That Which Should Not Be

by Talley, Brett J.

  The beast fell to his knees. But then, as the flames threatened to consume him, he looked at me and said, “The body dies, but the spirit lives on.”

  I saw his eyes change, saw the red drain from them. In the instant before he died, I saw the eyes of Andy. And though he was in unimaginable pain, they were filled with gratitude and joy.

  I suppose that is the end of the story, though it was not the end of the ordeal. The horses were dead, and Tom could barely walk. I took a bear skin and made it so that I could pull it behind me. Tom rested inside, and I began to drag him through the snow, back through the forest to the town that lay miles beyond. We had no supplies, no provisions. But I was not concerned. I could trap something, find something. But as we moved on, it was as if every animal in the forest had vanished, as if we were cursed. There was no food then, nothing to eat, nothing to catch. A man can go a long time without food, but not in the cold, not when he is dragging another behind him. Things happen in times like that, things you try and forget, things you don’t talk about. Five days later, Tom died. Seven days after that, I stumbled into the village. Alone, but not starved.

  That was fifty years ago now, fifty years in which I have made the forest my home. I never saw the Wendigo again, not in the flesh at least. But there were times when the night was dark and cold, when the moon was full in the sky and the icy wind would cut through flesh and bone. In those times, I would hear a voice on the wind and my dreams would be filled with flashes of light and peals of thunder, of dark shapes moving in the distance, and the screeching cry of a great bird seeking its prey.

  Part III

  Chapter

  10

  Carter Weston:

  The howling wind continued to roar outside, and even the flames in the fireplace seemed to shiver as the strongest gust yet shook the very walls of the old tavern. I looked around warily at the ancient structure, but my companions showed no signs of concern, and so the moment passed.

  Jack had leaned back in his chair now. His ale was in his hands, but though his eyes peered into its amber depths, something of the way they shimmered told me he was far away, somewhere still in the past of which he had just shared.

  “And what of that?” asked Captain Gray. “Here is a story from the mouth of a witness. Can such a story, as fantastic as it may seem, be seriously doubted?”

  I looked from Gray to Jack. I thought at first I should choose my words carefully. But it was evident to me Jack was no more present for the conversation than if he had been a thousand miles from that place. Outside in the snow, the rare sound of thunder echoed in from the sea.

  “Well, Captain,” I began, “I believe Jack here must have endured a terrible ordeal. Of that I have no doubt. But being alone and hungry in the cold and the dark, I’m sure one sees all number of things. That he believes it, that it is a memory in his mind, I am sure. But I hesitate to give

  full credence to such a tale, given the circumstances.”

  “Ah, the consummate skeptic,” the Captain said.

  “And I would wear the name gladly,” I replied, “for it’s only the skeptic that gives value to the truth.”

  “Yes,” the Captain said nodding, “but only when he is open to the truth. The skeptic with a closed mind becomes the worst kind of believer.”

  To that bit of wisdom I could only nod and raise my glass in acknowledgment. At that moment, another traveler opened the door of the pub and threw himself in, a great gust of wind following behind.

  “I fear the storm will not abate for some time,” the Captain said. “But I take that as a blessing. The night is young, and there is so much more to tell.”

  “Of this there is truth,” said the lawyer Daniel. It was the first time he had spoken since our introductions. “And if our young guest can spare yet more of his night, I suppose some of that story is mine.”

  I nodded my head in agreement, and he began to speak.

  Chapter

  11

  Daniel:

  I was a younger man then, probably not much older than you. I was born in Boston and had only recently completed a course of study at college in Cambridge. For some time, it had been my intention to enter into a career in the legal profession. My father, a man who built his fortune in the years following the war, had made it his purpose that his son should live a life better reflecting that of his more established peers.

  It was a classic case of new money. My father had wealth, but wanted respect. So, he would attempt to purchase it. I saw the inherent flaw in his thinking. Respect is a thing earned, not bought, and a man who lets it be known that he seeks respect will probably never see it bestowed. But I digress, I suppose. It is important only that his son had no intention of refusing his largesse. And so I departed on a steam ship bound for the old country.

  Oh, those were heady days. To be on a transatlantic ship, in the middle of the ocean, nothing but great blue water as far the eye can survey. I know, Captain Gray, why the sea calls. But less than a fortnight passed before I reached the shores of England. It was there I met the man who was to be my guide across an unknown land — Lawrence.

  Lawrence was an interesting fellow, a burly, muscular man who, through many years in the service of Her Majesty, had seemingly learned

  the languages and customs of most places in the world.

  “Served in India once,” he would say. “Met a beautiful girl there. As spicy as the food, she was. If you want to know a culture, the best classroom is the bedroom, if you take my meaning, sir.”

  There had been a girl in every country, apparently, or maybe more than one.

  “Your father laid it out how he wants this to go. Culture, history. Classical antiquity. All of the things one would expect.”

  “Sounds terrific,” I lied. “But perhaps we will leave some room for imagination?”

  “Perhaps,” Lawrence responded tentatively. “But your father isn’t paying for imagination.”

  Lawrence was true to his word. After a brief stay in London, we left the White Cliffs of Dover behind, setting down in the port city of Calais. From that idyllic spot, we rented a coach which carried us from the channel to the grand city of Paris, the City of Lights.

  There we remained for some weeks. I was directed in the various accoutrements of fair society — fencing, riding, even dancing — all while I tried vainly to acquire some semblance of the French language. On the latter I failed, though not for want of sampling Lawrence’s own particular brand of cultural exchange.

  From Paris we made our way to Geneva. I could have stayed among the Alps until the rivers carried them away, but Lawrence was determined. No, we must press on, through the mountains and into Italy. And so we made the climb, though the men we hired to carry our baggage greatly eased our burden. Then, to Turin for a spell and on to Florence.

  In Florence was spent the days and weeks that I had wished for in Geneva. A beautiful city, a blessing to visit, but one can only have so much of cathedrals and the treasures of the arts. It was among that whirlwind of marble statues and priceless paintings that I met Charles.

  Chapter

  12

  I first encountered Charles in a dark and dusty corner of the Uffizi. He was admiring one of the many semi-clothed statues of some unnamable Greek goddess, peering intently at an exposed breast. I was standing beside him, as I had stood by any number of other young men of rank and class on similar excursions. What made Charles different was he deigned to speak with me.

  “It appears modesty was not one of the foremost Greek virtues. Don’t you think?”

  I looked at Charles and smiled. With the exception of Lawrence, I had found the “Grand Tour” to be anything but. In America, I had lived my life in excess. Thus I had never been so keenly aware of my own relative poverty as in those few months. But these were not just men of wealth. No, they were of title and position. These were Von’s and Van’s, dukes and earls. Even the occasional prince.

  “Apparently not,” I replied.

 
“Oh well,” the young man continued, “I suppose if you have seen one stone breast you’ve seen them all.” He looked at me and grinned. “Charles Cawdor,” he said, sticking out his hand. I took it with a smile.

  “Daniel Lincoln,” I said with a laugh.

  “American, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly.”

  “Any relation to the late, great president?

  “Ha!” I exclaimed, rocking back on my heels, “No, no relation.” I wondered if my ever-declining prestige would bring this conversation to a quick end.

  “Good,” he said blithely. “I hate politicians.”

  “How about yourself? English?”

  “Oh,” Charles coughed, throwing back his head as if he had been struck, “Scottish, my good man. But I forgive you your Yankee ignorance. Now, where does one get a bloody drink around here? Being called English has me as dry as a parson’s wit.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I had immediately taken to the young Scot. Lawrence was initially thrilled to find I had made a friend, particularly one who was apparently noble. His opinion was changed after a night of drinking, smoking, and singing a passel of songs I had never heard and could barely understand.

  “The young master would do well to avoid Lord Charles,” Lawrence was heard to say the next day.

  I say he was heard. The thundering headache that pounded between my ears was heavy on the listening. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Charles was an oasis in a desert of tediousness. We left Florence together when it was time. From there, we traveled to the canalled city of Venice, the crown jewel of Renaissance Italy, the decadent heart of a dying culture. Yes, Charles was a godsend. Oh, that I had never met him. How much different those next few days might have been.

  * * *

  Ah, Venice. Even now I long for its narrow, winding corridors, its floating villas, its streets of cool water. Even our tired and restless minds found succor there. We played amongst the ancient churches, the lion-crested palaces of the doge, the thousand islands that formed the heart of the city. In that magical place we found, for not a small time, true joy and peace. But alas, the young mind easily grows weary of even the most extraordinary things. Soon that grand city became as elegant Florence had — a general bore. So, we took to the other great treasure of Venice — its wine.

  That night was not unlike the others that preceded it. A warm spring evening, a little cafe along the Grand Canal, our second, or perhaps our third, bottle of sweet, gently bubbling Prosecco. Even the conversation was repeated.

  “The ‘Grand Tour,’” Charles sputtered as if addressing a person he did not like. “Grand, indeed. I hope you don’t mind me saying, Daniel, but I find nothing grand about it. I expected adventure,” he said, thrusting his glass in the air and spilling a few drops of wine as he did. “But, instead, nothing more exciting than a trip down to London.” He caught my eye and for a moment faltered. “Oh, you must think me quite the fop. I am sure this has all been most intriguing for you.”

  “No,” I replied candidly, “No. I did not think it possible to grow tired of such wonderful things. But I have, nonetheless.”

  It was then that I noticed a man eyeing us from an adjacent table. He was an older gentleman, one of some wealth, no doubt. He wore a bright madras coat and fondled an ivory-handled cane. As he moved it about, I could see he held it by a bone-white carving of a great sea beast. I stared at it, transfixed. My mind was transported back to a day from my childhood in a classroom far away, a voice of a teacher in rhyme.

  Below the thunders of the upper deep;

  Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

  His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

  The Kraken sleepeth.

  I have often thought back on him, whether he was a figure of good or ill, how and why he came into our lives when he did. I have since concluded he was an innocent — our encounter was random and banal, the consequences of which could not have been foretold.

  But in any event, there he sat, and his attention was drawn to us. He seemed to be considering whether to interrupt. But once it was clear I had noticed him, he made his decision.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he approached, spinning his cane between his thumb and his index finger, “I hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

  His words said he was friendly. The way he spoke them, English. Charles gestured to a seat beside us and said, “Of course, please join us.”

  “Why, thank you. I did not mean to intrude, but on a cool and quiet night, one can’t help but partake in the conversations of those around him, even if he is not one of the participants.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother,” Charles said. “We were merely complaining amongst ourselves. Maybe you can help to shake us from the doldrums.”

  “Yes, I heard. I take it you two gentlemen have brought yourself to Venice as part of a tour of the continent, no?”

  “That would be correct,” I said.

  “Ah yes, I remember those days. I followed your steps myself when I was young. A peculiar thing. Such a grand adventure in theory, but far more tedious in the doing.”

  Charles and I chuckled.

  “Yes,” I said, “that would be precisely the problem.”

  “Well, have you considered a deviation from your present course?”

  His words came almost as a blow. It had been so far from my mind not to follow the preordained route that this was the first I had considered it.

  “Well,” I began, speaking for us both, “what do you mean?”

  “It is on to Rome after this, I expect?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Charles answered. “On to Rome, and then Naples.”

  “Well,” the man said again, “have you considered going east?”

  “East?” I exclaimed.

  “Yes,” the man said enthusiastically. “East through Austria-Hungary. Across the Carpathians. To Russia even. Perhaps down to Constantinople on the shores of the Black Sea. Many men will see Rome, but the jewels of the East, those are precious stones, indeed.”

  Charles looked at me, and I saw the sparkle in his eyes. I hadn’t known him long, but that look was universal.

  “What do you say, Daniel?” he asked.

  “Well,” I replied, “it’s all rather sudden. Are you sure we should? What of Rome? And what will Lawrence . . .”

  “Oh, fie on Lawrence,” Charles interrupted. “Old man needs a break from you, anyway. And besides, Rome can wait. We have nothing but time.”

  This was true. Time was a luxury we possessed.

  “So?” Charles said, his eyes demanding.

  I looked at him for a moment, unsure. But it was adventure I had sought, and he would brook no answer but yes.

  “Yes,” I said, forcing a smile, “Yes, let’s do it!”

  “Excellent!” Charles exclaimed. “Then we shall,” he said, raising his glass for a toast.

  I suppose we should have taken pause there, but the euphoria of change had overtaken us. We would go east. To what place and what destination we did not know, but at that moment, neither did we care.

  * * *

  “I forbid it!”

  I had expected this.

  “Your father would never approve.”

  “Lawrence,” I said calmly, hoping some of my reserve would accrue to him, “the decision is already made. You cannot stop me.”

  “I most certainly can!”

  I held up both hands and said, “Lawrence, please. You have been so good to me on this journey. Please, let me do the same for you. I will be fine. I’ll be with Charles. You can stay here in Venice until we return. You were saying only yesterday how much you love the city. Now you can enjoy it without having me on your conscience. Look, I know if you put your mind to it you can prevent me. But I'm asking you not to. As a friend. Just stay here. My father need not know. And if he finds out, I will take all the blame. You have my word on that.”

  Lawrence eyed me uneasily for a second. Then, he sighed, lowering himself into
a chair next to the bed. I knew then I had won.

  “Fancy lot of good that would do,” he said. “But I suppose you have earned a diversion. I’ll wait here for your return. Just promise you won’t be long.”

  “Oh, Lawrence, you saint you,” I said cheerfully. “You have my word we will return post haste.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lawrence said. “I’ll be lucky to see you in three months,” he moaned with a smile. But then his face turned stern.

  “There is one thing, Daniel. And I want you to promise you will listen to me and heed my counsel. Can you promise me that?” I saw resolution in his eyes, and when I gave him my word, it was not vainly that I did so. “In Europe,” he continued, “the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. There is darkness there, darkness you have never seen. That land can be a wondrous place, no doubt of that. But promise me you will take care you do not stumble out of the light.”

  I looked at him for a moment, and it was no doubt clear to him that, while I had heard his words, I had no way to fully comprehend them. Still, he gave no further explanation.

  “Yes, Lawrence,” I said. “I will be careful.”

  His eyes betrayed the doubt that was in his mind, but he obscured that uncertainty with a smile, nodding his head once and covering my hands with his.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. But I hope you will not begrudge an old man a prayer for you daily?”

  “Never,” I said, now covering his hands with one of mine. “In fact, I will count on it.”

  Chapter

  13

  Our plan was simple. We would travel mostly by train, switching to stagecoach when necessary. We would go east to Trieste. Then, on to Vienna and to Budapest. From there, the Carpathians would stand in our way. We would cross them to Czernowitz and from that city travel to Odessa. Our travels on land would end there. A ship would take us down the Black Sea to Istanbul and through the Bospurus into the Aegean. Then the Mediterranean, the Ionian, back up the Adriatic, arriving in Venice from whence we came.