The Dark'Un

by Ronald Kelly

  He saw no sign of the Dark'Un again…until the following month. Fletcher was crossing the trickling currents of a mountain stream, when he stepped upon the opposite bank and found a coiled rattlesnake no more than three feet away. The diamondback's buttons rattled noisily in warning and its head reared back threateningly.

  It's going to bite me! He thought in alarm. Fletcher knew if he was snake bit, he had little chance of recovering. The Brice cabin was all the way on the other side of the mountain. Even if he made it there, it would take him a good half hour of battling thicket and climbing over mossy deadfalls. By the time he collapsed on the doorstep, the venom would be coursing through his veins. Even if his father could get him to the hospital in Knoxville in that old, rattletrap pickup of his, it would be too late. He would be dead before the doctor could even attend to him.

  Fletcher braced as the snake tensed and, a split-second later, struck. The boy prepared himself for the impact of the rattler's bite and the sting of needle-like fangs burying themselves into the meat of his calf. But that didn't happen. Instead, something leapt from a clump of honeysuckle in a black blur. The thing's narrow head flashed forward, its sharp-toothed jaws catching the snake by the neck, stopping its strike a mere two inches from Fletcher's leg.

  The snake's tail sent the brittle buttons into a renewed fit of rattling as it struggled to break free. The animal that had it in a death grip refused to relent, however. It was at that moment, while the two rolled upon the mossy bank of the creek, that Fletcher realized exactly what the animal was. At first he was sure it was a coal black weasel or shoat. Then he recognized it from a book he had read a few months before. It was a mongoose, an animal more common to the jungles of India than in the rural wilds of eastern Tennessee. He recalled the story about Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the faithful pet mongoose that had protected its master from the dreaded cobras, Nag and Nagaina. Now, watching the mongoose and the deadly snake in mortal combat, he recalled the story and its eventual outcome, and this conflict ended the same way. Moments later, the rattlesnake lay limp and dead on the bank of the creek. The ebony incarnation of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi licked its tiny lips, then cocked its small head and regarded the boy who stood there, staring in amazement.

  Without warning, the mongoose seemed to sink into itself and flatten into a wet, inky pool. That peculiar crackling sound that heralded the creature's transformation filled Fletcher's ears as the tar black puddle expanded. The boy watched, fascinated, as the Dark'Un formed itself into an entirely different creature. A moment later it stood towering before him…a sleek, shiny stallion as black as black could possibly be, from ears to hooves. The horse lowered its head until it was scarcely a few inches from Fletcher's own face. The gleaming, black marble eyes of the creature almost seemed to smile as it regarded him.

  The boy looked down at the dead snake and then back to the stallion again. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

  The dark horse nodded its narrow head and winked.

  Although he knew that he was pushing his luck, Fletcher reached out and attempted to stroke the stallion's coal-black mane. It wasn't the soft, flowing shock of hair that he expected. Instead it was hard and smooth, almost like the shell of a turtle.

  The horse snorted, the air expelled from its flared nostrils as cold as a January night. Then that bold black beauty turned and galloped off into the woods, leaving him by the creek alone.

  Fletcher's heart pounded in his chest. The encounter had been both frightening and exhilarating at the same time. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and then opened them again. The Dark'Un was gone, but the snake was still there, slack in death, its neck snapped cleanly by the mongoose's powerful jaws.

  He prepared to leave that place. As an afterthought, he picked up the rattler and deposited it in the tow sack he toted his books and drawing pad in. His father would be glad to be brought such a prize. The skin would bring several dollars and the buttons—ten in all—would take a place of pride on the shelf next to Elijah's bed, along with six other diamondback rattles he had collected over the years.

  Fletcher would not tell his papa about the Dark'Un. Instead, he would allow the man to believe that he had been the one who had killed the serpent. Maybe it will change his feelings about me, the boy thought, but he knew better than to hope for the impossible.

  It was a cloudy day in mid-September when hell came to PaleDoveMountain.

  Elijah Brice had gone to Knoxville for the day, to sell fifteen pounds of dried ginseng. The money would buy medicine for Mattie Brice, winter shoes for Fletcher, and likely carry them through the cold months between November and March.

  It had stormed earlier that morning, bringing cool winds and the rattle of raindrops on the cabin's tin roof. By noon, the shower had passed. Fletcher was sweeping the front porch, while his mother slept fitfully inside. The boy's heart was heavy with dread. She had not been doing well at all during the past few days, growing weaker and weaker by the hour. Every so often he would go inside and check on her. Once, she had appeared so still and pale that he had been certain that she had passed away. But then her lungs hitched in that violent way she had of grasping for air, and he knew that she was still around to suffer another day.

  That wasn't the only thing that distressed him. There was something wrong on the mountain. He could feel it. After the storm, a noticeable pall of silence covered the wooded peak like a blanket. Nary a bird or bug could be heard…just an unsettling silence. Something was about to happen. But what?

  He knew when he heard the swish of high weeds parting at the far side of the porch and turned his head. There stood Wesley Allen Scott. He grinned drunkenly at the twelve-year-old. The veteran held a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a Winchester rifle in the other.

  "Heard down at the store that your papa was away for the day," slurred Wes. "Thought this would be as good a time as any to come calling."

  Fletcher stood stone still. His pulse pounded in his ears. "What do you want?"

  Wes laughed and took a swig from the liquor bottle. "Hell, boy…we've traded spit. You know what I want."

  From inside the house, his mother's voice echoed weakly. "Who's out there, son?"

  "It's Wesley Allen Scott," said Fletcher. On his tongue the name could have just as soon been Lucifer or Beelzebub.

  He heard the creak of bedsprings as Mattie Brice pushed herself up on her elbows. "Run, boy!" she croaked fearfully. "Run as fast as you can!"

  Fletcher didn't hesitate. He flung the broom aside and leapt off the opposite end of the porch. Soon he was bounding across the muddy side yard toward the chicken coop and the outbuildings beyond. Behind him he heard Wes laugh. The metallic click-clack of the Winchester's lever being worked came to his ears, followed by the brittle crack of the rifle discharging. The boy flinched, expecting to feel the bullet burrow between his shoulder blades, but the drunken man's aim was off. The round hit the corner of the outhouse, shaving a sliver of wood from the weathered boards. Splinters burrowed into the side of the twelve-year-old's face like shrapnel, one fragment striking him in the left eye and nearly blinding him.

  "Run!" screamed his mother from the house. Her sickly voice rang across the mountainside like the reedy shriek of a loon.

  Fletcher leapt into the thicket out back of the privy and began to run. Behind him, he heard the ka-klump, ka-klump of the man's wooden leg as he made his way across the side yard.

  "Run if'n you want," called Wes Scott. "You're faster than me, but you'll give out eventually and then I'll lay you to ground and have what I came for."

  The boy knew that he was right. Running as fast as he was—and uphill at that—he would lose ground before long. His breath would give away and his muscles would turn to rubber until he could go no further. If he could only reach his secret place at the top of Pale Dove Mountain, then…what? Exactly what did he expect to find there on that rocky pathway? When he finally reached that point, it would be the end of the line. There would be no relief, no escape…only pain, humiliation,
and perhaps even death.

  Onward he pushed, through knee-high kudzu, blackberry bramble, and thick stands of mountain pine and sycamore. A couple of times he had hoped that Wes had given up, but a rifle shot and the shaving of bark off a nearby tree told him that the crippled veteran was bound and determined to do what he had come there to do. As the vegetation gave away to raw granite and sharp shale, Fletcher's breath burned in his lungs like pure fire. He stumbled and fell several times, cutting the palms of his hands on the flint. The boy didn't want to cry, but exhaustion overcame him and he sobbed like a baby. He thought of Elijah Brice and how he would have reacted to his weakness. At that moment, Fletcher hated his father for leaving them alone that afternoon, to fend for themselves.

  Finally, he reached the stone pathway. He staggered wearily along its incline, his legs wobbly and weak. The rocky trail with its rolls of pure-white roses held no comfort for him that day. He didn't know what he expected to find there, but the only thing that greeted him was the great stone pinnacle of PaleDoveMountain with its shadowy opening in the wall of gray stone. Storm clouds rumbled overhead, much closer than he could have imagined. At that moment, he couldn't have cared less. He heard the ka-klump, ka-klump of his pursuer on the pathway behind him and prayed for the heavens to send lightning to strike him dead. That demise would have proven more merciful than the one Wes Scott had in store for him.

  Behind him came the crack of gunfire and a searing pain blossomed at the junction of his upper and lower left leg. The rifle bullet burrowed through flesh and cartilage, lodging just behind the kneecap. Fletcher collapsed and fell face forward. His right cheek and temple grated against coarse stone, bringing blood. Disoriented, he rolled onto his back, agony gripping his entire leg from groin to toes. He stared at the boiling grayness of the clouds above him. Why, Lord? He wondered in defeat. Why are you letting this happen to me?

  Up the pathway, came the ka-klump, ka-klump of his pursuer, growing closer.

  Fletcher craned his neck and found Wes Scott nearly upon him. The man took one final swig of amber liquid from the whiskey bottle, then tossed it aside. "After you get your fill of me, boy, I might just go back down the mountain and have a go at your ma. Wouldn't think she'd put up much of a fight, the way she is now."

  "You stay away from her, you son of a bitch!" warned Fletcher, his mouth full of blood from where the fall had cut his inner cheek.

  Wes leaned the Winchester against a boulder and began to unbuckle his belt. "I'll do whatever I damn well please."

  With little strength left, Fletcher scrambled up the pathway. Wes laughed at the futility of the boy's actions and came for him.

  Right when the boy thought that his luck had run out, the unexpected happened.

  The lovely white roses began to weave back and forth on their pale, pink stems. They burst into a frenzy of brittle crackling and each one unfolded, their blooms sprouting feathered appendages and long pink bills hooked at the end. Soon, they had left their moorings and took to flight. Before he could react, Wes Scott found himself amid a flock of swarming seagulls. The birds fluttered about him en masse, bumping into him, their beaks repeatedly piercing his skin and making him lose his balance on the sharp shale. He fell hard tearing his flesh and embedding jagged pieces of rock into his face. He stood shrieking and, locating his rifle, began to work the Winchester's lever and fire. He took down a couple of the gulls, but a dozen more took their place. Wes batted at the airborne flock with the rifle, blood filling his eyes, his nerves flayed open. His skin hung in ragged flaps…either from his raw muscles or the bills of the swarming birds.

  Wes Scott staggered, nearly falling. His body screamed with pain, but still he held fast to the repeating rifle. His vision was blurred by blood, but he found the boy lying on the stone path and he smiled. He lifted the gun to his shoulder and sighted down on the boy's forehead.

  That was when the second—and last—wave took place.

  A flash of dark motion drew his attention and his eyes lifted from the child to the mouth of the cave at the end of the pathway. At first, Wes thought he was imagining things. From out of the opening, emerged a tall, rawboned form. He looked to be a sea-faring man, dressed in the long-coat of a ship's captain, suspendered trousers and one knee-length boot. The other leg, strangely enough, made Wes laugh at the absurdity of it all. The dark sea captain, too, was missing a leg, but his replacement limb was not fashioned of wood, but the sturdy bone of a whale. The man's weathered face, as gray as the stone he had emerged from, was heavily bearded and his black, pupilless eyes had a wild, maniacal look to them. He looked like a man with an obsession…one that might drive himself and his entire crew to the depths of Hell and back if need be.

  Another thing about the seaman bothered Wes Scott. He held a long, black harpoon in his hand. One that looked to be constructed of bone and sinew, rather than seasoned hickory and iron.

  Wes wasn't ignorant. He'd had enough schooling to know precisely who stood before him. How this thing had come to be was not what concerned him now, but rather how to stop it. He flipped a flap of scalp out of his eyes, raised the rifle into line, and fired.

  The round struck the dark captain between the eyes, but it didn't stop his advance. Instead, the lead slug ricocheted off the man's hard, gray skin and returned in the direction from which it came. The bullet punched through Wes Scott's left shoulder, ripping through bone and muscle, and exiting just above his shoulder blade.

  Wes stumbled backward, dropping his rifle in the process. Angered by the injury, he reached beneath his coat with his right hand and drew a government-issue .45 semi-automatic pistol; one he had brought home with him from the war. He thumbed off the safety and emptied the magazine, one round at a time. The slugs flattened against the sea captain's broad chest. It was more like firing at a brick wall than a thing of flesh and blood.

  When the Colt reached its last round, it was the seaman's turn. He hurled the black harpoon, which looked to be physically connected to him by a cord of dark tendon. Before he could react, the razor edge of the harpoon struck Wes across the right wrist, severing it from his forearm. The hand holding the pistol dropped to the ground, reflexively pulling the impotent trigger again and again.

  He knew then that he could not fight the thing. He also knew what the hellish duplication of the fictional sea captain actually was. Since childhood, he had heard the old wives' tales of a dark being who stalked PaleDoveMountain; a creature that could change into a man's worst nightmare by merely willing itself to do so. The thing folks in East Tennessee called the Dark'Un.

  Clutching the spurting stump of his wrist, Wesley Allen Scott left the stone-laced trail at the top of the mountain and lurched through the trees, heading toward the foothills. Fletcher Brice watched as the dark captain stepped over him, faced the steep grade of the mountainside, and began to change. If he hadn't been accustomed to seeing the transformation in action, the boy could have very well lost his mind attempting to comprehend the form that the Dark'Un now built from its own iron-hard flesh and bone. But, since he understood what was taking place, he could only smile at the irony of it all.

  The Dark'Un was transforming into a massive gray whale. Its bulk spilled past the edges of the trail as a deafening crackling like mortar rounds filled the air. One of the giant sea creature's shiny black eyes rolled and winked at the boy who laid, gunshot, in the pathway. Then it began to slide down the mountainside, propelling itself by its broad tail.

  Wes Scott was several hundred yards down the slope when he heard something that sounded like a freight train coming up fast behind him. He looked over his shoulder long enough to see the hellish whale sliding down the mountainside, flattening trees in its wake. Wes tried to run faster, but his wooden leg and his loss of blood hindered him. He felt the thing's fetid breath upon him and was abruptly engulfed by darkness as he was swallowed whole by the vengeful whale. Unlike Jonah, however, the child molester would never see the light of day again.

  Fletcher Brice wa
tched, amazed, as the whale scooped his attacker up into its maw and then immediately began to transform once again. It began to grow smaller and, as it did, the boy could hear a snapping and popping that had nothing to do with the changing itself. Rather, it was the breaking down and digestion of the Dark'Un's victim that was taking place, accommodating its bulk with the creature's new shape and size.

  Soon, the dark being sprouted massive wings and, lifting upward, took flight. Fletcher couldn't believe his eyes. The creature that soared through the turbulent sky possessed the lower body of a lion and the head, wings, and talons of a bald eagle. It was a mythological beast that the boy had read about mere days ago…a griffin, in the flesh!

  As he watched the thing in the sky, he sensed someone standing just behind him. He looked around and was startled to find a pale incarnation of Elijah Brice staring down at him. But, unlike his father, with his stern demeanor, this creature's brilliant, pink eyes gleamed with compassion and concern. It crouched next to him, motioning silently toward the ugly wound in the back of his knee. Then Fletcher watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as the man transformed amidst loud crackling sounds, becoming a slender white centipede. The insect snaked its way into the bullet hole and the boy flinched as a spike of intense pain seized his leg. But the agony only lasted a moment. When the centipede withdrew, it held the bloody rifle bullet tightly in its forelegs. The creature transformed back into the pale doppelganger of his father again, and he went to work, bandaging the wound with strips taken from the twelve-year-old's flannel shirt. It wasn't long before the bleeding stopped and the burning pain in the joint of his leg diminished to a dull throbbing.