The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  “Doctor, the last communiqué from Reykjavik was to inform Major Penner of your ETA and that you’d have some answers to what the hell has happened here. Since then – nothing.”

  Arnarsson gave him a sympathetic smile. His eyes, though piercing, also twinkled. With his bushy white beard and sweeping mane of silver hair the Icelander had the avuncular look of a favourite uncle dressed as Father Christmas for a children’s party. “The request for emergency evac was denied by Major Penner himself, Corporal. But I do not think that was unexpected; what you are guarding is too valuable to be unmanned.”

  It still crushed him. Ellis grimaced, remembering Major Penner’s words the night before he died. It may be that the Sons of Loki have only managed to disrupt lines of communications, but we have to assume the worst. That the missiles have launched, and they’ve succeeded in bringing about war – their Ragnarok, if you will. We must face the conclusion we are on our own.

  So there was no point in leaving; Dimmuborgir was home for the foreseeable future. But still no mention of just what they were guarding, why they had to remain at their post. What Penner gave to him the night he died … no, that was nothing to do with it.

  Surely?

  “You said all the bodies have been incinerated.” There was approval in the Icelander’s voice. “I am glad to hear it.”

  “All except the bastard that took out Penner. Don’t worry, Doctor, there’s a jerry can beside it. As soon as you’re done with it, the fucker’s going up in smoke.”

  “A fitting end and location,” Arnarsson said with a small laugh. “In Icelandic folklore, Dimmuborgir connected Earth with Hell. To the Christians, it is where Satan landed when he fell from Heaven. ‘Helvetes Katakomber’, they say in Norway – the Catacombs of Hell.”

  And now a morgue for demons. Ellis shivered as the elevator car slowed for its final descent, swallowed as the doors hissed open to the rocky underworld.

  The electric hum of generators echoed throughout the chamber, comforting if it didn’t stutter occasionally; brief pauses to remind humans that the supply of constant light in the Icelandic underworld was a privilege, not a right. Arc lights replaced the ancient bulb-wiring from the bunker’s Second World War days, but the twenty-first century lighting did little to dispel the sense of foreboding and ancient gloom he endured. God knows what it must’ve been like for the original occupants, he thought. Especially when the power cut out, and the lights failed…he regarded the volcanic ceiling of the laboratory, with its geometric swirls and patterns that looked like goblins, then looked down to the floor, pounded down and concreted over eighty years ago.

  Cracks had been repaired over time, but still they returned. The underworld attempting to break free to the land of the living…shut the fuck up, Ellis! Listening too much to what Penner said. He almost wished he stayed topside, in the infirmary where the twelve bodies of his comrades lay…

  Small puffs of powder dust swirled in their wake, and Ellis felt one of the slabs shift beneath his feet. He froze, felt his legs turn to rubber, and then steeled himself to confront the inhuman dead.

  Arnarsson’s hump was more pronounced now the doctor had taken off his arctic camo gear; clad in faded corduroys and a bizarre hand-knitted Icelandic lopi wool pullover; the deformity moved in the opposite direction to Arnarrson, who slowly tuned to face him.

  His cobalt eyes followed the corporal’s sickened gaze, then moved back.

  “Sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean…well, it’s just...”

  “Please.” Arnarsson raised a hand. “It is quite all right. I am used to it.”

  The hump slid in the opposite direction, then back into place, like a blue and white coloured water balloon.

  Or a sack, Ellis thought. The arc lights flickered, and made the deformity ripple. He shuddered, and gazed longingly to the PC bank and its silent radio-transmitter. The occasional hiss of static played tricks on him, made him imagine there was still the possibility of further contact from the outside world.

  From habit, he walked over and checked the CCTV feed. Twilight wasn’t far off, and the image displayed was faint, cast in shadows. The wind must’ve picked up; the doctor’s footprints began to fade, covered by fresh snowfall. He blinked, rubbed weary eyes. For a moment the tracks looked like hoof prints.

  Ellis walked around the table, facing Arnarsson – determined to be nowhere near that unsettling hump – and stared down at the corpse of the twelfth intruder.

  “Kjötkrókur,” Arnarsson breathed. “Meat-Hook himself.”

  Where the body was exposed, the skin was a putrid grey-green, almost luminescent in the flickering arc lights. The rents in the flesh gaped, like the wounds it had inflicted upon Ellis’s commanding officer. But Penner’s had steamed as he died, his body heat evaporating in the chilled air, like the vents in the volcanic plains far south of the Mývatn region.

  The shrivelled, child-sized monstrosity before him seemed perfectly at home in the underground chamber, its wizened face curled and twisted into a stone mask of inhuman hatred. Ellis glanced at the volcanic rock outcroppings, saw how his and Arnarsson’s shadows danced over them and gave the lava tubes gargoyle faces of their own

  Arnarsson pressed a gloved finger against the hollow belly, and Ellis wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell that escaped bullet-torn bowels. There was an aroma of freshly-killed meat, like Christmas pork, but the overriding smell was that of sulphur, lava, and molten rock. The meat hook that replaced the creature’s right hand smelled of old steel, pitted and bent, stained with rust, but the tip gleamed silver in the arc light.

  Just as it had done when it killed Major Penner. Meat-Hook. Appropriate fucking name.

  Arnarsson stared at the petrol can and feeder pipe beneath the table. “I believe Major Penner ordered you not to burn the bodies.”

  “The major went loopy. Said some bullshit about waiting until the fifth of January before burning the corpses.” Penner’s last order, even as he lay dying in the snow. Fuck that. “Why’s that so important? These things are just some sort of bastard sewing job they’ve put together.”

  Arnarsson’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Then perhaps you can tell me what creatures the Sons of Loki made it from. And what sort of child volunteered to undergo this transformation?

  “It is a child, Corporal. There is no doubt. As were the others who killed your team.” He gestured to his kitbag. “Pass me the book, please. It is time to tell you a story…”

  ***

  “It is said Grýla hunts out naughty children who disrespect the White Christ’s birth, stuffs them in her sack and carries them back to her mountain home where she chops them into tiny pieces and feeds her own children with them.”

  Michael’s eyes are wide with the gruesome details, showing both delight and horror in a way only a child can.

  “I think very little scares you now, Michael. I remember how you hid under the bedcovers when I first told you of the Yule Cat. Now, not even Mother Grýla scares you!”

  He beams with satisfaction. “Is that your job, Grandma? To make sure I’m not scared of anything?”

  She hesitates. The candle flame flickers, and the flying war machines above her cast shadows of machine guns and missiles against the patterned wallpaper. Teddy bears and bunny rabbits writhe as though riddled with bullets while she retells the story of Grýla’s fourteen children.

  He stifles a giggle. She raises an eyebrow, and something tells him not to mock her. And the image she shows in her ancient, crumbling book is frightening in a way. The coloured woodcut is alive in the dancing candlelight; the meat hook is part of the creature shown, its bared forearm turning from pale flesh to grey steel.

  “You said there’s a worse one than Meat-Hook. One that isn’t pictured in your book.”

  She nods gravely. He must have noticed the missing page, guessed she had torn it away. She lowers the book and watches the candle flicker. “In the old tales, before Jesus, the last Yule Lad would appear on midwinter: the darkest nigh
t of the year, when light was most precious…and vulnerable.

  “Icelandic children were given a tallow candle to light on Christmas Day and welcome Christ into the world. If the candle was stolen from them by Kertasníkir, they were hateful in God’s eyes. He is the Thief of Light, the most feared of Grýla’s children. The child without form, the boy without a face.”

  He looks into the candle flame with a thoughtful look. “And this is the candle you had since you were my age, Grandma.”

  “No. This was made for me the night I left Iceland.” The memory makes her fingers tighten on the book, and her nails dig into the ancient pages.

  ***

  Ellis frowned at the A5 sized volume Arnarsson had packed. It was old, stank of must and mildew, and had no illustrations on the cover. The spine was cracked and held to the leather boards with browned Sellotape that crumbled to the touch. He opened it gingerly and winced at the cracking sound.

  “Careful,” Arnarsson said with a frown. “I have had that book since childhood.”

  Ellis took a quick glance at the pages, with their garishly coloured, medieval-woodcut-style illustrations. With the foreign language, the book might have been an alien artefact.

  “Sorry, Doctor.” He closed the book and passed it to Arnarsson. “Been a while since I held a book. Didn’t realise it was so valuable.”

  “All books are valuable. Few more than this one.” Arnarsson placed the ancient volume on the table, just above the monster’s head. With his liver-spotted left hand, Arnarsson opened the book tenderly, almost reverently. “Legends become fairy tales. Stories told when we are children have seeds of truth and instructions for survival when we become adults.”

  The lights dimmed, and the air conditioning faltered. For a brief moment Ellis thought he heard the roar of the arctic wind and the patter of ice crystals on the steel shuttered doors of the topside entrance.

  Arnarsson smiled at Ellis’s discomfort, how the soldier’s hand instinctively went to his sidearm. “Midwinter darkness and the reminder we are at the mercy of the elements. This must be how storytellers of old felt, holding their audience spellbound by the light of the fire – or candle.”

  Ellis’s hand remained on the holster. His fingers brushed the stock of the SIG-Sauer P226. Candle. His hand went instinctively to his breast pocket. He glanced at the elevator doors and fought the urge to run.

  “Jólasveinar: the Yule Lads. What have they to do with the Sons of Loki? They revel in their heritage as much as they do in bloodshed – but why would they target a lone outpost in the Mývatn region, when Reykjavik’s defences still stand? Why in the form of children’s monsters? They shot down my helicopter to prevent me getting here. That must tell you something.”

  The lights dimmed again. Shadows danced over the dead intruder’s face, emphasising the angular cheek bones and crooked nose. The eyes appeared to open, but the light returned and reflected off tightly closed lids.

  “Because even the Sons of Loki fear the Jólasveinar.” Arnarsson turned a page and held the book up. “Do you recognize this individual?”

  Ellis tore his gaze from the monster and peered at the illustration: a coloured woodcut of an evil troll-like creature with all-too-human features. Recognisable features. “Jesus. That’s the little fucker that took down Sanders.”

  “But what is he doing here?”

  Ellis hesitated. “Slamming a door.”

  “Yes. This is Hurdaskellir, the Door-Slammer. I need not remind you of how Sanders met his end.”

  The memory of the steel outer doors slamming into the artillery captain had marked a turning point. Still no explanation had been forthcoming for the override of the automated door control. Nor how a steel shutter weighing in excess of a ton had moved with such lightning speed to slice Sanders in two.

  Arnarsson turned another page.

  “Thvörusleikir the Spoon-Licker. Pottasleikir the Pot-Licker. And Askasleikir the Bowl-Licker. Major Penner’s report indicates cyanide poisoning. Sadly, I do not have the time to conduct a full autopsy on Carlson, Priestley and James, but any native of Iceland will tell you the effects of cyanide and troll-spittle are indistinguishable.”

  “Troll? Are you shitting me?”

  “Their mess kits must have been unattended for a brief moment – but a moment is all the Lickers need to contaminate eating utensils.”

  Ellis looked even more uncomfortable. “Come on, Arnarsson. You seriously expect me to take that as gospel? Terrorists poisoned the ration packs, that’s all there is to it.”

  Arnarsson nodded. “A reasonable explanation, and one I would have believed myself. Even when Arnold’s body was discovered the next night - and the mutilation performed upon him - I too believed it was the work of assassins.” He held up the book, turned it to show his audience the next Yule Lad: a gnome-like creature devouring a glistening pink tube of flesh. “Bjúgnakræki. The Sausage-Pilferer. Would the Sons of Loki hack off a man’s penis and blame it on an Icelandic troll-child who stole sausages? No, Corporal, no. Arnold’s body went missing on the twentieth of December, and that is the night Bjúgnakræki visits. What is destroying you is not the Sons of Loki.”

  ***

  He no longer finds the story of Sausage-Pilferer amusing. That is good; now is the time to learn the truth behind the legends, to know the Jólasveinar are not the mischievous imps raiding well-stocked Christmas kitchens as the nineteenth century storytellers portrayed them. His face has drained of colour and his hands disappear beneath the duvet cover, unconsciously protecting his manhood.

  The candle flame is still. The smell of burned wick and melting tallow fills her nostrils. To Michael, it is the smell of Christmas, and the promise of material pleasures and feasting on the morrow. To her, it is a reminder of her loss…and her duty. There is little room for nostalgia.

  She shudders and takes a deep breath. “You must understand, Michael, that guns will only do so much. Your grandfather came with other soldiers from England to force Iceland out of neutrality, to set up a base from which they could fight the Nazis. The people of my village warned them, when we were relocated from Dimmuborgir, that their presence was…unwelcome to the oldest inhabitants.”

  Even now she sees the blood staining the white snow, the torn body parts steaming in the caverns. Hears the barely human cries of agony as Jasper and his comrades are hacked to pieces by Kjötkrókur’s fearsome weapon.

  And then her mother and father taking Jasper’s body from their weeping daughter, hastening to perform the Old Magic before Yule Night fell, to ensure the most terrible of the ancient inhabitants would not come.

  His seed in my belly. His light is with me always.

  Michael is thoughtful. “I heard the British Army is building and renewing bases in Iceland. That Scandinavian terrorist group that everyone’s worried about … “

  “The Sons of Loki. Yes, I have heard of them. They promise to end the world the way it began: in fire and ice.” Madmen, religious fanatics who take their inspiration for slaughter from Nordic legends. It has already started with their slaughter of villagers while dressed as the Yule Lads – destroying the magic of Christmas for generations of Icelanders, taking away the innocence of children who would grow up to accept the Jólasveinar as Iceland’s version of Father Christmas…perhaps it will end there, and they will be wiped out before they embark on their promised next phases…

  “There’s talk of new recruitment, of expanding the ranks of the army. I’m thinking…when I’m older …” His voice is low. “I think…Grandad might be proud of me. What do you think, Grandma?”

  The gleam in Michael’s eyes as he talks of following in Jasper’s military footsteps breaks her heart. Once again Britain seeks to beat back a new darkness. Once again they will fail to understand the real darkness is not of human origin. A time is coming when the darkness will fall forever. She suspects her homeland will be the last bearer of the Light.

  The candle flame flickers. Despite the smell of melting fat, the
tallow cylinder has not diminished in the hour of storytelling.

  ***

  He had little difficulty accepting Arnarsson’s story. The twelve intruders, their origins in a dark, mythic Scandinavian past, would be easy to dismiss had he not seen their faces himself, and how identical they were to the woodcut illustrations in Arnarsson’s ancient book.

  The flicker of light this time came from the CCTV feed. Ellis started, jaw dropping at the sight on the monitor.

  The eyes shone in the reflected light of the bunker lobby. They were not cobalt but widened, panicked orbs of hazel. Neither did the figure stoop with the burden of a hunchback. Instead, wounds in his scorched arctic-issue uniform oozed blood that steamed in the night snowfall. The very image of a man who has barely survived a helicopter crash, then assaulted by something that tried to tear into him, into his core of being.

  “Arnarsson,” Ellis said in a hoarse voice. He opened the outside comms channel, and arctic night screamed from the speakers.

  “Ellis! Let me in!”

  Ellis’s storyteller closed his book and waddled over to the communications panel. He consulted his wristwatch. “Do not open the doors, Corporal.”

  The fourteenth visitor must have heard him. His transmitted scream was louder than the Icelandic gale. “For God’s sake, Ellis! That’s not me! You’ve let the last Yule Lad in! Get out of there while you can!”

  Ellis’s besieged mind raced. Jesus. Who’s the real one?

  “16:00 hours, Corporal.” The Arnarsson in the underworld spoke softly, calmly. “Darkness has fallen, and Yule Night is here; time for the last Yule Lad. Kertasníkir, the Candle-Thief. The Thief of Light. The very Son of Darkness himself, Grýla’s most feared child. The shape-shifter.” He tapped the monitor. “Your last visitor.”

  “Ellis! Please tell me you haven’t burned the bodies!” The external Arnarsson was close to tears. “We ordered Penner not to do so…!”