Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure

by T. L. B. Wood

  “I’m Mrs. Higgins,” she answered in a brusque, no-nonsense voice. “And, yes, I have one room available, but I don’t usually let my boarders bring pets,” she said disapprovingly, her lips pressing together, turning down at the corners at the very thought. As she spoke, a huge yellow cat the color of orange marmalade stalked down the hallway, pausing to glare at Kipp and Elani. Like all animals, the cat could perceive that Kipp and Elani were not dogs, but he couldn’t quite make them out. I had to applaud his moxie, watching as he finally plopped his furry backside on the floor, glaring at the huge lupines as he began to clean his face and ears with a large paw. Only a cat could act in such a deliberately casual manner.

  “Kipp and Elani are very clean, as you can see, and are completely house trained,” Peter began his litany of their wonderful qualities. “We are willing to pay twice your rate for just one night stay.”

  I think it was the offer of extra currency versus the dissertation about the cleanliness of the lupines that helped her make up her mind. Blythburgh was small, after all, and didn’t get many visitors in the off season, when the chilled ocean fueled air brought an unpleasant dampness to the town. Mrs. Higgins ushered us past the threshold and bustled down a narrow hallway crowded with umbrella stands, a towering bookcase and fragile chairs with seat covers decorated in fine needle point, the sort of things one did not use for sitting but more for admiring. Although the house had two stories, she showed us to a ground level room in the back of the house. It was an average sized room with wallpapered walls covered in green tangles of twisting ivy that made me think I was in the midst of a neglected and overgrown garden. After she left, Peter stared at me as Elani gazed at Kipp.

  “She really meant one room, didn’t she?” Peter asked. He shifted back and forth on his feet.

  Over my lifetime, I’d slept in some awkward settings as well as a memorable and uncomfortable cave shared with a tribe of prehistoric people. There had been fire, so that was a bonus at the time. Communal situations were not an issue for me. Peter, however, was definitely new to this aspect of traveling.

  “It’s fine,” I said, to comfort Kipp as much as Peter. “There is a divan over there that will serve me perfectly.” As Peter started to offer to take the smaller bed, I added, “I’m shorter than you, and I will take the divan. Kipp will snuggle with me, while you and Elani share the bed.” Raising an eyebrow, I smiled. “It is only for one night, guys. I’m sure we can all manage.”

  Leaving them to stare at each other, I found the kitchen, which was on the far side of the ground floor, and, after knocking politely on the wooden door frame, I entered as Mrs. Higgins nodded to me. Surreptitiously I checked my shoes, since the kitchen had a wonderful floor of bruised and mismatched tiles that appeared to have been mopped that morning; the room was filled with the smell of bread baking. Our proprietress was busy kneading a new loaf on a large, wooden table, her entire body swaying with the motion.

  “Mrs. Higgins, we came to Blythburgh to hear the story of Black Shuck,” I began, taking a seat out of her way on an elevated stool. She frowned but said nothing and seemed to knead even more vigorously. “Is there some way we can leave here late tonight, if we can find a driver, and go out into the countryside without disturbing you and your household too much?”

  She finished the bread, which she had shaped into a perfect loaf, and placed it into the oven. There was a row of finished bread loaves, cooling on the windowsill. Turning to me, she asked if I’d like a cup of tea from the pot she’d brewed just before I interrupted her routine. She handed me the cup and indicated the small crockery vessels containing cream and sugar.

  “That story, some say, is just an old tale passed down by superstitious people who were trying to explain a natural event.” She turned to examine her bread loaves, sighing in satisfaction at their perfection. “There was, by all accounts, a bad lightening storm that night. The steeple took a direct hit and collapsed, striking and killing two people. And the burn marks on the door are nothing more than old scorches from candles being held too close.”

  “I can see you are driven not by superstition but by natural facts,” I remarked, hoping my cleverness would gain her support. Kipp was following my thoughts from his perch in our room in the back of the house.

  “I am a spiritual woman and know that superstition, itself, is the act of the devil.”

  I nodded my head, trying to appear big eyed and innocent. We’d only be there one night, but I had no wish to incur her disapproval any more than was necessary. After all, we’d disrupt her routine by coming and going at odd hours. So the lies began.

  “My brother, Peter, is actually here on a research project for his university,” I began, my mind searching for direction. “Personally, I agree with you, Mrs. Higgins. Neither my brother nor I are superstitious by nature.” As I rambled on creating a false narrative, she seemed mollified by my explanation and promised she’d make enquiries of a local who might be persuaded, if the price was right, to drive us around the countryside in the wee hours of the morning.

  After I rejoined the others, we decided to stretch our legs and take a stroll around the small community. From behind white picket fences, tiny dogs bravely yapped at Kipp and Elani. One intrepid barker with a furry face that seemed full of teeth was probably no bigger than Kipp’s foot, but in the manner of dogs, size mattered not. At the edge of town, we could easily view the countryside, which eventually would join with the sea. Although we couldn’t visualize the ocean, the smell of it was in the air, its salty tang biting on the back of my tongue.

  Blythburgh was settled near the banks of the River Blyth, in close proximity to the estuary where river and ocean merged. Overhead, a small grouping of ducks flew towards the water, their wings thumping loudly against the damp air. Water birds with curved, long necks and spindly trailing legs hovered, suspended it seemed, as they flew towards the swampy low lands. At some point, the lane upon which we walked became so narrow that the hedgerows seemed to close in, their untrimmed branches snatching greedily at our coat sleeves. A breeze stirred and plucked at my hat, which thankfully was anchored by more than one pin. Gazing upward at the western horizon, I noted some dark clouds and hoped that rain would not interfere with our plans for the late evening excursion to the country.

  “Rain, fog, and the like will probably only make the setting more conducive to Black Shuck,” Kipp observed, nuzzling my hand. “And no wet dog jokes, please.”

  The driver was a little greedy to my way of thinking, and his price to be our tour guide seemed excessive, but he was the only game in town, so Peter happily handed over the coins. The driver was a local who owned a battered four wheeler carriage that had seen better days; the fabric seats were split with wear and cotton ticking protruded like cotton bolls threatening to burst. The man, I noted, was heavily dressed, even to a muffler wound around his face. I understood his caution; it was just the first of March, and the weather remained damp, cold and wildly unpredictable.

  “I’ll take you out to the country,” he said, “where the swamps and bogs be.” I could see the whites of his eyes as he glanced at us. “People have claimed to see old Shuck in those parts.” Canvassing his thoughts, I realized that he was anxious and not just ramping up the excitement to frighten the two goofy Americans, who seemed to have nothing better to do with their time than ride around the desolate countryside in a beat up carriage after darkness had fallen.

  I had no expectations of the excursion as we were being jostled roughly out to the middle of nowhere in the chill of the night to satisfy Kipp’s curiosity. As we bumped along, I had cause to wonder if the driver was purposefully hitting every rock and rough spot on the unpaved road. After another jolt caused my fanny to come in sharp and unexpected contact with a broken spring diabolically concealed in the worn seat upon which I sat, I almost called it quits. Peeking into the driver’s mind, I discovered no ill intent at the rough passage, just happiness that he had thoroughly taken advantage of us in terms of the pric
e of his labor. From his point of view, this was commerce in full gear. We were fortunate there was a full moon hovering overhead, an enormous, amber ball that shed some light on the somber landscape. An occasional lonely strand of wispy cloud drifted across the orb as if a prankster had taken a piece of gauze fabric and draped it to purposely create a spooky atmosphere. Glancing up, I looked over at Elani, who wagged her tail in response. For a young lupine with little experience, she didn’t seem to be put off by much that could be tossed her way. I liked her boldness then and still do. The driver pulled up the horse; the carriage slowed and finally rolled to a creaking stop. Peter stuck his head out the carriage window, since it was obvious the driver didn’t plan on dismounting from his box. In fairness, I suppose he was no tour guide and was under no compulsion to assist us in disembarking from his vehicle.

  “Over there is where some poor farmer lived before my time,” the driver’s raspy voice announced. He drew our attention to a tumbled down hovel of rocks; there once had been thatch covering the roof, but most had blown away or rotted with time. “Many folk have claimed to see Shuck wandering about this place.”

  It became clear that the driver wanted to deposit us in the midst of the empty, dismal countryside, while he returned to the village to sit before the warmth of a crackling fire with a pint in hand. I almost refused but another glimpse into the man’s thoughts indicated no deception. He fully planned on returning for us, so I nodded at Peter.

  “I’m wearing the new wool undergarments I bought, so I’m okay,” I offered.

  “And Elani and I brought our fur coats, so we’re good to go,” Kipp quipped.

  I’ll admit, although I’ve seen a lot in my life, the countryside was the epitome of desolation, and if one had planned on writing a novel about haunted hounds, the atmosphere and locale were perfect for inspiration. The land was mostly flat, with a few small bumps that might qualify as tiny hills, but we were at the edge of marshland which was bleak and nondescript. Kipp’s nose crinkled in distaste as the smell of stagnant water clung to us like a damp, mildewed blanket. Curious, I wandered into the fallen down house of rock and tried to make out the interior, as best I could, led by the illumination cast by the hovering moon. The odor of decaying thatch that had crumpled into black, moldy lumps on the ground only added to the general funk swirling in the air. The romantic side of my nature was in full force as I speculated about who might have once lived there…and died there. What children were born beneath the thatched roof that once protected them from the wind and rain, and what was their destiny? Such past sentimental musings had led to me acquiring large amounts of useless junk in my house. Suddenly, I wheeled around as an eerie sound broke the silence of the marshland. It was still a little early in the season for insects, frogs and other bog dwelling creatures to be giving voice.

  “What on earth was that?” Peter asked as I joined him outside.

  I shook my head and resisted the impulse to grab his hand, like a child afraid of boogie men lurking in the dark. Kipp and Elani walked forward a few paces, their huge ears pitched forward like radar dishes trying to catch a signal. A leafless tree towered next to the tumbled down house, its branches looking like the hand of a skeleton outlined against the enormous moon; an owl flew overhead, its wings softly beating the air, the feathers flashing pale against the darkness. Could anything have been timelier, I wondered wryly. Then the sound echoed again, and this time I heard it more clearly. It was obviously the voice of a dog or canine of some type, howling, the sound echoing across the eroded hills and winding through the swampy lowlands.

  “Kipp?” I asked, since his abilities were greater than my own.

  “Sounds like a dog,” he replied, “but I’m not picking up on anything living yet.” He turned to look at me, and the amber of his eyes flashed, caught in a soft blur of light. “Could be too far away,” he added.

  Over the next few minutes, we heard the eerie howl three more times. Each time it seemed closer, louder, more intense. Finally, there was a fourth howl. Looking towards where it seemed the sound originated, I saw the large form of what appeared to be a hound, silhouetted against the descending moon. This time I did grab Peter’s hand as he reached for mine. He’d seen it as clearly as the rest of us, despite his being challenged with ghost detection in the past.

  The dog–whether made of flesh or a construct of spirit–began to move towards us, its head up; the sound of large paws beating heavily against the sandy loam was clearly audible in the otherwise still countryside. Suddenly, Kipp and Elani shot off, racing towards the animal, which was running towards us, as if they planned on intercepting it. I started to warn them to stay, but if it was a ghost, then what was the harm? It was then I noticed that somehow Peter and I had ended up in an embrace and gently removed myself from his arms. Feeling somewhat silly, I realized I’d been caught up in the Black Shuck lore and was afraid. Peter might not confess to the same but it was there, nonetheless. Kipp was blocking his thoughts, for what reasons I didn’t know. Perhaps he was trying to protect me, as he did in Gettysburg?

  Peter and I waited, breathless, until a few minutes later when Kipp and Elani trotted back to us, leading a large, black dog that was the size of a Great Dane but obviously some type of mix. He was a goofy, friendly fellow who almost knocked me down with a head butt as he begged for attention. The dog had an awkward lankiness that betrayed his youth as he managed to trail a slobbery slime trail down my sleeve with his large tongue. Most dogs were put off by the lupines, but the giant youngster didn’t appear bothered and seemed happy to make some new friends at that lonely abandoned farmstead.

  “He’s a lemon head,” Kipp said, playfully batting at the giant with his paws. “In other words, he’s kind of dumb.” Glancing at me, Kipp added, “He isn’t disturbed by us.”

  I knew then what had happened. Some villager, hearing of our trip through local gossip, brought Marmaduke out to scare us. It was a great jest! I appreciated a good practical joke, and this one would stick with me a long time. The village, which was a quiet one, needed a good stir, so we’d play along and act suitably terrified when we returned.

  Finally, the big brute ambled off, wagging his tail as he drifted away, probably towards home and a bowl of Gravy Train. As we watched him fade into the darkness, I took a seat on a partially collapsed rock wall, ignoring the cold chill of stone that attacked my posterior with a vengeance, as we waited for our hired driver to return.

  “So, do we think there is a Black Shuck demon dog out there somewhere?” Peter glanced at Kipp.

  “Well, this one trial is insufficient. And I know we have other business that takes priority, and we don’t have time to run all over England checking out rumored sightings. I guess it was silly of me to think we’d strike gold on one try.” Kipp looked deflated, his ears flat against his skull. I knew he was hoping to make a miraculous contact.

  “It was a valid attempt, Kipp,” I remarked. Reaching out, I scratched the top of his head and was relieved to see his ears perk up, a barometer of his mood. “It, after all, is not like Gettysburg where everything is concentrated in one area.” I laughed softly. “And that was one of the best frights I’ve had in a while. Just think of what we did to boost the morale of that village. They’ll be talking about us for years.”

  Kipp glanced at me as his tail began to wag. His head turned as we heard the clopping of hooves against the earth…it seemed our driver had returned, somewhat mellowed after having spent hours in a local pub while he waited.

  “So, did you see the Devil’s hound?” he asked, his gravelly voice made more so by the chill in the air. His worry was genuine; his thoughts told us that he’d not been complicit in the jest.

  “Why, yes, we actually did see and hear a large hound running along the countryside,” Peter replied, eyes big, voice filled with excitement. “My sister,” he said, gesturing at me, “was terrified, so I’m glad you returned when you did,” he finished with a grateful nod, pinching the back of my arm to stop me f
rom giggling.

  “So you saw old Shuck!” The driver’s bleary eyes were suddenly clear, and he glanced about, obviously fearful the hound from hell would show up at any moment. I think his horse made the short trip back to town in record time. If we’d been in a car instead of a carriage, we might have heard the sounds of tires squealing in the turns.

  In the end, it was sweet Mrs. Higgins who had arranged the fright, although I only knew that from her mischievous thoughts. In her mind, she felt fully vindicated since she was teaching the youngsters a lesson about believing in such silliness. From her point of view, we needed to be in church listening to the word of God instead of pursuing a thread of superstitious nonsense through the bogs and marshes of Suffolk. She was a prankster at heart, camouflaged in a deceptively soft middle-aged body, who had managed to pull off a magnificent jest to help us grow as human beings–or so she thought us to be. I’m just glad I didn’t wet my pants.

  Chapter 16

  Kipp lay quietly, tucked into an unobtrusive ball in a corner of the seamstress’s shop. Both Peter and I had gone for our fittings, and as the seamstress accidently poked me with a straight pin, I silently wished that I’d been born a lupine.

  “All you have to do is shake your fur out really good, put on the collar–which I know you despise–and you are ready for high tea,” I grumbled, glaring at Kipp while giving him a telepathic piece of my mind.

  He yawned in response and delicately licked his right forepaw, pretending there was some fuzz or a flake of dirt to mar the pristine auburn surface. Yes, he was gloating, no doubt about it. Resting his head on the floor, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but his mind was active and in full chat mode.