Water Rites

by Guy N Smith

  Phil squeezed through the wire, ran up the steps against the flow of water which came up to his ankles, its opposite direction to his own brought on a feeling of vertigo.

  The outer door was locked, he tested it with his weight. Thank God, at least Peter hadn’t found a way inside. Phil was afraid that the detective might have left it unlocked on his departure; it was locked and, like Kate had said, the other had simply forgotten to return the key. Right now, that was a minor concern.

  “Well, Peter hasn’t come up here.” Relief again but they would not rest until they had located their missing son.

  They sludged their way down the muddy watercourse until they arrived back home. Despair because there was nowhere else to look, they had eliminated every obvious possibility.

  “I’ll phone the police,” Phil said in a voice that trembled.

  “When was the last time you saw your son?” Detective Sergeant Webb had a reassuring manner, an important part of his job when somebody went missing was to be a calming influence on parents or relatives. In most cases missing children turned up unharmed; it was the isolated instance which you feared. This kid had probably wandered off down to the village, got up early to go and visit a school friend. The possibilities were innumerable. Right now all he wanted were basic facts.

  “I looked in on him when we went to bed last night,” Kate wrung her hands in despair. “Sometime around eleven. He was asleep. We were later going to bed than usual, my husband was waiting for one of your colleagues to return the key to the reservoir.”

  “Oh?” Webb’s eyebrows raised.

  “Inspector Barr, he had some checking to do. He hasn’t returned the key yet. We’ve already been up to the reservoir. It’s locked but there’s no sign of him. Nor Peter.”

  “The inspector has his reasons, it’s not for me to question them.” He jotted something down in his notebook. “Now, if you’ll give me a list of all your son’s school friends who live in the village, I’ll get them checked out first.”

  It wasn’t easy, Kate could not think in terms of other children right now. Falteringly, fighting back her panic, she came up with names. She was sure to forget some, the school was sizeable, the village population was increasing since all those new houses had been built.

  “Wait by the phone,” Webb smiled, buttoned his already saturated topcoat. “In all probability it’s something quite innocuous and you’ll get a phone call to go and collect him from somewhere. Kids are always going missing, we get calls most days. They always turn up. Certainly I’ve never known one that hasn’t. These terrible things you read in the papers are very rare happenings taking the child population of the country into consideration. The odds on anything having happened to your boy are about two million-to-one, maybe greater.”

  Kate wasn’t reassured. Figures were no consolation if you happened to be the mother of that two million-to-one child.

  Phil had checked the pump house buildings again, just in case. Waiting for news that might never come was the hardest part of all; between them they looked the house over once more. Just in case.

  The telephone did not ring.

  The police dog handlers arrived in their Land Rover shortly before 2 p.m. Daylight was a precious commodity with the onset of autumn, if Hopwas Wood had to be searched, better sooner than later.

  A company of cadets from the nearby barracks arrived soon afterwards under the command of a lance corporal. They had been recalled from a survival course on the Staffordshire moors; the opportunity to put their basic training into practice was not to be missed.

  A long line of searchers stretched from the roadside larches to the quagmire fields beyond the Lady Walk. Youths in camouflage, slashing at the sodden undergrowth with sticks like beaters on a pheasant hunt, flat-capped police officers in navy-blue waterproofs allowing their Alsatians a roving commission.

  If there was a body in the woods, the dogs would find it.

  A helicopter hovered above.

  The search had begun as a routine procedure , by dusk it had intensified. The wind had dropped, the rain was now falling vertically, heavier than before.

  The reservoir bank was bulging under the pressure of the escaping water.

  Twenty-six

  The water witch held the boy aloft, lifted him clear of the steadily rising water, perched him on her shoulder. His head lolled to one side, his eyes were closed. He had answered her call in his sleep; mercifully, he still slept.

  She regarded the others with undisguised contempt, saw how they had retreated up the steps before the lapping water. Her eyes narrowed, she scrutinized them for signs of the Change; they were not ready yet and she knew from experience that the transformation was not instant.

  Behind her the water gushed in through the hole in the wall. Another cracking sound, it would not be long before the structure collapsed beneath the pressure, released a mighty torrent to sweep down the wooded hillside to the rising floods below. Soon the whole landscape would be awash.

  Detective Inspector Barr’s body bobbed in the swell. It rolled over, arms outstretched like a bizarre swimmer.

  Peter stirred restlessly as if he was dreaming, Mukasa lowered him, cradled him to her bosom. His bare feet trailed in the water.

  “The time is nigh, my little one,” a croon, she fondled his damp hair. “One day power infinite shall be yours.”

  Her gaze shifted, settled on Shannon. She read fear in his eyes, something else; bitter disappointment. Because he should have been at her side in the water, a king with his queen. The expressions of the others conveyed their hate for their high priest, one whom they had trusted and who had betrayed them at the end. Fodder for his lust for power, sacrifices. Mukasa smiled knowingly.

  Shannon was changing, the roughness on his flesh was spreading like a rash. It would take time but she would not give him that time. Because he was dangerous, even to the Queen of the People of the Water.

  “False prophet,” her words were scathing, she saw him cringe. “A true follower and yet your motive was only power for yourself. You gave me sacrifices but they were merely victims of a species which usurped the domain that belongs to the Chosen. Then you tried to deceive me by giving me the woman and her child, foolishly thought that I would believe that it was a holy infant conceived by my disciple. A treacherous lie to further your own quest for power. You hoped that your power would be as mine, that you would become a ruler. Now you are undergoing the change,” her lips curled into a snarl and she shrieked, “but it is too late!”

  “No, it isn’t true!” Shannon whined, glanced behind him, saw that Stogie and the others had risen to their feet, their expressions of hatred were no longer disguised.

  “One final sacrifice, give it to me, and then the earth shall be ours!”

  Shannon saw the knife in Stogie’s hand, the others were crowding behind him, treading water on the steps. Reaching out for him.

  There was no way back, no escape.

  “Traitors, false disciples!” He hissed at them.

  Then he leaped, the twisting dive of a natural swimmer, hit the water with a splash and went under. Down, down into the dark depths. He touched the bottom, struck back up for the surface.

  A hand grabbed for him, tried to pull him back. He struggled, struck out. A face floated close to his own.

  The living dead features of Detective Inspector Barr.

  A soft white hand groped him obscenely, he kicked it away. Fish-like eyes that bulged and saw, cavernous mouth agape, a predator that lusted for Shannon’s flesh.

  Shapes everywhere, those familiar costumes like a shoal of giant piranhas hunting him in the murky depths. He caught a glimpse of a face as he dodged it; Debbie, expressionless, a water zombie obeying the commands of its deity.

  Lisa, bubbling from her full red lips; her fingernails clawed him as he struck out at her.

  Sheila, timid even in total obedience, backing off from him.

  And Stogie.

  Stogie grinned evilly, the extend
ed knife was more than an empty threat; he slashed viciously but the water slowed his arm, enabled Shannon to dive beneath it, grip the other’s wrist. Face-to-face, straining for supremacy.

  Shannon’s strength was greater, the weapon slipped from opened fingers. Perhaps Royston Shannon would have overcome his adversary but the others appeared out of the murkiness, sharks that had scented blood and had come for the kill.

  Hands groped for a hold, the high priest kicked out at them but there were too many for him. His wrists were pulled behind his back, held; Debbie and Sheila had his ankles.

  You cannot drown me because I am one of the People of the Water. You will drown first for your Change has barely begun.

  They were laughing insanely. Stogie floated round, his expression was demoniacal.

  And then another shape materialized out of the watery darkness, trod water and gazed with perplexity. Shannon thought that it was Mukasa, who had once been Barbara Jackson, but the other had the naked shapeliness of a younger woman. There was something frighteningly familiar about her, the way she hung back as if she was afraid of the others.

  A luminous glow infiltrated the deep, spread softly. Shannon screamed within himself for there was no mistaking those dead-white features.

  It was Sharon Levy.

  Still holding on to their captive, the others made way for her. Come, Sharon, this is the one who lured you into sacrificial death.

  She was smiling with the lust that had been her profession, struggling to position herself for the unholy mating which she had in mind.

  No!

  Yes! Her supple, icy fingers made him how she wanted him, she lowered herself down on to him, a nymph astride a giant sea horse. Cries of ecstasy came from beyond the grave, her corpse shook with a pleasure which she had long abandoned all hope of experiencing again. The delights of the flesh, the living and the dead.

  Shannon prayed for death, gave up his struggles. But death was no release, in this temple of the undead, you died but to live again.

  He writhed and she went with him, every turn and twist. Behind and around her, the voyeurs watched with undisguised lust.

  Barr was there, floating above so that he had an overhead view, moving his head this way and that so that he might miss nothing. Something jostled him, a scrawny body whose tattered trousers revealed skeletal legs. A ribboned coat trailed, the crushed and blackheaded face was partly hidden behind a mangy beard.

  Grunting his delight, trying to paw the policeman out of the way in order to obtain a better view. Gloating over the ultimate fate of the one who had sentenced his body and soul to the eternal sufferings of this dreadful place.

  Maddox had been recalled from purgatory.

  A scrawny hand reached out, blackened fingernails raked Shannon’s face, the cadaverous lips grunted their inarticulate hate.

  Shannon gave up his struggles, he opened his mouth, prayed for death by drowning.

  It was impossible, the Change had gone too far. Already he was an amphibious creature.

  He sensed the vibrations of screamed underwater rage, cringed before yet another awful spectre from the shadows. This time the shape was so disfigured and blackened that it was scarcely recognizable, a hairless skeleton that clutched a charred infant where once her breasts had sagged, heavy with milk. A tiny, wriggling babe whose mouth sucked in vain, blew mucus bubbles, dribbled slime. Eye sockets that seemed to see, to understand, half turned in the direction of the prisoner of the dead.

  You did this to us!

  Sharon was lying across him, temporarily spent, her foul lips pressed against his own. A forest of fingers stroked him, mocked him. Trying to turn away as Maddox clawed for him again.

  Hold him down, drown him.

  Fools, you are too late to drown me. It is you who have barely begun the Change who will drown.

  Shannon sensed a hand loosen its grip, he had an arm free; then another. He kicked out, freed his legs. A sudden turn dislodged Sharon Levy, she tumbled with flailing arms.

  Debbie, Sheila and Lisa were churning the water to a foam, desperately trying to surface for air. Their efforts were in vain as skeletal and fire blackened hands grabbed for them. Maddox was pedalling water in his lust, Barr had a hold on one of them; Sharon had swum to join in the frenzy.

  The dead were not going to allow the living to escape.

  Shannon glided to a safe distance; it was impossible to see what was happening as shadow grappled with shadow. His confused brain realized that somehow the Change had saved him from the depredations of the cult. The dead recognized the futility of attempting to drown him, they had turned their attentions upon those who were still vulnerable.

  Mukasa had ordered his sacrifice; instead, it was Shannon’s followers who would die. He checked his urge to surface for up above, protecting her adopted son and waiting for him to become a changeling, the terrible deity reclined upon the fast submerging steps. For the moment her own underwater domain was taboo, she was stranded.

  Between himself and the only escape route.

  He floated in a dark corner, knew by the turbulence of the water that the struggle between the dead and the living still raged. Suddenly, one who ruled over his followers had become a fugitive.

  Something drifted into view, sank to the bottom. Shannon could tell by its shape that it was Stogie, his head lying at an unnatural angle. Bubbles came from the open mouth. Before long the corpse would float slowly up to the surface.

  Shannon edged his way along the perimeter wall, in places it bulged alarmingly. Directly above him he felt the force of the inlet as the storm water poured in. It was like standing beneath a raging waterfall.

  He moved on cautiously.

  Lisa; drifting upwards, she passed within a yard of him. Ripped cheeks, bloody flesh trailing. Tufts of hair were gone from her head, there were bite marks on her abdomen where her attackers had briefly turned to cannibalism in their insatiable rage and hunger.

  A dismembered limb lay on the floor, sinewy tentacles drifting like waterweed. He had no idea to whom it had once belonged.

  Shadows that came and went, he cowered from them.

  Time was meaningless, for Shannon it had ceased to exist. It might be seconds, hours since Mukasa had proclaimed his death sentence. A sudden thought crossed his mind; she had sought to kill him before he changed, but her mystic powers had failed her. For himself the Change had come fast, like it had for the one who had once been Barbara Jackson. Immortality had spread in the form of scales, the ability to survive below water. Regression.

  She could not destroy him now that he had become one of the People of the Water. A feeling of invincibility, euphoria, engulfed him. At this very moment he was more powerful than the Queen whom he had worshipped since boyhood. She could not enter the water without abandoning her child, and that she would not do. Shannon was able to walk upon land, or exist below water, he was in a fortuitous amphibious state. How long it would last, he had no idea, before his new life form imprisoned him in the depths forever.

  The old dead were gone back whence they came, the new dead floated or lay in the sacred pool of Mukasa. He was its only living occupant.

  He would bide his time here until …

  A sudden movement threw him, he clutched despairingly at the wall against which he leaned, felt it move outwards. The water swirled, rushed.

  Suddenly, there was turmoil, gigantic waves pounding and foaming, a cauldron seething within the surrounds that had confined it for so long. An avalanche of steel girders and concrete, soil and grass, that had for so long been the roof of this underground reservoir. The bowing walls had finally collapsed.

  Mukasa had destroyed her temple because she no longer had need of it.

  Twenty-seven

  “I can’t stand it, I can’t bloody stand it any longer!”

  Kate Quiles finally snapped, flung herself face downwards on the couch, beat at the cushions with her fists.

  Phil went to her, slipped an arm around her shaking body. He w
asn’t far off his own breaking point, for her sake he had to cling on by his fingertips.

  The search for their son had been abandoned at dusk. Maybe in better weather conditions police and army would have continued using artificial lighting. But there was no denying the futility, the impossibility of carrying on; if anything, the rain was even heavier than earlier in the day.

  The reservoir was leaking, Phil had no doubt about that. The torrent that foamed on down past the house and out onto the road could only have come from one place. In any other circumstances Phil would have been on the phone to HQ Emergencies, right now he didn’t care. Maybe the reservoir would empty itself steadily instead of bursting, that way they would not have to go to the trouble of draining it.

  The road was closed, anyway, because of the flooding down by the Fox. The water from the low-lying meadows had finally broken through the sandbagged barriers. There was a traffic diversion somewhere back towards the city, a wide detour that took vehicles well away from Hopwas. Now there was a possibility that that road might become flooded, too.

  But none of these things mattered when your son had been missing for sixteen hours.

  “He’s dead. I know he’s dead!” Kate sobbed uncontrollably.

  Phil had run out of suggestions, consolations. Anywhere that Peter might have gone had been checked out hours ago. He recalled something that a leading policeman had said on television only a few weeks ago after a child missing for days had been found strangled in a ditch.

  “You can hunt for days, it’s only the very lucky kids that are found alive. Mostly, they’re dead within an hour of being abducted.”

  Phil had given up saying “I know they’ll find him alive” because he could no longer say it with conviction. The waiting was the worst part, in some ways terrible news would be a relief.

  The phone rang, a harsh bleeping. Kate beat him to it, fumbled the receiver off its hook, almost dropped it. “Yes?” Please God that they’ve found him.

  It was only Hazel, Kate’s sister, phoning for the fifth time since three o’clock. Hopwas had been on the evening television news; the floods mostly, just a mention that a six-year-old boy had gone missing.