Primordial

by David Wood

  “That’s that then,” Aston muttered, and closed his eyes again.

  * * *

  They finally emerged from the hotel room a little after ten. Ravenous, Aston’s stomach roared a rapacious counterpoint to the drumbeat inside his head. The bar was quiet and still as they passed through it and out into the crisp day.

  Slater pointed across the street. “There’s a cafe. Breakfast and coffee await.”

  “Excellent.” Aston caught her eye as they headed over the road. “No regrets?”

  “None.” She kept her hands thrust deep in her jacket pockets. “But let’s forget about it for now and get back to work, yeah? Just a no-strings hookup, right?” She grinned. “An easy root.”

  Aston laughed, though he was disappointed that he might not get to repeat such wonderful fun. “Sure.” He decided to change the subject quickly before the urge to wheedle rose all the way to his mouth. “So, Old Mo then? And where the fuck is Dave?”

  “I’m worried,” Slater admitted. “I had tried to be content with telling myself he was goofing off, getting drunk and being irresponsible or whatever. Maybe arrested, like we talked about. But that Rinne guy would certainly have mentioned it last night, right? So it seems like he’s really gone. And that begs the question, gone where? And why?”

  “You think something might have scared him off?” A thought occurred to Aston, from their encounter the night before. “You think maybe that Superintendent Rinne dickhead got to Dave while he was in town, but didn’t arrest him? Just gave him the hard word and that scared him away? He might be enough of a dick not to mention that and wait until we ask about it.”

  Slater pursed her lips, shook her head slightly. “It’s possible, I suppose, but I know Dave. He wouldn’t just leave. He’d come back to me and tell me he was leaving. Or call, at the very least. I’m sure of it.”

  They entered the café and picked a table covered by a red and white checked cloth. A small glass vase stood in the center holding a few ragged wildflowers, half wilted. Only a handful of other people were there, the smell of coffee and bacon rich in the air. Aston’s stomach rumbled. Tiny speakers let out some classic fifties rock’n’roll, Eddie Cochrane if Aston wasn’t mistaken.

  They scanned the menus and ordered coffee and fried food. The waitress was tall and willowy, long blonde hair in a ponytail that almost reached the tie of her apron.

  “Say, you didn’t happen to have a customer in here in the last day or two,” Slater said. She described Dave and what he was wearing.

  The waitress, Ingrid according to her name badge, looked up at the ceiling for a moment in thought. “It’s possible,” she said eventually. “But I can’t be certain. We’ve been busy the last couple of days.”

  “Coach party?” Aston asked, exasperated. It was the worst luck for them that a tiny town where everyone knew everything had been disrupted with so many visitors just in time to make his life difficult. Their life, he reminded himself. Dave’s disappearance was frustrating for him, but it must be truly distressing for Slater. Dave was her colleague and friend.

  “Yah, coach party,” Ingrid said. “Sorry about that.”

  Slater nodded. “No problem. One other thing. You know a local man, Old Mo?”

  Ingrid laughed. “Of course! Who doesn’t? Dear Old Mo. Lovely man, but crazy as a loon.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. He tells wonderful stories, but lives in a world of his own.” Ingrid punctuated the statement with a roll of her blue eyes.

  “He lives here in town?” Aston asked.

  “Not quite.” Ingrid pointed out the window, past the small harbor. “He has a shack not far from the lake edge, about a kilometer of town. You follow the road until it ends, then the path up the hill. You can’t miss it, there’s nothing else out there. You want to visit him?”

  “We’re making a nature documentary about the lake,” Slater said. “It’s always good to interview locals about stuff.”

  “Oh, really?” Ingrid straightened and drew one hand back over her hair. “I’m a local! I would love to be on television. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “Well, great,” Slater said, her TV smile suddenly gleaming. “When we’ve finished out on the lake I intend to do some interviews around town. I’ll be sure to come back here.”

  Ingrid let out a small laugh of satisfaction, almost a yelp. “I’ll get your breakfasts!” She skipped away like a dancer.

  “Nice girl,” Aston said with a crooked grin.

  “Bless her,” Slater said. “The enthusiasm of youth, trapped in the middle of nowhere.”

  * * *

  After breakfast and coffee, feeling about three thousand per cent better than he had on waking, Aston trudged beside Slater as they asked around after Dave in several other shops and eateries. All with the same result. The cameraman had either been invisible in the unexpected crowd that had passed through town or he’d disappeared like a ghost. Or both.

  Slater’s concern was clear and Aston felt bad for her. He liked Dave, despite only just meeting the man, and was worried for him too. He gripped Slater’s hand as they walked back toward the harbor.

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Aston said, though his words sounded hollow.

  “Are you?” Slater asked. “Really?”

  Aston sighed, shook his head. “No, I guess I’m not. But I really hope he does. You know, he may be waiting for us back on the boat.”

  “Maybe. But I can’t help thinking something terrible has happened.”

  “It is starting to feel that way,” Aston admitted. “Should we go to the police?”

  Slater shook her head. “Call me a callous bitch, but we have a job to do here and if we bring ourselves any more to the attention of that Rinne we risk having everything shut down around us. I’m really worried for him, but Dave is a grown man.”

  “What if it’s something, you know, nefarious?” Aston asked.

  Slater cocked her head. “Nefarious?”

  “Yeah, criminal or whatever. What if Dave’s been abducted or attacked or something?”

  Slater paused, looking back toward the small town. The lake made gentle wet sounds behind them. “Let’s give it twenty-four hours. If there’s still no sign of him by then, we’ll go to the police.”

  Aston shrugged. “Okay. Your call. Meanwhile?”

  Slater let go of his hand, turned, and walked purposely along the road past the harbor, heading for the trees beyond and the path that snaked between them. “Let’s go and see Old Mo and get us some more juicy monster stories.”

  Chapter 17

  “Think this is it?” The motley collection of weathered boards, dirty glass, and rusted nails that passed for a cabin made Aston feel a bit off. Every corner was almost a right angle, but not quite. Bits of tarpaulin and canvas hung here and there, some covering irregular lumps on the surrounding grass. Bones – some fish, others he couldn’t immediately identify – lay scattered on the ground. All around, the sickly-sweet odor of decay hung heavy in the air, cloying in the shade and closeness of the surrounding trees. To their right, the land sloped steadily downwards, Lake Kaarme glinting distantly between shadowy trunks a few hundred yards away.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen several horror movies that started out like this,” Slater said.

  “Not scared are you?’

  “No, just rethinking all the times I called those characters ‘stupid’ for walking up to the creepy old house.”

  “And chatting with the scary old man?” He inclined his head toward a figure seated on a rock under one particularly old looking tree, whittling a piece of wood with a large, wicked-looking knife.

  Old Mo, if this was indeed him, was not what Aston expected. In fact, Aston had seen the fellow before, several times around town. The snow white hair was bright even in the low light, the man’s short frame thickly muscle
d, and his leathery skin was tanned a golden brown. He glanced up from his carving and smiled.

  “Can I help you?” he called.

  “Are you Old Mo?” Slater asked.

  “That’s what they call me.” Old Mo stood, slipped his knife into a sheath at his belt, and ran a hand through his shock of hair. “My mother named me Moses, but I was never very good at parting the water.”

  Aston forced a laugh.

  “We’re making a nature documentary,” Slater began. “We’re interested in stories about the lake monster and we hear you’re the man to ask.”

  Mo flinched. He knitted his brow and folded his arms. “Try again.”

  “I’m sorry?” Slater asked.

  “Nature documentary that wants monster stories? Anyway, I’ve seen you around, seen what you’ve been up to.” He gestured down the slope. “I watch what happens out there on the water, you know. Sometimes I take long walks.” He tipped his head in the direction of their boat, a couple of miles along the shore.

  “We really are a film crew,” Slater said.

  “I’m the researcher on the crew,” Aston interrupted. “We are making a film, and of course the monster, or its legend, will have to feature. We just want to learn about the creature and assess the plausibility of its existence, and how that might affect the local fauna and so on.”

  Mo appeared unconvinced. “All I know are stories. No facts.”

  “That’s fine,” Slater said. “Stories often contain some truth. Also, they’re more entertaining than straight facts.”

  “You’re going to put me on television?” The old man raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “Maybe. It isn’t up to me, but can I record your stories and run them past the man in charge. You never know.”

  Mo considered this for a full ten seconds before giving a single nod and striding toward the shack. “Come on in,” he said over his shoulder as he passed them by. “But I should warn you, some stories are best left untold.”

  Slater cast a doubtful look at the shack and then at Aston.

  “He’s good at setting up his trade as a yarn spinner, I’ll give him that,” he said. “It’ll be all right,” he added, in voice intended only for her ears. “You’ve got me.” He gave her a wink.

  “I’m not afraid of him trying something. I’m worried about the roof falling in on us.”

  Aston chuckled. “That’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  The interior of Mo’s shack wasn’t much better than the outside. The walls were lined with rickety shelves stuffed with old books, magazines, and loose papers. Most of the titles were in Finnish, but those Aston could read were of the unsolved mysteries ilk – the sort of stuff Slater covered on her show. Dirty dishes filled the tiny sink, drawing more than a few flies. A hot plate, an old university dorm-style refrigerator, and an even older microwave oven were the sole appliances. A few tattered sofas and armchairs were scattered around, and a scored and stained wooden table stood in the center of the room, one broken leg propped up on a stack of five or six hardback books.

  “Coffee?” Mo asked.

  “Please,” Slater said, courtesy winning out. Her polite smile twisted into a grimace as soon as their host turned his back.

  They settled gingerly onto an old couch while Mo filled three hopefully clean mugs with water, microwaved them one by one, and added heaped spoonfuls of instant coffee. As he busied himself in the kitchen, he sketched out the history of the creature in a bored voice. It was all the kind of stuff they could have learned anywhere, and mostly already had.

  As Mo rejoined them, Aston decided to toss the old man a softball question to break the ice before asking more directly about the monster’s modern activities.

  “We heard an interesting tale about something else that happened here and were told you’d know more. Something about Nazis exploring this area.”

  A wide smile split Old Mo’s wrinkled face. “Ah, The Tale of the Lost Legion. I’m surprised you’ve heard of it. Now there’s a story worth telling.”

  “I have to confess, we weren’t aware of it before we arrived,” Slater said. “It came up in conversation.”

  “The bartender?” Old Mo quirked an eyebrow at Slater, and chuckled when she nodded. “He loves to talk, that one. I think he fancies himself my heir-apparent as local storyteller. Of course, that’s many years away. I’m too mean and stubborn to die.”

  “A sentiment I can appreciate,” Aston said.

  Old Mo nodded sagely. “In any case, the story should properly be called The Lost Platoon. I suppose Lost Legion just rolls off the tongue in a more pleasing way. According to my research, Hitler didn’t even send anything close to a full regiment. As best I can tell, there were between fifty and one hundred men in all, including civilian scientists.”

  “But Hitler did send men here looking for something?” Slater asked.

  “Oh yes. That is not in dispute. Not only have I collected numerous stories from locals, but a few had photographs their parents or grandparents had handed down to them. It’s common knowledge the platoon was here.”

  “Could we see some photographs?” Slater asked. Aston wondered if she was feigning interest in order to get on Mo’s good side, but she seemed genuinely curious. Probably considering it as a future topic for her show.

  Mo rummaged around for a bit and produced a small box. Opening it, he took out a pack of some twenty or thirty black and white photos in a Glassite envelope. He carefully removed the contents and handed them to Slater.

  “They’re in remarkably good condition,” Aston said, glancing at the first photo; a shot of a scowling young soldier in a German uniform standing on the lake shore.

  “They’re reprints, not originals. I still try to take good care of them though.”

  Aston looked over Slater’s shoulder as she shuffled through the pile. All of them showed soldiers in town or wandering the area around the lake. The buildings in the pictures were largely unchanged from the streets he had only recently walked through. Seemed like change was slow to come to Kaarme. Most pictures were blurry, but they got the point across.

  The final one in the stack was different. It displayed an older man, an officer by the markings on his uniform, standing at the back of a truck. He was deep in conversation with two civilians, one a dark-haired man with prominent jowls and a thick unibrow, the other a severe-looking woman of late middle years. The vehicle they stood behind was piled high with wooden crates, all marked with the Hoheitszeichen, the stylized eagle perched atop the swastika.

  “These people look important,” Slater remarked. “Any idea who they are?”

  “The officer was Herman Frick. A prominent member of the Nazi party who disappeared from the historical record around the time the Lost Legion arrived here. The man is Lars Pera and the woman is Greta Gebhardt. Both were scientists associated with the Ahnenerbe.”

  “The what?” Aston had more than a passing familiarity with world history, particularly World War II, but he’d never heard of that organization.

  “Now that,” Mo said, easing back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap, “is quite a tale.” He gave Slater an appraising look. “Surely you have heard of them?”

  “I know the name, that they had an interest in the occult, but I’m afraid I don’t know any more. They’d make a good subject for a show.”

  “A nature documentary?” Mo asked, one side of his mouth hooked up in a smirk.

  Slater inclined her head with a smile, but said nothing.

  Mo nodded and then went on. “They had much more than an interest in the occult. They were true believers.” A faraway look filled the old man’s eyes and he seemed to focus on a point somewhere in the distance. “Ahnenerbe translates to ‘inherited from the forefathers’. It was an institute in Nazi Germany whose purpose was to investigate the history of the Aryan race. Heinrich Himmler
was a co-founder along with Herman Wirth, and Richard Walther Darré.

  “Originally the group was tasked with simply finding evidence to support the so-called racial heritage of the German people. Himmler, however, was obsessed with the occult, and he soon expanded the group’s directive to include pseudoscience and the investigation of ancient myths and legends. They began conducting research and experiments in the hope of proving that, in ancient times, Nordic people ruled the world.”

  “Is this the group that sent an expedition to the Antarctic, hoping to find Atlantis or something like that?” Slater asked.

  “Yes. New Swabia they called the Antarctic. But it was much more than a single expedition. The Nazis were obsessed with the region. Records show that many scientists were sent there and none returned. Some believe they settled somewhere beneath the ice, and that a German presence remains hidden in Antarctica to this day.”

  Aston caught himself rolling his eyes and was grateful Old Mo didn’t notice. No need to offend the old man, particularly when they still hadn’t brought the conversation around to tales of the lake monster.

  “What interest did the Ahnenerbe have here?” Aston asked.

  “The Nazis had a particular interest in the Nordic region, believing this was possibly the place where their imagined pure white race originated. They visited Bohuslän, in Sweden, to study the petroglyph rock carvings, which were believed to be evidence of an ancient system of writing that predated all other known systems. As a result of that expedition, they claimed to have uncovered and translated an ancient alphabet which proved, among other things, that Rome was founded by ancient Nords.”

  “And that relates to the expedition here?” Slater asked.

  “The only evidence I have comes from tales handed down from locals who interacted with the Nazis, but the stories are consistent enough that I’m confident I’ve got the story right, at least in the broad strokes. One comes from the daughter of a woman who fell in love with Pera and bore his child. But she kept her maternal surname. Laine.”