The rock drakes mobbed the troll, fluttering and flapping around his face and neck, striking and stabbing with tooth and talon. They spat acid at the monster, and it hissed and sizzled as it struck Murdo’s flesh. The monster screamed, lashing out blindly, club swinging, fat fingers snatching at and missing the flying lizards. He wailed as he tried to reach his exhausted meal. Max continued to retreat, wading back, away from the melee and closer toward the relative safety of the waterfall’s overhang.
The troll raised his powerful arms, mighty hands balled into fists. He was about to strike Max when a series of shrill, sharp notes caused him to falter. His expression changed from fury to fear, as the tune became a jaunty jig. The tiny figure of Kimble appeared among the reeds on the riverbank, mouth moving across the panpipes as he wove his musical magic. Murdo retreated in a blind panic, swinging his club as if it might physically keep the tune at bay. The troll crashed into a tree that promptly snapped in two and noisily toppled into the river. He let loose a terrible cry that made Max’s blood run cold. Murdo cowered as the drakes continued to mob him, driving him back upstream, back toward his cave. The brownie remained on the bank, playing his pipes, guarding the beaten boy in the river. He turned slowly and looked at Max, who managed a smile and a wink. Kimble did the same, and Max’s spirits lifted.
They dropped seconds later when the felled tree collided with him, pushing him toward the top of Battle Falls. He tried to hurdle it, but only landed on the trunk as it went over the edge. Max ran up its length as it tipped, trying to get back to the cliff top, but it was hopeless. He was going down, and the tree was coming with him. Max brought his feet up and kicked away from the tumbling tree, changing his angle of trajectory so that his plummet carried him away from the pine. He only prayed it didn’t carry him away from the churning water below.
As the top branches of the tree struck the Dead Pool, Max landed with a splash a short distance away, caught up in the torrent of water. He went deep, drawn into the frigid plunge pool’s maelstrom like a doll in a washing machine. Almost deafened by the noise of the rushing water, he still managed to catch the sound of the tree smashing into the water above him. He tried to swim clear, kicking frantically, but he was beaten down by the mighty trunk, forced toward the depths of the icy pool. The cold was overwhelming, paralyzing each limb. Bubbles streamed from his mouth and nose as a branch speared him in the guts, threatening to puncture his flesh. A torn belly was the least of his worries as his precious breath escaped.
Max saw lights flashing before his eyes, white against the dark, turbulent water. This was it, his brain starved of oxygen, the end approaching. Before he could be dashed against the boulders that littered the riverbed, he felt hands seize hold of him by the armpits. He felt legs kicking beside him, fighting the current as he was carried to the surface. Exploding from the water, he snatched a lungful of air, spluttering as half the river seemed to find its way in as well. He floundered, sinking once more as his rescuer took hold again.
“Stop struggling, Helsing, or you’ll drown both of us!” shouted Syd over the roar of the waterfall.
Max was a competent swimmer, but not great like Syd. He wasn’t used to swimming fully clothed, certainly not in freezing, turbulent waters such as the Dead Pool. His numb hands clawed at her shoulders as he disappeared beneath the foaming water and took Syd down with him. She kicked hard, yanking him roughly, trying to get distance away from the strongest currents at the river’s heart.
Suddenly, shimmering shapes sidled up alongside them, brushing against their heavy limbs. Max felt bizarrely buoyant as a host of silver-skinned water nymphs carried them through the waves toward the shore. There were dozens of the aquatic fairies, working as one, leaving the fierce current behind as they helped Syd haul Max to safety.
As they neared the shallows of the gorge, Syd’s feet found the pebbled riverbed and she was able to scramble toward the rocky bank. The fairies splashed clear like a shoal of startled fish, their scales shining brilliant in the starlight. Syd snatched Max by the collar of his bomber jacket and dragged him the remaining distance to the rocks. Throwing him onto his side, she pulled him by his belt, forcing him to spew water across the stony beach. Max coughed and hacked, rolling onto his knees as he retched up the last remnants of the Dead Pool.
He looked at Syd, who sat panting for breath beside him, her eyes fixed on the water and the departing nymphs, the river rippling as they sped away.
“Is this where you attempt mouth-to-mouth?” Max asked, teeth chattering as he tipped water out of his messenger bag. Syd looked up as a tiny light drifted down from above, like a feather in the wind. The will-o’-the-wisp came to a fluttering halt, inches away from her face, awaiting their next move.
“In your dreams, Helsing,” she whispered, shivering as the misshapen fairy bug danced before her eyes. “In your dreams.”
TWENTY-SIX
GRATEFUL FOR GIDEON
By the time Max and Syd limped into Bone Creek Camp, the will-o’-the-wisp lighting and leading the way, the two teens had reached a joint conclusion: they needed help. This was too big a task for the pair to handle alone. Max, of course, felt like he could face down any monster (although a double-shot espresso right now would’ve done wonders for his energy), but the sheer vastness of the wilderness was crippling their search for Boyle. He could have been anywhere out there, and without the help of someone they could trust, time was running out.
“I’m not sure we should tell him,” said Syd as they passed the boathouse on their way into camp. The fairy flitted ahead of them, waiting for them to catch up, like an obedient puppy that was off the leash. A thin veil of mist was settling over the creek, rising off the river and rolling through the woods. “He could freak out.”
“Gideon? I don’t see how we’ve got any choice,” said Max. “He’s a good guy, and we’re lucky he’s here. What we have to tell him might be alarming, but we’re between a rock and a hard place and someone’s dropped a boulder on us. Until we hook up with Jed, it’s just you and me, and that scenario leaves Boyle with slim to no chance of surviving.”
“Have you tried calling Jed?”
“Do I look stupid?” said Max, before sheepishly shoving a hand into the pocket of his still damp jeans. “Don’t answer that,” he added as he fished out his phone. He turned it on. The screen glowed, then went off, then came back on again. Then was off once more.
“Probably not the best idea to take it swimming with you,” muttered Syd.
“You don’t say?” Max sighed as they walked past the bunkhouses, the mist partially obscuring them in the darkness.
Max trudged along, scuffing the grass with the toes of his Chucks. He looked up as they approached the third lodge, situated a little deeper into the forest that neighbored the creek.
“Thanks, Syd. Y’know, for back there. Fishing me out and saving my bacon.”
She punched his arm. “You’d have done the same for me. Besides, it was your fairy fan club who stopped you from drowning. I just got you on dry land.”
“That was pretty amazing,” said Max with a sigh. “They all helped me—brownie, rock drake, water nymph, will-o’-the-wisp. I don’t think I can rely on the help from a mountain troll anytime soon though.”
Syd’s chuckle was weak, her thoughts lingering on their hopeless predicament.
“We’ll find Boyle, Syd,” said Max, although the words rang hollow.
“Maybe Gideon has a landline we can use,” said Syd, as they marched up the steps to his lodge. It was bigger than the one the kids had stayed in, and resembled a home more than a bunkhouse.
“One can only hope,” replied Max as he rapped on the door. “Gideon? Wake up, Mr. G! We need your help.”
They waited for a moment, hoping that a light might come on and a nightgown-sporting tour guide would appear at the door. There was no light, and there was no sign of Gideon, either.
�
��Perhaps he’s a deep sleeper?” said Syd, cupping her hands around her face as she peeked through a window pane into a darkened room.
“You wanna come up here?” asked Max, turning to the will-o’-the-wisp that hovered a short distance away from the house. “Maybe throw us a little light?” The ugly fairy remained where it was, close to the surrounding trees. Max shrugged and turned back to the house.
He knocked again. Still no answer. He felt a sinking feeling come over him.
“Or maybe he’s in trouble,” said Max, trying the door handle. It was locked.
“Back up, monsterboy,” said Syd, pushing Max aside as she pulled her key ring from her pocket and a crooked pin from her mop of dark hair. Nestled between the keys to her bike lock and to her mom’s front door was the pick she was after. She slotted it into the mechanism, adding the hairpin alongside it. As the girl jiggled the lock and the key ring jangled, Max took a look in another window. It was pitch-dark within.
“Gideon!” he shouted a final time, but no reply came.
“Open sesame,” said Syd. The door creaked open, she pocketed her keys, and the pin went back into her curly mane.
“Where would I be without you?” Max grinned.
“Lost, I’d imagine,” said Syd, stepping aside to allow her friend through the door first.
Max fumbled along the wall, searching for a light switch. He flicked the button, and low-energy bulbs began to dimly glow along the timber walls. The floorboards were polished to a rich hue, while the room was handsomely furnished, a big leather Chesterfield sofa facing an old television set in the corner. A bowl of fresh fruit sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa, a couple of magazines neatly beside it. Two well-stocked bookcases flanked a big stone fireplace, a polished slab of slate running along the floor in front of it. Pretty rows of pinecones and candles decorated the hearth, placed in a precise fashion. A large painting of a woodland scene graced the chimney, while the flowers in the vase on the dining table were a lovely touch. Max couldn’t help but smile wryly. The eccentric Gideon had class, and a style all his own.
“Gideon?” he called, as Syd stepped into the lodge behind him. “We need your help. Are you there?”
“This place is like the inside of a chocolate box,” said Syd.
Max was looking for the telephone but having no luck. He passed the TV and paused.
“I wonder if the Beast of Bone Creek has made the national news?” he muttered, pausing to turn it on.
“We’re not here to watch TV,” said Syd, leaning across the table to take a hearty sniff of the flowers.
“That’s good,” replied Max, “because this set’s broken.” He flicked the switch up and down, but the screen remained black.
“That’s disappointing,” said Syd.
“You wanted to watch TV too?”
“No, numbnuts; the flowers. They’re not real, they’re plastic.”
Max walked to the coffee table and picked up a shiny red apple from the bowl. He took a bite.
“Max!”
He spat it out.
“Wax,” he said, wiping his tongue on the sleeve of his filthy bomber jacket as he dropped the phony fruit upon the polished wooden floor. He reached down. “And these magazines are two decades old, Syd.”
Max straightened, looking around the room once more with fresh eyes. He headed straight to the bookcases to browse the shelves. Max could spot a rare tome a mile away, and these bookcases had plenty of collector’s items. While none of them at a glance sent alarm bells ringing, they were predominantly about nature, specifically that of North America, and a few on Europe. Many of the books were written in foreign tongues—Max had to guess they were German, judging by the proliferation of umlauts in the texts.
“The cupboards are bare, Max,” said Syd, working her way through the pristine kitchen. “Even the fridge!” she said, slamming the door shut.
Max was still examining the bookcases. The Huntsman’s Heart, Cryptids of the Northern Wilds, The Ballad of the Big Bad Wolf, The Green Man Cometh. Names like those got Max’s Helsey sense all a-tingle. There were classics here too, woodland tales of Greek and Roman myths alike.
Syd reappeared in the room after checking the bedroom at the back of the lodge. “He’s not here.” She rejoined Max by the fireplace as he peered at the books. “This is weird, right?”
“Just a little. He hasn’t even got The Half-Blood Prince.”
The punch to the arm was well deserved on this occasion. Max glanced down and gave it a rub. That was when he noticed that the floorboards, polished immaculately elsewhere around the lodge, were scuffed in front of the bookcase.
“Freaky painting,” said Syd, cocking her head as she took it in. Max pulled back from the bookcase and joined her. The forest scene was debauched. Festivities and feasting were fully under way, where nude women danced with fauns and other horned men, wrapped in one another’s arms while they cavorted and capered. The humans fed their companions grapes, held goblets to their lips, their throats running red, while the creatures of the forest watched in wonder. A man sat upon a throne of antlers at the painting’s center, a slaughtered deer laid out before him. Max recognized the figures from Jed’s tutoring on deities from every mythology around the world, even those that had died out.
“Is that red wine those guys are drinking?” asked Syd.
“You’d hope so, but somehow I doubt it.”
“There’s something inscribed along the frame. Do you see that?”
“Well spotted, Nancy Drew,” said Max, stepping closer to read it. “Looks like a verse from a poem:
For Dionysus, the Father, Lord, and God of all the Wild
We offer thee the Husband, and the Wife, and Virgin Child
We offer the Song, the Feast, the Wine by endless flood
An offering so bountiful of Flesh and Bone and Blood.”
They were silent for a moment, before turning slowly to each other. Syd tapped the painting with a fingertip.
“Okay, this doesn’t sound good. The husband and wife?”
“Could be the campers,” said Max, his hand flitting along the bookcase now, going from one shelf to another as he searched for something. “And I think we know who the virgin child could be.”
“Boyle?” said Syd. “What are you looking for?”
“This,” said Max, jabbing his forefinger upon the spine of a leather-bound book.
“The Children of Dionysus?” said Syd. “Who are they?”
Max pointed at the painting. “Them. Just step back a touch, Syd,” he said, shooing her away from the bookcase before continuing to explain. “Dionysus was the Greek god of harvest, fertility, and wine. Oh, and ritual madness. They say his parties were the bomb.”
Max seized the book’s spine and pulled. There was a groaning, grinding noise as gears lurched into life, a ratchet cranking as the bookcase swung out toward where the pair were standing. Max reached across and gently pushed Syd’s slack jaw back into place, closing her mouth. The bookcase ceased moving with a clang, revealing a staircase carved into the rock that led down into darkness. He looked at Syd, who shook her head.
“No way, dude. This is your gig. You go first.”
“At least gimme the flashlight, then,” he said snatching it from her as he pulled Splinter out of his jacket pocket.
As Max descended the stairs, a smell from below rolled up toward him, a heady combo of blood, rot, and effluence. Syd gagged as she followed him down. Max let the flashlight’s beam strafe the passage, strange marks at head height on either side of the tunnel catching his attention. It looked like something had scraped the rock, cutting furrows into the walls.
“Is this a natural cave, or man-made?” whispered Syd, still gagging.
“Geology was never my strongest subject, but I bet it’s natural, though it’s had some work done.”
&nbs
p; The passage curved around, opening out into a longer chamber. The walls were rough and untouched on one side of the room, water trickling from the rock, no doubt originating from the nearby creek. The opposite wall had been reinforced, crude brickwork and timber beams supporting the ceiling. A filthy, stained sheet had been pinned to the top of the wall, where it met the ceiling. Max spied the edge of a wooden frame poking out from behind the blanket, indicating some kind of window that let natural light into the room. Not that that had happened in a long, long time. Crates and metal shelving lined this wall, loaded with the usual paraphernalia one would expect to find in a secret, sinister, stinking cellar: specimen bottles, axes, hammers, bones, and bundles of herbs and twigs. Taking pride of place on the shelving were two oversized plaster of Paris feet, their soles covered in dried earth.
“Looks like we found our killer bigfoot,” whispered Max.
Then there was the workbench. The heavy table was hacked and chopped all over, as if a butcher had been at work. Beside the table, on the floor, stood a white plastic barrel that bore a hazardous material symbol. Max took a closer look. Unless he was mistaken, the drum contained a lye-based acid, the kind used to dissolve pretty much anything, including body parts. He straightened and shuddered. A collection of cleavers and bone saws were suspended from a beam above it. Max let his flashlight run along its length. There was more besides butcher’s tools hanging from the beam.
“Helll . . . sssinnnnng . . .”
The faint voice came from the rear of the chamber, a muffled, weary croak. Max brought the flashlight back around, shining it deeper into the subterranean recesses. There, at the back of the room, a trio of shapes hung by bound hands from hooks in the ceiling. Max recognized the nearest instantly.
“Kenny!” said Max, rushing toward his suspended classmate. A rope was tied around his mouth, the boy’s face bruised, his matted hair bloodied. Max placed his stake and flashlight onto the floor and grabbed Boyle by his thighs, hoisting him up. Boyle’s bound hands fell forward, coming loose from the butcher’s hook, as he flopped across Max’s shoulder. Max lowered the bully gently onto the damp floor. His fingers fumbled with the rope and unhitched the knot. Boyle gasped for breath, one eye closed shut, the other wide with fright.
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 16
