Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  “Three days.”

  “I have to get... uh, somewhere.” Again, he couldn’t quite remember; it was a place of buildings and men. That much he knew.

  The monk ladled a thin broth with a few vegetables and a tsampa dumpling into a pounded metal bowl.

  Rubbing his forehead, Javier realized it was broader than it had been before. The tips of his fingers tingled as he explored. Hair. Thick hair. On his forehead. On his temples, his cheeks, his neck.

  “A mirror!” he cried.

  Tenzin Jinpa looked up, and then ladled a second bowl of soup.

  “There is no need for mirrors here.”

  Javier’s attention went to his arms, the grim truth turning his stomach sour. His arms were muscular and covered with thick, dark hair, and his hands were... barely hands at all. His fingers were bony, long, and where his fingernails had once grown were yellowed claws. In his palms were thick pads of flesh.

  He twisted his hips. There was stiffness but no sharp pain. His legs ached, but he could curl his toes.

  Soon, he would be able to stand.

  Javier rose to his elbows and pulled himself into a sitting position on the cot. He had no control over his legs, but soon, he would. Then he would be free. A heightened awareness swept through his body, giving him the sensation of tranquil happiness. It was what he had always been looking for. Now, he was the mountain, the sky, and the wind. He was alive. Outside, it was cold and fresh. He was anxious to leave the heavy air of this confined space.

  “Here,” said the monk, handing him the bowl of soup. “We must talk. Night approaches. The moon will be full, and this will be your last meal as a man.”

  ***

  They consumed their food in silence.

  Javier stared at the unappealing mix of vegetables and dumpling in his bowl and ate without tasting. Finally breaking the silence, he said, “I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars if you’ll take me to Lhasa.”

  The monk raised his eyebrows. “Of course, you understand you are becoming g.ya' dred? A yeti?”

  Nothing was left in his soup bowl but broth. In the dim light, Javier could make out a shimmering reflection. He tipped the bowl trying to get a clearer view.

  Looking back at him was a beast.

  The soup bowl clattered as Javier threw it to the floor. Surely, someone, somewhere, could help him.

  “Two hundred thousand,” he snarled.

  Tenzin Jinpa mopped up the spilled soup with a rag. “Money has no meaning when we are speaking of yeti.”

  Javier heard little of what the monk said. The words were becoming jumbled, foreign, floating, hard to understand.

  “If you won’t help me, why did you pull me from the avalanche?”

  Puzzlement clouded Tenzin Jinpa’s face. “I did not save you. Someone left you at my door.”

  Not someone, thought Javier.

  Some thing.

  ***

  The abandoned monastery had been carved into the stone face of a mountain, high above the village where Javier had spent the summer working at the International Heath Centre.

  The superstitious villagers had warned him to avoid it.

  That had been just like an invitation to Javier.

  The entry had been concealed in a rocky crack, undisturbed for ages. Once inside, crumbling pillars supported an ancient ceiling. His flashlight beam revealed dozens of rooms filled with cobwebs, decaying furniture, stone altars, and the occasional mountain rat. Deep in the building, he discovered a vaulted room where a massive Buddha had been carved directly from the granite. The statue sat, painted in hues of gold, as it had for eons, in Lotus position, legs crossed and hands folded. The Buddha’s eyes were closed in deep meditation. Above his head, a dim yellowish light, almost a flame, flickered.

  At first, it seemed a trick of the light in the cavernous space, but as Javier watched the hypnotic dance of the flame, he experienced a shortness of breath, and then what could only be described as bliss. In that transcendental moment, Javier realized his search for spiritual knowledge was over.

  Later, in a euphoric daze, he retraced his path through the halls and rooms until he emerged from the monastery. The entire day had somehow passed, and a full moon rose above the jagged mountaintops of the distant Himalayas.

  He had not come prepared to spend the night. His pulse quickened as he realized he didn’t know the way back to the village in the dark.

  He spun as he heard a clicking scrape on a rock behind him. In the weak moonlight stood a creature, seven or eight feet tall, covered in brown and red fur. The beast cocked its head as Javier turned, its unusually large eyes studying him, curious.

  Javier tensed to run.

  The creature raised its arm, motioning him to come closer.

  Javier ran in the opposite direction.

  He had barely taken any steps when the beast landed on his back. Together they tumbled, Javier screaming as the creature wrapped its long arms around him. They rolled to a stop. The creature had Javier pinned to the ground.

  It made a click and a whistle. With a clawed hand, it gently touched his face, the fingers exploring him sensually. The beast leaned closer, the black orbs of its eyes glimmered, and he could feel its warm breath on his face.

  Heart racing, Javier squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the end of his life.

  What was it waiting for?

  The beast howled then sank its teeth into his arm. Pain seared through his body like a bolt of lightning was trapped inside him.

  He convulsed in the dirt as an alien feeling snaked up his arm and into his body. Later, when he opened his eyes, the creature had gone.

  ***

  The monk rose, added wood to the fire, and returned with two cups of tea with yak butter floating on top. The two men sipped, and Tenzin Jinpa adjusted his robe.

  For the longest time, they sat. The only sound was the cracking of the fire and the occasional roar of cold wind against the heavy outer door. Finally, Tenzin Jinpa spoke.

  “Yours is a story of Dhamma Niyama. Nature has an unrelenting quest for perfection. You are chosen to be Yeti by the Yeti.”

  Javier awkwardly lifted the cup with his clawed hands and sipped the buttered tea. He no longer liked the warmth of the drink, and he laid it aside. His toes flexed; he felt his leg muscles ripple in anticipation. His heart pounded faster and faster and faster.

  How much longer before he was free?

  The heavy door was the only thing separating him from the fresh snow. He longed to climb the granite peaks, to travel to the pine forests that lined the foothills, to explore the lush valleys that spread below, and to visit the barren steppes of far-off Tibet.

  It would not be long.

  Carefree.

  Tenzin Jinpa spoke. “Perhaps, while we wait, I can share my story of Kamma Niyama, the consequence of one’s actions. When I was a young man, I fell in with robbers and smugglers. I sought an easy life, and the travelers across the mountain passes were easy prey.

  “One day, our band of thieves fell upon a caravan of smugglers heading to Lhasa. They were using a remote trail to avoid the Chinese Army. We trapped them in a valley that could not be crossed with their horses.

  “As nightfall approached, we fought them and killed them one by one. In the morning, we discovered we had murdered seven women and four young children. On that day I vowed to become a monk, and I have never left this place. Here I have studied for sixty years, waiting to complete my cycle of karma. When I found you on my door, I knew my days of waiting were over.”

  “You are an old man,” growled Javier. “Surely a lifetime of good works are enough.”

  “One cannot do evil and expect there is no consequence.”

  “I do not want to be a Yeti,” said Javier, not sure if he believed it to be true. “I beg you. Kill me.”

  “I cannot,” replied the monk. “For you have come to kill me. I have waited all my life for your arrival. You are my karma. I have a lifetime of regret, and you will kill me b
efore you leave. It will be a natural consequence of my actions.”

  “I would never kill you. I am a physician, sworn to preserve life.”

  “But you are no longer that man. Still, even Yeti do not kill humans unless they are trapped.” Tenzin Jinpa pointed at the cave’s entrance. “So I have considered that. See? I have trapped you.”

  Javier turned, a heavy beam secured the door, and an ancient lock was affixed to it with a golden clasp. An almost-liquid irrational fear flowed into his veins.

  “I made that door with my own hands over sixty years ago. Even then, I knew the legends. I knew you would arrive someday.”

  In the flickering firelight, the monk held up a key, slipped it into his mouth, and with a gulp of tea, swallowed.

  “There is only one way to leave this cave. When the time comes,” said the monk squatting on a wool rug of many colors, “we will both fulfill our destinies.”

  Javier struggled to his feet, unsteady for a moment. His body was now covered with thick fur, his sinews strong, and his back had healed. Outside, from high on the mountain, he heard the howl of a Yeti and as the minutes passed, its cry came nearer.

  “She comes for you,” said Tenzin Jinpa hearing the howl. “All male Yetis were once men, selected by females. It is love. No doubt, you will find the happiness you seek there.”

  Javier’s heart filled with dread and anticipation as the memories of his human life turned into wisps of fog.

  His shoulders flexed as he tensed, extending his claws. His eyes turned to the door and he knew he must leave. Now.

  On the rug, Tenzin Jinpa was in meditation; his legs crossed, his hands neatly folded, his eyes closed. Above his head, a yellow flame floated.

  Javier rumbled a low growl as he approached. His massive paws slashed and ripped through cloth and flesh to fetch the key. As the monk’s limp body fell aside and his organs tumbled into a widening pool of blood, Javier had his final human thought.

  In a moment, they would both be free.

  About the author: Assembled from stolen body parts (the Los Angeles Coroner’s dumpster), and stitched together with baling wire and fishing line, R. B. Payne lives in the hope of someday being a complete human. Meanwhile, he writes. His literary aspirations can be found in anthologies such as All American Horror of the 21st Century: The First Decade and Permuted Press’ Times of Trouble, his book reviews can be found at Shroud Online, and he’s proud of his analysis of three 1930's black-and-white slasher films for the upcoming Butcher Knives and Body Counts from Dark Scribe Press. As always, contact information is at rbpayne.com - especially if you are willing to contribute a body organ.

  Wonder and Glory

  Adrian Chamberlin

  Mark Linwood missed him by inches.

  It was only in the last few seconds that he realised what lay in the van’s path was not a pile of soaked autumn leaves. It was the hand that emerged from the sleeve of the brown robe that saved the man’s life.

  Mark slammed on the brakes, but the ABS wasn’t enough to stop the Mercedes Sprinter from sliding wildly across the mud-spattered road. Its wheels tore huge chunks of earth from the sodden banks as it came to rest by the farm gate.

  Mark’s head jerked forwards and slammed back on the headrest. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and bile in his throat.

  Jesus... so close, he thought, breathing rapidly. The second time in as many days... first the kid, now this old boy.

  But this time he had an excuse. The news bulletin on the radio would’ve made anyone lose concentration. He hit the OFF button with a trembling finger.

  His heavy gut pressed through the webbing of the seatbelt and stroked the warm vinyl of the steering wheel. He felt the familiar uncomfortable pressure in his chest, the one that the doctor had warned him about, the warning he was only recently starting to take seriously.

  He raised his head and turned to the window. In the rain-beaded reflection of the side mirror he could see the robed figure rise from the ground, clutching a large grey holdall to his chest. Shock and fear gave way to relief – and anger. His flabby cheeks flushed red with rage, reflected in the window glass as brightly as the dashboard lights that indicated the stalled status of the engine.

  He freed himself from the seatbelt and yanked open the door. The cold, damp dawn air hit him like a slap in the face, and made it even harder for him to breathe.

  “Oi!” he yelled to the approaching figure. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’re playing at?”

  Exactly the same words he’d shouted at the kid who’d run across the Broadway in Didcot last week, causing Mark to slam the brakes and slide into a parking bay to avoid hitting him. But whereas the boy had flipped him the middle finger and sped off on his skateboard, the man in the centre of the lane didn’t react at all. There was no response. The man stood motionless. At least Mark assumed it was a man – the cowl of the robe was pulled down, obscuring the face.

  Mark sighed and waddled into the centre of the lane, his work boots sticking in the mud and rotting leaf litter. His breath misted in the air, like steam belched from an angry dragon.

  What’s wrong with this bloke? Despite his anger, Mark felt a chill stroke the back of his neck. He glanced at his surroundings, wondering if this was some sort of hijack.

  The trees and hedgerows were skeletal, with only a few leaves dripping last night’s rain water from their swaying branches. There was no cover for any lurking robbers. Besides, this little B road wasn’t used by any major commercial traffic – he only used it as a short cut to get to his first delivery, avoiding the rush hour traffic on the main route.

  Who’d be interested in a van load of fish, anyway?

  He glanced at the front end of the van, relieved to see that there was no damage to the vehicle. A slight bend in the plastic bumper, but nothing else.

  “Okay, pal. What’s your bleeding game?” His confidence restored, it was time to get angry again. He could smell the familiar odour of seafood, and knew that some of the polystyrene packing crates in the cargo hold of the van had split in the collision. That had happened before, with the near miss of Skater Boy. The customers hadn’t been pleased, and neither had Mark’s governor.

  A hand extended. The fingers – gnarled and bony, Mark noticed, looking more like the twigs on the lifeless trees than human digits – curled inwards, with the exception of one.

  The index finger quivered as it pointed towards Mark. There were less than five metres separating them, and he could see the cowl lift slightly. A hint of pale flesh with a small horizontal slit was visible.

  Mark stopped. The smell of seafood was stronger, even though he’d moved away from the van. It was no longer an appetising aroma of shellfish, Pacific salmon, monkfish and the other varieties that Ocean Wave Direct delivered. This was rancid; an overpowering stench of rotting fish that had him gagging and moving backwards.

  “Brother Mark. We meet again.” The flat tones were delivered in a scratchy, wavering voice. An old man’s voice... but to Mark Linwood, a very familiar one.

  Christ, no... it can’t be!

  The stench of rotting fish was momentarily forgotten. A far greater horror had replaced it.

  A gap in the dark clouds allowed the rising sun to shed light on the robes. They took on a different and more familiar colour: the murky brown changed to a deep emerald, the rich colour of tropical oceans. The green of the South Seas, which had long since reclaimed the island from which the Brotherhood had originated.

  The skeletal fingers pushed the cowl back. It slipped from the bald scalp and pooled around the wizened ears and wrinkled, colourless neck like an oil slick. Mark took a step back in horror.

  His former mentor hadn’t so much aged as... altered.

  “Alexander,” Mark whispered. He had to fight the urge to call him Brother Alexander. Twelve years ago, almost forgotten; but like old habits, the indoctrinations of the Order were hard to break.

  He’s undergoing The Change, Mark thought with horr
or. That must mean the end is here after all.

  He remembered the weather bulletin from the grim-voiced newscaster on the van’s radio. More flooding is expected, and not necessarily confined to the south coast.

  With the cold grey eyes of Brother (no, not Brother, for God’s sake!) Alexander boring into him, Mark felt the years distancing him from the Brotherhood shrivel and contract, become mere moments, until it seemed it was only yesterday he had fled the Temple, rather than twelve years ago. As if he had not aged at all, that he was still the sixteen-year-old boy cowering under the cruel tutelage of the Order. Eyes glazing and brain turning to mush with the sleep deprivation and the monotonous prayers to their Father. His whip-like teenage frame freezing and itching under the coarse habit of the Initiate. His bones aching with the damp of the monastery, a chill imparted by the seawaters that had flooded the crypt and gave succour to their deity. A deity the Initiates were compelled to commune with on their eighteenth birthday...

  NO!

  “Brother Mark.” The voice was that of a man in pain. Alexander lowered his hand and dropped the holdall. His back arched and his hands cradled his elbows. “I’m so happy to see you. Truly, God has blessed us this day.”

  Mark’s jaw dropped in astonishment. He felt the cold wind attack his teeth, and inhaled that strange smell of rotting fish; so strong that it had a physical presence. He closed his mouth, wincing at the pain in his teeth and the nausea in his gut.

  The pain that was oh-so-familiar, a constant companion in the damp and chill cloisters of the Temple. The Pain of Preparation... God’s test to the faithful, to the inheritors of the New World.

  “Alexander... why are you here?” The question hung in the air, an invisible barrier between the aged Alexander and his former acolyte. Mark folded his arms and forced himself to stand firm. He tried not to let his teeth chatter as he stared at his former mentor: the Elder Brother of the Temple at Fairlight, the first base for the Order.