Gorgon

by Mary Ann Poll

  A glimmer of color caught his eye. He headed off the trail, and picked his way through the low-lying brush to an emaciated black spruce. He yanked a piece of cream and red cloth from its withered branch and examined the fabric. “I know this pattern.” Ivy June Coistrell’s hobo-style carpetbag streaked into his consciousness. “Why were you here, Ivy June?” Watermill stuffed the fabric into his pocket and made his way back to the animal trail he’d been following.

  The tangle of black spruce and Devil’s Club gave way to a dark river bank. He smiled when he spied a wooden footbridge spanning the waterway. It disappeared behind a barrier of bare and gnarled spruce trees. Watermill headed down the wet slope to the water’s edge. A barbed stone fell to the ground at his feet. The object hummed to life. The detective bent forward for a closer look. Shades of purple and black pulsed in rhythm to the eerie tune.

  Watermill picked up the arrowhead and placed it in his palm. “There have to be some batteries in this thing.” He turned it over to look for a power source.

  A stabbing pain shot into his hand and raced up his right arm. Watermill dropped the sharp stone and looked on in horror as skin gave way to white bone. Blood filled the deep wound, and poured out onto the ground. He snatched the red and cream fabric from his pocket and stuffed it in the wound.

  Terror melted away and an inexplicable sense of euphoria took its place. The pain melted away when visions of power and riches filled his head. He retrieved the arrowhead and studied it with excitement. “You’re what I’ve been looking for! It is not her but you!”

  As if in agreement, the arrowhead vibrated, then hummed a seductive tune.

  A dark mist formed above the muddy earth and mushroomed skyward. Gambogian stepped through the black curtain in his demon form. “Are you the one who killed the tree?” he thundered.

  Watermill’s eyes left the mesmerizing colors in his hand. Cold fear gripped his stomach when his eyes met Gambogian’s blood-red ones.

  “Answer!” Gambogian demanded.

  “Yes. I chopped down the tree outside of Ravens Cove.”

  Gambogian smiled, revealing moss-colored fangs. His voice took on the sound of a gurgling brook. “Did you take the vessel the tree held?”

  Watermill calmed. “I did.”

  “Did you open it?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, an old friend of mine resided in the jar. I want to see her again.”

  Carson’s eyes lit with excitement. “You worship Lilith, too?” She is wonderful, isn’t she? Such power.”A thrill ran through Watermill as he remembered the tales passed down through his cult—of the contentment all felt who had seen and worshipped Lilith.

  “She is a rarity. Did you release her?”

  “I was chosen by my brothers to seek her hiding place. I did what so many others only hoped to.”

  “I can see you are pleased by your accomplishment. Do you have the jar?”

  “I do.”

  “Oh, that is very good. May I see it?”

  Watermill considered the appeal. “Why not?” He held the vessel up to Gambogian.

  “Commander, it is the one you seek!” Gambogian roared.

  The creak of leather overpowered all other sounds of the night. A gale-force wind forced the tall grass and gnarled trees into a low bow.

  The roar of the air fractured the trance Pet had thrown over Watermill. His saucer-shaped eyes watched two winged giants descend from a moonless sky.

  Gambogian bowed to Iconoclast, then Atramentous. He dropped the jeweled urn into Iconoclast’s open hand.

  Iconoclast considered the heavy pot. “It is Lilith’s prison. I am pleased, Gambogian.” He focused hunger-filled eyes on Watermill. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Why are you looking for me? I don’t know you.”

  “Oh, but I know you. Which is what’s important.” Crimson saliva trickled from Iconoclast’s mouth. “Now I feast.”

  The intent of the dark commander’s words blasted into Watermill’s conscious mind. “Keep the jar.” He bolted toward the muddy embankment.

  “No, my friend, you will stay.” Atramentous twisted into a black rope and catapulted after Watermill. He looped around the detective’s waist and dragged him back.

  “Open your hand.” Iconoclast roared.

  Watermill’s fingers flew away from his blood-soaked palm.

  “I’ll take that.” Iconoclast snatched the arrowhead.

  “Can I go now?”

  “Oh, no. You have brought an even greater destiny on yourself than you would have imagined, Detective Carson Watermill.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know the names of those who are mine.”

  “I’m not yours! No man belongs to anyone but himself.”

  “You are wrong. By releasing the Gorgon, you became the one puny human I have permission to devour—for now.” Iconoclast rocketed forward and seized Carson Watermill.

  Wendy shook her head and stared at the groceries in Kat’s arms. “You are the only person I know whose stomach overrides any crisis.”

  Kat laughed, then pointed in the direction of Cook Inlet. “What do you think’s going on?”

  Wendy squinted to the west. “All I see is haze.”

  “No, not the fog at the base of Mount Redoubt. It’s closer to the beach and to the right. See it?”

  “Now I do.” Ravens and eagles blackened the sky above the slateblue water. Several broke away, rocketed to the earth, dipped, and shot back into the crystalline sky.

  “Some fisherman threw fish guts on the beach again.”

  “Too many carrion birds for a prize so small. Let’s get to the cabin and see if we can get a better look—from inside where we’re safe.”

  Wendy scooped the groceries from Kat’s arms, popped the Subaru’s trunk, and lowered them into the charcoal-gray well. “Get in.”

  Kat slid into the passenger seat and leaned toward the windshield to get a better look at the black mass.

  Wendy parked alongside Kat’s deck. “Let’s get inside.”

  Kat got out of the car, her eyes never leaving the turmoil in the western sky. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a gyrating storm cloud!”

  “Hey, Kat.”

  Kat looked at Wendy. “Uh-huh?”

  “There’s a trail of blood here.”

  Kat dropped her eyes to the ground and followed the red drops and smears up the porch stairs and into the house. She streaked up the steps and through the cabin door. “BC!” she yelled.

  A black and red streak dashed out from behind the couch. “Oh, my lord, BC.” She scooped the feline into her arms.

  Wendy sprinted into the room and scanned the blood-splattered walls.

  Tears streamed from Kat’s eyes. She stretched the bottom of her T-shirt into an open sling, put the feline in the pouch, and wrapped the soft material over his body.

  “Hold him still.” Wendy examined the cat and located an oozing slash. “Looks like it’s only the back leg. But the wound is deep. He needs to get to Carl.”

  Kat rushed into the kitchen, grabbed two hand towels, and wrapped them around the cat’s back leg. “Those answers I’m looking for are going to have to wait. Call Nyna. Tell her we have an emergency.”

  “I’ll take him, Kat. I have a feeling whatever you came here to find is important.”

  “I can’t leave him alone, either.”

  “If we don’t get to the bottom of this, we are all gonna end up a lot worse off than this cat. I can’t do that—you can. I promise I won’t leave him.”

  Fresh tears filled Kat’s eyes. “Thanks, Wendy.” She took a forest green and black checked flannel shirt from her bedroom closet, swaddled BC, and followed Wendy to her car.

  “Set him on the passenger seat.”

  A powerful wind followed by a loud swoosh sent Kat to her knees. “What the heck?” She looked up to see a bald eagle climb and level.

  “It’s after BC. Get him in here.” Wendy t
hrew open the passenger door and ran around the hood to the driver’s side.

  “Why are they after BC?” The eagle turned and dove at Kat. She covered the cat with her body, lowered BC into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. Kat jogged toward the road.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the Inlet to find out what’s going on,” Kat yelled over her shoulder.

  Wendy threw the car in reverse and spun it to a stop where the driveway intersected the street. “No, you’re going to find whatever you came here to find. I’m calling Bart.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Then he can get unbusy. Now get in the house. I’m not leaving until you do.”

  A familiar swoosh sent Kat back to her knees right before a golden talon snagged her by the hair. Kat’s eyes shot skyward. Several eagles and ravens circled the car. “Now what?”

  “Look at your shirt.”

  Kat bent her head. BC’s blood had stained her shirt the color of rotten cherries. “No wonder—you win.” Kat ran for the small cabin and slammed the door. She peeked out the living room window. A trail of dust lingered above the dry dirt road.

  “God, I know I haven’t talked to you so much lately. But, if you would, please take care of Black Cat. He’s so precious to me. Please. Oh, I forgot—in Jesus’ name. Please.”

  Kat looked toward the kitchen then to the living room. What am I here for? She heard a small voice in her head whisper bedroom. “Good a place as any, I guess.” She walked through the doorway and perused the celadon-green walls and the brass bed she inherited from her Gran Tovslosky. She continued to scan the room until her eyes came to rest on the birch closet doors. Kat yanked on the off-white ceramic handle and glanced at the clothes, the vacuum cleaner, and a scarred and paint splattered step stool leaning against the back wall. She looked up and spotted her box of memories. Sadness gripped her heart. Do I have to? Yes, the small voice answered.

  She dragged the stool into the room, climbed to the top step, and tugged on the box. “Whoa!” Kat gripped the wall to steady herself and wrestled the box to the ladder’s top rung with her free hand. She dropped it at the foot of her bed, sat cross-legged, and stared at the brown cardboard.

  “I guess you aren’t going to open yourself.” Kat peeled back the creased flaps and stuck her hand into the contents. She pulled out a photograph. A pre-adolescent Bart smiled, his arm around a dark-haired, green-eyed child of six or seven, and a younger version of Grandma Bricken. Jagged mountains in shades of gray and white jutted up in the distance. Three log cabins, one with a sagging roof, sat in a horseshoe-shape around the trio.

  “What’s in the background?” she said. A long shadow was the only clue of the photographer’s identity. “I don’t remember anyone else being with us.” She put the picture aside to ask Grandma later. She stuck her hand back into the box and came up with a chain made up of light red, brown, and lime-green construction paper links. An elbow macaroni and pinto bean turkey came next, then her book of Russian tales.

  She flipped through the book’s brightly colored illustrations, and turned to the inside cover to see the date it had been published. An inscription jumped out at her. “I never saw this!”

  Remember your roots. Always remember your roots, Katrina Agnes Tovslosky. When I’m not there to remind you, these tales will. They are of our people. After you read them, go and look at the quilt I made when you were but a small button on this tapestry they call life. I’ll love you always. Grandmama Tovslosky.

  Kat hugged the hardcover book to her chest. She looked around the room. Stupid. BC is not here. She longed to pull him into her lap and cry into his thick, black fur. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed. A soft muzzle pushed through her hands until a wet snout touched her nose. Kat threw her arms around Carnelian. “How’d you get here? Why aren’t you with Annie?”

  “My fault,” Paul answered from the doorway.

  “Pastor Paul!” Kat swatted at the tears and stood up.

  “Ken asked I bring her to you. Old Town is not the best place for her right now.”

  “Annie Scofland was supposed to come by the station and get her. What happened?”

  “Ken didn’t get a chance to call you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He should be the one to talk to you.” Paul looked at Carnelian, then to Kat. “Guess he won’t mind. Seems Annie got her back to the store, and Carnelian slipped out the door as soon as a customer came in. Then, she ran to the police station and made a huge ruckus until some Good Samaritan let her in. To make a long story short, Annie said she wants what’s best for the dog, and it seems to be Ken.”

  “He is a great guy,” Kat said to Carnelian.

  The dog swished her tail.

  “You are a sweet one. I sure could use another hug.” Carnelian leaned against Kat’s arm.

  Kat’s warm laugh filled the air. “Where did you learn such a thing?”

  Carnelian tilted her head and held Kat’s eyes with her steady gaze. I’ve always known how. God taught me, the look said.

  A white blur dashed past Paul.

  “Benny, the girl doesn’t need to wrestle right now.” Mrs. Tellamoot shuffled into the bedroom.

  Kat lay sprawled beside the foot of the bed. “Do you have to tackle me every time, dog?” She pushed him to the floor. “Mrs. Tellamoot? Why are you here?”

  “My fault, again. She caught me outside the police station, saw this one,” Paul pointed at Carnelian, “and asked if I happened to be coming here. Seems Wendy ran into her at the vet’s office and told her you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  Kat shook her head. “Well, for once her gossip is welcome.”

  “I can’t help but notice you were crying. Maybe I should leave you and Bernice to talk?”

  Kat smiled at him. “This isn’t a girl thing, Paul. Just a trip down memory lane with my Grandmamma Tovslosky.”

  “Those are hard trips to make. But she died in Christ, am I right?”

  “Oh, yes. She loved God as much as Grandma Bricken—hard to imagine I had such great role models and ran as far as I could for as long as I could, huh?”

  “Not hard to imagine. But the good news is you’ll see her again. She’s with Christ now. No better place to be.”

  “True. And we seem to be living in the true hell on earth. Glad she isn’t here.”

  “And, again, we fight.”

  Kat nodded and looked at the book of Russian tales. “I don’t know why, but this is why I’m here.” She held the old book up for Paul.

  “Is it in English?”

  “Some is. My Russian is very rusty.” Kat smiled remembering her grandmother’s patient instruction in her native tongue. “But I had a great teacher, so maybe I can muddle through.”

  “If you tell me where to find it, I’ll put on some coffee, and we can go over the book together,” Mrs. Tellamoot said. “As I told you a few days ago, we need to talk.”

  “I’ll take my leave. You’re in good hands now.” Paul patted Carnelian, then Benny. “Very good hands.”

  Kat’s glanced up from the book of fairytales when Mrs. Tellamoot returned. “Thank you.” Kat took the coffee cup and set it beside her on the floor.

  Mrs. Tellamoot grinned. “Well, now there’s a sight to behold.”

  Carnelian was on her side. Her feet hidden under the bed; her head resting an inch from Kat’s right elbow. Benny was sound asleep at Kat’s feet.

  “Here it is!” Kat shouted.

  Carnelian’s eyes flew open. She jumped to her feet and barked.

  “It’s okay. Just me getting excited.” Kat ran a slow hand down Carnelian’s back. The sheltie vibrated beneath Kat’s touch as she continued to emit low growls.

  “So, what did you find?”

  “The tale of Gorgon—a trapped spirit in a tree.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you found it! Your Grandmother Tovslosky was a wise woman—a prophet some liked to say. The reason I’m here is because one day right before she
passed from the earth, she came to me and said, ‘Bernice, I’m going home soon.’ I told her she was being silly, and she was healthier than I was. She shook her head and said, ‘I know what I know.’ Then, she asked me to share something with you but not until the tree at the head of the ravine was destroyed. Then, I was to give you a message.”

  Goosebumps covered Kat’s arms and neck. “What did she want you to tell me?”

  “An angel of God came to her and told her you were put on this earth to fight. Not to fight man but to fight evil. She burst into tears and begged Almighty God to take this from you. The angel said it was your destiny and could not be undone. The Almighty One wanted her to know, and her to tell you, you do not fight alone. His angels are with you, even now.”

  Kat’s eyes misted over again. “Thanks, Bernice.” Kat looked to the ceiling. “Thanks, Gran. I miss you so much.”

  Bernice patted Kat’s hand. “Now, tell me what you’ve found.”

  “Oh, right. This is almost the same story of Lilith in the book Josiah got from his priest friend. Except, this story mentions other details, too.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says Gorgon and the fallen angels are arch enemies. They fight for the same prize.”

  “Why do two evils fight? It’s counterproductive.”

  “She isn’t like the demons. She was a human who became so evil, humans called her a demon. They had no other term for it. The legend talks about a jar.” Kat’s eyes widened when she read the description. “I know this jar!”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “One like it—right down to ‘the color-changing gems melted into the stone’ as it says here.”

  “I see.”

  “It also talks about a matching casket—like for a dead person?” Kat looked up at Bernice Tellamoot.

  Bernice laughed. “No. That is an ancient description of a box used to hold trinkets or jewelry.”

  “This illustration reminds me of the missing box.”

  “How does this container come into this?”

  “Well, it seems it was made first as a way to imprison this spirit, but the box could not hold Gorgon. It didn’t have enough magic.” Kat wrinkled her nose. “Magic?”

  “We’ve had crazier things going on here.”