Necessary Monsters

by Richard A. Kirk

  Moss absently unscrewed the body of the pen. A cartridge of ink and a spring flew out. "I'm not disputing anything you're saying," he said. "But it's worth the risk. I'd rather he thought he was involved, than have him plotting behind us. Besides, he might have information we need. He claims to know how to get to Nightjar. Remember, you once said John had a back door? Gale says that there is a tunnel." He inserted the cartridge, took it out again, dropped the spring in and then reinserted the cartridge. The two halves of the pen body would not screw together properly.

  "And you believe him?" Imogene challenged. She sat on the edge of a wooden kitchen chair that rocked on an uneven leg, arms crossed. The side of her face was scraped from being forced to the ground and her arms were covered in bruises. Since the attack she had been distant. The easygoing Imogene from the zoo was gone. He set the pen aside.

  "I don't underestimate his greed."

  "You said yourself that the carriage is nearby. We need to move discreetly. Gale will do something stupid. We can figure this out for ourselves."

  "Why are you angry?" he asked.

  "Why did you leave me alone?" she asked, changing the subject.

  "What?" Moss said, caught off guard.

  "You heard me. Last night. Why did you leave me sleeping out in the open alone?"

  Moss looked at her, shocked by her vehemence but glad to be finally getting to the main reason for her anger. "How could I foresee what was going to happen? It seemed safe enough. There was nobody around. You'd fallen asleep."

  "I fell asleep because I thought you were there, Moss. I woke up with a pig on top of me biting the back of my neck. He would have raped me." She was shouting.

  "That's not exactly fair," said Moss.

  "You were supposed to have my back. Not leave me lying out in the open like bait for some crazed rapist." She was crying now and rubbing her arms as if trying to rid them of cobwebs. "I had enough of that shit with Lamb."

  "This from the woman that drugged me."

  "The hell with you." She shoved the table at him.

  "Imogene, I am sorry," he said.

  "I mean it. I can't believe you left, again."

  "Stop it," he said, feeling anger rising.

  Imogene came close, her face flushed and streaked with tears. "Do you want to know the real reason you're alone? It's not the mistakes you've made, or the things that have happened to you." Her voice became hoarse. "It's because you don't know how to be with people, Moss. You're so solitary, it's like your head is still in that jail." She was overheated now, jabbing her finger. "You're angry."

  "It sounds to me like you're talking about yourself," he said bitterly. From the window he looked down at the inn parking lot. A lanky teenaged girl was pegging laundry to a line. The sea wind plastered her dress to her back. A dog with long legs followed its nose through some weeds. The silence behind him felt like a leaning slab of marble. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and cleaned his glasses. The clock on the wall ticked. Wind off the sea made the walls of the inn shudder. Down in the yard the girl was reaching to the back of her mouth with an index finger as if trying to dislodge something from between her teeth. She coughed and turned scowling to look into the sky. A moment later she leaned against an old motorbike, singing to herself.

  "Moss, I'm sorry," whispered Imogene. She was close behind him. "That asshole grabbed me by the hair and pulled me out of a dead sleep. When I looked around and you weren't there—" She came around the table and tried to touch his cheek.

  "Imogene," Moss said, pushing her hand away. "You're right, everything you said is right."

  "Are you hurt?" The look on her face changed from remorse to concern. She tried again to touch his head, but he drew back.

  "I'm fine," he said. Feeling the back of his scalp, he found the spot where the bottle had struck. He curled his bloody fingers and brought his fist down on the table, leaving a smear.

  "Damn it." He walked across the floor towards the door. A sinispore vial fell from his coat and spun across the floor. It was half empty. He chased it, realizing that he must look ridiculous. When it was in his hand he stopped and took a breath. Without looking at her he said, "I'm going to find Gale."

  In spite of his declaration Moss had no specific direction in mind. He knew only that he had to walk, to disperse his anger. Being trapped in a room watching Imogene's mood change from anger to sadness was more than he could bear. He was solitary. Being alone was a punishment he had levied against himself the day he failed to prevent Memoria from falling from the wall. Abandoning Imogene probably had been an unconscious manifestation of his inability to take responsibility for another. Elizabeth had only been half right when she said Irridis could not love him; Moss could not accept love. He left the yard of the inn, hollow and furious with himself, dodging the teenaged girl as he passed through the gate. For no good reason, he turned left.

  The Purge protest had taken over the area between the town's seaward-facing buildings and its crumbling seawall. Tents and carts created a backdrop for improvised street theatre and musical satire. The evening air was filled with aromatic smoke from open grills. At the front of the inn, pedestrians clogged the street. Moss shouldered through inebriated revelers until he found a natural corridor through the bodies. Here again were the costumes, but rather than seeming magical, they had sinister undertones and he averted his eyes. Having had too much of real monsters Moss could find no amusement in these forms. He was searching for a path to the relative quiet of the harbor, when an alley opened to his left. A man striding past shoved him from behind. Moss stumbled into the alley. He steadied himself and brushed dust from his clothing. The mass of bodies continued to push past the alley entrance. Turning away, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial of sinispore. After the scuffle with Finch's gang he had found it in the grass behind the truck. With his back to the wall he broke the cork with a thumbnail. The vial rolled in his palm and the drug sifted between his fingers. He opened his fingers and dropped the vial to the ground.

  FRESCO

  Moss was too agitated by his argument with Imogene to be around people. Reentering the crowd would only exacerbate his mood. He chose instead to cut between the buildings, thinking to find a quiet back route to the harbor. All hope of a simple egress was disappointed when he found himself in a courtyard garden. His first impulse was to retrace his steps but he was attracted to the quietude of the place. The winding pathway in front of him had been constructed from weathered stones. He weighed one in his palm. It was smooth and cold. Since boyhood, Moss had been a compulsive collector of stones, unable to walk on a beach without straining his pocket seams. The one in his hand was a dove-grey oval with dark feathered marks. It was pretty, and reminded him of Irridis's ocelli. He returned it to the path.

  Across the garden was a deep-set door. Moss followed the path feeling very much a trespasser. Yet, the stones slid beneath his soles pleasingly. An herb garden, green despite the late season, felt welcoming. Only the praying mantis, swaying atop the seedpod of a thornapple, boxing the air, warned him off.

  A horseshoe crab knocker was centered on the door. Sea air or disuse had crusted the hinge. Moss rapped lightly with his fingers, and when there was no response, he tried more insistently. Nothing. He turned the handle, though he could not imagine what emboldened him to do so. Maybe it was the spell the place had cast over him, or just simple curiosity. Regardless, he was rewarded with the unexpected sight of a chapel as the door swung in.

  The ceiling was a deep indigo, punctuated with unfamiliar gold constellations. Frescoes covered the walls in three registers, depicting a picaresque narrative with repeated characters. The artist's winged monsters and grotesques reminded Moss of Imogene's tattoos and he wished that she were with him to share the discovery.

  The wood floors were well swept, and emanated a smell of beeswax. Moss was puzzled by the lack of benches, but the walk to the altar provided an answer. It was designed to calm, to force a pause and transition the visitor, so
that upon reaching the altar the cares of the street would have fallen away and a contemplative state reached. The transition had begun with the act of exiting the alley, where the rough brick gave way to the softer stones.

  The altar was slightly raised, and supported dozens of candles. Only a few were lit. Behind the altar, an embedded grid of alcoves was built into the wall, like boxes at a post office. He calculated 144. Each alcove had a small door, though only a few were open. Moss had seen something similar in the streets of the old town in the City of Steps. It was a place to leave notes or objects of personal significance. Usually these took the form of a question, a message, or a confession on a piece of folded paper. Sometimes more substantial objects were left. It was a ritual of release. Eventually, the offerings would be taken by anonymous hands on the other side of the wall and burned in a pit. Afterwards, the tiny doors would spring open again.

  The chapel was insulated by thick walls. In the silence, Moss could hear the rustle of his clothing, his breath and his tinnitus. He was suddenly aware of how much energy his senses expended filtering and sorting the outside world. His spent anger and hurt had drained him. He sat on a stool in front of the altar and contemplated the alcoves. Several minutes had elapsed when a door to his right opened admitting a man in a grey cassock. Although there was no evidence of surprise in the weathered face, the man's deep-set eyes assessed Moss carefully. He touched his beard where some red was scattered amongst the grey. He placed the empty vial of sinispore on the altar in front of Moss. "I think you dropped this in the alley." He sat on the edge of the altar. "I'm Jonathan, the caretaker of this chapel."

  "I'm finished with it," said Moss, looking away from the vial.

  "That's probably just as well," said Jonathan. "But it's still littering." His smile was engaging but his tone of voice was serious. In the awkward conversational silence that followed he fixed his gaze on his extended legs and battered gardening clogs. Embarrassed, Moss decided it was time to leave. As he stood, Jonathan looked up.

  "Would you mind helping me out with something? It won't take long. I'm writing a chapbook on the history of this building, which I'm actually here to close up, and there's a bit about the fauna used in the mural. Do you know your birds, by any chance?"

  "Some," said Moss. "In prison I used to play a game to pass the time, with an ornithologist, no less. He had a stack of cards, the kind that used to come in cigar boxes. They had birds printed on them. He'd quiz me on the names." Moss startled himself by so casually mentioning prison.

  "Fantastic." Jonathan swiveled around and scanned the fresco to their right. "There." He pointed at a spot in the middle register. "What is that?"

  "Some kind of chickadee. It's hard to tell from here," said Moss.

  "Well, get up and have a look then. Where's your curiosity, man?"

  "All right, all right." Moss was amused in spite of himself. He humored Jonathan by going to the wall. "Can't be sure. It looks like a red-breasted nuthatch."

  "Wait here." Jonathan disappeared through the door and returned a minute later carrying a paint-spattered stepladder. "Try this."

  "Are you serious? A person could kill themselves on that thing."

  "It is quite safe. I used it just this morning." Jonathan helped Moss position it in front of the wall. Wondering what he had gotten into, Moss climbed the ladder while Jonathan held the rails. At the second to last step, Moss was at eye level with the bird.

  "It is a red-breasted nuthatch," he said.

  "Excellent," said Jonathan. He pulled a small notebook and a pen from the pocket of his cassock. "Now, that one to the left."

  "That's easy. It's a tree swallow."

  "And above that?" Jonathan gestured with the pen. "No, higher, in the vines."

  "White-eyed vireo."

  And so it continued for half an hour. Moss identified every bird in the mural as he moved the ladder along the wall. At times the two men debated over a particular bird, but Moss was sure of his identifications. He lectured Jonathan on habitat and voice, feeding and nesting habits. Franklin Box had been ruthless in his drills. After the last bird had been addressed, Moss turned around on the ladder. He was hot from the effort of climbing up and down.

  Jonathan waved him to come down. A flash of red appeared and then vanished beneath Jonathan's voluminous sleeves. Moss pretended not to have noticed.

  "Climb down. I've made a little sketch of the mural and marked all of the birds. This is fantastic. How can I thank you?"

  "A drink of water. My voice is going."

  Jonathan returned the ladder to its storage place. Moss was about to seat himself again when Jonathan reappeared in the doorway.

  "Let's talk in here where we can sit down. Truth to tell, the chapel is a bit chilly. It used to be a school. Can you imagine, kids freezing to death during the winter." Inside the door was a hallway of rough stone. Moss followed Jonathan's broad back past several closed doors before entering a spare dining room. Jonathan invited Moss to take a chair from a wall rail and seat himself at the table. While Moss did this, Jonathan produced a loaf of crusty bread that was still warm, a bowl of herbed olive oil, a basket of boiled eggs, several cheeses, smoked fish, and fruit. He poured them each an ample glass of wine. "I hope you don't mind. I was about to have my meal when you came. Please, help yourself. It's the least I can do." Moss thanked him, thinking it was rather a lot of food for one man.

  Moss tried not to steal glimpses at Jonathan's wrist. He decided to bide his time by eating. It was damned good. He smeared sardines and goat cheese on a thick slice of bread and dipped it into the oil that Jonathan placed between them.

  "So," said Jonathan through a mouthful of bread. "What brings you to town?"

  "Curiosity," said Moss carefully. "I wanted to see Nightjar Island from the shore." He had already anticipated this question and thought a lie close to the truth would be better than a complete fiction.

  Jonathan shrugged. "I hope you're not disappointed. From the shore it's just another desolate-looking pile of rock. What's your interest?"

  "I came with a woman who works for the Museum of Natural History in the City of Steps. I'm just helping her out. She's studying something called interstitial species, whatever they are," said Moss.

  Jonathan stopped chewing. "She's not with you."

  "We had a bit of a row."

  The other man shrugged sympathetically. "No wonder you're taking sinispore."

  Both men burst into laughter. Jonathan cut some hard yellow cheese and handed it to Moss. "Try this. It's exquisite. We make it where I live."

  "You don't live here? Where do you live?"

  "No, I am just finishing my time as a caretaker. I am locking it up tomorrow, for a long time, maybe forever." And you didn't answer my question, thought Moss.

  He took the wedge and popped it in his mouth, nodding appreciatively. "You're right. What is it called?"

  "Cheese," bellowed Jonathan, laughing. At this Moss covered his face and lowered his head to the table. He laughed until his ribs ached and tears wet his palms. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He missed Imogene, who had attempted a similar gesture earlier. "You're good at naming birds, my friend, but I wonder what name have you given yourself. Could it be Stranger, Coward, Betrayer, or Failure? Those are some of the favorites."

  Moss sat back in the chair and wiped his face with the rough tea towel Jonathan handed him. "Murderer."

  Jonathan did not miss a beat. "You don't have the eyes of a murderer," he said around a mouthful of bread.

  "I was a teacher once. In a place called the Chimneys Institute."

  "I've heard of it. It closed years ago."

  "During my first term, there was an incident. One of the students, one of my students, drowned in a spring flood. The investigation called it an accident, but I know if I had been there, watching, it wouldn't have happened. He was just a little boy, an annoying little kid. He was near the river because that's where he found solitude when the other kids teased him." Moss pa
used, waiting for Jonathan to react. The other man gestured with his hand for Moss to continue.

  "A few years later, there was another incident when an artificial life-form came to the school." Moss looked at his hands.

  "Go on," said Jonathan, frowning.

  "It, he, looked like a boy, but he wasn't exactly, he was…something else. I don't really know what, to be honest. So, of course, the other kids took to tormenting him mercilessly. Finally, one day things turned especially bad. The kids that had been teasing the boy were killed during an outing in the woods. The result of an argument, though I didn't know that at the time. When the authorities arrived, the boy was gone. I was found sitting on a stump, in shock, with the bodies all around. I was charged with the murders and thrown in jail."

  "Where were you when the first boy drowned?" asked Jonathan.

  "In the arithmetic teacher's bed getting an education of my own."

  "Did you know the boy was near the river?"

  "No. It was after lights out. But I should have been monitoring the dormitory."

  "Was that a normal expectation?"

  Moss shrugged. "No."

  "And the children on the outing?"

  "It was an unsupervised outing. I was preparing lessons in the library."

  "Not your fault then," said Jonathan. He wiped crumbs from his hands. "The stories are tragic, of course, but hardly your burden to carry alone." Jonathan poured more wine for them both. "One thing, the boy, the one you so flatteringly referred to as a life-form, was he found?"

  "He showed up years later and helped me leave Brickscold, and then he helped me get back to the city. There's no way I would have made it on my own through that terrain. It's through him that I learned the truth of what happened that day in the woods."

  Jonathan leaned forward and placed a strong hand on Moss's arm. "Have some more wine. I bottled it myself."

  Moss drank the wine. He knew he was getting drunk, but he did not care.