The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 32
‘Is true,’ said the abbot ‘Oh, how we wish it wasn’t.’
‘And you have to catch them, right?’ asked Newton.
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Eric. ‘You can’t have wyverns, wyrms and centaurs wandering around the landscape like they own the place.’
‘What?’ demanded Newton, shaking his head so hard as they walked he began to weave. ‘I mean … just … whaaat?’
‘Yeah … well, welcome to my world,’ huffed Eric wearily. ‘It never bloody ends. You grab each myth or legend as it appears, and then a century later, you have to do it all over again.’
‘Ok. Let me get this straight. These manifestations … everything people believe in, which isn’t true, they just appear … down here?’
‘Not down here, no,’ replied Eric, waving his hand in the general direction of the world. ‘They appear out there, in the mortal realm. Like I say … if enough people believe in something, WHOOF! There it damn well is. A nightmare! We, the Purgatorians, have to go clean them up.’
‘And you bring them all … here?’ asked Newton. ‘To Crete? To this Labyrinth?
‘Well, they could hardly be left out there,’ snorted Eric derisively, as if it were self-evident. ‘Can they? Can you imagine the trouble we’d have if Medusa were free to come and go as she pleased? Everyone would be stoned.’
‘Hold on. Shouldn’t these beasts all be just mythological? You know, the ancient stuff? This can’t still be happening. Aren’t people a lot smarter these days?’
‘Oh, are they?’ laughed Eric. ‘Are they really? Ha! What about the Chupacabra? Grey aliens? The Mothman? Trickle-down economics? No, as long as there are people, there will be nonsensical myths.’
‘But the outlaws?’ queried Newton. ‘There are characters down here from books, legends. It’s not just monsters, then?’
‘Hell no. It’s people too,’ answered Eric. ‘Prester John, King Arthur, Gilgamesh, for goodness’ sake, a lot of people think Sherlock Holmes is a real person; he gets fan mail for pity’s sake. We had three Sherlock’s down here, as it happens; my favourite was the Jeremy Brett; I simply couldn’t abide the Basil Rathbone. We also had a Mavis Beacon, a Ronald McDonald and far too many Robin Hoods.’
‘Had?’ asked Newton. ‘This place is near deserted, Minotaur and outlaws aside. What did you do with them all?’
‘We’ve been moving them to a new, more remote location,’ explained Eric. ‘Somewhere where the risk of discovery is as low as we can possibly make it; an island way down in the South Atlantic. Remote Island, it’s called. I mean … it’s literally called that. Can you imagine?’
‘This place no longer good for hiding things,’ put in Papadraylou, with a weary resignation. ‘Not anymore.’
‘It’s not been good for a while,’ added Eric. ‘When Daedalus created this Labyrinth, things were completely different. You could maintain secrets easily in those days. Crete was remote then, and travel was hard. Not now. Now, Crete is in range of any middle-class family willing to shell out seventy quid for airport parking. Back then, we felt confident we could share the unbelievable truth with a select few … and keep it safe.’
‘Share?’ asked Bennet. ‘With the Minoans?’
‘Indeed,’ answered Eric. ‘The Minoans were, and are, the only civilisation that the Purgatorians ever came clean to. My predecessors thought nothing of the future and never foresaw how the Labyrinth could become such a liability. As mankind grew in intelligence, their numbers multiplied, and discovery constantly threatened the facility. Grave robbers, adventurers, archaeologists, surveyors, geologists … it’s been a nightmare keeping these people at bay. Potholing? Don’t get me started.’
‘How did you keep it undiscovered for so long!?’ marvelled Bennet.
‘Hard work. That’s how!’ exclaimed Eric indignantly. ‘It’s taken a massive team the best part of three millennia to keep the lid on this place. It didn’t help when the Minoans decided they’d had enough and gave up.’
‘Weren’t they overrun by you Greeks?’
‘Mycenaean Greeks!’ corrected Eric. ‘I’m a classical Greek; I’ve nothing in common with those brutish primitives. I’ve never invaded anyone!’
‘They didn’t give up,’ insisted Vasilakis. ‘Cretans never surrender. They were overwhelmed. Nature … the volcano, no?
‘Thera? Well … yes,’ conceded Eric. ‘And the invaders. I suppose they did have a few mitigating circumstances. However, their answer was to come down here and hope it all went away, which, of course, it didn’t. A lack of vitamin D took a terrible toll. Rickets, brittle bones, skin disease. One generation of that and the lot of them were gone. As usual, Purgatory was left to pick up the pieces.’
‘So you kept it going?’ enquired Bennet.
‘Not me, personally,’ replied Eric. ‘This was long before my time. But yes, of course, we kept it going. We had to! If we hadn’t been on the ball, there would have been a cyclops on every street corner begging for goats. It’s been quite a ride, I can tell you. Four thousand years of mythological madness, simply because human beings can’t tell the difference between fact and fiction.’
‘Shouldn’t people have just been better educated?’ asked Newton. ‘Make them a bit less open to fantasy.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Eric. ‘The rules are very clear on such interventions. We Purgatorians can only react from the shadows. We cannot ever govern; these are the rules. Only those in power can educate the masses, which in the Bronze Age was asking for trouble. Myths before maths. That pretty much sums it up. So … we waited for humanity to stop being so impressionable, so gullible, and so unquestioning. And the Labyrinth? It just kept filling up.’
‘Not that I’m suggesting it. Because it’s a bit cruel. But … why didn’t you just euthanise all these beasties. Get rid of them that way?’
‘You mean … put them down?’ answered Eric, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well, yeah,’ continued Newton. ‘Get rid of them for good with a humane injection or something.’
‘Because, Dr Barlow, they’d simply reappear.’
‘They would?’
‘Legends don’t die, Dr Barlow,’ explained Eric ‘Do they? Think about it. Robin Hood, for example. There wasn’t just one Robin Hood down here. For the love of Zeus … I knew of at least nine. There’s the early Robins, those from the Middle Ages themselves, and then there’s the Victorian Robin and pantomime Robin. That’s three right there. Later, you get the classic Errol Flynn, Hollywood Robin … all the way up to the newer stylings with Russell Crowe and Kevin What’s-his-face. There’s even a Mel Brooks Robin. People believe in all of them, you see? You want a Robin Hood? Take your pick.’
‘But the academics have pinned down the story. Haven’t they? He never existed, did he?’
‘Dr Barlow,’ said Eric wearily. ‘You are supposed to be smart. I’d have thought you’d have got this by now. It doesn’t make any difference whether it is disproven … or not. The myth goes on. Look at Prester John. People knew he was nonsense at the time, but he still ended up down here with his own one-bedroom flat and flat-screen TV. King Arthur? Don’t make me laugh; nothing more than a mash-up of dozens of dreamy legends, nationalistic fantasies and outright fairy tales. It makes no difference whether they have any grounding in reality or not; people will them into being.’
‘Surely not religion?’ asked Bennet, feeling worryingly existential. ‘Please tell me that’s different.’
‘It is,’ answered Eric. ‘But that is another discussion. One we won’t have here … if ever. Know at least that there is a vast distinction between gods and mythology.’
‘Really?’ pushed Newton, going for the prize. ‘Isn’t one man’s pixie another man’s divine being? Gods are in the eye of the beholder, aren’t they? Who gets to decide my sky god isn’t on the same level as the Chupacabra?’
‘There is a difference,’ declared Eric firmly. ‘And that’s all you need to know.’
‘Told you,’ added Bennet, looking both smug and relieved.
‘That’s as much as you’re willing to tell me?’ protested Newton. ‘Oh, come on!’
‘It’s more than enough,’ replied Eric.
‘Well, well,’ said Newton. ‘So, to recap … myths and legends; people believe in them, they become real, and you have to put them … in a zoo? ‘
‘We never use the term “zoo”!’ snapped Eric. ‘That sort of talk does not go down at all well with the residents. I grant you that they are fearful monsters and horrifying freaks, but they still deserve to be treated with respect. We’re not Nazis, Barlow. The Labyrinth was if anything … a resort. It was intended to be a home from home.’
‘Really?’ asked Viv. ‘It’s horrible down here.’
‘Why do you lie?’ protested Papadraylou. ‘They hated it. Is why they kept escaping.’
‘Which must have been pretty embarrassing,’ remarked Newton. ‘Not to mention dangerous.’
‘Oh, the deaths have been in the low hundreds,’ answered Eric dismissively. ‘These myths are pretty easy to catch. If you can’t track a man who is just one huge foot, then who can you track?’
‘Eh?’ said Newton.
‘Monopod,’ explained Papadraylou. ‘Like the Dog-Headed Men of the Indies. You see them drawn on the edge of early maps.’
‘Ah. Those guys.’
‘Papadraylou and his men, like those who came before them, were always very quick to act when there was a breakout,’ continued Eric. ‘All the same, trying to explain away a Blemmyae or a sphinx as a mere raki-induced hallucination can only get you so far.’
‘No kidding,’ agreed Newton. ‘Especially in the digital age; one snap with an iPhone, and you’d have every monster hunter in the world down on you.’
‘Yes and no. There’s so much disinformation on the information superhighway,’ explained Eric. ‘What photographs there have been have looked more like fakes than the fakes do. For that, we can be thankful. But you can’t rely on that forever. It would be only a matter of time before someone worked out what was below Crete.’
‘So you decided to shut it down?’ enquired Bennet.
‘Move it,’ corrected Eric. ‘The time had come. We had to take them all somewhere else. Somewhere a lot safer, somewhere no one could stray upon them. We were in the process of doing that when you lot barged into the place.’
‘I didn’t barge in,’ protested Newton defensively. ‘I was thrown off a cliff.’
‘How on earth does one close something like this down?’ enquired Bennet. ‘It’s huge!’
‘Quite,’ answered Eric. ‘We’ve had some of our best people working on the problem, trying to find a way to unveil the facility at a time of our own choosing.’
‘Go public?’ exclaimed Bennet. ‘Surely not!’
‘Not the whole of Purgatory,’ sighed Eric, rolling his eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Just the Labyrinth.’
‘Let people come down here?’ asked Vasilakis doubtfully. ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘It’s the only option,’ replied Eric. ‘Control the inevitable discovery. The plan isn’t finalised yet, but the thought is that it could be made into a theme park.’
‘A what?’ Newton narrowed his eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Well, that was the idea. Tomb Raider Land or something along those lines. You know, like the game. Indiana Jones activity holiday, with a five-star hotel, gift shop and spa.’
‘Ah …,’ said Gabby. ‘That explains the polystyrene blocks.’
‘And my near-death experience with the papier-mâché,’ added Newton.
‘Precisely. All part of the feasibility study,’ explained Eric.
‘But it’s full of real archaeology,’ commented Bennet. ‘People will work that out; they’re not idiots.’
‘You have a better idea?’ snapped Eric. ‘I suppose you think we can just fill the place in with rubble? You’ve seen the size of it. There’s not that much hardcore in the whole of Greece.’
‘He’s got a point,’ agreed Newton.
‘Flooding?’ suggested Viv.
‘Where would the water come from?’ exclaimed Vasilakis. ‘Crete is dry as the dog biscuit.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Eric. ‘So, we thought we’d make out that it’s all a theme park, a sort of mythological Disneyland. Why, there’s so much overlapping archaeology that it would easily be passed off as a bad imitation, the product of some drug-crazed set designer. We were just starting to test the concept when you lot barged in and ruined it all.’
‘But some of those booby traps are real!’ exclaimed Viv. ‘People will get killed!’
‘Oh, those,’ replied Eric. ‘The leftovers from Daedalus’s perimeter defence. We’ve disabled most of those, but there’s still a way to go. They kept the grave robbers out for a thousand years, though, fair play. We’re going to make them a feature, you, see. Remove all the sharp stuff. Soft play meets The Temple of Doom.’
‘Daedalus?’ gasped Bennet. ‘The actual Daedalus? How exciting!’
‘Don’t big him up,’ huffed Eric, contemptuously. ‘He’s being a pain in the arse about the whole theme park concept. Refusing stubbornly to be involved. Thinks it’s beneath him. He’d rather hang on to the defence concept and kill any trespassers outright. Mind you, looking at the last two days, I think he has a point.’
‘But WE could have been killed!’ protested Gabby.
‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’ snorted Eric. ‘You lot have aggravated what was already a very complex process. Now, we’ve got the worst of our enemies making off with forbidden knowledge. The True Cross! I dread to think what trials lie ahead.’
‘Do we know who they are?’ asked Bennet. ‘I recognised the girl from Wales.’
‘Yeah, that’s them,’ confirmed Newton. ‘I was about to process her great-grandpapa when she kicked me off a cliff.’
‘The Kraakenhausens,’ answered Eric. ‘The girl, her father and the newly revived spirit of the general. I also strongly suspect they have one Andronicus the Terrible with them, too. Trust me … you don’t want to spend time around that scumbag. I’ve met a few arseholes in my time, but that bastard takes the absolute biscuit.’
‘But they were under guard,’ said Papadraylou. ‘Gunmen. Do we know who were they?’
‘Boris Nahrapov and his mercenaries,’ confirmed Eric. ‘Russian.’
‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ asked Newton.
‘He’s an oligarch. With dubious connections. Remember the business at Muncaster?’
‘Hard to forget.’ replied Newton.
‘Well, it’s the people behind that,’ explained Eric.
‘You mean the so-called Consortium?’ wondered Newton. ‘Featherstone’s mob?’
‘Quite,’ confirmed Eric. ‘At least that’s what the spooks upstairs are telling me.’
‘They have at least one of the Necromancer’s handbooks,’ said Bennet. ‘They could conjure up all sorts of nasties with that.’
‘Quite. And they’ll have a field day if they get down here in any numbers before we get our act together. We need this place sterilised and fast.’
‘My men will get on it immediately,’ promised Papadraylou.
‘Be aware that Kraakenhausen is an archaeologist,’ added Eric. ‘He must be itching to go public with the Labyrinth. He’d be made for life.’
‘Yes, but Kraakenhausen is now in the hands of this Consortium,’ mused Bennet. ‘They will be calling the shots.’
‘Agreed,’ responded Eric. ‘But what shots will they be calling? That is the two-million-Euro question. We have to catch them before they find a way to make use of their discovery.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Bennet, looking ahead to the approaching crossing.
‘You need to getta da sprint on,’ urged the returning spirit of Enrico Pescatore. ‘Dey are getting away.’
Keeping safely to the sides, the Purgatorians crossed the bridge, then plunged into the tunnel opposite.
*****
The Café Medusa was as picturesque a dinner venue as you could hope to find in Chania’s old town. Making the most of the ruins left by the Luftwaffe some eighty years earlier, the outdoor seating and the candle-lit arches created a romantic ambience that seemed by design rather than the opportunism it actually was.
And romantic it needed to be.
A year after their disastrous honeymoon, the Richardsons had returned to Crete for a second attempt, keen to create proper memories now that the nightmares generated on their first had finally faded.
So far, this night had seemed to deliver: a sumptuous dinner and fine wine in the quaintly ruined, restaurant garden, nothing between the lovebirds but the obligatory free raki.
Lost in the moment, they had stretched the evening to its maximum, not wanting the magic to end; only the second-time honeymooners and a bored waiter remained in the courtyard as they prepared to toast their new life together.
Raki in hand, they were still smiling adoringly at each other across the blue-and-white-chequered tablecloth when their perfect evening … ended.
Without warning, the single stone slab upon which their romantic diner had been resting suddenly heaved up, forcing the Richardsons and their nightcaps to the floor. Rising from below, Nahrapov's team and their German prisoners burst into the courtyard, guns pointing in every direction, ruining the ambience. The Richardsons, rendered insensible by the change in atmosphere, looked on in stunned amazement as Andronicus and his blind companion, the last to appear, followed their colleagues out through the hole, Andronicus pausing briefly to relieve the couple of their after-dinner mints.
Propelling the last of the evening’s tourists out of the way, Nahrapov and his men, dragging the Kraakenhausens behind, charged out of the restaurant, along the narrow streets and down to the quayside, where the oligarch’s sleek black yacht was waiting.
‘Dima, get the crew up and running, sling the Kraakenhausens in a cabin and lock ’em in,’ ordered Nahrapov, dashing aboard. ‘We sail immediately.’
*****
The Purgatorians, unlucky as ever, did not surface in the town. Inconveniently, they emerged in a laundry set on low hills to the east, the only benefit being an unobstructed view of the harbour to the west.
