Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (16 page)

As the arm let go, the change in pressure along the hull caused the
ship to slide further to the portside. Rurik clung to the kraken’s
nearest tentacle to keep from falling into the ocean. Brodir, once
again left with nothing to grip, was flung against the deck.

Helplessly, Brodir watched as the injured tentacle swiped Njorf from
the ship. Another appendage rose from the icy depth. Spiraling around
the swimming sailor’s midsection, the kraken took hold of the
terrified sailor. Njorf splashed, screaming, “Help! Odin, spare
me!” It was all the time he had to speak before being pulled
below. Njorf was gone, never to breathe air again.

Watching the water as the ocean-giant’s body rose up further,
Captain Brodir saw a sliver of twilight sparkling in one lidless eye,
reflecting the sun’s distant retreat. The kraken’s
horrible mouth, an ugly beak-like pincher, opened and bit deep into a
swimming sheep, nearly shredding it in half. Two tentacles under the
ship pulled hard on the raised siderail, tilting the deck closer to
even, but not quite. Boards and pins popped along the
Mare’s
aft deck, diving home the fact this would be Brodir’s last
voyage.

A submerged tentacle nudged another sheep closer to its waiting mouth
as Brodir shouted to Rurik, who stood poised with his hatchet over
the beast’s spiraled arm, “Rurik, no! Let it eat the
sheep, it may let us go!”

Rurik nodded, lowering his ax. Taking a hold of the rigging, he used
the ropes to pull himself closer to the captain. The immense strain
of the sea-monster’s grip popped another board free from its
seal, this time bearing a long rectangular hole in the side-hull.

As Rurik lumbered closer, Brodir stated, “The
Mare
is
done for; she’ll go down with this beast.”

Panicked sheep brayed as they swam, but in the water, slithering
tentacles gathered and nudged the flock ever-closer to its hungry
mouth. There was a sound like soaked canvas being ripped, and beneath
the waves another sheep sunk, torn apart by the chitinous beak of the
kraken. The spilling of blood and sheared meat would only attract
other predators.

Wild-eyed and terrified, Rurik disparaged, “Do we go down with
her, captain?”

The sun had dipped completely below the surf, but on the horizon
remained a thin blue line. Floating amongst the ship’s spilled
debris, their harbor dinghy rolled upright over a wave. The small
boat floated free in the choppy sea, several meters from where the
monster fed upon the
Windward Mare’s
bounty. “Nay,
we must swim for the dinghy. Pray the Fates favor us.”

Seeing Rurik was ready to follow him, Brodir looked to the small
rowboat drifting away with each wave. He was cold and shivering and
knew there was a good chance they would die in the frigid waters even
if they were not eaten by the sea-monster. Without any other option,
both men challenged the cold sea and whatever hungry beasts swam
beneath.

Awkward was the swim in boots and clothes. Brodir hoped the salty
taste in his mouth was sea water and not the blood of his crew and
the sheep. Listening to Rurik gasp for breath as he kicked against
the swelling waves, Brodir could hear the frightened sheep being
rounded closer to their own end.

One of the sheep called with a blood-curdling cry. Neither man looked
back as they fought the rough sea in a desperate search for their own
survival. The screaming sheep’s cry became muffled by water as
lethargic legs, numbed from the cold, failed to kick. As the one
awful sound was swallowed up, the air became overwhelmed by the cries
of those that remained.

Brodir reached the dinghy as it rolled up and over another swell. The
captain clung to the rough wooden sides and looked over his shoulder,
calling, “Come on, Rurik, just a little further.”

White-faced in the starlight, Rurik gasped and paddled closer. Behind
the sailor, by the light of the cloudless night sky, Brodir watched a
tentacle slither higher up the mast of his deceased ship. Another
sheep’s cries ended as the
Windward Mare
began to creak
defiantly. There came sporadic pangs and pops of wooden planks losing
to the stress of the monstrous squeeze. Brodir looked away and
reached for Rurik, taking his icy hand.

The captain pulled the sailor to the side of the small boat. “I’m
going to the other side, and then you get in. Lay down so when I pull
myself in, we don’t capsize. Got it?” He watched Rurik
nod, both men shivering in the frigid water.

Sliding around, he called for Rurik to get out of the water. Brodir
held the little boat steady as the last of his crew climbed inside
the lifeboat. He was next. He cast one water-soaked leg over and with
all that remained of his strength, he flipped himself inside. He lay
there, breathing hard, as did Rurik beside him.

Then he heard it.

A sound like crisp celery being twisted in two, this sound was
magnified by the creaks and groans of wooden seams ripped apart. Hard
oak beams and planks were torn, splintering and popping free of each
other. The sound sent shivers down each man’s spine, knowing
the strength it would take to crush such a sturdy ship as had been
the
Windward Mare
. Some of the sheep still called into the
night, but those the kraken had not consumed would soon freeze, and
eventually be eaten by the other ocean predators and scavengers.

Brodir lay motionless atop Rurik. Both men listened to the haunting
sound of a torrent of bubbles, the defying last gasps of the
Windward
Mare
as the ocean claimed her. Slowly sinking, she made her final
journey to the ocean’s floor.

Both men lay at the bottom of the little boat, shivering in the
puddle of water they had pulled into the dinghy with them. Silently,
except for the chattering of teeth, they waited for dark tentacles to
find them. Without aim, they jounced in the waves, waiting for a
monstrous beak to chew through the sidewall and their limbs. Unknown
to the terrified survivors, the monster had submerged silently. All
that remained were the dreadful memories of the nightmare they’d
survived, and a deep frosting in their souls. Miraculously, sleep
took them regardless of the unstoppable shivers from both fear and
cold. Huddled together, and sharing each other’s fragile
warmth, they slept, expecting no mercy from the overpowering tides.

Oslo pushed away the empty bowl of stew. Rurik had fallen silent.

Werner spoke up after the sailor had finished his story, “Helle
and I go to the beach every morning to check our tide nets. The
little rower had come to shore in the night and entangled in our
nets. The other man had fallen to the cold, at some point, before we
found them. Rurik was barely alive, but Helle wouldn’t let him
go. She brought Rurik back from the doors of Valhalla, and he has
been with us here in Hundested ever since.”

Oslo Boarstout stood from the table. He pulled out his coin purse and
freed up five more silver coins. Without a word, the bear-clad man
handed the extra coins to Werner.

“What is this?” Werner protested. “You have already
paid.”

“That should cover Rurik’s mead for the next few days. It
is my contribution to the most fortunate man in all of Scandinavia.”
The
berserkr
retrieved his spear and made his way to the exit.

Oslo stepped out into the spring-bright sunshine. He felt his robes
warmed by the sun’s radiance. The road at his right led down to
the pier where a ship waited to sail him to Aarhus. There he would
meet other warriors and join their adventure in Scotland. It was the
season for good raids, and in a few months he’d come home
richer, and more respected for his efforts.

Down along the pier, he found the plank to his ship and began aboard.
Behind him, in the distance, he heard the calling of sheep. A shiver
tickled his spine as he spun to see. It was not sheep, but a
goat herder leading his flock to pasture. The ‘fearless’
berserkr
grinned, and stepped onto his awaiting longship.

Oslo the Boarstout walked from plank to ship and noted somewhere
between this boat and his destination, a real monster hunted the cold
seas.

I doubted the existence of monsters.

Mankind were the monsters. The rapists, the pedophiles, the
murderers. They were out there. They were real. In truth, I always
thought the dark things we saw on film, or read about in books, were
just projections, the parts of ourselves we couldn’t accept. We
rationalize the demons within us.

I want to laugh, but I’m not capable, even in scorn.

Rationalization
.

Who would have thought our need for things to be explained, for
things to fit, would end it all?

I used to be a policeman, a long time ago, and I saw the very worst
we could be, every single day. Because of this, I’ve always
thought it easier to believe in monsters than to face up to the
neighbor who beats his wife, or the pedophile who snatches children
from the school gates, or the tanks that roll over broken bones on
desert tracks.

Mankind were the monsters, was what I used to think.

But things change. Now I know the truth, and a real monster dominates
my thoughts.

Outside, the darkness finally lifts. A crimson dawn is heralded by a
thousand screaming sirens. Light creeps in from the base of the
curtains. The world has changed forever.

I slug back the last of the whiskey and the bottle slips from my
grasp. The remnants of an old, well-loved foe trickle into nothing.

I raise the gun. My hands tremble.

I was there at the beginning of the end. It wasn’t long ago.
The days were hot. My clothes stuck to the small of my back, and the
heat never left. It got beneath my skin. I found it hard to breathe.

I’d been working for David for six months. It was construction.
Hard hats and fluorescent vests, and tools that vibrated so hard they
caused your very bones to shudder. He always drove. He still didn’t
trust me behind a wheel.

We stopped by his house, after working on an extension for the
Carrington family of Prestwich. Cement dust matted my hair. My skin
felt gritty and my limbs ached. David would have dropped me at my
flat if I’d asked, but as per my trusted routine, I needed to
see Ollie before I started on the twenty minute trudge home through
the suburbs of Stockport.

David’s wife, Mel, was making fajitas in the kitchen. The smell
of garlic and chili hung in the air, ambrosia to a starving man
after a day of manual labor. My stomach rumbled.

“Hi, honey,” David sang.

Mel popped her head in from the kitchen, her black curly hair falling
in tangles to her shoulders. She blew David a kiss as he kicked off
his boots in the porch. I noted the glass of wine in Mel’s
hand. Mel saw me and managed a thin smile. Mistrust dripped from her.
I guess I’d earned it.

“Steven,” Mel greeted.

I waved at my sister-in-law. “Hi, Mel … is, um …
”

“In the living room.”

I prised off my own cement crusted boots, left my brother to greet
his wife, and followed the sounds of “Old Macdonald” into
the living room.

Ollie sat in front of the TV, on a comfy looking rug. Stuffed animals
and a Buzz Lightyear, with one missing arm, were scattered around
him. The screen showed various animal puppets dancing in a farmyard.

I cleared my throat.

Ollie turned and gave me a polite smile. “Hi, Daddy.”

I hovered for a moment before perching on the sofa. He seemed bigger
than yesterday, a giant for four years old. His eyes were ocean blue,
and his hair blond and straight like his mother’s.

I offered my arms, wishing the ache inside me would die.

“Hi, Ollie. Do you have a hug for Daddy?”

Ollie looked at me then back at the TV. He frowned, before scrambling
to his feet. “Okay.” He scampered over and hugged me.

I squeezed him, buried my head close against his. My eyes watered. I
pulled away and Ollie’s attention had returned to the TV.

“How about a kiss?” I realized I was pushing my luck.

Ollie tutted and forced his gaze from the puppet farmyard. He gave me
a quick kiss, then rushed back to his toys.

I drew in a trembling breath as he resumed play, happy on the rug. I
was a curiosity to him, at best.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Mel leaned against the
doorway, a red smear of tomato paste on the front of her striped
apron. The wine was no longer in her hand.

I glanced at Ollie. “How long before … ”

“We eat in five. After that he has an hour, then it’s
bath time, then bed.”

Mel’s eyes didn’t sugarcoat her hostility. I wasn’t
wanted there and I knew it.

David joined her in the doorway. He put his arm around his wife and
winked at me affectionately. He looked worn. The years hadn’t
been kind to my big brother. His gaze fell on my son.

“Hey, buddy.”

Ollie snapped his head around and grinned. “Hi, Da—”
He stopped midsentence, stared at me and looked aghast. My son’s
eyes widened and filled with tears. He gulped them back and slowly
approached my brother. “Hi,
Uncle
David.”

I cringed, briefly closed my eyes, and then pushed myself from the
sofa. Ollie was already hugging David. My brother shrugged at me
apologetically. I made a note to disguise my hurt better.

David gave me a thumb’s up. “You off? Pick you up at
seven tomorrow, bud?”

I nodded and made to leave.

David stood and Mel sat down. She picked up the remote and changed
the channel. A crowd gathered around a large cathedral. A female
reporter faced the camera. The caption on the bottom of the screen
read: Bishop threatens wrath of God.

“
The Church of England has already distanced themselves from
the Bishop of Manchester’s comments, and the consensus is that
he will be forced to resign after today’s shocking press
conference
.”