Day of the Serpent (Ouroboros Book 3)

by David Longhorn

  “So as usual the authorities can't help,” said Denny. “Oh well, this is like one of those movies where the crusading journalist and the macho hero beat the bad guys on their own. Oh, and it’s not the DA. In Scotland, it's the Procurator Fiscal.”

  “Sounds like a skin disease,” replied Brad.

  Norton finally appeared, and after perfunctory greetings, they set off for the airport.

  “A couple of hours from now we'll be in Glasgow,” she explained. “Then it will be a long drive through very winding roads into the Highlands.”

  “Across the Highland Line,” added Norton from the back seat. “Where according to the old saying, the Law of Man ends and the Law of the Sword begins.”

  “If only we could kill Ouroboros with a sword,” said Brad.

  “A magical sword like Excalibur,” returned Norton. “That would be ideal for slaying monsters.”

  “Is a lady liable to rise out of the loch and hand me a magic sword?” asked Brad.

  Denny laughed and shook her head.

  “Wrong country, wrong legend,” she said.

  “And the wrong guy,” added Brad.

  Denny gave him an appraising look.

  “Maybe you're the right guy,” she said. “I think James is right. Your paranormal link with Kelly proves you're somehow at the heart of all this, just as she is. If we can figure out why before the showdown, maybe we'll have a chance.”

  There was a pause, then Norton put in, “In many tales of chivalry, the hero has no real idea what he's doing, but he wins through regardless – slays the monster, rescues the maiden, all that sort of thing.”

  It was Brad's turn to laugh.

  “What if the monster's big enough to crack open the earth, and the maiden doesn't want saving?”

  They drove on in silence for a while after that.

  Chapter 7: Consumption

  The debate went better than Mike Carlton expected. Katie insisted on conducting it on the quayside in Invercraig, with a bemused but good-natured crowd of locals looking on. She was now supported by an actual cameraman so that she could act as mediator. Clay and Carlton stood in front of the Talisman, so that the words LOCH NESS MONSTER SURVEY were in shot. Carlton nearly complained that this was bias in favor of the interlopers, but held his tongue in case he seemed like a whiner.

  Besides, he had thought, that rusty old boat hardly inspires confidence.

  When the actual debate began, though, it turned out to be pleasant enough, at first. Far from being an arrogant crackpot, Jonathan Clay came across as erudite and good-humored. The archaeologist seemed to have some far-out theories, true. But Carlton had been ridiculed for his ideas so often that he found himself warming to the scientist.

  “Well, Doctor Clay,” Katie Fox was saying, “we've heard Mike's view that Nessie is some kind of prehistoric reptile, and that there's probably a family of them in the loch. What do you think?”

  “It's a fascinating argument, Katie,” said Clay. “I'm very impressed by the time and effort Mike has put into researching sightings.”

  Clay paused, and the reporter interjected, “I'm sensing a But.”

  “Yes,” Clay resumed. “The problem is that if a colony of giant marine creatures have been living in the loch since time immemorial, wouldn't there be a lot of hard physical evidence? Such as skeletons brought up in fishing nets, decayed carcasses washed up on the shore, that sort of thing. And of course, reptiles lay their eggs on land. So a reptilian Nessie would be clearly visible, heaving herself ashore in the mating season, every year.”

  Carlton suddenly felt as if the ground had fallen away beneath him. His normal ripostes to these arguments seemed hollow now.

  “Wow,” said Katie, genuinely taken aback. “It sounds like you're actually dismissing your own project, though? You can't hunt monsters that aren't there.”

  “Not at all,” Clay responded. “While I would question the term ‘monster,' as what we're dealing with here is a being of a different order of reality.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  Yeah, thought Carlton, what on earth does he mean?

  “What you and Mike call Nessie,” said Clay, “myself and my colleagues call Ouroboros.”

  Katie frowned prettily.

  “Now that's a familiar word, but I just can't place it.”

  “It's a word a lot of people will be hearing in the future, believe me,” said Clay. “You see, many years ago, my research convinced me that in prehistoric times people were genuinely connected to nature. They did not feel the supposed dichotomy between the living world and our one, over-mighty species.”

  “That's hardly a radical view–” began Carlton, only to be shushed by Katie.

  “I think Jonathan's earned the right to speak without interruptions.”

  And so Jonathan did, talking of Ouroboros, the female principle of nature that had been suppressed by a patriarchal culture. Turning our back on nature to find civilization had led, in Clay's version of events, to a planet plagued with greed and violence. The Iron Age, according to the archaeologist, had marked the beginning of this decline. A reliance on technology and an obsession with ever-more advanced weapons had led mankind down a disastrous path.

  Carlton, in spite of himself, found Clay's fervor impressive. And while some of the onlookers scoffed, others were nodding sagely.

  He's making converts, thought Carlton ruefully. Something I've never done.

  “I don't quite see how this connects with Nessie, though,” put in the reporter.

  “I was coming to that,” returned Clay. “We believe that Ouroboros, once rejected by Man, essentially went to sleep, or into hibernation. Visions of Nessie or the sea serpents seen by the Victorians reveal Ouroboros stirring in her sleep, so to speak. What we intend to do is wake her up properly.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” asked Katie.

  “Dangle a large haddock under her nose?” put in Carlton, but the laugh he had hoped for did not materialize.

  Clay shook his head.

  “We hope to invoke Ouroboros by the power of prayer on an ancient site of worship, when the time is right.”

  “And what will happen then?” asked Katie.

  Clay paused again, looked at the camera.

  “The old world will pass away, giving way to the new,” he said.

  For a moment, Carlton felt a chill run down his spine.

  Absurd, he thought. The man's a crank after all. A very committed one, though. I wonder if that applies to his whole team?

  As Katie signed off, Carlton turned to scan the deck of the boat behind them. Nobody was visible. But then he saw a curtain twitch in a cabin window and a woman's face appeared for a moment. She winked and was gone almost before Carlton realized that he had seen her somewhere before.

  “The mermaid!” he said, forgetting his microphone.

  Katie looked slightly annoyed, then asked the cameraman, “We can cut that, can't we Gavin? Good.”

  “No, but it was the mermaid, she's on his boat!” spluttered Carlton. “The hoax, it was he – or they – all along! I saw her!”

  “Why would a mermaid need a boat, Mike?” asked Clay. “Somewhat redundant, don't you think?”

  “She's obviously not a real mermaid, you know what I mean!” Carlton protested.

  “Debate's over, guys,” said Katie. “If you want to carry on, be my guests, but I'm off to talk to a Presbyterian minister who thinks Nessie might be the Beast of Revelation.”

  The television team began packing up and the small crowd started to disperse. A few children stayed on, pointing and giggling. Carlton looked from Clay to the boat and back.

  “I thought,” he said, drawing himself up to his full five feet seven inches, “that you were a man of principle. Now I see you're just another vulgar charlatan. I don't know who's paying you for this scam but–”

  Clay held up a hand to silence him.

  “Really, Mike,” said the archaeologist, “I have better things to
do than argue.”

  Ignoring Carlton's further protests, Clay turned to board the Talisman. But then he stopped, and his head tilted to one side as if listening to a voice inaudible to Carlton. For a moment, Carlton thought the man must be wearing some kind of earpiece given to him by Katie. But he saw no sign of any such gadget.

  “I'm sorry,” said Clay, pausing to speak over his shoulder. “I shouldn't have been so rude. You are of course entitled to an explanation.”

  “Oh,” replied Carlton, slightly taken aback by the change of mood. “That's more like it.”

  “Yes,” said Clay, half-turning and staring past Carlton. Again he seemed to be listening to some prompter. “Please come by the boat later this evening when things have settled down. Everything … will be made … clear then.”

  The invitation sounded unnatural, forced.

  As if he's struggling to get his words out, thought Carlton. Or being pressured into saying them?

  But he could hardly turn the offer down.

  “Of course,” he said. “What time?”

  “We will expect you at dusk,” said Clay in a monotone voice, then climbed aboard the Talisman and was gone.

  The thought bothered Carlton as he drove back up the loch side to his headquarters. But by the time he had reached his office, he had forgotten the odd incident. He was going to get at the truth about what must be some kind of publicity campaign. That made sense, so he clung to the idea despite his instincts telling him not to go back.

  ***

  “You need to go and check the installations,” said Cleo. “We don't want any last-minute failures due to meddling. Do we? So make sure the truck is fueled up. You can take Andreas. I'm done with him for now.”

  Kelly started to leave the cabin, but Clay hesitated.

  “It's a bit early, isn't it?” he asked. “Shouldn't we wait until dark?”

  As the big woman's gaze turned to him, Clay felt Cleo's mind pressing into his own. It was a sensation that had grown more unpleasant in recent months as she had grown appreciably less human. For weeks, she had spent most of her time in lamia form. Even now, though Cleo looked like a remarkably tall woman, closer examination showed traces of golden-bronze scales on her neck and arms.

  Olivia never went this far, he thought. And she was the first of the true lamias.

  “Olivia was killed by Steiger before she had a chance to reach her full potential,” snapped Cleo. “I don't intend for that to happen to me. And if for some reason I don't survive, well, at least we have an insurance policy now.”

  She passed a slender hand across her midriff. A rippling motion moved across her skin. Clay was almost sure it was down to muscles.

  “Keep telling yourself that, Jonathan,” Cleo smiled.

  She looked down at Andreas. The young German lay sprawled on the stained and disheveled mattress, his body marked by a spiral of darkening bruises.

  “At least you didn't kill the poor lad,” said Clay. “What did he do to deserve such treatment?”

  “Same as millions of others. He was born, he lives among us,” Cleo retorted. “That's enough to guarantee lifelong misery and untimely death to millions in your man-made world. Cry for all the victims, not just one so-called victim.”

  She leaned over and caressed the young German's shoulder. He twitched, gave a moan that might have come from fear or desire.

  Probably a bit of both, thought Clay.

  “Indeed,” said Cleo. “Now prepare to check the devices, as I said. I'll get Andreas dressed and ready for the journey. It will probably be getting dark by the time the poor moppet is fit to walk.”

  “I know why you made me invite that fool,” said Clay. “I don't approve, you must know that.”

  “Then you know that the sacrifice is necessary,” purred Cleo, standing upright again and putting her hands on her hips. “Or are you trying to give me orders? This was never really your cult, old man. You're just a convenient figurehead. If you cease to be that …”

  Cleo did not finish the sentence. Instead, she looked down, and again the odd spasm rippled the flesh of her torso.

  “Come on, Jonathan,” said Kelly from the deck hatchway. “We need to get gas.”

  Just over an hour later, Cleo's three minions set out from Invercraig. As they drove out of the village onto the highway, they passed Carlton returning.

  “Where are we going to eat tonight, anyhow?” asked Kelly.

  Clay looked at her with an appalled expression.

  “Sometimes,” he muttered, as he turned his eyes back to the road, “I feel I don't know you at all.”

  ***

  Brad, Denny and Professor Norton took a break for lunch in Glasgow before picking up their rental car. They ate at a pub with the usual television on. As was usual in Britain, the TV was tuned to international soccer with the occasional news bulletin. It was during the latter that they saw the brief debate between Jonathan Clay and Mike Carlton. Amid the hubbub of the drinkers and diners, it was hard to make out everything that was said. But it was clear to all of them that, in Denny's words, Clay had 'gone full crackpot in public.’

  “Let's check it again,” suggested Denny, taking out her phone. They crowded around and watched the interview with the volume turned up to maximum, despite disapproving stares from a couple of nearby patrons.

  “Yes, it's clever,” agreed Norton. “He's telling the truth in such a way that nobody will take him seriously. And yet, he has just planted the seeds of his cult in hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of unsuspecting viewers.”

  “They know the name of Ouroboros now,” agreed Brad. “The internet will be burning up with people searching for it.”

  “In any number of strange spellings,” added Norton, pedantically. “But they'll get there. The idea is in their heads.”

  “They really believe it will be their world soon,” mused Denny. “But can the Zamyatin device really work as they expect? It's got a patchy record, to say the least.”

  “From a technical viewpoint,” said Brad, “a lot has changed since the Sixties. Modern technology means that kind of equipment can be produced more easily, and made more compact. It's a kind of electromagnetic transducer somehow wired into the brain of a subject. Or victim. That sounds like a variation on brain scanners that already exist. Off-the-shelf components are available to make them.”

  For a second, Denny looked puzzled, then she realized what Brad was implying.

  “You mean they could make a lot of devices that are far more powerful than the original?”

  “Why not?”

  Brad took out a map of the Scottish Highlands.

  “Look at the size of the loch. If the being they're hoping to raise is of comparable size, one gizmo won't cut it. All my engineering instincts tell me they'll produce some kind of field generated in a lot of places along the two shores. But I'm convinced that there is a central point.”

  “This mysterious bowl of cherries in your nightmare?” asked Norton.

  “Which points to a specific location,” said Brad. “That's where they'll be for the main event. Last night's dream might as well have spelled it out in mile high letters.”

  “Okay, so that means we're going to Fort Augustus, which is here.”

  Denny prodded the map before continuing.

  “Since they've got a boat, do you think we should rent one?”

  “Reckon so,” said Brad. “If we have to confront them, that would be essential. But we could also use it as a mobile detector.”

  “I sense a burst of technobabble coming,” sighed Norton.

  “Nothing too complicated,” said Brad. “Some oil guys I know in Scotland should have a powerful magnetometer waiting for us. That means we'll pick up any unusual fields generated in the area. It should lead us to the Zamyatin device, or more likely devices, they're using.”

  “And if we just smash them, that's game over for Ouroboros?” said Denny.

  “We could just turn them off, but yes, that is my crude pla
n,” admitted Brad. “And if they do have a network of devices, they can't guard all of them. So if we detect a surge of energy we track down the source and neutralize it.”

  “With a large hammer if necessary,” added Denny. “Speaking as a journalist, it just sounds better.”

  “Call me an old cynic,” said Norton, pausing in an attempt to eat a cheeseburger with a knife and fork, “but is it possible that they will have planted more of these devices than they actually need? By way of insurance?”

  Brad sat back, pondering the question.

  Norton's no fool, he said. If Ouroboros still has plenty of cash, they might well have saturated the area with Zamyatin devices. And we could never disable enough of them to make a difference.

  “I guess we'll know soon enough just how they propose to play it,” he said finally. “But you're right, James. We need a plan B in case A is a bust.”

  “Direct confrontation?” said Denny, dubiously. “In Poland that was very messy. And they got away.”

  She's right, Brad thought. If I try strong-arm tactics, Cleo would try to kill me. And judging by the size of her in that picture, she's even more powerful than before.

  “You're right,” he said, frustrated. “If only we had allies, someone with real clout. Doing this on our own seems crazy when you look at it objectively.”

  “It is quite obviously crazy,” said Norton. “But sometimes doing the crazy thing is your only option.”

  “You sure hit the nail on the head,” admitted Brad.

  “Yes, I,” Norton paused, hesitating, then said, “could I watch that clip again, Denny? I think there was something rather odd about what that Clay chap said. I mean, odd even in the context of the rest.”

  “Okay,” said Denny, “but use my earphones this time. You don't want to antagonize people in a Glasgow pub.”

  After Norton had re-watched the debate, he took the earphones out and said, “Yes, I thought so. Clay seems to have a personal grudge against the Iron Age. Look at the moment when he mentions it. The expression on his face.”