by Lija Fisher
He rummaged in a box next to him that his dad had used to store their camping gear and pulled out a candle. He lit the wick with a waterproof match and held the flickering glow to the symbols. They all appeared to depict animals, probably from Brunei, including a tiger, an elephant, and a rhinoceros.
There didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about the engravings until Clivo noticed one on a narrow compartment that stood out from the rest. This creature he didn’t recognize. It had the small body of a frog and the large head of a crocodile, complete with a long snout and pointed teeth.
This couldn’t have been a real animal. Not that Clivo knew every animal on Earth, but he was pretty sure he would’ve heard about one that was half frog, half crocodile.
Compared to the other engravings, this one definitely was different. To boot, it might even be a cryptid, which furthered Clivo’s conviction that this was the right drawer to unlock.
He took a deep inhale and inserted the key into the lock. He held his breath and pointed his face away as the key turned, in case a plume of smoke came out and sent him into haunted dreams.
Instead, the lock clicked harmlessly and the drawer slid open.
Clivo paused for a nervous moment before reaching inside and pulling out a brown leather-bound photo album. An old one, by the looks of it. The cover was cracked and faded, the leather dotted with water spots.
Clivo’s heart dropped in disappointment. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he had hoped that the mysterious contents inside would be much more exciting than an old album.
But then he saw the pages and gasped in surprise.
The first photo, a Polaroid, showed a picture of his dad from years before, judging by his short shorts and luxuriant mustache. He was kneeling on the ground, a tranquilizer gun in his hand, and by his feet was a large, scaly creature with a scorpion’s tail and saber teeth. Cursive writing in the corner of the photo read Dingonek, 1987, Namibia.
Clivo flipped the pages in silence. Some of the photos were older than others, and his dad’s hair and clothes varied in style. Russell was smiling in each one, and there was always an unconscious creature at his feet. The writing on each photo described the creature—Buru; Beast of Bray Road; Tatzelwurm—as well as the date and location where it had been caught.
Another picture showed Russell with his arm around a tall, hairy, unconscious creature propped up with its tongue lolling out. The stem of Russell’s pipe was between his smiling lips as one hand gave a peace sign. The corner of the photo read Honey Island Swamp Monster, 2014, Louisiana.
Clivo flipped another page and his breath caught. His father was not alone in this picture. He was holding a wombat-like creature with antlers, and next to him was Clivo’s mom, smiling widely and wearing a handkerchief on her head. In her arms was a baby who was happily patting the back of what was labeled a gunni.
A real family photo. And they all seemed so happy together, the way Jerry’s family looked in all of their photos. One of Clivo’s small, chubby hands reached up for Russell, who was looking down at him with a secretive, knowing smile. Clivo ran his finger over the photo, trying to memorize the scene. He barely had any memories of them all together, and seeing them as a loving family unit made his chest swell with happiness. For a moment he forgot all about the unconcious gunni slung on his father’s arm.
Clivo turned another page and a sheet of paper fell out. He unfolded it and realized it was a copy of the contract Douglas had shown him, his baby footprint stamped at the bottom. Clivo hadn’t realized his mouth had opened in disbelief, and he had to quickly slurp up some spit before it fell on the document.
He might not have been knocked out by sleep-inducing smoke, but he sure felt like he was about to faint from shock.
VI
Clivo sat in the attic for a long time. He didn’t feel the stifling air pressing on him, didn’t notice the dust motes that swirled around his face. His mind was a million miles away.
His dad had been a cryptid catcher. Clivo was certain of it now. But his initial rush of excitement was turning into confusion. Why hadn’t his dad ever told him any of this? Why had his dad spent so many years keeping this a secret when he could have just told Clivo the truth? Life as Clivo had known it had been a lie, when the truth would have been so much easier.
Clivo pushed aside his questions and looked at the contract that was still clutched in his hand, at his inked baby footprint faded from the years. He knew he was terrible at school, but maybe, just maybe, he’d make a decent cryptid catcher.
Without another thought, he grabbed his wallet, where he thought he had stashed Douglas Chancery’s calling card. But the card wasn’t there. Clivo frantically looked in every pocket and groaned as he remembered throwing it into the forest.
He climbed down from the attic, setting the album carefully on the dining room table. He ran out of the house and into the dark woods, scrambling on his hands and knees through the wet leaves. A frightened skunk ran off, its tail lifted high in the air.
After a few minutes of searching he finally saw something silver peeking out from a pile of pine needles and grabbed it.
Clivo ran inside, slamming the door on the swarm of mosquitoes that had almost sucked him dry. He carefully laid the card on the dining room table, uncrinkling the thin, foil-like material.
But immediately he furrowed his brow. He’d forgotten that there wasn’t anything on the card. Nothing but the man’s name.
Clivo kicked the table in frustration and promptly began hopping around in pain from a stubbed toe. Douglas was gone, and Clivo had no way of contacting him.
Or did he? What was it that Douglas had said about getting in touch with him? Just wave the card in the air three times, wasn’t it?
Clivo picked up the card and self-consciously looked around, wondering if it had been some kind of a joke. Feeling silly, he waved it exuberantly three times over his head. The card lit up with a soft glow, as if something had been activated.
Instantly his phone buzzed. The screen read Unknown Number.
“Hello?” Clivo asked tentatively, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” a gruff voice asked at the other end.
“Uh, Mr. Chancery?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Clivo Wren, sir.”
“Who?”
Clivo rubbed his eyes. “You called me! Clivo Wren, Russell Wren’s son.”
“Oh, the brat. Well, what do you want?”
“Well, sir, I’m … um … I’m ready to become a cryptid catcher.”
“Took you long enough. I’ll be right over.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Clivo opened it to find Douglas on the porch.
“Clivo Wren?” Douglas asked in his gravelly voice. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, as if on cue.
“Yes?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“We’ve been through this before, Mr. Chancery. Please just come in.”
“Oh, right. You’re the kid with no appreciation for the dramatic.” He hobbled inside and handed Clivo his jacket.
Clivo led Douglas into the study and gave him the photo album.
“So, I found this.” Clivo eyed Douglas carefully, half worried that the old man would burst out laughing and reveal that this was all a silly prank and Clivo should go back to his math homework.
Instead, Douglas took his time flipping through the pages, his voice crackling with nostalgia. “Look at that dingonek, she was a real beauty. Although your dad’s taste in shorts had something to be desired. Ah! The gunni! She was a tricky one; your dad and mom traveled halfway across Australia to find her. And look at that dopey smile on your face.”
Clivo protectively took the album from Douglas.
“So this is all true, then?”
“Is what all true?” Douglas asked.
“That the immortal cryptid exists and I’m supposed to find it?” Clivo threw his ar
ms up in exasperation, a gesture he made frequently whenever Douglas was around.
“Yes, of course! I told you that the first time I was here, you dummy.”
Clivo ignored the insult and tried to sift through all the questions he had. “And was my mom one, too?”
Douglas heaved his body into a chair with a long grunt. “Nah. She followed your dad on some of his quests, though, because he hated being away from you when you were a baby. Why, I have no idea. All drool and slobber, to me. But once you got older I put a stop to that. All the world needs is some snot-nosed little kid letting everyone know that mythological creatures exist. So she focused on training you, until the grim reaper visited her, if you know what I mean.”
Lightning flashed through the window, thunder boomed, and a sudden gust of rain pattered on the panes of glass. The heater kicked on, a deep rattling from the basement sounding through the brass vents. Clivo took the chair next to Douglas.
“Was my mom … you know?”
Douglas wrinkled his nose. “Was she what?”
Clivo took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to the next question. “Was she … killed … by a cryptid, too?”
“Oh. No. The cancer got her. I thought you knew that.”
“I did know that, it’s just—”
“Then why are you asking me questions you know the answers to? Are you a dimwit?”
“No. I mean, I’m in some remedial classes, but I don’t think—”
“Remedial classes? Don’t you speak five languages?”
“Yeah, but I don’t get school credit for them.”
“Fabulous, an official dummy.” Douglas pulled a cigar from the inside of his jacket and clamped his teeth around it. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Well…”
“Thanks.” He lit the cigar and began blowing smoke rings. The old man sat comfortably back in his chair and stared. Clivo stared back, waiting for Douglas to begin speaking, but Douglas just sat there, puffing on his cigar. Clivo shifted uncomfortably. The old man’s gaze was penetrating, like he was studying Clivo or taking his measure. He probably wondered if Clivo had what it took to be a catcher. Clivo was wondering the same thing himself.
“Sooooo,” Clivo began.
“So, any questions before you go on your first quest?”
“About a hundred—”
“You find a cryptid, you tranquilize it, you check its blood. If it’s not the immortal cryptid you let it go. If it is, you sit with it and keep it company until I get there. Got it? Good, I think we’re done here.”
Douglas made as if to stand up.
“Whoa! I said I have a few questions!” Clivo said, panicked that Douglas would run off without leaving him with some idea about how to go about becoming a catcher.
“I just explained everything to you! It’s only four steps! Even a remedial kid should be able to follow four steps!”
Clivo sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Can you just go through everything slowly with me, please?”
“Such as?”
“Such as how do I find creatures that aren’t supposed to exist?”
“Simple. Do what your father did … Get me a scotch, would you? It smells like a hippie tent in here and it’s bothering my throat.”
Clivo dragged himself from his chair to the kitchen and poured Douglas a ginger ale.
“Any chance you’d help me out and tell me how my father did it?” Clivo asked when he returned to the study and handed Douglas the drink while waving the acrid cigar smoke away from his face.
“Find a reliable group of conspiracy theorists,” Douglas said, taking out his flask and adding more liquid to his drink. “Those whack jobs spend more time researching the mysteries of the world than bona fide scientists do. And they’re not bound by a sense of reason, so the stuff they come up with is usually spot-on. Just don’t tell them that cryptids actually exist or you’ll spoil all their fun. And for gawd’s sake, especially don’t mention the immortal cryptid. The last thing we need is for some crazy nerd to find it. He’ll build his own immortal world populated with fellow crazies who have no reflexes. Our professional sports programs would go down the tubes. It would be a disaster.”
Clivo was having a hard time keeping up with everything Douglas was throwing at him. “And what do I tranquilize them with?”
“Tranquilizer darts.”
“That I get from…” Clivo left the sentence hanging, hoping Douglas would fill in the rest.
“Oh, right. I’ve got the darts and the blood sampler in my car. Don’t let me forget to give them to you. Ha! That would make your quest a bit more difficult, wouldn’t it?”
Douglas laughed heartily until he fell into a coughing fit. Clivo gently patted the old man on the back as he wheezed. “Oh, and here’s a list of all the possible cryptids with the ones your dad found crossed out.” He pulled a leather-bound notebook from a back pocket and handed it to Clivo.
Clivo untied the string closing the notebook and read the pieces of parchment inside. There were at least a thousand names on the list.
“That’s a lot of cryptids to find,” Clivo said, amazed that so many of the creatures might exist in the world.
“You ain’t kidding,” Douglas replied.
Clivo read some of the names, most of which he didn’t know, like the adjule and the Beast of Exmoor. That one sounded ominous.
“Are these all earthbound cryptids?” Clivo asked.
Douglas sputtered, “Of course they’re earthbound! What do you think I’m going to do? Launch you into space? Now let’s wrap this up, I’m getting peckish.”
Clivo had so many more questions, he didn’t know where to begin, and he wanted to ask one that wouldn’t get him yelled at. “Does the government know about the immortal cryptid?”
“Bah! The government. Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t really matter, as they’re not putting any resources into finding it. Ask them to fund the building of a bomb, no problem. Ask them to fund the search for an animal that cures death, forget it. Fascists! Nope, you’re on your own with this one, kid.”
“But you said my dad was making sure the immortal cryptid didn’t fall into the wrong hands. So, there must be other people searching for it?” Clivo asked.
Douglas stubbed out his cigar and blew a final plume of smoke.
“There are plenty of other people looking for it. Mostly privately funded. Some petulant kid pop star with bleached hair has two guys on his payroll. Hopefully that guy doesn’t become immortal; we’d all be forced to wear skinny jeans forever. There are a couple of catchers from Luxembourg, but they’re idiots. Good thing, too. All we need is an immortal world of Luxembourgers speaking Luxembourgish. I’d launch myself into space. And then you’ve got your standard lot of criminals and mercenaries who work for the highest bidder. Speaking of which, here you go.”
Douglas fished in his wallet and pulled out a credit card.
“What’s this?” Clivo asked.
“That’s a Diamond Card to buy anything you need. But keep your receipts, I want to make sure you’re not blowing my money on nonessential things like food.”
Clivo looked at the card in wonder. It wasn’t plastic, like most credit cards, but metal, with a little diamond chip embedded in it. It hadn’t even occurred to him how he would actually pay for these quests. Or get out of school to do so. He figured Pearl wouldn’t be too willing to write a note saying he was excused from classes on account of going legendary-creature catching. Speaking of which …
“Does Aunt Pearl know about all this?” Clivo asked, his eyes going wide at the thought of his aunt chasing after Bigfoot, her salsa-dancing skirt flowing behind her.
“Shoot, no. And best to keep it that way. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean.” Douglas fished in his other pocket and pulled out a large smartphone, a kind that Clivo had never seen before. It looked heavy and waterproof. “That’s an ultra-secure satellite phone that only connects to me. You can send
me texts, pictures, video, anything. Try not to bother me with every little question about life, though. Hand me your regular phone,” he said, passing the smartphone to Clivo.
“Huh?” Clivo asked, instantly engrossed in looking at his new phone.
“Come on, let me see it,” Douglas said, making a “give me” motion with his hand.
Clivo pulled the phone out of his pocket and handed it to Douglas, who quickly placed it on the floor and crushed it with his cane.
“Hey!” Clivo said. “That was my phone!”
“It’s also a darned good tracking device if the other catchers want to follow you. Everyone knows your father was the best, and they’ll expect you to be the same. It also guarantees you can’t use social media while you’re in the field. All I need is a selfie of you splashed across the internet next to the Ayia Napa Sea Monster.”
Next Douglas handed him a wad of cash and Clivo’s face froze. It was more money than he had ever seen in his entire life.
“There’s ten grand in petty cash,” Douglas continued. “But again, receipts. Your clothes are atrocious and I don’t need you buying a whole new dapper wardrobe with my funds.” Douglas stood up with a grunt. “Now, this arduous conversation killed my soul about ten minutes ago, so I’m going to make my exit.”
“Okay,” Clivo said, feeling extremely overwhelmed by everything. He retrieved the old man’s jacket and opened the front door. The thunder had passed, but the rain continued to fall.
Douglas went to his car and returned with a silver metal case. The wind had picked up, leaving bits of leaves in his wild hair.
“Here are your tranquilizers, tranquilizer gun, and blood sampler, user guides included.” Douglas handed over the case.
“Just one more question,” Clivo quickly interjected before Douglas could leave.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, WHAT?”
Clivo looked down at the wooden floor. It was a question he hated asking, but Douglas was the only person alive who could answer it. “So my dad really thought I could do this? Be a good cryptid catcher?”
