The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 15
*****
Dr Newton Barlow was somewhat disappointed to discover he wasn’t dead. He was undoubtedly a long way down that road, though, having shuffled off to the edge of the mortal coil before shuffling it back at the eleventh hour.
He was also in pain. Lots and lots of pulsing, hardcore pain.
His skin was the worst; burning cuts and savage abrasions covering Newton from end to end like one huge bloody tattoo, pain receptors sending a million alarm calls to his wakening brain.
In and out of consciousness, it was going to take something strong to knock him awake.
‘Argghhhhh,’ wailed Newton, as the lemon juice entered his mouth. ‘Friggin’ lemon … noooo!’
‘Shhh,’ came a still, calm voice beside him. ‘Keep still, si? Iss a lemon. Very good for you. Wake you up, no?’
‘I hate lemons,’ spat Newton. ‘I mean I really hate lemons. You trying to poison me?’
‘Just waka you up friend,’ replied the voice. ‘You issa hurt.’
‘I know I’m hurt,’ replied Newton sarcastically, as he tried to open his bruised eyelids. ‘Because … it friggin’ hurts. I’ve had the injury and now the insult. Lemons! Why couldn’t you use smelling salts? Who the hell are you? You sound Italian.’
‘Tell you later,’ replied the voice. ‘You’re safe here.’
‘Where am I?’ asked Newton. ‘It smells damp.’
‘Well, it’sa cave,’ said the figure in the darkness. ‘And grazi. A simple … “I love whatta you done wittha da place” would have sufficed.’
‘Why aren’t I dead?’ asked Newton. ‘I mean … I should be … dead.’
‘Very nearly were. Fished you outta da sea with my own hands. Do you fall offa cliffs a lot?’
‘Didn’t fall,’ replied Newton. ‘I was pushed. Kicked actually. So, I cheated death, did I?’
‘Si,’ agreed the voice beside him. ‘Is good, no?’
‘Yes and no,’ answered Newton. ‘I thought I was going to get to answer some of the big questions.’
‘Oh, dose. Dose is terribly overrated.’
Newton went to raise himself, but the pain ran around his body so much that he had to fall back against the sodden bedding.
‘Ok. That smarts,’ observed Newton.
‘I am reasonably confident nothing is broken; I’d hava noticed,’ said the man. ‘I’ve spent all day prising thorns outta of you. Some were jammed right in your ….’
‘Ahhh, that’s what that is,’ winced Newton, wondering if he’d ever cross his legs again. ‘Where am I? I was on a cliff. Near the Samaria Gorge.’
‘As I say, it’sa my cave. My hermitage,’ explained the shadow beside him.
‘Hermitage?’ asked Newton. ‘Like a museum?’
‘Oh no, no, no,’ continued the voice. ‘Clue is innada name. Hermit-age.’
‘Hermit? Really?’ asked the mildly amused Newton.
‘Of course!’ said the voice defensively. ‘Why not? Not lika da old days, though. You couldn’t move for hermits in Crete back inna da day. Probably just me now.’
‘How long have you been down here?’ asked Newton.
‘Letta me see,’ pondered the voice. ‘What day is it?’
‘Monday,’ answered Newton.
‘Seven hundred and thirty seven years,’ declared the voice. ‘Give or take.’
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Newton. ‘I’m concussed.’
‘Probably a bit, si,’ agreed the shadow. ‘But yeah. Long time. We may as well get dat outta of da way.’
‘Dead, right?’ guessed Newton, correctly.
‘No one has told me I’m dead,’ replied the Hermit. ‘I’ve notta seen a doctor since 1189.’
‘Well, do you feel dead?’ asked Newton. ‘Do you walk through walls? Do you still eat?’
‘Er … yes, a bit. Never tried. And to answer da last one … very rarely,’ answered the hermit, in sequence.
‘Rarely?’ asked Newton. ‘How rarely.’
‘I had a small Greek salad … during da Renaissance.’
‘You sound pretty dead to me,’ observed Newton. ‘Unless you are immortal. So that’s how you got down to fish me out of the sea.’
‘Ok you guessed it – I’ma da spirit. Dat’s how I gotta downa cliff anda got you up. Being dead has its advantages.’
‘Ahhhh, of course. Figures.’
‘You donna seem dat shocked by da news,’ said the hermit slightly crestfallen. ‘I was hoping for at least a bit of da fainting.’
‘Well, I’m sad for you, obviously,’ explained Newton. ‘And you don’t sound that bothered yourself, in fairness. But mainly I’m not fazed, because I’m unusually well versed in all things death.’
‘Well, … is what it is,’ sighed the hermit. 'You know, picka yourself up, dusta yourself down, and all thatta stuff.’
‘Very positive of you, I’m sure,’ said Newton, before something occurred to him though the spinning stars of his aching head. ‘Hold on. How do you know about the “pick yourself up, dust yourself down” routine if you’ve been in this cave for seven hundred years? Isn’t that a bit contemporary? Are you really a hermit?’
‘Sure. Except for when I amma not. No hard and fasta rules. I’ma hermit, notta da pedant. I get out now and again. You gotta get outa da house or you go outa da mind, sī?’
‘If you say so. Now, look, it’s fun to chat and everything, but I should be getting going. People will be worried.’
‘You gonna be ok in an hour or two, ah, maybe a little more,’ the hermit assured him. ‘Until den, you’re not going anywhere. You had a bit of da bang onna da head.’
Newton sighed, winced … then sagged, his dizziness unignorable.
‘Fab,’ huffed Newton, admitting defeat. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a sandwich? I’m starving.’
‘Sandwich? No, … sorry ma friend. I can probably catch you a fish, if you donna mind waiting.’
‘Nah, I’m good. So, chum, what do I call you? Nice to put a name to a face … that I can’t see.’
‘Goodness, letta me think,’ replied the hermit. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve needed one.’
‘You don’t know your own name?’ asked Newton. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘If people don’t talk to you, you forget,’ explained the hermit. ‘I remember da second part, though.’
‘Which is?’
‘Da Hermit,’ said the Hermit. ‘Something …. Da Hermit.’
‘Ahhh … excellent. Very memorable.’
‘Hold on …,’ exclaimed the shadow. ‘I think it might have begun widda an “E”.’
‘Eddie?’ suggested Newton. ‘Ezekiel?’
‘No, no,’ replied the hermit. ‘Wait … I think it might have been Enrico.'
‘Enrico?’ asked Newton. ‘Enrico the Hermit?’
‘Maybe. Probably. Let’s go widda dat for now. So wadda I call you, friend?’
‘It used to be Dr Newton Barlow. But you can just call me Newton Barlow. No point in using the “doctor” any more,’ sighed Newton. ‘Ok … Enrico. Seeing as I’m not going anywhere, let’s get to know each other. What’s it like being a hermit?’
‘Ha,’ said Enrico. ‘Everyone wants to know dat. At least they would, if I ever saw anyone.’
‘Well?’
‘It’sa blast!’ declared Enrico enthusiastically. ‘Total personal freedom away from da hustle anna da bustle.’
‘Religion, was it?’
‘What was? Oh, you mean da motivation? Oh, goodness me, no!’ exclaimed Enrico. ‘I just can’t stand people.’
‘Quite right too,’ nodded Newton. ‘They are ghastly.’
‘Si,’ agreed Enrico. ‘Bloody terrible.’
‘Did someone hurt you?’ asked Newton.
‘Not at all,’ laughed Enrico. ‘Da other way round. I hurt other people. I hurt lots of people. All part of da job. Nothing unusual about dat, though; we all did back den, ’twas a thing. I wassa quite good at it, sadly.’
‘Guilt?’ suggested Newton.
‘Oh, good Lord, no,’ snorted Enrico. ‘I’ve always worked to a higher purpose, albeit in my own sweeta way. I had to be philosophical after …, well, let’s justa say I had a few things I needed to sort out onna my own. Nuff said.’
‘Never met a hermit before,’ said Newton, taking the hint. ‘Though I suspect that’s understandable.’
‘Not easy to spot,’ agreed Enrico. ‘If dey’re any good.’
‘Makes sense. Happy in your work, are you?’
‘Si,’ replied the hermit. ‘Is a noble tradition. Mad as pepperoni, da lot of us, of course, but what a calling! I’ma just your regular cave-dwelling hermit,’ continued Enrico, ‘But some hermits are really out dere. Pole sitting … amazing! Those guys spenda deir whole lives stuck uppa da post. Saint Simeon Stylites the Elder was perched on his pole for thirty-seven years. Can you imagine? What a guy!’
‘What’s the appeal?’ asked Newton, shaking his head to remove the persistent stars. ‘Sorry, … I don’t get it.’
‘Avoiding people, like I say,’ explained Enrico. ‘Anda thinking, lots of thinking. I like to have time to think.’
‘I thought it would have more of a spiritual dimension. Self-sacrifice and punishing piety to please your judgemental God.’
‘Nah,’ replied the hermit. ‘It’s a way of dodging da hamster wheel. Nowadays, if you wanna bug out, it's a log cabin in da woods and solar-powered broadband, whatever dat is. In my day, you could only go off-grid by climbing da pole or finding a nice dry cave.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Newton. ‘Whatever floats your boat.’
‘How you doing? Feeling any better?'
‘You know what, Enrico?’ replied Newton. ‘I think my vision may be coming back. Not as many stars as there were, and they’ve stopped dancing with each other, which is encouraging.’ Newton tried to look through the gloom and failed. ‘Is it just me, or is it dark in here?’
‘Oh, silly of me,’ said the hermit, from the gloom. ‘Here, letta me light da lamp.’
There was some frantic scratching before the persistent impact of metal on flint caused a spark to catch on an aged wick. An oil lamp came to life, casting its rich yellow light around the walls of the hermit’s cave. The golden glow cut through Newton’s temporary blindness, revealing ancient scribbles and motivational messages daubed onto the rough stone walls. Newton’s Latin, though flawed, was able to make out ‘You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps’ … or words to that effect.
‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ said Newton, squinting away a vicious headache.
‘See, dat’s better. Thank you. But I’ve notta done anything with it. I’m a hermit, not an interior designer. It’s pretty much da same as when I moved in.’
Newton examined his rescuer, now illuminated in the flickering light. Despite his extraordinarily long beard and simple rags, he was surprisingly handsome. For all his studious destitution, Enrico the Hermit was rather imposing, implying a past laced with status and nobility.
‘So,’ enquired Newton, raising himself up from the primitive bed, ‘is it an easy walk from here to the nearest village?’
‘Well … no,’ replied Enrico. ‘Because you can’t walk anywhere from here.’
‘It’s a cave! It possesses an entrance … I’m guessing?’
‘Si, of course,’ confirmed the hermit. ‘But it’s halfway down a cliff! That’s how I spotted you inna da sea. I was sitting in da entrance counting da waves when along floats dis half-dead Englishman.’
‘Hold on. If there’s no way up the cliff … how did you get here?’
‘Oh, I was lowered down,’ said Enrico. ‘In a bucket.’
‘A bucket? Really?’
‘Si,’ confirmed Enrico. ‘The only way down … anna da only way up. Issa bucket.’
‘Why …,’ asked Newton, ‘would you want a cave that no one could get to?’
‘All da best places were taken,’ explained Enrico. ‘Crete was crawling widda da hermits, see? Solitude …? Donna maka me laugh; you’d meet fewer people inna Roman orgy! There were some valleys in Crete with, like, forty or fifty hermits in dem.’
‘Kind of defeats the object, I’d have thought.’
‘Byzantines,’ scoffed Enrico. ‘They like to isolate inna public. Very showy people. If you are going to be a hermit, do it for real. Thatsa what I say.’
‘Well, it’s certainly off the beaten track,’ confirmed Newton. ‘Which, of course, gives me a problem. I really need to get back to the big wide world before everyone freaks. What should I do? Swim around the coast?’
‘You’ve nearly died once,’ said Enrico. ‘Are you planning to do it properly dis time? Da sea on this southern coast issa terrible. Da currents would drag you halfway to Cyprus.’
‘So, I wait for a bucket? What are they, like buses? One an hour or something?’
‘Notta da bucket, forget da bucket. Dere’s no one up dere anymore,’ said Enrico, pondering. ‘Dere may be “other” options.’
‘Options?’ asked Newton. ‘What “other” options?’
‘Well, dere’s da rub,’ explained Enrico. ‘Is not entirely down to me. I’m not just a hermit, you see.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No, I’m not. Well, mostly, si, I am, but I’m also employed.’
‘You’re employed?’ asked Newton. ‘But I thought you’d walked away from all that.’
‘Yes …,’ said Enrico. ‘And no. It’s part of da deal, see? I have certain duties.’
‘Really? For who.’
‘I can’t say,’ said Enrico. ‘But to be a hermit, here, I have also to be da gatekeeper.’
‘Gatekeeper?’ asked Newton, confused. ‘But there’s no gate. We’re in a cave.’
‘No, dat’s just it. Is not justa da cave … is also da gatehouse. Is da way in.’
‘A way in? I don’t follow.’
‘Or, in your case,’ added the hermit, ‘da way out.’
‘Please,’ asked Newton impatiently. ‘The riddles. Can’t you just tell me?’
‘No, I can’t,’ said Enrico. ‘Dat isa da problem. I can’t explain to you, because dere are da … “protocols”.’
‘Protocols?’ asked Newton, the familiarity of the term banging a drum in his already banging head.
‘Si, protocols. I didn’t exactly choose dis cave, you know; it wassa chosen for me.’
‘Does the term “Purgatory” mean anything to you, by any chance?’
‘Purgatory?’ replied Enrico, his eyebrow rising suspiciously. ‘I donna know whatta you talk about ….’
‘Sure you do,’ said Newton. ‘Are you a Purgatorian?’
‘Well … si,’ admitted Enrico. ‘You mean …?’
‘Yep,’ confirmed Newton. ‘Me too. About six months now. British branch.’
‘Capista!’ exclaimed Enrico. ‘What are da chances? I haven’t had a visitor for seven hundred years, and then along floats a co-worker. What were you doing? Were you onna da mission?’
‘I was. Though I’m supposed to be on holiday. Head office thought I was asking too many questions, so they sent me here.’
‘Is true,’ agreed Enrico. ‘They don’t like da questions.’
‘They really don’t,’ sighed Newton. ‘Look, if you’re on the team, can’t you just let ’em know I’m here? They can come and get me.’
‘I’m afraid no,’ replied Enrico. ‘I’m hermit, remember? I’m deliberately cut off from life … and da Afterlife. Comes with da territory.’
‘Oh great,’ huffed Newton. ‘Where’s the logic in that? Really, these people don’t make any sense whatsoever. If I was in charge, it would be run very differently. You’d be in direct communication wherever you are.’
‘Well, that sounds preeetty super. But that isn’t how it is … is it? I accept da deal I have. I have just dis one burden upon me in exchange for an eternity free of human interaction. Dat’s da deal.’
‘What burden?’ asked Newton. ‘Oh, … you mean the gatekeeper thing. Tell me, exactly what are you guarding? I can’t see anything in here or out there worth safeguarding.’
‘Oh, … it’sa not outta dere,’ said the hermit, jabbing his thumb towards the rear of the cave. ‘It’sa backa dere.’
Chapter 15
Absent Friends
Dr Kraakenhausen was in an uncharacteristically buoyant mood. As if the recovery of his grandfather’s possessions hadn’t been enough, after many long and fruitless months of searching, the big breakthrough in the White Mountains had finally materialised.
Just some twenty metres into the new cave, the archaeologist and his daughter were finally shining their powerful torches down an unmistakably man-made tunnel.
‘Wunderbar!’ he exclaimed to his daughter, hands clapping like a mechanical monkey. ‘This has to be it! Look,’ he said, running his hand along the shiny wall. ‘This is no natural feature! Oh dear me, nein!’
‘I concur, mein papa,’ nodded his daughter. ‘I am so pleased for you. After such a long search, with so many disappointments. You deserve this!’ Helena adjusted her rucksack, keen to get going. ‘Vell, vat are ve vaiting for?’ she urged, pointing the way in front. ‘Schnell!’
But, as Helena pushed ahead into the gloom, her father’s hand shot out. Grabbing her firmly by the arm, Dr Kraakenhausen yanked his daughter violently backwards.
‘VAIT!’
There was a hideous screech of old metal against stone … like the amplified outrage of giant fingernails down a massive blackboard. In the distant beam from their torches, there came a sudden flash of blades, slicing and dicing through the dust of the passageway ahead, just where Helena Kraakenhausen would have been walking.
‘Mein Gott!’ she gasped, as the lethal contraption finally shuddered to a halt. ‘It’s like Tomb Raider.’
‘Ja!’ agreed her visibly shaken father. ‘Or Das Raiders of Die Lost Ark.’
‘Minoan?’ asked Helena, her beam on the now spent booby trap.
‘Ya, I am thinking so,’ replied her father, shining his torch up and down the spring-loaded mechanism. ‘Maybe later. Mycenaean, Greek, Roman …. Whoever it vas, clearly, they didn’t vant any visitors. This is most vorrying. Ve dare not penetrate these caves too quickly, or ve vill be chopped up like Schweinefleisch!’
