The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

“Holy Jebus...” Harold stifles a girlish squeal, choking on high octaves, and shaking urine from his shoes he spits out an apology.

  “I didn't hear you arrive, Mr. Crumley.”

  The farmer’s stare cuts like a scalpel. Harold feels like he’s lying stone cold still on post mortem steel as Mr. Crumley’s hand penetrates skin and bone. Delving into brain tissue, soft and sticky, pliable in hard, rustic hands with dirt encrusted nails that claw and burrow, deep into the bone candy of his skull. With a firm grasp the farmer yanks the marrow from inside to out, revealing all of Harold’s dirty little secrets to the uncaring world at large...

  ...Bone cracks from the violence of repeated blows. A flash of the hammer, the erratic crimson dance and the life-force of the goat flows towards a rusted bucket beside the booted feet of a nameless butcher. Silent, grainy footage flickers in the half-light of the cabin. Silence is most definitely not golden.

  “My daughter’s trying to watch the Judge Dredd film and that MAN (pointing at Harold) is playing such filth on his computer, and he was snoring like a pig, disgusting. Just wait til’ I tell Deidre about this, she’ll insist I make a complaint I’ll have you know.”

  The flight attendant sighs in tandem with turbulence that suddenly reminds all weary travellers, imprisoned by the safety of buckled seats of the planes distance from the Earth. The steward gently attempts to wake the man sleeping in the window seat, his face a ghastly rictus grin up lit by a laptop, which crashes to the floor. Harold’s arms start flailing wildly like a psychotic, inflatable mascot and, taken by surprise, Alan stumbles over his own feet, crashing into the passengers seated behind him in the central aisle. Harold claws at his own throat, a drowning man desperate to breathe oxygen.

  “Can this day get any worse?” Alan, already apologizing to the shocked passenger for his impromptu lap dance, turns his attention back to the overweight mother, who despite the increasingly bumpy ride is still complaining about ‘the nasty man’ and his in-flight entertainment.

  The day then takes a turn for the worse.

  The plane drops from the sky to a chorus of screams, half-remembered prayers and unholy expletives that would shame the very Devil himself. Suddenly, the aircrafts interior is bathed in the warm, soothing rays of orange light.

  The passengers with skin like fresh Satsumas plucked from heavy branches all remain still, all sound and fury muted from the cockpit to first class and beyond. Those who could not fully surrender to the womblike wonder witnessed a flickering sensation in the corner of not quite still eyes. Tall, skinny shapes darted here, there and everywhere. Charcoal scratches with porcupine quills and oil slick pupils, shark like and endless, one could be forever lost if caught looking too deeply into that abyss.

  A hand with elongated fingers ending in razor sharp and wicked claws cradle Harold’s head with surprising tenderness and using kind, soft strokes to wipe away tears that leak from Harold’s face the creature gently lifts him to comfort and safety of his seat.

  The autumnal glow within the cabin intensifies to bleached bone whiteout. The creatures screech and wail like car crash metal scraping against concrete the colour of dead porridge. In a retina searing arc of light that gradually loses its dazzle and surrenders to reality the plane and its passengers stir from a waking daydream, where all is calm and the aircraft floats upon a whispering sea of brilliant white clouds, a feather drifting on the surface of a warm, sparkling stream.

  ***

  “It’s written by Paul Greedus...” Sunlight reflects from the smooth, metallic surface of wind chimes hanging in the kitchen window imprinted random patterns of chaos around the farmhouse interior.

  “My ringtone...it’s a theme.”

  Harold struggles against the sweet oblivion that falling back into a coma would bring. The rude awakening was of course Maude trying to ascertain Harold’s whereabouts having played the good sister by transporting his students to the dig.

  Are you going to answer it then? Mr. Crumley sitting on the other side of the table asks without taking his attention from the shotgun he’s been busy cleaning. To Harold’s muddled thought process, this act looked almost pornographic.

  “Yes...no...yes...I’m at the farmhouse...” he pauses awaiting acknowledgement from Mr. Crumley, who stands to leave the kitchen due to the arrival of the local school bus. It seems that today’s the day for students to visit the farm.

  “Hang on a second Moo...I think Mr. Crumley has more guests.”

  “I do...can I trust you will be fine...I need to show them to the petting zoo.”

  Mr. Crumley stands as he snaps the barrel of his freshly oiled gun before carefully draping it within the crook of his left elbow.

  “Crows.” and without further explanation, he departs, leaving Harold to shout in his wake.

  “I’ll walk with you if you don’t mind, it’s on the way to the dig...hang on, Maude, I’ll be with you shortly. No I’m fine...”

  Maude cuts Harold off in mid-sentence, which truth told is quite out of character.

  “Harry...Harry...listen, I’ve got news...”

  Too late.

  In his attempt to catch up with the farmer, who by now is leading the group of young children and their teacher towards the goat pen, Harold fails to hear what poor Maude was so desperate to tell him.

  He also ignores the growls from his stomach and the intense hunger pangs that threaten to cut him in two.

  ***

  No one could be accused of being able to predict the events following Harold’s departure from the farmhouse kitchen.

  Certainly not Mr. Crumley, who despite his deep seated loathing of children and most of the human race if he was being honest.

  Nor Maude, who after losing the connection with her brother had decided to speed up the process of rekindling the conversation by meeting Harold halfway. If she failed to tell him her news now, she was deeply afraid she’d panic and flee, a silent scream bouncing from one side of her skull to the next; a cruel soundtrack to her cowardice and premature departure.

  And last, but certainly not least, Harold.

  If questioned in the moments before the following tragedy struck, Harold would have been pretty vacant about the whole mess.

  ***

  The pretty white picket fence is surrounded by the small group of school children, each desperately trying to impress teacher by showing off their skills at feeding three of the goats standing in the field beyond, goats that were more than happy to oblige the hoard.

  Mr. Crumley’s attention has wandered for a moment, worrying about the rest of the herd. He’d already imparted information about the perils and pitfalls of goat farming to the visiting group.

  “Goats are amazing animals, but you need to look after ‘em. Feed ‘em well. Watch ‘em closely. They‘re very good at squeezing through small spaces. If you choose to buy one for the school, you’ll need to get a first aid kit sorted.”

  No one noticed Harold. No one spotted that he’d jumped the fence, and was now creepy crawling his way towards a stray goat, a snake in the grass.

  Goat number four suddenly realised there was extra food on offer. The old goat was a known straggler, and was not long for this world, but the temptation of an extra snack had motivated him to struggle to his feet and slowly make the journey towards the fence. Any slight bump in the ground, a pot hole or stone lying just beneath the Earth’s surface could be enough to slow the old goat down, and worst case scenario, cause legs to tremble, even fail, resulting in the need to spend more effort regaining the upright position required to make it to the many hands that were now offering delicious, mouth watering treats.

  Harold knew the optimal moment to strike. The goat lost his footing, its front legs failed resulting in a spectacular dive towards the ground, its chin slamming into the damp grass.

  Dazed, the goat did not stand a chance.

  Harold pounced.

  Grabbing the goat in a choke hold, and using his own weight Harold tumbled over and over again.
>
  A crocodilian death roll.

  Surprisingly, the old goat almost managed to escape. Until Harold wrenched a back leg almost out of its socket, before sinking teeth into the exposed flank.

  The poor creature let out a ghastly squeal, before its bowels loosened with fright and its heart finally gave up the ghost. At least that old goat no longer felt pain.

  ***

  The sight of a grown man rearing up and chewing down on freshly torn shards of flesh caused a panic amongst the now traumatised school group. No longer a party, more like a dispersing collection of random students whose screams were carried down various trajectories plotted by panic and fear of the beast before them.

  The ones who fled of course were spared the disturbing stomach churning sight of Harold as his teeth tore goat flesh, which drenched his hands, chin and torso in goats’ blood and excrement.

  Maude headed towards the carnage, the students fleeing around her as she approached the pasture, ground zero, just in time to see Mr. Crumley regain his senses and raise his shotgun, neatly pointing out Harold as the cause of all this commotion, and stopping her dead within her tracks.

  Something seemed to register in Harold’s mind. It was enough to distract him from the sweet meats in his hands and on the ground before him. He tore his gaze from the bloodied corpse at his feet and locked eyes with Maude, his beloved Moo and it broke his heart.

  Moments later, Mr. Crumley’s shotgun broke Harold’s head into a million shards. All the familiar sounds of summer paused, no birdsong could be heard, the insects’ silent as smoke rose from the double barrel, and Harold fell on bloodied knees to the ground, landing next to the remains of his final meal on planet Earth.

  Maude’s scream allowed her the freedom to break free of trance; she ached to be at her brother’s side. Mr. Crumley followed a few steps behind, not really sure that he should be the one to intrude on her grief. And as he approached her framing the space her brother’s head should occupy with bloody hands, with the broken stump of his neck at rest on her knees, he could have sworn he’d heard her whisper, proudly to her Harold’s still twitching corpse the following words.

  "Oh my sweet, beloved Harry...I’m pregnant.”

  D Is for Djinn

  The Waiting Game

  Lisa Jenkins

  The dark was all-consuming. Even after all the time he’d been down there his eyes hadn’t adjusted. There was no light for them to adjust to. Craven slithered over the corpses, stopping occasionally to take a deep breath. The only scent was the muskiness of desiccated flesh. He rested his nose against one, pulling it into his lungs in hope of finding the sweet tang of essence but there was none. It didn’t surprise him. The process had become more of a ritual than anything else, a way to keep from slipping into the depths of oblivion.

  He pulled the remnants of his shirt around his icy shoulders and sat cross legged on the cold ground. His lips moved, silently whispering his daily curse on the Banu Hanifa, willing a slow and painful death to all descendants of those responsible for this living hell. Memories of that day filled the cave as he chanted, their images as clear as the moon and stars in the hidden night sky.

  The chief stood in the centre of the cave, his arms splayed in a gesture of offering. Around the walls lay twenty of the village’s young, their hands and feet tied with rope.

  “Our thanks to you for all you have given us,” he said. “What was once a sandy wasteland is now rich with crops, our enemies quake with fear, and our brethren are strong and healthy. You have given these gifts to us and now we offer you something in return. Please take these as a symbol of our gratitude.”

  The words rang inside his head as strong as the day they were uttered. Tears fell from the young, dampening the sandy floor, their fear turning the air into a storm of pure energy.

  Craven resisted, hoping to change the outcome, but these were ghosts of the past and their path was already chosen. He felt himself dropping to one knee and bowing to the chief before admiring his gift. The children’s combined scent was intoxicating and he ran a finger across one of their chests, raising it to his mouth. The salty taste of sweat sent his taste-buds on a rampage, soon followed by his body. Images blurred in and out as he partook of his gift, his dry lips smacking together as the taste of their innocence returned to him once more. Their essence was like the finest of wines, filling him with heat and power.

  In that moment he became a force to be venerated, more powerful than all the kings; more powerful than Allah himself. The blood surged through him, overpowering his senses. In the distance he could hear the movement of rocks, see the dimming of the light, and he screamed at his former self. The warning went unheeded as he took his fill of one offering after another, oblivious to the building of prison walls around him. He had no reason to think the villagers would trick him, no reason to think that they knew how to trap him. No reason…

  Craven shook himself back to the present. The air was warmer now, the only sign of a new day. The anger that filled his veins subsided as the need for sustenance took over. He flattened himself against the ground and focussed on finding life. The smell of decomposition seeped from his pores, a tantalising treat for any passing insects.

  They came, the tickling of their tiny feet sending shivers through his skin, and he directed the smell, driving them towards his gaping mouth. A single beetle took a tentative step on his tongue and he fought the urge to bite down, waiting for more to join it. Soon there were a dozen or so, scurrying in and out between his teeth and he clamped down on them, releasing their acrid innards. He swallowed hard, his throat contracting as it tried to purge the noxious content, but he held it down. One day he would find a way out of this cave and the human race would pay for what they did. Until that time he would survive, even if it meant feeding off flesh-eating filth.

  He lay still, waiting for the spasms in his stomach to pass. They always did but this time was different. There was another feeling beneath the discomfort, a resonance deep within his bones. Fear uncurled its wings within his chest and he reached his arms up, feeling for its presence. The trembling in his hands subsided. He placed them back on the ground and it started again.

  Whatever it was, it was coming from the earth but it was too uniform to be natural. He pushed a body to one side and thrust his ear to the ground. The vibrations worked their way through his head, itching behind his eyes, and he shuffled his way through the mummified pile, measuring the subtle change from one side of the cave to the other.

  It came from the south.

  Moving closer. Humans?

  The metallic taste of excitement filled his mouth as he squatted, hands on knees, breathing slow and deep. His mind reached through the hairline cracks in the walls of the cave, searching for another sentient being. Blood-red filled his vision, and the sudden onslaught of primal instinct threatened to push him back, but he held on, digging himself into the creatures’ mind.

  Desert sand flew past him as he moved left, then right, low to the ground. There was an odd scent in the air, something strong and unnatural, and he flicked out a forked tongue, rising up so he could see.

  The world appeared vague, fuzzy, useless. Damn those villagers, damn this cave, and damn the iron ore that lay within its walls. In his temper he twisted inside the snake’s head. It writhed against him and in that moment he caught a glimpse of something larger circling above. Its heat pattern was strong and its movements that of a predator. Craven tightened his grip, paralysing his host, and waited. It spiralled down, getting closer, until...

  The world turned on its head for a moment and he allowed his new host freedom of movement while he adjusted. From up high, the vast expanse of desert looked as it always had; a sea of yellow at counterpoint with the vibrant blue of the sky.

  A dust cloud rose from one of the dunes, not unusual in itself but it moved with purpose. At the centre of the cloud sat a strange object. It shimmered in the heat, travelling without the aid of horses, the sun glaring off its back. He hadn
’t seen the likes of it before, but the vulture, although nervous, was accepting of the thing. He caught a current, gaining height as he watched.

  The shape carried on its linear path towards them for another few minutes before coming to a halt. Smaller shapes emerged; human shapes, three of them. The hot metallic taste of blood washed over him as he sped towards them. His grip on the bird’s consciousness became weaker the further he flew from the cave, slipping like water through a net and he turned before the connection was completely severed.

  The two larger figures carried items, setting them up on a makeshift table. He didn’t care what they were doing, as long as they were there so was his chance of freedom.

  “Come to me,” he screamed, but the words caught in the bird’s throat, releasing themselves as hoarse squeals.

  The humans shifted their attention, staring up into the sky as he looped and swooped above them. It wasn’t enough. He had to draw them closer somehow.

  Shortening the distance between the bird and the cave, he dropped lower in the sky. Even at this height, the bird was majestic. The tension in its muscles increased as it circled lower and tighter, driving with pinpoint precision against the breeze.

  A body broke off from the group, following the path of the vulture. Within the confines of the cave, Craven smiled. Poor, pathetic humans.

  Outside, he swooped lower, circling around the crippled snake on the ground. A small part of his heart ached for his former host. It had lived its life as intended, no less, no more, and would have carried on with its existence if not for his intrusion. But the fault lay with them, not him, and if the death of this simple creature led to the suffering of mankind, then it was worth the sacrifice. He landed on the sand, keeping one eye on the approaching figure as he shuffled around to hide the snake.

  “What is it?” a voice called. Craven’s laugh released as a low hissing. Curiosity. Man’s greatest flaw.