Cthulhu Land of the Long White Cloud AU

by Cthulhu- Land of the Long White Cloud (retail) (epub)

  There was nothing.

  He scrambled to his feet and started running to where he’d last seen them, his pace picking up until he was sprinting. But they were gone.

  His anguish, when it came, was a howl, a deep, racking scream of madness and terror.

  He searched his pocket for Mary’s ring but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in his other pocket, either. All that was left was a faint impression on the palm of his hand, even now fading out.

  He felt emptied, scoured clean, lost within a dark void, and he finally understood Te Kore.

  EDWARD’S JOURNAL

  Lee Murray

  I accept the package with trembling hands. Wrapped in brown paper and secured with string, my name is written in black letters on the front, the Y in Hennessey smudged at the top. I don’t open it immediately, laying it on the sideboard while I go about my chores. Only when they’re completed, do I gather up the package and take it into the garden to open away from the busy eyes of my sisters.

  I sit on the bench seat facing the lane, where the scent of honeysuckle permeates the air, and prise open the knot to fold back the brown paper. My breath catches. There, on my lap, is Edward’s journal, its brown leather cover stained and its pages warped and dog-eared. A dull ache settles in between my shoulder blades.

  It’s been thirteen years since I last saw it, the day he departed with the 57th regiment.

  “Every man should have an adventure,” he’d told me, his grey eyes twinkling with merriment as he lifted me off my feet and hugged me goodbye. It hadn’t been proper ‒ I’d been barely fourteen ‒ but being my father’s favourite has its benefits, and he had indulged us by looking away.

  A swallow flits by, venturing out from its nest beneath the soffit. I watch it go, not ready to open the journal yet. Instead, I pull the crumpled letter from the pocket of my skirt, smoothing the paper out, and read every word, although by now I know them better than my heart.

  January 1861.

  Margaret, we are arrived this morning in New Zealand and await aboard for our orders. I admit to feeling no remorse at the prospect of leaving the Castilian, as I am no sailor. I do not know any among us who appreciated the incessant sway of the hull, the accursed creaking that robbed us of our rest, and the resolve of the cook to bore us senseless with the blandness of his fare. From where I write here on the deck, the port looks like any you would see in England, fertile and full of promise, although they say the terrain is deadly, and the natives, even our allies, are tricky devils. I do not say this to alarm you, darling Margaret, only to assure you that after our experiences in India, we of the 57th regiment are prepared for any challenge. If the Government wish us to enforce the peaceful settlement of these shores for God-fearing citizens, then we shall certainly oblige them. I shall not complain about the weather though, which, while warm, is pleasantly cooler than Bombay…

  I smile again, remembering how Edward had never liked the heat.

  Margaret, we were marched from the creaking timbers of the Castilian to a place called Onehunga, which the locals pronounce Own-nay-hunger. A risible name, and a risible tale, since not hours after we arrived there, we were made to board another ship, the warship HMS Cordelia, from whence I am writing, in spite of the swell of the ocean beneath me. As I pen this, we approach Waitara near New Plymouth, and the start of our next colonial adventure. I am invigorated by the prospect. Already, I can see the mountain that towers over this region, a perfect cone arising from the peninsula; this glorious edifice is surely a beacon to the gods. If there is time, I shall put this letter with the Quartermaster to despatch on his return to Auckland. I send all my best wishes to you, cousin, and to my uncle, your father.

  Ever yours, Eddie.

  I hold the letter to my face and inhale deeply, hoping for a hint of him, or perchance a vestige of the ocean. Any such trace is long gone and instead I breathe in the lilac I use to scent my own clothes. This letter: the last to reach me, written on pages torn from his journal. Six years, I’ve waited in vain for another. Since then, there’s been nothing but rumour, each one grinding away at my resolve, stripping me of hope. Had he been separated from his regiment? Could he be lost in that alien forest, turning in circles, unable to find his way? Perhaps he died in battle and lay buried under the mud somewhere, his bones slowly rotting while strange plants sprung forth to conceal his resting place. Certain mean-spirited souls whispered behind my back that Edward had been a coward who ran from a fight and was now too ashamed to return. They said he’d forsaken me, choosing instead to take a native to wife and live with her like a savage in the bush. Ignoring the eyes that slid away from mine, I paid no heed to the ugly gossip that drifted in my wake and, after a while with no news to confirm or deny their validity, the rumours had stopped.

  A year later, Arthur Bearnsley had come courting. A decent, gentle man with a good position, Arthur had been patient with me, but Edward was always in my thoughts. I kept him waiting too long for my answer, and, in the end, pressured by his mother, he wed another.

  No fretting over shed milk, Margaret.

  I allow myself the luxury of a sigh, then, wiping my eyes with the corner of my apron, I tuck the letter back in my pocket. What would his journal reveal? I run my palms over the warm leather, dallying. It’s strange: all these years I’ve longed for news of Edward, now that I have his testimony in my hands, I’m afraid to open it. I do it quickly, selecting an entry at random.

  4 April, 1864.

  Margaret, I regret the poverty of my hand today, so childish I can scarce read my own words. In truth, I am trembling like a child. There are ten of us, separated from the first grenadiers. We are hidden in the bush after witnessing the very worst of humanity. I fear sharing this account with you, dear cousin, but we have always been frank, and if the words are too gruesome when I have completed the tale, as they surely must be, then I shall rip the pages from my journal and bury them in the scrub, for we cannot risk a fire…

  We left early this morn from the redoubt at Kaitake. Taking the South Road, we were so buoyed with confidence and bravado, it is hard to fathom our departure was but hours ago. We were led by a man named Captain Thomas Lloyd. Our mission, the same as it has been for some time now, to burn or confiscate any crops and foodstuffs, which might sustain the Māori. We were to badger the natives into moving off the land and going elsewhere, wherever that may be. The day was nothing unusual: fresh and misty with a tang to the air. Lloyd split the party in two near Te Ahauhu. I remained with the captain’s party. I was pleased to do it. A tall-ish fellow still with a good head of hair and fashionable sideburns that conflated his beard, the captain impressed me as a decent sort, solid and fair, and perhaps not as impetuous as some others of his age.

  Margaret, I am stricken: Lloyd was cut down in his prime. It was only by Providence that I was not with him, as I had needed a moment of privacy.

  Those cunning Hau Hau, the so-called Christian Māori, had built a trench system, cutting their saps deep into the bank, invisible from Captain Lloyd and his party ascending the slope. The rebels leapt from the trenches, ambushing our front guard. One of their warriors, a fearsome man with scars across his chest, lifted his club and with a single slice of that deadly blade, the captain’s head was severed from his shoulders. Lloyd’s white breeches did nothing to diminish the sight of his lifeblood pumping from that gruesome stump. There was so much blood, a river of treachery. Yet even in death, our noble Captain Lloyd fought on, his body twitching long moments on the ground.

  In that instant, I avow, I did not go to my commander’s aid. I was paralysed with fear. What advantage would there be in my dying too? So I stayed out of sight, and bit my hand to prevent myself from crying out. It was well I did. Seven soldiers were killed. Decapitated. Dooley lost a leg, cleaved off with one of those flattened greenstone blades. That isn’t the worst of it. Like vampires, the Māori warriors drank the blood of our comrades. I wat
ched while Eastman, Dooley and Poole were exsanguinated, their blood drenching the warrior’s bodies. It drooled from the side of the warrior’s mouths and spilled over their chests.

  Not an Enfield was fired. No word was spoken. When the Hau Hau departed carrying the heads of our countrymen, the ten of us fled, bashing our way through the forest and into the hills.

  My heart pounds, my chest tight with fear. Does he still live? I flick forward several pages, not to read them but to reassure myself that Edward had not perished that very night, perhaps overcome by the same Māori savages who had butchered his captain. To my relief, there are several more entries, somewhat rushed, but all written in Edward’s familiar hand. Quieted, I return to the previous entry and, turning the page, continue my reading.

  12 April, 1864.

  Margaret, since Lloyd’s demise we remain hidden in the foot­hills, isolated from our compatriots, awaiting reinforcement, which must surely come soon. We are only eight now, two of our number killed when we attempted to return to the redoubt the day after Lloyd’s death. Setting out before dawn, we travelled single file through the grey bush, silent but for the thud of our boots on the mud, and the brush of ferns on our shoulders.

  Not one saw who attacked us, or even the hour they attacked, but when we stopped to rest, Jones and Gilardy were missing. We retraced our steps, anticipating a mishap. It was a strong prob­ability: the terrain is treacherous here, dense and dripping and full of unseen perils. A mile behind us, we found their boot marks, deep gouges scrapped in the mud and moss sloughed off fallen branches where they had been dragged through the undergrowth.

  By now, Baxter had worked himself into a lather. His eyes wild, he said the men were lost, carried off by the murderous Hau Hau.

  That fool, Grey, expects us to treat the Māori as our brothers, he railed. These thick-lipped people, who carve their bodies with chisels and knives and adorn themselves with crude ungodly patterns. How can we trust savages such as these?

  McKenzie had scowled at that. It is widely known he is a sympathiser. The man keeps a native ‘wife’, even speaks the language. Under the circumstances, it was well he did not voice his viewpoint because Baxter was not alone in his belief that the Hau Hau had returned to slaughter us while we were weakened in both spirit and numbers. Uneasy, the men murmured and shifted their feet.

  Does no one else smell a rat? Baxter warned us. He said we should go back. This piteous trail will only expose us to the same fate as our compatriots, he insisted. We should make for the redoubt.

  He turned to go, but Finnigan and Ilot wouldn’t have it. They don’t call us the Die Hards because we turn our back on our own, Finnigan said, his finger raised like my old governor. Burly and thickset, Finnigan stands as high as a stallion with the muscles to match. It takes a brave man to stand up to Finnigan.

  Baxter persisted. We ran when they killed Lloyd, he said.

  That was different, said Finnigan.

  Since Finnigan saved my life in India, what choice did I have but to agree? We set off, following the trail of desperate scuffs, Baxter reluctantly falling in behind us. Finnigan took the lead, cutting a trail through the trees as those calamitous tracks took us deeper and deeper into the forest. At times, the foliage was so dense and the mist so thick we could barely see in front of our faces, still, we pushed on. Then, without precedent, the scuffs stopped. Finnigan had us search the area for the men. With the dusk descending upon us we checked every embankment, lifted every fern. Margaret, we scoured every inch, we found not a trace of them.

  The Hau Hau have them, Donaldson asserted.

  We others could offer no more plausible explanation. Gilardy and Jones were lost. Even Finnigan was forced to admit it. Worse, in searching for the missing men, we’d lost our way, like Grimms’ tale of Hänsel und Grethel. Ilot disagreed, assuring us that all was well, that if we kept our current course, we would meet the trail again, that we might yet encounter the garrison search party sent to fetch us back. His confidence was met with uneasy glances. Still, what other course was open to us? So we trusted to God, and to Ilot, and trudged on, each keeping an apprehensive eye fixed on the bush. My skin prickled, the hairs on the back of my neck lifting. Shivering, I imagined watchful eyes observing us from behind every twisted tree.

  I’m determined now that it was nothing, just my predilection for fanciful thoughts.

  Take, for example, this occurrence during my voyage on the Castilian. It was the strangest event and yet, at the time, I was convinced of its veracity. We’d been at sea for several days and, feeling feverish, I ventured onto the deck in search of fresh air, and perhaps in the hope of seeing land on the horizon. No one accompanied me: the squalls were brisk and bracing and lashing rain made the deck treacherous. You mustn’t scold me, Margaret. I was not at risk, taking care to hook my arm about a stay to secure me to the ship, for the seas were vigorous. The sails flapped and the Castilian groaned, the vessel cresting a swell the size of a small mountain. On the descent of that formidable wave, through the swirling winds, I bore witness to a monster of the sea. I blinked, knowing I was mistaken, that it was a drifting log, or perhaps the mast of some unfortunate wreck, and yet the image persisted, as clear as a daguerreotype. The monster, for I can call it nothing else, was a serpentine beast of 200 feet. Dark-skinned and spotted, its head was the size of a barrel and bore a strange wrinkled crest on its forehead. Translucent, the monster rippled beneath the swell, a noiseless Stygian creature beside the Castilian. I had never been more pleased to stand on the solid timbers of the ship. My heart thundered like hoof beats and my knees shook. I was bewitched, unable to look away despite my desire. Instead, I squinted against the rain to see it. For a harrowing moment, it too considered me, the malevolence in its yellowed eye forcing the breath from my lungs, but then the Castilian shuddered and rose again, and the creature disappeared into the inky depths.

  For days afterwards, nothing had been truer: I was persuaded I had witnessed a monster of the sea, such is the extent of my imagination. Every time my thoughts strayed there, the monster became larger, clearer, more omnipresent, my fertile mind ever aggrandising it in the manner of a hapless fisherman describing his elusive catch. Of course, there was nothing there. The beast was conjured from my mind. The storm was the cause, or else the apparition was a manifestation of my high fever. And the same must have been true as we, the survivors of the 57th, marched onwards, because when we set up our camp near a small crick in the darkness several hours later, we numbered seven, sound and whole.

  “Margaret!” my sister Evie calls from the back porch. “Mother says you’re to come in for supper.” While I’ve been reading, the afternoon sun has seeped away above the hills. I will have to continue my lecture later. I tuck my letter in the journal to mark the page, wrap the book loosely in its original brown paper skin and hurry inside.

  It’s much later, in my room, candlelight flickering against the walls, that I am able to return to Edward’s missive.

  Margaret, we awoke to a strange ululating. I jumped to my feet, my musket at the ready, and peered into the trees, but could see no one. Tense moments passed. The threat, had there been one, was gone. All around me, angry gazes were directed at Ilot, our sentry for the small hours. Ilot only shrugged. A little way off, Finnigan gave a shout. Giraldy was back, he said. We jumped rotting logs, trampled low bushes, in our haste to reach them.

  It was Giraldy, but he was barely recognisable: supine on the muddy ground, he was tinged blue and enveloped from head to toe in thick slime. Opaque and criss-crossed with white filaments, the glutinous cocoon put me in mind of a frog’s spawn with its gelatinous covering, or perhaps a spider’s prey, wrapped for consumption at the creature’s leisure. Inside, his filmy wrapping, Giraldy jerked. My skin crawled.

  He’s still alive! Help him! Finnigan urged.

  Shaking his head, McKenzie handed me his blade. I dropped to my knee and, grasping at the moulde
ring jelly, sliced away the mucous obstructing Giraldy’s mouth, praying that the man might suck in a breath and be revived. Sadly, his chest did not rise. He did not jerk again.

  Here let me, Finnigan said, pushing me aside and taking up the blade. They pair had been friends, neighbours since their youth, so his grief was palpable.

  Scraping away the remaining mucous, Finnigan uncovered Giraldy’s face. I staggered backwards, repulsed. Gibbous eyes stared out at us. Globes of terror, in a visage that was burned away, the raw tissue pink and oozing. A glob of slime slithered down his cheek.

  Margaret, I shall report the words that passed between us, but you must forgive their coarseness, for our distress was extreme.

  His fist clenched, Big Finnigan shook with fury. Bloody brutes, he whispered.

  Baxter sneered. Those fucking Hau Hau!

  But McKenzie shook his head again. This isn’t the work of the Māori, he said.

  What do you know? Baxter interjected. You think fornicating with one grants you admission to a native’s mind? Ha! You flatter yourself if you think your member reaches that far. It’s of no matter; their women cannot be trusted any more than the men. Sly creatures with the devil’s mark on their chins, they’re little more than beasts! His face was pale, and beneath his arms his tunic was stained with sweat. His chest heaved as if he had just run to the docks and back.

  But where is Jones? Donaldson asked.

  At that, Creighton turned and vomited in the bushes, although what he had to purge I cannot imagine, there had been little enough time for eating since Lloyd’s death. Creighton’s reaction brought me back to myself. My hands were burning where I had grasped the slime. I rushed for the crick and plunged them in the water, only emerging when I had rinsed away the gelatinous ooze and the smears of Giraldy’s blood.

  13 March, 1864.