Emiko shuddered. “And the little faces in the net, not like fish faces. Like Ryuichi’s face.” She spat on the ground and looked hard at who Yukiko had become. “We shouldn’t have eaten them. That is why I live as I do.”
Yukiko wetly cleared her throat and patted Emiko’s hand. “Please tell me you’re not trekking all the way up to that Fugen shrine, anymore. It is such an arduous walk. Please tell me that you love the Fugen statue. I had it made just for you. I want to make your life easier, just a little.”
Emiko sighed. “I keep it on the kamidana, next to grandfather’s swords and mother’s and father’s funeral tablets. Sometimes, Taro stares at it for hours. He says it pulls at him, that the whorls in the stone change.” She laughed to dispel the foolishness of the idea. “What’s a mother to do?”
Yukiko laughed. Her two sons walked hand-in-hand with a still-normal, childlike gait. “Taro is 13 now? Such a fine boy. Especially now, he takes after his –” She froze. The hard-shouldered stiffness reappeared in Emiko’s stance. Their walk was soon over.
The first trouble in many years came when the children began to disappear. First, the woodcutter’s young daughter, then one of the sake-brewer’s sons, five and six years old. Like Emiko, their families had also shunned the village’s prosperity, allowing only as much as they needed to support themselves. They were adorable children, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed. They simply vanished. We searched the woods and seashore and caverns to the south, where the new priest left offerings to the sea gods.
The bones were discovered, half-buried under a thin carpet of bamboo leaves, cracked and gnawed, the marrow sucked out, as if devoured by a beast. We combed the forest for signs of bears and wolves, even though bears had never lived on Kyushu and no one had seen wolves in generations. Parents kept their children under close watch. If not for their precautions, Taro might have gotten away with more.
One moment, little Momoko was playing near one of the rice fields while her mother arranged some seedlings for planting and the next moment, the child was gone. A woman nearby spotted Taro scuttling into the bushes, dragging a limp little figure, like a monkey dragging a doll, except his strange gait suggested something other than monkey.
The women cried out in alarm. Several men charged after in pursuit, following a tenuous trail of blood to a hollow between some rocks at the skirts of Clear Water Mountain, near the old temple, abandoned and forgotten over a decade. We roared in horror and rage at the sight: Taro’s hideous shape, bedraggled hair, red-rimmed eyes, his almost-snout, bloody lips and yellow teeth tearing into the soft flesh of the little girl’s naked buttock. Her skull lay open, splattered on the rocks. We charged him, with our gaff hooks and rusty spears left over from the old wars, but he was faster than any monkey. With a snarl, a claw and a frog-like bounce, he tore out poor Bunta’s throat and soared over our vengeful band, tearing off into the forest.
Some of us gave chase; some of us carried poor Momoko back to the village.
When we beat upon Emiko’s door, she snarled as she came out, thinking to drive us off, but we would not be moved, in spite of the beginning changes in her. The idol was doing its work. Eyes grown larger and watery, skin sallow, body bloating. Such changes had spread throughout the village, faster in some than in others. We told her all of it and her face became a Noh mask. “I will find him,” she said.
“He’ll be punished!” we cried.
“Yes, he will.” Her eyes did not blink.
Emiko went back into her house and we joined the others in the search.
Emiko later came to the constable and the headman, and announced that Taro would never harm anyone again. The constable nearly arrested her, but something in her demeanor gave him pause, a resignation and regret as deep and solid as the basalt underlying a reef, as deep and sublime as the cities of the sea gods. He let her go. As she shuffled away, she clutched the golden idol of Fugen under her arm, with a tuft of bloody hair clinging to one of the hard edges.
Decades later, a fisherman saw Emiko shuffling, hopping across the tide pools toward the reef. Her remaining wisps of hair had gone stone-grey, unkempt and sodden. By this time, the flabby wattles around her throat had begun to form gills like those of the sea gods, her flesh grown pale, with the ever-present moist sheen. Her webbed fingers clutched the idol made with the strange, sickly green stone and gold given from the sea gods. Her shoulders hunched under the burden of silent tortures we could only imagine. She waited as the tide came in around her, rising up to her waist, then her chest. Then she lowered her head and disappeared under the waves.
When Yukiko and Chiba claimed the Otomo house by right of kinship, they could barely walk on land anymore, themselves. They found a skeleton carefully arranged near the kamidana, in the shadow of the Otomo swords and family funeral tablets.
The sharp, protruding teeth and twisted limbs marked the skeleton as Taro. A jagged cleft shattered the misshapen face. Yukiko made her husband swear – until they went into the sea – that he would never utter a word of the knife-and-tooth-marks on those bones.
Travis Heermann. Author, freelance writer, English instructor, poker player, biker, roustabout. His novel, Heart of the Ronin, is available now in trade paperback and e-book from E-Reads. He has sold short fiction to Cemetery Dance, OG’s Speculative Fiction, the British Fantasy Society’s Winter 2010 anthology, Library of Horror Press, and others. He taught English in Japan for three years and stands out there like a space alien with his head on fire.
The author speaks: This story is set in early-17th-century Japan, right after the rise of the Tokugawa Shogunate, before trade with “hairy barbarians” was outlawed. The setting is the western coast of Kyushu, across the Ariake Sea from Nagasaki, a major trading port with the Portuguese. When I heard about this anthology, I knew I wanted to write a story set in Japan. An obvious direction was to explore Japan’s deep connection to the sea, juxtaposed with Lovecraft’s sea-borne horrors, but I wasn’t sure how to make it fresh. Then I happened to read “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner (a fantastic horror story in its own right) and I found my twist.
THE INFERNAL HISTORY OF THE
IVYBRIDGE TWINS
Molly Tanzer
for a number of people, whom, the author is certain, would not wish their names mentioned here
I
Concerning the life and death of St. John Fitzroy, Lord Calipash – the suffering of the Lady Calipash – the unsavory endeavors of Lord Calipash’s cousin Mr. Villein – as well as an account of the curious circumstances surrounding the birth of the future Lord Calipash and his twin sister.
In the county of Devonshire, in the parish of Ivybridge, stood the ancestral home of the Lords Calipash. Calipash Manor was large, built sturdily of the local limestone, and had stood for many years without fire or other catastrophe marring its expanse. No one could impugn the size and antiquity of the house, yet often, one or another of those among Lord Calipash’s acquaintance might be heard to comment that the Manor had a rather rambling, hodgepodge look to it and this could not be easily refuted without the peril of speaking a falsehood. The reason for this was that the Lords Calipash had always been the very essence of English patriotism and, rather than ever tearing down any part of the house and building anew, each Lord Calipash had chosen to make additions and improvements to older structures. Thus, though the prospect was somewhat sprawling, it served as a pleasant-enough reminder of the various styles of Devonian architecture and became something of a local attraction.
St. John Fitzroy, Lord Calipash, was a handsome man: tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed. He had been bred up as any gentleman of rank and fortune might be, and therefore, the manner of his death was more singular than any aspect of his life. Now, given that this is, indeed, an Infernal History, the sad circumstances surrounding this good man’s unexpected and early demise demand attention by the author, and they are inextricably linked with the Lord Calipash’s cousin, a young scholar called ‘Mr. Villein’, who will figure more
prominently in this narrative than his nobler relation.
Mr. Villein came to stay at Calipash Manor during the Seven Years’ War, in order to prevent his being conscripted into the French army. Though indifference had previously characterized the relationship between Lord Calipash and Mr. Villein (Mr. Villein belonging to a significantly lower branch of the family tree), when Mr. Villein wrote to Lord Calipash to beg sanctuary, the good Lord would not deny his own flesh and blood. This was not to say, however, that Lord Calipash was above subtly encouraging his own flesh and blood to make his stay a short one and, to that end, he gave Mr. Villein the tower bedroom that had been built by one of the more eccentric Lords some generations prior to our tale, who so enjoyed pretending to be the Lady Jane Grey that he had the edifice constructed so his wife could dress up as a member of the privy council and keep him locked up there for as long as nine days at a stretch. But that was not the reason Lord Calipash bade his cousin reside there – the tower was a drafty place and given to damp, and thus seemed certain of securing a speedy departure. As it turns out, however, the two men were so unlike one another that what Lord Calipash thought was an insulting situation, Mr. Villein found entirely salubrious and so, happily, out of a case of simple misunderstanding grew an affection, founded on deepest admiration for Mr. Villein’s part and, for Lord Calipash’s, enjoyment of toadying.
All the long years of the international conflict Mr. Villein remained at Calipash Manor and, with the passing of each and every day, he came more into the confidence of Lord Calipash, until it was not an uncommon occurrence to hear members of Lord Calipash’s circle using words like ‘inseparable’ to describe their relationship. Then, only six months before the signing of the Treaty of Paris, the possibility of continued fellowship between Lord Calipash and Mr. Villein was quite suddenly extinguished. A Mr. Fellingworth moved into the neighbourhood with his family, among them his daughter of fifteen years, Miss Alys Fellingworth. Dark of hair and eye but pale of cheek, her beauty did not go long unnoticed by the local swains. She had many suitors and many offers, but from among a nosegay of sparks, she chose as her favourite blossom the Lord Calipash.
Mr. Villein had also been among Miss Fellingworth’s admirers and her decision wounded him – not so much that he refused to come to the wedding (He was very fond of cake), but certainly enough that all the love Mr. Villein had felt for Lord Calipash was instantly converted, as if by alchemy, to pure hatred. In his dolor, Mr. Villein managed to convince himself that Miss Fellingworth’s father had pressured her to accept Lord Calipash’s offer for the sake of his rank and income, against her true inclinations; that, had she been allowed to pick her heart’s choice, she certainly would have accepted Mr. Villein’s suit rather than his cousin’s. Such notions occupied Mr. Villein’s thoughts whenever he saw the happy couple together and every day, his mind became more and more inhospitable to any pleasure he might have otherwise felt on account of his friend’s newfound felicity.
A reader of this history might well wonder why Mr. Villein did not quit Calipash Manor, given that his situation, previously so agreeable, he now found intolerable. Mr. Villein was, however, loath to leave England. He had received a letter from his sister informing him that, during his absence, his modest home had been commandeered by the army and thus, his furniture was in want of replacing, his lands trampled without hope of harvest, his stores pilfered. Perhaps worst of all, his wretched sister was with child by an Austrian soldier who had, it seemed, lied about his interest in playing the role of father beyond the few minutes required to grant him that status. It seemed prudent to Mr. Villein to keep apart from such appalling circumstances for as long as possible.
Then, one evening, from the window of his tower bedroom, Mr. Villein saw Lord Calipash partaking of certain marital pleasures with the new Lady Calipash against a tree in one of the gardens. Nauseated, Mr. Villein called for his servant and announced his determination to secretly leave Calipash Manor, once and for all, early the following morning. While the servant packed his bags and trunks, Mr. Villein penned a letter explaining his hasty departure to Lord Calipash and left it, along with a token of remembrance, in Lord Calipash’s study.
Quite early the next morning, just as he was securing his cravat, Mr. Villein was treated to the unexpected-but-tantalizing sight of Lady Calipash in deshabille. She was beside herself with grief, but eventually, Mr. Villein, entirely sympathetic and eager to understand the source of her woe, coaxed the story from her fevered mind:
“I woke early, quite cold,” gibbered Lady Calipash. “Lord Calipash had never come to bed, though he promised me when I went up that he should follow me after settling a few accounts. When I discovered him absent, I rose and sought him in his study only to find him – dead. Oh! It was too terrible! His eyes were open, wide and round and staring. At first, I thought it looked very much like he had been badly frightened, but then I thought he had almost a look of ... of ecstasy about him. I believe –”
Here the Lady Calipash faltered, and it took some minutes for Mr. Villein to get the rest of the story from her, for her agitated state required his fetching smelling salts from out of his valise. Eventually, she calmed enough to relate the following:
“I believe he might have done himself the injury that took him from me,” she sobbed. “His wrists were slit and next to him lay his letter-opener. He ... he had used his own blood to scrawl a message on the skirtingboards ... Oh, Mr. Villein!”
“What did the message say?” asked Mr. Villein.
“It said, He is calling, he is calling, I hear him,” she said and then she hesitated.
“What is it, Lady Calipash?” asked Mr. Villein.
“I cannot see its importance, but he had this in his other hand,” said she and handed to Mr. Villein a small object wrapped in a handkerchief.
He took it from her and saw that it was an odd bit of ivory, wrought to look like a lad’s head crowned with laurel. Mr. Villein put it in his pocket and smiled at the Lady Calipash.
“Likely it has nothing to do with your husband’s tragic end,” he said gently. “I purchased this whilst in Greece and the late Lord Calipash had often admired it. I gave it to him as a parting gift, for I had meant to withdraw from Calipash Manor this very morning.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t,” begged Lady Calipash. “Not now, not after ... Lord Calipash would wish you to be here. You mustn’t go just now, please! For my sake ....”
Mr. Villein would have been happy to remain on those terms, had the Lady Calipash finished speaking, but alas, there was one piece of information she had yet to relate.
“ ... and for our child’s sake, as well,” she concluded.
While the Lord Calipash’s final message was being scrubbed from the skirtingboards, and his death was being declared an accident by the constable in order that the departed Lord might be buried in the churchyard, Mr. Villein violently interrogated Lady Calipash’s serving-maid. The story was true – the Lady was indeed expecting – and this intelligence displeased Mr. Villein so immensely that, even as he made himself pleasant and helpful with the hope that he might eventually win the Lady Calipash’s affections, he sought to find a method of ridding her of her unborn child.
To Mr. Villein’s mind, Lady Calipash could not but fall in love with her loyal confidant – believing as he did that she had always secretly admired him – but he knew that should she bear the late Lord Calipash’s son, the estate would one day be entirely lost to Mr. Villein. Thus, he dosed the Lady with recipes born of his own researches, for while Mr. Villein’s current profession was that of scholar, in his youth, he had pursued lines of study related to all manner of black magics and sorceries. For many years, he had put aside his wicked thaumaturgy, being too happy in the company of Lord Calipash to travel those paths that demand solitude, gloom and suffering, but, newly motivated, he returned to his former interests with a desperate passion.
Like the Wife of Bath, Mr. Villein knew all manner of remedies for love’s mischances and h
e put wicked spells on the decoctions and tisanes that he prepared to help his cause. Yet, despite Mr. Villein’s skill with infusion and incantation, Lady Calipash grew heavy with child; indeed, she had such a healthy maternal glow about her that the doctor exclaimed that for one so young to be brought to childbed, she was certain of a healthy accouchement. Mr. Villein, as canny an adept at lying as other arts, appeared to be thrilled by his Lady’s prospects and was every day by her side. Though privately discouraged by her salutary condition, he was cheered by all manner of odd portents that he observed as her lying-in drew ever closer. First, a murder of large, evil-looking ravens took up residence upon the roof of Calipash Manor, cackling and cawing day and night. Then the ivy growing on Calipash Manor’s aged walls turned from green to scarlet, a circumstance no naturalist in the area could satisfactorily explain. Though the Lady Calipash’s delivery was expected in midwinter, a she-goat was found to be unexpectedly in the same delicate condition as her mistress and gave birth to a two-headed kid that was promptly beaten to death and buried far from the Manor.
Not long after that unhappy parturition, which had disturbed the residents of Calipash Manor so greatly that the news was kept from Lady Calipash for fear of doing her or her unborn child a mischief, the Lady began to feel the pangs of her own travail. At the very stroke of midnight, on the night of the dark of the moon, during a lightning storm that was as out of season as the she-goat’s unusual kid, the Lady Calipash was happy to give birth to a healthy baby boy, the future Lord Calipash, and as surprised as the midwife when a second child followed, an equally plump and squalling girl. They were so alike that Lady Calipash named them Basil and Rosemary, and then promptly gave them over to the wet-nurse to be washed and fed.
The wet-nurse was a stout woman from the village, good-natured and well-intentioned, but a sounder sleeper than was wanted in that house. Though an infant’s wail would rouse her in an instant, footfalls masked by thunder were too subtle for her country-bred ear and thus, she did not observe the solitary figure that stole silently into the nursery in the wee hours of that morning. For only a few moments did the individual linger, knowing well how restive infants can be in their first hours of life. By the eldritch glow of a lightning strike, Mr. Villein uncorked a phial containing the blood of the two-headed kid now buried and he smeared upon both of those rosy foreheads an unholy mark, which, before the next burst of thunder, sank without a trace into their soft and delicate skin.
Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time Page 21
