R. Karl Largent
Ancients
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
A wise man I have known for many years clings tenaciously to the belief that it is not the cataclysmic events of history that alter and shape our lives. Rather, he claims, it is the sum total of all those small and seemingly innocuous happenings and decisions that are the most important factors in defining and shaping our destiny.
I tend to agree with him.
It rained that day — not a storm, just a steady, dreary drizzle that blew foul in off the gulf. I had fully intended to journey south of the border and spend the day foolishly squandering hard earned Yankee dollars in an attempt to bolster the sagging Mexican economy, but I hate to shop in the rain.
I sought refuge instead in a decidedly nontourist — a cantina that happily concealed itself on a deserted stretch of beach miles from the teeming masses. The bar was populated by two men; one was the prototypical bartender — bold, massive in girth and the possessor of numerous chins. The other had a thick rust-colored mat of unruly hair and a lush, if tightly cropped, reddish brown beard. The latter's name was Elliott Grant
Wages. He had then, still possesses, grey-green haunting eyes that mirror his multitude of passions. Then, as now, his mind was cluttered with the trash and treasures of virtually dozens of mind-bending escapades into the bizarre, the strange, and yes, even the supernatural.
Beneath that intimidating exterior, I later discovered a sensitive human being with a rapier-like wit, a willingness to laugh at his own frailties, and perhaps most important, an undaunted zest for life — and death.
All too many years have passed since that fateful day, and Elliott and I have become quite good friends. I still marvel at his unending fascination with the dark side of man, his delight in the unexplained and his unbridled lust for things that, quite literally, go bump in the night.
A record of these events has been kept in dusty, half-forgotten journals, journals that make for enchanting, if somewhat terrifying reading. These are the stories he did not write.
On a more recent stormy night, while the wind howled and the snow swirled in kaleidoscopic patterns on the barren landscape, close by a crackling fire and fortified by Elliott's favorite Scotch, I asked the one question I had long hesitated to ask.
Would he allow me to share the contents of his journals with others?
To my utter astonishment, he said "yes."
REFERENCE: INCIDENT 1
"The worst of it was over! Seven days, seven of the longest days of my life. The sea was an angry woman, alright. Most of the ice had cleared the inlet, but we was still maintaining radio silence. We knew the Jerrys was there alright them sneaky bastards…"
"I must remind Captain Cartwright that this is an official inquiry by Her Majesty's maritime review board and that, therefore, he will be required to maintain a decorum befitting and consistent to both his rank as an officer and the dignity and purpose of this panel. No further obscenities, please."
"Sorry, sir."
"Please continue, Captain Cartwright."
"Up until that point we had been in touch with NEAP command. They was advising us about the comings and goings of the U-boats from their base near Sonderstrom. Then when NEAP told us a Jerry was running some sixty to seventy minutes off our stern, I curled the old girl into Lancaster Sound. I figured to lay her in the inlet, hard by Carber shallows at Choker Point."
"Let the record show that Captain Cartwright is referring to the arctic supply barge, HMS Percifield. Go ahead, Captain."
"I was a fightin' her all the way, waves comin' across the bow was a runnin' twenty-two and sometimes nearer thirty foot. Winds was in excess of thirty-seven knots recorded one peak gust right on fifty. When I got her in the shallows she settled down, but in the shallows we picked up the rains, beastly things, sheets of rain and needles of ice. I ordered the men to lace her up and shut her down."
"Can you fix the time for us, Captain?"
"Aye. The ship's log shows we dropped anchor at 0741 hours on the morning of the twentieth. That would be June, sir, this year."
"Continue, Captain."
"I was takin' my breakfast in my cabin on the morning of the twenty-seventh, when the First Mate — that being Hiram Bellows, sir, the one what testified before me comes to tell me that the storms was abating. I already had me some indication that that be the case because of the way the old girl was a-temperin' her protests. I grabs me bundle and gear and goes topside with Bellows. Aye, it was somethin' to see, alright. It was a white ice world, hoar frost everywhere and everything coated with ice fog and sea mist. Couldn't see more'n twenty or thirty feet in front of me."
"Then what, Captain?"
"We put ashore. I wanted to find out what was happenin'. We was still under wraps; no radio, no news, no orders. Choker Point was a smoke station."
"Let the record show that Captain Cartwright is referring to a Canadian radio contact point. Smoke signal does mean designated communications point, doesn't it, Captain?"
"Aye, I'd put into Choker a number of times afore the war. That's how I knew about them shallows. It weren't much but a handful of Lutes, a supply depot for fishermen and some Kiska kids."
"Kiska kids?"
"They be Lute orphans, sir, some seven or eight of 'em. All in all, ain't more'n twenty, twenty-five people total at Choker."
"Please continue, Captain Cartwright; tell the panel what you found."
"It was deserted, sir."
"Completely deserted?"
"Aye, sir. Nary a sign of a livin' soul."
"Please tell us what happened."
"Well, we was able to get the dinghy down and the four of us — Frampton, Calderly, Bellows and me — all went ashore. Except for the ice fog, it wasn't all that bad. I'd been there in the summer of '38 and had some recollection of the place. We went to the depot first. The door was standin' open and the fog an' ice an' rains had ruined purt'near everything. We shouted and raised a real ruckus, but we couldn't roust a soul. Then Bellows found the generator — it was all froze up — and he tells me it don't show signs of operatin' for a long time.
"I sends Frampton and Calderly out to look for someone, anyone who could tell us where the depot master was. It was Calderly what found 'em."
"Let the record show that Captain Cartwright had reference to Seaman Second Class Chester Calderly of Peltville, Nova Scotia. Now, Captain, please tell us what Seaman Calderly found."
"Them Kiska kids, Sir."
"You'd better explain, Captain Cartwright."
"Like I said, them Kiska children is Lute orphans. They got an old nun what come up there thirty years ago to teach them heathens the holy book. Whenever she'd find one of them Lute children wanderin' around with nobody to look after 'em, she'd take 'em in.
"Well, Calderly was a hammerin' on the door and tryin' to roust someone, but no one was answerin' — so he let himself in. The place was a mess, especially the galley; he saw what had happened and started screamin' and yellin'. By the time Bellows and me got to him, he was stark ravin' mad, eyes all buggy and poppin' outta his head, spit comin' outta his mouth. He couldn't do nothin' but babble and point."
"Now, very carefully, Captain Cartwright, tell the panel what Seaman Calderly had discovered."
"Bones, sir. Bones and body parts. Them bones was picked clean as a whistle." "Can you give us a little more detail, Captain?"
"Well, sir, like I said, I ain't no authority on this kinda stuff, but it appeared to Bellows and me that somethin' ate them."