Finally, he reached the stone pathway. He staggered wearily along its incline, his legs wobbly and weak. The rocky trail with its rolls of pure-white roses held no comfort for him that day. He didn’t know what he expected to find there, but the only thing that greeted him was the great stone pinnacle of Pale Dove Mountain with its shadowy opening in the wall of gray stone. Storm clouds rumbled overhead, much closer than he could have imagined. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. He heard the ka-klump, ka-klump of his pursuer on the pathway behind him and prayed for the heavens to send lightning to strike him dead. That demise would have proven more merciful than the one Wes Scott had in store for him.
Behind him came the crack of gunfire and a searing pain blossomed at the junction of his upper and lower left leg. The rifle bullet burrowed through flesh and cartilage, lodging just behind the kneecap. Fletcher collapsed and fell face forward. His right cheek and temple grated against coarse stone, bringing blood. Disoriented, he rolled onto his back, agony gripping his entire leg from groin to toes. He stared at the boiling grayness of the clouds above him. Why, Lord? He wondered in defeat. Why are you letting this happen to me?
Up the pathway, came the ka-klump, ka-klump of his pursuer, growing closer.
Fletcher craned his neck and found Wes Scott nearly upon him. The man took one final swig of amber liquid from the whiskey bottle, then tossed it aside. “After you get your fill of me, boy, I might just go back down the mountain and have a go at your ma. Wouldn’t think she’d put up much of a fight, the way she is now.”
“You stay away from her, you son of a bitch!” warned Fletcher, his mouth full of blood from where the fall had cut his inner cheek.
Wes leaned the Winchester against a boulder and began to unbuckle his belt. “I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”
With little strength left, Fletcher scrambled up the pathway. Wes laughed at the futility of the boy’s actions and came for him.
Right when the boy thought that his luck had run out, the unexpected happened.
The lovely white roses began to weave back and forth on their pale, pink stems. They burst into a frenzy of brittle crackling and each one unfolded, their blooms sprouting feathered appendages and long pink bills hooked at the end. Soon, they had left their moorings and took to flight. Before he could react, Wes Scott found himself amid a flock of swarming seagulls. The birds fluttered about him en masse, bumping into him, their beaks repeatedly piercing his skin and making him lose his balance on the sharp shale. He fell hard tearing his flesh and embedding jagged pieces of rock into his face. He stood shrieking and, locating his rifle, began to work the Winchester’s lever and fire. He took down a couple of the gulls, but a dozen more took their place. Wes batted at the airborne flock with the rifle, blood filling his eyes, his nerves flayed open. His skin hung in ragged flaps…either from his raw muscles or the bills of the swarming birds.
Wes Scott staggered, nearly falling. His body screamed with pain, but still he held fast to the repeating rifle. His vision was blurred by blood, but he found the boy lying on the stone path and he smiled. He lifted the gun to his shoulder and sighted down on the boy’s forehead.
That was when the second—and last—wave took place.
A flash of dark motion drew his attention and his eyes lifted from the child to the mouth of the cave at the end of the pathway. At first, Wes thought he was imagining things. From out of the opening, emerged a tall, rawboned form. He looked to be a sea-faring man, dressed in the long-coat of a ship’s captain, suspendered trousers and one knee-length boot. The other leg, strangely enough, made Wes laugh at the absurdity of it all. The dark sea captain, too, was missing a leg, but his replacement limb was not fashioned of wood, but the sturdy bone of a whale. The man’s weathered face, as gray as the stone he had emerged from, was heavily bearded and his black, pupilless eyes had a wild, maniacal look to them. He looked like a man with an obsession…one that might drive himself and his entire crew to the depths of Hell and back if need be.
Another thing about the seaman bothered Wes Scott. He held a long, black harpoon in his hand. One that looked to be constructed of bone and sinew, rather than seasoned hickory and iron.
Wes wasn’t ignorant. He’d had enough schooling to know precisely who stood before him. How this thing had come to be was not what concerned him now, but rather how to stop it. He flipped a flap of scalp out of his eyes, raised the rifle into line, and fired.
The round struck the dark captain between the eyes, but it didn’t stop his advance. Instead, the lead slug ricocheted off the man’s hard, gray skin and returned in the direction from which it came. The bullet punched through Wes Scott’s left shoulder, ripping through bone and muscle, and exiting just above his shoulder blade.
Wes stumbled backward, dropping his rifle in the process. Angered by the injury, he reached beneath his coat with his right hand and drew a government-issue .45 semi-automatic pistol; one he had brought home with him from the war. He thumbed off the safety and emptied the magazine, one round at a time. The slugs flattened against the sea captain’s broad chest. It was more like firing at a brick wall than a thing of flesh and blood.
When the Colt reached its last round, it was the seaman’s turn. He hurled the black harpoon, which looked to be physically connected to him by a cord of dark tendon. Before he could react, the razor edge of the harpoon struck Wes across the right wrist, severing it from his forearm. The hand holding the pistol dropped to the ground, reflexively pulling the impotent trigger again and again.
He knew then that he could not fight the thing. He also knew what the hellish duplication of the fictional sea captain actually was. Since childhood, he had heard the old wives’ tales of a dark being who stalked Pale Dove Mountain; a creature that could change into a man’s worst nightmare by merely willing itself to do so. The thing folks in East Tennessee called the Dark’Un.
Clutching the spurting stump of his wrist, Wesley Allen Scott left the stone-laced trail at the top of the mountain and lurched through the trees, heading toward the foothills. Fletcher Brice watched as the dark captain stepped over him, faced the steep grade of the mountainside, and began to change. If he hadn’t been accustomed to seeing the transformation in action, the boy could have very well lost his mind attempting to comprehend the form that the Dark’Un now built from its own iron-hard flesh and bone. But, since he understood what was taking place, he could only smile at the irony of it all.
The Dark’Un was transforming into a massive gray whale. Its bulk spilled past the edges of the trail as a deafening crackling like mortar rounds filled the air. One of the giant sea creature’s shiny black eyes rolled and winked at the boy who laid, gunshot, in the pathway. Then it began to slide down the mountainside, propelling itself by its broad tail.
Wes Scott was several hundred yards down the slope when he heard something that sounded like a freight train coming up fast behind him. He looked over his shoulder long enough to see the hellish whale sliding down the mountainside, flattening trees in its wake. Wes tried to run faster, but his wooden leg and his loss of blood hindered him. He felt the thing’s fetid breath upon him and was abruptly engulfed by darkness as he was swallowed whole by the vengeful whale. Unlike Jonah, however, the child molester would never see the light of day again.
Fletcher Brice watched, amazed, as the whale scooped his attacker up into its maw and then immediately began to transform once again. It began to grow smaller and, as it did, the boy could hear a snapping and popping that had nothing to do with the changing itself. Rather, it was the breaking down and digestion of the Dark’Un’s victim that was taking place, accommodating its bulk with the creature’s new shape and size.
Soon, the dark being sprouted massive wings and, lifting upward, took flight. Fletcher couldn’t believe his eyes. The creature that soared through the turbulent sky possessed the lower body of a lion and the head, wings, and talons of a bald eagle. It was a mythological beast that the boy had read about mere days ago�
�a griffin, in the flesh!
As he watched the thing in the sky, he sensed someone standing just behind him. He looked around and was startled to find a pale incarnation of Elijah Brice staring down at him. But, unlike his father, with his stern demeanor, this creature’s brilliant, pink eyes gleamed with compassion and concern. It crouched next to him, motioning silently toward the ugly wound in the back of his knee. Then Fletcher watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as the man transformed amidst loud crackling sounds, becoming a slender white centipede. The insect snaked its way into the bullet hole and the boy flinched as a spike of intense pain seized his leg. But the agony only lasted a moment. When the centipede withdrew, it held the bloody rifle bullet tightly in its forelegs. The creature transformed back into the pale doppelganger of his father again, and he went to work, bandaging the wound with strips taken from the twelve-year-old’s flannel shirt. It wasn’t long before the bleeding stopped and the burning pain in the joint of his leg diminished to a dull throbbing.
The next thing he knew, the black and gray griffin descended and, hooking its talons gently beneath his armpits, rose into the air with the boy in tow. Fletcher clinched his eyes tightly at first, afraid to look as they gathered speed and altitude. Then he gathered his nerve and opened them. He was surprised to find that they were hundreds of feet above the peak of the mountain. Far below, he saw the Brice cabin. It was so small from that height that it looked no bigger than a matchbox.
I’m flying! He thought to himself. I’m actually flying!
If he had tried to make it back home on his injured leg, it would have taken him hours. Instead, he found himself back at the cabin in less than a minute. The dark griffin lowered him to the ground and then took to the air again. The boy watched as it made a sweeping loop in the sky and finally lit atop a large oak a hundred feet from the cabin’s front porch. Sitting there, perched on nearly every branch of the gnarled tree, were dozens of snow-white doves.
With some effort, Fletcher Brice hobbled up onto the porch. He found the discarded broom and used it for a makeshift crutch. When he walked through the doorway, he found his feeble mother sitting up in bed, looking scared half out of her wits.
“Fletcher! Thank God!” she said in relief. “But…but where is Wesley Scott?”
“Dead,” the boy told her. “But I didn’t do it.”
His mother nodded grimly. “Then it was…”
“Yes, it was.”
Fletcher sighed and fought to keep his balance. “Sit down, son,” the woman urged. “You’re badly hurt.”
“I will…but first I must do something.” He limped over to his small bed in the far corner of the cabin’s main room. Fletcher rummaged beneath his goose down mattress until he found what he was looking for. He withdrew a bundle of loose papers, the drawings of foreign places he had sketched from his imagination. Places he had once hoped to see for himself.
He walked to the potbelly stove and, opening the grate, tossed the drawings into the flames.
His mother gasped. “What are you doing, son? Those were your hopes…your dreams.”
“I’ll never leave this mountain, mama,” he told her flatly. Mattie Brice looked into her son’s blue eyes and saw a maturity and grim acceptance that hadn’t been there before. “I have an obligation to them,” he told her, pointing through the cabin’s open doorway.
The ailing woman looked toward the oak and saw that the doves were gone. In their place were dozens of white apes, chimpanzees, orangutans, and gorillas. They clung to the limbs of the ancient oaks and stared toward the house, almost expectantly.
“And to it,” he added. Amid the pale primates, standing erect and tall at the top of the tree, was a gray-skinned man with long black hair, dressed only a leopard skin loincloth. “To the Dark’Un.”
The magnificent ape-man regarded the twelve-year-old, his black eyes shining with respect. Then, motioning to his colorless minions, he left, leaping lithely from one limb to another. Together the changelings swung, hand over hand, through the trees, heading back toward the upper reaches of Pale Dove Mountain.
It wasn’t long before they were out of sight…but certainly not out of mind.
GNELFS
By Sidney Williams
For Ann,
who rescued me from the slush pile.
Chapter 1
Heaven's scream pierced the night, cutting like a razor through Gabrielle's REM sleep.
Throwing back the covers, Gabrielle jumped from bed and thundered down the hallway. A thousand horrible things flashed through her mind as the short corridor seemed to stretch on for eternity. Her legs moved in slow motion, feet bogging in the carpet. It was impossible to lift them fast enough. She felt the beat of her heart in her throat, and another cry pierced the midnight darkness.
"Mommieeeeee."
Her nightgown fluttered as she ran, and she imagined its resistance slowing her, cutting away precious seconds that might mean the difference between her daughter's life and death. Why had she let her sleep in her own room? There was no reason for that now. If Heaven had been only the space of a bed away instead of at the end of the hall there would be no need to run a gauntlet to her rescue.
If Gabrielle could provide a rescue. What if some child molester or other criminal had somehow found a way into the room? Gab had no weapon, no means of defense. She would have to throw herself on the attacker in an effort to drag him away from her baby.
With lungs heaving and heart accelerating like a racing car, she reached the bedroom doorway and shoved the door, sending it crashing against the wall. Her hand scratched up the Sheetrock, fumbling for the light switch. A sudden white blaze flooded the room as Gab dashed toward the small canopied bed.
The child sat at the head of it, huddling between the pillows and clutching the covers about her like a shield. Even her snow white teddy bear had been discarded in her fear. He lay at the edge of the bed, head precariously dipping over the side of the mattress.
Tears streamed down the four-year-old's—five in another month—cheeks, and as Gabrielle embraced her, she felt the child's body tremble.
"What's wrong, honey?" She whispered gently, rocking slightly as she pressed Heaven against her. "I'm here. Mommy's here. Are you hurt?"
"They wanted to get me, Mommy?"
"Who?" Gab's eyes turned quickly to the window, but it was closed and the latch was in place. A quick glance around the room revealed no signs of intrusion elsewhere.
"The Gnelfs," Heaven sobbed. "Gnelf Master and his people. They had pitchforks and things."
Gabrielle cradled her daughter in her arms, gently touching her hair. She wanted to laugh as relief swept over her. Her heart slowed, her lungs relaxed, and the tingling fear that had danced through her entire body like an electrical charge subsided.
A dream, Heaven had had a bad dream, nothing more. No one had come to harm her, no intruder had threatened to take her innocence with twisted assaults.
"It's okay, baby," she soothed. "You had a nightmare. That's all. The Gnelfs are your friends."
The bedtime story, evidently the last thing on Heaven's mind, had mingled with the second helping of spaghetti she had demanded at supper, and had turned into a horror show.
The friendly nomadic band of the half-gnome/half-elf figures known as Gnelfs—soft g and silent as Gab kept pointing out to Heaven—had changed from beloved childhood figures to creatures of terror.
Having her afraid of them wouldn't be all bad, though, Gab thought. The merchandising connected with the popular cartoon was enough to give any single parent nightmares. Stuffed animals, toys, story books, cereals—the whole gamut of tempting items lurked on the store shelves. If Heaven was afraid of them, a fortune could be saved. Aware that it was a cruel thought, Gabrielle dismissed it as she continued to soothe her trembling child.
She couldn't be so selfish as to wish her baby to fear beloved heroes. They were part of childhood! Besides, the stories and cartoons soothed Heaven, and had helped in
the last year, Gab hoped, to take her mind off the absence of her father.
In any case, if it wasn't Gnelfs, it would be something equally costly like Rainbow Brite or the Teenage Mutant Ninja … whatever they were.
Merchandised toys were just a part of childhood nowadays, and Gab wanted Heaven to have as normal a young life as possible.
When Heaven was at last asleep again, Gabrielle headed back to her own room with the Gnelfland Bedtime Storybook tucked under her arm so that her daughter wouldn't wake up and see the cover. She'd expected to let the child sleep with her the rest of the night, but moving Heaven would only wake her again, better to let her rest alone than risk not getting her back to sleep.
After smoothing the covers over the child, she had also stashed the stuffed Gnelfs behind the other animals on the toy shelf so Heaven wouldn't roll over and find them glaring at her through the shadows. With luck, the last few hours of the night would be peaceful.
She looked at the book as she walked along the hallway. It wasn't inconceivable that the figures could be frightening to a child. They were green with pointed features and sharp eyebrows. The eyebrows were enough.
Mr. Spock had been frightening to her, even though he was the good guy. Some of the artwork in the book was rather dark in nature, also. The Gnelfs wandered through ancient lands and visited odd kingdoms. Their images didn't compare with those of Maurice Sendak—they were more commercialized than that—but they did reflect the newer trends Gab was noticing in children's literature. But hadn't things always been that way? When had they made Fantasia?
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