Harvest Of Evil

by William Lehman

Dr. Vladimir Trikovitch's Commentaries On Newton's Laws In Regards to Shape Shifters, 1855, observed that all shape shifters (Lycanthropes, Selkie, certain religious practitioners, Magic users, and the cursed) change shape but not mass. For example, a one hundred and eighty-five pound man, when changed into a Were-rat, would be a one hundred and eighty-five pound rat. Denizens of the fairy realm are exceptions to this rule. Physics appears to work differently there, and they seem to bring a pocket universe of their universe with them into our realm. (Which is why trans-dimensional physicists have nervous breakdowns).

  *****

  The drive back was even quieter than the drive up. The thought that I had some sort of additional magic shit going on, just made me so happy I could shit. I had enough problems without this. I had no idea what 'alleged' magical abilities I had. I also no idea where to go about finding a teacher for same. I don't think you look 'em up in the yellow pages.

  When we got to the office, Russ left for his drive back to Olympia. I went back to working on my report for Lieutenant Murphy. I had just finished and hit the save and print buttons when the L.T. hollered out, "John, get your butt in here." Oh, this day was just getting better and better.

  I walked into the L.T.'s office, and said, "You bellowed?"

  "Yes, I did. I just got the answer to the questions you have been asking." She had one of those 'cat that ate the canary' smirks.

  "Oh, you mean why I can't be rich, instead of just brilliant and gorgeous? Do tell." Yes, I was in a sarcastic mood, oh well.

  "No, DAMN IT! I mean how Paul Meyers managed to die in our custody. The boys at the jail were stonewalling but I finally made enough noise to shake it out of them." Murphy was slightly irritated but it didn't seem to be at me, so I was my usual irreverent self.

  "Pam, I love you. Why don't you leave that loser husband of yours and run away with me? Now, GIVE!" I plopped my butt on the corner of her desk. She didn't scream, so it was good.

  "The jail got a first hand view of what you got to watch out in the field, and they got full tape. They also don't have any clue what caused it, or how whatever did it got introduced to the jail." She leaned back in her chair a bit, and looked at me quizzically.

  "As for that, the lab geek from Oly confirmed that it was magic. He will be sending his report later today. He will also be sending a copy to the FPI. You think you can persuade them to keep their fucking Torquemada's inquisition out of my case? Incidentally, why do you think the murderer waited until we had this mutt in custody before killing him?"

  "I have no idea why he/she didn't off our latest victim when the others got it. When you catch 'em, ask. I'll see what I can do about the FPI. I'll tell the guys down at the jail that it has been confirmed as a 'Magic Attack.' That will take some heat off them, though if they had told us up front what had happened, they might have had less problems. Typical bureaucrat mentality, 'don't tell anyone anything you can't explain or spin.' Sometimes I wonder how we ever won the Second World War." She shook her head in amazement.

  "Oh, that's easy boss. We put the bureaucrats in the front lines. After the Germans and Japanese ran out of bullets, we put the real soldiers in. Oh, I have that report done."

  "I probably don't need it now, but thanks."

  At that point my cell phone rang. I apologized to Pam, and opened it. "John Fisher, Go."

  My mom was on the other end. Grandpa was in Harrison Memorial Cardiac Recovery Unit and not expected to live. He'd had a major heart attack, and was going to need surgery, but they didn't think he was up to it, and could I get over here right away?

  Grandpa and I had been really close growing up, until I joined the Navy. Then the old man blew an ass-gasket, and hadn't talked to me since. No one would tell me what the hell he was pissed about. It had been a big bone of contention in the family for the last twenty-five years. Now all of a sudden he wanted to see me. This had to be bad. I told Mom that I had to put her on hold for a moment. Then I told Lieutenant Murphy what had happened, and that I was going to need the rest of the day, and maybe tomorrow as well. She said that that would be fine. So I told Mom that I would be there as soon as I could get there and hung up. Fifteen minutes later I was Bremerton bound.

  Grandpa lived in Poulsbo, but the nearest hospital is in Bremerton, so that's where they took him. Traffic sucked, as usual. So it took me three and a half hours to get there, and that was with me speeding like a bat out of hell, whenever there was a break in traffic.

  When I got into town, I headed across the Warren Ave. bridge, and then on into the hospital. As I got on the bridge though, I called Mom back and asked her where exactly Grandpa was. She told me, and after I parked the truck I had to deal with the over officious nurse types that were "sure that I didn't have any reason to go anywhere near anyone, and it didn't matter who I was, I shouldn't bother any patients….". I'm sure that they were just doing their job, but I almost had to pull a badge and a gun on these twits before I could get them to realize that, I did have a right to see Mr. Joseph Fisher, that I was a direct relation and that the family had been asking for me. Fortunately, the charge nurse wandered by at just the right time. Otherwise I think I would have been putting some nurses in the wards instead of on them. The charge nurse directed me to the right area, and called the CRU ward to let them know I was on the way. When I got up to the ward, the desk nurse sent me right on into the room. That's when all Hel broke loose.

  In Grandpa's room, were Mom, Dad, some old guy I didn't know, the doctor and of course Grandpa. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, or as close as he could under the circumstances. I wasn't sure what all the commotion was about, as I don't speak Norwegian, but the old guy was obviously the bone of contention. At least until I entered the room. Then I was right beside him on the hit parade. Gramps kept switching back and forth between English and Norwegian; all about bringing these murderers and monsters to his death bed… Now, he had been calling me a murderer from the time I joined the Navy, but the monster crack was new. So far as I knew, no one in my family knew about my medical condition, or about my becoming a SEAL (as you can guess, that would not have been a popular decision with the family) so I wasn't sure what the old man was on about. I was however, sure that I didn't need this bullshit. So I started in too.

  "Damn it, Mom! You told me that Grandpa was dying and wanted to see me. It sounds to me like the old man has plenty of good years of hate left in him, and wants to see me about as much as he wants to see a nuke dropped on downtown Poulsbo. I have a major murder investigation that I'm heading up, four men have died and I dropped everything to come over here to take this sort of abuse! This is a load of shit, I'm out of here!" With that, I stormed out of the room.

  Right behind me came Dad. He was angry at everyone, and explained in a yell, "This was all your mother's bright idea! Yes, Dad is dying, but neither you or Uncle Lars is ever going to be welcome anywhere around him! NO, I don't know why, that's just the way it is!"

  Well, I had enough. I stormed out of there with a scowl on my face that could have curdled milk while it was still in the cow. I was too mad to drive, so I went for a walk. I don't remember exactly where all I went, but I was so furious that I needed to work some of it off. I had really loved that old man, and to be treated like this was just too much.

  *****

  The next conscious memory I have, I was up by Bataan Park, and there were four guys that seemed to think I was going to be their meal ticket. It was just about dark, and while this isn't the worst part of town, it wasn't any too good either, and these boys had just picked on the wrong guy.

  "Yo Mutha Fucker, you got more money than you need, pimped out like that. (I had forgotten until just then that I was still in a suit jacket.) Why don't you share the wealth?" This from the guy directly in front of me.

  I was sort of surrounded, the one in front was a black teen, about sixteen to eighteen, six foot, 190 lbs, wearing a Nike shirt, and baggy pants, the guys on my left and right were also black, and probably six-two, or six-thre
e and dressed similarly, all of them had shaved heads. I could hear another guy behind me. He wasn't trying to be quiet now, they wanted me to know that they had the drop on me. I don't think this was a race thing, I was just an easy target, and looked richer than most of the folks these guys got to mug.

  "Yo Dog, just cough the bills and the 'bling', no need to get hurt." This was from the guy behind me. I'm not sure if this was to scare me into realizing that I was surrounded and cow me into giving up without a fight, or if it was a kindness thing. They might really not have wanted to hurt anyone.

  The problem was twofold. One, I wasn't about to give up my cash and jewelry no matter who wanted it. Two, I HATE the phrase 'dog.' I never tolerated it in the Navy, and I was way in the wrong mood to be called 'dog' now.

  "You boys don't want any of this." I said in a deadpan voice.

  "Yo Dog, how you know what we want? Just give up the shit."

  OK, I'd tried being nice. "Actually, you mother fuckers got it wrong. It's not 'dog'. It's cat." With that, I changed into the cat-man form. Not full cougar, but the sort of look that Holly-weird used to use. When I had finished changing, all I saw were four black blurs, and they left their knives behind.

  Well, that was sort of fun, but now I was stuck in cat-man form for at least eight hours. I really wanted a beer or six by this point, but somehow I don't think any of the local bars were up to having me walk in, in my current state.

  Well, DAMN IT! This day has just been a bitch all the way around. To make it worse, I had trashed my shirt and pants. The jacket held up well, but the pants split on the seams, and the shirt ripped in three places. I slunk back to my truck staying in the shadows as much as possible. I didn't need to stir up anymore hate and discontent than I could avoid. When I got back to the Durango, there was the old guy from Grandpa's hospital room, waiting inside. For some reason, I caught a strong smell of wood smoke and amber as I walked up.

  "Ya' know, I'm pretty sure I locked this," I said. When talking in this form, it comes out either of two ways, with a deep purr as an undertone, or with a yowling growl. You can guess which way it came out this time. "Now, who the fuck are you? What are you doing in my police vehicle? And why shouldn't I flip a coin as to whether to arrest you or just eat you?" I was really hoping that he would bag ass at this point, I was in a mood. My tail had started to flick back and forth, until I realized it was doing that, then I stopped it. It's sort of like a nervous habit, like tensing your fists, and means about the same thing.

  "A fine way to treat your own long lost great uncle," said the old man with a grin. "I'm your grandfather's brother, Lars Scalagrimson. You and I need to talk."

  "OK, why have I never heard of a great uncle before? And why aren't you a Fisher if you're my great uncle? And come to think of it, why aren't you weirded out right now?" This was getting bizarre. not many folks are comfortable talking to a 5' 9", erect-walking cougar with hands (the claws come out when I want them to) and a half human face, wearing a trashed suit, and swishing his tail back and forth unconsciously. I had to give the old guy credit for balls. Maybe not much common sense, but balls the size of church bells. Come to think of it, I smelled the same smoke and amber smell when I first walked into the CRU, sort of odd…

  "It's a long story. Why not get in your truck and take me home; or your house, and we can talk about it on the way?" He grinned at me.

  All right, now I knew this guy had stones. But I was starting to like him. OK, we would play this out, and see where it led. "My home is two plus hours away, on the other side of the water. Where is yours? I could really use a beer about now."

  "Well, right now, my place is moored at the Bremerton public marina guest moorage."

  "I know the way." I hoped in and fired up the truck, it was only about a five minute drive from the hospital to the marina. On the way, Lars kept quiet, and just grinned at me. This was just a bit unsettling. Making people nervous by staring at them and grinning was one of my tricks, how dare someone use it on me? We got to the marina, and I parked the truck. It looked like this could go to an all-nighter, so I grabbed the bag I keep in the truck, besides I would need a change of clothes when I changed back.

  I looked at Lars as he got out and said "Lead the way." This was the first thing said between us since I had gotten in the truck. Weird. Lars just nodded, and walked down to the marina gate, keyed it open with a pass card and started down the ramp. As I followed him I got stares from everyone around. I know what Rosa Parks must have felt like, except that there was more fear in the stares I got. We walked all the way to the end of the piers, and there was a large wooden schooner, about a fifty five footer, the name on the stern said Tanngnost, Coon Island WA. She was old, but looked like she had been upgraded more often than MS Windows. As I got near the Tanngnost, that smell got stronger, I could almost taste it. "Lars, she's on fire!"

  He looked at me sort of funny, and said "Nonsense, that's not possible".

  "Damn it, can't you smell it? She's on fire I tell you." I was starting to get upset again at this point.

  "Tell me what you think you smell." Lars didn't seem to be at all concerned with his hundred thousand dollar boat going up in flames.

  "Wood smoke, and amber burning." As I said that, he walked up to the embarkation ladder, and said something under his breath. Then turned to me.

  "Still smell it?" he asked with a grin.

  "Yes, but not nearly as strong." OK, this was officially weird.

  "Uh huh, come on aboard. Everything is fine, I will explain it all." He had that little grin again.

  6

  As I climbed up the embarkation ladder, I looked around. The Tanngnost had probably started life as a long-line fisherman at some time around the Second World War, plus or minus ten years. There had been so many changes made that the only thing remaining of the original design was the hull lines. She had a new cabin and superstructure added between the masts, and the helm/pilot house had been raised slightly to increase the sightlines. The masts were carbon fiber, which I guarantee wasn't original equipment. The standing rigging was solid rod, also not OE, and the sails were roller furling. The deck and hull were still wood though, and it looked like they were double-planked. There was a small stack coming out of the roof of the cabin, but that wasn't the source of the smoke smell. The hull and superstructure were painted a dark gray, and there was very little in the way of bright work (varnished wood for the non-sailing types). Though there was a fair amount of brass and stainless steel, this was very definitely a working boat, not a toy.

  Lars led me in through the pilot house and down into the main compartment where he pointed aft and port to an amazingly well-equipped galley and said "Beer's in the fridge, help yourself." Next to the sink was the lid of a LARGE boat style refrigerator (they're chest type, and built in, not the stand up type found in a house). In the top was a dozen Black Butte porters, I approved of uncle's choice in beer at least. Life's too short to drink bad beer. So I grabbed a bottle, and walked into the main salon.

  I curled up on one of the side settees, looked at Uncle Lars, who was starting a fire in the small wood stove to starboard forward, and said "OK, give."

  Lars finished lighting the fire, closed the door, walked over to a side berth across from me, set down, and began. "All of this dates back to when your grandpa and I were back in the old country. Your grandfather was born Josef Scalagrimson, and he is my younger brother by two years. He and I were inseparable, and we both worshiped the ground our father walked on. We were a fishing family, and grew up on the sea. In 1938, Father became a member of the Norwegian Nazi party, and in 1940 joined the Waffen SS. Why Father did this, I never understood, but he actually believed the party line, and was willing to put his life on the line to support his beliefs. We didn't see much of Father for the next year, he came home on leave once or twice, and was always full of stories about the great victories he had been part of, and the glory of fighting to 'Defend the Fatherland' and the 'great Aryan race against the evil
s of communism and the weaker races.' In 1941, your grandfather and I quit high school and joined the Waffen SS, too."

  Shit, I thought to myself, Grandpa was a Nazi, why that hypocritical old fart.

  "We went through boot camp together, and were posted to a unit in Holland. We made rank quickly, but it didn't take long to find out that what we were told in boot, and what was really happening, were two very different things. We started to hear rumors about what was being done to the people we were rounding up, and we were given permission to 'have' any woman we captured before sending them to the camps, because 'that's all they are good for'. After watching the systematic rape of a couple of twelve year old twins for the sin of being Jewish, Josef and I had had enough. We deserted that night."

  OK, I could start to feel a little better about these two.

  "We joined the resistance. Having been in the unit rounding them up, it was easy to figure out who to contact. Bringing all of the files on the local cell with us as our bonafides lent a lot of credence to our claims that we wanted to switch sides. Josef and I spent the next two years as a thorn in the side of Nazi Germany. Then came the fateful night that changed everything. Josef and I had been sent with a couple of other members to try and rescue the crew of a downed B-17 that were believed to be hiding in a forest near the village we were operating out of. We found the crew early that evening, and giving the proper call signs we made contact, and started to take them out of the woods and towards the coast and a boat back to England. We had been walking to the farm where our horse and wagon was, when a patrol of our old unit saw us. It became a running gun battle with us trying to disengage, and not being very successful. They ran us to ground in the old farm house that we had been headed for, and both sides called for reinforcements. I guess the German reinforcements got there first, because they tried to storm the farmhouse. That was the last thing I remembered until the next day."