Moondog and the Reed Leopard

by Neil Mach

  Moondog had given a derisive snort, ‘We won’t sacrifice anyone. We offer an incentive.’

  ‘We don’t have a virgin, do we?’ the pot-bellied Rowley Goldwrath had commented. This brought bellows of laughter from the production team. Goldwrath roared too. In fact, so much that his flesh bounced against the guy-ropes and his bulk threatened to bring the whole unsteady, temporary shelter down around their ears.

  So that’s how they decided upon Olinda. They found her in a trailer, working on edits, and Mr. Bolting had asked her, unambiguously: ‘Are you a virgin?’ Because that’s how television producers did things. Ron Bolting was the programme maker for Hocus Focus, and he didn’t have time to muck around. Plain speaking gets results — that was his motto.

  ‘Only just...’ she’d told him, and everyone chuckled. She was a first-class candidate — the closest thing they had to fresh meat.

  ‘Moondog wants you to act as bait,’ Bolting had said. ‘We need you to tempt the hellhound out from the underworld. Are you up for that?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Olinda said absent-mindedly. She checked messages on her phone.

  ‘Apparently, the hound must be teased before it comes out...’

  ‘You want me to tease a dog?’

  ‘Not in so many words. We merely want you to sit and look prety...’

  ‘I can do that.’

  *

  The plan was to send Olinda up to a wooden bench near the cross-path. That’s exactly where a young couple had allegedly met face-to-face with a hellhound, one afternoon before Christmas.

  Olinda was to sit on the same bench and wait. She had a tiny microphone clipped to her under-clothing and a concealed remote-controlled camera in her bag.

  Most of the electricians, support assistants, dressers, and hangers-on returned to the hotel. The outdoors location team was a ‘lean’ workforce that included the director of photography, his first assistant camera, second assistant camera, script supervisor, key-members of the glam-squad, and a reliable generator operative. Also, of course, the creatives and the producer were on site. All these individuals were holed-up inside a camouflaged tent no bigger than a garden gazebo. There was another tent too, further down the slope, and this housed the sound utility chaps, a techie guy and the medic. They were out of eyeshot.

  ‘There’s a lot of people in here,’ Moondog complained. ‘I guess the monster won’t show-up if there are lots of folk hanging around...’

  ‘All these guys are essential,’ Ron Bolting told him. ‘I can tell the glam-squad girls to back to the hotel if you prefer.’

  ‘Would you do that? Yes, please. ‘

  It’s a shame that Bolting couldn’t send Rowley Goldwrath back to the hotel too. His fat, useless, sweaty buttocks took up too much space.

  ‘What about Rowley? Must he be here? In the hide?’

  ‘Of course, I must be,’ Goldwrath snapped. ‘We’re doing live commentary, aren’t we? And anyway, this is my show. Don’t forget that, gypsy-boy…’

  Moondog shrugged.

  Goldwrath rehearsed his script once again: ‘So here we are: At the exact coordinates where the monster was last seen. This is the place where Jim and Diane viewed the chilling apparition last December. They described jogging along this exact track — an ancient ridgeway. They passed a spot by this bench when they spied the spectral hound. They told us they saw a Dog of Darkness as he prowled the track. They told us they felt a chill in the air. They described the hellhound’s eyes as ‘fiery red’ and ‘big as saucers.’ We must remember that seeing a hellhound — especially in these parts — is a foreshadowing of death...’

  ‘Now we wait and watch while the beautiful young virgin as she sits by the path for the spectre to reveal himself. Because tonight is St Agnes Eve — a night of special magical significance —and a night that we can be sure the hell-hound will materialize.’

  Moondog produced a heavy sigh and shook a weary head.

  *

  Olinda went to the bench, over a hundred metres from the closest cameras. She sat down and exposed her bare thighs. She had been told to wear a very short skirt, selected by the wardrobe guys, so she would look sexy and inviting.

  The tech crews went over their last-minute line-checks to make sure everything worked efficiently. Olinda’s hidden camera and her miniature mike were tested thoroughly, and both functioned excellently.

  The nature photographers steadied their long lenses. They were accustomed to this sort of assignment. Utterly still and silent — their mission was to wait. They remained persistent, untiring, and alert…they waited like this, sometimes, for days. They remained vigilant to the possibility — no matter how unlikely — that they might record a few seconds of valuable transitory footage of an über-exotic animal. Often, they had nothing to show for their endeavors. But sometimes they’d collect a brief shadowy image: a blur of film that supposedly presented a bear or wolf. And, once, a sasquatch. On that occasion, it seemed more like a dream sequence than anything from real life. On that occasion, the wait had been worth the trouble.

  ‘How long do you think she can sit on that cold bench in a mini-skirt?’ Mr. Bolting asked no one in particular.

  ‘About an hour. Nothing more. It will feel like twenty to that poor thing,’ Moondog replied.

  Bolting called for silence.

  ‘Check Olinda one more time. Tell her to keep radio silence. Tell her to shut up until she sees something out of the ordinary. We’ll begin our vigil now.’

  ‘Righto.’

  *

  A little while later, one of the cameramen squawked ‘What’s that?’ The girl was still on the bench under the bony remains of a black oak. Her slim figure seemed precarious and defenceless against a blackening sky. The thick, frightening branches hung low over a cluster of winter shrubs. The bushes seemed closer to her body now, as if they had inched forward without anyone noticing. She felt a sharp jab on her leg and saw that a stem had managed to graze a bare knee bone.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ one of the videographers asked.

  ‘She’s just adjusting her ear-piece,’ said another. ‘Maybe she ought to sit still.’

  ‘She shouldn’t move around so much. She might disconnect a cable or alter the settings on her microphone… We don’t want to lose contact with her.’

  The girl was dwarfed by the murk. The oak-bark emphasized her vulnerability and the paleness of her buttermilk skin. She straightened her back, suddenly alert, and ready to act. She might have heard a cracking noise behind her.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ The earpiece crackled.

  She shook the wire, hoping the loss of contact was short-term.

  ‘Can anyone hear me?’ she whispered.

  *

  Beowulf

  Rowley Goldwrath made a guttural noise that sounded like it came from a pig rather than a human. ‘God, I’m ravenous.’ He yawned then stretched his arms — an appalling odor leaked from his pits.

  ‘Shhh!’

  ‘She’s been there over an hour...’ Goldwrath continued. He took no notice of the instruction to keep quiet. ‘Perhaps we should call it quits?’

  ‘Did anyone hear something?’ Moondog snapped.

  ‘What me? No, nothing. Er?’

  ‘Shut up...’

  A leaf bumped onto the canvas sidewall of their hide.

  ‘What was that?’ whispered Goldwrath.

  Moondog studied the ridge again. He didn’t have his scope, and he wished he did — he needed it now. He could feel something was wrong. The girl was defenceless, and it didn’t feel right.

  ‘Call her, see if she answers...’ he suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ Goldwrath exclaimed. ‘It’s almost supper time. Let’s get her back and get some grub.’

  Ron Bolting, the producer, nodded. He flicked the button on his transmitter.

  ‘Olinda. If you’re receiving, please acknowledge ...’

  No response.

  ‘Did she hear us?’ Moondog asked.

  ‘Ma
ybe her battery is dead —’

  ‘She’s jiggering with her cables ...’ interrupted one of the film guys. ‘Maybe she can hear us, but she can’t reply. Or she’s having trouble with her mike.’

  ‘Olinda, if you can hear us, wave your arms about... give us a signal.’

  ‘Nothing...’ said camera two.

  ‘I shouldn’t have put her up there. This is a bad mistake,’ Moondog muttered.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Bolting told him. ‘It’s good stuff. Makes for a dramatic sequence. Edge of the seat drama. This is bloody good television if you want my opinion. You are a winner, mate. This is a great idea of yours. We couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘I should have put someone else on the ridge,’ Moondog whispered. ‘It should have been me up there. Someone who can defend themselves. She shouldn’t be up on that crest...’

  ‘It would not have been the same with you up there. There’s nothing like the emotional impact of seeing a weak and defenceless girl become frightened by an emerging monster...’ continued the producer. ‘This is exciting... the fact she’s so helpless makes it so much more —’

  ‘I’m going to get her out,’ Moondog cut in. He limbered his joints, ready to work them because he’d been sat stock-still for over an hour.

  ‘Give it another five minutes. If she’s not in any difficulty...’

  ‘There’s movement on the ridge,’ one of the videographers interjected.

  ‘What? Can you see what it is? Is it a monster?’

  The producer crouched near the viewfinder and narrowed his eyes to see.

  ‘I can’t make it out. I’m pretty sure there’s another outline up there. The thing is on the hill, and it’s behind her. It’s a dark shape, and it has come out of the woods. Oh crikey! Yes, bloody heck, there’s something else up there on the hill. It’s lurking. It’s observing her…’

  ‘Zoom in. Get close. Get this on tape...’

  ‘I’m already at maximum...’

  ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘I can’t make it out. It’s gone all hazy…’

  Then they heard the sound of snag and disentanglement as Moondog scurried from the hiding place. He tripped over a scattering of brambles as he rushed.

  ‘No, not yet,’ shouted Bolting, ‘Don’t go. This is about to get interesting — success at last. The beast has arrived. He’s about to attack the girl...’

  But there was no time for argument. Moondog needed to rescue her. This was his fault. He dashed towards the bench on the hillside as fast as his legs would carry him.

  *

  ‘The gentleman has run into shot Mr. Bolting. Should I stop filming?’ asked camera one.

  ‘No, keep it rolling...’

  ‘But he said he was not to be filmed. He was categorical about that...’

  ‘Keep it rolling. Didn’t you hear me? Concentrate on the shape on the crest. Can you see the girl? What’s the monster doing now?’

  ‘But Mr. Bolting....’ said the other cameraman, ‘It isn’t right. The gentleman is still in the foreground... he told us we mustn’t get him on film...’

  ‘Can you see the back of his head? He’s running, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yes but...’

  ‘It doesn’t matter then. How have you violated his rights if you film the back of his head? No distinctive features. His identity is secure. Keep things rolling. This is a quality piece.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Bolting.’

  *

  The slope was slimy and steep. But Moondog didn’t slow.

  On the crest, he saw a large cruciform shape. It emerged from the darkness behind Olinda and looked like a giant bird. The looming shape opened-up vulture-like wings as if it planned to hide its lucky-find from other thieving eyes. Moondog could sense Olinda had only moments to live. He knew if he didn’t reach her in time, she would become another victim. He also reasoned that if he gained her attention now, he might divert her away from the danger and earn her some vital seconds that she could use to escape.

  So Moondog stopped his surge up the slope and started to scream. He bawled and yowled at the top of his voice, as he waved and jumped. But his efforts remained unheard. ‘Her ear-buds must be stuck-in tight...’ he figured. He looked down at his clothes. He’d deliberately chosen green and brown patterns so that he would blend-in with the natural shades of the forest. ‘Dammit — I’m invisible to her.’

  He started to spring up the slope again but knew he would not reach Olinda in time. He needed to re-evaluate his tactical options. He worked-out that he might be able to scare-off the menace if he could get the things attention. He paused again, this time to put his fingers into the corners of his mouth, and to force out a high-pitched whistle. The sharp peep-peep was enough. Just enough.

  He saw the disgusting ‘wings’ of the creature recede. Then he saw the nebulous beast retreat into the darkness.

  Instantly, Moondog began to gallop up the hill once more. It took over a minute to reach the girl. When he did, she smiled as if nothing had happened, though she saw his face trickled with sweat and he gulped for breath. ‘What’s going on?’ she blabbered. ‘Why did you run up here? You look awfully unwell, by the way. Anyway, just to tell you, my radio’s not working.’

  Moondog fell to his knees, then heaved. He pulled vital air back into his lungs. The girl left the bench and came to kneel by his side. She crouched and rubbed his back and made soothing noises. All Moondog could do was hold onto her and tug her arm, real tight. ‘What is it?’ she burbled.

  Moondog wept.

  *

  ‘What is it?’ Olinda shouted, as she slapped Moondog across the shoulders. She desperately wanted him to snap out of it. Whatever had gotten into him? She’d never seen the gypsy-guy blubber like a kid before… he was easily the toughest man she’d ever met and had never previously shown any signs of emotion.

  A crackle from the undergrowth brought Moondog back to his senses.

  ‘Wait here,’ he sputtered. ‘I have to go after it...’

  ‘Go after what? After who?’

  Olinda looked around in bewilderment, but Moondog was off again. This time he crashed through the impenetrable undergrowth directly behind her bench.

  He clattered and scrambled through thorn and hedge, coppice and stumpy branches. He ran crosswise through a complex web of interlacing shoots. Ahead was the sound of a criminal fleeing, and he could hear the thing as it stumbled over dead leaves and crackled vegetation. Moondog realized he could not keep the chase going long because he was already bone-tired — completely drained. But maybe he didn’t need the pursuit to be lengthy — his quarry wore a thick garment that would slow him down and make progress difficult.

  After minutes of charging and blind clambering, Moondog managed to clear the thickest part of the forest and found himself in a clearing. Ahead, he glimpsed the black form as it plunged into more trees just thirty metres away. Moondog paused for a moment and put his head between his knees to take some deep breaths. His heart pounded like a pavement compactor with a crazy set of whacking-plates. Then he got motivated again, this time running on wet grass, sliding and slipping madly until he reached the far side of the dell. Once again, he smashed into the dense undergrowth.

  Now he knew he was mere yards behind the wicked shape and catching-up with every stride. He heard a loud crash, followed by a whump and guessed the figure had fallen. In five steps, he would catch up. He saw the character rise and fall backwards into another clearing. He followed into the comparative brightness of another glade and saw that the beast was a tall man wearing a vintage great coat. That’s what had given him the appearance of a looming black vulture. The man stopped and faced him.

  Moondog paused to size-up the situation. He guessed the man was about forty years old and of medium build. He looked like a vagrant, with a tousled beard and unkempt hair. But he was not like any vagrant that he’d ever seen before. This sicko had tiger-eyes and looked singularly wild. This one was a wildman. Moondog raised his hands
to show they were empty and to indicate he was ready to parley. But the untamed brute would have none of it. He bared his teeth and drew a long silvery blade from an inside pocket. He held the threatening knife at shoulder height while his mouth distorted into an evil grin.

  ‘Holy bejabbers man,’ Moondog shouted. ‘Why don’t you submit? Haven’t you had enough?’

  ‘I’m going to cut you to pieces, you filthy nark...’ said the psycho. Moondog could smell his loathsome body-odor from eight paces. ‘After I cut you to pieces, I will go back and push the blade into your molly. I’ll hack her eyes out.’

  Moondog prepared to attack. He decided to approach slowly, to get in close for a hook-punch, then follow-it with a foot sweep. But he’d have to mind the blade though — it looked murderously sharp.

  Moondog took two steps forward, very slow, then regained his fighting position. That was to test if his opponent would step back. The man didn’t. He didn’t flinch a muscle — this might prove more complicated than Moondog had thought. The wildman didn’t recognise danger. When he saw it

  Moondog was about to take it a step closer when he saw the man’s expression change entirely— from a face of hostility to the face of submission. He watched the man’s mouth grow wide until he exposed a flapping tongue. Then the wildman gaped bizarrely. The man’s eyes swelled twice their original size, as he dropped the knife and made a horrible gurgling noise. It was as if he was trying to say something, although his tongue wouldn’t allow it. It was as if the wildman been struck dumb by some invisible force.

  Then Moondog realized something else was in the glade with them — something that was so unspeakably fearsome and horrible that it had a paralyzing effect on the wildman. And, whatever the thing was, it stood right behind him. It, whatever the thing was, was here in the clearing with them. The thing was so terrifying that even a perverted rapist would become passive in its presence.

  Carefully, very carefully, Moondog changed his neckline to use peripheral vision and try and see what the wildman had observed. He found himself looking down at a beast. He saw a huge black quadruped with fearsome, reddish eyes and monstrous, drooling jaws. The animal bellowed and slavered, then a slosh of enzyme-rich liquid fell from its chops and onto the forest floor.