Water Rites

by Guy N Smith

  Father and daughter stared at each other in disbelief. Silence because speech eluded them. Barbara remembered how her mother had thrown that talking doll in the dustbin because it got on her nerves; Barry recalled how his wife had thrown a pack of his cigarettes away because tobacco smoke irritated her. Father and daughter commiserated with each other because they both lived in this turbulent household.

  “You’d better finish with that man, Barbara, he’s no good,” Jocelyn started to shake with the rage that had been building up inside her all day. “I know, I can judge folks without actually meeting them, a kind of instinct. Get your dinner and we’ll discuss this in a civilized fashion later.”

  “Barbara can take the Rover, I’m really too tired to go class tonight and, anyway, I haven’t quite finished my short story,” Barry made it sound casual, it always hurt his wife more that way.

  “She can’t!” Jocelyn gave a shriek of sadistic triumph, leered from one to the other. “Because I’ve got the keys to the Rover. And the duplicates!”

  “You bitch!” Barbara might have struck her mother in that final flash of rage but somehow Barry found the speed and agility to come between them.

  “Stop it, both of you!”

  Barbara had never known her father to shout in anger before. It shocked her, she almost apologized. To him.

  “You’re not going anywhere near that man again,” Jocelyn stood in defiance, her hands on her hips. “I don’t want you seeing him or phoning him again. He’s no good.”

  “I’ll get you a taxi, Barbara,” Barry was composed again.

  “The phone isn’t working, Dad.”

  “I’ll go next door and phone.”

  “They’re away,” Jocelyn screeched. “I checked.”

  Another awful silence, a stalemate in which it appeared that Jocelyn Jackson had won.

  “Give me the keys to the Rover, Jos,” Barry was calm his moment of fury had passed over.

  “Certainly not. I’ll give them to you in the morning. And, anyway, I don’t want you to go to this ridiculous class again after all the trouble you caused last time. You can have the keys back tomorrow.”

  “I’ll walk,” Barbara turned away, she heard her parent shouting after her as she slammed the door behind her. Then she was gone out into the night, forcing her trembling legs to quicken her pace.

  Packington Hall was approximately two miles outside the village. A gravelled footpath skirted the main road, traffic passed her. If a car had stopped then she might have risked a lift, such was her desperation. But none even slowed. She checked her watch in the glare of passing headlights. Six thirty-five. She wouldn’t make it to the Hall before seven. Perhaps Royston would wait for her; she clung to that hope.

  It was five past seven when she reached the imposing gateway to her destination. Her lungs felt as if they might burst, her heart was beating like a trip hammer. She wasn’t accustomed to physical exercise, she had ceased playing tennis a decade ago.

  The long driveway was rutted, twice she stumbled. Away from the lights of passing cars, she staggered on in the pitch blackness, in places outstretched her arms to ward off overhanging laurel branches.

  Despair brought a groan to her lips, there was a single light burning over the doorway, by its glow she could just make out the turreted structure, the weathered York stone edifice of a Victorian era. The rest of the mansion was in complete darkness.

  Still she clung to that waning hope; maybe they were assembled downstairs in the temple. Or in the coven’s quarters, awaiting her arrival.

  The windows bespoke a desolation, looked down on her like a corpse’s eyes, dull and lifeless. No vibes, no atmosphere emanated from within. The silence was complete. She stared around the semicircular driveway, there was no sign of Royston Shannon’s Mercedes.

  He had abandoned her, deserted her in her troubled hour.

  The man’s no good. I don’t want you to see him again. Ever.

  Barbara tried the door. It was locked. She leaned against it, wanted to scream at her mother, wanted the night breeze to carry her curses right the way back to the village where a crazy, embittered old woman gloated over her cache of car keys and valve caps.

  Instead, she whispered her vows into the silence of this place; to Royston, to the People of the Water and their Queen.

  Take me for your own, do as you will with my body and soul Don’t ever let me go back.

  That was when she discovered that the door wasn’t locked after all. It had probably just stuck, the woodwork warped. She pushed it and it creaked open.

  She stepped inside, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Shannon and the others had left, she had no doubt about that. But the place wasn’t empty as she had thought at first.

  There was something here, all right.

  Seventeen

  “Where is the ring?”

  They all cringed, even Stogie who somehow managed to keep his dead cheroot stump between his trembling lips. Janice writhed on the stinking mattress, clutched at her extended stomach. This time it was a contraction, for sure. She bit her lip in case she screamed out loud and angered Royston Shannon even further.

  Debbie, Sheila, and Lisa huddled in a corner, winced as the anger of their high priest; his vocal fury was like a hand slapping their pallid faces.

  They were all more scared than they had ever been in their lives before.

  “Well?” His features were dark, a shabby topcoat covered his silken robes in readiness for their departure. “One of you has stolen it, your only chance is to confess. Now!”

  They looked at one another, accusing, frightened expressions. It’s not me, it has to be you. Or you. Somebody own up, for God’s sake.

  Shannon watched them carefully, seeking that fine distinction between fear and guilt. They were all scared, trying to will somebody to admit to the theft. Anybody so long as it wasn’t themselves.

  He waited. The ring was sacred; more sacred even than the temple and the altar which he had erected to the most powerful deity of all. It was always kept upon the altar along with the other artefacts. He had only ever taken it out of this temple once; on the night of the first sacrifice, that time when they had given Sharon Levy to the Queen. He hadn’t worn it, he didn’t want to reveal its true powers to his disciples yet. He had kept it in his pocket throughout, a kind of talisman.

  Afterwards, he had returned it to the altar. He couldn’t exactly remember placing it on the drapes but he must have because it was his most important possession, he wouldn’t have put it anywhere else. Would he?

  Tonight he needed it again. A special ceremony, and afterwards he would wear it on the third finger of his left hand permanently. Like a wedding ring, for he would be betrothed to the Queen, he would have given her that which she desired most, a Child of the Water. Surely he had fathered Janice’s baby, she had not really been pregnant when he had found her. The child was his, he was convinced of that, and when the Queen accepted it then that was, in effect, a marriage between them, in the same way that the Akikuyu of Africa married their women to the snake god of the water. A medicine man consummated the marriage with a virgin who was then sacrificed.

  Barbara had been a virgin until Royston had taken her, he reminded himself. Perhaps he should have waited until tonight’s ceremony but it didn’t really matter. The timing was not important. He would give their Queen her child, consummate the marriage with Barbara, and then …

  Tonight was the most important of his life.

  “We haven’t much time,” Shannon looked at his watch. six-forty. They should have left ten minutes ago if they were to be at the reservoir in time to begin the ceremony at the rise of the new moon, for the moon controlled the tides and this would be the beginning of a new era. “Give me the ring, one of you.” He spoke softly, threateningly.

  Shannon had come across the ring in a maritime antiques shop about ten years ago amidst a jumble of memorabilia in a trinket box; musket shot supposedly retrieved from shipwrecks, miniature bra
ss anchors, a ship in a bottle. He had gone in there to browse to escape from a heavy downpour. Fate had surely guided him; another time he would have ignored the place for he had no time for souvenirs.

  He might even have cast the ring back amongst the junk except for the lettering engraved upon it.

  Mukasa.

  He had known then beyond all doubt. It had seemed to vibrate between his fingers, transmitted tiny shockwaves up his arm. A moment of vertigo that passed as quickly as it had come. He had bought it for five pounds, its worth in silver to the vendor who, in his ignorance, mistook the engraving for a hallmark.

  Shannon had not worn it, kept it until the time was right, revered it upon the altar. It was only fitting that it should accompany him upon the first sacrifice. The second was of no consequence. He had saved it for his betrothal.

  And now his virgin had not arrived and the ring was nowhere to be found. He refused to accept it as a sign from the water god that tonight was not meant to be, he was too psyched up to believe otherwise.

  Six-forty-five. Time was running out.

  “Give … me … the … ring.”

  “She’s stolen it,” Stogie’s voice shook, his words were scarcely audible.

  “Who?” Shannon’s eyes burned from Lisa to Debbie, settled on Sheila. “Which of you?”

  “The … neophyte. Barbara.”

  Shannon’s breath seemed to check, a sudden slight purpling of his cheeks. Rage and disbelief, a niggling doubt which he forced from him with a supreme effort. “No, not her!” An insult, blasphemy, for Barbara was the virgin who had been sent to him to consummate his royal marriage. “Don’t lie to me, Stogie.”

  Stogie gulped his apology, muttered, “It was only a thought. It wasn’t any of us. We didn’t know about the ring before.”

  “It has to be one of you.” Now Shannon’s accusation lacked conviction, they would not dare to persist with their lying.

  “Perhaps she has taken it.”

  The idea had already occurred to Shannon, Stogie’s words merely confirmed it. It was a possibility, the Queen had taken it in readiness for tonight, proof of her existence yet again, a sign that she was ready.

  “All right, it isn’t one of you, then.”

  The sighs of relief came in unison. Only Janice cried out aloud, a half-scream as a contraction took her like a knife in her womb.

  “She is very close,” Shannon’s forehead glistened with sweat as he bent over her. “Stogie, Lisa, lift her, carry her to the car. See if there is any sign of the neophyte.”

  There was no sign of Barbara. They waited a couple of minutes with the engine ticking over then Shannon let out the clutch. A slow bumpy trundling up the uneven driveway, the headlights flicked on to full beam. Bushes leaned over, showed their subservience to one who was mightier than his fellow mortals, one who was already on the verge of immortality.

  Shannon willed Barbara to appear at every twisting turn but there were no oncoming lights, no dust cloud heralding the approach of the one who figured in his plans for tonight.

  Janice sprawled and groaned amidst her companions on the rear seat, her baby was very close to coming. She felt the slimy warmth of the first ooze from her distending womb.

  But for the imminent birth, he might have waited for the next moon but the Queen demanded a newly born infant. It had to be tonight. With or without Barbara.

  He had to wait for a gap in the passing traffic at the entrance to the main road but no car slowed and indicated that it was turning.

  Barbara was not coming. Her role would have to wait.

  “It’s starting to come, I can see the top of its head!” A cry that embodied panic as Royston pulled off the sand track of the Lady Walk.

  “Hurry! Carry her, stifle her cries.”

  They lifted her between them, an ungainly shape that writhed and pushed. Pray that it will not be stillborn!

  Somehow they made it to the blockhouse, he pushed the door wide, closed it behind them before switching on the lights. The floor was wet, the stench was almost overpowering. A silvery sheen glinted on the steps down to the water’s edge.

  The far light was flickering, created an illusion of ripple on the surface.

  “Hold her!”

  Janice was screaming, fighting them as she pushed. Rested and pushed again.

  “It’s almost there!”

  Debbie had sunk down, she was close to fainting.

  Lisa and Sheila turned their heads. Stogie, still chewing on his soggy smoke, peered over the high priest’s shoulder.

  The tall man lifted the infant clear, its cries were sacred music to his waiting ears.

  “Male! A son for Mukasa!”

  Afterbirth slimed on the steps, droplets of blood turned the dark water a deep crimson. Janice’s head came up, her expression was demoniac. “Give me my baby!”

  “She is not yours,” Shannon’s cry was taunting, he held it up for her to see. “He belongs to the Queen. Mukasa awaits her first born!”

  Janice struggled, it was as much as the others could do to hold her in her fit of maternal desperation.

  The infant’s cries were silenced as Royston Shannon held it beneath the surface.

  “I give myself to thee, O Queen, for I have begat your son and heir!”

  Stogie glanced at Janice, nodded to the others. Loose her for she, too, has a sacrifice to make.

  Shannon came to her, knelt between her bloodied thighs.

  “Now go and join your child, let the Queen take you, too.”

  The knife was in her closed hand, she only had to slip the blade from the sheath. A wave of dizziness came in the wake of her weakness, the greenish light was streaked with crimson. She felt the last of the afterbirth go.

  She fought against unconsciousness, made one final effort, prayed for just a moment of strength. She felt the sheath go, the sharpness of the blade drew blood from her thumb. Her fingers flexed, she felt them go limp even before she blacked out.

  The knife made scarcely a sound as it hit the water, its splash went unnoticed.

  The disciples exchanged glances of dismay and then they were helping their high priest to drag the heavy, bleeding body down the steps.

  They watched it slide into the water, sink below the surface. A rush of ripples and then it was lost from their view. Across on the opposite side, the light stopped flickering.

  Eighteen

  Phil Quiles was unable to stop himself from vomiting. His intestines balled with a force that jetted partially digested cereal and toast. Instinctively, he turned his head so that the spew did not spray into the water, heaved and retched until his guts were empty.

  Jesus God!

  He knelt there on the steps unable to flee this place because his strength was temporarily sapped. He was shaking, he fought against a feeling of faintness, tried to crawl up the steps away from that.

  What in God’s name was it? A morass of bloody slime that oozed and dripped from the steps like some shapeless, nightmarish living entity. Its stench had him fighting for breath, it was like decomposing offal.

  At least, the far light was working normally. Even had it not been, there was no way he was going to walk around the shelf to check it.

  The naked footsteps up in the entrance lobby should have warned him, that trail of glistening silvery slime ought to have had him going for help. Dalgety, Barr, anybody. They’d best come and see for themselves, he had run out of lame excuses, they no longer kept his terror at bay.

  Something had happened in here last night, he crawled up another couple of steps. Something so terrible that it was unwise to try to figure out what it might have been.

  He made it to the top of the steps, he had stopped retching. He rose to his feet unsteadily, it was impossible not to look back one last time. Just to make sure that it wasn’t some trick of the imagination that would ridicule him in the eyes of authority.

  He tensed, shied from what he saw. He had not noticed it on his arrival because that disgusting splodge of
whatever it was had distracted him. Now he saw how the walls bowed, a definite convex. Even as he looked the concrete appeared to strain, the slight tremor he felt beneath his feet might have been his own shaking.

  Decades of concrete were finally yielding to the strain of containing a million gallons of water. Water always took the least line of resistance, now the weakness was the reservoir walls.

  Thank God Kate had taken the bus into town and Peter was at school, at least they didn’t have to see his state of terror. He made a phone call to the Glascote HQ, tried to stop his voice from shaking.

  “There’s a crisis here, the reservoir walls are giving way!”

  Kilcline, the deputy chief, didn’t seem concerned, a soft, almost lazy voice. He sounded like he was drinking coffee at his desk. “Dalgety’s out somewhere, I’ll have him radioed. Doubtless, he’ll be with you later on in the day. Or first thing in the morning.”

  Bureaucracy never panicked, they just passed the buck.

  It was early afternoon by the time the Discovery pulled into the pumping station yard. Dalgety didn’t get out, sat there behind the wheel, waiting. He wasn’t going to appear to be concerned over a subordinate’s panic. His cheeks were more flushed than usual, Phil smelled whisky in his breath.

  “Well, what’s the problem now?” Irritated, he was already dismissing the call out as trivial. “I was only here a few days ago. Is that light working properly now?”

  “Yes,” Phil swallowed, “but somebody’s been in there last night.”

  “What!” The inspector’s cheeks puffed out, the red flush began to purple. “How? You left the door unlocked!”

  “No,” Oh, Jesus, I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. “It was locked, I don’t know how they got in. There’s naked footsteps all over the floor, some kind of slime and what looks like offal on the steps down by the water.”

  “You don’t look well, Quiles,” the other’s expression was contemptuous, not a hint of sympathy. “Are you sure you’re up to the job?”