A Time and a Place

by Joe Mahoney

  A Time and a Place

  Joe Mahoney

  Five Rivers Publishing

  www.fiveriverspublishing.com

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Five Rivers Publishing, 704 Queen Street, P.O. Box 293, Neustadt, ON N0G 2M0, Canada.

  www.fiveriverspublishing.com

  A Time and a Place, Copyright © 2018 by Joe Mahoney.

  Edited by Dr. Robert Runté.

  Copy-edited by Aerin Caley.

  Cover Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Minkevics.

  Interior design and layout by Éric Desmarais.

  Titles set in Downcome designed by Eduardo Recife in 2002 as a messy display font.

  Text set in Lora designed by Cyreal as a well-balanced contemporary serif text typeface with roots in calligraphy. Its appearance is memorable because of its brushed curves counterposed with driving serifs.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in Canada

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mahoney, Joe, 1965-, author

  A time and a place / Joe Mahoney. —First edition.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-988274-25-6 (softcover).

  ISBN 978-1-988274-26-3 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8626.A417415T56 2017 C813’.6 C2017-900362-3 C2017-900363-1

  For my girls

  Lynda, Keira, and Erin

  Contents

  Beautiful Stranger

  Demon in the Den

  An Unusually Compelling Nose

  Friends Like These

  Ignominious Procedures

  Plan B

  Fuzzy

  Short Trek

  Inside

  Invaders

  Vegetation Abounded

  An Important Date

  A Matter of Life and Death

  Feathers

  Ansalar

  Scary Monsters

  Interview with a Monster

  No Place Like Home

  “I Am the Ship”

  Dull Human Archetypes

  Hail Mary Pass

  Akasha

  Mist Enshrouded Pool

  Vast, Aquatic, and Utterly Lifeless

  A Murderous Tenacity

  An Absorbing Turn of Events

  Orphans

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Five Rivers

  I

  Beautiful Stranger

  I greeted Doctor Humphrey at Charlottetown’s modest airport. My old friend had changed somewhat in the months since I’d last seen him, becoming, shall we say, a tad plumper than before. His wardrobe, though expensive, suffered from a certain rumpled quality. The colour scheme was also a bit of a problem: largely grey, with dashes of darker grey here and there. In the dim light of the parking lot Humphrey’s heavy-set shuffle and predominantly grey attire conspired to create a remarkably convincing illusion of a small grey elephant lumbering along beside me—an observation I thought best to keep to myself.

  In the taxi I summarized for the doctor the notes I’d made—the seemingly innocuous but significant changes in my nephew’s personality. How he’d begun making his bed. How the other day I’d caught him washing the dishes, and that same afternoon stumbled upon him cleaning the bathroom. How he’d been brushing his teeth, flossing regularly, combing his hair, smelling too good and smiling too much, and how it all scared the dickens out of me, because it meant that something was horribly wrong with the boy, and I had no idea what.

  A summer rain squall hastened the onset of darkness as we neared my house on the north shore, about a half hour drive from the island’s second largest city, Summerside. Our taxi grumbled to a halt in the gravel driveway just as Ridley arrived home. I sat with Doctor Humphrey in the cab to wait out the fierce rain.

  We watched as my nephew made his way to the front door. As he carefully negotiated the notoriously slippery steps, he seemed completely unaware of our presence there in the driveway. Such single-mindedness of purpose was characteristic of the boy’s increasingly disturbing symptoms.

  He halted for a moment on the rain-soaked porch. A stone gargoyle, an original feature of our century-old dwelling, glowered down at him from its perch above the porch. Lightning flared, illuminating the house and a stretch of sandy shore beyond. In that sudden flash I could have sworn that one sunken eye of the gargoyle winked at my nephew.

  At least, that’s how it appeared to me from my vantage point inside the cab. True, we were parked some distance away from the boy, the cab window was all fogged up, and an errant eyelash had made my left eye water prodigiously—nevertheless, I was quite certain of what I had seen.

  The rain let up after a few minutes. I paid the hefty cab fare and helped the doctor inside with his luggage. I looked closely at the gargoyle as we ascended the porch steps. Its absurd, leonine head stared back at me. The raw beauty of the gothic creature had always appealed to me. So expertly fashioned was it that I found myself almost disappointed when it failed to jump into motion before me. Instead, it behaved as all good inanimate objects should: remaining utterly still, twitching not so much as a limestone ear.

  Inside, Humphrey made himself comfortable in the den, smoking one of his malodorous cigars. I lit a fire in the hearth to combat the stench and fetched some liquid refreshments.

  Ridley saved me the trouble of hunting him down by appearing in the den of his own accord. If Humphrey had harboured any doubts about my story, before us now stood the proof. Ridley was barely recognizable in slacks and a freshly pressed shirt, his hair neatly combed. He reeked of cologne, a marked deterioration from the morning. The boy was a dapper nightmare.

  “Hello, Doctor,” he greeted Humphrey. “Here for a few days, are you?”

  “That depends. I—”

  “Good, good. Well, we’ll see you. Don’t wait up, Uncle.” Ridley retreated down the hallway.

  “Don’t be late,” I called after him, pointlessly. The front door slammed shut behind him.

  I shrugged at Humphrey, who stubbed out his cigar. “Wildebear, there’s something you need to know. Joyce. She’s—well, she left me, dammit.”

  “What? No… When?”

  “Last month.”

  Humphrey’s newfound shabbiness came sharply into focus. “Peter, if there’s anything I can do—”

  “I just thought you should know.”

  I nodded. If he didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t press him.

  He sipped his scotch. “About Ridley. You two been getting along lately?”

  It was a leading question. Humphrey knew Ridley’s tragic tale all too well. Four years earlier Ridley’s father had vanished without a trace. Not the sort to run off on his wife and only child, he was presumed dead. Ridley had been only eleven at the time. Two years after that Ridley’s mother—my sister, Katerina—had been killed in a motorcycle accident. As Ridley’s only living relative, I had assumed guard
ianship.

  Humphrey knew just how well that had gone.

  Even as I had grieved my sister’s death, I resented the responsibility thrust upon me. Though I would not have admitted it to anyone, I much preferred living on my own. Sadly, I soon discovered that teaching English to kids Ridley’s age did not necessarily translate into an ability to parent one.

  Kids can smell that sort of thing. Ridley was about as enamoured of me as I was of him. Also he had the loss of his mother to contend with. Oh, I made a few tentative overtures at friendship, but when it became clear that he disdained my company as much as I did his, we began to steer clear of one another. Weeks went by with hardly five friendly words passing between us. Two years passed in this manner, until this past Tuesday, when something changed.

  “He’s been quite civil,” I told Humphrey. “I can’t understand it.”

  “You don’t think two people ought to be able to get along?”

  “Of course they ought to. But Ridley? Something’s not right. I can’t explain it.”

  Humphrey chewed on his bottom lip. “He’s cleaned himself up quite a bit. What do you make of that?”

  I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell Humphrey that. My feelings on the matter didn’t make sense. “I don’t know. What are you suggesting?”

  “Your nephew’s sudden interest in personal hygiene could have a perfectly reasonable explanation. Such as a young lady in his life.”

  I met Humphrey’s eyes. Watery and bloodshot, they looked as if he had recently spent a few moments poking them. “It’s possible. Except the change happened so quickly—practically overnight. The boy’s entire personality has been turned upside down.”

  Humphrey nodded. “You’re right. I fear there’s more to it than just that.” He rose to his feet. “I’d like to see his room.”

  I followed him upstairs mutely, afraid of what we might find.

  The tidiness of my nephew’s room, so uncharacteristic of the Ridley I knew, jarred me afresh. Not a single undergarment soiled the floor. His bed gave me the creeps, with the blankets tucked up neatly underneath the pillow, every corner just so.

  Humphrey leaned over to sniff the linen. “Downy,” he remarked, arching an eyebrow.

  On Ridley’s bedside table there was a fancy-looking book I had never seen before. Humphrey picked it up. Together we examined the cover, which consisted of a lustrous black material heavily adorned with red and gold embossing. A title in flowery script occupied the top third of the cover: IUGURTHA. I found the overall effect compelling, if a trifle gauche.

  “I was afraid of this,” Humphrey said.

  “What, Doctor?”

  “You’re going to find this difficult to believe.” Humphrey held the book tightly to his chest. “Wildebear, this book is dangerous. It ought to be destroyed.”

  “I do not approve of censorship, Doctor.”

  Humphrey scowled. “You don’t understand. This is no ordinary book.”

  “I understand perfectly well. The book belongs to Ridley. It almost certainly contains subject matter offensive to people not used to dealing with teenaged boys. It’s perfectly normal. I’d prefer to concentrate on—”

  “Damn it all, Wildebear. Don’t patronize me. Here’s the thing. It’s not really even a book. It’s—” he gestured helplessly, searching for the right words.

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Look. Believe it or not, this book—or one just like it—stole my wife from me.”

  What was he suggesting? I glanced at the book’s cover. The title was oddly appealing. I said it aloud to see what it felt like on my tongue: “Iugurtha.”

  Several things changed abruptly. I found myself facing a different direction. The book lay open on the floor at my feet. Doctor Humphrey sat on the floor rubbing his shin.

  I struggled to reorient myself. “What are you doing down there?”

  The doctor rose and grabbed the book from off the floor. He slammed it shut, set it none too gently back on the bedside table, and glared at me. “Now you’ve done it.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “It’s going to be a lot to swallow, Wildebear. A little scotch will help it go down easier.” He stepped forward and winced. “Not to mention ease the pain.”

  He limped out of Ridley’s room. I followed him, wondering why I couldn’t remember him dropping the book or hurting himself.

  At the entrance to the den he halted abruptly. Peering past him, I saw a young woman sitting in my easy chair. She looked to be about eighteen years old, and had the kind of fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked good looks you’d expect to find on a ski hill somewhere in Sweden. Clad in a simple white skirt and blouse, she smiled at our arrival.

  I had left a bottle of Lagavulin on the coffee table. The young woman poured herself a tumbler and threw back its contents in a single gulp.

  “The devil’s own brew,” she said huskily.

  “Iugurtha, I presume,” Humphrey said.

  Although slightly piqued to find a stranger sitting in my den drinking my single malt scotch, I strove to keep my tone amiable. “I beg your pardon, miss, but how did you get in?”

  “You let me in through the gate, Mr. Wildebear. Will Ridley be home soon?”

  “Ridley? Not for a while, I’m afraid.”

  Her smile made the most of her full, red lips. “Then I shall wait.”

  I frowned. A few years earlier my house had been vandalised. Ever since then I’d kept every door, window, and vent locked. She could not have entered without having been let in. But I had not let her in, nor had the doctor. Evidently neither had Ridley. Furthermore, my house had no gates.

  Humphrey drew me back to the hallway.

  “I don’t understand how she got in,” I whispered.

  “Time to bring you up to speed, Wildebear. The demon’s right: you let it in through the gate.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You don’t remember because you were in a trance at the time.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Try to keep up, Wildebear.” He took a deep breath. “As I told you, the book’s not really a book. It’s a gate to someplace else. Another dimension. Hell, maybe. It put you in some kind of a trance. You attacked me, took the book, opened it, and let Iugurtha out.”

  “She came out of the book.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  The doctor’s story did explain the disorientation I had experienced in Ridley’s room. But of only two facts was I truly certain: that his story was an awful lot to swallow, and I had had no scotch with which to down it.

  “Are you trying to tell me that the woman in my den is some kind of supernatural entity?”

  “Yes. No.” Humphrey shook his shaggy head in frustration. “Maybe.”

  “And you believe the book has something to do with your wife leaving you?”

  “I do.”

  It was too much. I glanced inside the den at the young woman, who offered up a little wave.

  “Humphrey, be rational,” I said. “I sympathise with what you’ve been through, but you know as well as I do that there are no such things as demons.”

  Humphrey limped forward and locked his bleary eyes onto mine. “A few minutes ago you almost killed me.”

  “I blacked out—”

  He raised a finger in the air. To my astonishment he jabbed me square in the middle of the forehead with it. “Ridley’s changed. You know it. That’s why you called me here. There’s a woman in your den you’ve never seen before. You can’t explain how she got into your house or why she’s here. I’m telling you: she’s either a demon or a damned good approximation of one. Whatever she is, she’s after your nephew.”

  I tore my eyes away from his and rubbed my forehead where he’d poked me.
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  “I hope you come around soon. Before it’s too late.” Humphrey limped off down the hallway. “For Ridley’s sake,” he called back over his shoulder.

  I stared after him, flabbergasted. His wife’s departure had left him completely deranged. As he fumbled with the latch to the bathroom door, I wondered just how much of his scotch he’d drunk.

  I entered the den feeling bad for having abandoned our guest and for talking about her behind her back. “I’m sorry, Ms…” I hesitated, unsure how to proceed.

  “Iugurtha.”

  I stood awkwardly, wondering what it meant that her name was the same as on the book. She offered me her hand. Unsure whether to shake or kiss it, I decided upon the former, and she impressed me with a firm, manly grip. Taking a seat on the couch I struggled to produce some excuse for the doctor’s odd behaviour. A decent fabrication escaped me. I decided a little candour wouldn’t hurt.

  “Doctor Humphrey has it in his head you’re some kind of demon,” I chuckled.

  Iugurtha elevated a pair of well-groomed eyebrows.

  “I’m afraid there’ve been spirits of another sort at work here tonight,” I added, indicating the bottle of Lagavulin on the coffee table.

  Humphrey’s glass remained where he’d set it earlier in the evening. I noticed with some consternation that it was still almost full.

  Iugurtha said nothing.

  Afraid I’d offended her, I changed the subject. “So you’re a friend of Ridley’s, are you?” She looked quite a bit too old for him, in my view.

  She produced a most delightful white-toothed smile. Seeing her face light up like that, it was all I could do not to burst into song.

  “Ridley is much more than a friend to me,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. Still, I had to admit that if a woman like Iugurtha were to enter my life I might consider some changes of my own. But could she alone account for Ridley’s transformation? Maybe. But what if there was more to it? Drugs, alcohol, or a chemical imbalance in the brain?

  Iugurtha brushed a blonde lock away from her forehead. “Excuse me.”