The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 21
‘Not sure we have a choice, old boy,’ said Bennet. ‘Newton’s already down there. And he could be in big trouble.’
‘Well, yes,’ agreed Vasilakis. ‘But ….’
‘I’m sure we can patch it all up later,’ interrupted Bennet reassuringly. ‘I was always told to obey rules … until, sometimes, you can’t. I think that’s what Eric said.’
‘My dad’s down there!’ pleaded Gabby. ‘How can we not go after him?’
‘I understand your concerns,’ wailed Vasilakis. ‘I really do. But my superiors are most specific on this point.’
‘Tell ’em we made you,’ suggested Viv.
‘Good idea,’ agreed Bennet. ‘Blame me. I don’t mind taking the flak. I’m always getting in trouble anyway.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Vasilakis, bending under the pressure.
‘Got to be protocol to save one of our own,’ suggested Viv. ‘Surely?’
‘Plus,’ added Bennet, ‘if the Kraakenhausen woman is down there with him, the cat will be well and truly out of the Purgatorian bag. We find Newton, we find her. Makes complete sense.’
‘WE GO,’ the giant insisted, becoming impatient. ‘NOW!’
‘Ok,’ conceded the Cretan, finally. ‘We go. But I have a bad feeling about this.’
‘Who’s first?’ asked Gabby, fearlessly grinning at the prospect.
‘YOU,’ boomed the Bonetaker, his finger swinging through the gloom to point directly at the vicar.
‘What … me first?’ warbled Bennet, looking over the edge.
‘Don’t sweat it, Padre,’ encouraged Gabby. ‘He’s like a mountain goat. He’s amazing! Totally sure-footed. You’ll be fine.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bennet doubtfully. ‘I suppose he is.’
‘BACK,’ ordered the Bonetaker, pointing over his shoulder. ‘ON.’
‘Right,’ nodded Bennet, nodding fearfully. ‘The back … right. Of course.’
The reverend climbed onto the crouching giant.
Then, Bennet clinging to him like a baby orangutan, the Bonetaker dropped them both over the edge.
A simple ‘Gosh’ floated up from the blackness below them.
Two minutes later, the Bonetaker was back.
‘NOW … YOU,’ he bellowed, pointing at Viv.
Three more journeys and all of them were crowded in the mouth of the hermit’s cave.
‘See, Reverend?’ smiled Gabby, as the Bonetaker put her carefully back on her feet. ‘We’re all safe and sound, aren’t we? He’s great, isn’t he?’
‘Indeed.’
His beam falling upon one of the occupant’s ancient oil lamps, Bennet took a Zippo from his backpack and lit the taper.
‘Interesting,’ said Viv, as the yellowy glow bathed the rough interior, the flame revealing Enrico’s motivational scrawls upon the dusty walls. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Well, I’m no expert, but a hermit springs to mind,’ offered Bennet.
‘Hermits?’ asked Gabby. ‘Really … in this day and age?’
‘Seems so,’ replied Bennet, picking up some newspapers. ‘These looks fresh-ish to me.’
‘Some of these are quite recent,’ observed Vasilakis. ‘This magazine is from the seventies.’
‘Oh dear,’ lamented Viv, dirty bandages dangling from her fingers. ‘Blood!’
‘BARLOW,’ declared the Bonetaker, sniffing the reddened rags. ‘HURT.’
‘Hurt … but ok?’ asked Viv, hopefully. ‘Yeah?’
The giant shrugged, pointing towards the deep shadows at the back of the cave behind them with his huge index finger.
‘GONE,’ said the Bonetaker.
*****
The sleek business jet had arrived in the small hours. Taxiing away from the tourist terminal, it had disgorged its passengers with minimum observability, dark figures heaving their oversized holdalls away towards a blacked-out minibus lurking in a distant hanger. Untroubled by customs officials either too scared or too bribed to ask questions, the van and its occupants were gone just minutes after touchdown, moving swiftly out of the airport and away towards the White Mountains.
Chapter 18
Daedalus Woz Here
The Kraakenhausen party was now deep inside the White Mountains and getting deeper. It had proven every bit as eventful as the archaeologist had expected it to be, vicious snares and lethal obstacles rearing up suddenly out of the darkness. Despite some near misses, the booby traps had mostly rusted over the millennia into worthless pointy sculptures, making them a threat only to someone particularly clumsy.
‘It is just like die movies? Ja?’ said Dr Kraakenhausen, marvelling at the now useless catapults and poison dart projectors.
‘What’s a “movie”?’ asked Raynald de Châtillon.
‘It’s like a play,’ explained Helena. ‘Moving pictures from a machine.’
‘A story?’ scoffed the Crusader. ‘For babes! Why waste your time on stories when you can make history.’
‘Stories are everything,’ said the blind man from behind them. ‘Stories are what keep history alive.’
‘Ja, like you would know anything about these things, you old fool,’ sneered Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Concentrate on the task at hand. If you are as “sensitive” as you say you are, then focus on finding treasure, not blathering your mystical Scheisse.’
‘As you wish,’ replied the old man, a smile almost hiding amongst the lines on his time-aged features. ‘As you wish.’
‘I like a good story,’ whispered Andronicus, taking the old man by the arm.
‘Do you now?’ answered the old man. ‘What sort of stories?’
‘Blood and guts, mostly,’ enthused Andronicus. ‘And betrayal. Lots of betrayals, oh yes. Love that. Oh … and sex.’
‘Well, there is no shortage of such tales,’ said the old man. ‘Such stories are ancient. Take the heroic age –’
‘The Greek stuff? Yeah, I love that!’ exclaimed Andronicus, cutting him short. ‘The Trojan Wars. What I wouldn’t have given to be a part of that!’
‘It was a time of heroes,’ nodded the old man.
‘You know, I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of an Achilles,’ continued Andronicus. ‘Or maybe … an Agamemnon.’
‘You? You wish to be a king?’ snorted the blind man. ‘You?’
‘And why not?’ asked Andronicus defensively. ‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Careful what you wish for,’ warned the blind man. ‘To be a king is both a blessing … and a curse.
‘Tell me about it,’ sighed Andronicus.
‘You,’ observed the old man, his milky eyes looking towards Andronicus, sensing without seeing, ‘are not who you say you are,’
‘I am, so,’ replied Andronicus nervously. ‘And keep your voice down.’
‘It is of no matter to me,’ shrugged the old man. ‘I will not tell your companions. But, I sense you have been a great and powerful man.’
‘I have!’ agreed Andronicus, nodding with far too much emphasis. ‘I actually really have.
‘No, wait …,’ corrected the old man. ‘Not great. Just powerful.’
‘Hold on.’ Andronicus was affronted. ‘Now, let me tell you ….’
‘Tell me nothing,’ said the blind man, turning away. ‘I am too old to pay attention of the ebb and flow of human ambition. I have talked about kings and princes and gods all my life. I no longer care. If you have been great, or if you have been evil, it is of no interest to me. I care not a fig, for I am filled with stories. Frankly, there is no space for yours.’
‘Shut up back there and get a move on,’ yelled Helena Kraakenhausen from ahead. ‘You are slowing us all down vith all your babbling.’
‘Sorry,’ replied Andronicus loudly. ‘Jumped up little bitch!’ he whispered to the blind man. ‘If she knew who she was talking to, why –’
‘Say nothing … and do nothing,’ ordered the Cretan, his hand grabbing Andronicus firmly on the arm. ‘Your time will come.’ His fingers tightened, getting Andronicus’ full intention. Tripped up by the change in tone, he looked at the old Greek.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard me,’ said the blind man. 'There is much at stake here. Trust me. There are things afoot that I cannot explain to you. But … if you do as I say, you will have much of what you desire. You are not hard to unravel. I know what you crave. I know everything. This is the deal … do as I say and shut your mouth. Do as I say, and you will get what you desire.’
‘HOLD UP!’ shouted Helena from ahead, stopping their discussion.
As the party bunched up behind them, Dr Kraakenhausen and his daughter lit ancient oil lamps, revealing a pair of large wooden doors wedged into the tunnel wall.
‘What is it?’ called the blind man. ‘What can you see?’
‘Big doors,’ replied Helena. ‘There’s a room of some kind. Tell me, old man, do you sense anything?’
‘Nothing too important,’ answered the blind man, as Andronicus brought him up to the doors. ‘A store, maybe?’
‘Worth a look?’ asked General Kraakenhausen.
‘Sure,’ said Helena, and with a sudden burst of applied violence, she lifted up one of her army boots and kicked in the door.
Excitedly, Count Otto Von Strumpenheim rushed forward to investigate, poking his head in through the shattered door before anyone could restrain him.
There was a squeal, rusted iron grinding hideously against stone.
Two colossal blades, one horizontal and one vertical, burst from the doorjamb, crossing each other’s path dead centre of the Crusader’s possessed body. After remaining hopefully in place for a second, what had recently been a football supporter from South East London separated into four roughly equal parts … then fell to the floor.
‘Himmel!’ gasped General Kraakenhausen.
‘Not all rusted up, then,’ observed Helena, throwing her torchlight nervously around them. ‘Ve are going to have to be more careful.’ Only when she was confident that they were in no immediate danger did Helena heave back the savaged door, casting light into the bloody space beyond.
‘What do you see, girl?’ asked Raynald de Châtillon.
‘Veapons,’ answered Helena. ‘Swords, spears … and armour. Classical era.’
‘A sword is a sword,’ said Raynald. ‘Let us arm ourselves.’
‘Are ve safe to go in?’ asked the general.
‘I’d say so,’ answered Helena, looking down at the sliced and diced mess at her feet. ‘But take extra care. Ve don’t vant to lose any more of us to these things.’
Cautiously, the Crusaders entered.
Once they were confident they wouldn’t go the same way as their late colleague, the Crusaders began enthusiastically clattering around amongst the helmets and breastplates, testing the swords and lances. Ten minutes later, they re-emerged from the storeroom, looking like extras from Jason and The Argonauts.
‘Happy now?’ enquired Helena.
‘Not really,’ replied de Châtillon, practising his swordplay. ‘But it will do. Nothing is as good as Norman steel, of course, but it will still take a Saracen’s head off. That’s all that matters at the end of the day, isn’t it?’
‘Where’s mine?’ asked Andronicus, hopefully.
‘Get your own,’ snapped Lionel of Melton Mowbray.
Prickling at the curt reply, Andronicus propped the old man roughly against a wall, then went inside the storeroom to grab himself an oxidised helmet and a bronze dagger.
‘Just you wait. I’ll have these knaves,’ he muttered, rejoining his blind charge back outside. ‘No one talks to Andro … er, me … like that.’
‘Curb your anger,’ said the old man, slapping him on the arm. ‘Remember what I said. Your time … will come.’
*****
Six months on, Newton was still not used to his ‘sensitivities’. Deep under Crete, he was once again seeing the alarming, tell-tale traces of the dead lurking in his peripheral vision. At first, they had been like smoke, like floaters in the eyeball, tricks of the light he could easily dismiss. But the longer Newton moved through these passageways, the more they were resolving themselves into spectral figures, dashing past in either direction down the endless passageways.
‘Woaahh,’ exclaimed Newton, ‘You see that?’
‘Dunno,’ replied Enrico. ‘See what?’
‘Figures,’ said Newton, still reluctant to use the term ‘spirit’. ‘Very faint, but they’re there. They’re going up and down the tunnel. Loads of ’em. I’m surprised you can’t see them yourself.’
‘Oh, dose. I barely notice dem anymore.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Newton, watching a wave of wispy, robed forms bob past him to disappear into the darkness ahead.
‘Minoans.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Newton, watching an ancient Cretan roll past him like a will-o-the-wisp. ‘Now you mention it, they’re dressed like the frescoes I saw at Knossos.’
‘Dat’s dem,’ confirmed Enrico. ‘The Minoans built all dis, you see. And sadly, most of dem died down here.’
‘They did?’ asked Newton.
‘Sure did,’ replied the hermit, pointing down the corridor. ‘You see dat alcove up ahead?’
Newton peered down the passageway to see an impossibly aged wooden door recessed into the smooth walls.
‘Yeah?’
‘Have a look in dere,’ suggested Enrico, as they reached the entrance.
Newton pushed the door, Bronze Age hinges screaming back at him as he elbowed his way inside.
‘Wow,’ said Newton, the Maglite on his keyring lighting up the chamber. There was row upon row of bones piled before him, stacked neatly in countless piles. ‘Holy cow! There must be thousands in here.’
‘There isa many, many of dese ossuaries down here. Hundreds, thousands even.’
‘But why on earth would they come down here to die?’ asked Newton. ‘Didn’t they have palaces and stuff … up there?’
‘Sure, dey had all da benefits of da thriving civilisation before Thera exploded,’ explained Enrico. ‘Then isa tidal waves, da ash clouds … and finally, dem bloodthirsty Mycenaeans. Poor, peaceful Minoans. Too nice for deir owna good.’
‘Nice?’ asked Newton. ‘Never heard an ancient civilisation being called “nice” before.’
‘Si, nice,’ continued Enrico. ‘Hardly the most warlike of people, da Minoans. Take a look atta deir art. It’s all da dancing girls, frolicking dolphins, anna da flowers. Couldn’t meet nicer peeps. Lots offa da early Purgatorians were Minoans. Very trustworthy, you see, not lika da Greeks or dose flippin’ Egyptians. Da Minoans were da only ancient civilisation dat were let in on da secret. Dis wassa da Bronze Age. It was all kicking off, with writing, maths, anna da agriculture. Suddenly dere were proper organised societies … all dat new complexity needed managing.’
‘Managing,’ asked Newton. ‘How?’
‘Think about it. No one had a clue how to manage dead in dose days. You think it’sa cacka handed now? Well, imagine it then! Lots of da trial and heaps of da error. Oh well, … you gotta to start somewhere, no?’
‘For sure,’ agreed Newton, sucking in these new facts as if they were fine wine. ‘So, tell me, who was in charge of all this?’
‘Oh, nonono!’ said Enrico, waking up to his responsibilities. ‘I can’t tell you dat!’
‘Oh, come on,’ exclaimed Newton. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Well, because dat’s about all I know. I’m not exactly management. All I’ve found I heard from chatting with a few offa da Minoans.’
‘You have?’ asked Newton. ‘Blimey! That must have been interesting.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Enrico. ‘It’s pretty rare, though. Very enigmatic people, da Minoans. Dey don’t give much away.’
‘I’d be all over them.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not you,’ laughed Enrico.
‘More’s the pity,’ replied Newton. ‘Though we do seem to have a few things in common.’
‘We do?’ enquired Enrico doubtfully.
‘Sure. We both dislike people.’
‘Hell is other people, eh? Dat whatta you saying?’
‘Mostly,’ nodded Newton. ‘Yes.’
'You have family though, no?' asked Enrico. ‘Are they hell?’
‘My ex-wife is pretty close,’ answered Newton. ‘But the rest? No … not really.’
‘Not really?’ chuckled Enrico.
‘Sorry, no. Not at all,’ corrected Newton. ‘They’re great … everyone’s great. Until they’re not.’
‘Amen,’ sighed Enrico. ‘Hardest thing about da hard times, is other people. I tella you, when I went down, I went down alone. One day you’re da toast offa da town, next day you issa da busted flush. Success has a thousand fathers … failure … he issa da orphan.'
‘Been there.’
‘Takes a lot to get over dat,’ said Enrico, reliving the pain.
‘I thought you were over it.’
‘Not entirely,’ sighed Enrico. ‘It’sa da good times I have da troubles with. Is notta da fall froma da grace, no. Dat’s da easy bit. It’sa da old glories. Oh man, I loved being da pirate, da Ammiraglio, da admiral, da man of action. Sometimes, I miss it so bad, I wanna cry like a grandmother. The wind innama hair. My hands ona da rudder. Da thrill of da chase. Da salty sea air inna ma nostrils.’
‘Why didn’t you just go back to doing that, then?’ asked Newton. ‘Surely, you don’t need permission to be a pirate.’
‘No. But I needed to atone,’ explained Enrico. ‘I let everyone down with my hubris. Stupido! Enrico made promises he couldn’t keep. What a fool. I started torturing myself, thinking it over and over. I didn’t take Crete for Purgatory, is true, but at least I could come back here and protect deir Labyrinth. Was da least I could do.’
‘Hold on a second,’ said Newton, grabbing Enrico by the arm. ‘Did you say … labyrinth? Is this … the Labyrinth? As designed by Daedalus himself?’
‘Whoops.’
‘Idiot!’ laughed Newton, rather disappointed with himself. ‘I should have worked that out hours ago.’
‘Shit. Now I dunnit.’
