Necessary Monsters

by Richard A. Kirk

  Moss pulled into the driveway of a leaning homestead near the road's edge. Its boards were covered in fading graffiti. Behind the nearby milk house, he familiarized himself with the action of the rifle. He wanted to be prepared if he met any more of Finch's kind. He squeezed off a shot and nearly dislocated his shoulder with the recoil. The milk bottle he had been aiming for remained intact. Unwilling to waste any more of the precious ammunition, he balanced the rifle on the motorcycle's seat and searched for water. He had to settle for slaking his thirst with greenish rainwater from the bottom of a zinc trough. What a fool he had been to leave without the most essential supplies. Returning to the motorcycle, he remembered John Machine's envelope.

  Dear Lumsden,

  I thought you would want this.

  John Machine.

  The black and white photograph showed two children on the canal wall at Fleurent Drain. Memoria had turned to look just as the picture was taken, her hair whipped by the wind. Moss was lying on his back with a book resting on his chest. Deeply moved, in spite of his lifelong habit of anger toward John, he folded the photograph back into the note. It was almost unbearable to look at. A few minutes later he returned to the road feeling as prepared as he could be, which was to say, not at all.

  The hours rumbled by with bone-jarring monotony. The sea was everpresent to his right while the land transformed from scrub moorland to rocky waste and then finally to an endless conifer forest. The water was no longer visible through the trees, though the air was filled with the pronounced tang of brine. An hour into the forest he was forced to reduce speed by the perilous condition of the road. Daylight faded and fog moved between the tree trunks. It was now certain that night would fall before he caught up with Imogene.

  In his rush to leave, he had brought nothing but the clothing on his back and the rifle. Hoping to make the best distance possible before the fog and darkness made travel impossible, Moss gunned the motorcycle. Instead of surging forward, the engine sputtered, and then abruptly died. The motorcycle coasted to a stop. Moss lowered his feet, incredulous. He twisted the fuel cap on the tank. Although the light was too poor to see within, the metallic clang told him all he needed to know.

  "Idiot!" he yelled. The trees muffled his voice. A few invisible ravens offered their commiseration. "Unbelievable. Why didn't I check the gas?" Ahead of him, the road vanished through the trees. The fog was becoming thicker by the minute. He walked the motorcycle to the side of the road and set it on its kickstand. Sabotaged through sheer stupidity, he thought.

  He stood for some time, weighing options. The motorcycle's engine popped as it cooled. A barn owl watched him from a nearby tree, a mouse wriggling hopelessly from its beak. With the mist came a penetrating cold. Hypothermia could not be far behind. Rather than wait out the night at the edge of the forest, he decided to continue on foot. That way he could stay warm and with daylight, devise a proper plan. With a doleful last look at the motorcycle, he trudged along a road that had become so broken and mossy it looked like a cobblestone path to another world.

  Moonlight infused the fog with a spectral glow. As the night wore on and sluggishness crept into his limbs, he had the odd sensation of walking along the sea bottom. In his half-conscious state, he imagined himself a sea creature, lumbering through diatomaceous mud in a forest of kelp. Realizing that he was falling asleep on his feet, he reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette he had been saving. The nicotine would help fend off the drowsiness. Imogene had rolled it. He sniffed, hoping it was only tobacco.

  A sharp sound came from the woods. He paused, with a match halfway to the bent cigarette between his lips. He had been hearing noises throughout the night that he had rationalized as pinecones or dead branches dropping to the forest floor. This noise had a different quality, not a thud but a crack, like weight on dry bone. Moss finished lighting the cigarette. It made him feel less alone. The issue of Elizabeth's carriage had been worrying his thoughts for hours. If she was heading to Nightjar, was it ahead of him, or behind? It was conceivable that Elizabeth on her dog, or Echo, could be nearby, in which case filling the air with tobacco smoke was probably not advisable. Surely they were behind. Echo could not move quickly. The creature would plod along in its yoke with the same relentless predictability as the turning of the earth. Although signs of Imogene's truck, or some other heavy vehicle, had been in evidence for some time, there were no carriage tracks. Areas of the road's edge were gouged by thick treads. Stones were turned through the force of mechanized wheels. He peered into the mist, not daring to call out. Then, almost as though the intensity of his concentration had induced it to materialize, a large canine form moved beneath the pines. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. It was not the muscular dog that Elizabeth rode, but a massive slinking creature with a dense coat. Wolves. Wonderful.

  He had barely formed these thoughts when lights flashed through the trees, followed by the unmistakable sound of an automobile engine. Moss stood on the hump of the road and waved his arms over his head. The car rounded a bend and bore down on him, its lights blazing. The driver was not prepared for him and waited too long to brake. Moss leapt from the road and the car swerved in the opposite direction. It fishtailed and mounted the shoulder, careening into the woods before stopping inches from an ancient tree trunk.

  Moss ran to the car. It sizzled on a bed of pine needles a foot thick. Light from the headlamps penetrated deep into the tangled underbrush. He tried the handle of the driver's door but it was locked. He thumped on the window. To his relief, the driver stirred and the window lowered.

  "Well, aren't you a pretty sight!" said Gale.

  Lumsden Moss had a headache. It had started in the back of his neck and crept slowly across his cranium to take up residence in his forehead. Gale's smugness at finding Moss in the middle of the woods, miles from anywhere, made being inside the tiny car insufferable. Dawn had come shortly after the near miss, bringing with it a thunderstorm. Constant lightning and lashing rain forced the two men to sit idle behind humid windows. Moss had refused the blanket that Gale had proposed to spread across both their knees, but begrudgingly accepted some smoked herring from a tin and hot tea from a flask. Once the storm had lessened to a shower, Moss pushed the front of the car while Gale sat inside, grinding the gears and jamming his foot to the accelerator. Finally, the tiny car had come free of its soggy prison of forest humus and leaped backward onto the road. Moss, who had narrowly missed landing on his face, climbed back into the passenger seat and stared at Gale, with thin quivering lips and crooked glasses. In response, Gale merely smiled, his own lips too red and supple with herring oil. Truly, at that moment, Moss had never hated a human being more.

  For the past hour, they had driven along the coast road, finally free of the oppressive forest. Moss stared out the window in a foul temper, having wearied of staring at the burled walnut dashboard.

  "The reason you haven't caught them up, the carriage I mean, is quite simple," said Gale.

  "Enlighten me," mumbled Moss.

  "Because they boarded a barge in the town. It is amazing how cheaply the local harbormaster was willing to oblige me with that information."

  This possibility had not occurred to Moss. He faced Gale. "No hired barge will take them to Nightjar."

  "Indeed not. It would be a suicidal crossing. The water is full of unstable mines. They will be making for the quay and the old tunnel I spoke of."

  "Maybe Imogene will be there," said Moss. He had already told Gale about the empty room at the inn. "How far away are we?"

  Gale slowed the car and pulled to the edge of the road. "Let's have a look." Both men stepped out of the car and stretched. Moss put the rifle over his shoulder.

  The view was spectacular. They stood on a cliff above the sea looking out at a distant curve of land to the north that dwindled into the haze. The water was filled with whitecaps and silt upwelled by the storm. Seagulls rode the stiff breeze, rising to great heights and then plummeting into the waves to emerge
with tiny silver fish.

  "Look there," Gale shouted over the roar. "Do you see?" Moss strained to follow the other man's finger. His eyes traced the land's curve until it dwindled to a thin sepia line against the sea's pewter. "Out from the tip."

  Then he saw it, a dark smudge on the ocean. Nightjar Island.

  "Here, take these." Gale handed him a pair of binoculars.

  The island was still little more than a blur as it bounced up and down in the grimy lens. Moss adjusted the focus and the island was suddenly clear. Cliffs rose out of the water, which given the distance must have been hundreds of feet high. One end looked mountainous. From Moss's perspective, it was shaped like a giant elephant molar that he had seen in John's office at the zoo. Gale took the binoculars from Moss's hands and scanned the ocean closer in.

  "There! There," he burst out. He thrust the binoculars back at Moss. Moss searched water until he saw a barge churning its way north, with the carriage roped to its deck. The unmistakable form of Echo stood as still as a mast.

  "If we make good speed, we should get there first. The sea is rough and will impede their progress." He snapped the binoculars into their case.

  THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  It was Moss's idea to walk the remaining two miles to the quay on foot, seeing no point in announcing their arrival. As inhospitable as the landscape was, there could be other people in the vicinity. If there were, Moss wanted to be aware of them first. He also wanted to watch the barge's approach from a concealed vantage point, which would be impossible with the car.

  Moss understood that the narrowing of the path referred to the tunnel leading to Nightjar Island. Imogene would have to abandon the truck. It would be dangerous to enter the tunnel alone. She had said that she intended to wait for him, but the appearance of the barge changed things. Imogene would not allow Elizabeth and Echo to enter the tunnel ahead of her. It was a perfect opportunity for them to lay a trap, in order to retrieve the traveling bookcase. Moss had no illusions that Imogene would survive such an encounter. Moss and Imogene had to reunite ahead of the carriage's landfall, something that seemed less and less likely.

  Moss stood at the side of the road, knee deep in beach grass, keeping watch while Gale concealed the car in a willow copse. Inland, scrubby dunes rose to a distant ridge where trees clung with exposed roots. The same dunes continued on the other side of the rutted road, hiding the sea from view.

  Gale emerged from the trees carrying a rucksack and his rifle.

  "You ready?" asked Moss.

  Gale smiled. "Yes, I'm ready. You don't have to worry about me. Whatever happens, you won't forget our arrangement? Once this Elizabeth and her demon are dispatched, the drawings and the book are mine. I expect you to honor your word."

  "We're wasting time," said Moss, already stepping onto the road.

  "Lead on then. What's your plan?" Moss ignored him as he struck off, scanning the dunes for movement. Gale followed, feet shuffling in the gravel.

  At a bend in the road they came upon Imogene's truck pulled off to the side. Its visibility worried Moss. The scene had an air of abandonment. Around the truck, the grass was flattened. An osprey, perched on the canvas cover, took flight. It soared across the dunes to a dead tree. The cargo cover slapped gently in the wind. Moss waited, but no further movement came from the truck.

  He approached from the rear, indicating that Gale should stay put and cover him. Keeping to what he judged to be a blind spot to anyone sitting in the cab, Moss ran with his rifle held in a tight grip. He dropped to a crouch beneath the tailgate and listened. The rhythmic contact of canvas against metal was louder, but there was no sound from within. He worked his way along the driver's side, keeping an eye on the mirror. Moving quickly, he stood up and thrust the rifle through the open window. The cab was empty. There were signs of a hastily eaten meal. Keys peeked from behind the sun visor, which seemed to suggest that Imogene had not left in a panic. What circumstance, then, would compel Imogene to leave the truck so exposed? Gale appeared beside him.

  "There is no one in the back," Gale said. Something in the way he said this caught Moss's attention. Gale seemed to have developed a focus he had not hitherto exhibited. "Well?"

  "She's doing exactly what we are," said Moss, "Walking in to avoid notice, trying to assess the surroundings." Moss surveyed the dunes. "The wind is coming off the water. We'll climb up there, and avoid the direct route to the quay." He pointed to a trawler that lay on its side, half buried in sand. "That way, toward the mound behind the wreck. We should be able to observe without being seen ourselves."

  Halfway to the boat, Gale touched Moss's shoulder. He pointed to a spot on the other side of the road. It was just possible to see an old panel van pushed into the scrub.

  "Company?" asked Gale.

  The two men waded through the grass, taking care to skirt the jagged debris that seemed to jut from the sand at every conceivable angle.

  "It's from the war," Gale said loudly.

  "Keep your voice down."

  "These beaches are filled with shrapnel from the mortaring of the station that used to stand here. It's probable that the sand is still full of live explosives, so keep your wits about you. Are you sure you want to go this way?"

  Moss continued walking.

  "You first then. It's your party. If you hear a click, don't lift your foot up until I'm well clear."

  They passed the trawler, plodding through cascading sand to the crest of the dune. A stinging wind buffeted them at the top, and the sound of the ocean rose sharply, like a rhythmic electronic static, almost unbearable at its crescendo. Far out on the black water, beyond a flock of bobbing gannets, a house floated. Silver windows glinted on walls stained black by the sea. It tumbled over and over in the wind-driven swell, top-heavy and disintegrating. A gust of wind hit Moss full in the body. He turned his face away; he had never been able to breathe easily in high wind. Holding the rifle between his knees, he covered his ears until the whine of his tinnitus was foregrounded against the muted ocean's roar. The familiarity of its pitch enabled him to draw down his mounting nerves. As he caught his breath he watched Gale, who stood a few feet way, picking sand out of his eyebrows. The air stank of organic decay. Moss gradually took his hands away from his ears, able now to tolerate the noise. The house was gone, if it had ever truly been there.

  They took advantage of a band of twisted conifers to reach a high point from which they could see the quay. It extended into the sea like an arthritic finger of masonry. Irridis stood on a seawall that ran along the shore, his head wrapped in black cloth. The ocelli encircled him at intervals of several feet. Moss could see Gale in his peripheral vision, examining his face for a reaction. Imogene was further away, still on the seawall, but where it continued on the other side of the quay. She watched the water through a pair of military binoculars that Moss recognized from the truck. She lowered them to her chest and whistled through her fingers to Irridis. Imogene pointed out to sea, her hand like a pistol. He nodded slowly, but did not turn to face her. He was already aware of what she had seen. Moss had been so focused on his friends that he had not fully attended the appearance of the barge. The carriage could be clearly seen lashed to the deck with heavy ropes. Echo was stationed at the bow, a monstrous figurehead. Irridis took a faltering step forward.

  The boat angled dangerously in the swell, heaving the carriage against its restraints. Waves sluiced across the deck. Shredded tractor tires chained to the side of the barge would be the only cushion against the ancient stone quay.

  Gale stepped forward, leaving the cover of the trees. Moss pulled him back.

  "Not yet," he said. The barge was closer to shore than he expected, and Irridis seemed to be committed to a confrontation.

  Gale looked as though he wanted to say something to challenge Moss. Instead he drew back several feet. Moss, retreating, joined him behind the trunk of the largest tree.

  "They are waiting for the barge," said Moss. Through the filter of branches, t
he boat appeared toy-like against the sea and the darker mass of Nightjar Island in the distance. "How far is the tunnel from here?"

  "A mile, maybe less."

  "Why aren't they hiding?" asked Moss, not expecting an answer.

  "The woman is," said Gale. It was true. Imogene had moved into the shadow of an old crane raised on a circular concrete block. She stood motionless, clinging to a rusted wheel twice her height. Gale handed his binoculars to Moss. "Your friend doesn't look so well." Even without the binoculars, Moss could see that for himself. Irridis had followed the wall and stepped onto the quay. He walked a few steps and dropped to his knees as though praying. The ocelli tightened their circle.

  "What's he up to?" asked Moss.

  "When they move that carriage onto the quay, that's our opportunity. We need to hit them before they get oriented but not before the barge backs out. We need the water behind them." Gale was drawing diagrams in the sand. Moss ignored him.

  "He's planning to confront them," said Moss.

  "That would be a big mistake. He's no match for that creature. I've witnessed its strength. It will tear him apart."

  Water flowed onto the mudflat around the quay, joining tide pools and covering barnacle-encrusted rocks with startling power. The barge wallowed. There appeared to be only two crewmen aboard. They moved along the length of the deck, preparing to dock. Smoke, pouring from a single funnel, was swept ashore by the wind. Moss noticed a third man in a wheelhouse that was little more than a shed of corrugated metal.

  Moss left the trees and slid down the seaward side of the dune, making his way toward the quay. His sternum felt tight. He held the rifle with both hands to stop them shaking. Gale had ceased to exist for him and he could not have cared less if the man was behind him, or not. The gravity and horror of what he now planned to do was his alone to experience. He would stand with Irridis.

  The ground became firm. He ran along the foot of the dune and dropped to a crouch behind the seawall. Imogene was less than thirty feet away but so focused on events unfolding on the quay she had not noticed him. The barge had reached the quay and heaved against the masonry. The sound was deafening. A blast of water shot high into the air, raining down on Irridis. He seemed oblivious. The carriage pulled against its ropes. Echo leaned into his yoke. One of the sailors ran to the edge of the boat and leaped onto the quay. Another threw him a rope. Hoisting it over his shoulder, the first man jogged alongside the barge. The third sailor could be seen moving frantically in the door of the hut. Smoke billowed from the funnel as the engines stopped, dampening the ship's momentum. Finally, the barge settled against the quay, crushing the tires with its edge. The sailors tied off on two dock cleats. When the ropes were secure, they bounded onto the ship's deck and dragged a metal plate forward to bridge the space between the barge and the quay.