Dark Seed

by Simon West-Bulford

  12

  A full half hour passed in which we helped each other overcome the trauma of our ordeal. Both Elizabeth and Beatrice were so traumatized I feared Breswick and I would not be able to coax them back to a state of relative calm, but eventually they came around. I cannot say that any of us had yet reached a place of sound thought—though Breswick seemed to possess greater coping skills than the rest of us—but, for the time being, it appeared we had stumbled upon a merciful pause in our tribulations; we were at an uneasy stalemate with the enemy.

  During the attack the electric lighting failed and now our only illumination came from the many candles and oil lamps that had been lit before our arrival. One of our first thoughts was to find out why the generators were no longer in operation, but the idea of chancing a trip outside was not one that any of us entertained with enthusiasm. We decided therefore that our more basic form of lighting would suffice for a time and that our foremost priority should be to attend to the dead.

  As a stranger to Dennington Cross, Elizabeth knew none of the victims, and she had taken on a curiously distant attitude as she helped us drag the bodies into a spacious cloakroom which we hoped we would not have to return to for some time; the bodies would need to be buried when and if our situation became less desperate.

  Beatrice took to the task with rising fervor. She insisted upon seeing each and every corpse no matter how disfigured, and although it was obvious that her heart had been terribly wounded by the sight of so many familiar people brought to such a ruthless and abrupt end, it was also apparent she was looking for family.

  Breswick may have been looking for loved ones too, but he went about the business in a quieter fashion than Beatrice, carefully praying over each victim in trembling whispers before we moved them. I also recognized faces: Reg Carson from the bakery, Iris Graves from the cobbler’s, Arthur Jessop from the corner shop. I stifled my tears. Not knowing them as anything more than casual acquaintances, yet still feeling intensely grieved, I could not imagine what it would be like to see my own wife and daughters here, devoid of life.

  It was therefore Beatrice I observed with nervous attention, hoping I would not see a look of devastated recognition on her face as she examined each one of the victims, and at the conclusion of our morbid endeavors—when our stunned minds had taken on a dazed acceptance of the calamity—I felt a particular need to console her. Breswick and Elizabeth were dealing with the last of the bodies whilst Beatrice sat at the bottom step of the entrance hall stairway, gazing into a void.

  I sat beside her. “Is there anything I can do for you, Beatrice?”

  “No,” she said. “I feel . . . ashamed.” A single tear crawled down her cheek, and she briefly looked at the blood on her hands before wiping them on her frock, tainting the pink daisy-chain pattern embroidered there. Somehow, it seemed to destroy this poor woman’s innocence.

  “Ashamed? Why ever should you feel that?”

  “I used to work in the hospital, so I’ve seen death before. Seen lots of horrible things . . . but this . . .” She paused to take a handkerchief out from beneath her shawl and dab her eyes. “I didn’t want to touch them. I didn’t want to . . .” She wrestled against her tears.

  “I know.” I placed an arm around her shoulders. “But you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. These are not ordinary casualties, and these . . . creatures, they defy—”

  Beatrice raised a hand, then placed her trembling fingers against her lips as if they might help her resist saying something that needed to be said.

  “It’s not even as if it’s the first time I’ve seen these things,” she said eventually, “or things like them.” She sniffed loudly, then met my concerned gaze. “That man you talked about earlier. Old Man Tarky? I knew about him. That was Tarquin Haynes, lived in that big old rectory just outside of Newton Fremming. Moved here a few weeks after Hargraven bought this place. I used to look after his grandchildren for him, and he was such a lovely man—a bit eccentric, but lovely, very complimentary about me, he was. Said I had the biggest heart a woman could have . . .” Beatrice sniffled and fought back fresh tears.

  “Go on,” I whispered.

  She drew a long faltering breath before continuing, and I was aware that it had gone silent near the cloakroom. Breswick and Elizabeth had finished, and I presumed they were listening too.

  “Thing is, Mr. Drenn, he got himself a bit of a reputation. Just like Hargraven, and I reckon they knew each other, wrapped up together in this whole mess.

  “He locked himself away and wouldn’t see a soul for weeks, and one of his granddaughters came to see me one day in a terrible state. Said she went to see him and he flew into an awful rage. She swore she saw something in his house just before he slammed the door on her, something horrible. So I went to see him and find out what all the fuss was about. That was the day of the train crash. Or so they said. They weren’t letting anyone anywhere near the village for miles around.” She looked away then and blew her nose.

  “But you went there, didn’t you, Beatrice?”

  “I wish to God I hadn’t.” She shook her head. “I tried to get into Newton Fremming through the forest trail while everyone else was still nosing around the roads. They’d cut off the forest too, but I know that land well, and I knew a bridle way that would take me through.” Beatrice stared into space. “I didn’t get to the village, though.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Her eyes wrinkled in disgust. “Five minutes into the woods it got very foggy, just like that fog outside, and I saw one of . . . one of those things. It wasn’t like the ones in our village, though. This one was skinnier, paler, more like a skeleton, and it was hurt or crippled or something, but it had the same smell about it, like . . . like burning metal, and right then and there I knew there wasn’t a train crash. If ever I did see a demon, that was it, right there.”

  “What did you do?”

  Beatrice shut her eyes tight and seemed to withdraw into herself as she shuddered with tears. “Bashed it in the head with a big stick until it stopped moving.”

  I suppose on any other occasion I would have found Beatrice’s confession to be faintly amusing. Though the circumstances she described were no doubt terrifying, her words had a certain innocent charm. Beatrice wept harder then and pressed her cheek into my shoulder. I felt a twinge of guilt at my thoughts and squeezed her tighter.

  “I couldn’t sleep for days and days and days,” she said. “I thought by killing it I would bring the devil himself upon me. And now . . .”

  “Oh, Beatrice!” I said. “This is not your fault.”

  Beatrice continued to weep as I searched for the right words, but with no other utterance of comfort that could possibly suffice, I simply let her sob with her head against my shoulder.

  I do not know how long Breswick had been listening, but he approached then and said softly, “I counted fifteen bodies.”

  “Stromany’s isn’t amongst them,” added Elizabeth. She seemed unusually upbeat now, and Breswick shot a curious glance at her.

  “What do you mean? You couldn’t find his body?” I said.

  “Exactly,” Breswick said. “He isn’t among the dead.”

  “He survived?” I said. “Well, where could he be?”

  “Did you see where he went after he struck me?”

  Beatrice looked up, wiping her eyes. “I think I saw him head for the kitchens.”

  “If he is still alive, we need to find him,” I said, “and if there is any sense in Hargraven’s plans for us to work as a team, Stromany is still part of them somehow.”

  “You really think he could be?” said Elizabeth. “Given that the rest of us have been labeled with an attribute, wouldn’t that make him the strong one out of the group? He hasn’t exactly exhibited that quality, has he? I think Hargraven may have made a terrible mistake with that man.”

  “That’s right,” said Beatrice. “And there’s Hargraven, too. We still don’t know where he is.”

  “I t
hink it’s about time we searched the west wing,” said Breswick. “We need answers.”

  “But it’s locked,” said Elizabeth.

  “I told you all earlier,” I said. “The keys are kept in the utility room next to the kitchens.”

  “Perhaps that’s where Stromany went,” said Elizabeth. “To get the keys.”

  “Then let’s go,” Breswick said.

  He took two lamps and I led the way from the hallway, through the length of the service corridor, and down a flight of steps into the gloom of the servants’ area and the kitchens. I tried the lights, expecting no response, and found none. Breswick stepped cautiously ahead with the lamp, and as it illuminated the full depth of the kitchens, I noted that Hargraven had done little to this area since I used to frequent it. It seemed that he preferred the rustic Victorian charms of tradition and familiarity, for many of the utensils and facilities that were already old and worn when I last saw them had not since been exchanged for modern equivalents. The huge open fireplace was long devoid of warmth, and the coal stove showed evidence of meals abandoned midway through preparation: a series of baking trays contained the charred remnants of cooked meat, and mold festered on rounds of gnawed cheese and sliced loaves scattered across work surfaces. Crumb trails revealed the likelihood that rats had taken advantage of human absence, and with sour odors filling the stale air, I covered my nose as I crossed the kitchen to the utility room.

  “No sign of Stromany,” said Breswick.

  Beatrice opened one of the cupboard doors by the stove. “For someone who likes home cooking, he has a lot of tinned food.” She pulled a few of the tins from the shelves. “Looks like he was fixing up to feed an army.”

  “Well, at least that’s good news for us,” Breswick remarked. “We can hole up for a while at least.”

  Elizabeth crossed her arms. “I should not like to remain here for any great length of time.”

  “There’s plenty of bottled water here, too,” Beatrice said. “And wine.”

  “At least we know where Stromany got his bottle from,” said Breswick. “Strange. Hargraven used to store it in the wine cellar. Isn’t that one of the rooms you said you hadn’t tried, Elizabeth? I wonder what he’s got down there.”

  “Can you bring one of those lamps here, Theo?” I said.

  Breswick came over, with the two women staying close, and handed me one of his lamps. I walked to the utility room and held it over the key cabinet. “There are several keys missing. If there was a spare to the west wing, it’s not here now. There are none for the wine cellar either.”

  “Well, that’s that then,” said Elizabeth.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “You may have been right about Stromany. He could have taken them.”

  “It’s possible,” Breswick said, “but it’s equally likely that Hargraven took them. If he wanted to lock himself away and stay hidden, it makes sense he would take the spares too.”

  “I still don’t understand why Hargraven would lock himself away after inviting us,” said Beatrice. “None of this makes a bit of sense.”

  “Perhaps he had no choice,” said Elizabeth. “Something might have happened after he invited us.”

  “Well, we need to find out,” Breswick said. “I say we find a way to break inside. I think we should try the west wing first. That’s where his study is. We may find him there, but if we don’t, we have to try the wine cellar.”

  Moon Box Segment Translation 12

  The Innominatum rises

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  12th September 1891

  It seems that an entire network of these channels lies underneath the city, for we have encountered them beneath every chamber we’ve uncovered today. Despite my best efforts to persuade them with additional fees, none of the workers have yet agreed to venture along them, saying that they are the burrows of foul and ancient serpents. There are veins of a coppery substance running along their circumference, and whilst the workers’ superstitions are obvious bunkum, I will admit that the design does not appear to have an architectural purpose. The way they twist and coil and curve suggests to me an organic origin, and I am of a growing opinion that we are standing above a vast arboreal root system. The City of the Innominatum may have been built to surround a huge tree, much larger than any species in existence today.

  I found myself torn between examining the channels and studying each new and individual chamber we entered; unfortunately, I have been unable to focus on either. Haynes insisted that we cease our investigations and retire for the evening. He told me he would explain everything in the morning.

  13

  Breswick led the way to the west wing with Beatrice and Elizabeth close behind. I tailed them, deep in thought. There was little doubt in my mind that Hargraven’s dubious, almost prurient interests in arcane mythology had played some unwitting part in our plight, but as Breswick tried the door to the west wing and found it unlocked, I experienced no sense of anticipation that we would soon discover our host waiting on the other side with explanations and deliverance. Whilst I believed we might find answers in the west wing, I doubted we would ever truly understand this enemy that had laid siege to us.

  “Are you quite certain this door was locked?” Breswick asked.

  “Quite,” said Elizabeth. “But a great deal has happened since we tried it.”

  Beyond the door, I saw the lengthy colonnade that connected the west wing to the rest of the school. An angry shimmer of flame illuminated it. At first I thought a candle had fallen and set fire to the scarlet drapes that lined the wall, but there were no candles. Firelight was streaming through the series of arched windows on the right, and as we crept forward to gaze through the first of them, we saw that the beasts had not been idle. The pyres circling our uncertain fortress were heaped with bodies set ablaze. Not all the figures looked human; some appeared to be the carbonized husks of twisted, malformed beasts, perhaps reject spawn from the metallic trees that generated the flames. From the gaseous emissions escaping the bodies, I surmised they were these which created such violence and height in the flames, for the pyres rose so high that they rivaled the spires of the tallest cathedrals. I thought again of the mysterious and empty places that inhabited the gulf beyond Dennington Cross and shivered at the prospect that our humble village would soon join them as another trophy for these monsters.

  “Look!” Elizabeth tried to say something more, but her voice cracked as she pointed at the glass. At first I thought she was giving voice to our collective dismay at this hellish panorama, but something new was stirring amidst the flames, something greater and more sinister than the beasts seething within the ring. Whatever it was, it had seen us.

  I dared not remain to see more than a passing glimpse of this new creature moving toward the school, but I had the impression of something bipedal, almost as tall as a tree, loping on thick elephantine limbs. Elizabeth’s scream was enough to convince me I had made the right choice in not dwelling upon it. She pushed past me in terror, tripping as she raced to move beyond detection, past the windows to the other end of the colonnade. Beatrice followed, equally distressed, and I felt Breswick’s palm on my back, urging me on. We stopped just past the last window. A little farther down the colonnade, the door to what I remembered to be the old school staff room was slightly ajar, and farther still was the final door that would lure us into the west wing.

  How Breswick had the courage to watch this new entity whilst he crouched at the farthest window, I will never know, but he handed me the lamp, told us to get inside the staff room, and remained in position, apparently fearless.

  “It’s stopped,” he said as the three of us hovered by the door.

  “Because it can no longer see us?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It seems reluctant, like the other demons.”

  All I could hear was our breathing as we waited. A minute passed, then two.

  “Has it moved?” Beatrice whispered, a tremor in her
voice.

  “No, it . . . Wait . . . Yes, it’s coming toward the school again. I think—”

  The same stentorian wail we heard earlier cut Breswick off. It seemed to come from somewhere deep below and behind us, as if whatever it was lurked somewhere under the school. We clasped our hands to our ears, our own terrified cries blotted out by the noise as its staccato vibration shook brick and glass around us. I gasped for breath as the cry died down. Breswick wiped sweat from his eyes and resumed gazing through the window.

  “It’s stopped again. It’s just . . . standing there.”

  I stepped forward and reached out to grasp Breswick’s jacket. “Leave it, Theo. It—”

  “No, no! It’s going back. It’s leaving. It must have been the howl.”

  My relief was almost tangible when he said that. Although I had not seen the creature, I am sure I felt it, like a walking aura of sickness about to smother the building. I cannot explain it except to consider Old Man Tarky’s suggestion that these creatures, and their master, had a way of influencing our minds. It was also impressed upon me that this new creature may have been the Behemoth that Tarky had described—a creature that he said was opposed to the Innominatum. Even so, the projected intimidation of this Behemoth was still inferior when compared to the dread invoked by the mysterious howl or the feeling I had near the wine cellar when I saw the image carved upon its door. With my imagination attributing dark and grotesque designs to the howl’s owner, my momentary relief passed, and it was all I could do to prevent panic from possessing me. Death waited for us outside, but something unknown and terrifying waited for us in unexplored areas of the school too, it seemed. Could it be that the Innominatum, the Nameless Beast, actually resided within Hargraven Manor?

  With nowhere to go that could be considered truly safe, the weight of our ordeal took its toll on my disposition, and I felt like a worm exposed to the shriveling noonday sun before a flock of ravenous, bickering starlings. The throb of pain squeezing my skull told me that the effects of the laudanum had completely worn off and, with it, the lull of medically induced calm. Some deep instinct urged me to run from this place, to run anywhere, and I believe I would have too, were it not for the giddy threat of unconsciousness weighing down my limbs.