“You alright, Mr Bates?”
“You know, when you think you have seen it all, something comes up. I can look a falling tree square in the trunk, laugh in the face of locals with a machete, but.. I’m sorry I did not catch your name?
“Flowerdew” he offered.
There was a dead space in the conversation as Bates focused on the two hands that were still shaking.
“You know, I wasn’t even supposed to be the foreman. Last foreman got killed by it.”
Flowerdew stared at the pain that ran across the man’s features. He suspected his was a face that must have not been accustomed to sadness. Keeping his face and tone deadpan, he replied, “Well, sir that is why I am here.”
Bates’ eyebrows wrinkled together. “But you’re representing an antiquities boutique, correct? What exactly do antiquities have to do with—”
“I don’t know if my associate explained this wholly, when industry reaches untouched communities such as this jungle territory, there can be artefacts disturbed that can provoke retaliation steeped in ancient rituals and folklore. These rituals and folklore, as well as the preservation of these ancient cultures, are our top priority.” When Bates gave slight nod accompanied with a silent “Ah,” Flowerdew, looked down at the still extended hands still embarrassing and asked, “Two questions; one, can I have my hand back and two what can you tell me about these deaths?”
With a start of realisation, he released Flowerdews and followed it with a sigh so deep it looked like he had deflated, Bates began to speak. “They started about two months ago, right after we moved the camp to the river. We had made our way far enough from the coast that it was getting hard to move the lumber. This spot in the river was helping a lot with getting the mill up and running. A little while later, some of my men started disappearing. We thought it was the locals at first, but they have not been giving us trouble for a while. Then we thought it might have been some big cat, one of those panthers creeping around at night, making the awful crying sound followed by the horrid screams. But…” His words trailed off. Flowerdew could just make out in the man’s eyes a memory bubbling to the surface. “After a few weeks we found the first corpse. He had scratched out his own eyes, and was blue. Blue like he had drowned in the river.” Bates reached into his pocket, producing a flask, shaking his head as he opened it and drank several fingers’ worth. “A panther does not do that to a man. The disappearances seemed to get a lot worse when we got our shipments in.” He took another gulp from his flask, and then slammed his axe into a log. “We can’t keep losing men at this rate. I keep having to hire whoever is willing to come all the way down here, not the most top choices if you know what I mean.”
As Flowerdew tried to piece together what he knew from Riches’ notes, the gears began to turn in his head. “When was the last disappearance?”
“No disappearance this time. Found him dead in the middle of the camp. Blue like he was drowned again,” Bates said, his eyes staring into the spirals of the wood.
“Do you still have the body?”
“No sir, we burned it. The men get pretty jumpy about these things. They do not want some cursed dead man around camp, Obeah, hoodoo, local lore and the like, you know how it is. Each group has their own reason, but whatever is killing my boys, it just is not right so I do not blame them.
“I am responsible for them, you know. It starts to chip away at your heart, as you are helpless to do anything. I don’t know what is killing them, all I know is, my liche yard is getting bigger and bigger. Whenever I close my eyes at night I hear the sound of whatever it is mixing with the screams of ma-boys. It’s like nothing I have every heard, it sounds like a monster, grinding metal in its guts, plus the sound of pure terror my boys scream as it gets them…”
“If you can think of anything else that might be helpful, please let me know. I will be staying in Riches’ cabin if that is alright,” Flowerdew replied as he stood up and passed his hand across to shake.
“That is fine. I will make sure Zeke gets some of the lads to bring your things over.”
Flowerdew walked around the building and flagged down Zeke to escort him over to Riches’ cabin. Once there, he took out his notebook, and looked around the cabin. At a glance it looked like no one had been in here since Riches’ disappearance. It was pretty well-furnished, with all his books kept in a chest to keep the insects out of them. Nice mahogany desk, probably made from one of the rough-cut logs. Taking out the Ministry-issued lock pick set, Flowerdew started at the lock on Riches’ Ministry trunk, recognising its make and model. After a few minutes of work and a few choice words best not shared in polite company, he gained access to Riches’ life in Belize. The inside of the trunk was for the most part empty: just a small box with a dozen gold rings of different sizes, and a couple of nice suits.
As Flowerdew released the latch to remove the top to the secret compartment, he was shocked to find it just as threadbare as its main compartment. The designated spots for guns, extra munitions, and spectral detection showed they were all missing. Only a stack of ministry journals and two small, old lodestone communicators—an antiquated piece of technology that had been replaced with wireless communication—remained. While they were effective in their time, they were very limited in their function, and only being able to communicate with each other made them very challenging in the field. Flowerdew checked the stylus and frame on both of them to make sure they were functioning. With the exception of a little rust, they seemed to be in working order.
Sitting down under the mosquito net, Flowerdew began to read through Riches’ finely crafted notes on the disappearances. He had suspected some sort of ghost panther at first based off the spectral readings that he was getting. As Flowerdew continued through the notes, he observed that Riches had grown less and less sure of the panther assessment, and began to suspect differently. He mentioned planning a full night’s surveillance the day before his disappearance. After that, the notes stopped.
When Flowerdew heard a knocking on the door of the cabin, he looked up from the books. He gave entry to the person at the door, and a large crate was brought in.
He knew right away something was wrong with the crate. At a glance his possessions appeared intact, but the crate was slightly at an angle. Prying it open, he saw all of the trunks had a drunken lean to them.
“No, no, no, no!” he franticly grumbled.
As he opened the trunks one by one, he found all of the seals on the trunks were broken, and all of their contents encrusted with sea-salt. Everything—his delicate tools and intricate arms—were damaged, and without proper tools, there was no way to fix them out here. He would have to send a message to Brazil to get a kit, which would take weeks to get here.
“Damned bumboclot pirates. The crate must have fallen over when taking all those fucking shots at us.” Letting out a large sigh he thought to himself, “Well, no use crying over bloody spilt rum.”
Flowerdew took stock of what he had with him: a few trunks full of useless equipment, two antiquated lodestone resonators, a few days’ worth of clean clothes, and his own weapons: a high frequency vibration blade machete, his own pair of Wilkinson-Webley “Peppershot,” a gun similar in design to the confederate La Mat, but with a easier trigger system for the shotgun round, and a few extra boxes of bullets.
And a bag of toffees. Sweets always made travel easier for Flowerdew.
Figuring not much more could be done today, he decided it would be good to get some rest before he went to the mess hall. Lying down, he started to cycle through the information that he knew before he drifted off to sleep.
Flowerdew bolted up right. He looked around to see what had woken him. Night had fallen while he was asleep. A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the doorframe and stepped into the centre of the cabin. “I said it was dinner time, Mr Flowerdew,” the shadow said. Striking a match, Flowerdew lit the lamp on the end table. He held it upward to shed some light onto the shadow, revealing a small Ma
yan boy in an apron. Collecting himself, Flowerdew thanked the boy and asked his name.
“Cookie callz me Cricket,” the boy replied.
“Cricket?”
“Yez sir, because I am always jumping to action. When I am not, I am still as stick. Plus Cookie likez me singing. If you can come with me, I’z can take you to the mess hall.”
Checking his boots for bugs, he grabbed his gun belt and walked out into the night, the boy staying close to his side.
“Where are you from, Cricket?” Flowerdew asked as they walked across the yard.
“I’m from right here. Well I was right here before I moved, but I come back. This is where I belong.”
“Who…uh…. who taught you English, Cricket?” the cross section of different dialects was starting to confuse Flowerdew. Cricket spoke in a form of pigeon English that looked like it took samples from the Queen’s English, Jamaican, Southern United States, and who knows where else.
“Whoever wants to talk with me in camp. Cookie been teachin’ me most of it, but the men, they help too.”
Ahead of them, the sound of plates and knives clashing and raucous merriment filtered softly through the air, then poured out the door like a flash flood. Entering the mess hall, a wave of heat and smells assaulted Flowerdew’s nose, painting a picture of daily life. Cricket escorted him to the foreman’s table, before disappearing into the crowd.
“Everyone seems so happy, Mr Bates. I wouldn’t think people would be this happy out here,” Flowerdew yelled to Bates over the roar of the room.
Bates, transformed now to a picture of joviality, guffawed, clapping Flowerdew on his shoulder. “Things are not normally this boisterous, but that ship you came in on had all of our supplies for the next month. The men tend to be a little heavy handed with the rum the first few nights. It’s a bit like a celebration,” Bates answered.
Nodding, Flowerdew turned back to the table to find Cricket emerging from the crowd. He deposited a plate of food before him, and then vanished again.
“Quick as lightning, that lad is,” Flowerdew said before he tucked into the food on the table. A hearty meal, full of spices, something he was used to and made him feel like he was back at home. Eating his meal slowly, Flowerdew was fascinated by the pure sea of humanity that was the mess hall. People laughing, eating, drinking, and generally just so happy with life. It was hard to believe that these were the same people that at any moment could be the next victim. On the other hand, it made sense. If you do not know when your last breath will be, you might as well live life to the fullest. Flowerdew thought it was what he would have done when he was younger.
Having eaten more than his fill, Flowerdew excused himself, traversed the hall, and headed back to his cabin. The trip, he suddenly realised, after his head returned to the pillow, must have left him more exhausted than he had earlier assumed.
With a start, Flowerdew awoke again, but this time it was different. He had heard a scream pierce through his dreams like an arrow through melon. Grabbing his gun belt, he ran out the door while fumbling to get it on. Opening up one of his Peppershots to assure it was loaded and absently touching the handle of his high frequency machete, he snatched up a lantern outside his cabin, brightened the flame inside, and looked about him. The yard was clear. Not a single soul moved. Closing his eyes, he stood there and listened. He heard a gentle breeze through the leaves, the wings of a night bird, the river whispering by…
…and something else.
His eyes flicked open as he drew his pistol. As he closed the distance between himself and the unusual sound, it became clear that he had been hearing someone sucking in a breath, only to blubber without restraint. A second person near him was crying.
As Flowerdew rounded the corner, he spotted a large black mass in front of him. Bringing his light around, a tangle of black hair bolted for the river faster than he could believe. As he raised the lantern higher, the mass of black melted into the water and the sound of crying faded away.
Flowerdew turned around to see a lumberjack lying on the bed of the river.
Running to the still stranger, it was clear that there was no hope for him. His face was blue as a berry, and it looked like he had been clawing at his own throat, his neck was scratched to bloody ribbons. There was, however, blood coming out of the corners of his eyes as well. Filing all this information away, Flowerdew stood up and walked down the riverside, scanning the surface with his lantern, but all held an eerie calm. Nary a ripple in the water. He cast a glance around him, found a large leaf at his feet, and tossed it into the river, watching it drift slowly with its lazy, invisible current.
Following the river downstream, the faint sound of crying returned. In an instant he was dashing down the banks, his three-barrelled Peppershot still out from its holster, pulling the hammer back to a firing position. The sound of crying got louder and louder as he ran, but he saw no sign of that creature. Rounding a bend in the river, something in the distance stirred. This creature, however, was a white form. He continued to creep closer, the darkness and shadows eventually revealing what was making the sound this time: a woman. Her shape looked beautiful.
As he approached he yelled to her, “Be careful! There is a monster around here! Get out of here!”
“¿Que?” was the choked reply.
He tried again as he got closer to her, but this time in Spanish. As he approached he heard the sound of crying getting louder and slowed his steps.
“¿Señora, me entiendes?” (Madam do you understand me?) he asked her.
Getting closer he started to see more of her features. She had long black hair all the way down to the ground that was covering her face. She was dressed in a long white gown made of some fine quality fabric. She was barefoot, but her feet were clean despite being on the muddy riverbed. Flowerdew started to raise his gun when with a cry of pure despair she cried, “I have lost them! I have lost my children. I took them down to the river and they never came back!”
Flowerdew hesitated, stunned to hear her reply in English. He cleared his throat, lowering his weapon. “Madam, you are not going to find them tonight, it is too dark. You should head home.” He stopped several yards away. A chill was slowly creeping up his spine, as if it were one of the creatures of the jungle slithering under his garments, searching for warmth.
The crying had stopped, and in its place an unsettling stillness fell over her. With a dark and cold tone emanating from her form, she wailed, “I lost them all for him! I was not pretty enough for him. Why? Why was I not beautiful enough for him? Was it because I was too old?” Turning slowly towards him, she parted her hair and Flowerdew immediately raised his pistol. “Do you think I am beautiful?”
Where her eyes were supposed to be there were only puckered holes. Trails of black tears were dripping from the sockets. Her lips, while rose red, were cracked and bleeding. Her whole face was wrinkled like it had been at the bottom of the river for days.
Flowerdew unloaded the top two barrels. In the blink of an eye the woman was next to him.
“Do you not find me beautiful?” she wailed. “AM I A MONSTER TO YOU?!”
Lashing out with her arm, she knocked the Peppershot out of Flowerdew’s hand. She released a monstrous scream as he stepped back. Screaming, she charged him. Her hands, that only a moment ago were beautiful, had transformed into frightful long claws. “You are just like the rest of them!” she shrieked.
Drawing his other gun, Flowerdew started again. Cocking the twenty gauges this time, four holes appeared in the creature, but she still came at him. The claws ripped through his shirt even as he ducked backwards. Having trouble with his footing on the muddy riverside, he stumbled. The claws raked his shoulder, sending an icy chill through his arm that forced him to drop the lantern. Pushing against the jungle floor, his heels scrambling for purchase as he scurried away from the monster, he pulled out the high frequency machete. He fumbled at the ripcord trying to get the motor spinning. Finally, he grasped the cord in his teeth a
nd gave it a hard yank. As the motor started to slowly pick up speed he realised how much he was tiring.
His head cracked hard against a thick tree trunk. With the shadows and nightmarish creature closing on him blurring, he focused all his strength to hold on to the machete in his hands. Flowerdew looked up just in time to see her lunge for his throat. She grazed his neck as he lurched out of the way. On hearing the machete finally emit the purr of its engine spinning up to speed, he swung at her, missing the monster’s skull, removing a large chunk of hair. The night air filled with a wail of frustration and rage. She leapt over him, bounding over to the water, disappearing into the night.
Breathing heavily, Flowerdew rested himself against the tree. Ripping off his sleeve, he did the best he could to wrap the wound on his shoulder. Using his other sleeve he lightly wrapped his neck. He collected his lantern, the discarded side arms, and what remained of his wits, before making his way back to camp.
As he approached, the sound of running feet and men yelling came from the centre of camp, lanterns and torches spilling from the buildings and coming towards him. All the men circled the body of the dead lumberjack. Flowerdew went to call out to them, when his words and thoughts scattered on seeing and hearing the other men pouring oil over their dead comrade and then lighting him on fire. With a helpless yell, he staggered for the circle, trying to stop the men from destroying evidence. By the time he got to them, it was too late.
“Why would you do that?” he yelled as the corpse smouldered in front of him. Getting a myriad of answers from ‘making sure he stays dead’ to ‘appeasing the gods, ’ each group seemed to have their own reasons, but in the end, the result was the same: destroying the body.
Flowerdew’s eyes flicked open. He realised that it must be late in the day based on the heat around him. A foggy recollection came to him of wandering over to the mess hall for hot water and maybe some rum to dress his wounds. He remembered taking out his case journal, recording the night’s events. Somehow he pulled himself into bed, and passed out.
Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Page 8