by James Doig
“I endeavoured to occupy myself with my notebooks, with little success, the gun between my knees bringing my thoughts back continually to what might be lurking in the fog close at hand. I don’t think I ever spent a more uncomfortable day, and I was glad when at long last it began to grow dark, for I felt certain that my visitor would return.
“Leaving the window open, but shading the lamp so that only a glow could be visible from without, I settled to my vigil with ears pricking to every whisper of sound. At nine I ate my simple supper. At ten I gave up the pretence of reading. By twelve I had grown sulky, telling myself that the Thing would not come that night. And, only two or three minutes later, I heard my alarm-wall fall.
“I had rehearsed exactly what I would do, and did it without a hitch. I lit my flare, flung it through the window, then opening the door, sprang out and let drive a barrel down the path.
“There was a commotion of rolling stones, a sort of coughing bellow, a swirl of the fog, and something dark and indefinite blundered past up the hollow and so to the plateau beyond. I fired the second barrel into it as it passed, eliciting another roar.
“Then followed a great outcry from the birds as they rose before the disturber of peace, but since there was nothing more to be done I got me in again, reloading as I went.
“Slowly the racket among the bird folk died away; there was silence, save for the usual nigh noises. For the time the enemy was routed.
“But I did not sleep. The gully running past the hut was the only way down to the sea, so far as I knew, and the creature might return at any moment, paying me a visit in passing. However, I was no longer nervous, but rather eager to have another shot at the beggar. Chiefly I was consumed by curiosity, my glimpse of the Thing having in no way enlightened me. I had seen only a dark bulk which might have been anything, a blur shapeless as a puff of smoke.
I puzzled myself ’til daylight, then, since nothing seemed likely to happen, snoozed for several hours. The mist was gone from the upper part of the island when I awoke, though it still hung thickly above the sea. Determined to follow up my quarry and make an end of the mystery, if I could, I snatched a hasty breakfast and hobbled out.
“There was no difficulty in following the trail. A pool of blood where I had built the little wall, and many splashes all up the gully showed that I had hit hard. On the plateau above the trail was still plain. The creature had ploughed straight over the close lying nests, crushing eggs and fledglings in its passage.
“It seemed to have gone blindly for a little way, then steered towards the edge of the cliff, along which it had gone for a considerable distance, evidently seeking a path down. I walked very warily, expecting to come upon the brute at any moment. Several times I halted before a clump of boulders and threw stones. Nothing showed, however, and the trail ran on until I had come to a place almost immediately above the cave I had mentioned. There it plunged into gully so steep that I hesitated to negotiate it with my lamed foot for handicap.
“But after hesitating a little, I ventured so far as a large rock that jutted from the face of the cliff about thirty feet down. The descent took me some time, but at last I was securely seated in a crevice, and able to scan the remainder of the gully.
“As I had thought, it did not go right down, but ceased at a broad ledge some fifty feet above the sea. The mist still hung about the ledge, while I could only catch an occasional glimpse of the dark water below. The vapour swirled with the light breeze, now blotting out the ledge altogether, now thinning ’til it was only a gauze veil, through which I could see boulders and lichen patches wavering indistinctly.
“Something moved on the ledge, something long and large, so like in colour to the rock it lay upon that only the movement revealed it for a living thing. At which moment the mist thickened again, and I saw no more.
“Waiting was my game. I trained my gun between my knees, and watched the eddying drift of the wreaths for a full half-hour at least before they thinned once more; then, as the grey, humped form loomed out again, let drive both barrels.
“From aloft it looked as though a section of the ledge lifted a little, then rolled over into the sea. I had a clear sight of what seemed a webbed paw flailing out in a vain effort to hold on—then there came a mighty splash, and with it a rush of something which flung the water aside like the bow of a destroyer. The sea foamed, I could see two dark forms battling furiously, see the spray discoloured with blood—and then the mist closed down once more, leaving me as far from a solution as ever.
“For several minutes longer I heard the battle, then quiet fell, and when the mist cleared at last, before a gust, there was nought to see but a patch of stained water, which slowly cleared. Though I waited a long while, I saw nothing more.
“That afternoon my fishermen returned, bringing with them, for interpreter, their minister, a pleasant young fellow who spoke English with the Highland clearness of accent. He came ashore, accompanied by the red-beard who had first visited me, while, as before, the boat shoved off and the man in the stern kept his gun at the ready, precautions that no longer seemed ridiculous.
“The minister opened fire as soon as he was within hailing distance, by explaining who he was and why he came.
“‘Angus Macpherson here came to me in great distress because he could not make you understand the grave risks you run by remaining here,’ he began. ‘So I had to come perforce, as it were. Have you been molested? What is all this?’
“He had halted before the first of the bloodstains, while Angus, in great excitement, poured out a torrent of Gaelic.
“‘That is the blood of one of the grave risks,’ I replied. ‘I can give it no other name, since I have only had the merest glimpse of the creature.’
“‘And Angus cannot tell what it is, either,’ he said. ‘There seem to be several. One of our boats has been missing, and the men declare that it was attacked by these things. Remnants of the craft that have been picked up show the marks of terrible teeth. This isle is supposed to be a haunt of the brutes. You had better leave with us. The opportunity may not occur again for a long while.’”
“Well, I left. Solitude is all very well, and birds are extremely interesting, but they may be studied under less exacting conditions. If I had to be continually on my guard, I should be able to do little more. Therefore, we carried my baggage to the boat and pushed off, not without many a backward glance towards the dark mouth of the cave which, I suspect, held the secret of the island.”
Here ends the material portion of Porter’s narrative. There has been no further light on the matter, though several mysterious disappearances of fishing craft have been laid to the door of the terrors of Eiarn.
Marine zoologists are puzzled. One suggests a new species of seal, larger, more, ferocious than the gentle beasts we know of, carnivorous and bloodthirsty. Another gloats on the prospects of discovering a novel sort of alligator which has taken the sea for its province. A third boldly plumps for something altogether new and strange, an amphibious shark-tiger, product of heaven knows what evolutionary process in the mighty deep.
And, while the expedition that is to solve the riddle is being got ready, Mr Porter wanders the halls of the United Services Museum and all other places where slaughter weapons are displayed, meditating an armament. He does not propose to return to Eiarn without precaution.
DE PROFUNDIS, by Robert Coutts Armour
The Red Magazine, November 1914
About the junction years of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, writers of popular fiction were seized by a prophetic fervour of destruction. I think the scientists pointed the way with interesting speculations about such matters as the heat-life of the sun; an eminent French astronomer amused his leisure with a romantic, dithyrambic story of the human race’s end; various cheery people of varying authority decreed the speedy exhaustion of the world’s coal-f
ields; and a host of sprightly authors made haste to entertain us with accounts of great cities overwhelmed, and our painful built-up civilisation obliterated by dire and diverse means. Man warred with Terra, Ocean sent forth her devouring monsters, nation hurtled against nation, the Yellow Peril loomed terribly, new diseases devastated the whole world, leaving only a few choice spirits to the task of re-peopling it—and whilst we enjoyed this feast of speculation, the forces prepared for our undoing were already marshalling. Whether any one of those ingenious scribes anticipated what came to pass I am unable to say, though, for irony’s sake, I trust it was so, and that he has had ample, opportunity to revise his theories in the face of facts.
It may seem strange, but the calamity came without any warning, the few isolated incidents that might have served being misunderstood or disregarded. I myself was witness, after the event, of one such, in this wise.
I had been making holiday in Cornwall, tramping the coastline or occasionally diving inland, in an irresponsible fashion that would have shocked the laborious writer of itineraries. The weather was unusually fine and warm, so, having a large waterproof poncho, a bag of provisions, and a little kettle, I gipsied very happily ’til the eve of the inevitable day when I must return to London. Being by then wise in the selection of a camping ground, I got me at sundown to the sheltered side of a little wood, ate my supper, and, wrapped in my poncho, lay down to enjoy a pipe before going to sleep.
It was my last camp in England, perhaps the last I shall ever make there. At the present time, of course, such a proceeding would be stark lunacy even in the most desolate place. In front of me, looking inland, the ground rose with a gentle swell, dipped and rose again to the horizon quite bare of cover, there being no trees of any growth in that part of the West Country. They were all cut down long ago, I have been told, at the time when every Cornishman turned mole and burrowed after tin, and certainly they must have needed forests to prop the workings with which the country is honeycombed. In the field before me was the shaft of one ringed by a high stone wall, and with it for text I speculated drowsily whether, in the far future, the wood underground would have rotted or turned to coal. Then an old horse came and looked over the hedge at me in a friendly way, and the tips of his ears twitching against the sky were my last waking memory.
I awoke once in the dark with a confused sound of hoofs and a long, wailing cry ringing in my cars, but all was quiet. I attributed the noise to a trick of dream, sniffed distastefully a faint, acrid odour drifting on the slow night breeze, and, turning over, slept without stir ’til the sunlight crept into my eyes. Within half an hour I had sluiced myself at a runnel, eaten breakfast, and was ready to face the road, the rail, and the Big Smoke.
My direct route lay through the field in front, and climbing on the gate I stood at gaze, seeing that close beside the walled shaft-mouth lay something which, I was absolutely certain, had not been there overnight—a large skeleton.
I noticed, too, that my friendly horse was nowhere in view, though the boundaries of the field were all in sight, and, exceedingly puzzled, approached the bones. They were fresh, raw, though not a particle of meat adhered to them, and unmistakably equine. I went back to the gate, the only exit, examined the ground beyond it, which was soft enough to show a track, and made sure that the beast had not gone out that way.
The conclusion was obvious. Within a few hours a big, strong animal had been done to death, and clean picked! It was incredible, yet there was the skeleton, without a toothmark, still held together by its ligaments, and perfect as an anatomist could desire. I began to be a little afraid, but being of a fairly practical turn set about searching after further facts, and ran against more incomprehensibility.
From the gory patch about the skeleton to, the wall around the shaft, ran two tracks, worn through the turf to bare earth, about four or five inches wide and as much apart, one of which continued in a red stain up the perpendicular face of the stones.
Now, I offer no excuse for my conduct in the face of the mystery. Certainly the wall was high, and had been effectively pointed no great while before, but I could easily have climbed it. Only—I didn’t want to climb. Without weighing matters I concluded instantly that the power which could so deal with a horse might very easily treat me in like fashion, left the unhealthy precinct on tiptoe, and ran ’til I came to a cart-road. Decidedly the spirit of research was not in me that morning.
At the time I felt I was doing shamefully, but looking back I see that I acted with common-sense. Had I searched further I should have lost my life as vainly as one who throws himself to a school of sharks; yet my self-esteem barometer went down and down, so I mentioned the phenomenon to no one, but got to town, and to work once again determined to forget an inexplicable incident.
In those days I had just entered on a series of experiments having for object the discovery of some volatile fuel to replace petrol, and my little laboratory contained so many samples of oils, tars, and essences that, despite ventilation, it usually smelt like the interior of a submarine. I suppose, strictly speaking, mine was a dangerous trade, and certainly the top floor of an old-fashioned office building in Fleet Street was scarcely a fitting place in which to distil inflammable liquids. But it happened that the den was my own, the property having belonged to my people for near a century, and with the near prospect of eviction, when the ground lease expired, I didn’t wish to squander money on other premises.
I had but few visitors and only one intimate friend, Henry Mayence, a short, broad, immensely strong man, devoted to motoring, and consequently keenly interested in my attempts to cheapen his pastime. He used to bring all kinds of absurdly unsuitable material, ranging from camphor to burgundy-pitch and palm oil, though apart from this foible he was entirely levelheaded. I returned from Cornwall at the beginning of June; twelve days later—on Friday, the 13th, to be precise—I heard his familiar step on the landing, the heavy thump of something weighty banged on the floor, and opened to find him in the act of upending a large iron oil-drum which smelt vilely of crude petroleum.
“So you’re back,” he grunted. “That’s a good job. Didn’t want to lug this thing home again. Out of the way!”
He pushed past unceremoniously with the thing in his arms, and, depositing it within with another crash, condescended to explain.
“Right stuff at last,” he said. “Wales. They’ve struck it—regular lake. I’ve got an option. You try it. It’s heavy, but—”
“But, confound you, I don’t want a hogshead!” I objected. “It’ll stink the place out. Phuff!” I had been at work all night, and so was irritable. “Why on earth couldn’t you bring a little? A bottleful would have been enough.”
He grinned placidly.
“Because this is going to be a big thing, sonny, and you’ll need it all. Besides, what does another flavour matter among so many? Open the windows.”
“And kill the sparrows? You’ll jolly well have to take it away again! Hang it, man, I’ll be run in for causing a nuisance!”
“All right,” said he soothingly; “perhaps it is a bit too thick. Didn’t notice it on the car. Horrid business, that of the policeman, Kingston way!”
“What business?” I asked. “I haven’t been out yet.”
“Devilish rummy! Found the poor beggar behind a hedge, uniform on—helmet, too. Beastly! And I may have spoken to him—been held up thereabouts more than once. Poor chap!”
“What are you gibbering about? Was he murdered?” I demanded irritably.
Mayence shivered.
“Ghastly, I tell you! Nothing but his clothes, only bones left inside ’em. Ugh!”
“What?” I shouted. “D’you mean to say—Why, down in Cornwall—”
And forthwith I told him briefly what I had seen.
“Same thing,” he said, nodding emphatically. “A horse don’t matter, but a man! And a lot
of other people are missing, too. Wonder you didn’t hear the boys yelling the specials outside.”
“I did,” said I. “But I’m so used to that, I didn’t take notice. Hallo! There’s another edition, or—”
We sprang together to the window opening streetwards and craned our necks.
Right opposite, building operations were in progress, and a great hole had been dug in the earth, from which, as we looked, the workmen came crowding and jostling, howling gigantically, in a frenzied hurry to reach the narrow door in the hoarding along the street front.
“Lord!” ejaculated Mayence. “What in thunder’s up! Look at that chap!”
A man, who had, I suppose, been in the deepest part of the excavation, came clawing frantically up a ladder, reached the level, put his hands to his head with the gesture of one suddenly smitten to death, reeled, and fell backwards into the pit.
A cloud of dust flew up and hid everything for an instant; then something which looked exactly like a wave of treacle—a brownish-black, shiny, wet-looking, lapping tide—flooded up over the edge of the hole, and flowed out towards the men jammed in the doorway.
They must have felt its coming and redoubled their efforts. A section of the hoarding gave way, falling outwards on the front ranks of the swaying crowd that had collected instantaneously, and, as they gave back, the fear-minded workmen charged forth, tripping, stumbling, and striking out fiercely at everything in their path, driven by blind, panic terror. Close on their heels through the gap, over the hoarding’s top and through every crevice of the boards, came that amazing fluid mass.
Everybody shouted, abruptly everybody faced about, turning to fly, and I had an impression of the crowd as a heaving, whirling maelstrom, with pinky-red faces for bubbles and a tossing spray of straw hats adrift for foam. I saw a tall man—a Press photographer, I presume—struggle free and present his camera at the oncoming treacly tide, stagger, fall, and lie motionless.
