by G R Jordan
But then it stopped. The creature was still approaching, yet there was silence behind her. It was as if someone had struck the mute button on the frog-men by accident. Except there was one sound, just discernible above the waves. Like a hopping. But different to that she had heard before.
Despite the approaching horror, Calandra’s curiosity drove her to twist hard and try to catch a glimpse of what was fascinating her abductors. Just coming onto the edge of the harbour was a frog-man. He was wearing a long, greenish cloak which dragged beneath his feet. Indeed, the cloak seemed to be getting right under his feet, which were well hidden by the folds. Perhaps the creature was injured. She suspected this, not because of any visible injury, but because his hopping motion was laboured, forced and distinctly off rhythm. His eyes seemed fixed and were certainly missing the normal gleam. The rest of his body was covered by the cloak, making a full diagnosis of his skin condition unachievable.
One of the frog-men started shouting at the newcomer. At least, Calandra thought it was shouting. The cloaked frog-man didn’t answer but continued his unsteady advance. One of her captors leaped in front of the lurching figure, arms waving furiously, then dropped like a stone to the ground. Calandra saw the arrow lodged deep in his forehead, right between the eyes. The green cloak exploded open and two swift arrows raced into the heads of the two fish-men, before a third whirled its way towards the second frog-man. The smallest of warnings was enough for him to leap high into the air, avoiding a deadly bolt to the temple, unlike his fellow amphibians.
The cloak had dropped from the mystery frog-man’s shoulders, revealing black-clad legs and a torso sporting a quiver strap. The figure, with the bow still in his right hand, clasped its lips and tried to pull top and bottom apart. This was interrupted by the remaining frog-man landing directly in front of the imposter and launching himself head first into his opponent’s body. Both figures tumbled to the ground with the attacker slipping off the side of the harbour into the churning surf below.
An unforgettable roar drew Calandra’s attention back to the water, a roar alien in concept and delivered from under the sea. Tentacles were now surfacing along with the protruding head, and from their proximity, Calandra knew she would soon feel their touch. Watching in horror, she saw one dark tentacle rip out from the sea towards her, stretching for her body. At the same moment, the pole she was suspended from swung away from the harbour. The tentacle missed her body by inches as she underwent a forced rotation, but it managed to latch some suckers on to her jacket. The jacket was ripped backwards, and for a moment she was caught with her feet tied to the mooring and her jacket held by the sea creature.
The pole had been rotated by the impostor and, still holding it, he was suddenly lifted off his feet as the tentacle started to pull back. He saw Calandra’s jacket being yanked back to the sea, and Calandra with it, legs still tied tight. Finally, the jacket ripped hard around her hands, shredding the binds from her wrists so that she was hanging freely. The imposter drew an arrow and fired, slicing the rope holding her feet. Calandra fell to the ground but managed to force out her arms to break her fall.
Running to meet her, the imposter threw her over his shoulder and started to run away from the water’s edge. Before four steps had been taken, a figure landed squarely in front of them. It was the other frog-man, and he stood braced to leap at them both.
Two tentacles raced out of the water, one grabbing the frog-man and pulling him directly into the water. The other wrapped itself round the head of the imposter and whipped him off his feet, causing him to drop his bow and Calandra in the process.
Calandra could see him being dragged back to the sea, racing across the cobbles of the harbour floor. He clattered into the upright post of the pole that had supported Calandra’s weight, stretched his hands out and wrapped them around it. The tentacle continued to pull, and the frog’s head deformed as it elongated. Then there was a drastic sucking sound coupled with a muffled human yell, and the head was hauled off into the watery depths.
The remaining human figure turned quickly, half stumbling, half running toward Calandra before grabbing the bow with his left hand and Calandra’s T-shirt with his right. With urgency but extreme clumsiness, he dragged her off into the snow-covered dunes.
Once well clear of the harbour, the man collapsed onto the ground. Calandra lay on her back, breathing hard, contemplating the fate she had avoided. Her arms felt like they had been ripped from their sockets, so she was pleased to find she could reach her gag and remove it. Slowly, checking each limb, she reached down to her feet and undid the ties. Standing up, she felt a little off balance but was able to reach down to her saviour and tap his back. A brief moan was the reply.
“Hey, thanks. You handle that bow nearly as well as a friend of mine.” She reached down and rolled the man over.
“I am never making pumpkin lanterns at Halloween again!” Kirkgordon responded.
Calandra bent down to kiss him hard but recoiled at the blood, innards and possible brain matter covering his face. Taking some snow, she washed his face as best she could before kissing him deeply and tenderly on the lips.
Kirkgordon looked up at the Russian beauty kneeling over him. For a moment he nearly responded to the longing in her kiss, to its thankfulness, its desire to show appreciation. But then he thought of the one she reminded him of.
“Don’t let my wife catch you doing that,” Kirkgordon laughed. The tension of the moment cracked and Calandra smiled.
“Your staff’s by the path,” he said, sitting up. The memory of cutting off and then gutting the frog-man’s head flooded back to him. Never again, thought Kirkgordon. Next time she’s fish food. But he knew he didn’t mean it.
Calandra returned and stood before him, leaning on her staff, white wisps of snow slowly wetting her top and trousers, the wind whipping against her.
Good job she’s ice, thought Kirkgordon. “Better get going, Cally. I’m starting to go numb.” She threw out a hand to help him up. Gratefully he took it before pointing back down the sand dune path.
“That way. I’ve marked it.”
“Churchy, why did you come for me? Havers would have told you to protect Indy. Indy’s important. He has to do the right thing. You need to make sure.”
“Havers is a pro. It’s all about the mission. Everything calculated. And yes, he’s right, Indy does need watching.”
“So why? Don’t get me wrong, Churchy, but if we lose the world it’s a pretty poor exchange.”
Kirkgordon laughed. “When he calls me Churchy, Austerley’s not having a pop at me, Cally. It’s the difference between us. He examines everything, wants to understand it and control it. Whereas I have trust that when I wade in, there’s someone watching over.”
“I’m not sure I get it.”
“No, it’s easy,” chuckled Kirkgordon. “Havers and you need a little faith.”
“I’ve seen too many bodies over the years to have that.”
“Then the coldness is in the heart, not the flesh. No man’s gonna change that for you. But we have hope. Austerley may prevail.”
“I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s intoxicated with this stuff, anything strange. This is a fool’s hope.”
“Maybe. Probably more like an idiot’s hope. But Austerley is the means. I have faith in God, and God says to have faith in Austerley.”
“You may see that tested yet. Come on.”
How We See Things
Austerley was in his element. Escorted by creatures not normally seen on the surface of this world, being lauded as the one who would now bring forth Master Dagon; the respect shown for his intellect counteracted the poor figure he cut tramping through the snow. His bruised and battered face took on a ridiculous slant when his nose turned Rudolph-like with the incessant cold. Flakes of snow hung from wiry eyebrows, and tiredness slumped his shoulders. A majestic master of ceremonies he wasn’t.
Yet the excitement was bubbling in his veins at the thought of meeting an
Elder. For years, he had studied these alien creatures’ rule on earth, stunning even the faculty at Miskatonic University. Of course, they wouldn’t let him loose on the students; such young minds were not ready for such knowledge. Better that wiser men, like himself, should be carrying the mantle for the human race.
One thing was bothering him. Would they have all the elements necessary for the summoning? Fools thought it was like calling a dog forth from its kennel, but this was no resurrection of a frightening “Mary Rose”. There would be the portal to open, deep beneath the surface, establishing the connection to the furthest reaches of space. Then the tribute to lay before the creature, drawing him forward into the continuum, causing him to appear deep beneath the surface and then to rise triumphant.
That was the real sticking point. How could he summon Dagon and then send him back? Once unleashed, there was no telling what devastation the Elder would bring. It wasn’t like the book gave you a spell to put the genie back in the bottle. And Kirkgordon would be out of his depth with this. As would Havers. Calandra would see a real man dealing with the wilder things of this existence.
Their time together had been fun. In and out of the Russian social scene, albeit the darker and stranger end of it. She had introduced him to so many characters kept out of the everyday light for fear of upsetting the average person. For fear of unleashing the mob. In the back cafés and underground rooms they had been a perfect pair, her resplendent in her cold, perfect frame, and him with a brain to appreciate it.
Kirkgordon didn’t know her, didn’t really see the wonder of her. A curse, he saw a curse. But she was perfection.
The march from the house to the uncommunicated destination was taking a long time. Thoughts of sore feet and cold limbs broke into Austerley’s mind and he started to complain at his escorts.
“I guess those flipper-feet don’t feel the cold. Not much thickness to them, I guess. Damn slow walking though. What do you say, Kermit?”
Kermit said nothing. Fairly inarticulate really, thought Austerley. I was expecting a higher level of development. They don’t seem up to much more than guard duty. All those years in space, travel amongst worlds, and what do they do? Drink, eat fish, worship some watery deity and pitch up for guard duty. Dagon better have more than this. Their path took them past a residential property on its own by a cliff edge. The frog-men ushered Austerley over to the front door of the house, which was lying slightly ajar. The fish-men with them split and circumnavigated the house before returning to the front. Satisfied of their solitude, the fish-men joined the others inside. Spying a door toward the rear of the hall which could serve only a smallish room, Austerley opened it to find a toilet and wash basin. He tried to shut the door behind him but a flipper was lodged between the door and its frame.
Normally, “passing the solids”, as his mother had put it, was a time of thoughtful contemplation to Austerley; hidden away, secure and, in the most direct sense, occupied. However, it was hard enough to poo, never mind dream up plans for defeating an Elder, with a six-foot frog watching your every movement. The thought made him laugh, his first, he realized, in a long while.
After cleaning up, Austerley was led into the front room. Like most living rooms, it had a television in one corner, with surround sound, Austerley noted. There was a long sofa against the back wall and a table was set before the large window, looking out to the wildness where they had been walking. A dim uplighter barely raised the light level above an autumn morning’s gloom, but it was clear that beyond the fish-men, some people were sitting on the sofa.
On the left was a man dressed in blue corduroy trousers and a pale green shirt. His close-cropped black hair and thick-set jaw complemented a rugged body. In his right hand was a tin of lager, opened and slightly crushed into his hand. The smile that adorned his face had the macabre relish of a fiend. But it was the gash across the neck, with its dark brown bloodstain, that drew up the bile from Austerley’s stomach.
A quick glance showed the rest of the family in a similar situation on the right of the sofa. Austerley turned his back and vomited profusely onto the dark, thick carpet. The fish-man next to him made some comment in their language followed by what seemed to be a laugh. On his knees, with eyes streaming tears and remnants of sick dripping down onto his jacket from his chin, Austerley was surprised to find a can of the same lager thrust in front of his face.
“Bastards!” he shouted, pushing the can away and rising up to his feet. Half stumbling, half running, he raced out of the living room, staggered down the hall and tripped out of the front door, tumbling into the snow. Austerley clutched some snow together and hurled it at the window in a pathetic show of anger. The amphibians raised their cans to him, presumably laughing. He scrabbled around in the snow and found a rock.
“Bastards!” The front window shattered with the impact. It wasn’t that he felt any better, just that he believed he had registered some note of protest. Ineffectual, certainly, but not unheard. All thoughts of higher forms of life had left Austerley’s mind and been replaced with visions of totalitarian regimes and dictatorships. Even Russia had never gotten like this.
Sitting up on his knees, he allowed the wind to freshen up his face. After a minute he wiped the remaining drools of sick from his lips and chin, using a little snow to wash his face. Nothing was taking the gut- wrenching feeling in his stomach away. Nothing.
How many, wondered Austerley, how many? People who had lived here, had their ancestors here, grandparents and parents reared on this island. Now just removed. In fact, not even just removed, but butchered and then mocked. In tableau. It wasn’t human. Wasn’t that the point? Dagon, all this time he had been thinking of Dagon. The Philistines had worshipped him, but back then he hadn’t showed up. He was just a statue to them, an image. They hadn’t known the real thing. And Churchy, with his God, his meek and mild Jesus. How could he accept this?
Did all these things in shades of darkness bring such destruction? Carter, Pickman? Weren’t they just adventurers like him, seeking the unknown, the galactic truth? Calandra, wasn’t she an angel of good?
His world spinning towards an intellectual oblivion, Austerley just stared out at the cold night, watching the snow cover all in a pure unspoilt white. He wished that life could be so easily restored.
Scanning the surroundings, he hoped to catch a glimpse of Kirkgordon or maybe Calandra with her staff. He needed a rescuer. A whirlwind saviour to blow away the amphibians behind him and speed him away to a happiness clear of this dilemma he faced. If he refused to cooperate, he would be sat on the couch with a tinnie in his hand. If he went along with what they wanted, then he would betray his own race, unleashing hell from beneath the ocean floor. Worst of all, if he took it to the point of summoning before backing out, they would no doubt tear him limb from limb.
Never before had he needed courage, only curiosity. The cat-like desire had driven him into such dangerous and bleak situations. Now there was no desire except to be away from here. Looking inside, he saw his courage had failed. Fear started to become a reality, stronger than any desire he had ever felt.
In the asylum, there had been days like this after the incident in the graveyard. He remembered mooching around in a sloth of despair from having seen the dreaded things deep beneath that tombstone. Night after night, Austerley was rescued from their clutches by a gun-toting Kirkgordon only to resurface at the same tombstone and have a hysterical Kirkgordon leer over him. Kirkgordon’s body had turned black, with large wings extended, his face twisted, eyes shimmering red.
The drugs had helped. He had been grateful for them, especially the happy ones. Even the naked dancing at the main street window, waving a towel above his head, shouting “Olé!” and impressing the rather elderly pair of women out for a Sunday walk had been worth it. But there were no drugs now.
Austerley looked around and saw the cliff edge behind the house. Rising to his feet, he turned slowly and quietly, stepping furtively towards the precipice. He reached
the edge undetected and stood contemplating the drop below. It was a hundred-foot drop to the first rocks beneath. Austerley watched the waves crash hard into the impertinent fixture, breaking on impact, retreating to regroup again. This was perfect. At last he could see the way out. By throwing himself to this present doom he would evade all they had planned for him and not sell out his own race in the process.
Arms raised, Austerley let himself fall forward, imagining himself leaving the ski jump, gliding to the foot of the hill. The air left a deposit of salt spray on his face and that, combined with the cold nip, made him feel more alive just as he exited this world. Austerley had found his peace.
It was like the fairground ride that catapults you suddenly several hundred feet into the air. Except that you had been blindfolded and not been told what you were being strapped into. In fact, you didn’t even realize you were strapped into anything.
Austerley felt a pressure around his waist and was taken along a perpendicular plane at great speed over the sea. Then, almost rebounding, he was thrust back along his previous descent, and the grip on him was released. He cleared the cliff edge by ten feet before crashing and then sliding in the snow. His eyes, only then opening, saw the tentacle disappear back down towards the sea.
On his back, winded and badly bruised, Austerley cursed how his attempted death had turned into another of life’s screw-ups. A shadow caught the top of his eye and he tilted his head back to see a familiar face.
“Careful now, Mr Austerley, we can’t have our master of ceremonies being absent on our opening night.”
Austerley shook his head in disbelief.
“You can piss right off, Farthington!”
Back on the Old Job
“How high can you fly, Cally?” asked Kirkgordon.
“Not very. They’re more for manoeuvring than for height or sustained flight. Useful for attacking people though.”