Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  “Gloves please,” he said, passing them round.

  He removed the bright red book and placed it carefully onto the spotless surface, and opened it to the appropriate place.

  “These, gentlemen,” said Starch looking over Vortex’s shoulder, “are the missing pages.”

  It was indeed complete and utter gobbledegook. Line after line of characters that contained no spaces, paragraphs or any punctuation whatsoever. It was five pages of total gibberish that made no sense to man or beast, undead, mythical or otherwise. If you have ever flicked through the first few pages of a Katie Price novel, then you can appreciate the dilemma facing the four onlookers.

  “No wonder no one’s ever made sense of that,” said Ollie, twisting his head at all sorts of angles, trying to get to grips with it and failing. “It looks so random.”

  Stitches was standing on the opposite side of the table to the others, watching carefully as the delicate pages were folded over. He saw Vortex lift the first one and place it flat before grasping the second one, lifting it slowly and meticulously so as not to damage its fragile structure. As it reached the perpendicular and started its journey down, something caught the zombie’s eye.

  “Hold it there!” he exclaimed loudly.

  Vortex stopped dead, afraid to move and wondering why he had been yelled at.

  “Stay perfectly still,” Stitches added, resting his hands on the edge of the table and leaning over. He peered intently at the shiny, metallic surface.

  “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” asked Starch, a puzzled furrow on his brow.

  “Come round to me, Mr. Curator, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The elderly man left Vortex deftly holding the page in position, and joined Stitches.

  “What am I looking at, young man?” he asked, a note of excitement tainting his voice.

  “Don’t look at the page that Vortex is holding. Look at the reflection that it’s casting on the table top.”

  Starch took out a dear little pair of pince-nez and popped them onto the bridge of his nose, and tilted his head.

  “Oh, my word. I don’t believe it.”

  “WHAT?” demanded the other two.

  There, plain for all to see, reflected in the mirrored finish of the table, was the page. But it was in English.

  “Why, I don’t quite know what to say,” Starch said, shaking Stitches firmly by the hand, amazed at the sudden and unexpected turn of events. He walked back round to the other side and took over from Vortex, who went and had a look for himself.

  “Bugger me backwards,” said the assistant, his face lighting up with sheer joy. “After all these years and the massive IQs that have studied this, it turns out the author wrote the passages upside down and back to front.”

  “Weird, huh,” Stitches said. “I used to do the same when I sent notes to Sarah Gilmore in Geography, asking if I could see her rocky outcrops.”

  Ollie smiled at his colleague, genuinely pleased and, he had to admit, somewhat surprised at his observation skills. If he was perfectly honest with himself, when it came to taking things seriously and getting the job done, Stitches could be a bit lacking due to his steel toe capped boot to the genitals type of humour that spilled out of him with monotonous regularity. Nevertheless, he had done well.

  “Good work, mate ATCHOO!” MEOW.

  Carter the cat leaped onto the table and proceeded to rub himself around Ollie’s hands as they rested there. Starch quickly shooed him away, with the promise of some chicken and a tickle under the chin later. Not Ollie, you understand. The cat!

  “I’ve never been allergic to any animals,” said Ollie, desperately trying to find a dry area on his rapidly stiffening handkerchief. “I even had a cat when I was little.”

  Starch and Vortex were now enraptured by the book, and not in the slightest bit bothered by the war going on in Ollie’s nasal cavity.

  “Well, it certainly looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us for the next few hours at least,” the curator said. “First things first though, Vortex. We need to find a mirror.”

  * * *

  Ollie and Stitches left the two ageing academics pondering the mysteries of the ancient script. They had decided that it would be a good idea to pay a visit to the home of the absent without leave caretaker, Flange. Seeing as he had disappeared quicker than a snowman on holiday on Mercury, it seemed a reasonable enough place to start.

  “Bit ramshackle, isn’t it?” said Stitches as they walked up to the front door. “He obviously doesn’t take his work home with him.”

  The front door was warped at the top, and the green paint was peeling across its entire surface. Ollie knocked lightly but it was enough to push the door open. The inside was what you would have expected to see, taking into account the dilapidated exterior.

  The hallway was awash with footwear of various styles, and the banister had a large and teetering pile of coats draped over it. Just inside the door was an old school desk, the type with a hinged lid and a stained inkwell. The lewd graffiti and chewing gum stuck to the bottom were optional extras that this model didn’t seem to come with. On inspection, the desk contained a goodly supply of cat litter which, judging by the clumps in it, hadn’t been changed for a few days.

  “I hope that’s not muesli,” said Stitches, turning his nose up. “The raisins look a bit sus if you ask me.”

  At the end of the hallway was the kitchen, which looked cluttered and filthy. Two other rooms were off the hallway. The first, which looked like the living room, was sparsely furnished, cold and uninviting and ultimately offered nothing. The back room, however, was a different story. It was chock full of boxes of papers, hand written documents and text books, some of which were haphazardly thrown onto shelves, whilst others were stacked into large, wobbly towers on a large mahogany dining room table. Some of them were closed and had small bits of paper acting as bookmarks sticking out from them, whilst others had been left open at particular pages. Whether this was at random or deliberate, it was impossible to determine.

  “These are all magic and spell books,” said Ollie, glancing over some of the titles in the paper mountain. “Well, nearly all. Some of them are reference volumes about mythology.”

  “Not looking too good for the old boy, is it?” Stitches said reflectively, gazing around the rest of the room.

  His eyes fell (no, not this time) on the mantelpiece which was barely visible under old candles and empty, fur covered tea cups. Behind one of these cups was an envelope that was crisp and white, making it look totally out of place. On it was written ‘Mr Curator’. Stitches picked it up and slid his finger along the seam. He took out the letter, unfolded it and read it out loud.

  “Mr. Curator. I’m so sorry about what has happened and what I’ve done. I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive me, but I know that I will never be able to forgive myself. Unfortunately, this is something that I simply have to do.” It was signed Balthazar Flange.

  “That’s a bit bleak, isn’t it? What do you suppose it means?” asked Stitches.

  Ollie pondered over the words that he had heard.

  “I don’t quite know what to make of that. The obvious conclusion to come to is that Flange is the thief, and he’s off somewhere doing something with the pages. But why would he go to the trouble of writing a confession? Your average burglar doesn’t suddenly have an attack of conscience and say sorry, but take the stuff anyway.”

  “Yeah, but he might have had a good reason. I can’t think of one off the top of my head, but you never know,” said Stitches.

  “Mmmm. Maybe, but I think we’ll keep the letter to ourselves for the time being. No point in giving everything away, is there?”

  With both of them in agreement, the note stayed in Ollie’s pocket when they returned to the museum. Once there, he explained what they had discovered, minus the agreed detail.

  “That is very perplexing,” said the curator, from behind a desk so vast that it
made Ollie’s look like an occasional table (what an occasional table does when it’s not being a table is a mystery that the great minds of our time have never fathomed. Why would you have a piece of furniture that only performs its function a small percentage of the time? You don’t get an infrequent chair or an intermittent Welsh Dresser, and the only time you would ever see a sporadic poof is when Graham Norton gets a new series).

  “Have you managed to translate the passages?” asked Ollie.

  “Indeed we have,” said Starch, “and they make for quite interesting, and I must say, somewhat disturbing reading. Mr. Vortex, if you would be so kind.”

  “Certainly,” said the assistant, clearing his throat. “What this chapter, and the pages therein seem to be indicating, is the five hidden locations of a mysterious vessel known as The Cup of All Souls, a legendary piece only ever previously heard of through word of mouth stories passed down through the generations of a few Scandinavian families. It is said that once the five pieces are found and brought together, and the Cup is taken to a certain place at a certain time, it will provide the finder with all the knowledge of both the natural and the supernatural worlds, thereby becoming the most powerful being in existence.”

  “It was always thought to be a myth,” continued Starch, “or maybe even an urban legend, like the Sofa of Destiny or the Fork of Indecisiveness, but this text and the fact that it has been stolen by someone believing it to be true, may very well mean that it does actually exist.”

  “Either that, or we’re trying to find someone who’s madder than a whole family of March hares,” said Stitches.

  “What if it does exist?” asked Ollie.

  “If the Cup is real and it falls into the wrong hands,” Vortex went on solemnly, “then that one individual could wreak untold havoc across the entire world. He would have dominion over everything, and nothing could stop him.”

  Ollie and Stitches thought on this for a moment before Ollie continued.

  “So what would you like from us now, gentlemen? We can continue the search for Flange tomorrow and ask around, see if anyone has seen or heard from him, and then do a more thorough search of his house.”

  Starch stood up and walked around his desk, which took so long that Stitches was convinced that he was going to need to take on water at regular intervals, and approached them both.

  “If the hunt for this fabled artefact has indeed begun, then we are already at a considerable disadvantage. Mr. Vortex and I are just finishing the last transposition now, and what we would like you to do is follow the trail.”

  “Follow it!” exclaimed Stitches.

  “Yes. You, my good man, were able to decipher passages unread for centuries after seeing them for only a few moments. You are our best chance. We would like to officially hire you to track down and locate the pieces and return them to the safety of the museum, and bring the miscreant to justice.”

  “I don’t know,” said Stitches, wandering around the room chewing on a nail that ended up stuck in his gum. “Wandering God knows where looking for God knows what that was stolen by God knows who or what…”

  “We’ll do it,” Ollie cut in.

  “Marvellous,” replied Starch.

  “Excellent,” replied Vortex.

  “Bloody hell,” said Stitches.

  “We’ll talk about it outside,” Ollie said in the style of a husband not wanting to have a row with his wife in the middle of a shop, when she realises he’s bored and has a go at him in front of everyone.

  “Like you’ll let me get a word in.”

  “Leave it.”

  “It would be nice to be consulted from time to time.”

  “Not in front of other people, please,” Ollie hissed, quietly realising that all that was left to their relationship was marriage vows and an empty bank account. “Outside.”

  “All I…”

  “Excuse me,” Ollie said apologetically. With a firm grip and a hefty shove, Ollie manoeuvred his disgruntled colleague out of the office.

  “You are so embarrassing,” the half-vampire said with a flourish and, for some unknown reason, jazz hands. “Why show me up like that?”

  “Just be nice to be asked my opinion once in a while, is all. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “Is that it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay,” sighed Ollie in a conciliatory manner. “What do you think about taking this job on? Interesting work and we’ll get paid.”

  Stitches smiled, happy to be included in the decision making process.

  “Well, if you ask me, and you are…”

  “Splendid. We’re doing it.”

  “You are so frustrating. Trying to use an Ouija board to contact a dyslexic is less taxing.” Stitches officially sulked.

  An hour and a half later saw them back at their office, with Ollie eagerly telling the others about their new found employment.

  “Sounds great,” said Ronnie. “Only one problem though.”

  “Which is?” Ollie enquired.

  “Well, this is a road trip, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which means we’re going to be away from home for a while, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ronnie didn’t think he would have to spell it out to Ollie, who was by far the most intelligent member of the group. Last week whilst playing Scrabble, for instance, he had got two; count them, two six letter words. He would have got a seven, but Ethan pointed out that ‘focking’ wasn’t in fact a word at all, and if it was it certainly wouldn’t mean ‘the act of sticking a candle up a spectre’s backside’.

  Ronnie carried on. “Well, for one, how are you going to cope with being away from your coffin? Two, if we have to stop every time it starts to get light so you can get your head down, we’ll be away for months, and three, where are you going to find fresh blood twice a day if we’re not taking the fridge?”

  Stitches gazed around the office, trying to avoid Ollie’s eyes, but at the same time making the ‘if you had listened to me’ look on his face, plain for all to see.

  Ollie, impossibly, went as red as a ginger child under a Caribbean sky.

  “You don’t think I hadn’t considered any of those things, do you?” he said weakly.

  “Well, no, quite frankly,” said Stitches. “You got all excited like a kid on Christmas morning, and jumped in with both feet without thinking about the consequences.”

  “Didn’t.”

  “Did to.”

  “I did not.”

  “Alright then,” continued Stitches with a superior air of righteousness. “What had you planned to do about it?” He could sense a rare and somewhat childish victory.

  “Umm,” whispered Ollie barely audibly.

  The zombie almost had him.

  “Don’t mumble,” he ordered.

  “Crumble!” Ollie exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Crumble. I was going to ask the Professor to sort something out. I would have told you, but you kept butting in.” Ollie breathed a vast sigh of relief.

  “You are such a fibber,” said Stitches.

  “I don’t think so,” retorted Ollie. “So, if you guys want to get your bits together, I’ll go and see the Prof.” He opened the door behind his desk and headed to the lab.

  “You’ll never get him,” said Ronnie.

  “He’s too devious,” added Ethan. “When was the last time that you ever heard of a vampire getting caught out, verbally or otherwise?”

  “Only once I suppose,” said Stitches, resigned to coming off second best again. “Last year when Splat the Organ-grinder fell foul of that get rich quick scam.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Ronnie. “What happened there, then?”

  “He bought a share in a jewellery business in Mesotheleoma that turned out to be a travelling salesman selling cheap crucifixes.”

  “I take it he didn’t get much out of it?” asked Ethan.

  “About eight pints I think, by the t
ime he caught up with the bloke.”

  “Ah well, I’m sure your time will come, mate. Come on let’s get sorted.”

  * * *

  A flickering light from the stub of a candle shed its meagre glow across the table, illuminating the pages spread over its surface. They were laid out in order, the jagged edges where they had been ripped from the book casting sharp, misshapen forms on the wood. Next to each of the pages was a hand written note, detailing the revised versions of the script in legible English. It had taken a while, but the person perusing them had finally decoded the words now that the secret had been revealed to them. Their mouth moved involuntarily as they read the words over and over, savouring each phrase, relishing the implications of what they could mean once all the pieces of the Cup had been found. Eager hands rubbed together and a smile played across lips that would have gone unseen by an observer, the light from the candle was so weak.

  “Not long now,” a voice spoke from the darkness. It was accompanied by a plume of condensation as hot breath was met by the surrounding frigid air. “Not long.”

  * * *

  A loud bang and a screech of metal on metal greeted Ollie as he made his way along the corridor towards Crumble’s lab. After his verbal battle with Stitches, he had seen the Prof and asked him if he could try and solve the problems that he would face on their trip. The conference to London hadn’t been as troublesome as it was held at night, and he had had somewhere to sleep during the day. And being a corporate do all the drinks had been on tap twenty four seven. The mini bar had been a veritable blood bank.

  Crumble had jumped at the chance to help out once more, and had got to work as soon as Ollie had left. Now, a few short hours later, he was back, eager to see the fruits of Crumble’s labours. The time delay had also given him time to cool down from the argument. He was annoyed with Stitches for rowing with him, but at the same time he was disappointed with himself for getting involved in such petty business. The problem was he couldn’t help it. He may only have been a half blood and blessed with a good few human characteristics, but verbal and physical confrontations awoke something in his dark half that would not back down or be denied. When it reared its head he would come out all guns blazing from his corner, ready to argue to the death about absolutely anything. It was quite puerile actually, and could at times be very embarrassing. One time when he was about fifteen and had actually managed to secure his first date with a human girl, they had gone to see The Usual Suspects at the cinema. It had all been going splendidly and he was even getting to the point of asking said female if she wanted to have a rummage through his pick and mix, when the subject of who Kaiser Soze was raised itself. It had ended up with the pair having a ferocious row in front of everybody, with Ollie bellowing at the top of his voice about why he thought Gabriel Byrne was the bad guy. The girl had stormed out, so he stayed and watched the rest of the film only to be proved wrong. Strangely, he hadn’t seen her again.