What October Brings

  I spoke to some of the fishermen and told them up front what we’d been about. Normally they would have rejected the suggestion they stay out of the water, but I could see the fear in them. Some of them were tight-lipped, but I knew they’d seen worse things out in the bay than the thing I’d brought ashore. They knew something evil was stirring. Old superstitions die hard in these parts. In the end I had a compromise. They’d stop fishing a week before the festival.

  ***

  The following day Morgana returned, her big vehicle towing a long trailer. I helped her undo the tarpaulin and gazed in surprise at what was revealed. She smiled at my expression.

  “Pumpkins?” I said. “There must be dozens of them. Is this for the festival?”

  “Powerful magic. Yesterday you showed me some fields backing on to the village, overlooking the beach.”

  “Riddick’s Farm.”

  “We must set these in the soil. Get the farmer to plough it.”

  I frowned. Jed Riddick was an ornery type. Very protective of his land. The fields in question had been fallow for years. They were reedy and the soil wanted too much doing to it to make it much use other than for grazing Riddick’s sheep.

  “And I mean now,” Morgana added.

  Kelvin Dobbs was Riddick’s cousin, so we gave him the job of twisting the farmer’s arm. Surprisingly Kelvin came back from his visit promptly. “He’s getting his plough out.”

  “That quickly?” I said. “What did you say, mate? You hold a shotgun to him?”

  Kelvin shook his head grimly. “He’s lost a lot of sheep. Found remains down along the waterline. He said if ploughing the land will help, so be it.”

  The words sobered all of us and Morgana pointed to the trailer. “There are two hundred pumpkins in there. As the land is ploughed, put them into the soil, cut end down. Twenty rows of ten, each row three feet apart.”

  None of us asked her what for. If she was working magic, it was fine by us and we set to with a will. Jed Riddick was as good as his word and had the ploughing done in no time. He and the rest of us seemed to be reaching back to a far past, something atavistic, in all of us, and up there on the slopes of the fields we were like men of a different age. Morgana walked among us as we set out the rows of pumpkins. Tom Kellow asked with a grin if we should have carved eyes, nose and mouth out of them, but Morgana shook her head.

  “Once they’ve rooted in,” she said, her face completely straight, “it won’t matter.”

  By the time we’d done, it was late afternoon, but we had our twenty rows of pumpkins, all partially buried in the clinging loam. Morgana had fetched several buckets from the front of the trailer. She set them down and we watched in fascination as she peeled off their plastic lids. We reeled back at the stench.

  “Blood and bone, and a few other things besides,” said Morgana, smiling at our revulsion. “Very potent. Come on, we need to feed the plants.”

  Again we did as bidden and emptied the disgusting contents of the buckets evenly among the pumpkins, the soil soaking up the liquid mess. We all stood back, mopping our brows, after it was done and Morgana said she was satisfied.

  “Good work. You’ve earned your beer. And the drinks will be on me. Mind you, you’ve one more job. These plants need to be watched. From tonight and every night, set at least two men to watch them right through till dawn. With shotguns.”

  Tom glanced at her uneasily. “Expecting trouble?”

  “Possibly. I don’t want the plants harmed, but the deep dwellers will be curious. If they come, use the guns.”

  “And the police?” I asked.

  “Say you were scaring off poachers. Tell them there’s been a bit of sheep rustling going on. The guns are just for effect. They’ll buy that.” She was right, I thought. Sheep rustling across the country had become a problem these days. It would make a good cover.

  ***

  I shared guard duty with Davey on the third night. The other guys reckoned on having heard something down on the beach the first couple of nights, and that ripe sea smell stank a few times, otherwise things were quiet. They livened up when I was there. It was long gone midnight when that familiar foul stink permeated the air. I’d taken one end of the pumpkin rows, Davey the other. It was very dark: apart from a few street lights on in the village there was nothing to see by, other than our flashlights. It was a wild night, clouds blotting out any potential moonlight and a blustery off-sea wind racing up through the fields.

  Davey’s flashlight was on. I heard him moving across the bottom of the field, nearing the beach. He shouted something but a gust clouted the words away. I saw a flash and heard the shotgun go off, two distinct blasts. Quickly I got to him. He was reloading, his flashlight at his feet. I swept my own beam in an arc across the beach and something was moving at the water’s edge, maybe thirty feet away. I couldn’t make out what it was, so didn’t fire.

  “Kill it!” shouted Davey, face twisted with fear.

  I heard the splash as whatever it had been went into the sea and although I shone my flashlight, it was too quick. Davey rushed past me and fired off another two cartridges, pausing close to the water’s edge.

  “What was it?” I called.

  “It must have crawled up the beach. It was almost on me, going for the rows of pumpkins. Had some kind of weapon. I think it dropped it. I saw its head…its face. Christ, it was revolting. Long hair, more like weed, so I only got a glimpse. Mouth like a big sucker…like a lamprey’s, you know?”

  “You must have hit it,” I said, bending down to the sand. “See, what’s this stuff? Blood?” I shone my flashlight on a patch of sticky muck that could have been from the wounded creature. We walked back up the beach, following the scuffed sand. There were no footprints, just deep scores, as if a turtle had struggled back to the sea, or a huge slug. Further up we found more of the blood stuff and with it a chunk of something flesh-like. It reeked and we knew this was the source of the stench from the sea.

  “Looks like you hit the bastard,” I said. “Blew part of it off. Don’t touch it.”

  Davey knelt down and shone the flashlight on the mess. I heard movements nearby and saw another beam. One of the policemen had come to investigate.

  “Bury it – quick,” I told Davey.

  He wasted no time and used the stock of his gun to scoop out a hole in the sand. He prodded the chunk of meat into it, burying it, roughly smoothing the sand over it.

  “What’s the problem?” said the copper. “Why the shooting?”

  “Bloody poachers,” said Davey. “Don’t worry, I only fired into the air. Scared ‘em off, though. They sneak up through the fields and set traps for rabbits. They’ll likely damage the pumpkins.”

  The copper, a young lad of about twenty-two nodded uneasily. “Right.”

  “Festival’s coming up soon,” I said. “We don’t want the pumpkins ruined this close. Can’t replace them.”

  “No,” he said. He hadn’t noticed the scuffed sand. If he caught the foul whiff from the sea, he didn’t mention it.

  Later Davey and I found the dropped weapon. It was a thin length of old beam, twisted and maybe carved into a shape like a digging tool, primitive but effective. We didn’t show the copper. He’d gone back into the village to a mug of hot tea.

  ***

  There were no other sightings in the last few days up to the end of the month. Morgana said the sea dwellers had learned all they needed to know. Halloween came and that night Morgana stood with me and a couple of the other guys down at the tiny harbour, watching the waves snarling in on what had become a blustery night. The moon was full, the clouds sparse, so the sea had a brilliant tinge to it, heaving and tossing out in the bay. High tide was just after midnight, and with this wind, it would roll right up along the harbour. Everywhere was battened down. Behind us, in the higher village, around its small square, the festival was in full
swing, with numerous lanterns and candles, other pumpkins, these carved, brandished on poles, or set in numerous windows. People were singing, cheering, and generally having a good time.

  We’d warned them all to get inside their houses and lock everything down tight after midnight. They knew the storm was going to be a really bad one. Many had already retired, especially those with young children, but there were still plenty of revellers, and the endless supply of hot dogs and grilled burgers filled the buffeting air with their unmistakable reek.

  “They’re out there,” said Morgana. “I can feel the hatred of the sea god. It knows me, and the things we’ve set here against it. Its servants will come. Nothing will prevent that now.”

  She was right. The bigger waves that battered their way in along the narrow harbour clawed at the buildings, whipped up by the ferocity of the wind. Lightning forked over the bay in dazzling displays and thunder rolled over us, almost drowned out by the roar of the waves. Small ships bobbed up and down at their moorings, tossed dangerously high. Several smaller craft were flipped over and dashed to pieces on the quay. I saw something emerging from the sea, a shadowy mass, like one wave had formed itself out of thick, glutinous tar. It wrapped itself around the bow of a trawler and I realised what it was – seaweed. Tons of the stuff, mangled up and balled into a massive web by the madness of the sea.

  In that flickering light it extended several tendrils; they snagged the back of the trawler. Davey cried a warning. The boat belonged to his cousin. He could see it was in danger of being wrecked. Already the weed had tangled itself around the wheelhouse. Another huge wave tore along the harbour and as it hit the trawler, the weed mass was flung completely over it like a black blanket. Moments later it subsided, dragging the craft under the water.

  Davey howled in fury, but there had been nothing any of us could have done. We raced along the harbour side, opposite the maelstrom where the trawler had gone down, but there was no sign of it.

  “Get the last of the revellers inside!” Morgana yelled, heading back to her vehicle, which was parked up one of the narrow side roads.

  As I started for the village square, the air writhed with shapes, debris perhaps, ripped from buildings, fences, anything loose. Ahead of me, one of the villagers was coming to see what was happening: something hit him in the face and chest. His hands tore frantically at it and I almost choked in revulsion as I recognised it. A jellyfish whipped up from the sea and hurled like a missile. We’d often had plagues of these creatures, but they were smaller than the palm of your hand and relatively harmless. This thing was three feet across, a sickly transparent colour, its long fronds barbed and deadly. They swung like lashes and cocooned the upper body of the villager, flinging him to the ground.

  Before I could react the air was filled with more of the things, blown into the village like a wave of mutant bats or aerial manta rays. I wove my way to the side street where Morgana had disappeared and barely reached its sanctuary in time to evade the whipping tendrils of another of the creatures. I could see the square. Most of its lights were out, the people having made for their homes now that the storm had erupted so violently.

  Morgana had pulled from the boot of her vehicle a long canvas bag. She hastily undid it and another bolt of lightning was reflected on what she revealed. Swords. A half dozen of them. At first I thought they were samurai blades, as they had that slight curve and were their typical length. But as she gave me one I realised it was something different, maybe from another time, an ancient weapon, although beautifully preserved.

  My other companions had all made it to the side street and each of us took a blade, unsheathing it to reveal a silvery blade on which unusual runes had been carved. Morgana waved to us to follow her. She was dressed in clinging dark clothes, a black assassin, a tight mask hiding all but her eyes. In the constant flicker of lightning she moved like a huge insect, occasionally swinging her blade at the air, slicing into the things that were gusting past us like missiles. We did the same, slicing the horrors apart in thick spatters of fluid.

  At the edge of the village, higher up, we could see the tide’s edge where the frothing white insanity of the waves disgorged more shapes. Things hopped ashore like giant fleas, and man-like beings shambled out of the water, apparently not damaged by it, as at home in its turmoil as seals. They were entering the village but I couldn’t see any of the villagers. The storm had thankfully driven them inside. Doors had been doubled locked and windows boarded up in preparation for this mayhem.

  Morgana shouted something about a black god’s army, intent on driving home his will. “They’ll want to reduce Rooksands to rubble, as they did with other villages. This time they’ll be weakened by the relics and the charms you set as protection the place. If we can divert their attention to us,” she added, but the wind tore the rest of her words away.

  I stood with Davey, Kelvin and Tom and in a minute we saw another figure coming down from the fields beyond us. Jan Riddick. He carried a shotgun, though Morgana tossed him the last of the swords. He gripped it uneasily but nodded. We were exposed up here, the storm raging around us, and it was all we could do to keep on our feet. We could see the edge of the sea, where waves larger than any we’d seen before uncurled and crashed down on to the beach, churning the sand and flinging it back up onto the edge of the field.

  Beyond us, out of reach of the waves, the lines of pumpkins stretched away into the darkness. I had seen them grow daily, the bloated shapes emerging from the ground at an extraordinary rate. Whatever foul concoction Morgana had fed them had done its work well.

  “There!” cried Tom, pointing with his blade.

  They were coming for us, knowing we were the key to the success of their invasion. The seas spewed forth another wave and it burst and reassembled itself into more skulking shapes. Tens, dozens, scores, a whole mass of them. The sea dwellers. The frightful, misshapen creatures that had been out in the ocean since before our own race walked the land. I tried to see their faces, but they were hidden under frond-like tresses, though their mouths gaped, ringed around with those lamprey-suckers. Their arms were elongated, ending in long, spatulate fingers. All carried a weapon, something resembling short spars of wood – ocean debris, perhaps, they’d shaped into killing tools.

  Neither I nor my mates spoke the one thing we feared – we hadn’t got a cat in hell’s chance against this huge mob. And there was nowhere to run. We were just going to have to use our swords and protect ourselves as best we could. Jan Riddick thrust his blade into the ground and levelled his shotgun at the front ranks of the sea things. He shot at them twice, and two of the creatures exploded like sacks of treacle, collapsing. But it was like killing two flies in a swarm.

  Morgana raised her sword. “Stand aside for a moment!” she shouted and the five of us fanned out away from her. She spoke strange words, which I took to be ancient Celtic lines, probably from the Old Magic she swore by. It was like she was conversing with the raging storm. To my amazement – and I admit, terror – she stretched upward and a crackling bolt of pure white light sizzled down from overhead and hit the end of her blade. The weapon went incandescent and I gasped, thinking Morgana would be roasted where she stood.

  However, she seemed unharmed. Instead she swung the blade down to the earth and drove it home. The five of us watched in amazement as the white light poured from the blade down into the soil. More than that, it spread out like a huge stain, back towards the rows of pumpkins. It was like fire, only it didn’t consume. It empowered. The pumpkins shook.

  For a moment the ranks of sea dwellers had paused, perhaps smitten by the dazzling lightning. They liked the darkness.

  On the upper slopes, all two hundred bloated pumpkin heads were shaking. I saw one begin to rise up, tearing itself from the ground, something from a nightmare. Shoulders, arms, a trunk – an entire body. Deep green, rounded, unfinished, but a body. Those arms unfurled, twice the length of human arms, a
nd for hands there were roots, thick and gnarled, curling fingers of filament. And the faces!

  If there are such things as demons, they would have such faces. Blazing eyes, jagged mouths, the scarlet light of hell itself pouring from within!

  Morgana waved us back and the lines of earth creatures moved forward, down the slope, to meet head on with the sea creatures. Overhead the clouds boiled, like the two gods from remote antiquity watched as their servants tore each other apart. Chaos burst out on the slope as the conflict began. As for me and my companions, we were caught up in that lunatic affray, rushing down on the sea things, possessed by I don’t know what, certainly a kind of ancient madness. I felt it coursing through my veins as I shrieked with the utter joy of it. We used our blades, spurred on by Morgana, who had become like some fantastic elemental warrior, clothed in the storm-glow. I heard a deep, gurgling sound, the combined voice of the sea creatures, calling out the name of their god, indecipherable yet somehow unnerving. Morgana’s curses crashed against the sound like those ragged waves below, equally as potent.

  Somewhere deep within me, something stirred, a memory of life long gone, a primeval striving, a power as dreadful as anything the sea had disgorged. It fed on Morgana’s words, on the vivid light in her blade and our combined mental resistance. Our god had a name, and it formed in the air like a blast of anger.

  The dreadful contest, the mangling of bodies on either side, the tearing apart of sea thing and pumpkin monster, ensued in a sudden grotesque silence, other than the shriek of the wind and the continuing blasts of thunder and crackle of lightning. It must have gone on for an hour, although we fought in a timeless vacuum. In the end I sagged down, exhausted, expecting to be swamped, but the world had gone still.