by Tim Marquitz
Brodir felt around with his boots knowing his own ax must be nearby. Behind him, the beast fully emerged from the depths. Displaced water rushed off its bobbing, blobby form. The captain turned as the kraken made a slurping, sucking sound. Brodir felt the hatchet with the heel of his boot and bent for it as the Windward Mare listed toward port.
Two strong tentacles reached from beneath the captured ship to wrap around and grip the side-rail overhead. Powerful arms pulled, twisting the ship with creaks and pops, rippling from bow to stern. Both Brodir and Rurik lost their footing and fell against the shifting deck. Njorf, soaking wet, emerged from the water amongst the panicked sheep. Raising his hands high, in one of his fists was the small ax.
Bravely, Njorf struggled through knee-deep water along the sideways tilted foredeck. He moved toward the bowsprit above his head and ever closer to the tentacle entwined there. Brodir and Rurik had their own axes in hand before the ship flexed again.
Creaks, accompanied by a deeper groan, rippled through the straining wood. They all knew the reverberations heralded the ship’s surrender to being sundered. Desperate to save their ship, Njorf hacked deep into thick leathery skin. A dark spray of blood preluded the tentacle releasing the bow. The ship reversed its strained moan of self-destruction.
As the arm let go, the change in pressure along the hull caused the ship to slide further to the portside. Rurik clung to the kraken’s nearest tentacle to keep from falling into the ocean. Brodir, once again left with nothing to grip, was flung against the deck.
Helplessly, Brodir watched as the injured tentacle swiped Njorf from the ship. Another appendage rose from the icy depth. Spiraling around the swimming sailor’s midsection, the kraken took hold of the terrified sailor. Njorf splashed, screaming, “Help! Odin, spare me!” It was all the time he had to speak before being pulled below. Njorf was gone, never to breathe air again.
Watching the water as the ocean-giant’s body rose up further, Captain Brodir saw a sliver of twilight sparkling in one lidless eye, reflecting the sun’s distant retreat. The kraken’s horrible mouth, an ugly beak-like pincher, opened and bit deep into a swimming sheep, nearly shredding it in half. Two tentacles under the ship pulled hard on the raised siderail, tilting the deck closer to even, but not quite. Boards and pins popped along the Mare’s aft deck, diving home the fact this would be Brodir’s last voyage.
A submerged tentacle nudged another sheep closer to its waiting mouth as Brodir shouted to Rurik, who stood poised with his hatchet over the beast’s spiraled arm, “Rurik, no! Let it eat the sheep, it may let us go!”
Rurik nodded, lowering his ax. Taking a hold of the rigging, he used the ropes to pull himself closer to the captain. The immense strain of the sea-monster’s grip popped another board free from its seal, this time bearing a long rectangular hole in the side-hull.
As Rurik lumbered closer, Brodir stated, “The Mare is done for; she’ll go down with this beast.”
Panicked sheep brayed as they swam, but in the water, slithering tentacles gathered and nudged the flock ever-closer to its hungry mouth. There was a sound like soaked canvas being ripped, and beneath the waves another sheep sunk, torn apart by the chitinous beak of the kraken. The spilling of blood and sheared meat would only attract other predators.
Wild-eyed and terrified, Rurik disparaged, “Do we go down with her, captain?”
The sun had dipped completely below the surf, but on the horizon remained a thin blue line. Floating amongst the ship’s spilled debris, their harbor dinghy rolled upright over a wave. The small boat floated free in the choppy sea, several meters from where the monster fed upon the Windward Mare’s bounty. “Nay, we must swim for the dinghy. Pray the Fates favor us.”
Seeing Rurik was ready to follow him, Brodir looked to the small rowboat drifting away with each wave. He was cold and shivering and knew there was a good chance they would die in the frigid waters even if they were not eaten by the sea-monster. Without any other option, both men challenged the cold sea and whatever hungry beasts swam beneath.
Awkward was the swim in boots and clothes. Brodir hoped the salty taste in his mouth was sea water and not the blood of his crew and the sheep. Listening to Rurik gasp for breath as he kicked against the swelling waves, Brodir could hear the frightened sheep being rounded closer to their own end.
One of the sheep called with a blood-curdling cry. Neither man looked back as they fought the rough sea in a desperate search for their own survival. The screaming sheep’s cry became muffled by water as lethargic legs, numbed from the cold, failed to kick. As the one awful sound was swallowed up, the air became overwhelmed by the cries of those that remained.
Brodir reached the dinghy as it rolled up and over another swell. The captain clung to the rough wooden sides and looked over his shoulder, calling, “Come on, Rurik, just a little further.”
White-faced in the starlight, Rurik gasped and paddled closer. Behind the sailor, by the light of the cloudless night sky, Brodir watched a tentacle slither higher up the mast of his deceased ship. Another sheep’s cries ended as the Windward Mare began to creak defiantly. There came sporadic pangs and pops of wooden planks losing to the stress of the monstrous squeeze. Brodir looked away and reached for Rurik, taking his icy hand.
The captain pulled the sailor to the side of the small boat. “I’m going to the other side, and then you get in. Lay down so when I pull myself in, we don’t capsize. Got it?” He watched Rurik nod, both men shivering in the frigid water.
Sliding around, he called for Rurik to get out of the water. Brodir held the little boat steady as the last of his crew climbed inside the lifeboat. He was next. He cast one water-soaked leg over and with all that remained of his strength, he flipped himself inside. He lay there, breathing hard, as did Rurik beside him.
Then he heard it.
A sound like crisp celery being twisted in two, this sound was magnified by the creaks and groans of wooden seams ripped apart. Hard oak beams and planks were torn, splintering and popping free of each other. The sound sent shivers down each man’s spine, knowing the strength it would take to crush such a sturdy ship as had been the Windward Mare. Some of the sheep still called into the night, but those the kraken had not consumed would soon freeze, and eventually be eaten by the other ocean predators and scavengers.
Brodir lay motionless atop Rurik. Both men listened to the haunting sound of a torrent of bubbles, the defying last gasps of the Windward Mare as the ocean claimed her. Slowly sinking, she made her final journey to the ocean’s floor.
Both men lay at the bottom of the little boat, shivering in the puddle of water they had pulled into the dinghy with them. Silently, except for the chattering of teeth, they waited for dark tentacles to find them. Without aim, they jounced in the waves, waiting for a monstrous beak to chew through the sidewall and their limbs. Unknown to the terrified survivors, the monster had submerged silently. All that remained were the dreadful memories of the nightmare they’d survived, and a deep frosting in their souls. Miraculously, sleep took them regardless of the unstoppable shivers from both fear and cold. Huddled together, and sharing each other’s fragile warmth, they slept, expecting no mercy from the overpowering tides.
~
Oslo pushed away the empty bowl of stew. Rurik had fallen silent.
Werner spoke up after the sailor had finished his story, “Helle and I go to the beach every morning to check our tide nets. The little rower had come to shore in the night and entangled in our nets. The other man had fallen to the cold, at some point, before we found them. Rurik was barely alive, but Helle wouldn’t let him go. She brought Rurik back from the doors of Valhalla, and he has been with us here in Hundested ever since.”
Oslo Boarstout stood from the table. He pulled out his coin purse and freed up five more silver coins. Without a word, the bear-clad man handed the extra coins to Werner.
“What is this?” Werner protested. “You have already paid.”
“That should cover Rurik’s
mead for the next few days. It is my contribution to the most fortunate man in all of Scandinavia.” The berserkr retrieved his spear and made his way to the exit.
Oslo stepped out into the spring-bright sunshine. He felt his robes warmed by the sun’s radiance. The road at his right led down to the pier where a ship waited to sail him to Aarhus. There he would meet other warriors and join their adventure in Scotland. It was the season for good raids, and in a few months he’d come home richer, and more respected for his efforts.
Down along the pier, he found the plank to his ship and began aboard. Behind him, in the distance, he heard the calling of sheep. A shiver tickled his spine as he spun to see. It was not sheep, but a goat herder leading his flock to pasture. The ‘fearless’ berserkr grinned, and stepped onto his awaiting longship.
Oslo the Boarstout walked from plank to ship and noted somewhere between this boat and his destination, a real monster hunted the cold seas.
Wrath
Lee Mather
I doubted the existence of monsters.
Mankind were the monsters. The rapists, the pedophiles, the murderers. They were out there. They were real. In truth, I always thought the dark things we saw on film, or read about in books, were just projections, the parts of ourselves we couldn’t accept. We rationalize the demons within us.
I want to laugh, but I’m not capable, even in scorn.
Rationalization.
Who would have thought our need for things to be explained, for things to fit, would end it all?
I used to be a policeman, a long time ago, and I saw the very worst we could be, every single day. Because of this, I’ve always thought it easier to believe in monsters than to face up to the neighbor who beats his wife, or the pedophile who snatches children from the school gates, or the tanks that roll over broken bones on desert tracks.
Mankind were the monsters, was what I used to think.
But things change. Now I know the truth, and a real monster dominates my thoughts.
Outside, the darkness finally lifts. A crimson dawn is heralded by a thousand screaming sirens. Light creeps in from the base of the curtains. The world has changed forever.
I slug back the last of the whiskey and the bottle slips from my grasp. The remnants of an old, well-loved foe trickle into nothing.
I raise the gun. My hands tremble.
~
I was there at the beginning of the end. It wasn’t long ago. The days were hot. My clothes stuck to the small of my back, and the heat never left. It got beneath my skin. I found it hard to breathe.
I’d been working for David for six months. It was construction. Hard hats and fluorescent vests, and tools that vibrated so hard they caused your very bones to shudder. He always drove. He still didn’t trust me behind a wheel.
We stopped by his house, after working on an extension for the Carrington family of Prestwich. Cement dust matted my hair. My skin felt gritty and my limbs ached. David would have dropped me at my flat if I’d asked, but as per my trusted routine, I needed to see Ollie before I started on the twenty minute trudge home through the suburbs of Stockport.
David’s wife, Mel, was making fajitas in the kitchen. The smell of garlic and chili hung in the air, ambrosia to a starving man after a day of manual labor. My stomach rumbled.
“Hi, honey,” David sang.
Mel popped her head in from the kitchen, her black curly hair falling in tangles to her shoulders. She blew David a kiss as he kicked off his boots in the porch. I noted the glass of wine in Mel’s hand. Mel saw me and managed a thin smile. Mistrust dripped from her. I guess I’d earned it.
“Steven,” Mel greeted.
I waved at my sister-in-law. “Hi, Mel … is, um … ”
“In the living room.”
I prised off my own cement crusted boots, left my brother to greet his wife, and followed the sounds of “Old Macdonald” into the living room.
Ollie sat in front of the TV, on a comfy looking rug. Stuffed animals and a Buzz Lightyear, with one missing arm, were scattered around him. The screen showed various animal puppets dancing in a farmyard.
I cleared my throat.
Ollie turned and gave me a polite smile. “Hi, Daddy.”
I hovered for a moment before perching on the sofa. He seemed bigger than yesterday, a giant for four years old. His eyes were ocean blue, and his hair blond and straight like his mother’s.
I offered my arms, wishing the ache inside me would die.
“Hi, Ollie. Do you have a hug for Daddy?”
Ollie looked at me then back at the TV. He frowned, before scrambling to his feet. “Okay.” He scampered over and hugged me.
I squeezed him, buried my head close against his. My eyes watered. I pulled away and Ollie’s attention had returned to the TV.
“How about a kiss?” I realized I was pushing my luck.
Ollie tutted and forced his gaze from the puppet farmyard. He gave me a quick kiss, then rushed back to his toys.
I drew in a trembling breath as he resumed play, happy on the rug. I was a curiosity to him, at best.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Mel leaned against the doorway, a red smear of tomato paste on the front of her striped apron. The wine was no longer in her hand.
I glanced at Ollie. “How long before … ”
“We eat in five. After that he has an hour, then it’s bath time, then bed.”
Mel’s eyes didn’t sugarcoat her hostility. I wasn’t wanted there and I knew it.
David joined her in the doorway. He put his arm around his wife and winked at me affectionately. He looked worn. The years hadn’t been kind to my big brother. His gaze fell on my son.
“Hey, buddy.”
Ollie snapped his head around and grinned. “Hi, Da—” He stopped midsentence, stared at me and looked aghast. My son’s eyes widened and filled with tears. He gulped them back and slowly approached my brother. “Hi, Uncle David.”
I cringed, briefly closed my eyes, and then pushed myself from the sofa. Ollie was already hugging David. My brother shrugged at me apologetically. I made a note to disguise my hurt better.
David gave me a thumb’s up. “You off? Pick you up at seven tomorrow, bud?”
I nodded and made to leave.
David stood and Mel sat down. She picked up the remote and changed the channel. A crowd gathered around a large cathedral. A female reporter faced the camera. The caption on the bottom of the screen read: Bishop threatens wrath of God.
“The Church of England has already distanced themselves from the Bishop of Manchester’s comments, and the consensus is that he will be forced to resign after today’s shocking press conference.”
“Mummy!”
Mel glanced at me and I nodded to her as if to say it’s okay. Despite my attempt at reassurance, she appeared a little startled. She switched back to the puppet farmyard.
“Five more minutes, Ollie. We’re about to eat dinner. Then it’s bath time.” Mel didn’t correct Ollie when she answered him.
Ollie stared at me as if it were my fault, then ruefully thumped Buzz Lightyear into the rug. Buzz almost lost another arm.
I said my goodbyes and left for home.
~
Liam was nineteen and a laborer. He also worked for my brother.
I hated the little prick.
“It’s the fucking Muslims, and the gays, the women, too.”
I ignored him, lifted the wheelbarrow full of wet mortar and winced at the immediate strain on my triceps. The sun was sweltering hot. My skin was slick. I pushed the mortar over to David, where he was busy laying bricks. Liam trotted after me. He had taken his t-shirt off at the first glimpse of the sun, and his muscled chest, decorated with a St. George’s cross tattoo, was already red–raw with burn.
Liam wore a stupid grin. “I’m not surprised. Only a matter of time before some vicar lost it. Have you seen him? He looks dead. But, I’m telling you, it’s the fucking Muslims, the gays, and the women. They’re grinding this c
ountry into the dirt.”
I tipped the mortar onto the board David used. He smirked at me then looked at Liam. “Didn’t have you for a man of the cloth, Liam?”
“I’m not, fucking kiddie-fiddlers the lot of’ ‘em. All I’m saying is that if I were God, or even some poof vicar, I’d be angry at all the foreigners and queers fucking up our country.”
I shook my head, was tempted to tell Liam that if anyone could provoke the wrath of God, it would most likely be an intolerant dick like him. I snorted, more at myself than Liam. I had stopped believing in God after Jess.
“Dave, you want a water?” I asked, ignoring Liam.
David gave me a thumb’s up.
“I’ll have one too, pal,” Liam said, scratching his shaven head.
I glared at him, before walking to the garage where the Carringtons had allowed us to store our tools and materials. They had a fridge in there, full of bottles of water and cans of fizzy pop.
I entered, grateful to be in the shade. I wiped sweat from my brow and walked to the fridge. Beer was stacked on either side of it. I sweltered as I stared at the mountain of cans.
I imagined them at a barbecue, all the Carringtons, drinking beer and flipping burgers, toasting to happy families.
My stomach rolled with nausea, and I leaned on the fridge for balance. The garage became somehow smaller, the walls closing in. I blinked, my hand on a can of beer. I didn’t recall putting it there. I shook. The metal was cool on my skin, inviting.
One drink. I could handle one drink.
I fought my tumult, dismissed the voice inside that wanted me to peel back the ring pull so I could hear the sweet sound of gas escaping from the can. Better than beer, there were bottles of vodka and gin in the fridge. Nobody would know. I laughed, a strangled sound. That was the thing about alcoholics, they never really got drunk. Not until they started to fuck things up, not until they went a little crazy. I could handle one drink. Shit, I could handle a few.