by G R Jordan
“Is Havers really that good?”
“Trust me, Austerley’s in good hands.”
“I hope so. After everything, I still feel sorry for the stupid arse.”
“Heads up, local five hundred metres ahead.”
“I’m on point. Let’s go!”
A New Denomination
Holding to the shadows in the village was an easy process. Most of the street lights gave out a dim orange glow as if the bulbs were toward the end of their lives. Where the light did fall, there were plenty of jutting corners and a myriad of small alleys to conceal oneself in. The night was cold with a waning moon and, although not a totally clear sky, it was sparse enough to allow for a light frosting on the ground.
“Possibility of snow,” whispered Calandra. She was crouched at the side of a small house staring at the church across the green. There were a few locals hanging around a nearby streetlamp clutching small brown paper bags with the tops of bottles sticking out. Conversation amongst them was practically non-existent, the occasional muttering sounding an air of complaint.
“If we circuit quickly to the east side we should be able to get past them and jump inside the church wall.” An uneasy feeling was rising in Kirkgordon. He tried to ignore the images which kept returning to him: the face of the robed man in the pub, Austerley’s chaotic behaviour. It was in the graveyard last time. That was the last time Austerley had flipped this badly. An imposing fear growing at the front of his mind was proving difficult to be dispassionate about.
The church had a classical stone wall surrounding it, with a further walled area behind it containing many gravestones. The greyish building was bland on the outside with a small noticeboard located beside its front door.
No one saw the two black figures throw themselves over the five foot high wall and land with little noise on the grass behind. Silently, they performed a half-crouch, half-walk to the wooden double door at the front of the church.
“Entwined Order of Divinity? Members only? We don’t have that in Europe. Is that a Scottish or British denomination?” wondered Calandra aloud, reading the board on the wall.
“Never heard of it. But the initials. EOD. That’s what Austerley was raving about. Doesn’t look abnormal from the outside. We need to get inside. Can you pick a lock?”
“No. But as it’s open, it shouldn’t matter.”
Opening the right-hand door ever so slowly to prevent it from creaking, Calandra entered. Kirkgordon followed close behind and gently closed the entrance. Inside was dark, but it revealed itself as their eyes slowly adjusted, like peering into a fog. There was one single room with chairs laid out like a traditional nave with a pulpit set off to the front right-hand side. On the far wall, facing the chairs, was a large motif incorporating a multi-headed creature standing with a hideous dark winged being. Even from this distance the letters EOD were obvious.
“Let’s see what we can find. See the pictures on the walls? You take them. I’ll see if there’s anything amongst the chairs and then take a look at the motif.” Calandra headed off toward the pictures, ignoring the obvious damp pervading each wall. Kirkgordon quickly inspected the seats, looking for anything that might give a clue to the activities of the Entwined Order of Divinity.
The chairs seemed precarious to sit on, many in a severely rotted state, far from their days of mahogany glory. Kirkgordon wondered if any of the townsfolk could actually sit on them. As he approached the front, he sneaked a quick glance at Calandra examining various portraits on the wall. Alana had looked good in leggings too, he thought, especially with a ponytail dropping down, her delicate ears bared. The deft line of her neck was also very enticing. Focus, dammit, focus.
Suddenly there was a glint from the front of the room. There, in front of the chairs, was a long table supporting several objects. From his current distance they were indistinct, but the glint had come from the left-hand side. Creeping forward, Kirkgordon saw the flash of light again. Moonlight was glimmering through an upper skylight and catching the studded jewels on the piece on the left. Getting closer, Kirkgordon soon identified a crown of some sort. Alongside it was a colourful robe, draped over the table, plus a small safe box and a large envelope.
“Churchy, over here!” came the whispered request.
Kirkgordon’s mind lingered on the crown, reason beating against his brain but with the door still firmly shut. Confused, he acceded to Calandra’s request. She was looking intently at a portrait of some kind of amphibian. The animal had long spindly legs with distinctly frog-like webbed feet. It wore a grey duffel coat over its large body. The head was a horrific combination of human and frog. The jawline was jutting and taut like a fit human male but the eyes were bulbous with massive black irises. A few remnants of silvery hair donned the edges of the face but up top was a slippery green surface.
“A Pickman?”
“No! No. Definitely not.”
“Why, Calandra? Why are you sure?” Kirkgordon stared at the picture, struggling to take in the abomination presented. When he turned to Calandra for an answer he saw her shaking. Not the panic of a frightened deer but rather the realization of a scholar who sees the damage wrought by years of work. He touched her shoulder and she turned, burying her face into the warmth of his body. Lifting her chin, he stared deep into her frightened eyes and tried to provide reassurance and hope. But she just stared back.
“Cally, what? If it’s not a Pickman, then what? Whose is it?”
“I don’t… I don’t… Hell, I don’t know!”
“Shush, Cally, shush! They’ll hear you. I don’t understand. What’s to fear from a picture?”
“It’s a portrait! Don’t you get it? It’s a portrait!”
“Okay, okay. It’s a portrait. Like Pickman, live models, real things. But it’s from another place, another time. Why the fear?”
“Look! Dammit, look, Churchy.” Calandra pointed at the picture. “Recognize the church on the green behind it? The house just along, that tree?”
“It’s from here. But that doesn’t mean it’s from now.”
“The buildings match up perfectly. The season is right. And that is not painted with the paint of the Pickman years. Churchy, do you see? That’s modern paint! I’d say that picture is less than a month old!”
And the creatures from the graveyard came back at him. In they came, occasionally slowed by his guns. Whipping arms and fists around him, slashing his back and sides. He was fighting back with one arm and both legs as best he could, grabbing Austerley by the collar with the other hand. Closing his eyes, Kirkgordon forced his breathing into a measured pulse: in, then out. His ears took in the silence. His body felt Calandra tremble. His nose suddenly picked up the slightest of fishy odours. Pulse slowing. On opening his eyes, his state was calm but a strong shiver of dread raced down his back.
“Okay, Cally. Ease up. Breathe. We’re alone at the moment, nothing to fear here.” She clung on for a moment before stepping back and drawing herself up. However, her wetted eyes were obvious. She’s fearless before dragons, thought Kirkgordon, so what hell are we into now?
“Is there anything in any of the other pictures?” he asked.
“They’re older, mainly. The last one is the most fearful. A Shuggoth. Fallen servant of the Eldars. Uncontrollable now. That picture is at least three hundred years old, thank goodness. There’s a hydra there too. Indy mentioned a hydra.”
“Yes, Mother Hydra.” They stood and stared for a moment, lost in horrific contemplation.
“Cally, come look at this.” Kirkgordon led the way over to the table and gently lifted up the crown. “Ever seen a crown like this?”
“Technically, it’s a tiara, Churchy. New one on me though.” Calandra, seeing that it was obviously too small for Kirkgordon’s head, tried to delicately place it on her own. For a good minute she tried to get the item to fit but was unable. It would slide on first at one side and then the other but never both at once.
“Guess I’m just too big for
it.”
“No, Cally, look at it! The shape. It’s not round, it’s like… squashed in. Stretched out.”
“Elliptical?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“And it’s supposed to be your language.”
“What fits that shape?”
“Not what, Churchy. Who! Possibly something amphibian?”
“Froggy?”
“Possibly, or maybe fishy?”
Kirkgordon shuddered. “Fish are not amphibians.”
“And frogs don’t combine with humans, I suppose? Churchy, there are things in the ocean your trawlers don’t want to catch!”
“What’s in the envelope?” Cally asked.
Taking it in trembling hands, Kirkgordon reached inside the already open envelope and pulled out a familiar-looking manuscript. “It’s Zahn’s music. From half the world away to here. Not even a scorch mark on it!”
“At least we can hold on to that. Or maybe we should burn it. Then they would have to go and fetch it again.”
“Nice idea, Cally, but look at this. It’s not the original, it’s a photocopy. A good one. The colour, the quality, but it’s definitely a copy. Not a lot of point getting rid of it.”
“Still, pocket it, Churchy.”
“Cally, look at the table. Do you see the dust?”
“What’s so strange about that? The whole place is decayed and damp. There’s dust just about everywhere you look.”
“Except for there. Look at that!” On the table was a small, fairly round patch of clean table. The edges of the circle were slightly uneven. “That looks like the imprint of a soft bag, Cally. There’s been something else here. Something important, I guess. I wonder…”
“What? You look worried.”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve been worried ever since we came into this building. But, Cally, why keep all these items together? It’s like a collection. But now some are gone. No original manuscript. A missing bag. Is something on the move? Remember what Austerley said. Frog-men on the prowl, too.”
“Time to get Havers, Churchy. He’ll storm the place with this sort of evidence. Especially that frog-man. Time for backup. He’s got a radio to call the boatman back in. Time to go.” Calandra stared hard, waiting for Kirkgordon’s response.
“Yeah,” said Kirkgordon scanning around slowly, making sure they had looked at everything. “Time to go.”
The Way of the Frog
“That thing is hopping, Churchy!”
It may have been a forced whisper but it still chilled Kirkgordon to his core. Despite his recent contemplation of the picture in the church, the actual reality of a frog-man was shaking his mind. Granted, this image, approximately one hundred yards away, was less graphic due to the robe and hood that covered most of the figure, but the motion beneath was beyond all natural sense.
“Don’t, Cally! Focus, breathe. Havers is the point. Two corners and we’re there.”
I’m out of my depth here, thought Kirkgordon. She fought a dragon, she’s four hundred years old or something, she disappears into the ground and reappears countries away, and yet she’s petrified. Tiaras, music, frog-men and a raving lunatic to get clear of it all. Thank goodness Havers is a professional. At least Alana’s okay. So think, breathe. Get Havers, Austerley. Radio the boat and get out! Let the military blow this fiasco sky high.
“Okay, it’s clear. I’ll go first. See you at the corner, Cally.” Swiftly but gracefully, the two figures glided across cold streets back to the inn where they had left their colleagues. Upon reaching the last corner, Kirkgordon dropped to a knee, raising a hand indicating “stop” to Calandra behind him. A small crowd was gathered at the bottom of the gutter from which the black-clad pair had descended just a few hours ago. Some of the gathering Kirkgordon recognized from the bar, but several figures defied belief. Humanoid figures with distinctly fish-like markings confirmed Calandra’s earlier suspicions. Gills and fins adorned several creatures. One had scales running down his naked torso, overlaid on a mostly human pair of shoulders. Another lacked ears but sported a pronounced set of eyes. Hideous likenesses of this pair were voicing their concern about a smashed window on the side of the pub. He noticed the voices were not all human, some were just croaks and bubbling noises. The natural human voice had been tainted by, presumably, altered vocal chords.
Doubling back, Kirkgordon found Calandra behind a hedge. Given her recent candour, he was debating how much to tell her.
“There’s a crowd there. I have no idea what’s happened,” said Kirkgordon, deciding on honesty as the best solution.
“They’ll be okay. They will. Havers is good. Real good. Best I have seen. Okay? They’ll be okay. Won’t they?”
“Calandra, we have to go. We need to leave. This is getting too big. Can you make an exit? Like in Russia?”
“Yes. You’re right. Exit. Just wait and I’ll do it. Right here. Yes.” She drew with a shaking hand but within a minute she had placed a chalk outline on the ground.
“Okay, Cally. Let’s go.” They stepped into the markings together and waited. But there was nothing. Kirkgordon thought Calandra’s face turned even whiter.
“What’s up? What’s wrong, Cally?”
“Evil. I’m sorry. The evil. It’s blocking it. We’re stuck here.”
“Can’t you, like, zap it, or get past it? Do you know where it’s coming from?”
Calandra shook her head. “Churchy, don’t you get it? It’s the place, the time, everything. These are deeper powers from ages past. This is an evil beyond what you know. The whole place. This is like your worst legends coming back. Shuggoth. There was a picture of a Shuggoth. You don’t just fight those things. We’re up to our necks in it.”
“Not if I can help it. Time to find another exit. Stay close, Cally.” Kirkgordon hoped his little speech had looked like a Hollywood moment because now, with his face turned, the terror of Calandra’s failure was hitting home. Time to start moving before the panic took him.
As they silently moved away from the main streets, back out towards the harbour, snow in light puffs of white drifted to the ground. Sod it, thought Kirkgordon, it’s cold enough for it to lie. Another hour or so and we’ll be easily traceable.
Arriving back at the harbour everything looked calm and peaceful. The previous fog was sitting a little off the shore. The Christmas-card harbour wharf was starting to change from its usual dirty yellow to a clean white, but that did little to remove the air of decay. Instead, the snow just fell on broken pieces of pallets, creels and netting.
The pair crouched and observed for some five minutes before feeling secure enough to race down to the wharf, looking for a small tied-up boat. Kirkgordon remembered at least one when they landed, but now, none.
“Okay, so that’s a non-starter. We’ll need to scour the shorelines and check for any others. Certainly no sign of Indy and Havers round here. I’d say this place is deserted. Not surprising as there were a lot of them around the pub there. What do you think, Cally? Cally, I said what do you think?”
“Shush!” Kirkgordon followed Cally’s eyes down into the water. Nothing, he could see nothing.
He tapped her shoulder but she wouldn’t turn to him so he moved to stand in front of her face. “What?” he mouthed.
“Frog-man,” came the silent response. Nonchalantly, so as not to show his awareness, Kirkgordon turned to the water and could just make out two dark bulbous eyes lurking in the water. And then they moved.
Sea water sprayed high as the creature sprang up. Its feet were webbed and attached to long, spindly yet amazingly powerful legs, judging by the distance covered. The legs contorted into massive human hips but the flesh was moist and slimy. The torso sported a ribcage but the arms were thin and green. The head was definitively frog-like except for the bared teeth. They were decayed, and a pale yellow, but most definitely human. But the most dangerous item was the trident on a metal shaft that the creature was attempting to bring down with force onto Kirkgordon’s head.
Calandra’s warning had been enough and Kirkgordon rolled hard to his right before standing tall again. His bow was off his shoulder and an arrow mounted just shy of the frog-man’s second leap. This time his target was Calandra but she rebuffed him with her twirling staff, ends blazing in white light. Following up, she struck the creature on the hip. It barely seemed to notice and countered with a slash of its trident, cutting across her face. She reeled and tripped backwards, dropping her staff. The creature leapt into the air, turning its trident in order to land on Calandra and drive its barbs straight through her chest. An arrow, reaching its apex, drove deep into one of its enormous eyes, followed by a second arrow burying into the other eye. A deafening croak rang through the air and the creature somehow managed to land on its webbed feet. Rising, Calandra grabbed her staff and swung it hard into the neck of the amphibian, breaking all connections. Its feet whipped upwards, the head spun down into the ground and a limp corpse lay motionless, to be gently covered by the increasingly heavy snow.
“Are you okay?” Kirkgordon hurried over to Calandra.
“Yeah, it’s sore but it’s just a cut.” Kirkgordon looked closely at Cally’s pale face which now had two moderate gorges of red. It should have been flowing with her blood but instead it seemed some miniature wall of ice was holding it back.
“The joy of being a chilled-out girl, I guess. Thanks, Churchy.”
“There’s no boat here and that scream’s gonna bring them running. We need to move, Cally. You okay?”
“The knee’s sore. It’ll be a hobble.” She looked deeply into his worried face. “Leave me.”
