Moss turned to Imogene who had pulled a hood over her head and sat on the ground at the statue's base. "Do you have your penknife?"
She opened her eyes, lulled by the sound of the rain, almost to sleep. "What? Do you want to leave your initials?"
"Imogene."
"Okay, fine." She pulled the small knife from her pocket and handed it to him. Moss opened the blade and picked at the crust of lichen on one of the faces. Imogene stood up, curious. "What are you doing?"
"I want to see what's underneath." As he cleared the lichen, a weathered green stone with metallic flecks emerged. The eyes had carved pupils, which had not been visible before. Encouraged, Moss continued his scraping. He worked his way down the slender nose to the lips. Here, the knife blade slipped into a black hole. "There's an opening. Why would a bust have an opening?" When he was finished they could see that there was an elliptical space between the upper and lower lip. Moss was pondering this discovery when Imogene snatched the ocellus from the air and inserted it into the hole. The fit was near perfect.
"I wonder if we get a prize?" she said dryly.
"Shit," said Moss, pulling her back. Honey-colored ooze flowed from the opening.
"Uh-oh," said Imogene.
Moss and Imogene stood back as they watched the ooze flow down the bust and spread across the ground forming branches and tendrils.
"What's happening?" asked Imogene.
He shook his head. "Help me clear the ground." Working just ahead of the flow, they tore up ferns and threw stones to the side, heedless of the cold and wet. The flow thickened and darkened.
"Look," said Moss, pointing. "Something's changing, branching inside of it. They're spreading." A universal natural pattern emerged. They were the self-similar patterns shared by rivers, geologic faults, coastlines and leaf veins. At first, the structures, nodes and branch points emerging from the earliest sections were easy to follow, but the transformation soon became exponentially more complex.
"We're seeing a birth," whispered Imogene. "This is why Irridis was so desperate to return the ocellus. God, it's magical."
"This is not a grave," said Moss, shaking his head as he looked up at the statue. "It's not magic, though. It's hiding some kind of technology. Irridis must have come to understand this. It's not technology from our world."
"When I was drawn, Elizabeth—Memoria, I mean—said that the sisters had found Irridis and Aurel on the heath hundreds of years ago." She frowned. "Moss, why would—"
"I don't know."
Bones formed from knotted thickenings in the gelatinous form. They lengthened and widened at the joints. Webbed networks of nerves, veins and arteries spread over through the growing form. Then came the organs, some familiar, others not.
Hours passed. Imogene wept as she pointed at the creature, for now there was no question of the humanoid form lying in the torn ferns. Pricks of lights had begun to run along its branching pathways. Limbs had sprouted fingers and toes, and a head had grown, like swelling bud. Dark globes appeared in a translucent eggshell skull, darting beneath the eyelids like those of a disturbed sleeper. Then, the growth slowed. The form darkened. The creature opened its mouth and a vapor rose into the air, spiraling and twisting. It dissipated, settling over Moss and Imogen like fine pollen, as they watched, unable to move or speak. And like characters in a fairytale, they fell into a deep and dream-filled sleep.
Moss opened his eyes. The sky had grown dark. A slender figure stood over him. Five points of light glowed in a circle around her head. He was dreamsick and could not seem to rouse himself. He was only dimly aware when the figure closed his eyes with graceful fingers.
"Moss, wake up." He opened his eyes to find the cave lit with slanting morning light. The air was filled with steam rising from pools of water. Imogene kneeled beside him. "It's gone." There was regret in her voice. He sat forward. A flattened bed of ferns was the only evidence the creature had ever existed.
"I saw her," Moss said, remembering. "I woke up and she was there, but she did something to me, made me fall back asleep."
"What did she look like?" asked Imogene.
Moss thought for a moment. "Beautiful." It was the only word he could think of that came remotely close to what he had seen.
"Well," said Imogene. "She stole my sword, my coat and some clothes out of my pack. I'm not sure what that says about her character." Her voice trailed off.
Moss looked through his pack. A moment later he turned to Imogene with a broad grin. "She took the drawings too."
A figure in a long coat strode out of the tunnel mouth that led from Nightjar Island to the mainland. Her head was covered in a hood. Black lenses, found in the dead city, protected her vision from the light that shot through the trees. On her shoulder, a piebald crow maintained sure balance. A sword was tied to the pack on her back.
Aurel walked through a wood, surrounded by glowing ocelli. She soon found herself at a seawall where nearby, an overturned truck and the ruins of an old quay lay half buried in tidal ooze. Across the channel, Nightjar Island slid behind a wall of mist. She would never return there. Aurel walked over the dunes and found a rutted road. It was not much, but it was a beginning.
EVENING
Evening crept over Nightjar Island, after a prolonged late afternoon thunderstorm. The buildings of the village cast elongated blue shadows. Gold light raked the furrows, mounds and sprouting vegetables in the gardens. Steam rose from the fur of motionless rabbits, driven from their flooded burrows. A dead apple tree, split by lightning, burned furiously. Its spark-laden smoke rose into the clear sky, where the first stars had already appeared.
At the foot of the silo, a long-legged dog raced to the end of its chain and snapped back onto its haunches. Its barking spread to several other locations around the village like a musical round. Two individuals emerged from the woods onto the packed mud path that ran toward the gardens. The tallest, a man with a beard and scraggly hair, rolled a cigarette as he walked. A woman walked behind him warily taking in the surroundings. Her hand trailed over the high weeds.
They proceeded, unchallenged, to the Oak Hall. As they came closer, a curtain was pulled back from a window and a face appeared in a triangle of darkness. Raised voices could be heard from within. Several men had followed Moss and Imogene from the outskirts. They kept their distance, but there was no mistaking the fear in their faces. Moss handed the cigarette to Imogene who took a practiced drag and handed it back. The smoke was pale blue against the deepening shadows of the buildings. A door opened and several people stepped out through, clustering on the porch. They stood in a patch of sunlight and shielded their eyes with the their hands. They waited, stern-faced and still, like figures in an antique tintype. Several of the men were openly armed. Finally, the group parted and May pushed through, clearing the way with an ivory-headed cane.
"Lumsden Moss," she said. "I didn't expect to see you again. We assumed the worst."
"May," said Moss, nodding a greeting. "We've come to tell you that Elizabeth is dead. The monastery at Little Eye is empty."
"I know. Some of our men found her carriage when they were out looking for Jansson. They burned it."
"We saw the smoke," said Moss.
"You've brought Imogene back here," said May. Two men raised their rifles. Moss thought he recognized them from the group that had tried to shoot Imogene.
"Easy," said Moss, meeting their gaze. "We're not here to cause a problem." They begrudgingly stepped out of the way so that May could move closer. The man on the left, in threadbare pants and a muddy barn coat, looked uncertainly at the other man. Moss wondered if they were father and son. The older man, in fatigues and T-shirt, seemed ready to kill Moss where he stood.
"Be careful, May," blurted one of the women in the doorway. A child with a dirty face peered around her skirts.
"May," warned another woman. The older man walked down the porch steps and put the end of his rifle at Imogene's temple. His hands trembled.
"What t
he hell is this creature doing here?" he growled. "Are you out of your mind, bringing her back to where we live?" He glanced at Moss.
"I'm no more of a creature than you are." She turned away from the man and addressed herself to May, her posture and expression neutral. In the darkening garden, fireflies pulsed. Moss had been nervous about returning to the village with Imogene. It had been her idea to confront these people directly. During the journey from Little Eye, they had argued about this approach, sometimes angrily, with Moss advising that it would be tantamount to suicide. Imogene firmly believed that dispelling the mystery around herself would create an opportunity to lessen their fear. Moss thought she was being naïve.
"I know who you are," said May. "You are John Machine's daughter. Did you know that your mother once lived here?"
Imogene looked around as if searching for something in their faces. "No, I didn't."
"He came here years ago, a soldier. He was traveling alone, and fell into some trouble. We helped him, but he repaid us by taking away one of my daughters, Sylvie, to the City of Steps. I never saw her again."
"I didn't know any of this," said Imogene. "If what you say is true, then you're my grandmother."
May held up her hand. "Oh, it's true. Tell me, girl, why have you come back?"
Imogene, relieved by the abrupt return to the purpose of their visit, quickly refocused. "There's something I need to tell you."
"What are you talking about, witch?" said the man with the rifle. Moss noticed a couple of people on the porch roll their eyes.
"Brian, let her speak." May pulled a shawl around her shoulder.
"Some of you think that the deaths of your loved ones are somehow attributable to the supernatural," said Imogene. A murmur ran through the group. Somebody recited a prayer.
"Not everyone," said a woman on the porch.
Moss stepped toward Brian and pulled the barrel away from Imogene. "Listen to her," he said. The man twisted the weapon out of Moss's grip and returned it to Imogene's head. Moss pulled his hands back, shaking his head. Imogene turned quickly, startling even Moss. She faced the man and moved the barrel to the corner of her eye.
"If you want the best chance of a clean kill, this is the recommended target area," she said. "Are you really man enough to murder me at close range in front of these people?"
Several seconds passed, and then Brian, sweating and laughing uneasily, took a step back. He lowered the gun. "Crazy bitch."
Imogene turned back to May. "The reason your people are dying has nothing to do with the supernatural. It's due to a neurotoxin. Scavenging around the wreckage of the Crucible, they exposed themselves to a toxin used during the fighting. The Crucible was an aircraft being used toward the end of the war. It was designed for the express purpose of cruelly and indiscriminately dispersing the toxin. It went down with its full payload, but as a result of the crash, the ground soil at the main site is still a high-risk zone."
"I don't believe you," said Brian.
"You are not that stupid," said Imogene. Brian gestured at her obscenely, which earned him a few scattered laughs. Others attended Imogene's words closely.
Moss reached into Imogene's rucksack and pulled out a thick folder of yellowed papers tied with string. He handed them to May.
"Military documents. We found them in Little Eye with other things left behind. It's all there, everything she just told you and a lot more."
"Go on," said May.
"The problem was well known. We also found a supply of the antidote. We've hidden it. We'll tell you where it is, but there is a price."
"Here we go," said Brian.
"Let us stay in your community," Imogene said. "I want a chance to prove to you that I am not what you think I am. I have a lot of knowledge that you need."
"Like what?" asked Brian.
"Well, farm management for a start. The layout of this garden is all wrong."
"May?" said Moss.
"Well, she has some courage, I'll give her that." May sighed and took the folder from Moss's hand. "Come inside. It's getting dark and I have a lot of questions." Some of the crowd erupted in protest. Brian stalked off, swatting tomato plants with his rifle butt, swearing and shaking his head. May put up her hand.
"Enough," she said. The crowd quieted, with some residual grumbling. May looked up at Imogene, hands on hips. "If we don't take you in, then what?"
"Then most of you will die, directly or indirectly. I am asking that you let me stay. But if that is not the will of the group, I'll leave the island with Moss and you'll never see me again."
"I believe you mean what you say. Why would you want to help us?"
"The people who lived on Nightjar Island were unfairly treated. Everything was taken from them. I think you deserve, we deserve, a better future than picking through the rubble of our city."
"I agree," said May.
May sighed. "Well, I can't make the decision for the group. They're going to have to speak for themselves on this one. You will have to accept the will of the community."
"I've said as much," said Imogene.
May faced the group. "Show of hands from those who want her to stay." Two thirds of the hands rose slowly.
"That's it then," said May. "You're going to have to convince the rest of them eventually, which won't be easy, but for now we'll have you."
"Thank you," said Imogene.
"We never really had a choice," said May. "It'll take time for some of them to figure that out." She clutched her cane and suddenly looked very old.
"What's going on?" asked Luther, who appeared from around the building. "I've never heard Brian so pissed."
"Your mouth, Luther," said May.
Following the group into the hall, Moss passed a cluster of children at a long table. They were reading aloud from a battered school textbook.
Moss turned to May. "Where's their teacher?"
"Gone," she said. "Dr. Grove was the most recent to succumb to the illness." She followed the others into the adjoining room where coffee and sandwiches were already being prepared. Through the door, Moss could hear snatches of a conversation. An elderly farmer and Imogene were discussing the salinity of the local soils.
"Do you mind if I join you?" asked Moss. The children said nothing. Moss sat down and took one of the old textbooks from a pile. A girl with blond hair decorated with ribbons pushed her book toward him. Her finger marked a place in the story.
"What's your name?" asked Moss.
"Emily."
"Hi Emily, I'm Lumsden."
She pointed to a line in the book. "Do you know what this word is?"
"Yes, I do," said Moss with a grin.
THE SONGBIRDS OF NIGHTJAR ISLAND
Moss looked on as Mr. Tern, Head of Collections, raised the lid of the rosewood display case. The glass rattled and the hinges made a high-pitched sound. The air was tainted with the bitter-tasting dust of the storeroom. Tern had offered an unconvincing apology for the state of the room, something about changing exhibits and the tastes of modern audiences. A quiet zoo of rare animals filled the small space, wrapped in sheets of cloudy polyethylene and brown paper. Rough shelves bowed precariously beneath the weight of specimen jars. Moss, put off by the milky eyes of something suspended in a tincture of its own flesh, focused his attention on the object of his visit.
The forged volume of Franklin Box's The Songbirds of Nightjar Island rested on the bed of felt where Moss had placed it three years earlier. He eyed it critically. It was faultless. The glue had held and the dyes had faded to the degree expected. There was nothing to suggest that it was not the book once owned by the mad ornithologist. Even the fine dust and the speckled shell of a museum beetle inside the case conspired to give an air of authenticity. A note-perfect performance, thought Moss with a mixture of pride and shame.
In the year since Moss and Imogene had said goodbye to Nightjar Island, he had put his hands to more constructive purposes. With the help of a few taciturn workmen, he had turned John
Machine's abandoned chapel into a library. In the evenings, still covered in plaster dust, Moss taught a reading class for the local children, and even a few of their parents. His hands had developed calluses, their creases ingrained with dirt. The nail on his left thumb was dark, the result of a badly timed hammer blow. Before leaving to come to the city he had prepared a garden for winter, laid a wall of reclaimed brick and repaired the roof slates. When he was not working on the building, or teaching, he wrote. It helped with the depression and anxiety that dogged him, appearing without warning, several times a month. Imogene had told him that happy endings were bullshit. She was right, of course. Haunted by what he had seen on Nightjar Island, Moss had started to read the histories left behind in the monastery at Little Eye. His research was the main reason he had come back to the City of Steps. He was taking advantage of a few balmy days to visit the archives before the inevitable autumn rains and winter. He had begun writing a history of Nightjar Island that would probably never be read. It did not matter; the act of writing was enough.
"Judge Seaforth must be a forgetful man not to remember that he'd sent you here on a previous occasion," said Tern. He folded his arms and then immediately unfolded them and smoothed his jacket pockets.
"The judge has a bad memory." Moss shrugged. "If we could at least go through the motions of verifying the edition is the correct one, for the sake of saying we did, I'd be much obliged." Moss adopted the body language of the long-suffering personal secretary.
"As you wish, sir." Tern made a show of consulting his watch and then stepped away from the case with his pale hands clasped over his stomach. At that moment a woman stepped into the storeroom. Her amber eyes took in the crowded collection before settling on the two men. Her velvet-trimmed coat could not conceal her pregnancy.
"Hello," said Tern, raising his hands in exaggerated surprise. "How can I be of assistance?"
"The women's lavatory?" she asked in a stage whisper. "This is clearly not it." The mere mention of the women's lavatory was enough to redden Tern's cheeks. He turned away from Moss and gave Imogene such elaborate directions she could have found the public lavatory in a blindfold. Moss took advantage of the distraction. He lifted the forged book out of the case and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. He replaced it with the original, which had been his companion for three years. In the process, it had become a different book. The cover was stained by ocean brine; the pages were marked with the penciled notes that Moss had kept during his search for Memoria and the fulfillment of his promise to Irridis. Filled with Moss's hopeless drawings and pressed botanical specimens, it was considerably thicker than it had been on the day he had whisked it from under Tern's nose. One day maybe someone would pull it from the case and read his ramblings, but until then it would rest in the quiet of the storeroom, its secrets hidden. Imagining his future reader's perplexity, Moss smiled and closed the lid.
Necessary Monsters Page 30
