What were the odds? Donnelly turning up here?
At least the archaeologist was unconscious. And judging by the concern the other woman was showing, her prospects weren’t too good.
Cole felt suddenly guilty. He had to look away from where Mina worked frantically on the wounded leg. But there was nothing to look at apart from scientific equipment he didn’t understand, and wall posters showing graphic depictions of the interior of the human body that made him queasy.
He took the journal from his satchel. He picked up the story of the Havenhome from where he’d left off.
* * *
Taken from the personal journal of John Fraser, Captain of the Havenhome, a cargo vessel. Entry date 17th October, 1605. Transcribed and annotated by Dick North, 18th March.
My dearest Lizzie. This may be the last time I write in this journal, this task that has become so dear to me these last months, bringing me as close to you as I can get over the reaches of the seas between us.
Unless God spares me from the trials that lie ahead, it will be the last chance I have to ever speak to you again. I will miss your soft words, the feel of your body against mine. But I cannot allow myself to think of such things now, not when I must be stronger than I have yet been in this mean, pitiful excuse for a life I am now living.
You will wish to know the fate of the crew, if only to pass on the sad details to the other wives and sweethearts who wait for those who will ne’er return. The tale I now relate is one full of dread and fear, but you can at least comfort the women back home that their men died bravely. If only they had stayed dead, then mayhap I would not have to write this note.
At first the six of us who survived that hellish night in the tavern felt joy at the mere fact we were yet alive, with so many of our fellowship having fallen. We made our way back to the ship, where I penned my previous note to you and we tried to warm ourselves as best we could. I allowed the other five to break open the grog, but limited them to one mug each, for we had friends to bury.
After I finished my journal, I had a hard task getting them back on land again, for they had already forgotten the oath we made outside the tavern, and had a mind to up anchor and leave, never mind it would be near-nigh impossible for a crew of so few to get the vessel anywhere in open sea. In the end I shamed them into it, by walking down the gangplank and standing, arms folded on the dock.
“I stay here,” I shouted. “If you choose to go, you may leave me behind. Have you so far forgotten the fellowship that we shared that you can leave your friends where they lie? Would you deny them the comfort of the words of the Lord?”
None spoke.
“And what of when we six are home and safe? What will you tell their wives, their sweethearts? Would you be able to ever look them in the eye again? And when they ask in the taverns how it is that we six came home yet the others did not? Could you speak up and say that we ran like rats for the comfort of home while our shipmates lay dead in a tavern? I know that I could not. I will stay here, until we have eased the path to Paradise for our fallen.”
“And I will stand with you Cap’n, as always. You have led us through many dangers. I have trust that you will not betray us now.”
The First Mate brought himself down to join me.
Together we stood there, while the remaining others stared at us sullenly, weighing their thoughts of mutiny against their loyalty to me, their captain.
In truth I myself wanted little more than to flee back to your soft arms, but I held firm, although I half expected at any moment for a storm to brew up and freeze me, immobile, to the spot. The storm did not come, but the last remainder of my crew did, eventually coming sheepishly down the gangplank to join us.
“The Lord will reward you, in this life or the next,” I said to each of them.
“Do not be too quick with your praise, Cap’n,” the First Mate said. “For mayhap they know as well as we do that four men, no matter how strong, could not even so much as get the boat out of this harbor, never mind across all the seas that separate us from home.”
“Still, they have shown themselves brave enough to step down beside us. What each man holds in his heart lies between him and his maker, but their actions show them to be still true. For that, I give thanks.”
“Then we will all give thanks together, to the Lord,” the First Mate said. “The Pastor may not be here, but that does not mean we should neglect our debts. Let us pray.”
The First Mate led us in prayer, as solemn and faithful as if he himself was a Pastor. Then Stumpy Jack started up the old songs. We sang “Wind and Sail, He Watches O’er Us,” at the top of our voices.
We felt stronger than before as we left the dockside behind.
That strength lasted only as long as it took for the cold offshore wind to reach through our garments and bring a chill to our hearts.
We strode back into the colony with as much bluster as we could manage, each man talking loudly to the other as if noise itself might keep the cold at bay. It was only when we fetched up outside the tavern that we fell silent, each lost in his thoughts of the night so recently passed.
Once more, all waited. I was the first to make my way into that hellhole, despite the heaviness that lay on my soul.
“Let us have at it, lads,” the Mate said behind me, leading the rest inside. “We cannot have our friends lying here in the dark when there is warm sunshine to be had outside.”
And so we lifted and we carried, trying not to remember the times we had spent with those who were now no more than cold meat under our hands. I will spare you the details, dearest Lizzie, but bringing the bodies of our fallen out of the tavern was a sore blow to our hearts. Some of us had a tear in our eye as we laid them in a row in front of the courthouse. But a far sorer blow was yet to come.
When we went to fetch the Pastor and Bald Tom, neither of them was to be found.
I stood in the ruin of what was left of the privy.
I could find no sign that Bald Tom had ever been there, save for a single partially frozen shit on the ground.
Stumpy Jack wailed.
“The Devil has taken them. And it will be us for it next.”
He would have fled there and then if the First Mate hadn’t held him by the scruff of the neck.
“Have courage, man,” he said, loud enough for us all to hear. “Last night the Good Lord saved our sorry skins. He has a purpose for us all, even you, old Stumpy. All we have to do is trust him, and he will deliver us.”
Those quiet words from the big man gave us all succor, but only until we dragged to the bodies out to the cemetery.
None of us were prepared for the sight that met us.
This time old Stumpy did flee, screaming back to the boat as if all the demons of hell were after him.
The graves we had spent the last days digging all lay open, brown earth strewn every which way. The dead had not lain at rest, despite all the Pastor’s pleas and prayers. They had risen up, digging their way out of the cold earth.
There was no sign of any bodies, man, woman or child. Not a single one slept where we had put them.
“What shall we do, Cap’n? Shall we take them back to the Havenhome,” the First Mate asked, but I had no answer.
“Leave them here,” Jim Crawford shouted. “Leave them here. For if those we have said the words over can yet rise, then surely there is no hope for any of us.”
“I must think on it,” I said. “And I cannot hold a thought in my head while these graves lie before me. Leave our dead be. I will repair to my cabin. Mayhap the Lord will send me guidance.”
We followed Stumpy Jack back to the boat, more slowly, but with no less trepidation in our hearts.
By the time we got back onto the Havenhome, Stumpy Jack was already blind drunk and no use to man nor beast.
“We have to go back and bury our crewmates,” the First Mate said.
“Why bother. They will only be up and about again on the morrow,” Stumpy Jack replied. He wept, a pitif
ul sight in such an old sea dog such as him.
“Jack has it right,” Jim Crawford piped up. “Despite all our efforts, despite all the Pastor’s prayers, they’ve all come up again. And who is to know, mayhap the Pastor and Bald Tom are with them even now.”
Dave the Bosun’s Mate and Eye-Tie Frank stayed quiet. I saw they were already eyeing the grog. I allowed each man another half-cup.
“It’s up to you, Cap’n,” the First Mate said after swallowing a mouthful that would have floored a smaller man. “If you say we should go back and put them in the ground, then I’ll make sure we all go as one.”
May the Lord God forgive me; I left them there, lying out under the sun beside the empty graves.
“No,” I replied. “Pull up the gangplank. We will spend this night on the Havenhome. I will sleep on it, and make a decision on the morrow.”
But sleep was the furthest thing from my thoughts. I am ashamed to admit it, but I took to the grog, swilling it down as if the morrow did not matter, as if I had no responsibilities in the world. I know I promised you dearest, but my solemn vow was not enough to keep me from it. I can only say in my own mitigation that I was far from hearth and home, and sore afeared. And if it is any consolation to you sweetest, I have no memory of the act, and I suffered the most fearful of headaches on awakening.
It was the First Mate who brought me out of my stupor.
At first I thought I had taken enough grog to blind me, but it was only that the sky outside had grown dark. Another night had fallen. There was a chill in the air.
“Cap’n. You need to see this,” he said.
“Can’t it wait?” I said, groaning as the result of my drinking gripped my head like a vise.
“Afraid not, Cap’n. If I left you asleep, you might never wake again.”
“That might be no bad thing,” I moaned.
He slapped me in the face, hard. I was so astonished I almost fell on my arse. I probably would have done had he not put out a hand to steady me.
“I’m rightful sorry, Cap’n, but your men need you sober and in charge. We are in perilous waters, and hard times. That is a mixture that requires a Captain, not a drunken sot.”
In all our time together he had never raised his voice to me before, let alone strike me.
I was of a mood to be affronted, but one look at the fear in his eyes melted all passion away.
“You have the right, sir,” I said to him. “If you see me lift another flagon of grog you can throw me in the brig and toss the key over the side.”
“Best save your vow of abstinence for a bit,” he said with a grim smile. “You might need a brew after you’ve seen what waits out on the dock.”
He led me up on deck.
Moonlight shone down, illuminating the dock.
A single figure stood there, staring up at us.
It was our first sighting of an aboriginal, one that froze the very breath in my throat. He wore a headpiece of feathers that rose in a crown above his head and fell in a long tail down his back. His clothing looked to be animal skin roughly sewn together. His feet were bare.
But that wasn’t what drew the eye. I had heard tell that the natives of these shores were red, almost the color of blood, but this tall man was white as ivory, as cold as a stone. White eyes without a pupil stared up at us.
He raised his arms.
It snowed, out of that clear, starry sky.
The First Mate looked past the native, down into the colony.
“Dear Lord preserve us,” he whispered.
I turned to follow his gaze.
The dead walked along the dock towards us, each of them staring with that white-eyed gaze. And there, at the front of the mob, stood a bulky man in a woman’s skirts. Alongside him strode a tall, grim-faced preacher dressed in black.
Bald Tom and the Pastor had come back to visit their old shipmates.
* * *
Mina stood up from her work, groaning as her back complained.
“How is she?” Jon asked.
“I’ve cleaned away all the dead flesh and packed the wounds,” Mina replied. “But I’m no surgeon. If infection sets in, she’ll lose the leg. We have to get her to a hospital.”
Jon shook his head.
“No chance. I’ve been following things online. We’re safer here than anywhere.”
“Things are bad?”
The technician nodded.
“The PC in your office is on the two megabit wireless link.”
“Can you get out an SOS?”
Jon looked grim.
“I tried. I was told to ‘Sit tight and wait it out’. They’re having ‘operational difficulties’ getting anything into the city. But that’s not all. There’s a streaming video link you need to see.”
“Get a pot of coffee on,” she said. “And meet me in the office.”
She went to the sink to wash up.
“Mr. Barter? Coffee and news update in my office in five?”
The man didn’t look up, lost in his reading.
* * *
Taken from the personal journal of John Fraser, Captain of the Havenhome, a cargo vessel. Transcribed and annotated by Dick North, 19th March.
NB This fragment continues straight on from the Journal Entry date 17th October, 1605. The writing is often illegible, and the writer’s thoughts are clearly disturbed, but I have made my best endeavors in transcribing it faithfully.
The First Mate roused the remaining crew, all save Stumpy Jack, who was so far gone in stupor that Gabriel’s Horn itself is unlikely to have called him out of sleep.
Our first thought, nay, our only thought, was to raise anchor and head for open water, but we were denied even that chance. In less time than the blink of an eye a storm blew up, a wind so cold it would have frozen us to the deck if we hadn’t had the foresight to wear our winter furs. Even at that, the cold bit at my nose so hard it felt like a nip from an excited dog.
“Up anchor,” the First Mate shouted, but too late.
The sea had frozen solid around us.
We were stuck hard in place. Old timbers creaked and moaned as the ice gripped tight.
“Will she hold?” I asked the Mate.
“She held together when the ice was three feet thick off Newfoundland two years back,” he said. “She’ll hold now.”
But I was starting to believe that it was colder yet than that day. I had to keep shifting from foot to foot; otherwise my soles would have frozen to the deck. By now snow fell so thick that I could no longer see the buildings of the colony beyond the dock.
“What purpose does it serve?” I said. I thought I had merely spoken to myself, but the Mate heard.
“The Pastor used to say that everything, good or evil, was God’s will, all part of a scheme of things, and that we would only ever understand when we were risen up on the Day of Judgment, and the veils would fall from our eyes.”
“Then I wish the Day of Judgment would hurry upon us,” I replied. “For I am sore perplexed, and have long since tired of this mummery.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Cap’n,” the Mate said. “Be very careful what you wish for.”
Jim Crawford came up beside us on deck, musket in his hand. It fell unused to the deck when he saw what faced us across on the dock. Stout fellow though he was, Jim Crawford fell to his knees, struck down in terror.
“We’re done for,” he squealed.
The First Mate raised him to his feet.
“Not if we stand together as men,” he said. “For truly that is the only way we will see home again. Cap’n…do I have your permission to break out the powder?”
“You have a plan?”
“More of an idea, but mayhap it will come to something.”
“Then have at it, man, have at it.”
The Mate went below, while Crawford and I stood and watched the figures on the dockside.
They did not move. Their stares did not wander from where we stood. The snow got heavier yet, and still they d
id not stir.
“What do they want from us, Cap’n,” Crawford wailed beside me. “What do they want?”
In truth, I could not answer him, for fear had taken hold deep within me. It would not be shifted, no matter how many prayers I uttered up to the most high. My eyes were fixed on the Pastor and Bald Tom, two men as far apart in temperment as you are ever likely to meet. Yet here they were, standing side by side, joined in a new hatred against their former shipmates that I was at a loss to understand.
The wind howled. The snow bit into my cheeks, but I was loath to move, loath to take my eyes from the host on the dock lest they creep up on me unawares.
The First Mate came back onto deck, joined by Eye-Tie Frank. They carried between them a half-barrel full of thick pitch.
“I’ve mixed in the powder,” the First Mate said. “Remember that corsair we met off the Azores?”
And indeed I did. In a flash I saw his plan.
“Will it burn against yon cold flesh?” I asked as I helped manhandle the barrel.
“I know nothing else that might,” the Mate said.
He wrapped a linen cloth around the end of a broomstick and dipped it in the pitch. He lit it from a small tinder box he kept in his waistcoat pocket.
“I trust no one but you with the flame,” the Mate said, handing it to me.
I looked him in the eye, this man who had been my friend for past twenty years.
“It’s risky,” I said. “I have mind of what happened to Slant-Eyed Jock,”
“And I,” the Mate said. “But I fear we have little choice.”
He thrust his arm into the pitch. He came up with a handful of black ooze in his hand.
“Do it quick,” he said. He thrust his hand towards me.
I lit the pitch. The Mate threw the lit mass away from him and it spluttered and spat as it sailed into the night. It hit Bald Tom on the chest, and ran down his torso, burning all the time.
The frozen man looked down, as if bemused. His whole face went up like a torch as the flame reached the powder that had been mixed in with the pitch.
Night of the Wendigo Page 19