The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 20
‘Overreached … how?’
‘I was dis big, big success. Pirate offa da year, every year. Dey made me an admiral, would you believe? Count Henry of Malta. Imagine! Dey thought I could achieve anything I set my mind to. And so did I. Hell, I took Tripoli from da Venetians, I drove dem Pisans outta Syracuse. I was pretty damn full offa myself. So I got cocky. Purgatory wanted Crete, Genoa wanted Crete, I wanted Crete, so what I do? I said I could take Crete from a da Venetians … and keep it. Take it for Genoa. Take it for Purgatory.’
‘And?’ asked Newton.
‘Didn’t work out datta way,’ sighed Enrico. ‘Wassa disaster. My reputation? It wassa ruined.’
‘Worst thing about having a reputation,’ said Newton, knowingly, ‘is losing a reputation.’
‘No bloody kidding. Dey say you know who you’re friends are whenna da shit hitta da fan. Turns out … I had none. All my backers, da high-flyers in Genoa, dey threw me out lika da trash. It wasn’t personal; it was justa da business, apparently.’
‘Rings a few bells. It rings a load of bells. You must be gutted.’
‘Oh God no,’ laughed Enrico. ‘I’m long over it.’
‘Sure you are,’ snorted Newton.
‘Si, really,’ insisted the hermit. ‘I needed time alone to work things out. And … I worked it out.’
‘Over eight hundred years?’
‘Si!’ replied Enrico. ‘Of course. Things take time to process. It’sa da truth.’
‘They do,’ agreed Newton. ‘I’m six months in and it’s like it all happened yesterday.’
‘Six months?’ laughed Enrico. ‘Well den, it did happen yesterday. You gonna need more time, friend.’
‘One thousand years? I don’t think so,’ scoffed Newton. ‘No time for that. Gotta work it out on paper, like a proper scientist. Find what I’m looking for using facts and figures.’
‘If you say so. But it’s never dat easy, I’m telling you. You gotta look inside yourself. Was how it was widda me. I was looking for myself in all da wrong places. Often, it’s you dat needs to change.’
‘Yeah, well there’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘Unhappy is wrong, no?’ suggested Enrico.
‘I’m unhappy for a good reason,’ answered Newton. ‘I take comfort in that.’
‘Good for you,’ shrugged Enrico. ‘Do it da hard way. Actually, you could always try a change inna your mindset. A bit of applied philosophy. Paradigm shifts can work wonders. Dat’s how I got over my “stuff”.’
‘Go on then,’ challenged Newton, folding his arms defensively.
‘Go on, what?’
‘Sell me your “philosophy”. I can tell you want to.’ He pretended to look at the watch he no longer wore. ‘I’ll give you thirty minutes.’
‘Ok den,’ agreed Enrico, taking up the challenge. ‘Stoicism. Dat’sa my philosophy. Surely, you’ve heard of da stoicism?’
‘Oh sure,’ said Newton, who, like most people, thought they were stoical by default … but weren’t.
‘You’ve read Marcus Aurelius?’
‘Er, no …,’ admitted Newton. ‘Should I have?’
‘What about Seneca?’
‘Nope.’
‘Zeno of Citium?’
‘No …,’ answered Newton. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey? What is this, a book club?’
‘Seriously, dese stoical writings are fantastic. Turneda ma head around.’
‘You can unscrew your head if it goes around far enough,’ said Newton. ‘Are you going to try and sell me some aloe vera in a minute?’
‘Sarcasm isn’t a philosophy,’ sighed Enrico. ‘Which issa pity because you’re pretty damn good at it.’
‘Well, really,’ continued Newton. ‘There’s nothing worse than when people try to sell their philosophy to you. Do I get a free clock radio if I can quote Cato the Younger in my trial month?’
‘I’m not trying to sell you anything,’ replied Enrico, unruffled. ‘One’s philosophy is one’s own business. You, for instance; you gotta very defined philosophy offa your own. All dat overthinking, what’s dat if it’s not a philosophy?’
‘If you want to call the scientific method a philosophy, go ahead. But you’ll be wrong. Very wrong. It’s an instrument, not a state of mind. Science measures the universe, it doesn’t have opinions about it.’
‘Sounds like your universe donna wanna be measured no more, my friend,’ said the hermit. ‘Dat must be very frustrating.’
‘It doesn’t … and it is,’ admitted Newton. ‘And yes. Bloody frustrating.’
‘And that makesa you very unhappy. Si?’
‘It does,’ admitted Newton glumly. ‘Si.’
‘See,’ laughed Enrico. ‘I said you appeared unhappy, and you are! You’ve finally admitted it. This issa breakthrough.’
‘Aren’t you a stage act?’ snorted Newton. ‘I’m wide open for grooming now. Off you go. I’m too weak to resist.’
‘Dark,’ observed the hermit, shaking his head. ‘Your humour issa very dark.’
‘I see dead people,’ shrugged Newton, ‘What can I tell you?’
‘Well,’ continued Enrico. ‘As you can’t change da facts dat are making you so unhappy, you’ve no choice but to learn to live widda dem.’
‘And what “facts” would they be, then?’ demanded Newton. ‘There aren’t any. Have you not been listening?’
‘Da facts are … dat dere issa no facts,’ laughed Enrico. ‘At least, notta for you.’
‘Not for me? Well, if that’s true, then there are facts,’ exclaimed Newton, jumping on the hope. ‘I just don’t have access to them. Not yet.’
‘So you wait, si?’ asked Enrico. ‘And this waiting, dis issa whatta make you feel lika da crap. Am I right?’
‘Very right,’ agreed Newton. ‘Sadly.’
‘Ok,’ said Enrico. ‘So, all dis super big unhappiness of yours. Dis worrying. Does it make anything useful happen?’
‘Useful?’ asked Newton. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Useful to your “quest”,’ continued Enrico. ‘Think about it. Has one moment of your torment resulted in dis cursed mist actually clearing?’
‘Actually … yes!’ insisted Newton. ‘Well, some …,’ he revised, throttling back. ‘A bit.’
‘Such as.’
‘Well, if I nag a lot, they let stuff slip,’ explained Newton. ‘Little bits. But little bits add up, you know? In time, it’s going to make a picture, like a jigsaw puzzle.’
‘Is it, though?’ asked Enrico, doubtfully. ‘You sure?’
‘Yes, er … no … ok, no,’ admitted Newton. ‘Not yet. But, it will.’
‘It will maybe appear to you … in time,’ suggested the hermit. ‘But it will be regardless of da angst you relentlessly throw at it. Gonna happen in its own sweet time, like most things inna da life. Be stoical, I say, and let it be.’
‘Your philosophy sounds an awful lot like resignation,’ countered Newton. ‘How can that be a good thing? Whatever happened to proactive action?’
‘Where has it gotta you lately?’ laughed the hermit. ‘I can smella da cortisol from here! You are too smart for your own good, I think.’
‘How can “too smart” be anything other than a good thing?’ demanded Newton.
‘If it makes you unhappy, it’sa bad, no?’ replied Enrico. ‘Look, I admire your hunger for da reason, friend, really I do. But da fact is, there isn’t any reason. Not in thisa world, not inna da next. Took me a long time to get dat, but once I did, I was happier for it. Raging against it is pointless!’
‘You might buy their line that there is no reason, but I don’t. I’m not fooled for a nanosecond. Any universe, no matter how insane, has got to have a system somewhere, something to unpick and quantify. Well, I, Dr Newton Barlow, am going to unpick this one.’
‘Yes, … but what if it hasn’t?’ pushed Enrico.
‘It has,’ insisted Newton, pushing back.
‘But if it hasn’t?’
‘IT HAS,’ snapped Newton, suddenly finding his own voice disturbing. The outburst floated away down the long corridor until it was finally lost in the gloom, making Newton regret his temper with each echo. ‘Sorry, that sounded a bit mad. I didn’t mean … I mean … look … we clearly have different views on this ….’
‘No bloody kidding,’ agreed the stoic, rolling his eyes. ‘But what I’m trying to impart to you is … dat it doesn’t matter what dis world, your old world … any world … is actually like. Itta is … what itta is. Is simply no use making yourself an absolute misery to be around cos you can’t handle dat. Man … your frustrations are offa da scale!’
‘What’s wrong with frustration?’ huffed Newton, jamming his battered hands into his pockets. ‘Frustration has a noble tradition. Frustration drives enquiry. Frustration provokes change. Plus … I’m good at frustration; it’s what I do best.’
‘I’ve been widda you for a matter of hours,’ said Enrico, ‘and I’m already finding you da ball-ache. Heaven knows how your colleagues put up widda you.’
‘Yeah, well, I can’t argue with that,’ conceded Newton. ‘The main reason I’m in Crete is because they’d had enough of me.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Enrico. ‘Is sad. Is it worth it?’
‘Trying to understand the universe?’ replied Newton. ‘Er, … yes.’
‘Look, let’s drop dis,’ suggested the hermit. ‘I can see we are getting nowhere. Pleasant though dis conversation may be, we’d best press on. Da sooner we get you back to the world you can’t make sense of, da better.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ huffed Newton, standing.
‘Whatever,’ replied Enrico the hermit, shaking his head. ‘Letsa go.’
*****
The Samarian Gorge is a challenging enough walk in the daytime. In the darkness, the trail downwards from the plain of Omalos is a proper nightmare. Despite Vasilakis’ local knowledge, he and his fellow Purgatorians slipped and tripped a hundred times as the path plunged down through the jagged rocks and shadowy pines. In the inky dark, only the canopy of stars above supplied illumination; the Milky Way hung between the coal-black peaks of the mountains to either side like a cosmic striplight.
The Bonetaker, who could find his way through a bag of charcoal, charged ahead, sniffing and tasting the air like a gun dog. Following the traces left by Newton just a day before, he bounded from boulder to boulder, smashing away the low branches as he went.
The giant deviated little from the main footpath for the first part of their tortuous journey, the scent indicating that Newton had initially stuck to the tourist trail. Only as they neared the dark chasm of the Iron Gates did the Bonetaker hesitate, his senses indicating that Newton had doubled back, then cut away again from the path and into the landscape.
‘HERE!’ boomed the giant. ‘BARLOW … HERE!’
‘Is as I thought,’ said Vasilakis. ‘Dr Barlow and I discussed his coming off the path to dispose of the relics. Well … he must have set out to do it up there, in the forest.’
‘HERE!’ repeated the Bonetaker, dashing away into the dense treeline.
‘This is even worse than the main path,’ observed the pursuing Bennet, colliding with a low branch. ‘There’s barely any track at all.’
‘Is made for the goats,’ explained Vasilakis. ‘By the goats. For the goats. We, Father … we are not goats; we must be very careful up here. Thankfully, we will be in trees, shielded from view. I will use my torch.’ He switched on his flashlight, swinging the beam along Viv, Gabby and Bennet. ‘The rest of you … stay close. Hold on to each other, or we may become separated.’
They pushed on into the trees, Vasilakis at the front, his beam flashing amongst the pines as they clambered clumsily upwards. Ahead, the chaotic crashing of the Bonetaker confirmed he still had the missing Purgatorian in his nostrils.
After an hour, like Newton the day before, they exploded out of the trees.
‘STOP!’ bellowed the Bonetaker, massive arms spread.
Frantically backtracking, the Purgatorians reared away from the cliff edge, the phosphorescent surf roaring far below.
‘Holy crap,’ gasped Gabby. ‘That was close!’
‘Everyone ok?’ shouted Bennet, his voice battling against the sudden wind.
‘We’re fine, yes,’ answered Viv, turning to the aromatic bulk of the Bonetaker beside her and patting him thankfully on the arm. ‘Bless you, sweetheart. What would we do without you?’
‘FALL?’ suggested the Bonetaker.
‘Did Dr Barlow fall?’ asked Vasilakis.
‘NO.’ For confirmation, the Bonetaker raised his huge arm up, pointing west along the tree line.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ sighed Bennet, as the party moved off behind the Bonetaker. ‘I wouldn’t fancy anyone’s chances in that sea.’
Settled back down, the Purgatorians continued along the narrow goat track for another fifteen minutes until, amid the stunted pines, they stumbled upon the scene of Newton’s ill-fated ritual.
‘HERE,’ exclaimed the giant.
Spreading out, the Purgatorians turned their mobiles into torches, combing the rocky platform for clues.
‘Here,’ shouted Bennet. ‘A shell casing!’ He examined it in the light. ‘9mm. Handgun of some kind.’
‘And here’s his bag, look!’ shouted Gabby, holding up Newton’s empty rucksack, every compartment gaping, its contents strewn about the ground around it. Vasilakis pointed his torch down at the sad debris. The metal box and other items were scattered, their haphazard arrangement clearly indicating that Newton had been intent on performing his duties when someone, presumably the Kraakenhausen woman, had ambushed him.
‘Oh dear,’ said Bennet. ‘This does not look good.’
‘No sign of the relics,’ observed Vasilakis. ‘They take them.’
Bennet turned to the Bonetaker. ‘Any blood?’
‘NO BLOOD.’
‘Phew,’ sighed Gabby. ‘Maybe she didn’t shoot him.’
‘Where is he, then?' asked Viv, looking towards the cliff edge. ‘Surely he didn’t ….’
‘FALL,’ nodded the Bonetaker. ‘BARLOW FALL.’
‘Fall?’ exclaimed Viv, looking over the cliff to the boiling sea below. ‘Oh no! Newton!’
‘He’s not dead, Viv, remember?’ offered Gabby. ‘That’s what they said, right? We’d know if he was dead.’
The Bonetaker approached the cliff edge, his huge bulk a slab of black against a canopy of stars as his straggly hair flapped greasily below his huge leather hat.
‘PUSHED. HERE. FELL. NOW … BELOW.’
‘Below?’ asked Bennet. ‘Below where? In the sea?’
The Bonetaker sniffed deeply again, then leant down to feel the ground beside him. ‘NOT SEA.’
‘Sorry, old chap,’ said Bennet, confused. ‘I’m not following. If he’s not here and not down there … then where the flip is he?’
The Bonetaker stepped back, gently parting his colleagues. When they were clear, he knelt down, his massive nose close to the ground, snorting grotesquely to clear his sinuses, before wiping his nose on his already disgusting sleeve.
‘Ewwww,’ said Gabby.
‘Has to do that,’ explained Bennet. ‘Can’t track well if you’re congested.’
Nostrils clear, the giant began breathing in and out in deep, slow grunts, his lumpen hand palm-down upon the flat rock alongside his bulbous features, fingers wide.
Then he started muttering little Latin stanzas, each barely audible above the crashing waves below.
‘What he do?’ asked Vasilakis, a little unnerved. ‘What he do?’
‘Shhhhh,’ urged Bennet. ‘He’s working.’
‘BARLOW MOVING,’ said the Bonetaker, finally. ‘MOVING.’ He raised his head and looked inland, raising a finger to the north-east. ‘THERE.’
‘Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,’ remarked Viv, ‘but I’m confused,’
‘I can only guess he fell in the sea and got back out again,’ suggested Bennet. ‘Must be finding his way back across the island on another path.’
‘NOT ACROSS,’ insisted the Bonetaker, shaking his head. ‘UNDER.’
‘Ah … I have it!’ exclaimed Vasilakis. ‘He must have found a cave. There are many, many in Crete. Well, Dr Barlow is very fortunate to be alive; that is all I can say. He should be dead after a fall like tha–’
‘Er … where’s the Bonetaker going?’ asked Gabby, cutting Vasilakis short.
The Neanderthal was indeed ‘going’, in a controlled fall down the cliff in search of answers, grunting and muttering as he dropped over the jagged rocks with terrifying dexterity.
‘Good grief!’ gasped Bennet, peering over the edge. ‘Look at him go!’
‘I have heard so much of this Bonetaker,’ remarked Vasilakis, peering down after the giant. ‘As terrifying as he is useful, I am thankful he is with us.’
‘Amen,’ added Bennet.
Ten minutes later, the Bonetaker was back.
Despite his bulk, the giant heaved himself over the edge before standing back up to his full extent before them.
‘CAVE,’ he exclaimed breathlessly. ‘DOWN … THERE. BARLOW … WAS THERE. NOW … GONE. WE GO AFTER.’
‘Seriously?’ gasped Viv. ‘Down there?’
‘DOWN,’ insisted the Bonetaker. ‘DOWN.’
‘Well, we have to go down then, don’t we?’ declared Gabby.
‘I CARRY,’ elaborated the Bonetaker, offering his arms to them all. ‘SAFE.’
‘Ok,’ shrugged Gabby. ‘Sure.’
‘Whaaat? You’re joking, right?’ squealed Bennet. ‘It’s a sheer drop.’
‘You heard the man,’ said Viv. ‘That’s where Newton is. Any better ideas?’
‘Bugger,’ muttered Bennet. ‘Hate to swear, but … heights … bit of a weak spot, if I’m honest.’
‘No … no, no, no,’ protested Vasilakis, clearly agitated. ‘We cannot go down there. It is not proper.’
‘Proper?’ asked Bennet. ‘What do you mean, proper?’
‘Is protocol,’ explained the Cretan. ‘We no allowed underground. Is … forbidden.’
‘Says who?’ asked Viv.
‘Says Purgatory,’ insisted Vasilakis. ‘We have the big rule here on Crete. No underground. If we have an issue, we pass it on to others. I am not cleared to go underground. You most certainly … are not.’
