turned its face towards the mirror and shrieked, a cry of a soul trapped in the eternal darkness of a living hell, confronted with her own grotesque visage she shrieked, so loud, so highly pitched that my own screams were lost in the applause of the spectators as the mirror quivered and shattered.”

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About the Authors

PAUL MANNERING is an award winning writer living in Wellington, New Zealand with his wife Damaris and their three cats. He has published dozens of short stories and radio plays in a range of genres across many different international markets. His first collection of short stories, ‘The Man Who Could Not Climb Stairs and Other Strange Stories,’ is also available. In 2007 Paul co-founded BrokenSea Audio Productions, which podcasts free audio drama and audiobooks each week to an audience of millions.

JASON NAHRUNG grew up on a Queensland cattle property and now lives in Melbourne. His darkly themed fiction includes the novel The Darkness Within and novella Salvage . www.jasonnahrung.com

JEFF C. CARTER lives in Venice, CA with two cats, a dog and a human. He writes science fiction, horror, graphic novels and RPGs. Visit him at http://jeffccarter.wordpress.com/.

RICHARD BARNES lives in New Zealand and writes sci-fi, horror and fantasy. His work, involving furious balls of hate and mutant possums, can be found in “A Foreign Country: New Zealand Speculative Fiction ” and “Masters of Horror: The Anthology ”. His occasional ramblings, along with bonus drabble can be found at http//richardbarneswriter.blogspot.com“

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Australian writer HELEN STUBBS loves the beautiful weird, Twitter and taking people apart in her stories. She won the Worldcon 2009 story competition with 'The Perforation'. Come visit at helenstubbs.wordpress.com.

ANDREW FREUBERG is a Euro Mongrel. German grandparents, British parents, born in France - raised on a farm in the British countryside on a diet of apples and Science Fiction. After many years of techno madness he is currently raising a small army of boys and making a return to his first love, the way of the word.

LYNNE JAMNECK is a transplanted South African who lives in Auckland, New Zealand. Short listed for the Sir Julius Vogel and Lambda Awards, she has published short fiction in various markets, including Jabberwocky Magazine, H.P. Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror, Spicy Slipstream Stories and Fantastique Unfettered. For Lethe Press, she edited the SF anthology, Periphery (forthcom- ing in 2012 from Untreed Reads). Lynne is currently writing her first speculative novel featuring a lost protagonist and a city of secrets. http://lynnejamneckdiaries.blogspot.com/ http://lynnejamneck.tumblr.com/

KATHLEEN DALE is a Colorado author, sans genre, and a freelance editor. She can be found at her website, http://www.kathleendale.com.

DOUG MANLLEN lives in a shadowed place where he is guided only by the whispers of shades and genies. He subscribes to no philosophy or gender identity. He instead presents himself through the pseudonym of voice

272 The Shrieking Woman acting and occasionally writing things under pen names. We will never know if this is his first publication.

EDWARD M. ERDELAC is the author of the ac- claimed weird western series Merkabah Rider from Dam- nation Books and Buff Tea from Texas Review Press, and a sometime Star Wars contributor. Read all about it at http://emerdelac.wordpress.com.

JOHN MCNEE is employed as a reporter for a local newspaper on the west coast of Scotland. His horror stories have appeared in a number of anthologies, including RUTHLESS, DOA, STEAMY SCREAMS and A HACKED-UP HOLIDAY MASSACRE.

LEE CLARKE ZUMPE has been writing and publishing horror, dark fantasy and speculative fiction since the late 1990s. His short stories and poetry have appeared in a variety of publications such as Weird Tales, Space and Time and Dark Wisdom; and in anthologies such as Horrors Beyond, Corpse Blossoms, Best New Zombie Tales Vol. 3, Cthulhu Unbound Vol. 1 and Future Lovecraft . His work has earned several honorable mentions in The Year’s Best Fan- tasy and Horror collections. An entertainment columnist with Tampa Bay News- papers, Lee has penned hundreds of film, theater and book reviews and has interviewed novelists as well as mu- sic industry icons such as Paddy Moloney of The Chief- tains and Alan Parsons. His work for TBN has been recognized repeatedly by the Florida Press Association, including a first place award for criticism in the 2007 Better Weekly Newspaper Contest. Lee lives on the west coast of Florida with his wife

273 Doug Manllen and daughter. Visit muted-mutterings-of-a-mad- poet.blogspot.com or www.amazon.com/Lee-Clark- Zumpe/e/B005JUX38M/.

ROBERT J. SANTA has been writing speculative fiction for more than twenty-five years. He lives in Rhode Island with his beautiful wife and two, equally-beautiful daughters.

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