Again, he was in a small boat with Kelly, but this time they were not in old-time costumes. Instead, they wore ragged clothes, torn and scorched. Around them the shores of the dream-lake showed signs of devastation. Smoke rose in columns from dozens of fires, and Brad could make out wrecked houses and cars.
“It's pretty awful, isn't it?” Kelly said. “But people tend to sow what they reap.”
“Nobody wanted this,” Brad replied, scanning the banks for signs of life. He saw no movement other than the pillars of smoke, the odd flicker of flame from a ruined building. The silence was eerie. He was not rowing, just leaning on the oars as the boat drifted. After all, there seemed to be nowhere to go.
“Millions voted for this,” Kelly countered. “They voted with their wallets, buying into every kind of cruelty and exploitation. They voted with their remotes, flicking away from the documentaries and onto the mindless pap. They voted for it every time they filled up at the gas station. And they just plain voted for it by electing assholes, plausible liars offering short-term bullshit gimmicks. So they wanted it in every way except by saying outright, 'Hey, let's wreck the world!'”
Brad recalled a hundred arguments that had begun in just this way.
“Ordinary people just want what's best for themselves and the people they love,” he said. “They make mistakes, sure. But they're not evil, not destructive.”
“Collectively that's just what ordinary people are,” she shot back. “And shouldn't you be rowing? We'll never get to the island at this rate.”
“You'll have to navigate,” he said. “Just like every vacation.”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “You'd always get lost and wouldn't ask anyone the way, so I'd have to go on at you ‘till you let me ask. Good times.”
Kelly stood up in her seat and pointed over the bow of the boat.
“You can just make out the eye,” she said.
Brad turned to look ahead. A small, round patch of green on the water was just visible.
“That's an eye?” he asked.
Kelly nodded.
“The eye that's got to be opened, for the first time in thousands of years,” she said. “So that she can see what we've done to the world. She'll be kinda pissed, but that's what happens when you mess up someone else's property.”
“You think the world belongs to Ouroboros?” he asked, pulling on the oars. The sound of the wooden blades cutting the water seemed unnaturally loud on the silent lake.
“Who else does the world belong to if not the gods of nature?” asked Kelly.
“Can't help feeling we should've sent you to Sunday school,” said Brad.
Kelly laughed, then peered past Brad ahead of them.
“Nearly there,” she said cheerfully. She reached forward and opened the old wind-up gramophone. With typical dream-logic it was undamaged. Kelly took a record from its sleeve and placed it carefully on the turntable, lowered the needle. A tinny, old-fashioned orchestra began to play.
“Got anything by the Ramones?” asked Brad. “Or Tom Petty, maybe?”
“Oh, Dad.” Kelly shook her head. “That world had to go.”
The song began.
'The eyes are the windows of the soul
But it's the heart that beats with love for you
Lips can tell lies and hands can be cruel
It's the heart that's bound to be true'
The record stuck and kept repeating the last line until Kelly lifted the needle.
“They don't write 'em like that anymore,” said Brad. “For which we can be truly thankful.”
“Here we are, you old cynic!” cried Kelly, jumping up. The boat bumped ashore and Brad shipped the oars. He turned to see they had run around on a moss-grown circle of stone about five yards across. It seemed an almost perfect circle, and must have been artificial.
“If this is the lady's eye, I'd say she had a pretty bad infection,” he commented, running his hand over the moss. Then he jerked back as the surface of the island rippled under his fingers.
“We need to open her eyes, Dad,” said Kelly. She nodded to a group of people who had suddenly appeared. Brad recognized Jonathan Clay dressed in a monkish robe, and next to him Cleo formed, smiling broadly as her muscular tail writhed over the moss. There was also a young man, fair complexioned and looking zoned out. Brad remembered Andreas, the young German that Cleo had enslaved.
“This your family now?” he asked. “And yeah, that's a rhetorical question.”
“They can be yours too, Dad,” said Kelly, climbing out of the boat onto the island.
“At least one of them would gladly kill me,” he said, following her cautiously.
“Nothing personal, Brad,” said Cleo, wriggling closer. “Besides, don't all families have their little disputes?”
The dark woman came closer, and Brad tried not to flinch as she towered over him.
“We could be kissing cousins,” breathed Cleo, leaning down to look into his eyes.
“No time for distractions,” said Clay. “We must awaken the Great Old One.”
“Yes,” said Kelly, going to stand by Clay and Andreas. “This is the moment.”
“Come on, Brad,” said Cleo, taking his hand and leading him to the water's edge. “This is a great day for you.”
“The end of the world?” he asked.
Cleo shook her head, eyes wide with disbelief.
“You mean she still hasn't told you? Naughty Kelly. Oh well, you'll soon see for yourself.”
Before Brad could ask any more, the island split down the middle, the mossy surface rolling back. A huge eye appeared, its iris golden green, with a slit pupil. Shocked, Brad reeled back and fell into the water. But even as he struck the surface, the vast head of Ouroboros rose up. As the dream ended in noise and turmoil, he could just make out the entire surface of the lake erupting, and a scaly, shining body vaster than a city arose under the bleak gray sky.
Crap, that was more ominous than usual, he thought as he groped for his phone.
It was just before five in the morning. He had set his news alert app to search for key words and phrases. 'Loch Ness Monster' cropped up several stories. One contained a name he had flagged.
Jonathan Clay. My God, the guy's on the radar again. After all these years.
It was a short piece on the site of a British tabloid, under the heading, Weird News. There were a couple of paragraphs about a group of 'scientists' who had outfitted an old boat with unspecified equipment to 'hunt for Nessie.’ The team was shown standing on a jetty in front of a rusty old pleasure cruiser. Brad was looking at the people from his dream, except that Cleo had a pair of very human legs in denims. She was also, he noted, wearing large sunglasses.
In case somebody recognizes the Loch Ness mermaid. Wow.
Between Clay and Cleo stood Kelly, smiling at the camera and giving a 'peace' sign.
“That's my girl, mastering the irony,” he muttered, getting up to ready himself for a long journey.
He met Denny for breakfast at a nearby fast food joint. The place had just opened and they were the first customers.
“I got a kind of weird look when I ordered,” said Brad, setting the tray down.
Denny looked over at the young servers, and laughed.
“They probably think we spent a night of passion together,” she said. “We make a slightly odd couple, after all.”
Brad looked down at his smart-casual jacket, then over at Denny's fashionable Bohemian chic get up.
“They think you're my – what's that British expression, a bit up the side?”
“It's a bit on the side,” she corrected him. “A bit up the side sounds downright perverted. But yes, the age difference might suggest it, don't you think?”
Brad shrugged, taking a bite of his breakfast muffin.
“You're not actually seeing anyone?” asked Denny.
“Not for a while now,” he said. “A few relationships since I broke up with Kelly's mom, but I travel a lot, so it's always unders
tood that the job comes first.”
“So you're used to living in hotels, I guess?”
“Oh yeah,” he replied, “I just don't like it. Wish I could find somewhere in London, but the property scene, it's just crazy. I mean, New York crazy and then some.”
“You need an apartment? Well, there may be one going in London's fashionable Camden area. Just by the market where Lily Allen used to get all her gear.”
Laughing at Brad's puzzlement, Denny produced a bunch of keys and dangled them.
“As well as Marcus's phone, I sort of relieved him of these too.”
“I can't just move into someone's home without–” began Brad.
“Their permission?” finished Denny. “What do you think Marcus would say?”
“He'd be fine with it, I guess,” he admitted. “And it would at least mean the place wasn't empty.”
“Okay,” she said. “When this is over it's an option, at least. Maybe I could come over? Help you move in?”
“Sure,” he replied, not sure where the conversation was going.
She glanced at the counter staff again, then smiled at Brad.
“After all, you're an engineer,” said Denny. “Big oil man, out in the wilderness?”
Puzzled, he nodded, took a sip of coffee.
“So,” she went on, “you must know that vital equipment needs regular servicing. Otherwise it gets rusty.”
Brad nearly choked on his coffee and felt his face flush. Denny laughed and gave an odd shuffle in her seat. He felt movement under the table, a small foot in a sock running up his leg.
“If people are going to assume these things anyway,” she said, and left the rest unspoken.
***
“This will be the last time, Anita,” said Lisa as Nurse Sharma ushered her through the security doors onto Marcus Valentine's ward.
“Thank you,” replied the nurse. “I've done my best to oblige.”
“I know,” said Lisa.
She put a hand on Anita's arm and, after checking that they were alone, looked into the nurse's eyes.
“Don't be scared,” said Lisa. “Look into my eyes. Hear only my voice.”
She felt an ancient, inhuman power coursing through her, focusing on Anita, molding her to Lisa's will. It was intoxicating.
And that's why it has to stop, Lisa thought. No more of this. I will be more human.
“This is the last time you will obey me, Anita,” she said. “When I leave this time you will remember me as a strange young woman who came to see poor Marcus. If we ever meet again, I will be just someone you met through work. Nothing more. Do you understand? You are free now, Anita.”
For a moment, the nurse looked puzzled, then she nodded and walked back to her desk without another word. Satisfied, Lisa went to Marcus's room, trying to work out what she would say to him. She found him lying on his bed dozing, a book fallen open on his lap.
Just like daddy when he came home from work, she thought, standing in the doorway. Jarring, conflicting memories vied in her mind. Was she remembering the father of Olga, the tortured dissident, or Lenka the treasure hunter? It was so hard to sort through the jumble of lives she had lived, or half-lived.
Shaking her head to try and clear it, Lisa padded softly over to the bed and sat by Marcus. She reached out a slender hand towards his, but then flinched back when he stirred.
“Who is it?” he mumbled. Then his eyes opened wide in panic. Lisa saw him suppress his fear, but imperfectly.
“You don't need to be scared anymore,” she said softly. “I'm going away. I don't think you'll see me again.”
Lisa struggled to think of a way to make him believe her. Something from the memories she had plundered from him rose to the surface of her mind.
“I am going to fight the good fight,” she said. Then she got up and sat next to him, and again the dark, ancient power welled up inside her. She reached out to his mind, touched his fear, and saw it in all its starkness. For every moment of every waking hour, and much of his time asleep, Marcus was trapped in the Zamyatin Device with the Insane One. She had tried to heal this pain so many times.
It had never worked. The Insane One had half-consumed the soul of Marcus Valentine, recoiling when it encountered his deep compassion, his love of humanity. The encounter had created the near-human being that was Lisa, but left Marcus's mind permanently disfigured. He had looked into the soul of a monster. Lisa could not figure out how to un-mix their beings and restore the man's sanity.
One last time, she thought. I must put it right. If not this way, then perhaps …
“No, no,” she whispered, stroking his cheek, “I won't hurt you again.”
But she could not help him either. No matter how deeply she delved she could not find the essence of his pain and confusion.
Because it is in me, she thought. All the evil and madness is shared out, but much too unevenly. I can't help him here.
Lisa stood up, then bent over and kissed Marcus on the forehead.
“I'm going to Scotland, now!” she said. “I will send you a nice postcard.”
She did not add ‘Daddy,’ but it took an effort.
***
“Nobody takes monster hunters seriously!” complained Mike Carlton.
I hope I don't sound too whiny, he thought. I can come across as an overgrown teenager. People will think I still live with my mother.
“Why do you think that is, Mike?” asked Katie Fox.
Carlton shifted awkwardly in his seat, then remembered about the sensitive clip-on microphone and froze. Despite being at his own office desk, he felt exposed, nervous.
“Well,” he said, “even though you captured evidence of a creature's existence, Katie, people are claiming it's a hoax. Despite eyewitnesses, I'm seeing lots of internet chatter about it being part of the same viral marketing campaign that produced the mermaid. And those ghosts at Culloden.”
“You don't believe in ghosts, then?” asked Katie.
“Of course not!” he snorted. “The point is that a large, unknown creature could exist in the loch. As far back as the 1930’s, serious investigators found abundant evidence of a marine life-form that could have entered Loch Ness via the canals that link it to the sea.”
“I understand one of those early investigators claimed Nessie might be a giant newt?” said Katie.
Sensing a trap, Carlton tried to head her off.
“That was Commodore Gould, a notorious eccentric without any formal qualifications in marine biology,” he pointed out. “And what you filmed wasn't a newt, was it?”
“No,” Katie agreed, “but it wasn't much like a dinosaur either. So what do you think it was?”
“Well,” Carlton took a deep breath. “It looked remarkably like what Victorians called a sea serpent. Elongated creatures were reported by the captains of many ships in the nineteenth century. But gradually reports tapered off. At the same time, in the early twentieth century, people started seeing Nessie more often.”
“But that suggests Gould was partly right,” Katie pointed out. “A sea serpent might have migrated into the loch.”
Carlton had managed to confuse himself.
“No,” he objected, “Gould rejected ancient folk tales that report a frightening beast in the loch. These date back to the Dark Ages. Saint Columba is said to have driven the monster back when it tried to eat a peasant.”
“If the monster is afraid of a holy man's power,” said Katie, “doesn't that mean these people in the new Loch Ness Survey have a point?”
Carlton frowned. Katie had not mentioned taking this angle when they had chatted before the interview.
“I don't accept their argument that the phenomenon is paranormal,” he said. “As for the so-called survey, well, you can paint anything on the side of a boat. I can wear a Superman costume, it doesn't mean I can fly.”
“But the leader of the survey is a professional archaeologist, Jonathan Clay,” Katie rejoined. “He has a Ph.D. Do you?”
C
arlton squirmed again, forgetting the mic.
“No, but I have had years of experience hunting cryptids,” he insisted. “Those are legendary creatures that might be real. And as far as I can tell, Doctor Clay has done no new research in decades.”
“It so happens that I've arranged to interview him tomorrow,” said Katie. “Would you be willing to participate in a debate about the monster? Just so we can hear both sides of the argument?”
Ambushed, his mind a blank, Carlton stammered out a reply.
“Of – of course,” he said. “Happy to!”
Katie swung the camera around on its stand to sign off, then said, “Well, I think that's a wrap.”
“I don't think that was very fair–” began Carlton, but Katie cut in.
“Don't worry about Jonathan,” she said brightly. “He's a sweetie and so is his team. Nice young people, really hospitable. I'm sure you'll find lots of common ground.”
“It's not the ground, it's the dark waters that worry me,” muttered Carlton, but as she was busy packing away her gear, Katie gave no sign of having heard him.
***
“Wow, I'll bet that guy lives in his mom's basement,” remarked Brad after Denny showed him the interview. “I mean, check out that cardigan.”
They were talking in the lounge of his hotel, waiting for James Norton to turn up. Brad was impatient to set off for Scotland, but the academic was proving less than reliable in regards to timekeeping.
“But doesn't it strike you as odd?” asked Denny. “Not the guy's knitwear, though it is horrendous. I mean the way Clay's willing to be mentioned on television? I mean, until now he kept a low profile.”
“It does seem peculiar,” said Brad. “But I think I get what he's doing.”
“Is it hiding in plain sight again?” asked Denny. “Like Cleo in that circus sideshow?”
Brad nodded.
“Exactly. I think that's it. After all, now they're part of a silly season news trend and we can't very well claim they're a murderous cult. And if we added, 'Oh yeah, and that tall black girl? She can turn into a snake, either totally or just from the waist down, hence the mermaid thing.’ Well, what would the local DA say?”
Day of the Serpent (Ouroboros Book 3) Page 8
