by Paula Guran
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You mean Corpsemouth?”
“Yes,” I said, “that. In the museum, I had the impression you were less than enchanted with it.”
“Ach, it’s fine,” he said. “Dad’s always been a great one for the stories.”
“Mine, too,” I said.
“That story—the Corpsemouth one—you know what it’s really about, don’t you?”
“A giant monster?”
“It’s death,” Gabriel said. “It’s a way of picturing death, of representing the way death feels to us.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s like—there’s a line in one of Stephen King’s books—I think it’s ’Salem’s Lot—this kid is asked if he knows what death is, and he says yeah, it’s when the monsters get you.”
“Aye,” Gabriel said, “that’s what I’m trying to say.”
The second Scotch my cousin served tasted less of honey and more of smoke, and something peppery. The knot within me that had started to loosen slid away from itself. Gabriel leaned across the bar and said, “So. How’re you finding it, being here?”
The row of strange symbols flickered behind my eyes. “It’s different than I was expecting,” I said.
“It’s bound to be.”
“Yeah. It’s funny. I thought that coming here would let me feel more in touch with my dad. Granted, it’s only been a few days, but so far . . . ”
“You don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“How could you? You didn’t know him here. You knew him in America. It’s okay.”
“Maybe you’re right. If that’s the case, then what am I doing here?”
“You’re with family.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t have much of that when I was growing up, you know? It was just the six of us. It’s kind of nice.”
The third and final Scotch Gabriel poured was thinner, the peat combining with a briny flavor to give the liquor an astringent taste so blunt it was oddly appealing. “Thank you,” I said to my cousin, speaking with the deliberation of someone whose tongue was heavy with alcohol. “I appreciate you sharing your expertise with me.”
“I’m hardly an expert,” Gabriel said.
“Regardless. You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“I can picture my dad enjoying the whole Corpsemouth story. It reminds me of movies we watched when I was a kid, The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, Clash of the Titans, Dragonslayer—these stories about heroes fighting enormous monsters.”
“I suppose,” he said.
“Well, you two appear to be having a merry time,” Leslie said. She was standing in the open doorway to the bar.
“We were talking about monsters,” I said.
“I’m sure you were,” she said. “Stewart gave me a lift home. I’m not rushing you out, but he says if you want, he can run you back to your Gran’s.”
“That is probably a good idea,” I said. “I’m fairly confident I’ve reached my limit for alcohol. Honestly, I think I passed it a while ago.”
I thanked Gabriel for his generosity with his spirits, and him and Leslie for having squired my mother, sister, and me around Glasgow, today. “We’ve got to have you back for another tasting before you leave,” Gabriel said.
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” I said.
XVI
Outside, night had fallen, the last of the gloaming retreated to the horizon. Stewart was waiting in his Micra at the end of the driveway. I lowered myself into the front passenger seat. He’d been listening to a news program on the radio; as I buckled my seatbelt, he turned it off. “And how was your education?” he said.
“Great,” I said. “Gabriel introduced me to some quality stuff.”
“Aye, he’s a great one for the single malt, our Gabriel.” He released the parking brake and reversed into the street. “Are you up for a wee jaunt?”
“Sure.”
“Good man.” He shifted into first and started downhill.
“Where are we headed?” I said.
“The river.”
“Oh.”
The whisky I’d consumed made the steep road seem almost vertical, the Clyde below rather than ahead of us. Retaining walls raced toward us and swerved right and left. The river grew larger in fits and starts, as if it were a series of slides being snapped into view. The car’s engine whined and growled as Stewart worked back and forth among the gears. If not calmer, I was at least less terrified than I would have been without the Scotch insulating me.
At the foot of the hill, the street leveled and ran straight to the river. One hand on the steering wheel, Stewart depressed the car’s lighter and fished a cigarette from the packet in his shirt pocket. Rows of squat apartment houses passed on either side. Stewart lit his cigarette and drew on it till the tip flared. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he said, “Did you see that stone in the museum?”
“I did,” I said.
“Not much to look at, is it?”
“I don’t know. When you think about what it represents—how old it is and everything . . . I’m glad they have it at the museum, but it’s kind of a shame they couldn’t leave it where it was.”
“Aye.”
“The exhibit said no one’s sure exactly what the symbols on it mean. Maybe images of the sun.”
“They’re for binding,” Stewart said.
“Binding?”
“Aye, for keeping a spirit or a creature in one place. You bind them by the sun and the moon. That’s why there’s two sets of circles on the stone. It’s a very old rite.”
“What was bound there?”
Stewart shot me a sidelong glance. “I told you and your sister yesterday.”
“Corpsemouth? For real?”
He nodded.
“I thought that was . . . ”
“A story?”
“Yeah. No offense.”
“There was something called up at Dumbarton Rock when Riderch was king. It was older than ancient, and it was terrible. Maybe it was summoned to help the king against his enemies. Maybe it was summoned to fight Riderch. Maybe someone was playing around and opened a door that should’ve been left shut. It took a powerful man to send the thing back where it belonged, and lock the gate after it. That stone was part of the locking mechanism.”
“Wait. You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“But . . . ”
“That’s impossible? Ridiculous? Insane?”
“I’m sorry, but yeah.”
“It’s all right. I wouldn’t expect you to believe it, even with a few drams in you.”
We had crossed the major east-west highway through town and come to a short road, which passed between an inlet of the river on the left, and a couple of apartment buildings on the right. Stewart drove to the end of the road, where a chain link fence sectioned off a stretch of pavement that went another twenty yards to the river. He parked the car and exited it. I followed. This close to the water, the air was cool bordering on cold. While Stewart popped the trunk, I surveyed the fence, which continued to the right, guarding the edge of a much larger paved area, which was filled with large metal shipping containers, some of them sitting on their own, others stacked two and three high. In the near distance, a trio of cranes faced the Clyde, weird sentinels looking out over the dark water. Tall sodium lights gave the scene an orange hue that made it appear slightly unreal.
Behind me, Stewart shut the trunk. He was carrying a pair of metal poles, each about a yard long, one end wrapped in duct tape. “Here,” he said, handing one to me.
I took it. The pole was hollow, but heavy. “What’s this?”
“Protection.”
“From what?”
“Come this way.” He set out to the right. I hurried after. Together, we walked the fence for a good hundred yards, until we came to a wire door set in it. The entrance was locked, but Stewart withdrew a ring of keys from his trousers, which he thumbed through until he arrived at one that slid into the lock
and levered it open. The door’s hinges shrieked as he pushed it in. I cringed, expecting the angry shout of a security officer. None came. Stewart stepped through. I pushed the door closed behind us, to minimize suspicion.
Keeping to the shelter of the containers, Stewart and I made our way across the paved expanse, he moving quietly, gracefully, I with the exaggerated care of someone contending with too much alcohol. We headed steadily in the direction of the river. A light mist floated around us, waist-high. This close, the cranes were gigantic, monumental. Stewart stopped, raised his hand. “Do you hear that?” he said quietly.
“What?”
“Listen.”
Ahead and to our left, on the other side of a pair of stacked containers, something scraped over the pavement. Holding the metal pole in both hands, the tip low, as if it were a sword, Stewart crossed to the metal boxes. I kept a few steps behind, in a half-crouch. He moved right, to one end of the containers. The sound continued in alternating rhythm, a short scrape followed by a longer one. Before continuing to the other side of the boxes, Stewart stopped and ducked his head around for a look at whoever was there. He jerked back. Closing his eyes, he inhaled, then blew out. He murmured something I couldn’t hear, raising and lowering the end of the pole while he did. As the light played up and down the metal, I saw writing on it: the symbols I had seen in the Glasgow museum, on a piece of paper in my father’s hospital room. Heart lurching, I straightened. I tilted the pole I was holding back and forth, and sure enough, there were the same half-dozen characters cut into it. In an instant, I was sober, the effects of Gabriel’s drinks swept away by the sensation of standing within the current of something immense and strange.
“Right,” Stewart said. “There’s something coming up to the end of this box. When it reaches us, I’ll step out and see to it. You shouldn’t need to do anything. This one isn’t big. If it gets past me, though, you’ll have to slow it down. Go for its legs, but mind its hands. Here we go.”
The scraping was right next to us. Stewart moved out into the alley formed by our containers and one beyond it. As he did, he pivoted, slashing the pole from right to left at whatever was still hidden from me by the edge of the container. There was a heavy crunch, a sharp clang, and the pole flew out of Stewart’s hands, ringing on the pavement to his right. A wooden club swung at him from his left. He ducked, but it caught him high on the shoulder with sufficient force to knock him from his feet. He landed hard.
I took a deep breath and stepped out from the container, in front of Stewart’s opponent. I couldn’t bring myself to strike someone I hadn’t seen, but I held the pole up in what I hoped was a menacing fashion. I intended to shout, “That’s far enough!” What I saw, however, stilled the voice in my throat.
It was as big as a large man. At first, I thought it was a man, dressed in a bizarre costume. Much of it was mud, thick, dripping with water. Its surface was clotted with junk, crushed beer cans, shards of broken glass, saturated cardboard and newspaper, pieces of plastic, metal, wood. Here and there, rocks studded with barnacles tumored its skin. In other spots, clumps of mussels clustered black and shining. Seaweed draped its shoulders, to either side of a head fashioned from the broken skull of either a cow or horse. The lower jaw was missing, the mouth a hole gaping in the muddy throat. The thing advanced, the scraping I’d heard the debris in its flesh rasping the pavement. I retreated. The club with which it had struck Stewart was in fact its right arm, a single piece of driftwood. Its left arm was a mannequin’s, wound in rusted wire and strands of seaweed.
This was not a man in a suit—which was impossible, and hurt to think. It swept the wooden arm at me. I leapt back, just out of reach. Stewart was on his hands and knees, grabbing for his weapon. I jabbed at the thing, trying to keep its attention. The wooden arm held straight, like a spear, it lunged at me. I sidestepped, swinging my improvised sword against the arm. With a flat clank, arm and pole rebounded from one another. The creature turned, whipping the wooden arm back at me. I went to duck, slipped, and fell. The arm struck the container behind me with a gong. This close, the smell of the thing, a stink of sodden flesh and vegetation, made my eyes water. Swiveling on my butt, I chopped its right leg with the pole, hammering the approximate location of its knee. The leg buckled inward, tipping the creature toward me. I scrambled away from it. Attempting to maintain its balance, it propped itself on its wooden arm, but Stewart hit its other leg from behind with a blow that sent the creature crashing on its back. Before it could recover, he brought the pole down on its head like an executioner swinging his axe. The animal skull rattled across the pavement. The rest of the thing, however, continued to move, doing its best to raise itself on its broken legs, dropping mud and bits of glass, pebbles, on the ground. My stomach churned at the sight. Ignoring the body, Stewart strode to the skull. He struck it twice with the pole, cracking it into several large fragments, which he stomped underfoot until they were unrecognizable. As if it were an engine running down, the body gradually ceased its motion.
Stewart dropped the pole and crossed to the creature’s remains. Careful of its rusted wire sleeve, he caught the mannequin arm at the elbow. “You take the other side,” he said.
Leaving my weapon, I did as he instructed. The wood was slimy, as if it had sat underwater for a while.
“Into the river,” he said, nodding toward the end of the alleyway.
Together, we hauled the heavy form to where the pavement ended at a concrete ledge. Ten feet below, the Clyde lapped at the wall. “On three,” Stewart said. “One, two, three!” I threw so hard I almost overbalanced myself into the water along with the creature’s body. Stewart caught my arm. “Steady, lad.” What was left of the thing struck the water with a considerable splash. It sunk quickly, leaving clouds of mud in its wake.
“What about the rest—the skull?” I said.
Stewart shook his head. “Leave it there. It’s better to keep it separate from the rest.”
Adrenaline lit my nerves, rendering everything around me painfully sharp. “I cannot believe I am standing here having this conversation with you,” I said. It was the truth. Had Stewart said to me, “You’re not. This is a dream,” I would have had little trouble accepting his words.
Instead, he shrugged, turned, and started in the direction of the gate we’d entered.
I joined him. “What was that?” I said.
“Corpsemouth,” he said, stooping to retrieve his weapon.
“I thought he was supposed to be taller,” I said, picking up mine.
“In his proper form, he is,” Stewart said. “Fortunately for you and me, enough of the old binding remains to keep him from appearing that way. What he’s able to do is put together versions of himself, avatars, out of whatever’s lying around. We call them his fingers.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“A group of concerned citizens. We came together after the war. That was when Corpsemouth first made himself known, again, once the binding stone was removed. No one knew what they were doing. It had been too long since anything like this had happened. A couple of the founders were able to lay their hands on a few old books that gave hints of how to confront the monster, but a lot of it was learn as you go.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Does Gabriel know about any of this? What about the rest of the family?”
“No, that isn’t how it’s done,” Stewart said.
“How is it done?”
“Why? Are you interested in being part of it?”
“No,” I said. “No, this was more than enough.”
Stewart smiled thinly.
“Was my father part of this?” I thought of those old issues of Man, Myth & Magic.
“No,” Stewart said. “Though I wondered a few times if he wasn’t aware of more than he let on.”
“Does this—tonight—does this kind of thing happen often?”
“More than I’d like.”
As we walked, the mist thickened around us, rendering the shipping containe
rs, the cranes, faint, ghostly. It didn’t affect Stewart’s sense of direction. He continued forward.
“What about this?” I said, holding up the pole. “Not the pipe, I mean, the writing on it.”
“That depends on who you ask,” Stewart said. “There’s some who say that those are connected to old gods. Not as old as Corpsemouth, but not too far off. When they were young and strong, he wasn’t of much concern to them. As they grew older, though, and saw themselves being supplanted by newer powers, their strength ebbed and his hungry mouth became a worry. They thought that if they gave up their divinity, the monster wouldn’t want them. So they put their godhood into these symbols, and ever since, anyone who uses them has been able to draw on their power.”
“Did it work? Did they escape?”
“No one knows,” Stewart said. “I doubt it. Corpsemouth eats gods, but he’s happy to consume whatever he can get his claws on.”
Overhead, a lamp lit the mist orange. Somewhere in the distance, I heard voices, faint, indistinct.
“That’s one explanation,” I said. “What’s the other?”
“You’re sure you don’t want to be part of this?”
“Is that why you brought me with you?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Nor you mine,” I said.
“Some folk say the symbols come from a fabulous city, one on the shore of a black ocean, where they were the inhabitants’ most closely guarded treasure.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, “but it’s not the question I meant.”
“I know,” Stewart said.
Through the mist, the gate swam into view. Stewart pushed it open and walked out. I went to follow, but before I could, a shout drew my attention to the left. No more than twenty yards away, through a clearing in the mist, a white van was parked. At the sight of it, my heart knocked. I knew this vehicle, had watched it drive through my dreams. For this to be the same van was impossible, of course, but on a night such as this one had proved to be, it could be none other. I was suddenly sick with dread and grief. To walk to the van was terrifying, but to remain in place, let alone, to leave, was worse. Legs shaking madly, I stepped toward it. Stewart said something, but whatever it was didn’t register.