The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 27
‘My God!’ shouted Dima. ‘What is it!?’
‘It’s a demon!’ said another gunman, crossing himself. ‘This place is cursed!’
‘Dammit,’ yelled Nahrapov. ‘Just get it off her!’
Obeying their patron, the men descended on the beast, only to be rewarded by a hedge-strimmer barrage of savage bites as the cryptid fought back.
‘Help me! Baaaaaaby,’ wailed Astrid pathetically as the thing thrashed about in her hair. ‘Help me!’
Then, suddenly, it broke free, hissing so loudly that the bloodied gunmen reared back. Clattering into the air like an oversized roach, it flew through them, giving Dima no time to cut it down before it returned noisily to the darkness from which it had appeared.
‘Boris …,’ screamed the girl. ‘My hair! My hair!’
‘Little sparrow!’ consoled the oligarch, holding her tightly to his flabby chest. ‘You poor, sweet thing.’
‘You said they’d protect me!’ blubbered Astrid.
‘Forgive me, sweetness!’ begged the oligarch. ‘My life, my love. I’m sorry!’
‘What in the name of all that is holy …,’ gasped Dima, ‘was that?
‘The hell I know,’ answered Nahrapov. He looked down at his girl, then away down the alleyway and the darkness beyond, weighing things up.
‘What do you think, Boss?’ asked Dima. ‘Go back?’
‘No,’ said the oligarch finally. ‘You were right about the girl. We need to keep her safe. But, that bastard Kraakenhausen is ahead … somewhere, and no one double crosses Boris Nahrapov. We press on.’
*****
Dr Kraakenhausen’s party were having a better time of it.
Negotiating the city walls, they had found a direct road through the streets and were now approaching a looming citadel fashioned from huge blocks of polished marble. Its vast wooden doors were now so perforated by woodworm and desiccation that it took little persuasion from Helena’s army boot to gain entry. Stepping over the splintered wood, her flashlight illuminated a wide mural-decorated staircase.
‘This looks promising,’ said Helena. ‘Might be some kind of a palace.’
‘Let me in,’ demanded Dr Kraakenhausen, pushing past his daughter. ‘Let me see.’
‘Go easy, Papa,’ advised Helena. ‘Remember what happened to the others.’
‘Ja, ja.’ The archaeologist, scanned around him. ‘It’s an important building for sure. Look at those rich frescoes; it is as if they were painted yesterday. Such colours! Ve vill find such vonders in here; I know it, I feel it in meine bones.’
‘Everyone in,’ ordered Helena. ‘Ve need to go up slowly and carefully.’
Their torches darting about for traps, they ascended.
Halfway up, there was a crate. Lying on its side, a jumble of small bags and packing materials were spilling out amongst a clod of torn up newspapers. Presumably, these had been used in an attempt to soak up a viscous substance that had spread across the floor of the passage. Dr Kraakenhausen, bent down. They were half in, half out of a puddle of half-evaporated goo.
‘Ah … very interesting,’ said the archaeologist.
‘Vot ist das, Papa?’ asked Helena. ‘Something of significance?’
‘A necklace,’ replied Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Lapus lazuli beads vith discs of gold. A lovely piece. Mycenaean. I think left here because it is covered in some kind of fluid.’ He sniffed. ‘Is this … lemon juice?’
‘There’s more, look,’ urged the general.
‘Ah yes, a bull bracelet. Also sticky vith the juice,’ observed the archaeologist. ‘Minoan. This bodes vell, I am thinking. There must be great treasures ahead.’
‘Treasure!’ muttered Andronicus.
‘Onvards!’ urged Dr Kraakensausen, pocketing the finds. ‘Vunderous things avait!’
Nearing the top of the regal staircase, they stopped. There was light, seemingly emanating from a room off the landing ahead of them.
‘Vot ist das?’ asked the general nervously. ‘Are there people here?’
‘I hope not. This is meine discovery,’ protested Dr Kraakenhausen.
‘You,’ barked Helena, indicating the crusader spirit of Sir Lionel of Melton Mowbray. ‘You vonted a quest? Vell, here you go. You’re on. Go up the stairs and check for traps.’
‘Me?’ asked Sir Lionel. ‘I was hoping for something a bit more Crusadery than that, if I’m honest.’
‘Just do it,’ ordered Raynald de Châtillon. ‘Maybe the Holy Grail is here.’
‘The Grail!?’ asked Lionel, excitedly. ‘Well … if the Holy Grail is here, then that is a proper quest. A quest worthy of a knight.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Raynald. ‘Get up there and check it out.’
‘Right,’ said Lionel, adjusting his rusty armour. ‘Here goes nothing.’
Cautiously, the knight began to edge up the broad staircase, sword before him. Soon, he was at the top, his body silhouetted against the warm light deeper inside the building.
‘Vot can you see?’ yelled Dr Kraakenhausen.
‘It’s a big room,’ came the reply.
‘Vot’s in it?’ called the archaeologist. ‘I need details.’
‘Lots of cases,’ shouted back the Crusader. ‘It looks like a storeroom.’
‘Is it safe?’ demanded Helena. ‘Are we safe to come up?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sir Lionel. ‘I think –’
There was a pop, followed a millisecond second later by a hiss of what sounded like a pressure hose.
Then, a woosh.
The light at the top of the stairs intensified.
‘Arrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,’ screamed Sir Lionel of Melton Mowbray.
‘Vot’s happening?’ called Helena.
‘I am afire!’ howled the crusader. ‘I … AM … AFIRE!’
He really was.
Lionel had reappeared at the top of the stairs, a human torch with its hands waving. Screaming, the knight tore down the stairs, his companions throwing themselves to the sides to avoid him as he blazed past. Reaching the base of the stairs, he dashing in circles around the ancient lobby before toppling over, then rolling around like a skittle in a last-ditch attempt to extinguish the flames.
Slowly, the struggles decreased, then stopped.
‘Ouch,’ remarked Raynald de Châtillon, unemotionally.
‘Hopefully, that vos the only trap,’ said Dr Kraakenhausen, optimistically.
‘Ve have to hope so,’ replied Helena. ‘Look. Time is running out. I say ve take the risk.’
‘Agreed. Ve go in.’
So up they went, following the burning trail left by Sir Lionel until they reached the top of the stairs.
‘It’s a treasury!’ exclaimed Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Look at all the cases!’
Lit by ornate electrified lanterns, was a long room, with rank after rank of wooden display cases stretching away to a distant wall.
‘Vait!’ shouted Helena, as her father charged ahead. ‘Check for traps!’
Dr Kraakenhausen paused, then looked up. Next to the rudimentary flame-thrower that had fried Sir Lionel, there was a mass of blades, stone weights and dart projectors, all pointing roughly to where he was headed.
‘Back up,’ advised his daughter. ‘Ve need to see if they’re still in verking order.’ She took out her binoculars and then traced the tripwires and pressure pads back to the danger above. ‘To meine eyes, they look rusted to hell,’ she continued. ‘The fire trap is spent, and the rope pulleys are all long gone. Sir Lionel vos unlucky, I think. But ve should play safe. Ve stick to the sides.’
‘Excellent, daughter,’ said Dr Kraakenhausen. Excitedly, they began edging around the columned entrance, carefully testing each paving stone as they went.
Once inside, Dr Kraakenhausen, beside himself with archaeological excitement, forgot the risks and began dashing back and forth, checking the cases for treasure.
‘Nein!’ wailed the archaeologist, his hands flying to his head in despair. ‘NEIN!’
Dr Kraakenhausen’s euphoria had burst like a bubble of cheap champagne.
The cases, more than two hundred in total, were empty. Their glass doors were, without exception, ajar, the drawers in their bases open or thrown haphazardly to the ground.
The treasury had been vacated in a hurry, and recently.
‘This whole thing stinks like old fish,’ snarled Helena, angry for her father. ‘Look over there. Since vhen has a Bronze Age tomb been fitted vith fire extinguishers?’
‘Gott!’ added the general. ‘She’s right. Look! And what’s that broken thing on the floor by that desk?’
‘That, Grandfather,’ explained Dr Kraakenhausen, ‘is ein Computer.’
‘Vot ist das?’ asked the general.
‘It’s a sort of typewriter,’ explained Helena. ‘Electric.’
‘Ah. Like die Enigma machine,’ said the general.
‘Exactly,’ replied Helena.
‘Well, well,’ huffed Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘A strange archaeological site this is becoming. So many, many inconsistencies. And those trinkets – nothing but a necklace and a bracelet¬ – they are all ve have to show for our efforts.’ He caught sight of the blind man, smiling privately to himself, to his side. ‘Vot is das old man? You laughing at me, ja? Vot do you know?’
‘Their secrets were too big to be left here,’ stated the Greek. ‘They’ve moved them.’
‘Moved? Moved vhere …?’ demanded the archaeologist, his face sharply reddening. ‘And who? Who moved what … vhere? TELLLLL MEEEE!’
‘I do not know where,’ answered the blind man. ‘But, I can suspect who. As for what … well ….’
‘Riddles … riddles. Scheisse!’ snorted Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘It’s the Purgatorians, isn’t it?’
‘Is that what you call them?’ said the blind man. ‘I knew them simply as the Keepers.’
‘I don’t care vot they are called,’ raged Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘The Schweine have stolen my discovery. Look!’ he wailed. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Look again.’
‘What are you talking about?’ blurted the archaeologist. ‘It’s been cleared out.’
‘Look harder,’ answered the old man.
‘He’s right, Papa,’ shouted Helena, pointing. ‘They’ve missed something. Look … there!’
Dr Kraakenhausen pulled himself off the wall and followed his daughter’s finger to the right. Sure enough, on the floor beside an open cabinet, nestled between surplus bubble wrap and discarded drawers, there lay a box. Partially hidden amongst the packing materials, it had lain overlooked until now.
‘Vot is it?’ demanded Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Please … tell me it’s a something!’
‘Calm down, father,’ advised Helena, as she approached the box. ‘Let’s just have a look, shall ve?’
Sitting cross-legged, Helena lifted it with both hands, then placed it carefully upon her lap. It revealed itself to be an exquisitely decorated brass-bound ivory casket, the royal blue of its lapis lazuli inlay gleaming between fine geometric patterns. Her father, the general and the Crusaders gathered around her, Andronicus abandoning the old blind man in order to muscle in for the best view.
Gingerly, Helena Kraakenhausen opened the lid.
Inside, lying on a bed of faded red velvet and looking distinctly un-treasury, lay a long sliver of dark reddish-brown wood.
There was silence.
‘That’s it?’ snorted Dr Kraakenhausen, summing up the mood. ‘A stick?’
‘Vait …,’ said Helena. ‘There’s an inscription. A small amount of Arabic but mostly Greek. Of a sort. A more ancient form. I can read bits. Something about Jesus, and … I dunno.’
‘It’s Byzantine Greek,’ stated Andronicus, causing the Crusaders to instantly turn their hostile gaze right at him. ‘I mean, I think it’s Byzantine. I er … used to hear my prisoners talking about it, you see. While I … er … tortured them. Served ’em right. Holy Roman losers! Who needs ’em?’
‘You fluent?’ demanded Dr Kraakenhausen.
‘No … er … well, yes. Ish,’ fudged Andronicus. ‘Not my first language, of course. Because … I’m … er … French.’
‘Let him through,’ ordered Helena.
Andronicus edged past the Crusaders; their eyes narrowed at him with unveiled suspicion.
‘Go on then,’ demanded Helena, once the former emperor was beside her. ‘Translate it.’
Andronicus the Terrible knelt down. Taking the box from Helena, he slowly read the small brass panel, his lips moving silently as he followed the inscription from one end to the other.
‘Vell?’ snapped the impatient Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Vot does it say?’
‘Ohhhhh!’ said Andronicus after a notable pause.
‘Vot is it?’ asked the archaeologist, ‘Tell me. Tell me!’
‘This …,’ said Andronicus the Terrible, very tempted to lie. ‘Is a fragment ….’
‘Vot?' demanded Dr Kraakenhausen, over-excitedly. ‘A fragment of vot?’
‘A fragment,’ whispered Andronicus, more out of commercial excitement than reverence, ‘of the True Cross.’
Chapter 23
The Centre Of It All
Dr Kraakenhausen was feeling a little better. True, greater prizes had clearly just escaped him, but with a fragment of the True Cross in his sweaty little hands, things were undeniably looking up.
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed, grasping the box to his chest. ‘This is more like it. I know it’s not the Lost Ark of des Covenant, but it’s something! It’s enough to make my name ring through the ages like Heinrich Schliemann or Howard Carter.’
‘Is it worth much, do you think?’ asked the ever-mercenary Andronicus the Terrible.
‘Money?’ sneered the archaeologist, his lip curling in distaste. ‘You debase this incredible discovery with talk of …. money? Admittedly, it is useful. Ve could do vith a bit. But this is not about money. This is about … glory!’
‘Maybe so,’ agreed his daughter. ‘But vot do ve do vith it? How do ve even know it’s authentic? Could so easily be a fake; the medieval vorld vos full of bogus holy relics.’
‘Authentic?’ protested Dr Kraakenhausen, unwilling to even entertain the idea that it could be counterfeit. ‘’Of course, it’s authentic! Vhy vouldn’t it be authentic?’
‘Well, Papa, they did leave it behind,’ replied his daughter.
‘A mistake,’ insisted her father, brushing the doubt away. ‘It vos an oversight. That is all.’
‘Oh, it’s real enough,’ said the blind man quietly. ‘I can sense it.’
‘There!’ exclaimed Dr Kraakenhausen triumphantly, pointing to the Cretan. ‘Told you.’
‘Vot do you sense?’ Helena asked the old man. ‘Be specific.’
‘A monumental spirit,’ answered the old Greek. ‘The fragment is heavy with it. No fake could do that. Here.’ He held out a wobbling arm. ‘Let me lay my hand upon it.’
The box was brought forward.
As soon as his paper-thin fingertips touched the darkened wood, the blind man jerked upright just as if he’d put a wet finger in a wall socket, sightless eyes wide with spiritual shock. Struck with wonder, he began to draw the stale air into his tired old lungs in short, frantic gasps.
‘Oh yes,’ he wheezed, voice trembling. ‘Oh YES!’
‘Oh yes … vot?’ demanded Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Vot?’
‘It is the one!’ answered the blind man. ‘I am certain.’
‘The True Cross?’ Dr Kraakenhausen was desperate for confirmation.
‘Er, yes …,’ confirmed the Greek hesitantly. ‘That.’
‘Excellent!’ said the archaeologist gleefully. ‘Those Schweine on the History Channel will have to take me seriously now.’
‘I’m sure they vill, Papa,’ Helena assured him. ‘But vot do ve actually do vith it now?’
They pondered silently, looking at the box itself for guidance.
‘You can give it … to me,’ came an unmistakably Russian voice from behind them.
Nahrapov and his gunmen had arrived.
‘Oh, Scheisse,’ sighed Dr Kraakenhausen, deflating like a week-old balloon animal.
Helena instinctively went for her gun, but realising that resistance was futile, she changed her mind, placing it carefully on the floor in front of her. Along with her companions, she raised her arms.
‘I vos going to tell you,’ offered Dr Kraakenhausen unconvincingly. ‘I just got carried away. I just thought I’d check it out first, you know, to be certain.’
‘Right,’ snorted the oligarch. ‘Of course you did.’
‘I just didn’t vant to vaste your time!’ added the archaeologist.
‘Stop with the bullshit,’ ordered the oligarch. ‘You are making me feel sick.’
‘Who are these people?’ demanded the general. ‘And can I put my hands down?’
‘I’m your employer,’ announced Boris Nahrapov. ‘And no, you keep them up till I say otherwise. Dima … search them.’
‘Do not you touch me!’ snapped Raynald de Châtillon, as the henchman began to violently frisk him. ‘Or I’ll smite thy face in.’
Nahrapov, nodded to Dima. On cue, the gunman punched the possessed football fan so hard in his beer belly that he pulsed like a water bed, and down he went.
‘Ooooof!’
Astrid looked on wide-eyed.
Nahrapov put an arm around her and murmured, ‘Bad people, my love. Such people need a lesson.’ Having reassured her, he returned his attention to his prisoners. ‘Anyone else need a refresher on our chain of command?’ asked Boris coldly. ‘Thought not. To summarise, then: you found a way into this complex, but you failed to inform me. Why?’
‘Vell …,’ began the archaeologist.
‘I will tell you why,’ continued the oligarch, silencing him. ‘You intended to double-cross me.’
‘Nein, Herr Nahrapov!’ pleaded Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘An oversight. That’s all. Truly, it von’t happen again.’
