Samurai and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  * * *

  It felt like someone was hitting me on the back with a large lump of wood... in fact, someone was. McLeod’s hand gripped at the edge of the door and tugged. I had to slam my weight back against the door, hard, to keep him out.

  Too far gone my arse.

  “What exactly am I looking for?” Duncan called.

  “How the hell should I know? Just burn anything that looks like hair.”

  The weight behind me pressed even harder and I buckled. A withered hand grabbed at me, and I had to leave a clump of hair behind as I pulled away. The door fell in with a crash.

  “I’ve found it,” Duncan shouted at the same moment.

  I had to back away as McLeod came through the doorway, those who had paid for his obsession shuffling close behind.

  “You’d better be right, wee man,” I said. “Quick. Where’s the Zippo?”

  That was when I remembered.

  He threw it out into the corridor.

  But hardened nicotine addicts aren’t stupid enough to be out without a backup plan. I held McLeod off with one hand and fished a box of matches out of my inside pocked with the other.

  McLeod’s teeth clacked perilously close to my fingers.

  I threw the matches in Duncan’s direction, hoping he was quick enough to catch them.

  Then I was in a fight for my life. McLeod showed no sign of being too far-gone for a fight. He took my best punch, right on the point of the jaw. His head rocked and a split appeared in the skin of his neck, gaping bloodless and gray. It didn’t slow him any. He came inside my swinging arm and grabbed me. He forced my head to one side and exposed my neck. Then he sniffed, twice, close together, as if checking my after-shave.

  “Where is it!” he said.

  His voice was rough, harsh, almost a bark.

  I tried to speak, but the grip around my throat was so tight that all I could manage was to keep breathing.

  “Where is it!” he said again, almost shouting this time. His breath smelled, of stale food and stagnant water, but I guessed now wasn’t a good time to tell him.

  With his spare hand he went through my pockets; fast and methodical, like a pro. When he didn’t find anything, the hold on my throat tightened further still. I tried to break the grip, but my strength was going fast. I punched him, hard, just below the heart; he didn’t even wince.

  He laughed in my face.

  “Is that all you’ve got, lad?”

  He threw me away, like a discarded rag. His hand barely moved, yet I flew, a tangle of arms and legs, crashing hard against the far wall and falling to a heap on the floor. Something gave way in my lower back; a tearing pain that I knew meant trouble.

  I hoped I’d live long enough to see it.

  I turned to see him coming for me again. I held up an arm, but in truth I had no fight left in me. McLeod came on, teeth clacking.

  * * *

  Duncan saved my life.

  Just as McLeod reached for me, his minions right behind him, a forest of arms my only view, I heard Duncan shout.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  McLeod turned away from me, and I had a clear view across the room as the case came to its denouement.

  Duncan had what looked like a long wig in his left hand, and a burning candle in his right.

  “Burn it,” I shouted.

  But it looked like I was in no immediate danger. The undead were all focussed on Duncan. Nobody moved, the only sound the sputter of the flickering candle.

  “Burn it!” I shouted again.

  Duncan had other ideas.

  “I know how you feel,” he said to McLeod. “Every day, I want her back. Every day I miss her. But look at yourself, man. Do you want her back like this? Could you stand it? Here...”

  “No!” I shouted, but couldn’t stop him handing the wig to McLeod.

  “Let her go,” Duncan said softly. “Set both of you free.”

  McLeod didn’t move, just stood there stroking the hairpiece as Duncan put the candle under, first the wig, then the navy man’s long beard.

  He went up like a piece of dry paper, consumed to ash in less time than I would take to smoke a cigarette. At that point I expected the others with him to fall to the ground, or wither and turn to ash themselves.

  That’s how it works in the movies.

  But this was Largs, on a holiday weekend. Things didn’t work like in the movies around here. The undead milled around the room, seemingly devoid of purpose, maybe twenty of them in various states of decomposition.

  “We should burn these too,” I said, but I knew already my heart wasn’t in it, and I was glad when Duncan disagreed with me.

  “Just leave them to me,” he said. “I’ll take care of them, like I’ve always done.”

  By the time I left he had them all in the dining room, sitting over cups of tea that would never get drunk, fancy teacakes that would never get eaten.

  That’s Largs for you.

  TURN AGAIN

  She walked down to the Promenade most days to check on progress. The wind-farm was going up fast, despite all the protests and hot air in the local press. After an initial flurry of excitement at the start of construction the townspeople harrumphed and went back to their more mundane concerns, leaving Patty as one of the few still interested in the new forest rising offshore.

  In recent days she had noticed the older man. He was always on the same bench and never spoke, just nodded as she passed.

  It was on the day that the fifth propeller was lifted into place that he did more than nod. He touched the brim of a battered hat, lifted it several inches, and bid her a good morning. That was enough to get them started.

  Over the coming weeks she found Mr. Tullis to be an excellent conversationalist and a keen student of local history. Indeed, he had an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of so many subjects that she thought him to be a retired academic.

  They never spoke of their own situations, for which Patty was grateful, but they did become friends, of a sort, and Patty found herself hurrying to the promenade each morning for her newest flash of enlightenment.

  On the fiftieth day their talk finally turned to Mr. Tullis’ personal history. Patty knew that this was a turning point. Soon she would have to speak of herself, and at that point, their relationship would be changed forever. But for now, she was content to sit and listen to the old man.

  He started in his usual round about way, by drawing attention to the wind farm.

  “The last one goes up today,” he said. “Bringing our little meetings to a conclusion. I have grown fond of you, lass. And I owe you an explanation.”

  She did not ask the obvious question, afraid to break his flow.

  “I have been sitting here these past weeks, watching the farm grow, and considering the metaphors. As I have watched these shores all these years, so shall these wonders of science watch, drawing their circles in the sky in much the same way that I began, with my circles on paper.”

  He turned and took her right hand in his. After all these days of polite distance there was something faintly erotic in the act and Patty felt her cheeks flush.

  “I am not what I seem,” Mr. Tullis said. “Then again, what is?”

  He smiled sadly, then took a small leather bound book from his pocket. He opened it and showed her an illuminated diagram done in red, black and gold in a precision worthy of Durer.

  It was titled MALAGMA, and showed a fiery red serpent eating the world which was depicted as a shining golden disc.

  “Strictly speaking,” Mr. Tullis said, “this isn’t part of the process at all, rather, this is a symbolic representation of the whole. Malagma is Latin, meaning Amalgamation. The whole process, the quest if you like, is to amalgamate the soul, the microcosm, with the universe, the macrocosm.”

  “Sorry,” Patty said, trying a smile. “You’ve lost me already.”

  Mr. Tullis laughed. “I thought I might. Fourteenth century symbolism was obscure even then.”

/>   He thought about it for a short while. “Do you know anything about Zen?”

  It was her turn to laugh.

  “Only from re-runs of Kung Fu.”

  “Well, grasshopper,” Mr Tullis said. “Everything is one, and one is everything.”

  “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together?” Patty said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “We are the egg men. All together in one huge womb that is the universe, the macrocosm. Alchemists were convinced that mercury transcended both states, both above and below, both life and death. It came to symbolize the transformation required to reach illumination and eternal life.”

  “Illumination?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Tullis said, smiling. “I just wanted you to get some idea what we’re getting into.”

  He stared out at the windmills. “You know, I haven’t been happy for a long time. When I began, I truly thought that this was what I wanted. But I have seen everything I love wither and die. No matter how many platitudes I use to console myself, no matter how cosmic the thought that my molecules might see the death of the sun, I am lonely. I have been lonely for so long. But seeing these circles being drawn in the sky gives me hope.” He turned the page.

  CALX was the heading. The pictures showed a young man, bound to a burning wheel by hands and feet in a figure X. He was smiling.

  “You see? More circles. Calx is latin for Lime,” Mr. Tullis said. “In this case, it means, calcination, or the process of purifying by heating. If you burn a body hot enough, it goes black, then, if you burn it even hotter, the ash turns white. Similarly, if you heat limestone, you’ll produce a white powder that the Romans called Calx Vita or quicklime. This was considered a magical material, for, if you poured water on it, it gave out heat. Effectively, giving the heat back to the giver.”

  “And now I’m lost again,” Patty said.

  “This one’s easy,” Mr. Tullis replied. “Look at the picture. Fire purifies. It’s also a code that says, in effect, make quicklime. It will give heat back to the giver. And, beyond that, it symbolizes the fact that the adept must purify his soul before continuing. Wheels within wheels yet again.”

  He tapped at the picture.

  “This is from Greek mythology. Ixion was punished by Zeus. He tried to seduce Hera, and for his presumption was bound to a perpetual wheel of fire. But Ixion had seen the face of the Goddess, and although in eternal pain, was also eternally happy. Everything can be seen from two angles. Everything has at least two meanings.”

  He closed the book. “I burned on a wheel... centuries ago now. You are the first in many years that has even paused to listen. And I know why. You know all about wheels and death... don’t you Patty?”

  “Oh, Jenny. I should never have let you play on that bike.” She started to cry, softly at first, then great heaving sobs that racked her whole body. The man merely sat and watched with eyes full of compassion.

  “I could tell that you will see her again, in a better place,” he said when Patty calmed. “But I am by no means sure that is true. What I do know is that nothing is ever wasted. There are wheels within wheels. My own have finished turning in this meat suit I wear. I have been a ghost inside it for too long.

  “I will leave you, as I myself was left, with two words, and this book. Turn again.”

  Patty looked down at the book as he put it on her hands. When she looked up again he was gone.

  Far out on the water the last of the turbines started to turn.

  INQUISITOR

  From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535

  The time has come. It arrived yesterday from the New World in the hold of the Santa Angelo and it has been brought to the castle. The Inquisitor General has tasked me with discovering the true nature of the abomination, to make a full and careful examination and ascertain what manner of Inquisition might be made. It is a great honour, and one which I will fulfil with all the diligence the good Lord hands to me.

  There is a certain doubt in my mind, a cloud that has hung over the proceedings since I read Juan Santoro’s journal last night. A dark evil is detailed in those pages, and although the Inquisitor General teaches us that all things are powerless before the truth of our Lord, I have grave misgivings about the thing I am about to see for the first time.

  I have prayed for strength, but still my knees feel like water and there is a cold pit in my belly that nothing can assuage.

  However, my duty is clear.

  It is time for the questioning to begin.

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 3rd April 1535

  If there is a hell on Earth then surely it is in this place here. No God fearing man should have to face the horrors I have led my crew through on this day. I give thanks that I have brought us all back safely to the ship, and I am much afeard with the thought of the return voyage, for the cargo is most foul and ungodly. But I would be remiss in my duty to the Church if I did not report on the things that plague this new land. If the Crown wishes, as I have been told, to colonize this place, then we must know what manner of things lay claim on it at present.

  In truth, I know not what we have found. The natives died bravely defending it, and for most of the day we thought that we had stumbled on a great treasure. We fought through their defences, hacking and slashing our way through the savages to the centre of that dark temple.

  As I have said, we expected treasure. What we found was beyond our ken. I have had it sealed in a lead casket, and will take it back to Seville.

  But the journey will be long, for already it whispers in my mind, and I fear my dreams will be dark indeed during the long months at sea ahead.

  From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535

  “Already it whispers in my mind.”

  I had given no thought to that phrase, believing it to be the product of a sailor’s superstition. But now, having seen my new opponent, I know better.

  When we opened the casket that had been brought to the chamber where the questioning was to take place, I originally bethought that we had been played false and that trickery was at work. At first glance the lead box seemed empty, its bottom a dark shadow. But as Brother Ferrer leaned over it, something surged within, and he was forced to step back so suddenly that he knocked over a brazier and sent coals skittering on the flagstones. The blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid which had the consistency of pitch, seemed to rear back at that, giving me time to slam the lid closed on the obscenity.

  And that is when it happened.

  There was a tugging in my mind, a probing of an intelligence. I knew immediately what it was doing, as it is my own profession also. Even as I sought to ascertain the form of my opponent, at the same time it was questioning me.

  I am not the only inquisitor here.

  And there was something else, something I am loath to relate here lest it is discovered and my sanity is brought into question. I only caught but a fleeting glimpse, just as the lid of the lead casket dropped back into place, but it was unmistakable. As the black thing oozed to the bottom of the box a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck’s egg, opened... and blinked.

  From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 29th May 1535

  Calamity has overtaken us, as I feared it might.

  The thing has plagued our dreams since the start, and the crew has been without sleep for many days. There have been mutterings of mutiny since the beginning of the month, and last night matters came to a head. Three crewmen took it upon themselves to rid us of our tormentor.

  At least, they tried.

  Their screams in the dark alerted me to their plight and I was first to enter the hold. It is hard to describe the fear that gripped me as I saw the carnage the thing had wrought on my men. It was obvious that they had lifted the casket, probably intending to throw it overboard. But someone had dropped their end—that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can
only surmise that the jolt opened the casket—and let the beast out.

  What did not need conjecture was the fate of the men after that.

  The black ooze lay over the bodies like a wet blanket—one that seethed and roiled as if boiling all across the surface. Pustules burst with obscene wet pops and flesh melted from bone even as the men screamed and writhed in agony.

  Their pain did not last long. All too soon the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very bones were liquefied and, with the most hideous moist sucking, drank up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously. It opened itself out, like a black crow spreading its wings, the tips touching each side of the hold walls.

  All along the inside surface of the wings wet mouths opened, and the air echoed with a plaintive high whistling in which words might be heard if you had the imagination to listen.

  Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.

  My every instinct told me to turn and flee. But there was nowhere to escape to except the sea itself, and that was a choice no sailor would make. Instead I stood my ground while Massa, stout coxswain that he is, brought forth some firebrands. Only then did the thing seem to cower and retreat, and only then did I remember the circles of burning oil which we had crossed on entering the black temple in the jungle.

  I called for a barrel of pitch and tried to hold the beast at bay with a brand until aid might arrive. My adversary had ideas of its own. Now that it was free of the casket its powers had increased. It probed at my mind, searching for my weaknesses, taunting me with my dreams. I saw things no man should have to see as I was shown the atrocities that had been committed in this thing’s name by the savages in the temple.

  The grip on my mind grew stronger.

  I saw vast plains of snow and ice where black things slumped amid tumbled ruins of long dead cities.