After burying Giraldy’s corpse, we marched less than two miles before stopping to rest, our nerves frayed and our spirits weaker than a tumbler of McClintock’s ale. The ululation came again, unholy high-pitched notes that chilled us to the bone. Baxter said it was the bloody Hau Hau, trying to steal us of our courage. McKenzie said it was a bird, a piriwharauroa. A laughing cuckoo.
Baxter had scoffed at that. In truth, I don’t know what to believe, except when we clambered to our feet to press on, Donaldson had disappeared. We searched the site and found the drag marks, slithering off into the bush.
Finnigan hitched his musket over his shoulder. We should follow them, he said.
It’s too late, Baxter countered.
Finnigan’s jaw rippled. He might still be alive. You saw what happened to Giraldy. If it were you, would you wish us to abandon you?
It was a mistake to mention Giraldy. The man’s fate was too fresh, the image of that glutinous coffin too gruesome, and the men all found something of interest on the ground.
For Christ’s sake! Finnigan cursed.
We can’t keep doing this, Ilot whined.
What do you propose? Finnigan demanded.
Make camp, set sentries, and wait for the garrison to find us.
Ilot’s right, Baxter said. While we’re on the move, we’re vulnerable.
What if the garrison isn’t looking for us? Finnigan asked, his voice soft for a big man. What if they already reckon us dead?
No one answered him, and the eerie ululation commenced again.
20 March, 1864.
I am ashamed to say that this morning two of our number left us, Margaret, one drifting away into the bush, and the other taking his own life. Perhaps Donaldson is responsible, his body turning up at the edge of the camp yesterday, wrapped in its corrosive slime cocoon. Finnigan postulated that the shock of our compatriot’s discovery overwhelmed them, although what other outcome did they expect once we spied the poor man’s boot marks in the mud? I do not want to imagine what passed through Donaldson’s mind as he was dragged from us through the undergrowth. What must it be like to be drowned in mucous?
Why didn’t he scream? Ilot asked.
It is a question we have all been asking.
He had been gone six days, so Finnigan and I buried him yesterday without preamble. I concede the task was herculean. More than once I had to put up my trowel. These days, I am a new-born foal, my arms have gotten so spindly. Even standing is an effort: my legs wobble like an infant. We are starving. Knowing something of the Māori ways, McKenzie has foraged the nearby forest, but the sodden roots and berries he’s found could scarce sustain a rabbit, let alone a group of famished men. I ate the fat white caterpillar he offered me, greasy saliva welling in my mouth as I swallowed. It was putrid.
Ah, Margaret, what I would not give for one of your scones now? My mouth waters at the thought.
It took the five of us the better part of today to bury the man who took his own life. I do not write his name here out of respect for what we of the 57th regiment have been through together, nevertheless, it is hard not to think of him as the lowest of men. Your father would surely deem him a miserable sinner.
Although, I hope Grey and his soldiers find us soon, because each night, when darkness falls with its shifting mist, and the unspeakable ululation begins again in earnest, I rather envy the sinner his slumber.
There is no need for alarm, dearest Margaret. I do not mean to kill myself. I only wish I could be gone from here, transported in an instant, back to England and to you, for New Zealand is the wildest, most desolate of places.
Do you recall my first impressions as I sat on the deck of the Cordelia and admired the perfect cone of the mountain at New Plymouth? I felt certain the peak was intended as a beacon to the gods. You will forgive me if I laugh aloud, for I fear only Lucifer took up the call. We are surely in hell. For days we have been assaulted by a relentless, unpitying deluge. It is as if the mountain has captured the clouds, holding them against its flanks with the express purpose of torturing us. The forest that surrounds us is thick and dense and water drips everywhere. Sometimes I wonder, was I ever dry? Then, there are the swarms of vicious black flies that consume the miserable flesh that remains to us. When the flies have supped their fill, fat welts rise at the site. We scratch at the bites with our fingernails, desperate to purge the murderous itching. It is enough to drive a man insane. Of all of us, McKenzie suffers the least, rubbing the leaves of a plant he calls ngāio on his skin. He claims it is an old wives’ tale; a Māori remedy against the flies.
The rest of us prefer to endure.
I look up. Dark shadows hover in the corners of my room. The house is quiet, the household long since gone to their beds. With bleary eyes and shaking hands, I turn the pages. Only a handful of entries remain. Dare I read on? No, I should wait until the morn, where the golden sunlight and smell of baking bread will dampen my fears.
Sliding the journal onto my nightstand, I pull my nightdress over my head and slip beneath my covers, reassuring myself that all will be well. Why else would I have received the journal? Edward will have sent it ahead to prepare me. Surely, he is safe in the garrison, yet weakened still from his ordeal. I must not fret because as soon as he is sufficiently recovered, Governor Grey will transport him back to England, back to me.
Morning is too far away. My candle is good for another hour, so I lift the journal onto my knees and read on.
28 March, 1864.
Ilot has gone and more drag marks have appeared only yards from where I slept. And always that damnable ululating. Incessant. On and on. Driving us to distraction. Finnigan and McKenzie are urging us to leave. Baxter refuses. We are too weak to withstand an assault, anyway.
Baxter said if the Hau Hau were to bring Ilot back on the morn, he might be tempted to eat him. A poor joke, but still we laughed.
It isn’t the Hau Hau, McKenzie insisted.
We shook our heads. What does he know?
Last night, when I slept, I dreamed of home, of the lane where I plucked a honeysuckle flower from the hedgerow and tucked it in your hair. Do you think of me still, Margaret? Will anyone read these words? Is it cowardly of me to admit I am too tired and too heartsick to hope?
30 March, 1864.
Somehow McKenzie’s Māori woman has found us. She came creeping into the camp at twilight. Finnigan, jumpy as all hell, almost blew her head off with his musket. It was lucky he didn’t because, wondrous of wondrous events, she brought with her a basket of sweet potatoes. I bit right into one, the rough purple skin included, eating the hard flesh as if it were an apple. My stomach has shrunk so much, I could only eat one, but I swear I had never eaten anything so delicious.
Ask her when Grey’s men will get here, Baxter demanded, his mouth full of the tuber.
McKenzie spoke to her in the skipping sing-song tones of her native language. The woman shook her head and pulled on McKenzie’s arm, urging him to come away.
She says we have to leave, McKenzie said. We need to go now, tonight. She says unspeakable things dwell here. Evil kehua-spirits.
Baxter’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Why is she here then? Are the Hau Hau so impatient to wrap us in their slime-filled cocoons that they’ve sent her to lure us to our deaths?
No, McKenzie said. She says the Hau Hau went east to the coast, taking the head of our chief with them. She says Governor Grey took the soldiers from the garrison and followed them.
Baxter cackled. For someone not aligned with the Hau Hau, she knows a lot, he said.
The ululating started up, strident and melancholy. The woman’s eyes grew wide. She tugged at McKenzie’s hand, speaking quickly in his ear.
Bad omen. I’m going with her, McKenzie said abruptly. You can stay if you want.
I’ll come, said Finnigan. He grasped at a tree trunk, using it to suppo
rt his weight as he clambered to his feet.
She’s with those butchers, I’m telling you, Baxter hissed. She’ll get you both killed.
Finnigan and McKenzie looked at me. Chatfield?
I wanted to go with them, but without Baxter? We were the 57th. Eleven years we’d been together, from Inkerman and Sevastapol to Malta and India, and finally across the world to New Zealand. Die Hards, they called us. Someone had to stay with him. Since Finnigan and McKenzie had declared they would go, there was no one else.
Finnigan saw me hesitate. I’ll send a party back for you both, he said. I’ll do it the moment we arrive at the garrison. You have my word.
They departed before I had wished them Godspeed, the three of them turning and slipping into the bracken. All that remained of them were three small potatoes.
Fools. The Hau Hau will have them. They’ll be dead before daybreak, Baxter said.
I could only shrug. The odds were unfavourable, whatever the course.
In the morning, it was Baxter who was gone, the skids of his boots trailing off into the bush.
My candle flickers. Tears stream down my face.
Please, no.
I put the journal aside and wrap my arms around my body, determined not to read another word. But in the end I do, if only to accompany him in spirit, because I cannot bear to think of Edward all alone.
April, 1864
It has been four days, or is it five, since Finnigan and McKenzie left for the garrison. I have counted the hours, trying to determine when they might arrive. How long would it take them to find their way back? Three days? Four? How long to send a search party? Should I expect them soon? Baxter has been back since yesterday, wrapped in his glutinous casing. I can see his eyes bulging through the slime as he lies beside me. Sometimes, I see them follow me. I’d bury him, but I can barely stand. He’s a quiet companion with his mouth full of mucous.
One moment, I fear no one will come for me, and then, in the next, I fear they will.
I’m afraid to fall asleep.
Well, I cannot complain for the lack of adventure. How many men can claim to have seen a sea monster? Although, if I had wanted rain I might have stopped at home.
Speak to me of home, Margaret. I would hear about your day. Is the honeysuckle still in flower? What of your father? How was his sermon last Sunday? Did anyone snore? Of course, I am teasing. I’m sure it was very fine. I’m so very sorry I missed it. Perhaps I will be home for Christmas. That is a blessed thought. But the light will be gone soon, so I will stop my writing now.
My fingers quake and I turn the page. Edward’s last entry. The words leap from the paper, and I gasp, clapping my hands to my mouth. The journal clatters to the floor. It doesn’t matter that I cannot see his hand, because I cannot unsee the words.
Margaret, the ululation. They’re coming.
Biographies
(in order of appearance)
Steve Proposch, Christopher Sequeira & Bryce Stevens are the co-editors and creators of the award-winning Cthulhu Deep Down Under (CDDU) concept. Their decision to collaborate on a rolling series of anthologies under the group moniker ‘Horror Australis’ reflects their belief that the most exciting opportunities for southern equatorial genre fiction lie ahead. The team both individually and in collaboration has contributed to Terror Australis: The Australian Horror and Fantasy Magazine, Bloodsongs magazine, The Australian Horror Writers Association, a series of short-run horror comics under the Sequence Publications banner, and more. CDDU volumes one and two are available now, and volume three is set for release in 2019.
STEVE SANTIAGO became a fan of all things weird at an early age and that attraction has never stopped. He graduated with a BA in Graphic Design and has over 20 years of experience working as a full-time graphic designer in California. The past few years he has been able to devote most of his time to illustrating and photoshopping covers and interior art for anthologies, magazines, ezines, CD covers, board game art and concept art for a Lovecraftian film. As a freelancer, Steve has created art/designs for clients from as far away as Australia, Germany, Hungary, U.K., and the Netherlands—illustrator-steve.com
J.C. HART is a lover of pizza, coffee, and zombies (in no particular order). She was raised on a healthy diet of horror, science fiction, and fantasy, and despite many attempts by various English teachers has refused to budge on her position that these are the best genres ever. When she’s not raising her horde of wonderfully creepy children or dreaming of the day she’ll have an army of ninja kittens, she’s writing speculative fiction, or binging on TV, movies, and games. She also happens to be a Sir Julius Vogel Award winner and was a finalist in the 2014 Australian Shadows Awards. You can find her on twitter @JCHart, instagram at just.cassie.hart, or at her website just-cassie.com
LUCY SUSSEX was born in Christchurch, New Zealand. She has abiding interests in women’s lives, Australiana, and crime fiction. Her award-winning fiction includes the novel, The Scarlet Rider (1996, reprint Ticonderoga 2015). She has five short story collections. Her Women Writers and Detectives in the Nineteenth Century (2012) examines the mothers of the mystery genre. Blockbuster: Fergus Hume and The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (Text), won the 2015 Victorian Community History Award and was shortlisted for the Ngaio Marsh Award. She is currently a Creative Fellow at the State Library of Victoria.
DAN RABARTS is an award-winning short fiction author and editor, recipient of New Zealand’s Sir Julius Vogel Award for Best New Talent in 2014. His science fiction, dark fantasy and horror short stories have been published in numerous venues around the world, including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, StarShipSofa and The Mammoth Book of Dieselpunk. Together with Lee Murray, he co-edited the anthologies Baby Teeth - Bite-sized Tales of Terror, winner of the 2014 SJV for Best Collected Work and the 2014 Australasian Shadows Award for Best Edited Work, and At The Edge, a collection of Antipodean dark fiction, which won the SJV for Best Edited Work in 2017. His novella Tipuna Tapu won the Paul Haines Award for Long Fiction as part of the Australasian Shadows Awards in 2017. Hounds of the Underworld, Book 1 of the crime/horror series The Path of Ra, co-written with Lee Murray and published by Raw Dog Screaming Press (2017), is his first novel. Book 2, Teeth of the Wolf, is due out soon. Find out more at dan.rabarts.com
JANE PERCIVAL lives with her husband, Ben, at rural South Head, adjacent to the Kaipara Harbour. The notion of the unpredictability of the natural world is a thread that runs through many of her short stories, and in keeping with many New Zealand writers, her narratives often touch on a person’s feelings of loneliness and isolation, and explore the ways that people interact with their surroundings, which in turn, can shape their thoughts and actions. Jane’s first introduction to speculative fiction was an Edgar Allan Poe anthology discovered on her parents’ book shelf when she was young, and as a teenager and young adult, she devoured with relish, any fantasy, horror, or science fiction story she could lay her hands on. The creepiness of H. P. Lovecraft’s classic horror stories has always rested heavily on her mind. The suggestion that there is only a thin veil between our safe and settled lives and the other…a world of terror and chaos…this is enough to arouse fear in anyone. Jane has an occasional blog, which can be found at https://heni-irihapeti.com/
DEBBIE AND MATT COWENS are Kapiti-based writers and teachers. They wrote the award-winning horror anthology of adapted Katherine Mansfield short stories, Mansfield with Monsters. Matt is also a podcast fiction voice artist, chilli-grower, and he designed and illustrated the card games Dig, Mob and Cow. Debbie’s short story Caterpillars won the AHWA Shadow award for Best Short Story in 2014 and her novel Murder and Matchmaking is a mashup of Jane Austen and Sherlock Holmes.
GRANT STONE’s stories have appeared in Island, Strange Horizons, Andromeda Spaceways inflight magazine, and have twice won the Sir Julius Vogel Award.
DAVID KURARIA was born on the island of Ranongga in the Solomon
Islands. He attended Kingsland Intermediate school in Auckland New Zealand before reuniting with his family in the Solomon’s capital, Honiara. Kõpura Rising is David’s third published story and is one of a trilogy of tales describing a malign, hidden marine-dwelling race named Kõpura. Currently the author is employed in habitat protection by the Honiara Department of Fisheries.
TRACIE MCBRIDE is a New Zealander of European and Māori descent who lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in over 80 print and electronic publications, including the Stoker Award-nominated anthologies Horror for Good and Horror Library Volume 5. Her collection Ghosts Can Bleed contains much of the work that earned her a Sir Julius Vogel Award. Visitors to her blog are welcome at http://traciemcbridewriter.wordpress.com/
PAUL MANNERING is an award-winning writer of speculative fiction, comedy, horror and military action novels, short stories, radio plays and the occasional government report. He lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with his wife Damaris and their two cats. Paul harbours a deep suspicion of asparagus and firmly believes we should all make an effort to be more courteous to cheese.
MARTY YOUNG is a Bram Stoker nominated and Australian Shadows award winning writer and editor, and sometimes ghost hunter. His debut novel, 809 Jacob Street, won the Australian Shadows Award for best horror novel in 2013. Marty was the President of the Australian Horror Writers Association from 2005-2010, and one of the creative minds behind the internationally acclaimed Midnight Echo magazine, for which he also served as executive editor until mid-2013. His short horror fiction has been nominated for numerous awards, reprinted in a year’s best anthology, and repeatedly included in year’s best recommended reading lists, while his essays on horror literature have been published in journals and university textbooks in Australia and India. Marty’s website is www.martyyoung.com
LEE MURRAY is a nine-time winner of New Zealand’s Sir Julius Vogel Award for science fiction, fantasy and horror. Her titles include the bestselling military thriller Into the Mist and supernatural crime-noir Hounds of the Underworld (co-authored with Dan Rabarts). She is proud to have co-edited eight anthologies, one of which, Baby Teeth, won her an Australian Shadows Award in 2014. She lives with her family in the Land of the Long White Cloud.
Cthulhu Land of the Long White Cloud AU Page 20