Or, she was dead.
I was still trying to keep that thought away, but it was getting more difficult with every passing hour.
Grundle’s general demeanor suggested his mind went to more or less the same place.
“If she went downhill with the wave, the odds—”
“She’s very capable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Can we reach someone down there?”
He smiled again. I’m not really accustomed to trolls who have emotions that extend beyond anger and confusion, so interpreting the subtleties of his facial expressions was an entertaining distraction. I was nearly positive the one I was getting at this moment was a variant of pity.
“We can try,” he said.
* * *
“The first floor was largely washed away, Mr. Adam. But those inside and on the second floor, we think most of the ones on the leeward side of the wave are still alive.”
The person on the other end of the conversation was Paul, the hotel manager. I didn’t need to recognize the voice to know the speaker, because nobody else called me Mr. Adam. Vocal identification would have been difficult, because the signal was intermittent. We were using a radio that appeared to rely upon line-of-sight communication. Our end was using an antenna array near the top. Best guess, Paul stuck his antenna out the window of his second floor office. If so, it would mean the water had receded below the second floor.
“That’s good,” I said. “Well, not good, but not as bad as it could be.”
“The rooms happened to be sealed to account for heavy rains. They weren’t built to withstand consistent water pressure of this kind, but many held strong. We’ve tried to contact as many guests as possible by phone. It seems the plumbing has held, so there is water for us, but no food aside from what was already in the rooms. What power we have is generator-based.”
“Do you have a boat? Maybe you can start getting people out.”
“The water is still receding. In another day we may be able to walk upon the ground again. And… there is the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“Let me go to the window.”
There was a pause, as Paul carried the microphone to the nearest window.
“I will open this only in brief, so you can hear,” he said.
A couple of seconds later, he opened the line.
I heard the now-familiar banshee cries, only this was considerably more terrifying. In the hills, they came intermittently, a regular call-and-response sort of thing. These were cries atop cries, coming from near and far. It didn’t sound like communication in this setting, more like the persistent cawing of a flock of birds.
Then the line was closed again, as Paul let go of the transmit button and—I assume—slammed the window closed.
“The nights have been like this since the wave hit,” he said. “In the day, they calm down somewhat. We don’t know what they are, but they’re in the water, and they appear hostile. Esteban thought so.”
“Stubby? Stubby’s there?”
“Not here, we spoke by radio. He was off duty when the wave hit.”
Stubby had a small ranch house on the lower island not far from the town but a good distance from the hotel. It was near the base of the mountain, a short walk from the road leading up. The wave would have taken out the whole house.
“Off-duty and where?” I asked.
“Not sure. The radio was spotty when we spoke and I haven’t heard from him since. He had a deputy with a boat he promised to send to us, but that was some hours ago and no-one has seen this deputy, and Esteban hasn’t attempted to establish new contact.”
“Did he say if he was alone?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I’m looking for Mirella.”
There was a moment before Paul responded, which told me all I needed to know.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t heard anything about her, Mr. Adam. If we regain contact we will ask.”
“All right, thanks. Stay safe. When the water recedes… well, stay safe. I’m told help is coming.”
“You as well.”
I put down the microphone. The radio was located in the same room as Grundle’s computer, which was where he was sitting.
“They’re in the water,” I said, thinking aloud.
“What was that?” Grundle asked.
“Something Paul said. Have you looked at the footage from Buster’s camera yet?”
“I’m looking at it now. Would you like to see?”
He pulled up a still image of the banshee his pet dragon encountered. The image was blurry, but he appeared to be running some sort of program to improve the resolution.
“There are only about five seconds of footage in which the camera captures all or part of the creature,” he said.
“Buster scared it off.”
“A healthy reaction.”
“Did you get anything on the lower half?”
“The legs?”
“I’m not sure they’re legs.”
“Let me see.”
He went to a file of images. In the time it took me to talk to Paul, Grundle had broken up the video into separate frames. The clean-up he was doing on an image was being performed on one of these stills, but it was one that didn’t have the kind of detail I was looking for.
“There,” I said, pointing to one particular panel. “Just when Buster arrives, his head was down. It looks like he caught some of the lower half.”
He clicked on the shot, which was more than a little blurry. It was a glowing smear of white against a black background.
“That’s not much,” I said.
“Hold on.”
He applied some filters. The image got a little crisper.
“Doesn’t look anything like a pair of legs,” he said. “I think it was moving too fast at this moment.”
“I don’t think it was.”
There was a pair of something on the screen, but while they looked like they began as normal legs coming out of the lower torso, they flared out, like a pair of bell-bottom pants, only much bigger.
“You saw this with your own eyes,” Grundle said. “Are you saying this image is accurate?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
“It looks like two hoop skirts side-by-side. This can’t be practical.”
“Not on land, maybe.”
Grundle nodded slowly.
“You know what it is!”
“I might,” I said. “And I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud, but I think that might be a goddamn mermaid.”
12
“A mermaid,” Grundle said flatly.
“Or merman, I guess.”
“My skepticism remains.”
“I appreciate that, but look at it. Pull up the other image.”
Grundle went back to the picture the computer was still clarifying.
“If you had to design a being that was roughly humanoid but could survive in deep water, wouldn’t it look about like that?”
He grunted. “Maybe. Torpedo-shaped skull, muscular but covered in fat for insulation… there are some aquatic creatures who glow like this in light.”
“I was told they’re more dangerous at night. Sunlight must be rough for them.”
“They would burn easily with skin so fair. Who told you it was more dangerous at night?”
“That’s not important right now,” I said.
I’d sort of put the whole prophet-with-a-cult matter behind me. In another hour or two Gordana would be arriving at Bruno’s final resting place. She might see the damage done to the jungle in that approximate spot and assume the worst. What that meant to her and her leader’s understanding of the future was impossible to guess, but not really my problem.
My troll friend wasn’t happy with the answer.
“I think it could be important depending on when they said it. It’s been less than two days since the wave struck and before that these things were a curiosity, not a
threat. I assume you left nobody behind when Buster led you here.”
“Nobody alive.”
“Explain.”
I did. It took a while, and I had to stop and elaborate on what a prophet was, as the lexicon of known creatures he was working from didn’t include them.
“And you don’t know where they might be hiding?” he asked.
“She didn’t give exact coordinates. I was pretty lost anyway. I’m not so sure I know where I am right now, to be honest, at least not in comparison to any part of the island I’m familiar with.”
“Well. This is very interesting. Answers a great many questions. Not sure how to use the information.”
“This is what I was saying. Not important. What is important, is mermaid. I need to find out if Dr. Cambridge survived. Did the hospital get hit bad?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from anyone there, and I have no way to get a good visual. But I don’t know that Cambridge was there.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I monitor most of the island’s public communications. In an official capacity, I mean. I speak for the committee on several matters. I happen to know Dr. Cambridge failed to show up for work for the past week.”
“That’s crazy. I had a drink with him… when was that? Same day Stubby showed me the hotel room vandalism, whenever that was.”
“Interesting. It’s possible you were the last to see him before he disappeared, then.”
“Funny, yeah. And he was talking about mermaids.”
“Was he.”
“Yes, but not this kind. He was fixated on the more traditionally depicted sort. Kind of an obsession. I figure if anyone can help us with a firm identification of that thing on the screen, it’s him.”
“Certainly, but you would have to solve the mystery of his disappearance first.”
“You said nobody saw him after I did?”
“I can’t say for sure. Esteban was conducting a quiet investigation. I don’t think he considered it foul play, so I suspect there was no formal attempt to establish a definite timeline. We all thought he either just left, or went on a long hike and got lost. Humans can be flighty.”
“We have to find out where the cult is hiding.”
He smiled. Troll smiles look a little like crevasses in rock.
“A minute ago you claimed they weren’t important,” he said.
“I did. But the succubus said they had a doctor with them.”
“Could be a different doctor.”
“Could be. But there aren’t a lot of people in the world who specialize in the medical needs of impossible creatures, and this island isn’t all that big.”
Grundle continued to look amused, provided I was reading his body language accurately. I looked forward to a time when I might enjoy his company in less trying circumstances. Dinner, maybe, after the island was rescued and dried out and rebuilt, and all the dead were found, and Mirella was back.
It sounded more plausible in my head.
“I understand your resistance toward a cult run by a prophet,” Grundle said, “but you have to enjoy the irony. If you had done as they asked you could have been getting those answers right at this moment.”
“Yes, but they would have been answers to questions I didn’t have yet. I still like this way better. I just don’t know how to find them now.”
“You could go back to the spot she left you, they may still be there.”
“I don’t know where that spot is. I was led out in the dark by an excitable dragon. Buster seems pretty smart, but if I were to ask him to lead me back I wouldn’t even know what to tell him to lead me to, and I might not recognize it again. The best solution is to find a camp that nobody has been able to find. It’s up here somewhere.”
He arched an eyebrow, which was quite a thing. Troll foreheads are rather pronounced.
“Nobody knew to look for them up here,” he said. “The estates mostly self-police, as you know.”
“You have an idea.”
“I have a thought. Let’s go visit a friend.”
* * *
Visiting a friend didn’t appear to involve exiting the cavern. One would think of that as a minimum requirement for going on a journey, but it turned out the internal network of passages—some combination of natural and artificial—was extensive.
We began by heading deeper into the middle of Grundle’s living space until we reached the source of the flowing-water sound. This was a small pool fed from above by a steady drizzle. It looked like a low-pressure shower. I wondered if that was how it was used.
“It’s replenished by rain water,” the troll said, “but since it doesn’t rain consistently enough to keep all of it from traveling down the mountain, we have a recycle that sends some of the water back up. Real waterfalls tend to be closer to the bottom of mountains.”
“Larger mountains,” I said.
“True. Our little hill is a striver. Come along.”
To the side of the pool was a natural staircase of sorts, which led up and into a passageway. It was big enough for me to walk around upright, but a pretty tight fit for my host.
“It will get steep from here,” he said. “Will you be all right without shoes? I’m afraid I have nothing in your size, but I can put you atop Buster. Or carry you, if you don’t find that offensive.”
“As long as it’s lit, I should be fine.”
We climbed in silence for possibly a half an hour. I couldn’t be sure as I had no watch on, and the passage of time is really hard to guess in this sort of situation, but that was what it felt like. At one point, Grundle stopped and pulled hard on a thick rope dangling from the ceiling: two quick tugs, a pause, and then a third tug. My guess was, this was somebody’s doorbell. I became concerned that we were perhaps about to be greeted by someone even larger than a troll.
The sound of trickling water got louder again as we neared the surface, and then the light ahead began to look more like sunlight.
It was evidently morning.
The water became a pool and the path we were on became the side of that pool, and then we came to the cavern opening and I realized I’d been here before.
We were standing on the inside of Dmitri’s grotto.
The elf gangster’s footman was standing at the mouth.
“Gaugin, isn’t it?” I asked.
He was dressed in the same coat-and-tails I’d seen him in the last time, and he still looked completely out of place in it. On seeing me there, he shot a look at Grundle that was subtle enough to be almost impossible to read. Guests, I surmised, did not get brought to Dmitri through this particular route.
“Yes sir,” he said. “You look as though you’ve had an unfortunate couple of days.”
“Not nearly as unfortunate as most of the people on the island.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Grundle again. I had the sense he wanted to discuss with the troll how it came to be that I was emerging from the caverns, but his butler responsibilities weren’t allowing him to speak quite that freely.
“Let me bring you inside,” he said. To Grundle, he asked, “Can I bring you anything?”
“No, thanks Go-Go. I’ll head back down. Give a ring if I’m needed. Adam, it was a pleasure. I hope we talk again soon.”
“You aren’t coming?” I asked.
“I don’t leave the cave,” he said.
I thought there was more to be said around that point, but the necessary explanation was perhaps too long for the time available. He probably just didn’t want to be picked up by any cameras, but the idea that modern trolls might be naturally agoraphobic sprang to mind. It would certainly explain why they tended to hide under and in things, and why so few people encountered one.
Yes, I was pretty much just looking for a new weakness to replace the one Grundle contradicted. Force of habit.
Gaugin led me from the mouth of the grotto along the poolside and past the cabana where I’d last sat with his boss.
; “Is she alive?” he asked, as we walked.
“I don’t know. Have you heard from Esteban?”
“I’ve heard from nobody. I have ten family members downhill and no way to reach any of them. Each would know how to get in touch with me, and none have. What happened to her?”
“The wave reached the house. We had a hold of each other, and then we didn’t.”
He stopped at the door and adjusted his coat-and-tails in a way that looked like a nervous tic.
“She was spared the worst, then. If she’s smart, she’ll make her way here. Possibly not via the same path as you. Come.”
We entered a house that was echoing with gunfire.
“Don’t alarmed,” he said. “Nobody is shooting anyone.”
The entryway was just as I’d seen it before: modest in size but aspiring to be grandiose. The floor was marble, and there was a knock-off of a Greek statuette on a pedestal in the center of the floor. It portrayed a young Olympian preparing to throw a discus. While it wasn’t an original, I was pretty sure I knew the artist being imitated. I think I might have even known the model.
We went past the statue and around the bottom of a staircase, to another door. On our way there we went by an open doorway leading to a dining area. A pretty young elf girl in a housecoat was eating breakfast quietly, alone, while looking at a handheld electronic thing. She was easily young enough to be Dmitri’s daughter, but girlfriend was just about as likely. I decided the social awkwardness inherent in determining the answer to that question wasn’t worth it, and kept quiet.
The door under the up staircase led to another staircase leading down. As soon as Gaugin opened it, the sound of gunfire got substantially louder. Having spent part of the early morning walking toward rushing water, I was now heading toward machine gun fire. I felt like I should be attempting to compose some manner of poetry around that idea, which was as sure a sign as anything that I needed some sleep and a lot of alcohol.
The basement was pretty similar to the caverns I’d just left behind, except this space appeared to be self-contained. It definitely occupied a larger footprint than the house above it, but not that much larger. It could have benefited from better sound-proofing, though, because as we continued to descend the sound of the gunfire, while intermittent, became loud enough to suggest it might cause damage to our hearing.
Immortal and the Island of Impossible Things (The Immortal Series Book 4) Page 21