Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden

  The moonlight threw a shadow past the coffin behind which he was hiding. It was tall and full-breasted, and atop its head a nest of shadow vipers coiled. The cat’s hackles went up again, and Clay forced himself not to hiss at the shadow on the ground, so close. There came a wet crack, and in his mind he could practically see the remains of a rabbit shattering against the very crypt he hid behind. The shadow ducked down, perhaps snatching up one of the other dead rabbits, and then retreated. He listened to the sound of Medusa settling once more into the coffin.

  Ears pricked forward, the cat prowled to the next crypt. The next one along the circle was his destination. Something shifted in the darkness now, and it did not come from ahead of him, but behind.

  Clay turned, tail twitching, and scanned the cemetery and the branches of the strange grove of trees that surrounded this circle of the dead. All was still. The leaves hung seemingly lifeless, no wind at all to disturb them. Still the cat let its gaze linger a moment. Then, out of his peripheral vision, he saw something else move. Twisting to the right, he saw a patch of moonshadow beneath a distant monument give birth to Squire. The hobgoblin crawled carefully, silently onto the ground. His eyes gleamed in the dark. When he spotted the cat, the gnarled little man stood into a crouch and nodded slowly. He tapped the side of his nose, indicating that it had led him to this spot. The cat curled its tail around and used it to point at the open crypt. Squire took a step forward, and Clay shook his feline head. For once the hobgoblin did as he was told and remained still.

  As he crept across the ten-foot expanse that separated his hiding place from Medusa’s lair, the cat darted a glance all around, on guard. Something else was here. He was certain of it. A ripple in the air at the center of the circle of crypts caught his eye, and he saw the ghost of Dr. Graves taking shape. Excellent. If he could grab Medusa from behind to avoid her stare, he ought to be able to choke or beat her unconscious. If not, Graves and Squire were there to help him immobilize her.

  Her. Not a monster anymore. Not after hearing that sigh. No matter how hideous she was, no matter how insane her curse had made her, there was still a part of her that was the sensuously beautiful creature she had once been.

  This thought was still echoing in Clay’s mind as he willed himself to change once more. Not a human. Not a cat. Not a monster, this time. He transformed into his natural body — or the one with which he was most intimate — a seven-foot-tall, hairless, man whose flesh was his namesake. Clay. Lined with cracks, cool and dry. And strong.

  With uncanny swiftness he crossed the last five feet to the stone coffin and reached for Medusa.

  An earsplitting, almost musical whistle split the night.

  The sound disturbed her, and even as Clay reached for the Gorgon, Medusa dropped the rabbit she had been gnawing on and erupted from the crypt. The nest of serpents on her head hissed in chorus and lunged at him, snapping, even as Medusa turned toward the sound of the whistle . . . toward Clay.

  He did not have a chance to avert his eyes.

  Clay heard Squire shout in alarm and saw Dr. Graves’s spectral form flying down at the Gorgon, even as he felt paralysis take hold. Horror blossomed within him. He was malleable, ever-changing, ever in motion. But now he froze, solid, unable to move or change.

  No longer clay, but stone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The fishing boat rocked beneath his feet, and Conan Doyle was surprised by how quickly he regained his sea legs. His mind briefly flashed back to his military service during the Boer Wars, when he had traveled to South Africa across turbulent seas on a British steamer. It had been years since he had thought of that part of his life, but he did not often ruminate on his more mundane existence, before his supposed death. Memory is such an odd device of the mind, Doyle mused, gazing out over the emerald green waters, stimulated by the most random things.

  The winds blowing off the waters of the Ionian Sea were invigorating after the long day of travel from the island of Lesbos, and he greedily filled his lungs with the rejuvenating Mediterranean air. It wasn’t the rest his body craved, but it would have to do.

  Conan Doyle turned to look at the weathered fisherman in the wheelhouse behind him. He had found him in a small tavern at the bay of Marmari. While his companions waited outside to avoid arousing any unwanted suspicions, the mage had gone in alone to hire a boat. All the fishing boats were in for the day, and none of the seamen present would even entertain the thought of taking their crafts out again, especially at the request of a foreigner — and an Englishman to boot.

  He had reached the point where he was seriously considering using magick to manipulate one of their minds, when Danny had grown tired of waiting and come in to find him. The appearance of the boy had cast a pall of silence over the establishment. Even though his head was covered with the hood of his sweatshirt, in such close confines it was impossible for them not to recognize that the boy was not normal. His eyes, his teeth, his skin . . . The atmosphere of the tavern had grown immediately hostile, and Conan Doyle had decided that it would be best for them to leave at once.

  Now the captain returned Conan Doyle’s gaze, yellow eyes glinting like polished gold in the last rays of the setting sun. A kindred spirit, he had called himself.

  He had intercepted Conan Doyle and his group at the rear of the tavern, introducing himself as Captain Lycaon. Conan Doyle had sensed immediately that there something not quite human about the fisherman — something unnatural, but there seemed no malice in him, no duplicity. If he was an agent of Gull’s, well, that was the risk.

  The captain smiled now through the wheelhouse window as he piloted the boat, and Conan Doyle could not help but notice again that there were far too many teeth in the man’s mouth. He doubted that Captain Lycaon smiled much around his fellow fisherman, or even that he had much contact with their like at all, other than to occasionally partake of some refreshment in the same establishment.

  Kindred spirits. Lycaon said that it was Danny who had changed his mind, that he had sensed their kinship and would never have forgiven himself for not helping one of his own. Conan Doyle had considered asking the old man for his story, but decided against it, choosing instead to simply offer their destination.

  "We’ll need passage along the coast to Cape Matapan — or Cape Taenarus as it used to be called."

  The old man had nodded slowly, removing a pipe from his back pocket, preparing to smoke.

  "Let me guess," he had said between puffs, the sweet smell of his tobacco causing Conan Doyle to crave the relaxing pleasures of his own briar pipe. "It’s the Ayil Asomati caves you seek."

  "Precisely."

  Lycaon spoke with a strange accent, not Greek, or anything else familiar, but with the hint of the Mediterranean in it nevertheless. "At night I hear the call of the caves sighing upon the winds, and they ask me if I am ready to lay down and sleep my last, but I tell them that it is not yet my time, that there are still many fish to catch, and much ouzo to drink."

  "Will you take us then?" Conan Doyle had asked after a moment of silence during which the old captain puffed on his pipe, seeming to listen for the sounds of the caves.

  "When would you like to leave?"

  "Immediately."

  They were on their way in a matter of minutes.

  Now upon their journey, Conan Doyle took stock of his Menagerie. At the back of the boat Eve, Danny, and Ceridwen sat, enjoying a moment of respite before the next phase of their mission. They were tired and could have used some time to rest and regroup, but Gull had a healthy lead on them, and if they had any thought of catching up to him and his Wicked, they could not afford to tarry even for a moment.

  Eve must have felt his eyes on her, for she glanced up, brows knitted in consternation. She rose to her feet and strode toward him, tugging at her torn leather coat, which was stained with her dried blood.

  "I’m going to stink like fish for days," she complained, the wind whipping her hair around her sculpted features.

  Conan D
oyle always marveled at her beauty. Here she was only hours after battling a Hydra to the death, and she looked as though she could have stepped from the pages of Vogue.

  "You don’t smell of fish," he assured her. "Blood, yes, but not fish."

  Eve stared at him then, dark, almond-shaped eyes boring into his own. "Are you all right?" she asked. There was empathy in her gaze, but a steely judgment as well. "Back on Lesbos, with the Hydra, you were a little off your game."

  "I was momentarily distracted." His concern over Ceridwen’s injuries had left him embarrassed and a bit ashamed. Matters of the heart needed to be set aside when dealing with conflicts of this magnitude. "I assure you it will not happen again."

  Eve slowly nodded. Sometimes she seemed so very modern, so young, and at other times her gaze revealed the profoundness of her age, and an ancient wisdom lay within. "That’s good to hear. Danny and I almost got our asses handed to us today."

  Conan Doyle glared at her, leaving no doubt that the conversation was over.

  She put up her hands in defense. "It had to be said."

  The boat’s engine cut off, and Conan Doyle watched as Captain Lycaon emerged from the wheelhouse. The old man was smoking his pipe again and said nothing as he pointed to the promontory that was gradually coming into view as they rounded the headland from Cape Matapan, the southernmost point of continental Greece.

  Danny and Ceridwen had joined them, each peering out into the darkness for a glimpse of their destination.

  "Is that it?" Danny asked. "I don’t get it. Why do you think Gull wanted to go there? It’s just a big cliff."

  Ocean-blue cloak fluttering in the wind, Ceridwen extended her arm, fingers splayed, feeling the emanations from the great stone projection. "So much more than that," she said in a voice tinged with foreboding. "So much more than is obvious."

  Eve made clicking noises with her mouth as she placed her hands on her slender hips. "Isn’t that always the way," she said, giving Conan Doyle a quick look from the corner of her eye.

  The high rocky formation loomed above them, and Conan Doyle moved to the front of the boat for a better view, searching for the area that was rumored to be an entrance to the Underworld. The Ayil Asomati caves were the most famous of Hades’ ventilation shafts, favored by mortals on quests.

  Captain Lycaon joined him. "I’ll get you as close as I can," he said, eyeing the towering rock formation as he suckled the end of his pipe. "But you’ll need a raft, if you’re planning on climbing to the caves."

  "Bring us as far as you dare, Captain," Conan Doyle ordered. "We’ll make do from there."

  The sound began as a distant warble, and Conan Doyle at first mistook it as the cry of some lonely night bird. It was a song, perhaps one of the most beautiful he had ever heard, and it was coming from somewhere on the cliffs of the promontory.

  "Look!" Eve called, distracting him from the unearthly tune.

  Conan Doyle followed her gaze, again enveloped in the overpowering beauty of the song, and saw three figures standing on one of the small ledges jutting out from the promontory. It was Gull and his people, and the deformed sorcerer was using his damnable gift to sing in the voice of Orpheus.

  They were closer now, and Conan Doyle could make out the words of the song in the language of time long past. Plaintively it asked for the entrance to the Underworld to be revealed.

  "It’s beautiful," Captain Lycaon whispered, and Conan Doyle saw that the old seaman was crying.

  As he looked back toward the promontory, he realized that it was not only they who had been affected by the song of Orpheus. Conan Doyle watched transfixed as two towering gates of solid rock parted in the face of the mountainous cliff.

  The Underworld.

  Clay is falling.

  Deeper and deeper he plummets into the darkness within himself, the oblivion into which he has been cast by the gaze of Medusa. After a while, he finds himself comforted by the darkness surrounding him, the desire to escape slowly draining from him.

  He wonders if this was how Medusa’s other victims had felt? Suddenly trapped within themselves, gradually losing the will to be anything but stone.

  For a brief moment he again struggles against the sucking pull of the abyss, but to little avail. He is drowning in shadow, the ebony pitch attempting to work its way into his mouth and nose. It wants to be inside him — to consume him. It wants him to forget that he ever existed.

  And it almost succeeds, but then he hears Eve’s voice, as he had that day they lunched on Newbury Street. "Do you remember?" she had asked, a longing in her voice that made his heart break.

  And he does. He remembered then — and he remembers now, and his unremitting fall into oblivion is slowed by the recollection. Memories flash before him, curtains of darkness are savagely torn aside. Clay recalls a murk deeper and darker than the one that now envelops him, but it lasts for only a brief instant, before it is banished by the brightest flashes — the light of creation. And the inky black is replaced by entire constellations.

  Creation. It is his first conscious memory.

  The memories give him buoyancy, and he begins to ascend.

  Clay remembers the hands of the Creator, molding and shaping him — preparing him to take on the forms of the wondrous life that would inhabit these new worlds. He is the imagination of God made malleable flesh.

  He is the Clay of life, and God was his sculptor.

  Oh, the creatures he had become. Clay remembers each and every one as he climbs up from the darkness, suddenly able to resist the pull of the depths. He tries to alter his form, there in the dark, to become something more acclimated to swimming in the sea of black, but realizes that he has no shape here, that he is nothing more than conscious thought.

  To be only one thing, unable to change . . . the idea fills him with a powerful fear, and Clay remembers another time when he felt this afraid.

  The Creator had been finished with him. Every form of life that was, and would ever be, had been molded from his being. God’s masterpiece of creation was complete. And he was cast aside, left to wander the new and glorious world that he had helped to define, forgotten and alone.

  Alone.

  But he survived. He thrived and became a part of the world, found a purpose for himself. Clay feels the darkness take hold again, its pull given strength by his despair, and he fights against it, finding strength in the knowledge that he found his own way in the world. A life shaped not by the Creator’s hands, but by his own intent.

  The shadow’s hold upon him slips away, and he surges upward. He is not merely refuse left over from the Supreme Being’s master plan, he is needed. Clay will not squander the potential of the life he had made.

  He is not cold, lifeless stone.

  He is the substance of creation.

  He is Clay.

  His eyes were first to change.

  In one instant he was blind to the world around him, and the next his vision was restored, the stone crust over his eyes flaking away. Clay gazed around the Kerameikos Cemetery, not sure how long he had spent in his petrified state. The confrontation was still going on.

  Squire darted in and out of the shadows, keeping Medusa off guard, as Graves hovered above the scene, fashioning a net from the ectoplasm that made up his body. Interesting, Clay thought, but he wasn’t convinced their plan would succeed. They needed his help.

  The eyes were but the first step. Clay exerted his will over his body, forcing away the shell of rock that now enveloped his form. The enchantment of Medusa’s accursed gaze fought against him, not wanting to relinquish its hold, but he was so much more than mere flesh and blood, and its grip on him shattered. His flesh had fought the curse from the moment he had begun to succumb to it, and now he forced every atom of his form to return to life from stone death, leaving only a sheath of rock around him. That sheath popped and snapped like melting ice on a frozen lake during the first days of spring, and it fell away from his body in large chunks to litter the ground.


  "Heads up, honey!" Clay heard Squire cry out.

  He turned just in time to see the hobgoblin emerge from a patch of shadow cast by a section of ancient stone wall. Squire threw himself at Medusa’s legs and, as she fell forward, Graves silently swooped down, dropping the shimmering net of ghostly material over her.

  Clay willed himself to move, ignoring the stiffness in his joints and the burning aches in his muscles as he ran across the burial ground to join his comrades.

  "Nice to see you up and around," Squire said, moving out of his path.

  Clay dropped to his knees, throwing the weight of his body on top of the Gorgon, who thrashed beneath the ectoplasmic net. "Give me a hand here," he called to the goblin. Medusa was strong, incredibly so, and was trying to maneuver her body to again affect him with her petrifying gaze.

  Sorry, not this time.

  He instinctively shifted the configuration of his face, his eyes receding into the flesh to be replaced with highly sensitive sensory stalks that picked up on vibration and the shifting of air currents no matter how minute.

  "Holy shit, I think I dated your sister back in ‘75," Squire sniggered, even as he attempted to hold down Medusa’s thrashing legs.

  "Maybe you should hold off on the commentary and sedate the Gorgon. Just a suggestion," Clay said, even as he struggled to keep Medusa down.

  Squire grimaced. "Wait, so now you’re funny all of a sudden?"

  "Sedate her?" he heard Graves ask from above them. "Why on earth would we want to sedate her?" The ghost drifted closer and Clay glanced at him, and through his translucent form. "The Gorgon must be dealt with as we would any other monster. She must be destroyed."