The captain raised his eyebrows.Shamans, he thought. What next, witchdoctors? ‘I’m not a seer.’
‘What is a name?’ asked the other. ‘You see ghosts. You fight evil. What does that make you?’
‘Captain of the Isabella,’ retorted Da Silva. Mohan Das laughed, and executed a neat manoeuvre to avoid a particularly persistent beggar. He moved through the crowd the way a fish does through water, quite at home in his own element. Da Silva, who had to dodge ghosts as well as people, fared less well, although he was gradually learning to walk through, rather than round, the shades that thronged the streets wherever he went. Even after nearly two years, though, it was still not quite automatic.
‘You will find,’ observed his companion, without looking up at him, ‘that you are not unique. But neither are you alone.’
He had half-suspected it. But hearing it said, especially by someone who, however educated he sounded, came from a culture profoundly different from his own, was more disconcerting than comforting.
‘Can you help me?’
‘Only with information, senhorcapitão.’ The old man smiled, all the wrinkles in his face gnarling, like the bark of a tree, and Da Silva wondered just how old he was. ‘Oh, yes, I have done things in my time - been a hero. How old are you?’ he asked abruptly, and the captain, taken by surprise, answered automatically.
‘Forty-two.’
‘You are a young man still. I am more than twice your age now. Much more.’ His expression sobered. ‘And I must warn you, if you have not already realized it, that your task will become more dangerous as time goes by.’
‘More dangerous,’ repeated Da Silva. Oh good. That’s just the sort of thing I wanted to hear. ‘Why?’ he asked, bluntly.
The old man looked up at him, his eyes hooded. ‘Because they know you now. Your sight, and your actions, mark you, and they will recognize you.’
And the proof of that is that I know exactly what he means by they, he thought mordantly, and expelled a deep lungful of smoke. ‘You said,’ he reminded Mohan Das, ‘that you could tell me something about the wolf.’
‘Ah yes,’ the other agreed. ‘The wolf.’ But he said no more. Da Silva wiped sweat from his face again and wondered once more how people managed to live, even thrive, in such a climate. He looked up to see clouds building in the lead-coloured sky.
‘It’s going to rain,’ he observed.
‘Yes. We should take cover.’
Da Silva thought he wouldn’t have minded getting wet if it would cool him down at all. But the last time he had been caught in a monsoon downpour all it had done was soak his clothes still further without noticeably decreasing his discomfort.
He followed the old man under a low doorway, ducking instinctively although he had only ever met one low enough to smack his head on, and sat down where indicated in a stuffy, sweat-smoke-and-spice-scented dimness.
Mohan Das spoke to someone unseen in such a quiet voice that the captain could catch not a single word, which annoyed him.
‘The wolf?’ he prompted after a silent moment, and heard rain begin to drum on the roof.
‘This is, as people have surmised, not a natural wolf,’ the old man said. ‘At least, not natural in the sense that it was not born a wolf but has, as we might say, acquired wolfhood - had wolfhood thrust upon it, as it were.’
‘You’re saying it is a werewolf, then?’ said Da Silva. ‘Can it be killed? What I mean is—’
‘You are asking about silver bullets, I imagine. Yes?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ the captain admitted, a little irritably, since despite Zé’s fancies he had no such ammunition for the revolver in his pocket.
The old man looked at him shrewdly, dark eyes glittering. By now the noise of the rain was so profound it sounded as if they were inside a drum, and Da Silva had to strain to hear him when he spoke.
‘I expect you know that certain metals are, by their nature, more potent against. . . unnatural things. Just as some substances are apt to evil. Although the effectiveness of both is affected by the nature of the wielder.’
A steaming glass was placed in front of Da Silva, and he sniffed it suspiciously. Oh God, more tea, he thought. What I’d give for a decent brandy. There probably wasn’t one this side of Constantinople - even the stuff in the decanter in his cabin had come from Greece and was, frankly, gut-rot. ‘And that means?’ he asked.
‘I am sorry,’ said Mohan Das. ‘What I mean to say is, you would find it easier to kill such a thing with a bullet made of silver than with one made of lead, but depending on how much . . . virtue you have of your own it might add effectiveness to the lead. I think, though, that unless you were very fortunate, you would need to decapitate the creature extremely quickly after shooting it with an ordinary bullet. Otherwise you would have a wounded and angry werewolf on your hands, which would not be a pleasant prospect.’ He took a sip of the scalding tea. ‘May I see your knife, senhor capitão?’
Long past the stage of asking how the old man knew things, Da Silva unsheathed it carefully in the limited space and offered the hilt to him. Mohan Das took it, which made the captain feel decidedly uncomfortable, and scrutinized it for some minutes. The only sound was the rhythmic thunder of the rain, like a huge engine very close by. After a while, the captain could stay silent no longer. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘A formidable weapon,’ said the old man, handing it back. ‘Silver and steel. I would think it should suffice.’
‘You would think?’ Da Silva repeated, holding the knife loosely in his sweating hand. ‘You aren’t sure?’
‘Senhor capitão, nothing is sure. But I believe you are well enough armed, should you wish to pursue this thing.’
The captain’s mouth and throat were so dry by now that he took a mouthful of tea in desperation. It shocked his taste buds, being black, bitter and astringent. But being also devoid of either condensed milk or sugar, it was more palatable than the sweet glop he had drunk in Gomes’s office. He drained the glass, and suddenly realized that the great piston sound of the rain had ceased. I wonder when that happened? he thought, and put away his knife.
‘Do you know where I might find it?’ he asked. Mohan Das closed his eyes and slowly opened them again.
‘I think it will find you, senhorcapitão,’ the old man said quietly, and Da Silva felt a shiver along his spine despite the heat of the day.
* * * *
The idea of silver bullets having once occurred to Zé, he found himself quite unable to shake it off. After a while he gave up even the pretence of studying and just stared into space. The gentle, almost imperceptible motion of the ship was soothing, but a strange sense of urgency was building in him, fuelled by his own imagination. He was supposed to be meeting his new friend Vik soon, who had promised (he was almost sure) to take him to see a man who could perform the famous Indian rope trick. But that could wait. Zé had already seen enough of India and its denizens to realize that their sense of time was a flexible notion, even in those who possessed timepieces, which Vik certainly didn’t.
He wondered later whether if Felipe, his fellow ‘prentice, had been around to talk to, he would even have been thinking about it. But it was Felipe’s watch, it being the captain’s policy to keep the two boys on separate duties in order to keep them out of mischief. Which precaution was patently not working right now.
At length Zé got up and, after checking that the coast was clear, padded aft in his bare feet to the captain’s cabin. His heart was pounding as he turned the door-handle and slipped inside.
Empty, the cabin smelled of his father in some indefinable way that was more than the odour of smoke. It was also close and airless, and Zé felt himself start to sweat again. This brought on the sudden dread that the captain might be able to detect that he had been in here by his smell, and he had to sit firmly on the irrational fear.
Zé looked at the tantalus with its anchored decanters of brandy, port and madeira without feeling tempted - an episode of sampling
all three in unwise quantities at the age of eleven had rather put him off the idea of alcohol - and his gaze passed on to a framed photograph of his mother. He approached the desk still staring at this, and a drop of perspiration ran down his nose and fell on the blotter. A section of his father’s spiky handwriting, reversed, ran immediately into a blob, the black ink fringing to a strange bronze colour. Zé flinched back, muttering an oath that his mother would have boxed his ears for.
Nervously, he slid open the desk drawer, but feared to hunt through the chaos within lest he leave a sign of his presence. He fingered a silver hip flask - which he could not recall ever having seen his father use - but immediately rejected it as being too big, and then guiltily had to wipe his smeared fingermarks off it with his shirt-tail. The gun that he had expected to see was not there, but a box of ammunition for it was. Zé poked at it, finding ordinary bullets, and took one out carefully. He took another overview of the drawer’s contents, and sighed. As he closed it, his gaze lit on a key-fob.
And then the answer struck him, and he castigated himself for an idiot. He could use his lucky silver dollar.
When he slipped ashore, a silver bullet sat in his trouser pocket where previously there had been a coin.
Zé wormed through the crowds in search of Vik, and spotted him fairly quickly. He was tall for his age, which Zé estimated to be about a year older than him, and that made him easier to see in a throng of people.
‘Namaste,’ he said, and Vik replied with ‘Boa tarde.’ Which made Zé smile. Languages were such fun. He had been brought up in Venice, where Portuguese had been his family’s private tongue. And now they were based in Lisbon, the Venetian dialect of Italian served the same purpose. Any new language delighted him, though - the way everything fitted together so neatly - and had the added bonus that people genuinely seemed to appreciate his attempts to learn it. Even if his accent occasionally caused amusement.
Vik grinned at Zé, white teeth flashing (except for one gap), and Zé passed the other boy one of the captain’s cheroots. Along with alcohol, this was another vice he did not share with his father, also due to having sampled rather too much of it at an earlier age.
‘Come,’ Vik said, tucking the smoke somewhere in his grubby clothing, and set off at a pace that left Zé panting in his wake. The crowd flowed round them, gulped them down, digested them, and he was overwhelmed by its assault on all his senses. Smells, intriguing and inviting and revolting by turns. Some foods and spices were identifiable, and some made his mouth water while others seemed utterly disgusting. Sewage, too, was a familiar stink, as was the powerful odour of unwashed humanity. But there were a thousand others that were totally unrecognizable.
The noise, too, was indescribable, people shouting in a dozen or more different dialects, singing, chanting, perhaps praying, but what was the strange brazen instrument he could hear? Dogs he heard, too, and donkeys, goats and cows, but also something that - exciting thought - could be an elephant, perhaps. Of motorized traffic there was very little, the internal combustion engine not only being a relative newcomer but there being, also, a conspicuous lack of roads that vehicles thus powered could run upon. But he heard motor horns, nonethelesss: what else could that mechanical braying be?
Beggars thrust deformed limbs at him, hawkers everything from jewellery and little carved statues to fruits and flowers and sweetmeats and cups of glutinous tea. At times Zé nearly lost Vik in the tumult. There was so much to see that he almost wished he could, and drown in the sensory overload. Sweat was pouring down his face and body, but he hardly noticed it, except when it stung his eyes. A three-legged yellow dog, so agile it hardly seemed to miss its lost limb, darted by with a bone, black with flies, in its mouth, trailing a faint carrion stink of tainted meat; and a fat child stumbled by in half-hearted pursuit, squealing like a stuck pig.
Rushing to keep up with Vik, Zé nearly ran smack into a white cow with a flaccid hump on its back. Someone had painted its horns red and garlanded the beast with glass beads and flower chains, but it still smelled of shit and its legs were mired to the knees, if cows had knees. He skidded in the beast’s wake, and almost fell, putting his hand on its warm flank to steady himself. Where was Vik? The taller boy had vanished in the throng, as he had been threatening to do.
Zé cursed, but half-heartedly. Either he would find Vik, and they could go to see the conjurer; or he would not, and he could then find something different to do in this fascinating crowd. He stuck his sweaty hands in his pockets, but immediately took them out again, and slowed his pace, following - on nothing more than a whim - the scent of woodsmoke. It quickly blended with a delicious frying smell, and his stomach growled. Vik more or less forgotten, Zé headed towards the prospect of food.
* * * *
I wish I knew what the skipper was up to. Does he think he can go blundering after a werewolf, just like strolling down the main street? And why would he be interested, anyhow? Hell, it ain’t none of my concern. No, I guess it is. I’ve signed on theIsabella now, so he’s my captain. Jesus, as if life wasn’t complicated enough.
Harris paused in the act of stuffing his belongings into his sea-chest for long enough to light a cigarette, and then went back to his packing.
This is going to be tricky. I can’t follow him no more, I swear he knew I was there. But I can’t see myself changing in some back alley. Too risky. So I have to make sure it happens in here, then go after him. Least I reckon I can find his scent. Hell, ain’t many folks have themselves a . . . wolf bodyguard. Then tomorrow I get out of this dive.
Goddam it, it’s getting dark already. No - I’m wrong. Just thought for a moment there I felt the change coming on. I’m thinking about it too much, is what it is. Pull yourself together, Harris. There’s too much riding on this for you to lose focus now. If you don’t ship out on theIsabella you’re going to be stuck here. And I don’t know how long I can cope with that. I ain’t killed anyone yet since this happened but I sure as hell can’t guarantee that’s going to stay the case if I have to stop here much longer.
He looked out of the window at the lowering sky, yellow-grey clouds still bulging with unshed rain. They hid the sun; would hide the moon, when it sailed into the air above them. But nothing could stop its pull. He was a creature of tides now, as subject to the moon as was the sea, and when it was full and in the sky, he became a wolf. That was not to be changed now, he knew, and it was pointless to regret it. And now he had to use it.
And as my ma used to say, What can’t be cured must be endured. Though I don’t reckon she had this kind of thing in mind when she came out with that particular gem.
The small squalid room which he had inhabited for the past two months was on the ground floor of the building, and ease of access - and egress - more than made up for the multitude of spiders, roaches, lizards, rats and other assorted urban wildlife that shared it with him. The rats, indeed, found themselves preyed upon rather than predators when the moon was plump and high, and that had the added advantage of assuaging the Harris-wolf’s hunger for a time. He smiled without humour, both at the thought and the memory of the taste. Not when he had actually consumed them, but at the foulness in his mouth when he came back to himself.
Pain lanced through him, and he doubled over in agony, falling to the floor and trying to curl round the hurt. Which was impossible, because it was his entire body.
Oh no, not yet. Please.
* * * *
Leaving Mohan Das, Da Silva was surprised to find most of the day gone. The sense of being watched, however, was now absent, and he stepped out into the steaming street, skirting new and deeper puddles that had appeared. Above, some of the clouds had thinned slightly, and were turning the colour of steel as the sun they hid tumbled unseen towards the horizon. A faint feeble breeze stirred the awnings of the stalls that lined the street.
His conversation with the old man had disturbed him, as if something had taken away part of his free will. I will be damned if I’ll exchange one sort
of slavery for another, he thought savagely, however noble or heroic its aim. If I hunt werewolves, or vampires, or whatever the hell else is loose in the night, I’ll bloody well do it because it needs to be done. Not because I’ve been chosen to do it. I didn’t fight any of those other things because someone ordered me to do it. If I do this, it’s on my terms.
He pushed the anger down, and lit a cheroot. The tip glowed redly in the fading daylight, and steadied his thoughts a little. So, he said to himself, I have a talent. That’s all. It’s no different from being able to sing, or add up. That’s why Emilia does the books, and I don’t. That’s why Caruso sings Verdi and not music-hall ditties, and the snake-charmers in the marketplace pipe their thin music at cobras. They do it because they’re good at it.
And I - I see ghosts.
Somewhat calmer now, the captain wiped the sweat from his face and began to walk along the street, past shops that sold spices in sacks and fireworks and bolts of multicoloured silk, cooking pots and trinkets and woodcarvings, tobacco and cashew nuts and palm whisky. Now he was more annoyed with himself for getting angry. Never mind all that now, he thought firmly. Think about the matter at hand.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 13 - [Anthology] Page 13
