Dark Waters (Mephisto Club Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  Dark Waters

  Mephisto Club Series Book 1

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2018 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved.

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  See you in the shadows,

  David Longhorn

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: North Atlantic, 1588 AD

  Chapter 1: Outsiders

  Chapter 2: Ghosts and Strangers

  Chapter 3: Threats and Mysteries

  Chapter 4: Challenge and Response

  Chapter 5: Island Life

  Chapter 6: New Acquaintances

  Chapter 7: Working Holiday

  Chapter 8: In Deep

  Chapter 9: Gods and Monsters

  Epilogue: London

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  Prologue: North Atlantic, 1588 AD

  “My lord captain,” said Marco, “the San Cristobal is signaling!”

  The captain of the Santisima Trinidad showed no sign of having heard the boy. Marco hauled himself along the rail of the galleon to bring himself closer to Don Pedro.

  “Sir! The lead ship of our column!”

  Marco pointed out across the gray waves. The San Cristobal lay several miles further out to sea. But even at this distance, the signal guns it was firing could not be missed. Nor could the bright-colored, streaming pennants flying from her mastheads. Everything about the great vessel demanded attention. Yet nobody seemed to notice.

  The captain, who was clinging to the rigging near the stern, turned his head to look blankly at the boy. Then Don Pedro raised his eyes and looked toward the San Cristobal, which was battling Atlantic breakers. A cloud of black smoke appeared at the ship's stern, was quickly dispersed by the wind. A moment later, the boom of a cannon sounded weakly over the rising gale.

  “I see the signal, boy,” said the captain dismissively, waving Marco away. Another dull boom sounded. The captain turned back on the San Cristobal, and resumed his gazing at the shore.

  Why is he ignoring the squadron commander?

  Marco looked east, towards the shore of a large island, gray and uninviting. He had heard officers say that the land they were passing was Scotland. Even he, a thirteen-year-old on his first voyage, could tell they were too close to the rocks and shoals. All ships of King Philip's Armada had been told to steer well clear of the dangerous coast of Scotland. They had no good charts, no safe harbors. The Scots were heretic Protestants, so the only chance for the good Catholic sailors was to battle the foul weather back to Spain. But Don Pedro seemed to have forgotten the admiral's instructions, and was now ignoring the San Cristobal's commander.

  Marco made his way forward, clambered down to the main deck. As the youngest member of the crew, his opinion carried no weight. But he felt the need to talk to someone about their bizarre and disturbing situation. Most of the men were either below decks getting some rest or working in the rigging. But old Diego, the carpenter, was working to repair some damaged timbers despite the rising wind and battering waves.

  “Come to help me, lad?” the craftsman asked. “Here, hold this plank steady.”

  Marco did as he was bid while Diego worked. He waited for the howling wind to die down a little so he could more easily talk to the old mariner, who was rumored to be well over sixty. Eventually his opportunity came.

  “Diego,” he asked. “Why are we so close inshore?”

  The man paused his work and looked up.

  “Not for us to judge such matters, lad. We are not trained navigators.”

  “But the San Cristobal–” Marco began.

  Diego held up a hand. The old man looked around, as if afraid of being overheard. Marco smiled at the thought. The wind was blowing again, carrying salt spray across the deck. The foul weather had persisted for days, leaving everyone damp, cold, and miserable. There was no one else within ten yards of them.

  But then Marco began to wonder if Diego was, in fact, worried about eavesdroppers at all. Instead, he put a hand to his ear and titled his head, looking puzzled. The boy frowned. There was nothing to hear but the undying roar of sea and sky.

  “What is it, Diego? What can you hear?”

  The old man put a finger to his lips.

  “Do you not hear it, boy? Listen carefully.”

  Marco smiled at the thought that the carpenter was hearing things. But he liked the kindly oldster and wanted to humor him. So, he too, put a cupped hand to his ear. And then he heard it.

  It was a sound so faint and distant that it might have easily been the wail of the wind through the rigging, or the cry of a great sea bird wheeling above them in the rain. But somehow, Marco knew it was neither of those things. The sound was somehow powerful for all its weakness, a keening that rose and fell in a way Marco had never heard before. It was musical but like no earthly music the boy had ever heard. It was a song, but he could not imagine what kind of singer produced it. It was infinitely sad, and at the same time seductive. Though wordless, it seemed to say that lot of Man on this earth was misery and pain. But something about the strange lament also suggested that release from suffering was possible.

  All might be well, if you would only believe. All might be well, weary sailors.

  And the song conjured up pictures. The pictures upset Marco in some ways and yet they fascinated him too, as if he were dreaming and yet still awake. He saw in his mind's eye a sea-cave, lit with a green light. Water shimmered by glistening rocks. In a recess something moved, a sinuous shape half-seen in the shadows. This, Marco knew, was the strange singer. He glimpsed a writhing form, pale and sinuous. A small, smooth-skinned hand appeared, splayed on the damp stone. Above it, he could almost make out a face. Then the sound was gone, and with it the vision it had brought.

  “Did you hear it? Did you see the cave?” demanded the old man.

  Marco nodded, staring up at the carpenter.

  “What was it, Diego?”

  “Did you see her face, lad?” asked Diego. “Did you see her face?”

  The boy shook his head. The old man sighed, leaned back on his haunches. He looked out towards the low, gray line of cliffs.

  “Too young I suppose. Think yourself lucky, lad,” said the old man. “I've only had a glimpse of her. I'm old now, worn out. But most of them are enchanted. See! The beauty that destroys has them in thrall.”

  Diego gestured at the crewmen lining the rail on the opposite side of the ship. Marco looked, and realized for the first time that hardly anyone else was working. A couple of men were securing one of the great cannons that had almost come loose during a squall. Then moved slowly, as if in a dream. But those two were a picture of frenetic energy in contrast with the other sailors, who were simply leaning on the rail and gazing to landward.

  “What's happening?” the boy asked, half to himself.

  He looked up and saw that the sailors in the rigging were motionless as well. The men simply hung from the ropes, facing toward the nameless Scottish island, paying no attention to great sheets of canvas that were flapping wildly in the gale. This was even more alarming. Already the Santisima Trinidad was already slowing as the wind spilled from unsecured sails. The galleon plunged and wallowed, almost knocking Marco off his feet.

  “It's not just the
captain,” said Diego, unnecessarily.

  “But why?” asked Marco. “What is it?”

  The old man looked inshore again.

  “She has many names, lad. A learned man could tell you a dozen, a hundred. But any man who knows the Seven Seas will tell you this; when a sailor hears her song, he is lost. And so is his ship.”

  Marco looked at the old man in horror, then gazed out at the San Cristobal. The lead ship was heading out to sea, rejoining the rest of the squadron. Her captain had clearly written off the Santisima Trinidad and was looking to his own ship's survival.

  Another gust of wind caught the galleon and slewed it around. A huge wave broke over the side, inundating the deck. A couple of men were knocked down onto the sun-bleached planks. One bashed his head on a gun-carriage and lay still, blood turning the swirling water pink. The other man ignored his shipmate and got up again, to stand listening at the rail.

  Now it was clear that the vessel was being driven inshore, wallowing gracelessly, adrift like an old barrel. The island was much closer. In only a few minutes, what had been a vaguely-defined gray expanse had taken on detail. Marco could see waves breaking over low, black rocks at the mouth of a small cover. He could also see a scattering of small huts, a stream of smoke from a chimney. Dots against the skyline must be human figures.

  “There are people, Diego!” he shouted, putting his mouth close to the old man's ear. “They will help us, won't they?”

  Diego looked at the boy, shook his head sadly. Another wave smashed into the galleon, and this time it brought with it the sickening sound of breaking timbers. The foremast broke off and fell across the bows, sails and rigging trailing into the sea. The ship rolled, seemed about to capsize, recovered but only partially.

  Marco climbed up the sloping deck to look at the shore. Now, despite the roar of the gathering storm, he could hear the strange song again. Once more the vision of the cave came, and now the lithe, pale shape was emerging from the shadows. He saw a face, small and heart-shaped, breathtakingly beautiful. A delicate hand beckoned as the wondrous being smiled.

  The world seemed to lurch sideways as the song ended. The mainmast crashed down, hurling men onto the rocks. Marco grabbed at a stanchion to stop himself sliding across the deck, but Diego was too slow and was carried into the wooden rail. The rail broke and the old man went overboard, into the lashing foam. Waves began to break over the galleon, and for the first time the boy heard men shouting in panic.

  The spell was broken, but far too late. Men rushed to ropes, officers shouted orders, but the mainmast was already snapping. The huge mainsail, decorated with a splendid Holy Trinity, flapped wildly and came loose. More men fell, screaming, as the ship heeled over. Marco heard men crying out to the Blessed Virgin, or calling for their own mothers.

  Marco was hanging almost vertically, now, and he felt his right arm wrench out of its socket. Weeping with pain, he let go and fell into the roiling waters. The daylight vanished as gray-green waters covered him. Choking, he surfaced, gulping air, but sank again. Expecting to drown, he was almost too surprised to swim when he found he had been carried around the rocks by the current. The cove was not too far away. He struck out for the shore, his injured arm sending jolts of pain through him as he clawed at the freezing sea.

  A wave caught him, carried him up a shingle strand, and tumbled him over. Stones skinned his palms, his bare soles, but he was on land. Spitting out salt water, Marco crawled a few yards up the beach, then his injured arm collapsed under him. He turned his head to look out at the Santisima Trinidad, but could not find it. Then he realized that a low, black object covered in grayish bits of canvas was what remained of the great warship. Even as he watched, the wrecked galleon vanished, swamped by the Atlantic breakers. The boy could see no other survivors. He thought of Diego, of the captain, of men who had been his companions, a substitute family.

  Someone spoke, a man's voice, harsh and very close. Marco turned, looked up, and saw a man standing over him. The stranger seemed outlandish, a lumpy-faced giant with bushy red hair and beard. More people were approaching, men and women, wrapped in woolen shawls and skirts. Despite his panic, Marco found time to wonder at the fact that the men here wore skirts.

  “Help me!” Marco begged. “Help me, good sir!”

  The red-haired man muttered something in his strange tongue, and then drew a knife. As the barbarian reached down to grasp the boy's hair, Marco began to gabble a simple plea to the Blessed Virgin. It was the only prayer he knew. He did not finish it.

  ***

  “What have you done? What is the meaning of all this?”

  The priest stared at the row of island women and girls who stood along the margin of the beach. None of them dared to meet his eyes, except for one old woman who was not right in the head.

  “They heard her song, Father Patrick!” the woman said, spittle flying from her lips. “They heard her calling a great ship!”

  “King of Spain's ship,” said a girl, only to be slapped and shushed by her mother.

  The priest raised his eyes to the low-lying rocks that lay across the entrance to the small cove. Only locals in small boats could hope to get past the deadly black reef. A vessel of King Philip's Armada would not have had a hope. A dark object was just visible beyond the barrier. It had a curved shape, sweeping from low prow to tall stern-castle. There were no masts, just a few flapping sheets of pale canvas. A galleon, he realized, and one that was being pummeled to pieces.

  Why would such a ship come close inshore? Unless the legend is true …

  Patrick tried to blot out the unwelcome thought, and hurried past the women onto the shingle sands. It looked as if all the men of the Isle of Soray were assembled on the tide line. Then the priest said that some were wading in the breakers, pulling dark objects ashore.

  Might they be rescuing survivors?

  Patrick's heart leaped for a moment at the thought that his flock, usually so grim and hard of heart, might be acting out of Christian charity for once. He had, after all, only been here for a few weeks. He did not really know them. But then he saw the flash of metal, and a splash of red staining the foam for a moment.

  “Monsters!” he cried, pushing through the crowd. “Heathens! Philistines!”

  There were chuckles and a few mocking shouts, but none of the men tried to hinder the short, plump priest as he splashed into the water. He was far too late, though. Not a single Spaniard was left alive, and already the men who had done the murdering were relieving the dead of purses and rings.

  Patrick stood, the sea soaking his long homespun cassock, speechless with rage at the sinners. He had been sent on a wild goose chase to see a supposedly dying parishioner on the other side of the island. It was now clear why. For days the great ships had been passing, singly or in groups, around the Outer Hebrides. The priest knew his flock plundered wrecks. But he had refused to believe the local superstition as to how those wrecks came to happen so conveniently, and so often.

  Suddenly a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and spun him round. He looked up to see the grizzled face of One-Eyed Angus. The disfigured man was the eldest of the fisher-folk, and the nearest thing Soray had to a leader.

  “Be still, priest!” Angus rumbled. “You can do no good here.”

  “This is monstrous!” Patrick protested. “To kill the innocent–”

  “They came to make war, they failed, they died,” Angus said, dismissively. “Now let their treasures do some good for us.”

  The priest paused, looked out at the galleon. The last vestiges of the great vessel disappeared as he watched. A few casks and spars remained bobbing on the surface.

  “Treasure?” scoffed the cleric. “Any treasure aboard yonder ship is sunk three, four fathoms or more. Are you going to dive for it, Angus? Even I know you'd be battered to a pulp on those rocks.”

  Angus smiled, his good eye glinting in the weak sunlight.

  “No, Father, not I,” he replied, patting the smaller man on the shoul
der. “But there's one who will. You wait and see.”

  That night, Patrick said prayers for the usual tiny congregation. So far from the mainland and meaningful authority he could not force the islanders to come to church, and most chose not to. They preferred to sit at home around their peat fires and drink the foul local whiskey. After sending the faithful on their way with a blessing, the priest retired to his small house by the churchyard, and tried to formulate a letter to his bishop. Words like 'depraved', 'iniquitous', and 'vile' sprang to mind. But something troubled him. He could not forget the oddly reassuring tone of One-Eyed Angus.

  What did the old rogue mean?

  Patrick looked up at the wooden crucifix on the wall of his humble home. He could find no solace in the image of divine suffering. He had prayed for guidance on how to make his flock more virtuous, but it seemed to the priest that God was silent. Not for the first time he wondered if Soray was beyond the pale of divine grace.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who's there?” he called.

  No answer came. He picked up his small lantern and went to the door, listened, heard nothing but the night wind. Patrick seldom had visitors after sundown. But there was the remote chance that one of his tiny flock was seeking help – perhaps prayers for a sick or dying relative.

  The priest summoned up his courage and flung the door open. He saw nobody standing outside, just a few scraggy trees swaying in the wind. A gibbous moon seemed to be racing through the clouds. In the distance, the sea glimmered.

  “Hello?”

  Patrick took a couple of tentative steps, then stopped when his sandaled foot struck something hard.

  “Bloody hell!” he cried, hopping back and clutching his stubbed toe. Then he asked forgiveness for cursing before examining the object that had caused his minor injury.

  It was a bag made of coarse cloth. It smelled of fish, but so did most things in the village, not to mention the people. He lifted the bag, then dropped it. It was startlingly heavy, almost impossibly so. He crouched down and opened the mouth of the bag. In the dim light cast by his lantern, he saw a gleam of what seemed, to his fuddled mind, to be pure sunlight.