“Too many, old man, but not one more,” he said, “It stops right here!”
Wormwood’s anger surfaced and he let go his grip on Eve. “Imbecile!” he shouted, “Do you really think that by saving this slut you can salve your stricken conscience?”
Emile saw his opening and sprang forward, his reflexes dulled by the cleaving pain in his head.
All too easily his protagonist stepped aside, and Emil came crashing down onto the bed.
It was then Eve saw the vicious wound in his scalp and reached out to him.
A terrible sound erupted within the room, half man, and half animal.
Emile turned to see the creature in mid-change, its clothes tearing apart under the transformation, hair sprouting from every pore in its body, exposing the talisman that hung around its thick, muscular neck.
Within seconds the transformation was complete and before them stood the lycanthrope in all its horrifying glory, its muzzle pulled back exposing the razor-sharp teeth.
Eve screamed hysterically. This was her worse nightmare come true. Wormwood had chosen well the form that would instil the maximum terror from her.
Before he could react, Emile was dragged unceremoniously from the bed, agonising pain crucifying his body as he was slammed against the wall.
With sadistic delight Wormwood stamped his heel deep into Emile’s stomach. “How does it feel, firstling?” he snarled.
Racked by convulsions, and with his accursed epithet ringing in his ears, Emile held back a little while longer, but he hadn’t anticipated Eve’s next action.
Screeching like a banshee she threw herself onto the creature’s back, locking her arms about its neck and her legs firmly around its waist.
Wormwood howled with rage at the probing hand at his chest. He spun like a dervish to dislodge the hellcat before she could wrestle the talisman from him.
But Eve was having none of it and clung on to him for dear life.
It was all the time Emile needed.
Eve could hang on no longer. Her strength deserted her and the furious creature flung her across the bed.
Slowly, he approached her, his eyes fixed and menacing.
She backed away and drew the bed sheet about herself.
Then over its shoulder she suddenly caught sight of something equally horrific. It was Emile, or something that had once been Emile, approaching them.
“It’s time to end this!” he growled, bearing his teeth, his powerful hirsute body poised for action,
The fearsome pair leapt at one another. Colliding in mid-air, they fell to the floor snarling their fury.
Emile was the first to draw blood. As they circled each other he suddenly lashed out with his lethal jaws, tearing the flesh from his adversary’s shoulder.
Eli’s response was swift. He struck out with a clawed hand, cutting four deep grooves into his combatant’s face and spattering blood and flesh across the vanity mirror and wall.
Eve watched the battle royal in muted terror. Her fate was sealed if Emile should lose and, given his recent metamorphosis, possibly even if he won.
By now Wormwood had gained the upper hand and had Emile pinned to the floor by his shoulders, exposing his throat to his snapping jaws.
At that very same moment Emile had caught sight of the talisman hanging close to his jaws. He allowed Eli to draw even closer.
Another inch and Emile had clasped it firmly between his teeth. He shook his snout violently back and forth, wrenching it from his assailant’s neck and it flew across the room, shattering the vanity mirror and falling onto the table.
With a terrifying howl the fetch was flung back by some unseen force and bounced off the far wall, collapsing in a bleeding heap onto the floor. It remained motionless as Emile reverted to his human form, he too naked and bloodied.
Eve leapt from her bed and pulled a clean sheet from the linen cupboard and draped it round him.
The pair watched closely as the lycanthrope began shuddering intensely.
“He’s starting to lose his hold over it. It won’t be long now,” said Emile, breathlessly.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a grey outpouring of ectoplasm began issuing from the lycanthropes jaws. It hovered momentarily above its now inert body before exiting through the solid wall of the bedroom.
“Is that it? Why is the fetch still here?”
“Give it time. It’ll soon be over,” Emile assured an anxious Eve. “It’ll take Wormwood several minutes to deconstruct the protective pentacle.”
As he sat by the stricken fetch’s side, Eve went off in search of something to dress his wounds. She returned to a haunting and incredible transformation.
The creature had taken on a human guise again, the perfect likeness of Emile. They could have been twins. Free of the evil that had previously governed it it sat propped against the bed its eyes filled with uncertainty and fear. It had returned to its true and benign nature.
Emile backed away. At his prompting the fetch then faded out of existence.
Eve gazed mutely at the spot it had once occupied, her heart filled with conflicting emotions. Her distraction was short-lived, however.
“Do you hear that?” she asked, pricking up her ears.
The noise sounded uncannily like a spinning coin. As its resonance grew the cause soon became apparent. Amidst the detritus of overturned ornaments and broken perfume bottles on her dressing table they saw the amulet. It was shuddering, moving of its own volition.
All of a sudden, Emile was dragging her to the floor.
She was about to protest when an ear jarring report sent lethal shards of exploding metal from the talisman zipping across the room, peppering the walls.
In the deathly quiet aftermath, Emile looked to his companion. “It’s finished,” he said, almost disbelievingly. “Wormwood’s dead! You’re safe.”
She hugged Emile through clouds of tears, but he shied away.
“There’s something you need to know about me,” he said, “Wormwood was my father, my creator.”
“I sort of figured that out the moment you changed,” she said, smiling. “He called you ‘firstling’ because you were the first of his creations, weren’t you?”
He nodded. “The things he would have done to you, he made me do to someone else.”
“That’s what he meant by you being ‘conscience-stricken’?” Eve asked as she began tending to his wounds
“Back then he was inexperienced. He made a tiny error when he deconstructed the banishment circle. I should have died, but because of his mistake I managed to escape. I vowed then never to rest until I had put an end to him, because of the terrible thing he made me do.”
“And you have,” she said, cupping his hands, “you have!”
“Yes, but the irony of it is I’ve killed the man who gave meaning and purpose to my life. Without him there’s nothing.”
“Then I’ll give you a purpose,” she returned. “That poor creature we sent back is your brother, your twin and the nearest thing to family you’ve got. Find him and bring him home. He’s going to need all the love and help we can give him.”
Emile looked up from the floor, “You said ‘we.’”
Eve looked into his eyes. “We’re all orphans now and it seems to me that there is a common bond between us, just like any other family,” she said.
The Pitiying Heart
Jenny Bowcombe stared at the oaken figure of Edmund D’Lyle in the chancel of Saint Olave’s church, the site from where her beloved Lucy had disappeared. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that it was the remarkable resemblance between Edmund’s effigy and Lucy’s late father that had attracted her daughter to the chancel. As she looked on she, too, felt a strange affinity towards the centuries old memorial. How often she had wished it could speak, that it might resolve the endless uncertainty of Lucy’s whereabouts.
It had taken the better part of two years for Jenny to come to terms with the death of her husband, Richard, and in he
r darkest moments had taken comfort in the love of their daughter. Now she too was gone and Jenny would have ended the unremitting loneliness and heartbreak were it not for her uncompromising belief that she still lived and would someday be reunited with her.
Richard’s sudden passing had brought an unwelcoming change in the eight-year-old’s demeanour. Withdrawn and ill tempered, she had begun to weave a web of secrecy about herself. What worried Jenny most of all, however, were her increasingly prolonged absences from home. She had shown great leniency towards her daughter until the day she strolled into the house, two hours late from school. This time she was not going to be fobbed off with any lame excuses. She had spent the latter hour in a state of near panic. Now she demanded to know the truth.
“I’ve been going to the chapel,” Lucy wept, “I go there when I want to talk to daddy.”
Jenny was lost for words. Ever the pragmatist, she believed in the here and now rather than the hereafter. Finding comfort and solace in outmoded beliefs was not her style, but if it was Lucy’s way of coming to terms with the loss of her father then she would not stand in her way.
Life continued apace in the tiny hamlet of Arken. The now fifteen-year-old Lucy was a regular worshipper at St. Olave’s and was often seen by rector Phillips staring into the ageless face of Edmund D’Lyle. Her intense fascination with the relic mystified him, though he never once broached her on the subject.
It was on the eve of her sixteenth birthday when the storm hit the island. With merciless ferocity it raged across it, uprooting trees and flooding vast tracts of farmland in its wake. Even in the naturally formed inlet, which had provided a safe haven for countless generations of seafarers, the destruction was total as the roiling turbulence crashed in on the moored vessels, rendering them into useless flotsam. Not even hallowed ground was safe on such a night.
From the rectory window the ageing rector Phillips witnessed the single lightning bolt strike the chapel, iridescent lights lighting up the stained glass windows from within. Braving the elements, he set out to scrutinize the damage.
On first inspection it seemed that nothing untoward had happened, but as he approached Edmund’s effigy he noticed the fragmented shards of the knight’s steel misericord lying on the floor. They were hot to the touch. Though there was no evidence suggesting a possible entry point, the lightning bolt had apparently struck the weapon and shattered it. What he found even more perplexing was that the fine chrysoberyl jewel that had adorned its hilt was missing.
It was only in the aftermath of the storm that he discovered the tangled wreckage of Lucy’s bicycle lying beneath a wind-felled oak in the churchyard. Reassuring himself that she was not among the twisted foliage and broken boughs he dashed back into the chapel, fully expecting to find her poor inert body lying somewhere among the pews, but she was nowhere to be seen. Lucy had vanished without trace.
Jenny’s memories were bittersweet. Richard’s securement as Arken’s only GP had been particularly memorable, because it was the very same day she broke the news to him of her pregnancy. Lucy became the source of his pride and joy; they were inseparable. That he harboured an ambition that she might one day follow in his footsteps were readily apparent in his choice of gifts for her. Prized among them was a gold charm bracelet from which hung a single lamp, a lasting reminder that she was his ‘lady of the lamp’.
“Can I help you?”
Jenny flinched and turned to see the darkly dressed figure of a clergyman standing in the aisle.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
In her eyes he saw the hauntingly familiar look of unresolved grief. He sat next to her and proffered a friendly hand, greeting her with a pleasant, almost boyish, smile.
“The name’s Tremayne. The Reverend Anthony Lucas Tremayne, to be exact. I’m rector Phillips’ replacement,” he said, his face broadening into a cheerful grin.
She took hold of his outstretched hand. “Mine’s Jenny.”
“I couldn’t help noticing your fascination with Arken’s local hero. He’s quite an interesting character, don’t you think?”
“Is he? I’m afraid I’ll have to take your word for that. History isn’t exactly my strong point.”
“Oh, indeed he was. Did you know that for centuries he was said to be the founder of this church?”
“No, but as I said before…”
“Of course; history isn’t your strong point,” he recalled, adding, “The truth is he was actually a crusader who fought in Alexandria and Syria. Unfortunately, he suffered a serious head wound in the latter campaign and was shipped back to England, and then on to Arken. The poor chap became quite deranged at the end and died.”
Jenny’s thoughts wandered from Edmund to a more recent and intimately tragic history.
Mistaking her abstraction as a sign of disinterest the young cleric apologised for having disturbed her and made to leave, but was forestalled by her insistence that he carry on.
“I’d love to,” he replied, glancing at his wristwatch, “Unfortunately, I have to keep a prior appointment. Perhaps we could meet at the rectory tomorrow to continue our chat,” he suggested. “Lord knows, I’ve had little chance to get acquainted with my flock.”
The airy interior of the rectory came as a welcoming respite from the excesses of the midday sun and Jenny could not help but feel a little envious of the Reverend at having such a shaded sanctuary. Unlike his predecessor, the young cleric insisted that the formalities of his office be set aside, preferring simply to be known as Lucas. Jenny was happy to oblige him; she found the use of such titles pretentious at best. That he was also more enlightened than his predecessor was evidenced by the numerous scientific journals, which adorned the bookshelves.
“I got the impression from you yesterday,” she began, “that there was more to the story of Edmund D’Lyle.”
“Yes there is,” He relaxed into his armchair and took a sip from his iced tea. “During my researches into the last crusades I came across a document bearing his name. It was written by Philip De Mezieres, Chancellor to Peter the First of Cyprus. He and the King were responsible for the organisation of the 1365 crusade. They came to London to secure the help of several English knights, one of them being Edmund. As you know, he eventually returned to England and died. That he lived as long as he did was entirely due to his companion. She apparently travelled everywhere with him.”
The painful memories of her past began to reassert themselves. Jenny knew only too well the wretchedness of losing loved ones. In the midst of her thoughts a single word – ‘misericord’ – brought her back to the present.
“I was just saying as how it is something of a mystery to me,” Lucas said, in response to her question.
“Oh! Why is that?”
“Well, according to my records the effigy is supposed to be holding a misericord in its hand. True misericords were used to put an end to the suffering of battlefield victims. Their name is derived from the Latin for ‘pitying heart’. However, these were a special honour bestowed upon the knights by the King for their efforts in the crusades. Edmund’s is missing – jewel and all.”
“Didn’t Rector Philips fill you in on what happened before you took over his duties?”
“No. His departure to the mainland was rather sudden.”
“Then you know absolutely nothing of what happened here?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Jenny had, wherever and whenever possible, avoided protracted conversations concerning Lucy, but to tell the story of the missing misericord without once mentioning her involvement was akin to omitting the ‘great fish’ from the biblical story of Jonah. She took a calming breath before giving her account.
A look of surprise crossed the cleric’s face at the mention of her daughter’s name, occasioning Jenny to enquire if something was wrong.
He looked at her with uncertainty. Smiling nervously, he replied, “There isn’t, unless your surname happens to be Bowcombe.”
&n
bsp; Her confirmation had a curious effect on him. He seemed reluctant to pursue the matter any further, inciting Jenny to ask again if anything was wrong.
The mention of Lucy’s name had set off a disturbing train of thought. “It’s nothing.” he said, ultimately. “Mere coincidence.”
“Coincidence?”
“Yes. You see Edmund’s companion’s name was Lucy Bowcombe, too,” he said.
Jenny sensed there was more to it than that. Something other than sheer coincidence had generated his nervous response and she intended to get to the bottom of it.
Failing to allay her suspicions, Lucas finally gave way. “You’re right;” he said, “I haven’t told you everything about the historical Lucy, and with good reason. I’m not sure I believe it myself. Perhaps if we apply the principle of Occam’s razor things will become clearer.”
“Occam‘s razor? Never heard of it,” Jenny admitted.
“Briefly stated it’s this: if something looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, the chances are it is a duck. In other words, there’s no requirement to form a more complex assumption or theory.”
Jenny was becoming agitated. “And the point is?”
“I’m coming to that. But first I need to check everything you’ve told me about your daughter is correct. You said she disappeared when she was fifteen, and that the jewel vanished at the same time – yes?”
“Yes,” she sighed.
“And you’re quite sure that all this took place on August the 10th?”
“Of course I am! I’m hardly likely to be mistaken about it, now am I?” she snapped. “If there is a point to this, Lucas, I wish you’d make it.”
He braced himself. “As a consequence of my investigations into Edmund”, he began, “I came across the story of Lucy Bowcombe. Apparently, after a terrible storm, a local farmer discovered her in the chancel. She was in a highly agitated state, and could remember nothing of her past, other than her name. Contemporary reports said that she was between fourteen to sixteen-years-old, and spoke in a curious tongue. The date was August 10, 1362.”
Strange Dominions: a collection of paranormal short stories (short story books) Page 8
