Dark Waters (Mephisto Club Series Book 1) Page 11

  “Crap!” he shouted. “What's that? Have we run aground?”

  “It might be a big ship about to run us down,” Steve said tersely, jumping down and running for the hatchway.

  “Aw, bullshit, man,” whined Chad. “It's just whales – whales singing, calling, whatever they do.”

  “I've heard whales.” Lisa's voice was just barely audible over the deep, bass note. “That's nothing like it.”

  Not a ghost, thought Dan. Not if they can hear it too.

  They joined Steve at the stern and stood, listening. They were anchored about a mile off the coast of Soray. They had arrived late in the day, and at low tide, which had prevented them from entering the small harbor.

  The deep note came again, and this time it was accompanied by an upsurge of water. A single, solitary wave rocked the boat, causing Chad to clutch at a rail. Lisa, Dan noticed with some satisfaction, did not clutch Chad but leaned over the side, and looked down.

  “There's something down there!” she exclaimed.

  Steve and Dan both joined her, but Chad hung back. Lisa was right. Dan could make out what seemed to be a row of faint, greenish lights that vanished into the depths a heartbeat later.

  “Are any whales luminous?” Lisa asked, in a quiet voice.

  “No,” Steve said. “But squid are. And these waters might be thick with them. Small squid, that is. Probably a whole bunch of them in a line.”

  “Small ones couldn't rock a boat this size,” Dan observed. “What caused that?”

  Steve did not meet his eye.

  “Solitary waves, big problem on the oil rigs,” he said. “They come from nowhere, build up a lot of energy this close to land.”

  Dan wanted to question him more, but Steve was already heading below decks.

  “If we're going to start your treasure hunt,” the diver remarked as he disappeared down the hatchway, “we all need to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Chad said, half-heartedly. “Some shuteye sounds good.”

  Lisa and Dan exchanged a look in the darkness, but neither had anything to say.

  There were no more incidents in the night, and the following morning they took the Dulcibella into the harbor with the tide. Soray town, now that he could see it up close, impressed Dan as small and neat. The church on the hill just above the harbor was the biggest building. Dan had read that it was unusually large for these islands, but was still surprised by its high tower and impressive arched windows. The whole place seemed serene, with no hint of activity. He remarked on this to Steve.

  “Yeah, very picturesque,” the Englishman said, “but see those fishing boats drawn up on the beach? They should be going out for the same reason we're going in. High tide, safe navigation. Seems the fishing industry is in a bit of a hiatus.”

  “Maybe it's European regulations,” said Lisa. “Quotas, all that stuff.”

  “Maybe,” said Steve.

  Chad proved himself less of a jerk when steering the yacht than at other times. Dan grudgingly admitted to himself that, for all his playboy attitude, Chad loved the Dulcibella and treated the vessel well. They came to rest alongside a short pier without a bump, and a couple of locals came forward to catch mooring lines that were thrown to them. There was a distinct lack of urgency about the way the two Soray men moved that Dan attributed to his own London-centric way of thinking.

  Big city folk do rush everywhere, he thought. Might actually get to relax here, if only for a while.

  But there was something else about the two men that struck him as odd. As he watched them tie up the lines, he noticed that they had unusually large feet, and big, dark eyes that bulged a little. Both wore woolen hats, despite it being a sunny morning, and they had on high-collared coats. Looking along the jetty, Dan saw a few other locals standing around, all staring at the newcomers.

  Or perhaps at the elegant, white yacht full of apparently rich outsiders. No need to be paranoid, Dan, you've got enough worries.

  Chad showed that he had reverted to his usual self by shouting, “God damn this pissant swamp, there's no cell coverage here!”

  “We went through that, babe,” replied Lisa, her voice that of a mature woman coaxing a child out of a bad mood. “We've still got our radio for emergencies, haven't we? It's no biggie.”

  Steve and Dan exchanged a smile, then disembarked. Their cheery thanks to the two islanders who had helped them was met with nods and vague smiles. It occurred to Dan that the locals might be severely inbred, though none of his research suggested this. Far from it. All visitors had said about Soray was that the people were friendly. But the place was off the normal tourist trail, and online comments about hospitality were sparse. There was, as far as he could tell, just one bed-and-breakfast and it was closed for most of the year.

  “Okay,” said Lisa, jumping onto the jetty. She held up two plastic carrier bags. “We need to get some provisions. Any volunteers to help?”

  “I need to go see the priest, vicar, whatever,” Chad said. “So I'll take a rain-check.”

  Steve was quick to offer, and turned to the two bystanders.

  “Hey, guys, is there a general store in the village? Somewhere we can get eggs, bread, milk, that kind of thing?”

  One nodded, pointed.

  “At the end of the quayside. Shop, and post office,” he said in a deep, heavily-accented voice. “Moira will see you all right.”

  “Thanks!” said Lisa. “Okay, see you back at the boat. Don't be late for lunch!”

  During this conversation, Chad had been staring at his phone, holding it up in various directions, and cursing. Now he climbed onto the jetty and complained some more.

  “What am I supposed to do? By now I thought we'd be on the hunt for the–”

  “Beans!” put in Lisa quickly, almost shouting over him. “Man does not live by beans alone, honey! That's why I'm going to get some eggs. Come with us! See if there's any of that fancy Scotch whiskey you like.”

  Chad took the hint and went quietly, but Dan swore silently. The locals had started to disperse, whispering to one another. Dan wondered if any community would be too inbred to figure out what word might go with 'hunt'.

  They reached the end of the jetty and stepped onto the cobblestones of the quayside. There they split up, Dan heading for the church while the others walked along to the store. As he made his way up the narrow track, Dan nodded and gave a cheerful 'Good morning!' to several people. They replied, but most seemed wary. One pretty girl, who looked about thirteen, gave him a very broad smile, which confused him a little.

  Maybe they have been marrying their cousins for a few centuries. Or it could be something in the water.

  ***

  The church was open, and Dan stood for a moment in the doorway before stepping into the dim, cool interior. Nobody seemed to be about, so he looked around. The first surprise was the décor. Extensive murals covered the walls, mostly on the subject of seafaring. Dan saw small boats, storms, Soray island itself, shoals of fish, and less obvious images.

  He concluded that some of the weirder denizens of the wall painting were creatures of Celtic myth and legend. Two were actually labeled 'Mother Hydra' and 'Father Dagon'. The latter was a merman of sorts, his lower half-submerged. He had an oddly reptilian face, and was out of proportion, much bigger than the village of Soray itself. Dan smiled, having seen numerous examples of such folk art.

  'Mother Hydra' was altogether harder to classify. The creature was not recognizably female, but looked something like a vast, dark sea anemone. The unknown artist had, Dan thought, botched the job a little, by making the creature too hard to see. He leaned closer, intrigued by a detail that he almost missed. He took out the small magnifier he always carried. It showed that the arms or tendrils of the fabulous entity were flecked with tiny dots of light. There was something oddly familiar about them, something that bothered him. He took several more pictures on his phone, planning to study them later.

  “They painted over it all. But they only ha
d to cover it for a while.”

  Dan spun around to see a young man in clerical collar standing a few yards away. The priest was unshaven, his eyes reddened, his clothes rumpled. Dan wondered if he had slept in his black outfit.

  “Whitewash. Appropriate,” the priest went on, then gave a short, humorless laugh.

  Dan stepped forward, held out his hand. The priest took a step back, showing sudden alarm. Dan stopped, baffled.

  “Father? My name is Daniel Fox – call me Dan. My friends and I just landed. I'm an art historian, so I thought I'd take a look around during my visit. I was surprised to find such lavish murals in this out-of-the-way place.”

  The priest tilted his head to one side in puzzlement. Then he nodded eagerly.

  “Out of the way? Yes, quite,” he said, glancing at the window behind Dan, then darting forward to slam the door. “Please, come into the vestry, I'll make you a cup of tea. You're American, I'm guessing? So far from home. Offer you my hospitality. Yes.”

  As the priest passed close by, Dan got a distinct whiff of Scotch. That explained, at least in part, the man's appearance.

  While he filled the kettle, Father Malahide introduced himself and asked a volley of questions about Dan, his companions, the boat, and the group's vacation plans. Dan stuck to the agreed story about friends on a sailing holiday, hoping to do some diving on old wrecks.

  “Wrecks?”

  The priest stopped spooning loose tea into a brown china pot.

  “Only one wreck round here. And that was so long ago, there will be nothing left of it. All destroyed. Rotted away.”

  It must have been the Spanish ship, thought Dan. The Santisima Trinidad.

  “Oh really?” he said, feigning innocence. “Sunk in the war, I suppose?”

  The priest resumed his tea-making, glancing around at the window now and again. When he had filled the pot with boiling water, he sat down opposite Dan.

  “Yes, but probably not the war you're thinking of, Dan. Not either of the ones we had with Germany. Didn't you see the story out there, on the wall?”

  When Dan said that he had not, Malahide took him out into the church again and guided him to a rather faded section of the mural. It looked to be the first completed, and notably cruder in style than the rest. When Dan mentioned this, Malahide looked at him with surprise, and nodded.

  “Oh yes,” he confirmed. “They started with a little tribute to their … allies. Then things got more elaborate.”

  “Allies?” Dan asked. “Weren't the French the allies of Scotland against England?”

  Malahide laughed, then jumped in sudden shock. Again, he gazed at the high windows, then almost dragged Dan back into the vestry-cum-kitchen.

  “Not the French,” he whispered. “No. The ones below, the Deep Ones, they are the creatures that run things here.”

  “Deep Ones?”

  Dan had heard the phrase before, or something like it. He did not specialize in books, but in his student days there had been a fuss about some ancient magical text. It had supposedly talked about weird entities with paranormal powers. But, for Dan, the idea of mythical beings from the ocean naturally conjured up some other images.

  “Hang on a second, Father. Are we – or rather, are you talking about mermaids?”

  “Yes,” said Malahide, suddenly loud and sarcastic. “Pretty little Disney ones, with tails and seashell bras. That's why I'm bloody terrified all the time. In case they start singing that feckin' awful song about being under the sea!”

  “Okay,” said Dan, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture, “I'm not mocking you, it's just hard to believe that creatures out of fairy-tales might be real. I've spent most of my adult life looking at paintings and sculptures of gods and nymphs and such. I was always taught they were symbolic, metaphorical, representations of our dreams, nightmares, ideas. Not actual entities with their own agendas.”

  “They're as real as you or me,” said Malahide, leaning close and jabbing his finger for emphasis. “The point is that they were avoided by all the islanders round here in the old days, because the church told them not to have dealings with soulless beings. But then, according to the old stories, the catches grew sparse. People were starving, and afraid, and that made them desperate. Some said God had forsaken them. And then the ones who clung to the old ways said that the Deep Ones would provide fish, and more, in return for certain tributes.”

  “Oh, give me a break–” Dan began.

  “You still don't get it!” the priest insisted. “These people's gods are real! They're the elders and progenitors of the Deep Ones, who crop up in all myths and legends of the sea. Human-like creatures that live on the seabed, come up to the surface, even onto the land sometimes. They take people, lure them in. Remember the legend of the sirens? Sometimes such creatures … they simply eat us. Not because they need to, of course, but out of what you might call a gourmet tendency. And to spread terror, of course. But sometimes there is a … consummation of another sort.”

  Dan tried to keep his incredulity out of his face.

  “And the wreck was part of this deal?” he asked.

  I hope this is not literally true, he thought. Because if it is, we're in way too deep.

  “It started long before the wreck of the Spanish galleon,” said the priest. “But that clinched it, that was when the Deep Ones got a grip on the islanders. The treasure was immense, but the islanders could not recover it. So they had some help. The priest vanished, his replacement was compliant, cowed. The Deep Ones had no opponents so they started … changing the people. Converting them.”

  “Converting? You mean hypnotizing them? Something like that?”

  Malahide looked blankly at Dan, then barked a joyless laugh.

  “The siren song lured in ships, in the old times,” he said. “It can mesmerize people. You can block out the song, of course. If I had known in advance but … ah, well, I would never have believed it. And now it's too late. They got me. See?”

  The priest held up his hand, spreading the fingers, almost as if he were showing Dan his nails. Seeing Dan's puzzlement, Malahide shook his head in frustration.

  “Webbing between the fingers, man!” he said, pulling at the loose skin with his other hand. “It's been growing ever since I was mated with the Mother Hydra.”

  This guy's just a step from full-on crazy, Dan thought. I'll have to be careful. But if only half of what he says is true …

  “Are you saying you had some kind of mating ritual?” he asked, choosing his words. “I know that's part of a lot of pagan cults, but–”

  “You didn't tell me there were visitors, Michael,” said a new voice.

  The priest had become red in the face during the conversation, but now Dan saw the blood drain from Malahide's features as he looked past his guest. Someone else had arrived.

  Chapter 8: In Deep

  “So there's no telephone?” Chad asked, loud with petulance. “Seriously?”

  The woman at the post office counter shrugged.

  “Sadly, we never had a phone box installed here,” she explained. “There is a radio for emergencies, of course. But I'm sure you have one of those on your fine boat.”

  “Darling,” said Lisa, her arms laden with boxes and cans. “Why are you so obsessed with making phone calls? We're supposed to be getting away from it all. This is a holiday!”

  “Yeah,” Chad muttered. “I just … you know how it is, sugar, I got business I need to attend to.”

  “What sort of business?” asked Steve, looking at a rack of faded postcards. “You never said what you did for a living.”

  “Oh, investments, stuff like that,” Chad said, blatantly evasive.

  “Ducking and diving, we call that,” Steve said, with a smile. “It means you've got no regular job but always seem to have money.”

  “Ducking and diving is pretty much what we're here for,” Lisa put in, sensing renewed tension. She shoved two bags of groceries into Chad's arms. “You looking to send a postcard,
Steve?”

  “Yeah,” the diver replied, turning the rack. “Interesting selection.”

  While Lisa paid for the food, Steve picked three cards, then took them to counter.

  “You'll be wanting stamps?” asked the middle-aged woman. “And a pen, if you want to write them out here?”

  Steve looked slightly surprised.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I'll have three stamps. But I'll take my time writing messages, it's not like I've really seen the place. Thanks.”

  As they were walking back to the boat, Lisa joshed him about being an old-fashioned kind of guy.

  “Do you send your pals handwritten letters, too?”

  Steve looked around, as if afraid of being overhead. None of the locals were within earshot, though about a dozen men and women were appearing to chat while really watching the strangers.

  “As it happens, Lisa, I never send postcards,” said Steve. “But one of these caught my eye. I'll tell you later. Dan needs to see this.”

  “How long is Mister Smart Aleck Art Historian going to be at that church?” Chad asked. As always when people talked past him, he had become instantly peevish. “I want my lunch.”

  “He said he just wants to look around and ask about local history,” Lisa said, soothingly. “Shouldn’t take long. And remember,” she lowered her voice. “We're here for a reason, and we need more information.”

  ***

  The girl Dan had noticed on the quayside was standing in the doorway. Close up he could see she was more mature than he had thought, but not by much. It was more her confident manner than her appearance that suggested she was well beyond childhood. Her posture was confident and the tone she used with the priest suggested that they were equals. Or, perhaps, that she was in charge.

  “Morag!”

  Malahide jumped up from the table, almost knocking his chair over. “This is Dan, he's an art historian, so he's very interested in the murals, isn't that right?”