"Interesting hideout," said Moss. The inside of the cab suddenly felt intimate, awkward.
"It's the old Rhino Building. Back when the zoo had rhinos they were kept here when they weren't on display. It hasn't been used for that since they became extinct fifty years ago. Poaching dropped the numbers perilously low and some kind of respiratory disease finished them off. Since then it's been a place to dump old equipment. The museum used to keep an office here." She looped strands of wet hair behind her ears. "John shared a room in the back with a senior zoologist named Philip. Philip was the person who got me the job in the repository, under some pressure from Lamb. He was one of the few people that actually liked my father. He's dead now. John used the office until he up and vanished. Philip still came here after that, to work on his field notes. It's still there, I think. Nobody ever bothered to clear it out. I thought we could hide here."
"I want to leave in the morning for Nightjar," said Moss.
"Okay," she said. "It's a long trip. Won't be easy."
"Everything points there. The books and charts at my old house were one thing, but knowing what you told us, about John kidnapping Memoria, convinces me that she would try to get back there."
They climbed out of the truck and watched the rain fall on the pool of foul looking water in the yard. Trees encroached on all sides. The overhanging boughs and yellowing leaves formed a barrier dense enough to hide the road they had followed. It seemed a safe place, at least for the moment. Moss breathed in damp air and smelled a trace of smoke. He turned to find Imogene with a hand-rolled cigarette held in one corner of her mouth. She flicked the dead match into the yard.
"Hashish," she said, holding the cigarette out.
Moss took it from her. The smoke made his head spin but it made him relax. He exhaled. "Thanks."
"Philip's idea of tobacco. He and his cronies used to smoke it. Does the job. There's an appreciable amount in repository, stuffed in a taxidermied ostrich. Kind of a sideline for the Red Lamprey."
Moss shook his head and took another drag. This time he felt a rush as it hit his blood. It felt strange to be standing here with Imogene as his unlikely ally. He stole a glance. She was quite beautiful. To distract himself, he watched a family of crows arguing in a tree.
"You're sure he was dead?" said Imogene. Her face grew serious.
"Yes." Uncomfortable under her intense gaze, he looked into the trees.
"That boy, Andrew?"
"I don't know. I suppose I should have done more. I should have stayed and looked around."
Imogene waved him off. "Getting yourself killed wouldn't have been very helpful."
He looked up at the rushing clouds. "I couldn't open the door."
"What door?"
"The closet. I just couldn't turn the handle."
"It was locked?"
"No. I don't know." His voice was louder than he had intended. "I couldn't turn it and then it was all over, so quickly."
The rain eased and a bright streak opened in the clouds. For a moment it seemed as though the sun might come out, but fresh clouds closed the breach and the air was suffused with a tea-colored light. Frogs trilled, invisible in the trees. A heron flew over the uppermost branches, its head drawn back in a regal posture, and then it was gone.
"Elizabeth spoke to me," said Moss. "Afterwards, in the street." He could feel Imogene staring at him. "She warned me away. She has some vendetta against Irridis." He palmed the ocellus. "She means to kill him."
"She didn't hurt you?"
Moss shook his head. "No, it was odd, strangely formal. She delivered her message and left."
"What are you thinking?"
"I think Irridis had some kind of premonition of her intent." He faced Imogene. "Why are we really here? We could have gone anywhere."
"Because there is something I want to show you. I used to sneak away from Lamb when I was little and come here to talk to Philip. It was a place of sanity. He used to have great stories about my father, from back when John was a legit collector for the museum. One day I came by and Philip wasn't around. I snooped through the office on my own and found something interesting. I'm hoping it's still here."
Transcription from the scraplog of the Somnambulist for the purpose of a personal journal
Date, position, distance and wind entries omitted.
9:00 a.m. A gale blew itself out by shortly after 4 a.m. Since that time we have drifted on rough seas without the benefit of the engine. Mr. Conner and Mr. Lutes have spent the past few hours working indefatigably on the engine during which time we have moved unavoidably closer to the island of Nightjar. The water is filled with mines and debris, which we attribute to the storm. Mr. James posits that a ship has gone aground and been torn apart but there is no charted reef or sandbar in the vicinity. We must entertain that a ship struck one of the many explosive mines that plague these waters.
º
9:30 a.m. The engine is working again, though fitfully. We have determined the debris on the water to be the remains of an airship. We are unable to find identifying markers. There is a strong likelihood that it belonged to treasure seekers operating on Nightjar. Mr. James and young Charles have set out on the landing boat, to look for survivors. The state of the wreckage is no cause for optimism and while I voiced concern for Charles's wellbeing the captain permitted them to proceed. We maintain safe distance.
º
10:15 a.m. Engine failure once more and we are drifting dangerously close to Nightjar. We are well within the forbidden waters. We have seen several mines floating in the sea. The ship will flounder if the engine is not restored within the next hour, forcing us to abandon her for the island. Mr. James and Charles are on their own, as the seas will not permit them to catch us. I believe the Captain made an error in judgment in allowing them to go. I fear before the day is out my years worth of marine samples will be lost.
º
10:35 a.m. The engine is working thanks to the valiant efforts of Mr. Conner and Mr. Lutes! We are making full speed for Mr. James and Charles. They will want to continue to search the wreckage but the captain has already said that he will brook not one word of protest from either of them. We must achieve open sea before dark.
º
11:35 a.m. Remarkably, Mr. James and Charles have fished a boy from the sea. The captain says the sea is too cold and cannot explain how he could have survived. The boy was found floating unconscious and entangled in guy ropes. By all rights he should have been drowned but seems no worse for wear. His appearance is uncanny, flesh like cloudy glass. He is attended by 5 floating lights. The crew is terrified with superstitious nonsense. We can get no explanation from the boy as to how he came to be in the sea. Mr. James and the Captain are in agreement that as unlikely as it seems he must have come from Nightjar Island. An examination of the wreckage led them to conclude that it has been floating on the surface for several months. This rules out the possibility that the boy was a survivor.
Unable to land on the island, the Captain has decided that we will proceed south to the City of Steps for repairs and refueling. The boy will be dealt with there. Mr. James is vociferous in his objections, wishing to attempt landing in spite of conditions. He seeks a solution to this mystery. Mr. James and the Captain exchanged heated words during which the Captain invited him to take the skiff. The offer was declined and Mr. James has retreated to his cabin in a sulk. James will not be invited to continue the voyage beyond the Steps.
"That's all there is." Imogene refolded the sheets of paper and returned them to a tin box. They had located the journal pages after an hour of searching. A desk, its chair, several packed bookcases and a musty couch filled the office. An ivy-covered window filtered the light. Imogene had supplemented with candlelight. She sat beside Moss on the couch.
"Philip was there when Irridis was pulled out of the ocean. James must be the man who gave Irridis to John," said Moss. "James was the ship's carpenter."
"John knew a lot of questionable characters. I
'll bet James absconded with Irridis and approached John with an offer. John was well known for being in the market for curiosities, no questions asked." Imogene set the box on the floor.
"Irridis told me that the exchange was to settle a gambling debt," said Moss.
Moss let his eyes wander over the backs of the books jammed into the bookcases. Under other circumstances he would have enjoyed an afternoon going through some of the titles. To Moss's surprise, Imogene leaned against him and pulled a dense blanket over them both. She laughed.
"What's funny?" said Moss.
"It's a wool blanket. You can't wash it or it shrinks into a hunk of felt like this. Who washes a wool blanket? Pure Philip." She rested her cheek on his shoulder. In a few minutes her breathing grew deeper. When he was sure she was asleep, he kissed her head.
Moss sat back on the couch with an arm around Imogene and watched the last of the candle. The flame and wick flared, melting and distorting the wax. He thought of the glow inside Irridis. Squeezing his arm between their bodies, he pulled the ocellus from its hiding place. He tossed it into the air where it spun like a coin. Suddenly cold, he pulled her closer. The candle spat and died, releasing a thin ribbon of black smoke. Outside, the wind in the trees sounded like the sea.
NORTH ROAD
Imogene drove the truck hard as they left the city. There was no sign of the car that she had seen following the day before. That morning, she had shown Moss how to refuel at a manual diesel pump on the grounds of the zoo. While he had busied himself with the task, she had filled the back of the truck with unnecessary, but convincing, research equipment, and very necessary camping gear. The scientific equipment was to support their cover story, should they be stopped, of being on a research field trip to study interstitial species of crabs in the tidal zones to the north of the city. When preparations were complete, she had walked in on him poking through cupboards in the Rhino Building looking for something they might eat.
"Don't waste your time," she said, handing him a sandwich and a flask lid filled with coffee.
"Oh," he said, pleasantly surprised. "Where did you get this?"
"It's not my first interstitial species expedition, Moss. I stowed it in the truck before I left the market. Am I not the greatest field colleague ever?"
"Insofar as my limited experience allows me to comment, yes. I don't think I have ever had a better sandwich." Moss folded the last of the bread into his mouth.
Imogene smiled. "You could have at least washed your hands first. Come on. I want to show you something." Moss followed her down a wide brick corridor hung with dead fluorescent lights and strips of crusty flypaper. She pushed a heavy door. It opened into a large room, lit from above by algae-covered skylights.
Imogene danced away from him and turned in the center of the room with her arms outstretched. "What do you think?" Her voice echoed.
"It looks like Oliver's bathroom," said Moss skeptically.
The bare concrete floor sloped toward a large drain. Green streaks covered the walls. The air was warm and damp.
"I imagine this place has seen its share of health and safety compliance orders," said Moss, leaning his head back to look at the skylights.
"It's where they used to sluice down the rhinos!" A large metal pipe stood behind her covered in cracked rubber hoses and a large showerhead.
"Charming."
"There is a natural spring underneath the building. That's why it is so hot. Before the zoo was built there was a public bath here." She was suddenly in front of him. "I thought we could have a shower before we hit the road. How does that sound?"
Moss was startled. "Um, I'm not sure." Imogene threw her head back, a smile on her lips. "We could catch something," said Moss.
"Go on," she said. "I'm listening."
"Some sort of horrible rhino disease lurking in these cracks in the floor. Bacteria can live forever in a place like this."
"Uh-huh."
"Someone might slip. You could break a leg in here."
"I guess you'll just have to watch then." Imogene began removing her clothing. She pulled her T-shirt up.
"Here, let me help with that," said Moss, wriggling it over her head.
"For safety's sake," said Imogene, from beneath the material.
"Not exactly," Moss replied.
Later, clean, dressed and warm, they had left the Rhino Building behind. With Imogene's agreement, he had put the pages of the scraplog in his bag with The Songbirds of Nightjar Island. Moss hoped to share the pages if they encountered Irridis on the road. Now they were headed north, traveling on a two-lane road that followed the coastline with a bit more precision than Moss would have liked, given the precipitous cliffs.
The North Irridian Sea was rough and muddy. The rain was gone but a steady wind pushed against the side of the truck, demanding all of Imogene's attention. For the first few hours they had the road to themselves, with the exception of the occasional truck thundering past in the opposite direction. By mid-afternoon they passed small groups of people carrying camping gear along the side of the road. A few miles further and their progress was slowed to near walking speed by other vehicles, trucks piled high with equipment, motorcycles, and even carriages drawn by horses. People and animals walked back and forth across the road. It was as if they had found themselves in the midst of a traveling carnival. They had no choice but to follow the group as the afternoon wore on, frustration growing as the crowd thickened. When the daylight faded in the west, stars came out and torches were lit.
In the twilight, costumed revelers appeared. A group in dark capes and high white ruffs wore curlew masks with long downward-curving beaks. Imogene pointed as a figure, easily over eight feet, strode past, his head a mass of gold scales. Red barbules dangled from the wide maw of the paper carp mask. It appeared to be handing out real eyes but when one was thrust at Moss through the window it turned out to be a sugary confection. Only after it had passed could they see the albino girl tied to his back, playing with a giant walking stick insect. Dwarves, with conical black velvet hats, above faces painted as skulls, picked their way through the crowd on stilts, flinging strings of firecrackers at the other pilgrims.
"Irridis wouldn't even be noticed in this crowd," said Moss.
On a particularly steep grade, a drunken pilgrim jumped onto the truck's foot rail, whooping as he swept a roaring torch to clear the path. Moss rose in his seat, but felt Imogene's hand on his shoulder. Eventually the man jumped or fell off. Moss sat back, rubbing his palms on his knees. At the top of the hill further progress became impossible. Traffic was at a standstill and people sat in the roadway in groups. The land to the side of the road had become an encampment filled with tents and roaring bonfires that sent plumes of sparks into the cold evening air. In spite of his wariness, the smell of roasting meat made Moss's stomach growl.
"There's no way I can get through this in the dark," said Imogene. "I'll either drive us off the cliff into the ocean or run over somebody."
"Try there." Moss pointed off the road. "There are fewer lights that way." Imogene turned the wheel and maneuvered the truck through a pasture. They rocked violently as they crawled forward. Moss jumped out of the truck while it was still rolling. Illuminated in the headlights, he guided Imogene to a spreading beech tree in a quiet corner of the field where the ground was level.
"We can camp here," he shouted.
Imogene exited the truck. Together, they surveyed the lights and fires near the road.
"Nobody will bother us here, hopefully," she said.
"I wonder what's going on."
"As long as they stay over there, I'm too tired and hungry to care." Imogene yawned as she leaned back into the cab and turned off the engine. Voices whooped in the distance. Imogene disappeared through a flap into the back of the truck. She reappeared a short time later with a roll of canvas. "Might as well build a fire and relax."
Moss gathered deadwood and made a small fire while Imogene arranged the ground sheet and carried out
a hamper of food. Sitting on rolled-up sleeping bags, they ate sandwiches and shared a bottle of red wine. The damp wood crackled in the flames. When they were finished, Imogene kicked her sleeping bag flat and stretched out. She rolled a hash cigarette, which she did not light. Moss listened to the wind in the trees and fidgeted. The sandwiches had done little to satisfy his appetite, and there would be nothing else until the next town. Moss, studying an old map from the glove compartment, estimated that would be sometime the next afternoon.
"I'm going to head to one of those fires and see what's going on," he said. "Do you want to come?" When Imogene did not respond, he turned to find that she had fallen asleep. Moss pulled his coat from the cab of the truck and set off. He followed the ruts in the grass left by their tires, and climbed a slope to the road. From there, he had a view of the sea, still wild from nearly a week of storms. The sky was indigo and full of stars but the wind was biting, so he did not stand long to admire it. He walked through groups of people partying around fires, but nobody seemed interested in his presence. Buttoning his coat, he tramped across mud and weeds toward a particularly large fire. A group of about twenty people stood in a circle drinking wine out of communal bottles and poking at the mound of burning logs. The smell of cooking meat was carried by the smoke that seemed to change direction every few seconds. A metal grill had been laid over one side of the fire. It was covered in sizzling kebabs and larger cuts of meat.
"It smells good," he said to a stringy-haired youth to his left. The warmth of the fire was welcome on the palms of his hands.
Necessary Monsters Page 17
