THAT DARN SQUID GOD

by Nick Pollotta

  "Miss Einstein, I have been thinking," Katrina said, attaching a new string to her crossbow. "What if all of these attacks were not attempts to kidnap you to use against the professor?"

  Moving away from the window so that she would not get shot in the back from a passing cab again, Mary limped across the living room and dropped heavily into a chair.

  "But what else could they be?" she asked, plucking poisoned darts from the velvet cloth.

  "I have no idea, miss, to be sure," Katrina said, notching a fresh quarrel into the crossbow. "But maybe there is something the Squid God chappies need in the museum - some ancient item: a charm or talisman to finish the ceremony of the rebirth."

  "Or something they're afraid of," Mary muttered thoughtfully, throwing a dart into the crackling fireplace. A second later, the flames turned black as pitch, bubbling and gurgling, and then returned to being a normal fire once more.

  "What a lovely poison," Katrina said in frank admiration, slinging the crossbow over a shoulder. "Almost as nice as our little golden frogs."

  "Not quite that powerful," Mary smiled wearily, brushing back a strand of loose hair from her face. Something in the museum, and not her. Bedamned, it's a deuced clever notion. But whatever could it be? Between the public museum, and her uncle's private collection of occult effluvia, anything was possible.

  Rising from her settee, Katrina walked to the trolley and poured them both a cold cup of the thick European coffee the professor loved so much. The machine for making it was to have been a Christmas present for the man, but duty calls for all in time of action, and the sludge-like brew would keep a corpse in motion for a fortnight. Longer with sugar.

  "What can we do if it is some exhibit they want to purloin, miss?" Katrina asked, starting across the room. "We already have the entire establishment under lock and key, with a constable outside."

  Kicking a bent knife on the carpeting out of the way, the cook brought the brimming mug to the exhausted woman, and Mary thanked her with a nod.

  "Well," Mary said slowly, flinching as she sipped the acidic brew. "We could always burn the place down."

  "Ma'am?" Katrina squeaked, dropping her mug. The cold coffee hit the floor and sizzled louder than the Squid God poison in the fireplace. "Burn the museum! B-but this is your uncle's life's work! It would destroy him to see the museum level as a cricket field!"

  "Yes, it would," Mary sighed, placing aside the empty mug. "But we may have no choice. How much coal oil and dynamite do we have in the cupboard, anyway?"

  "Plenty," Katrina replied in a brogue, a touch of her Irish heritage coming through unexpectedly. "But don't you go be doing anything hasty there, little miss. Let me make a few inquiries first. Perhaps I can get us some assistance for the matter."

  Curious, Mary asked, "More tigers?" as she pulled out a pistol to check the cartridges in the cylinder. "Or maybe lions this time? If we use dogs, there had better be a bloody great number of them. Or at the very least, they should be exceptionally large hounds. Now I do recall hearing some good things about a certain kennel near Baskerville…"

  "I have better idea in mind, dear," Katrina said resolutely. "What we need is assistance to guard this modern-day mausoleum."

  But the cook abruptly stopped talking when she spied a furtive motion near the window. When Mary looked up and saw the expression on the other woman's face, she instantly jumped out of the comfortable chair to spin about fast. While Mary brought up the shotgun, Katrina did the same with her crossbow. As both of the women prepared to fire, a fuzzy little squirrel scampered along the windowsill, its cheeks bulging with nuts. Ever so slowly, the two women eased their stances, and put the weapons away once more.

  "You were saying about getting some help," Mary said, with a weary sigh. "But unfortunately, I have already tried everybody available. The police are too busy, the military says it is not their concern, and the members of the Explorers Club are guarding their own establishment from the rain. Whatever that means! Who else can there be?"

  "You'd be surprised," Katrina said in a conspiratorial manner, glancing at the window. "I'll tell you when I get back, miss. Only be a few ticks, ya know."

  With a casual wave of dismissal, Mary deposited herself into the chair again. "As you wish. The squiddies rarely attack during the daylight."

  "Yes, I know." Laying aside the crossbow, Katrina took a spare Webley .32 revolver from a drawer full of assorted guns, pinned a wide flowery hat primly in place, and departed from the living room at a hurried pace, locking the door in her wake.

  Maybe she belongs to some secret society, as does my uncle , Mary thought in wry amusement. The International Sisterhood of Cooks and Chiefs. Housekeepers Incorporated .

  Impulsively rising again to make some more of the European coffee, Mary fought back an undignified yawn. She would not be ashamed to accept help from anybody at the moment. Even that oddly secretive Daughters of Lesbos Club that so wanted her for a member, but Uncle Felix stoutly refused even to permit her to attend a meeting.

  Rummaging about in a pocket, Mary found a Lucifer. In a very unladylike manner, she scraped it alive on a shoe heel. Lighting the little alcohol burner underneath the silver urn, she got the blue flame adjusted. Soon the coffee began to bubble. Shuffling wearily to a chair, Mary inhaled the pungent fumes, and sent a silent prayer to the universe that Uncle Felix and Benjamin were doing a much better job than she of stopping the impending apocalypse.

  ***

  As the fat cook left the museum and rushed down the sidewalk, the skinny little squirrel spit the nuts out of his mouth. Egad, what a hideous flavor! Striding to the street corner, the squirrel inserted two tiny fingers into its jaw and sharply whistled for a cab. As a brougham rattled by without stopping, the squirrel looked at its raised furry arm, and smacked itself in the head right between the pointy ears. The squirrel rushed into a small bush, from which then came some inhuman mumbling, a flash of light, and a rumble of thunder. The Dutarian High Priest of the Living Squid God rose from the bush covered with tufts of fur and leaves.

  Fighting his way out of the shrubbery, the exhausted High Priest started to summon another cab, paused, and angrily spit an acorn from his mouth. By the Great Lord Squid, the bloody things are everywhere!

  Stepping to the curb, the High Priest gave a sharp whistle and the same brougham from before stopped, this time to let the man climb aboard.

  "How did it go, Holy One?" the cabby asked, shaking the reins. The horses whinnied and started forward at an easy trot.

  "The silly little skirts are bringing in some help," the priest growled, leaning back in the seat. Frowning, he reached into his pants to extract another acorn. This time, he popped it into his mouth and chewed with a vengeance.

  "That could be trouble, sir," the driver said glancing sideways. On the street corner a full company of Royal British Marines walked along in tight formation, a Union Jack fluttering on a pole, while a couple of beefy Scots in kilts expertly made their bagpipes howl in anguish.

  "Only for them," the High Priest growled, turning to spit out the remains of the nut cap. Hmm, not bad. Perhaps acorns are an acquired taste. Like American beer, or human brains.

  Outside the carriage, the marching soldiers started a new tune with great gusto. The priest grimaced at the caterwauling. Now bagpipes, on the other hand …

  "Whatever do you mean, sir?" the driver asked puzzled, flinching from the musical onslaught.

  Ripping apart a handkerchief, the thin Dutarian stuffed bits of cloth into his ears. Ah, better.

  "If the ladies can summon assistance, so can we!" the High Priest growled angrily. "Only let me assure you that our new associates will be much more…infernal…than anybody they can possibly obtain for hire."

  Chapter Twelve

  Stepping off the gangplank, Professor Einstein and Lord Carstairs moved through a hatchway in the gunwale and onto the wooden deck of the strange vessel. When they did, the unnatural mist surrounding the explorers gave a final swirl and f
aded into nothingness. As the air became clear, just for an instant both of the men thought they had been reduced in size. Then came the startling realization that the sailing ship was huge. Tremendously huge. Mammoth beyond anything they had ever seen.

  The vessel resembled an Old World clipper ship, with the main deck stretching into the distance like a vast desert plain. Nine immense masts rose into the sky, each shaft thicker than the Tower of London. Ten thousand acres of canvas were laced with miles of rope. There were a dozen capstan rollers bulging with chains, with individual links thick enough to be anchors themselves. The forecastle was larger than the Albert Hall. The quarterdeck could have held army battalion maneuvers, while the main castle was equal to the castle of Buckingham Palace.

  There were even more oddities. The dark wood of the ship was deeply grained. Although it appeared solid, when seen out of the corner of an eye, the material seemed to warp in a most disturbing fashion. Plus, there were four gigantic steering wheels, each facing a different direction, which was flatly impossible. Rolling with a terrible slowness, the ship moved bizarrely against the swells of the sea in a most contrary manner. Pervading everything was a low mournful keening. The ghostly moaning came from the very wood of the monstrous vessel.

  Then there was the crew standing around Einstein and Carstairs. There were hundreds of crewmen scattered about the deck, and countless more hanging from the rigging like jungle monkeys. British tars stood alongside Vikings, who peered over the masters of Chinese junks. Spanish dandies jostled for position with American slave merchants, while stiffly formal German officers avoided contact with the Australian rumrunners and Eskimo whalers. On a dark night, when the fog rolled in from the sea, bringing with it the smell of salt and rotting fish, these people might well have passed for normal sailors. But only if you were under the stupefying influence of the illegal drug laudanum. They were an ill-dressed lot, surly, filthy, smelly, partially decomposed, and with the stain of their hideous crimes plainly readable upon every unshaven face. Some had their throats cut, others sported elongated necks from hanging, and a few actually had knives buried in their backs, the tips of the bladed peeking out from their shirtfronts.

  Only one sailor seemed undamaged: a large bull of a man, who stood slightly apart from the leering crowd of murderers. Dressed in fold-top boots and beech-skin trousers, the sailor wore a yellow silk shirt, and a dirty red bandanna tied about his head. A scar marled his left eye into a dead white globe, and his right ear sported a fat gold ring. Both the professor and the lord identified it as the ragged finery of a buccaneer from a century ago.

  "Aye, you're a fine pair!" the big pirate growled, placing both fists on his hips. "Never thought I'd see the day when some damn fool would ask to be taken aboard this floating slice of Hell, but here be the two of you! 'Though, I suppose, it is an act too stupid for any one man to accomplish."

  "Oh, I say," Lord Carstairs started in a dangerous tone.

  "Excuse me, but are you Captain Paul van der Decken of the Flying Dutchman ?" Professor Einstein interrupted, stepping closer.

  Brandishing a gnarled fist, the pirate frowned, "I am not! The name is John Bonater - Red John to the likes of you. And even if I was the captain, t'would do you no good a' tall! Your soul be ourn!" With a fiendish cackle, he pointed overhead.

  Einstein and Carstairs booth looked up, and gasped. High amid the rigging was Felix Einstein suspended from a knotted rope. But it was a younger version of the professor, and he had the same unearthly expression of unlimited woe shared by the rest of the crew.

  "Do try to hurry things along, would you?" the soul called down to the professor. "This is extraordinarily uncomfortable."

  "Righto," the corporeal professor answered, with a game wave.

  Recovering his aplomb, Professor Einstein addressed the pirate. "I am not terribly interested in that at the moment. My business with the Captain is about something else entirely. May we see him?"

  Jerking a thumb at his chest, Red John snarled, "Nobody gets to see the Captain! Even a pair of queer ducks like you!"

  "Why not?" Einstein asked simply.

  "Because I say so," Red John shouted defiantly. "That's why!"

  Cackling in dark humor, the crew murmured hostile agreement.

  Raising a fist to his mouth, Lord Carstairs coughed for recognition. "Ah, but you see," he spoke loud and clear, "we want to talk to the Captain of this ship, not some pox-ridden, milk-sucking, toffy-nosed, sticky-fingered son-of-a-barrel-boy."

  Every member of the crew went pale at that. Even the dead white flesh of the pirate actually turned a faint pink with rage. With a scream, he whipped forth the cutlass from his belt.

  "By the White Christ!" Red John cried as flecks of foam appeared upon his corpse lips. "Give him a sword! I'll carve you into bits so small even the rats won't have you! Give him a sword, I say!"

  From amidst the crowd, a scimitar came hurtling end-over-end towards Lord Carstairs. Unperturbed, the explorer neatly caught the weapon by the handle and made a few quick, experimental passes.

  "Hmm, cheap Singapore steel from the 1820s," the lord muttered, with a grimace. "With bad balance and a poor edge."

  A grudging mutter of approval came from the crew.

  "And if I win, we get to see the Captain?" Carstairs asked, sliding the strap off his shoulder and easing the heavy canvas bag to the deck.

  Stripping off the silk shirt, Red John barked a laugh as he dropped the garment, revealing a gaping hole in his chest. "If you win? Oh, aye, if you win. But this is a fight to the death, you Spanish-kissing bastard, and my passing acquaintance with a half pound of French iron has given me a slight advantage, don'cha think?"

  Attempting to radiate boredom, Lord Carstairs stifled a yawn.

  Without warning, the pirate leaped forward, his cutlass slashing wildly for a quick kill. But Carstairs easily blocked the attacks with a flick of his wrist and thrust the point of his scimitar deep into the pirate's left shoulder. Startled, Red John jumped back.

  "Not a bad move for a lick-spittle toady to the crown," the pirate acknowledged, studying the wound. No blood oozed out, only a trickle of clear ichor that smelled of dirty feet and ozone.

  "Your mother and a camel," Einstein whispered to his friend.

  "Your mother and a camel!" Carstairs said in a booming voice.

  Once again, Red John charged in a slashing fury, which the lord easily countered with an overhead block, and side parry. Now the pirate began to move with caution, easing on the hack and slash, and starting to use the point of his cutlass. It was a startling change of tactics. Lord Carstairs barely managed to stop the next charge with a lightning series of blocks. Soon the lord found himself slowly giving ground before the onslaught of undead steel. Again and again, the rusty cutlass of Red John stabbed at Lord Carstairs, once scoring a painful cut on the side of his neck. Sweat stung the wound, but Carstairs ignored the trifling pain as blood trickled into his shirt collar.

  Sparks flew as the combatants fought across the deck. The crew moved out of the way and loudly cheered both fighters. Professor Einstein briefly considered trying to slip away and find the Captain while the battle raged, but a quartet of armed corpses standing nearby were obviously determined to keep the professor exactly where he was.

  In a whirlwind of steel, the swords of the two men clanged and banged in relentless fury. Sidestepping a lunge, Carstairs ripped off his coat to gain more freedom of movement. With renewed speed, Lord Carstairs took the offensive, each riposte and slash coming with greater dexterity. Slowly, the grim lord forced Red John towards one of the great masts. Finally, the pirate was pressed flat against the wooden column, parrying desperately.

  "Here, matey!" a voice called, and another sword was tossed to the pirate.

  Panting from the exertion, Lord Carstairs retreated for distance. "Well then, if this isn't going to be a fair fight, why didn't you say so?" he drawled, pulling out the .455 Webley. Stroking the trigger, the lord blasted the blade off the sword
in the pirate's grip, damned nearly taking the hand along with it.

  Stunned and angry, Red John threw the pommel and knocked the smoking Webley out of his opponent's hand. The Webley slid along the tilted deck, and fell straight into the ocean. The crowd roared its approval.

  Equal again, the pirate lunged towards Carstairs, who dodged the thrust and tripped Red John to the deck. Scimitar whirling, Lord Carstairs moved in for the kill. But as he came near, the pirate slashed out at groin level. Just in time to save his descendants, the lord leapt upwards. Spitting fury, Red John scrambled to his feet and the fight resumed.

  Standing close to Professor Einstein, an African warrior in a feathered headdress and loincloth turned to a fat redhead wearing the oilskin coat of a lighthouse keeper.

  "Ten gold pieces on the Englishman," the cannibal rumbled.

  "Done!" the man cried. The two spit in their palms and juicily smacked them together.

  Daintily, the moistened professor pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face. "Interesting," he said, pocketing the cloth. "Do you often fight amongst yourselves?"

  "Of course!" the African replied.

  "Indeed. Whatever for? Food? Entertainment?"

  "The right to be on deck," a Japanese samurai added somberly.

  Dreadlocks bobbing every which way, a blind Jamaican nodded in agreement. "Ya mon, them that loses must go below."

  Professor Einstein glanced at the deck between his boots. Although the deck crew consisted of several hundred sailors, the number of murders at sea must have easily run into the thousands. Or more. The thought of what it must be like below in the hold to cause such a piteous keening made the professor feel quite ill.