Gorgon

by Mary Ann Poll

  A blood-eyed skull snapped through and back into the gray vapor. The mist darkened, spiraled into an angry tornado, and twirled in place above the jar. ‘I demand a willing sacrifice. Then I might leave your province, church dweller.’

  Varlaam Alexander sighed and lifted his head. ‘First, you must promise to return to your jar so I can remove you and it from this house of God.’

  The air around the tornado snapped and popped, then went silent. ‘Agreed.’

  The fog condensed until it was a small black cylinder. The jar’s lid flew to the side and hung midair. The vapor disappeared into the elaborate jar.

  The count studied the urn as he tried to make sense of the vision he had witnessed. He shook himself. ‘Nicholas, come.’

  A sleepy-eyed adolescent appeared at the top of the chapel’s rough-hewn stairs. ‘Count Alexander? Why are you here at so late an hour?’

  ‘Evil has entered this house of God. Stand watch and do not go near that,’ Varlaam pointed at the jar, ‘no matter what it begins to do.’ The count rushed to the back of the church and out into the night.

  Nicholas turned his attention to the pot. ‘What is wrong with him? This is just a pot.’ The jar rattled, levitated, and dropped back to the table. Eyes wide, Nicholas nodded and whispered, ‘Yes, sir. I won’t take my eyes from it!’

  Nicholas jumped when Count Alexander burst through the heavy chapel door. The count held the golden belt of the priest, used only in the most holy days of the church year. He bound the jar in the glittering fabric.

  ‘Father God, protect your servant Nicholas and me, a sinful man.’ He turned to the youth. ‘Gather four bibles, and follow me.’

  Nicholas stepped toward the door behind the altar and stopped. He did not take his eyes off the jar.

  ‘Now, Nicholas!’

  Nicholas jumped and skittered toward the vestibule.

  Varlaam nodded when he saw the bibles. He took hold of a candle snuffer, looped it through the gold binding, and hoisted the snuffer high into the air. ‘Get behind me.’ The count barked at Nicholas.

  The tiny procession stepped onto an eerily silent street. The vessel swayed side to side in rhythm with the count’s footsteps. Its deep red jewels turned a blood-red in the light of the full moon.

  As they left the town behind, the forest rose up and closed in around them. Even the night animals were silent—just as if a predator was stalking them. The light thud of their footsteps resonated in the silence.

  Count Alexander hesitated at the town’s boundary—a dilapidated wood and rope bridge. He started forward. The gentle tumble of the stream grew into an angry roar. Frigid water pounded the bottom of the weak overpass and sprayed Nicholas and Varlaam. The howl of the water increased with each footfall and made it impossible to speak in a normal tone. Nicholas covered one ear for respite from the screaming waters.

  The count looked over his shoulder and yelled, ‘Faster, Nicholas. We must get across before the bridge gives way.’

  Nicholas nodded and broke into a trot. The bridge swayed side to side and threatened to send the men into the stream’s frigid water. Varlaam slipped and tumbled toward the rope rail. He threw out his free hand, took hold of a wood post, and pushed himself back to his feet. Once on the other side, Count Alexander stopped and looked at the stream. A soothing gurgle and trickles of water belied the raging river it had been moments before.

  They trudged deeper into the forest just as dawn broke through the dark night. The sun was low in the sky by the time they came to a jagged opening to a mountain cave. ‘Here is where we stop.’

  ‘Why are we here?’ Nicholas’s voice shook with fear. ‘It is cursed!’

  ‘Where better? It is the one place no one dares enter. Here I can make the sacrifice I have promised to this creature so it will leave your town in peace.’

  Nicholas turned frightened eyes to the count.

  The count smiled and patted the young man’s arm. ‘No, no, young one. Not you. I will go in by myself. Guard the entrance. If I do not return, do not come to find me. Whatever happens, it will be God’s will. If I do not survive, you must return to the village and tell the story.’

  ‘I will not let you face the devil by yourself.’

  ‘I am not alone. God is with me. Put the bibles under my arm.’ Alexander crooked his elbow and Nicholas placed them where he was told. The count disappeared into the cave.

  A shaky breath escaped Solac’s lips. He lifted stone-gray eyes to Elder Shan.

  “Why have you stopped?” the youth leader demanded.

  “Because the next part of this story came to young Nicholas in a vision. It has been treated as the ravings of a crazy man. Since no one can refute it, I feel obligated to tell you. It may help you understand why your land is cursed. Here is what Nicholas said,”

  After the count entered the cave of curses, he set the jar on a ledge surrounded by pointed rocks growing down from cavern’s roof. The drips from each dagger-shaped outcropping echoed several times when they snapped to the floor. I could smell the water and mud. Alexander placed a bible in front, behind, and to each side of the jar. He left the golden belt in place. Then he prayed.

  ‘As Your Son once prayed, O God, I pray You take this cup from me. But if You will not, then take me home to be with You and Jesus when I am spent. Your will, not mine be done.’ His back to the jar, Varlaam knelt, closed his eyes, and waited. He was so deep in prayer he did not hear the jar vibrate. He didn’t see the inky-blue light it emitted. He did not witness the golden belt burst into flames and dissolve, or the rock on which the jar rested quake just enough for the bibles to slide to the floor. No, he didn’t see or hear any of this.

  The lid separated from its base. The black mist snaked out of the vessel and enveloped the count. By God’s mercy I don’t think he felt the pain of death. But he might have heard the words of the spirit before he fell unconscious. ‘Foolish, foolish being,’ the thing gurgled as it swallowed the last of Count Alexander’s life-blood. Then it opened its mouth and sang a seductive melody.

  The vision faded when Nicholas heard the melody. He thought the count was calling for help. He ran toward the cave, but a large earthquake knocked him to the ground. When the quake passed, boulders and rocks covered the entrance. He banged the blockage with his fists. ‘Count Alexander!’ Nicholas screamed. He scurried up the rocks wedged in the cave’s doorway and spotted a small hole. He threw himself flat against the hard earth and squinted into the darkness. The mutilated and lifeless body of Count Alexander was directly beneath him. Nicholas watched a trail of ebony mist slither into the urn before he ran for town.

  Some of the townspeople followed Nicholas to the site and climbed the small hill. They confirmed the count’s death to the rest of the town. It was reported to the authorities of the land the count had died in a cave-in during an earthquake.

  Saloc shook his head. “This is where most think the story ended. But like all who have an insatiable craving, the people of the town longed for the jar’s return. Many said it was calling to them. Some of the town’s men made a plan to clear the rockslide and retrieve the urn.

  “If several God-fearing men in town had not come together to pray for God to intervene, I believe the jar would have been recovered and the village destroyed. These brave souls agreed the vessel would be taken to an uninhabited place so that none could be tempted by this destruction again. But this is my opinion. I will let the story speak for itself.”

  On a moonless night, this small band of brave men, which included young Nicholas, set out for the cave. Along the way they talked about the murders. Somehow, they realized the killings happened only in darkness and this thing hated light. They timed the removal of the last rocks in the daylight hours. Light flooded the cave.

  Nicholas hurried to the jar and slid the Holy Bible under its base. He wrapped both in a burlap sack, stuffed them into a chest, and slammed the top.‘I will take this evil thing far away from our land,’ he said. ‘I will travel across the
great water to a place where no people live and bury it there.’

  Nicolas’s hatred of the spirit kept him to his word. When he heard of the Russians’ exploration of the ocean we now know is between Russia and your land, Nicholas made his way to a place called Okhotsk. The explorers’ ships set sail from there. Like many from my land, Nicholas believed the unexplored lands were only inhabited by animals. He found favor with a man named Waxell, who was second only to the great explorer Bering on the ship named the St. Peter. Waxell made the way for young Nicholas to join the crew.

  Two ships, the St. Paul and the St. Peter, sailed from Russia in the summer of the year my people call 1741. Because these vessels were named after the great leaders of his faith, Nicholas saw this as a sign from God.

  The ships traveled many days and then were separated. The one he was on, St. Peter, was alone for many more days without sighting land. The captain decided to head back to Russia. The many months at sea had taken its toll. The crew was falling ill; some had already died.

  When Nicholas received word they were returning to Russia, terror gripped his heart. He had not disposed of the urn. Now, it would be returning to his land. Visions of Count Alexander’s mangled body assaulted his mind.

  ‘Better I die then return this abomination to my home.’ Nicholas snagged a rope, tied the box around his waist, and prepared to jump overboard.

  He made his way to the bow of the St Peter. He picked up the pace when he saw several explorers heading toward him. He caught enough bits and pieces of the conversation to realize they were planning for an excursion.

  ‘How can you go on a trip to explore in the water?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Where’ve you been? Sighted land hours ago.’ They laughed at the young ship hand.

  New hope filled Nicholas. He quickly formulated a plan. ‘I’ve always wanted to explore. Is there any way I could come too?’

  The explorer called Afon said, ‘Now, why would we bring a scruffy kid? You’d be a rock around our necks.’

  Nicholas straightened his back and looked the older man in the eye. ‘I have been on this ship for months. I am strong. I can help carry your bags and instruments. You will have more strength to explore if I do this.’

  Afon grinned. ‘You have courage.’

  ‘I just want to see the world, too.’

  ‘This isn’t a party, scruff. It’s dangerous. You could get eaten. Even worse, you could fall off a cliff and not be found. You would die a slow and painful death from hunger and thirst.’

  ‘Doesn’t scare me.’

  Afon focused on Nicholas for the first time. ‘I’ll talk to the others.’

  A thin smile touched Nicholas’s mouth. He stood straight as an arrow while they explorers talked among themselves.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t easy, but they agreed. If you didn’t remind me so much of myself at your age, I wouldn’t have argued for you. Don’t let me down,’ Afon said.

  ‘God willing, I won’t.’

  ‘Then it is settled. Be here before daybreak. We won’t wait.’

  Nicholas made his bed by the explorers’ rowboat. For the first time since he sailed from Russia, he slept. His eyes popped open at the sound of footsteps heading to the small boat.

  ‘Hey, we have a rat—someone get the hook!’ one of the explorers barked.

  Nicholas skittered to the corner, hugging the chest.

  Afon lowered the hook and let out a sharp laugh. ‘Wait, it’s just the scruff who wants to be an explorer. Must have slept in the boat all night so he didn’t get left.’ Afon jerked his chin at Nicholas. ‘Make yourself useful, and let’s get this boat to the water.’

  When the boat reached shore, Nicholas jumped out and almost dragged it to the sand single-handed. He helped the other men bring their supplies to the island. While they readied for the exploration, he excused himself, citing a need for privacy.

  He hurried into the woods, believing he would come upon the right place to conceal the cursed burden and be back with the explorers before they missed him. But Nicholas wandered too far looking for the perfect hiding spot. He lost track of the time. When he reached a meadow, the angle of the sun made his heart jump. He looked around; nothing was familiar. The sounds of screeching birds and chattering squirrels were all he could hear. Even those sounds weren’t familiar.

  ‘What am I to do?’ Nicholas plopped down under a large spruce, opened the box, and stared at the jar. It began to glow. The deep indigo-blue made him forget where he was. He only wanted to stare at the color—forever. He slammed the lid.

  Leaves rustled to his left. His eyes flew to a stand of trees. A man leapt from behind some alders. For the second time in a day, Nicholas felt like a trapped animal and skittered backward. A dark-skinned man walked forward, spear held up toward the sky.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ Nicholas squeaked.

  The Native stopped and tilted his head to the left. He ran forward. Terror seized Nicholas, and he fainted.

  When he awoke, Nicholas was in an earthen hut, lying several feet from a crackling fire under an animal skin. Several strange men sat at the door. Nicholas sprang to his feet. His eyes darted around the room until they came to rest on the wooden box, still beside him. He crumpled to the floor.

  You see, Nicholas had fainted from illness more than fear. The scurvy was going through the ship, and it caught up with him. Those Natives took him from Kad’yak and to their home to heal him. He did gain enough strength to eat and live among the people.

  As you can imagine, they could not talk to each other—he speaking Russian. He began drawing pictures. They responded to him, eyes sparkling with humor at his attempts to talk very loud while drawing. Somehow, though, they taught him some of their words. They became his friends. None asked Nicholas about the box. They accepted it as his prize because they were an honest people.

  Nicholas insisted on participating in the next hunt. His new friends shook their heads at his stubbornness. You see, he breathed hard when he walked through the forest by the village. They knew he was not strong enough to hunt and told him no. He begged them until they agreed.

  On the way to the hunting grounds, his friends told Nicholas of their legends. Nicholas was at peace listening to their tales while walking through the deep forests and beside the Big Water. He almost forgot the box. He was happy for the first time in years.

  But then his friends told him the legend of a cursed place. When they passed a dark, treed gully he was told, ‘do not go in there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is cursed. It belongs to the evil ones. Do not go in there or you will become one of them.’

  ‘I will not go in,’ he answered. His heart leapt. ‘This is the place!’ he thought. ‘It is already cursed. No one will come near, and this thing will not harm anyone else.’

  Nicholas sneaked back to the cavern. He kept to his word and did not go in. At the head of the ravine, he found what he had been searching for—a mammoth tree stood partially hidden by saplings and brush. It had a split in its center the size of the jar. He yanked the box open, shoved the jar through the hollow, and stuffed dead leaves and sticks into the opening.

  ‘In the name of Jesus may this tree become a prison for the evil spirit in this jar. Thank you God for bringing me here. Thank you.’ Nicholas made the sign of the cross, turned, and ran from the tree. The creak of wood brought him to a stop. He looked back.

  His eyes grew wide. The leaves and sticks snaked together and formed tight bars over the hole. The tree shook. Its leaves withered and died until the only thing left was a gnarled trunk with a topknot of green. Nicholas witnessed the shriek of rage when the being realized it could not leave its prison. But he did not hear the curse the spirit yelled at him. Nor did he hear the response and the curse issued by a demon high in the command of Satan. One who had claimed this gorge as his home and whose home had been vandalized. The scurvy returned, and Nicholas died a few feet from the ravine.

  “This tree stands at the entran
ce to a gorge close to Tikhatnu. It is the ravine you know as cursed.”

  “You have done a horrible thing by not telling my grandfather and his people sooner. But if the place was already cursed, why do you tell us now? The people will not go near it. I know this place and the taboo, and I am young. What is done is done.”

  “The story is not quite over.”

  “How could it get any worse?”

  “The people of Nicholas’s village were enraged when they discovered their beloved object had been taken away. Most of the townspeople listened to the men of God and, although angry, accepted the truth and reasoning for the vessel’s disappearance. It should have ended there. It did not.

  “Some of them still burned with the hunger the evil spirit had put in them. A group of these men made it their life’s work to find the urn. Several set out to the south. They created a story to tell to other villages as they traveled—a priceless religious object had been stolen and they wanted it returned. This enlisted many to help them by spreading the word of a priceless object that, if found, would make any who owned it rich.

  “When the Russians explored your land, this story came with them. The explorers from the St. Peter knew of it. I believe they were looking for this thing and all the while it was under their noses with a young deckhand.

  “So I tell you this story as a warning. This evil waits for someone to set it free. Its hatred has festered and grown stronger over the years. It has grown jealous of the demons it hears playing around it and flying between the physical and invisible realms, taking souls and bodies it hungers to have. As evil can and does, it is waiting. It became a part of a tree guarding the entrance to the inconsequential, by human understanding, piece of land you call cursed. Its rage and hunger grow daily. God help anyone who releases it.

  “My story is done. Again, forgive me. May God have mercy on us all.” Solac stood up.