by G R Jordan
Calandra turned her head to look at Kirkgordon. He shook his head. She waited. The wind was evidently whirling outside. Kirkgordon imagined more snow falling, covering up the departing party of evil. Calandra looked at him again. Another shake of the head. He could feel her tensing. Still just the wind. Everything else was ever so quiet. She looked again. And he nodded.
Calandra delicately and quietly tiptoed to the entrance under the stairs and cautiously opened the door. Nothing was seen or heard and Kirkgordon watched her close the door behind her, staff in hand.
There was no sound of footsteps, but Kirkgordon knew Calandra would go upstairs, seeking the best viewing hole to trace where Austerley and his captors had gone. He watched his timepiece tick by. She would be coming down soon. Yes, about now. A quick walk to the front room to check all was clear. Then turn round and… thud! The dullest of thuds. Then a light body hitting the ground and the clattering of a wooden staff onto the floor. And a croak that seemed full of delight.
Saved by Innocence
Havers was running hard. His breath condensed in the cold air as he fought his way through the now fully developed blizzard. James was holding on tight, occasionally pointing out directions. It had been a while since such a consistent run had been demanded of him, but Havers was up to the task. He prided himself on his neat physique and methodical yet innovative approach to his work. But now he was facing one of his sternest tests, and it would be of a mechanical nature.
The young lad was good, thought Havers. Not a single complaint even though he was frightened. It was hard to imagine growing up in a place like this. Feeling like an outcast was bad enough, but for rumours and tales of fish-men and frog-men to be commonplace, and for Mr Mackenzie to die in those strange circumstances… it was a wonder the kid’s nerves were holding.
Havers’ pace did not decline even when hitting slopes and valleys through several of the dunes. The sand was mixed in with the fallen snow and his grip was unsure. Several times he stumbled but compensated with small half-steps to keep his rhythm going. James clung on tight, making him an easier burden to carry than most. Panting hard, Havers rounded the bottom of a dune before desperately diving to his left, into the sand. James went to cry out, but a firm hand covered his mouth.
Up ahead was a quaint, grey pebble-dashed two-storey house with the typical sloping roof of the islands. One side was a perfect white from the snow, and visible against that festive backdrop was a pair of spindly legs, a broad torso and a bloated head with enormous eyes. Blast, thought Havers, I was hoping to get to the place clean.
“James, I am going to ask a few questions,” said Havers, deep into the child’s ear, “and all I require of you is a shake or nod of the head. Do you understand?”
James nodded.
“Good. That house ahead, is that the one we are looking for?”
Again a nod.
“Is the plane in the house?”
A shake.
“Is it nearer the sea?”
Negative.
“Further inland?”
Negative.
“Then where?”
A arm extended and, with a cupping motion, James indicated the rear of the house.
“In a barn?”
A nod.
“Good. As you can see there is a frog-man at the house. I doubt he is alone but I need to scout to make sure. If you are with me, it will not work. So I need you to hide out here. Can you do that?”
A pained face stared back at Havers and he could see the child’s terror. But a grim nod was returned. Havers took James’ hand and led him round the back of the dune telling him to lie down and to watch the house. He would return for him when it was safe. Havers wished he could advise what to do if he didn’t come back, but he didn’t know.
It took Havers a good twenty minutes to successfully skirt the perimeter of the house. There were three would-be guards on duty: two frog-men and one human. Kirkgordon would be useful now, thought Havers, using his arrows to dispatch these threats. He would have to do it the hard way.
So far he had kept his distance, knowing his current garb would be easily seen up close. Deep down, Havers felt the thrill of adventure again. Too long he had been behind the desk, pulling the strings, giving the orders; now he felt like the agent who had wet his ears deep behind the Russian border during that cold war. He felt it was fitting that, now so enlivened, he was once again working alongside Calandra. He had aged but he had also matured, and what had been taken by his departing youth was made up for with that seasoning. He took the garrotte from his jacket and prepared to approach.
Coming in from the side of the house in shadow, Havers quietly walked up to the back of the first frog-man. He watched carefully, keeping himself directly in line with the back of its head, worried in case those eyes had a field of vision much greater than his own. On silent feet, he crept the last few steps before throwing the garrotte around the frog-man’s large throat, catching it in his free hand and pulling hard, satisfied when he heard a distinctive click. Havers held the garrotte tight while the frog-man struggled for breath before becoming limp and decidedly heavy to hold. The lifeless lump was allowed to fall.
Breathe in and out. Calm, thought Havers, always calm. The government employee glided to the edge of the building, aware that on turning the corner he would be in whatever light was coming through the storm. Flicking his head ever so briefly round the corner, he glimpsed the remaining two guards. Havers pulled a small knife from within his garments and prepared to assail his foes. With the frog-man’s strength, he knew he would have to be quick.
Rounding the corner in full sprint, Havers threw the knife straight into the throat of the human guard. Before the body had toppled to the ground, he was leaping into the frog-man, lashing out at its chest with a kick. The beast fell to the ground and Havers followed up by throwing the garrotte around its throat, but the creature had instinctively thrown an arm in front of its face and the garrotte wrapped around this arm instead. The beast slammed its arm into the ground and Havers was thrown down in front of the creature, his shoulder driving hard into the snow followed by his head banging on to the cold, hard surface.
Trying to roll back up, Havers barely managed to get to his knees. His breathing was racing now, pulling frosty air into his lungs. Beyond the need for air, his impulses were a groggy fog of confusion. Then he felt the slimy, long-fingered arms around his throat. Instinctively, his hands shot to the arms of the creature, trying to drive them off. Slowly, he felt a slight release in the pressure before a slap to the back of the head drove his face into the ground. Again his throat was grabbed and this time, with his opponent behind him, all he could do was reach for the fingers themselves. His grip slipped off the creature’s hands time and again. His body started to panic despite his efforts at controlled breathing, and he lashed out with his arms to little effect. Flat on the ground with his opponent over him, Havers felt the cold, sinking reality of a life finishing.
There was a squelching sound, rather like plunging your hands into jelly. And then a sound of an uncontrolled croak, mixed with a rasping howl. Then a wetness soaking the back of his neck. The pressure released from his throat but instead he was crushed under a falling frog-man. Pushing back hard and kicking intensely, Havers freed himself from the body which was pressing down on him and rolled to his feet, staggering from lack of oxygen.
James was lying in the snow a few feet away, his hands covered in blackish blood, most of which had emerged from the prone frog-man’s body. Havers’ small knife was buried in the frog-man’s head. With a few deep breaths came the return of his trained reactions. Havers surveyed the area to see the dead human guard lying on the ground, the knife no longer in his throat.
The child was frozen statue-like in shock so Havers picked him up and took him inside the house. Returning outside, he retrieved all three bodies and dumped them into the dark recesses of the house. In the front room, James was sat on the floor staring blankly ahead. Havers approache
d quietly and sat down beside him. The smell of the viscous blood on the back of his neck was attacking his nostrils, but he withheld his disgust, preferring to try to comfort the boy. Never having had children, the action felt awkward, but the long-time agent wrapped his arms around James who broke into a fit of crying, sporadically exploding with exaggerated coughs like a clapped-out car.
Time almost seemed irrelevant while they were embracing, Havers only wanting to bring the boy back to a semblance of normality. Slowly, and with the occasional recurrence, James became a more composed, if somewhat paler, child.
“We need to keep going, James. We need this aeroplane to resolve this situation. We can get rid of this evil but I need you to be strong. Can you do that?”
A nod.
“Good boy. And, James? Thank you. You saved my life. Do you understand that? You saved me. It was me or that thing and you saved me. I won’t lie to you, you will think about this a lot. But you did the right thing. Thank you.”
James managed a faint smile.
“Good. Now, shall we go out to the building where the aeroplane is?”
James stood up and went to open the door but Havers gently held him back. Opening the door first by the slightest margin, and then with increasing confidence, Havers guided James out into the night before letting him show the path to the barn on the far side of the house. His head hurt from being tossed into the ground, but Havers focused hard and entered the barn only after sweeping the perimeter and deftly clearing the inside. Once he was happy no one was there, he led James in and prompted him.
“Where’s the aeroplane, James?”
The barn itself was only large enough to hold about two cars and had a corrugated iron roof with brick walls. There was no obvious source of heating and the barn wall accommodated a mass of old dust-covered tools. Various empty boxes littered the floor and a brown, tatty boiler suit hung from a rusted nail. A green tarpaulin covered a unknown object against the far wall.
James ran over to the tarpaulin and, with a heave, pulled it back from the item beneath. There was a long green wing of light material supported by a skeleton frame of aluminium. A small cockpit with three wheels had a large propeller sitting against it.
“Is this the aeroplane, James?”
A nod.
Blast it, thought Havers, it’s a microlight. With the winds outside it’ll be a difficult flight. There’s no way to take more than two, and more likely one, person. I’d better check for fuel.
There were a couple of jerrycans at the far end of the room amongst some paints. Havers lifted them and was delighted to find that one was full and the other about half-full. His head thumped, his shoulder ached and he had a petrified child for assistance. But memories of play and an old sixties television show came to mind. Havers’ inner child spoke: “I wanna be Scotty! I’ll see what I can do, Captain!”
Dangling Choices
Calandra was compromised. That much was clear. Kirkgordon crept forward to the tunnel door and listened intently. Mrs Macleod had her hand over her mouth, her body visibly shaking from all manner of ghastly thoughts racing through her head. Keeping his clear of such distractions, Kirkgordon picked out at least four different creatures. Various hoppings and shufflings led him to the conclusion that there was a mix of creatures but probably not any humans.
Loath to open the door in case he betrayed their location, Kirkgordon was left helpless to intervene. He heard no “killing blow” but instead much conversation in croaks and babbles. All the time, Austerley was being led further away. Indecision drilled at his mind. Was it more important to help Calandra or track Austerley? He knew what Havers’ choice would be. But Havers hadn’t been rescued by this woman, sporting her black wings in devastating fashion; hadn’t been whisked away by her from the claws of a fire-breathing dragon; hadn’t been propositioned by her, mesmerized by her pale beauty; hadn’t bonded with her as another of life’s cast-offs.
So he waited. Judging by the vocal exchanges and the bumps and scrapings on the floor, Cally had been picked up and dragged off. Then he heard a scream, just barely, before it was muffled. Then came a slight commotion, some hopping and shuffling with occasional tandem sounds and then the sound of the door opening. The seashell to your ear; that was it, thought Kirkgordon. That was the sound of the wind tonight. The snowstorm still raged and they had gone out into it. And left the door open.
Now he was in a quandary. Had they left another guard? Dare he wait? The snow had been falling rapidly beforehand, so the likelihood of losing track of Calandra, and certainly Austerley, increased with every second’s delay. And what about Mrs Macleod? This was risking her life too. Finally his fondness for Calandra overpowered all thoughts of remaining hidden and he gently opened the tunnel door.
Nothing could be seen in the dark of the hallway where the tunnel entrance opened out beneath the stairs. Silently, Kirkgordon glided to the door of the front room, scanning all around for any untoward shadows. He drew his bow. The only sounds were the wildness of the wind and the thump of his beating heart. Turning the corner, he checked the front room, which was empty. Retreating, he took in the kitchen, then the stairs, before completing a quick reconnaissance of the upper floor. Only then did he deem it safe to return to the tunnel and speak to Mrs Macleod.
“Stay here, Donaldina. Whatever happens, do not open this door, and stay as far back in the tunnel as possible. I’ll come back for you when it’s safe. And pray! Whatever you have in you, please, just pray!” Donaldina nodded knowingly and settled herself down for a long wait. Now that would be hell for me, thought Kirkgordon, just hoping and relying on others.
With practised ease, Kirkgordon exited the building, surveying his surroundings at all times. There was only one group of footprints, or rather flipper-prints, leaving the house, and he raced along their trail. Soon he was amongst the dunes he had traced his way through with Calandra, and it was here that the single group of prints became two. Only one set contained human prints; that must be Austerley. The prints were also somewhat fainter. Kirkgordon took a nearby stick and laid it on the ground pointing in the direction of the markings. Satisfied with his signal, he hurried off in search of Calandra’s captors. As he ran, Kirkgordon’s lungs drew in and pumped out air at a rate sustained only by repetitive practice. Although worried about losing Austerley’s trail, it occurred to him that while these amphibian foes could leap and hop about over a short range in a fashion equal to, if not better than, a human, they were unlikely to sustain a man’s pace over longer, uneven terrain. He felt a deep chill across his face, battered by the wind and the driving snow. He realized that he was retracing his route back toward the village. Despite having been in this direction only once, Kirkgordon’s sense of place was ringing loud that the harbour was up ahead; he knew the next corner would be his exit from the dunes onto the exposed harbour front. Kirkgordon dived into the grassy verge and crawled through the snow to the dune-top to check if his progress was clear. The scene presented was not an encouraging one.
Calandra was starting to feel the blood rushing to her head. Her long hair was hanging limply beneath her and her hands were tied incredibly tightly behind her back at waist height. The thick rope was cutting into her wrists and she was sure blood was running down her arms inside her jacket. Looking up, she saw her feet bound to a metal pole with more coarse rope. She heard the waves crashing into the wall below, and a fine mist of spray made her hair damp.
A scarf was tied round her mouth, preventing her from shouting out. Her ears could hear the excited croaks and babbling of what she believed to be her abductors. The harbour wall was behind her and she was looking out to sea. The previous mist had now been replaced by driving snow which melted on contact with the water; still the visibility was a only a kilometre. At that distance, the waves were black, rotating surfaces, like constantly changing Rubik’s cubes which had had their colourful stickers removed.
In her younger days she had lived near the coast and had, on many a day, stood
and watched with great comfort the passing of the tide. Throughout her life, it had helped heal moments of despair and frustration with its reassuringly slow, rhythmic beat. But all she felt now was an overwhelming sense of failure.
Calandra cried, not in fear of her life but for the lack of friendship and closeness in her final moments. Austerley, who had once amused and treasured her; Havers, who had seen past her freakish coldness; and dear Churchy. He had thought so much of her, not taking from her what he could not return. Now, with no pillar to hold on to, she mourned the ending of a cursed life which had driven so many loves away.
Then in the distance, she saw it. Revealed only when the tide dipped was a rounded, buoy-like figure, six foot of it showing with every swell. It would have been a mere curiosity but for the pair of eyes that was focused on the harbour, unblinking through every wave. Calandra’s heart froze at the sight of a long tentacle bursting out of the ocean, revealing the suckered underside. It had all the markings of an octopus, but never had she seen such a look of human intent in a creature’s eyes.
Fighting for something to think about apart from the horror of being bait for this creature, Calandra calculated she had approximately two minutes before the sea-beast reached her hanging point. She started to swing on her bindings but they were too secure, every frantic motion causing the rope to bite harder into her ankles. Unable to see her captors, she could hear what she suspected was laughter. A cacophony of croaks and bubbling noises in which there was an unmistakeable vehemence.
