The Cryptid Catcher

by Lija Fisher

  “You excited to be back home, sweetie?” Aunt Pearl asked nervously. “I cleaned the place up nicely for you. And the cats already love sleeping in your room; I hope you don’t mind.”

  Clivo winced at that. The wind-bells definitely didn’t work.

  “Yeah, it’s nice to be home,” Clivo agreed, though that wasn’t at all how he felt as he stared at the dark windows.

  * * *

  After helping his aunt bring the cats inside, Clivo emptied the car and took his bags up to his room, which smelled like felines. When he went downstairs he found his aunt and the cats waiting for him in the living room.

  “So, um, I made some mac and cheese for you. It’s on the stove,” Pearl continued. “I’d eat with you tonight, but there’s a special Bible-study class going on at church. Would you mind if I went?”

  Clivo knew by now that “going to church” meant “going out dancing.” He’d even noticed that peeking out from under Aunt Pearl’s conservative black skirt was the brightly colored hem of her dancing outfit.

  “That’s fine, Aunt Pearl,” Clivo said. He didn’t really want to spend the evening alone in the empty house, but Pearl would probably just make him sit quietly next to her and play with his new stuffed animal all night, anyway. “You go have fun at church.”

  Pearl’s face burst into a grin. “Okay, thanks, sweetheart. Please remember to feed the kitties their dinner. Not too much or they’ll use your bed as a litter box! And give them some good scratchies underneath their chinny chin chins!”

  Wasting no time, she hustled out the door. A few moments later, she fired up the Pinto and took off, the car’s spinning tires spattering gravel against the front door.

  “Come on, guys!” Clivo moaned as the cats crowded around him. “Ricky Martin, out of my way. You, too, Julio Iglesias. If you nip me one more time I’m throwing you to the coyotes.”

  Clivo turned on a few of the antique lamps with stained-glass shades to brighten up the place. The house was so sheltered by the surrounding pine trees that even in the middle of the day it could be as dark as a cave. And with all the artifacts from his dad’s trips, the house looked like an old museum. A zebra head hung on one wall, a didgeridoo leaned against a corner, and a brass incense burner dangled from a chain. The house smelled like flowery dust—Pearl must have spritzed some of her drugstore perfume around to cover up the antique smell of the place.

  This weird house high up in the mountains, away from everything and everyone, was the only home Clivo had ever known. It was a part of who he was, yet he sometimes wished he’d grown up in a nice suburban house surrounded by neighbors, with grass and not forest for a yard.

  “Hey, Bernie,” Clivo said, knocking on the suit of armor that stood in the corner. Bernie was now wearing a checkered apron; apparently Aunt Pearl thought that even a naked suit of armor was indecent.

  Clivo warmed up the pasta, spooned himself a bowlful, locked the protesting cats in the kitchen with their food, and made himself comfortable on the couch. He turned the TV on and immediately grunted in frustration when he realized the cable service had been turned off. No doubt the latest bill hadn’t been paid. So Clivo sat in silence in the dark house, his mind drifting to how much he missed his parents. He didn’t remember much about his mom because she’d gotten sick and died when he was only five, but if he really concentrated he could just hear her soothing voice reading him bedtime stories every night, followed by the tinkling of an old Egyptian rattle that she’d jangled over his head to protect him from the God of Storms. Clivo wished she had used a rattle to protect him from the god that stole parents, if there was such a thing.

  II

  A sharp knock on the front door jerked Clivo from sleep. He froze. Nobody ever visited their house. A moment later, an even sharper knock sounded, so loudly it seemed like part of the wooden door had splintered.

  Clivo slowly opened the door just as a bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder hit. While he had been napping, the sun had set and a storm had rolled in, pouring sheets of rain onto the gravel driveway. The flash of lightning illuminated a stout old man with wild gray hair and a gold cane.

  “You Clivo Wren?” the figure asked in a gruff voice.

  “Um, yeah,” Clivo replied hesitantly.

  “You know who I am, kid?”

  Clivo looked closer, trying to see if anything about the old man with a bulbous red nose and a nice wool jacket rang a bell.

  “I don’t think so,” Clivo finally replied.

  “Either you do or you don’t. Now let me in; it’s wetter than a whale’s rear out here,” the man said, trying to push Clivo aside with his cane.

  Clivo held his ground.

  “Sorry, no strangers in the house.”

  The old man sighed and looked up at the sky.

  “Don’t tell me he’s a brat. Please don’t tell me Russell raised a brat.”

  This made Clivo relax.

  “You knew Russell?”

  The man pulled out a handkerchief and coughed violently into it. Once he recovered he spoke again, his voice strained from the coughing.

  “Knew him? I hired him. My card.”

  The man pulled a small case from his jacket and produced a card. It was made of thin silver, almost like tinfoil, with two simple words engraved on it: DOUGLAS CHANCERY.

  Clivo flipped the card over, but the rest was blank.

  “Are you a spy?” Clivo asked.

  That just about sent Douglas into another coughing fit.

  “A spy?” Douglas sputtered. “Do I look like James Bond to you?”

  “Well, I thought that business cards were supposed to tell how to reach you in order to, you know, do business,” Clivo replied.

  “I know you kids are used to Facetwitting all the time, but it used to be that one had a bit of privacy in this world. Now let me in before I drown out here or get electrocuted.”

  Clivo raised his eyebrows and let the man pass.

  Douglas hobbled into the house and stood in the foyer.

  “Ah, nice place. Oddly decorated, although your dad always was a bit of a magic cookie.”

  Douglas solidly smacked Bernie a few times with his cane, leaving a dent in the armor.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Chancery?” Clivo asked, stepping protectively in front of his metal friend.

  “One thing, pronto: scotch, neat. And give me a strong pour. I’ve been drinking longer than you’ve had hair on your head, so don’t shortchange me.”

  Clivo raised his eyebrows again but kept his mouth shut as he headed toward the kitchen. His mom had taught him to respect his elders, although this guy was really pushing it.

  “But first take my jacket! Were you raised by wolves?” Douglas yelled after him.

  Clivo mumbled to himself that he’d like to throw Mr. Chancery to the wolves but went back and took the jacket. By the time he turned from the hall closet, Douglas was already in the den, sifting through the books on the shelves.

  Russell’s study was just what you would expect for an obsessive archaeologist. Old maps hung on the walls, a dusty globe sat in one corner, overflowing bookcases lined one entire wall, and two cushy chairs sat side by side with a small table bearing an ashtray in between. The room smelled of pungent Colombian mocha tobacco smoke from his dad’s pipe, which was still propped on the large mahogany desk.

  Clivo went to the kitchen and filled a pint glass with soda and ice cubes. He returned to the den and handed Douglas the drink.

  “What the heck is this?” Douglas bellowed.

  “Ginger ale. We don’t have any alcohol in the house. Aunt Pearl says drinking it only leads to tomfoolery, whatever that means.”

  “For the record, I enjoy being led into tomfoolery.” Douglas fished the ice cubes from his glass and placed them in the hands of a Hindu goddess statue. He took a flask out of his jacket pocket and poured some amber liquid into his drink before taking a hearty swig. “Ah, much better.”

  Douglas eased his body down into what
had been Russell’s chair. Clivo tensed; he didn’t like this gruff man sitting in his father’s seat.

  “Any chance you’ve got some crackers and caviar?” Douglas asked.

  “How about saltines and Cheez Whiz?” Clivo mumbled. He picked up the ice cubes and threw them into a plant.

  “Hah! Nice comeback. Brats I can’t stand, but witty snarks I can handle. It makes sense that Russell raised a smart kid; he always struck me as being the ‘loving father’ type.” Douglas said the last bit as if it were a bad thing.

  “I guess so; he just wasn’t around that much.”

  “Oh, yes, boo-hoo. Daddy’s not here to teach me how to catch a football or wear cologne. That’s the problem with kids—they get in the way of all the important stuff. Little narcissists are what they are.” Douglas inhaled another swig of his drink.

  “Mr. Chancery, can you please tell me what you’re doing here?” Clivo was still standing. He didn’t know who this man was, and something about him made Clivo’s spine tingle with foreboding.

  Douglas sat forward eagerly in his chair, a twinkle in his eye from excitement (or the drink). Setting his glass on the table, he rubbed his hands together quickly, as if he were rubbing two sticks to start a fire.

  “Get ready to have your mind blown, kid,” he said.

  Clivo remained where he was, warily looking at the stranger. This was obviously not the reaction Douglas had hoped for, because he impatiently cleared his throat.

  “Usually when someone tells you you’re about to have your mind blown, you give them the courtesy of sitting down.”

  “I can have my mind blown just fine while standing up,” Clivo replied, keeping his distance.

  Douglas glared at him.

  “Your snark, although initially charming, is now tiptoeing too close to bratsville.” Douglas slapped the armrest and sat back in a pout. “Now you’ve ruined the moment. It’s totally gone. And there was such a nice buildup to it, too.”

  Clivo let out a sigh. The man seemed too old to be of any real danger, so Clivo went back to the kitchen and grabbed a ginger ale for himself. He returned to the den and reluctantly took a seat next to Douglas.

  “All right, Mr. Chancery, my mind is prepared to be blown.”

  That seemed to put Douglas back in the mood again. He leaned forward in his chair and peered at Clivo with his bloodshot eyes. He spoke the next words slowly and deliberately.

  “Kid, your father was not an archaeologist. He was a cryptid catcher.”

  Douglas took a sip of his drink as he eagerly awaited Clivo’s reaction, which was one of utter confusion. “He was a who?”

  “Ha! That got your attention!” Douglas exclaimed, getting up and pacing around the room. “A cryptid catcher. A hunter of mythological creatures. A stalker of legends. A pursuer of parables, a fisherman of fables. You know, a cryptid catcher.”

  “Repeating the same strange phrase doesn’t really make me understand it any better,” Clivo said.

  “Oh, right,” Douglas said, retaking his seat. “What was the question again?”

  “I don’t have a question!” Clivo replied loudly. “Russell was an archaeologist. With a focus on medieval and colonial archaeology—”

  “Yep, I recommended the medieval and colonial bit. It’s an easy cover for flying all over the world. And why do you call him Russell instead of Dad or ‘my dear father’? I’ve never heard a kid call their father by his first name.”

  Clivo ignored the question and chugged his soda. The man wasn’t dangerous, but he was obviously off his rocker. As much as Clivo didn’t want to be alone, being stuck for the evening with this man seemed even worse.

  He reached for Douglas’s nearly empty glass. “If you’ve finished your drink—”

  Douglas jerked his glass out of Clivo’s reach. “I am certainly not done with my drink, nor are we done with this conversation. And I must say, I am extremely disappointed in your lack of shock and awe at what I’ve just told you.”

  “Mr. Chancery, you walk in here, a total stranger, and tell me that my dad hunted unicorns. Wouldn’t you ask yourself to leave?”

  Douglas waved his hand dismissively. “Not unicorns, haven’t found one of those yet. And he didn’t hunt them. He caught them. Don’t start spreading rumors that your dad was a poacher; he had far too strong a moral compass for that.”

  Clivo shook his head in confusion and stood up. “All right, Mr. Chancery, it’s past my bedtime so I should probably…”

  Douglas stood up with a grunt of exertion, but instead of leaving, he walked around the room, poking the tip of his cane at the spines of the tomes on the bookshelves.

  “Did your father read to you as a child?” Douglas finally asked. Clivo threw his arms up in exasperation. Douglas ignored him. “Regular kiddie books or … other stuff?”

  Clivo sighed. “Um, I don’t know what other kids had read to them, but I guess other stuff. The front door is this way, Mr. Chancery.”

  Douglas went back to scanning the bookshelves. If the old man insisted on staying much longer, Clivo thought, he would be forced to call the police. Or Jerry. Jerry could probably pick the guy up and fling him over his shoulder, no problem, or at the very least give him a good tackle.

  Finally Douglas found what he was looking for. He pulled out a book and handed it to Clivo.

  “Did he ever read you this?”

  That made Clivo pause. He didn’t even have to look at the title; he knew from the faded green fabric cover and dark-brown leather binding that it was a translation of Les Propheties, a book of prophecies by the French apothecary and seer Nostradamus published in the sixteenth century.

  “Yeah, we read it sometimes. We’d play a game where he’d read a prophecy and I’d have to figure out what it meant,” Clivo said, his hands cupping the familiar book with ease.

  “Read page two eighty-eight, in the ‘Lost Verses’ section,” Douglas said, his eyes still sorting through the books.

  Clivo muttered to himself but found the spot, turning the old pages with delicacy. He read the prophecy aloud.

  “All creatures, one blood. Some remain hidden, others come fore. In one who is hidden, the blood is gone, replaced by the spring of life. A silver lightning drop of eternity.”

  “And what did you determine that prophecy to mean?” Douglas asked, his voice a dramatic whisper.

  “I don’t think we ever read that one,” Clivo replied.

  “Oh,” Douglas said, disappointed. “Well, now that you have, what do you think the prophecy means?”

  Clivo scratched his head.

  “I don’t know. I mean, it kinda sounds like there’s a creature out there that’s immortal.”

  “That’s right, kid, that’s exactly right!” Douglas said, practically dancing back to his chair and sitting down. “There’s a cryptid out there whose body is filled not with ordinary blood, but with a special type that, we think, makes it, and could make us … immortal.” Douglas drew out the last word with as much dramatic aplomb as possible.

  Clivo put the book back. He had heard enough tall tales for one night.

  “That’s fascinating, Mr. Chancery, and maybe we can talk about it some other time when it’s not so late.”

  And bring Bigfoot along with you, Clivo thought wryly.

  Douglas swallowed the rest of his drink and stood up with a grunt. His tart breath assaulted Clivo’s nose as he brought his face uncomfortably close.

  “I’ll cut to the chase, kid, since you obviously don’t have a flair for the dramatic. Your father was a cryptid catcher, the best one out there. He was searching for the immortal cryptid to ensure that it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. He tried to find it before your mom died so he could save her from her illness, which would have been a big no-no, but I guess love makes you do stupid things, which is why I avoid it at all costs. Anyhow, he wanted you to follow in his footsteps, but he was killed by a chupacabra before he could reveal everything to you on your eighteenth birthday.”

&
nbsp; Clivo balked. “My father was killed by a landslide in Puerto Rico while digging at the Caparra Archaeological Site. Not by a mythological creature.”

  Douglas’s eyes narrowed. “The Caparra Archaeological Site, location of the first Spanish capital on the island, founded in 1508 and abandoned thirteen years later, after the area kept getting attacked by the locals, was declared a U.S. historic landmark in 1994. It’s illegal for private archaeologists to dig there, so it’s not possible your dad was there. Russell was the best cryptid catcher, but not always the best liar.” Douglas pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from his chest pocket. “So, thanks to his demise, I now have to hire you. Very reluctantly, of course. I don’t trust people who aren’t old enough to grow facial hair. But your dad made me sign a stupid contract. Once he realized he was darned good at this catching thing, he made me agree to only hire him or you. Apparently he had seen some stuff in the field that made him not trust anyone else with the task of finding the immortal. He worried that even the stoutest-hearted individual would turn evil with such power in their hands. But not you. He trusted you—why, I have no idea; that scrappy hair of yours makes you look like a derelict, in my book.”

  Curious, Clivo took the wrinkled piece of paper and unfolded it. It was covered with what must have been Douglas’s sloppy handwriting.

  I, Douglas Chancery, agree that I will only hire Russell Wren or his son, Clivo Wren (which is stupid because he’s an infant right now and doesn’t even know what his hand is, much less a cryptid). Still, due to Russell’s incredibly good ability to catch beasts, I will trust him to train his son to take after him. In turn, Russell guarantees me that his son will not be a ruffian and will actually be good at catching (something I highly doubt right now since he just pooped his shorts), or else I can fire his stinky butt if and when I feel like it.

  At the bottom of the page were Douglas’s and Russell’s signatures, next to a baby’s tiny footprint in black ink.

  “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s my footprint?” Clivo asked, giving Douglas back the paper.