The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 22
‘I assumed it was merely a myth!’
‘One man’s myth is another man’s cover story,’ said the hermit. ‘You gotta throw people offa da scent. Si?’
‘Well, they need to get the archaeologists down here sharpish. Because this is a major discovery.’
‘Is not a discovery,’ exclaimed Enrico. ‘You can get dat idea out offa your head. No one is “discovering” nuttin’.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Newton. ‘Archaeology is a science, dammit.’
‘Because is a flipping secret,’ replied the hermit. ‘Dat’sa why. Dat’s why I came back here. My job was to keep da curious out of da place or die trying. I did die.’
‘But it’s of major scientific importance,’ insisted Newton.
‘The hell it is!’ snapped Enrico, his stoical demeanour visibly collapsing. ‘Is a Purgatorial secret … dat is what it is. We Purgatorians have da secrets for a reason. Haven’t you learned anything inna da last six months?’
‘Oh, it’s such a shame, though!' wailed Newton, leaning down to examine what appeared to be a gold statue standing in a small alcove. ‘Because this place is wonder–’
‘Freeze!’ shouted Enrico. ‘Don’t move.’
‘Er, … why?’ said Newton, suspecting he was being falsely distracted.
‘A trap,’ explained Enrico, ‘You’re just about to trigger a trap.’
‘Trap?’ laughed Newton, picking up the treasure regardless. ‘Stop trying to distract me. If you want to change the subject, you’re going to have to try harder than that.’
‘You’d better do as I say,’ insisted Enrico, ‘or you gonna die.’
‘Chill, willya?' sighed Newton.’' I was only looking at this statue ….’
Then Newton trailed off.
There was a low rumbling. It came from behind him and didn't seem that much initially. Pretty quickly, however, it was unmistakably growing in volume, heading towards Newton from the tunnel behind them.
‘Run,’ screamed Enrico. ‘RRRRRUUUUUNNNN!’
Newton, uncomprehendingly, looked once more into the gloom, unwilling to believe the absurdity of his situation. Only when what looked like a colossal stone ball actually appeared, rolling unstoppably towards him down the smooth corridor, did Newton belatedly take it seriously.
‘Ahhhhhhhh!’
Newton … ran.
There was nowhere to go … but ahead. The ball came at Newton relentlessly, like he’d been transplanted into a giant pinball machine, forcing Newton to run for his very life. And, there were no doors, no alcoves and no corners into which Newton could throw himself … no way out but a lot of running. His body was a mass of aches, pains and brutalised muscles; Newton was going flat out, dashing ahead of the incoming sphere in a glorified limp.
Enrico, his body once again of no earthly substance, shot along beside him, offering advice.
‘You may need to pick uppa da pace,’ suggested the Hermit. ‘Cos it’sa a gaining on you.’
‘This is my pace,’ screamed Newton. ‘How the hell do I get out of its way?’
‘It’sa bit of a way to da next turning,’ advised Enrico. ‘So you gotta outrun it.’
‘No kidding!’ wheezed Newton, dragging himself over his pain barrier.
Enrico flew ahead, disappearing into the coalblack shadows as Newton pushed himself back up to the limit, desperate to stay ahead of the massive ball, its rumbling roar inexorably gaining on him in the narrow tunnel.
‘I can see something,’ said Enrico enthusiastically from the tunnel ahead. ‘There’s a sharp left turn; it will stop dere.’
‘I’m not going to make it,’ screamed Newton from his burning lungs. ‘I’m flagging.’
He really was flagging.
Even with the ball threatening his doom, Newton’s body was unhelpfully packing up. His pace slacking, Newton's speed started dropping from a frantic sprint to a doomed amble as his terror wildly escalated.
Though just a few last feet lay between Newton and salvation, it was a few feet that Newton's body simply couldn’t bridge, and the resignation hit him like warm milk.
It was the sort of calm Newton had heard about in accounts of disaster and conflict he’d read as a child; the resignation of the nearly dead. He’d never really understood it at the time. He understood it now.
Suddenly at peace with the inevitability of his death, Newton stopped, then turned … surrendering to fate.
No longer hidden in the shadows, lit by his Maglite, it was clear as day, dust and debris flying off the spinning ball as it tore relentlessly towards him.
Closer.
And closer.
Then it hit him.
Chapter 19
Ancient Fires
This was the second time that Newton had not been dead in two days. First, it had been the terrifying drop into the Mediterranean; now, it was an inexplicable escape from an ancient booby trap.
The giant stone ball wasn’t, it turned out, made of stone at all. It was, Newton quickly determined, made of papier-mâché, painted rather crudely to resemble a smoothly finished sphere of marble. When it had been rolling, the sloppy paint effects had been quite invisible. Now, with his face pinned to the wall by the stuff, it was, frankly, a bit of a joke.
‘Aren’t you da lucky one,’ laughed Enrico. ‘I thought that wassa real one.’
‘A real one?’ asked Newton, extricating himself slowly from behind the crumpled ball. ‘I may not be dead, but I’m certainly confused. What’s going on here?’
‘Beats me,’ replied Enrico. ‘Not see a fake one before. I saw two potholers flattened by a real one a while back, though.’
‘Someone’s been watching a lot of Spielberg movies,’ suggested Newton, his heart still in overdrive. ‘That was straight out of The Lost Ark.’
‘It’sa lot older thana dat,’ said Enrico. ‘Daedalus, da architect ofa da Labyrinth, put them in way back. I used to know where dey were, but you know, you forget dese things.’
‘Not sure I see the point in a fake booby trap,’ said Newton, pushing the ball away and stepping clear. He shone his torch on the fragments. ‘And I’m guessing the ancients didn’t subscribe to National Geographic either.’
‘I dunno,’ agreed Enrico. ‘It’sa new to me too. Anyway. Let’sa go.’
‘Hang on. What’s that?’ sniffed Newton, as they carried on down the tunnel. ‘I’d know that obnoxious pong anywhere.’
Sitting beside an opening, there was a decrepit barrel. Inside was a collection of lemons so far past their sell-by date that they had gone from zesty citrus to flavourless dust.
Newton peered in. The space contained a series of gigantic agricultural presses and a chute coming down from the Plain of Omalos above, feeding into the baskets on top of each one. Some of the industrial-sized squeezers had handles, presumably to turn their Heath Robinson cogs and wheels. Each press possessed its own pipe running into a container. Some of the pipes were old and broken, some had been replaced with cheap plastic. Alongside each machine were piles of pith, zest and recent husks of processed lemons, in stages of decomposition ranging from recent blue-green mould to an anonymous grey. Smashed classical jars and modern jerry cans littered the floor around them.
‘Oh God, lemons,’ lamented Newton, ‘why did it have to be lemons?’
‘Local industry. Issa Crete. Nature give us da lemons and we Cretans, we maka da lemonade. Issa very heal–’
‘Ok, ok, don’t start that again,’ interrupted Newton, anxious to get away from this nauseating environment, darting back out in the tunnel.
‘I know, issa all strange and new to you,’ shouted Enrico after him, ‘but issa how we do da things onna Crete.’
‘Those tyre tracks are probably new as well,’ Newton observed, pointing down at the dust-thick floor. ‘Unless the Minoans did a lot of mountain biking.’
‘I keep telling you,’ replied the hermit. ‘I’m inna dark as much as you. I like to keep out of da tunnels. My little cave wassa my life.’
*****
The oligarch, his lover and his team of gunmen pulled up sharply beside Dr Kraakenhausen’s van, their abrupt stop throwing up a thick cloud of milk-white Cretan dust. Indignant, Boris Nahrapov burst from the car, shielding his eyes from the glare, looking for answers. Dima Matsigura, the most senior of his many henchmen, was waiting for him.
‘So,’ growled Nahrapov, peering up at the sharp rocks above, ‘this it?’
‘Da, Comrade,’ confirmed Dima. ‘The entrance is just up there, on the right. It’s very well hidden; no wonder it’s been overlooked all these years.’
‘How long since the bastard went in?’ asked Nahrapov.
‘They went in about this time yesterday,’ replied Dima. ‘As soon as I was sure they weren’t coming back out, I phoned you.’
‘Who is they?’ demanded the oligarch. ‘Kraakenhausen and that bad-tempered daughter of his?’
‘No, there were others,’ answered Dima. ‘An old man … really old, and a bunch of fat middle-aged bastards. I thought they looked like English football fans.’
‘Football fans?’ exclaimed Nahrapov, confusion creasing his forehead.
‘Da,’ confirmed Dima. ‘I also thought it was a bit odd, but I could see that they had on that England team gear. You know … the red cross on a white top with the little lions.’
‘Strange,’ said Nahrapov. ‘Considering how Kraakenhausen hates the English the same way we hate the Ukrainians. I bet they’ve been recruiting extra hands using one of those books; the Kraakenhausen girl acquired a Necromancer’s handbook a week or so back, I gather.’
‘You think they’ve betrayed you?’ asked Dima.
‘Of course, they’ve betrayed me. Obviously, the loser thinks he can go it alone. Kraakenhausen’s archaeological vanity was always going to be an issue. That’s why I had you watch them.’
‘Are we going for a walk, baaaaaaaby?’ purred his lover, rubbing up against his arm like a hungry housecat.
‘Yes, Astrid, my sweet,’ replied Nahrapov, switching seamlessly from supervillain to lovesick man-baby. ‘We’re going into a cave.’
‘Ooooh,’ said Astrid.
‘With respect, Comrade Boris Nahrapov, is it a good idea to bring the girl? Only it could be pretty dangerous in there,’ suggested Dima cautiously.
‘I want her to see me at work,’ answered Nahrapov. ‘I like my women to respect me.’
‘Da, Boris Nahrapov, of course, but these places are often full of traps,’ continued Dima. ‘She might get in the –’
‘It’s not up for debate,’ snapped Nahrapov. ‘A real man needs his women to see him going about his business. Don’t you, sweet little baby?’
‘Yesssssss, my big hairy bear!’ warbled Astrid, not understanding the question.
‘There, see,’ continued the oligarch, ignoring Dima’s doubtful expression. ‘It’s decided. So, let’s get going.’ He turned to the rest of his team. ‘You ready?’ The gunmen nodded, dutifully checking their webbing, weapons and torches.
‘Excuse me, Comrade Oligarch, sir,’ said one of the gunmen. ‘Can I just raise something?’
‘If you must, Theo,’ replied Nahrapov. ‘Make it quick.’
‘Well, sir …,’ continued Theo, ‘it’s about the facemasks. The balaclavas.’
‘What about the balaclavas?’ asked Nahrapov.
‘Well, sir, it’s just … well … can we not wear them this time? It’s gonna be pretty dark in there.’
‘And muggy,’ added another.
‘Good point, Beriev,’ said Theo, ‘it will be muggy.’
‘Gunmen always wear masks,’ declared Nahrapov blankly. ‘It’s a tradition.’
‘I know that, sir,’ replied the Theo. ‘But no one is going to recognise us, are they? I mean, we don’t know anyone on Crete.’
‘I’ve never been further than Lake Ladoga,’ put in Beriev.
‘And we will be underground, Comrade Leader,’ observed another.
‘And … there’s no CCTV to worry about,’ added someone from the back.
‘Look, I’m done discussing this,’ said the irritated oligarch. ‘We are bad guys, and bad guys wear masks. That’s just how it is. Ok?’
‘But sir, maybe just the once, we …’ – a nod from Nahrapov and Dima slammed his Kalashnikov into the small of the Theo’s back. He dropped, rolling in agony until his black combats turned beige with dust.
‘Anyone else wondering about anything?’ demanded Nahrapov.
‘Shouldn’t the girl at least have some decent boots?’ asked Dima, looking down at Astrid’s three-hundred-Euro Jimmy Choos.
‘O.M.G!’ remarked Astrid looking down at her footwear to see half-rotten lemons on the points of her stilettos, ‘Oh no, it’s all sticky.’
‘Enough!’ snapped Nahrapov, as his henchman rushed to help. ‘The girl is fine!’ Ignoring the concern in his subordinate’s eyes, the oligarch gestured to the leader of his gunmen, who quickly joined his patron, his machine pistol barrel up towards the glaring Cretan sun, mirror shades reflecting the landscape. ‘Beriev? You good to go?’
‘Da,’ answered Beriev. ‘Locked and loaded.’
‘Excellent. Now show me the way in.’
‘Up here, Comrade Nahrapov,’ said Dima, pointing the way with his weapon.
After clambering up through the sharp rocks and even sharper thorns, Nahrapov’s team gathered at the cave entrance, its inky blackness contrasting with the bleached shards of rock outside.
‘I’ve been in about four hundred metres. It starts off rough,’ explained Dima, ‘but then the walls become very, very smooth. Obviously man-made.’
‘It looks very dark, sweetie,’ trilled Astrid. ‘Won’t there be nasty big spiders?’
‘My men will squash all the spiders,’ replied Nahrapov, his chest out almost as much as his belly. ‘Won’t you, Beriev?’
‘For sure,’ said the gunman, flashing a pretentiously large combat knife. ‘Along with anything else that gets in our way.’
‘Da!’ exclaimed another of the men. ‘Kickass!’
‘OOOOHHHHH,’ cooed Astrid.
*****
Vasilakis was far from happy. For the Purgatorian team on Crete, one protocol had been held above all others. They had learnt it on the first day of their induction, and it had been rammed home on refresher courses and seminars once a month ever since.
Don’t. Go. Underground.
And whilst going underground yourself was one thing, letting anyone else go underground was another. Yet, here he was, in the company of English Purgatorians, pushing along the smooth tunnels into the Cretan underworld, leading them all to heaven only knew where. Vasilakis was breaking every rule in the extensive Purgatorian rulebook, a rulebook so full of rules it needed rules just to open it and look at the contents page, where there were even more rules waiting.
‘This is so wrong,’ worried the Cretan. ‘We should not be here.’
‘I don’t want to be here, either,’ said Bennet, on behalf of just about everyone, as his hand brushed away a spider web the consistency of a shower curtain.
‘Not sure we have a choice,’ commented Viv. ‘Newton has been this way, and he’s hurt. We have to follow his trail, no matter where it goes.’
‘But is forbidden,’ insisted Vasilakis. ‘I will be in a lot of trouble.’
‘Why?’ asked Bennet. ‘It’s not your fault, old boy.’
‘You don’t understand. Is protocol. We are not allowed in these tunnels. My superiors, they are most insistent. We no go under the ground.’
‘Why?’ asked Bennet. ‘It’s just a tunnel.’
‘No … no, no!’ blurted the increasingly agitated Vasilakis. ‘Is not just a tunnel. They said we must never go down here. Never!’
‘But why?’ persisted the Reverend Bennet, peering into an opening, shining his torch upon dozens of stacked containers full of rotting lemons. ‘It’s just some place for storing produce.’
‘Look, I don’t know why,’ said Vasilakis. ‘They didn’t tell me. They don’t tell you, do they? I was never even allowed to talk about such places. They were most insistent.’
‘That’s just stupid,’ snorted Gabby. ‘How do you know what you are not allowed to know if you don’t know what you don’t know in the first place?’
‘What she said,’ added Bennet, nodding vigorously. ‘I don’t see how it can possibly be against protocol to rescue an imperilled fellow Purgatorian. Newton’s quite clearly in trouble, so surely, the safety of a colleague overrides all other considerations.’
‘I don’t know,’ wailed Vasilakis, horribly conflicted. ‘It was a big rule. The biggest. We no go under the ground.’
‘Well, wherever we’re going,’ replied Gabby, ‘let’s get away from these stinkin’ ponkin’ ….’
‘Lemons,’ finished Bennet.
‘I don’t care what it is, it’s rank.’
‘Well, I can’t see what the harm is,’ declared Viv. ‘We’re just gonna locate Newton, patch him up, get him back above ground, then go home. Where’s the harm in that?’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Bennet. ‘We won’t be here long, and I’m sure that whatever we are not meant to see, we won’t see it anyway. He can’t be that far ahead, can he? What do you reckon, old chap?’ Bennet asked the Bonetaker, slapping the giant on his expansive, dusty back, then wiping his hand on his sensible trousers.
‘NOT FAR,’ answered the Neanderthal, his shoulders stooped to help him pass down the tight passageway ahead of them. ‘BARLOW BEEN HERE. JUST HOURS AGO. NO LESS THAN THREE.’
‘See?’ said Viv, ‘Newton can’t be that hard to find. Plus, he’s probably hurt, so he can’t be moving that fast. We will be in and out of here before you know it.’
‘What is this place, anyway?’ asked Gabby, running her hand along the side of the tunnel. ‘These walls are super smooth. And there are murals here too, look.’ She held up her torch. On the wall, there was a faded procession of figures, each carrying a ceremonial jar.
‘There are monkeys over here,’ Viv pointed out, illuminating the opposite wall with her phone, revealing a group of playful blue apes frolicking in a palm grove. ‘How cool is that?’
