That Which Should Not Be (23 page)

The captain stood there, as impossible as it was.  Though every fiber of my rational mind screamed out “No!” my brain could not deny what my eyes saw.  He stood astride the wheel like the Colossus of Rhodes, his hair matted down around his face, his great coat caught up in the wind, streaming behind him like the cape of some Hell-spawned warlock.  His eyes were alight with the Devil’s passion, his mouth open in a roaring cackle. 

The ship was upon us.  In a moment, it would split us in half.  But then it happened.  The ropes that held the rigging began to snap.  The wooden masts cracked.  There was a horrible roar as the ship broke in half.  Then, not five feet from us, the middle of the ship exploded.  The bowsprit jutted up straight into the sky, like a finger pointing up to God.  Both sides of the now split-in-half ship sank, straight down, as an iron drops into the sea.  The last thing I saw of that cursed ship was the captain, his dead eyes filled with anger and hate as he slipped below the surface of the deep. 

In an instant, the clouds cleared and the sun shone again.  The wind no longer howled, the sea no longer roared back in response.  The wind that blew was a good wind, the kind you prayed for on sea trips.  I looked at Drake and his eyes reflected the thought in mine.  We never spoke of it again. 

*   *   *

The next morning, Drake brought me his map.  He spread it out on the table and said, “We were in the doldrums for a day and a half with another half day of good wind.  This was our last position before the storm.  This is our position now.”  He pointed at a freshly drawn circle on the map.  It was precisely the distance one would expect to travel in two days. 

Chapter

32

Carter Weston:

The Captain sat across from me, his cigar burning a fiery circle into the night.  He picked up the bottle of brandy and refilled my glass. 

“I read the Captain’s journal,” he said.  “I won’t trouble you with its details but I will say this, I always knew you would come.  And I promised myself on that day, I would give you this book.”  He pointed down at the crimson tome before him.  “Even though, in my sailing days, I never left port without it.”

“You kept the Book with you?” I said, somewhat surprised.  The Captain chuckled.

“That Book made my fortune.  It built this house.  I never lost a ship.  Never was late.  In fact, I always made the best possible time.  That Book, my friend, will never be destroyed.  It can’t be.  And the one thing I knew for sure was no ship of mine would ever run into trouble as long as it was with me.”

“Then why give it to me?”

The Captain’s eyes went dark, his smile faded. 

“The Book seeks its owner.  It calls you now.  Don’t you hear it?”

In the moment of silence that followed, my blood slowed.  I shuddered.  There was a tinkling, and the air grew denser.  A humming buzz.  Then words.  Words of an unknown tongue.  And then I heard them.  I felt them in my bones.  I imbibed them, breathed them in and let them fill me up.  They all said one thing, “Take what is yours!”

“The Book is filled with contradictions.  It is as ancient as days, but it appears to the reader to be newly printed.  The work is entirely evil, but the man who seeks the Book, even though he does so for power and to do diabolical deeds,” the Captain whispered, “will not find it.  The Book takes its own path.  Which is why it is strange you came here to find it, and now it is yours.  But maybe not so strange.  Alas, only you know your purpose.”

He pushed the Book to me.

“The Book is yours.  But remember this, my friend.  This gift I give is also a curse.  The Book is yours only as long as it wants to be yours.  It will seek another.  When it does, you must make a choice.  To give, or to keep.  You will make that choice for your own reasons, but know whatever path you choose will be the damnation of someone.  Whether you or all of mankind, only time will tell.”

With that, he snuffed out what remained of his cigar. 

“I take my leave of you now.  You may stay here as long as you like, but I have purchased a ticket for you on tomorrow’s ten o’clock train.  When you wake, I shall be gone.  May the God you serve bless you and keep you.” 

I took his hand and then watched as he strode out of the door.  For a moment I was alone, but I didn’t feel it.  There was another there, as well.  It sat on the Captain’s desk, bound in crimson skin. 

Part VI

Chapter

33

I awoke the next morning to the sun beaming through the great window on the eastern side of the bedroom.  I looked over to find my bags were gone — packed already no doubt — and a fresh change of clothes was lying across a table.  While the Captain had invited me to stay, it was evident my welcome was worn out. 

When I reached the foyer, my bags were waiting for me.  So was Andrew. 

“Captain Gray sends his regrets, but he had business in town.  The carriage will take you to the train.  Also, the Captain left you this.”

He handed me a small leather book, held closed by a matching leather tie.  There was a note, as well.  As I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the train station, I removed the stationary from its envelope.  Inked upon it in strong, looping handwriting was written,

Mr. Weston,

No doubt Andrew has delivered my regrets for not seeing you off properly.  In any event, I apologize.  I leave you with this book and some words of advice.  The leather book is, as will become readily apparent, the captain’s log from the Lydia Lenore. 

In it, you will no doubt see much you do not understand — charting, nautical terms, the daily flotsam and jetsam of the master of a ship.  But a captain’s log is much more than that.  It is also a journal, the official history of a ship’s journey.  I suggest you read it, taking the lessons you will need now that you are the master of the Book. 

One last thing.  When the darkness is at its worst, when it creeps upon you like a hunter in the night, remember — it will always fear the light. 

‘Til the winds blow us together again. 

Jonathan Gray

I returned the letter to its envelope, placing both in my jacket pocket.  I took the little leather book in my hands and undid the binding.  It creaked as it opened, the old and tattered paper threatening to disintegrate in my hands.  I read the first page.  Printed in highly stylized calligraphy were the words, “Captain’s Log.”  Written below that was a name, Benjamin Butler.  But before I could read any more, the carriage had arrived at the station. 

Ten minutes later, I was seated in my cabin.  The train was not to embark for another hour, but rather than mull about the station, I determined my time was better spent learning what secrets were held in the log I now possessed.  I opened it.  Much of it was nautical information I will omit here.  But in the rest was quite a tale, and I felt myself transported back thirty years to the beginning of a journey that was doomed before it even had a start. 

March 15, 1867

Today, we hoisted anchor in Cherbourg, a cargo of French wine and cheeses destined for Venice.  The men are in good spirits, and this voyage should be both fairly short and reasonably easy.  The men are anxious to return to New York, and I, for one, join them in their desires.  I posted a letter to Sarah before we set off.  No doubt we may arrive before it does.  But I miss her so, and I feel closer to her in the writing.  Her absence weighs upon me, and though I love the sea, I find each voyage to be more difficult than the last.  Perhaps one day, I shall finally secure our future and retire to her arms.

March 17, 1867

This morning we passed through the Strait of Gibraltar, that narrow ribbon of water dividing Christendom from the Muslim hordes of Africa.  Whenever I see that peak, that magnificent rock rising from the dark blue sea against an equally cerulean sky, like a pyramid built by God Himself, I think of Sarah.  How she dreams of joining me at sea!  But I would never put her in danger, so I paint a picture for her with my words.  Now that we are safely in the Great Sea, the voyage to Venice should be quick and uneventful. 

March 20, 1867

We have arrived in Venice.  The unloading went smoothly and a good price was had for the cargo.  Many of my men have never seen the canalled jewel of the Mediterranean.  Our cargo of silk and spices will not be prepared for transport for another three days, and as such, I have released my sailors to the pleasures of the city.  I pray God I have not erred.  For my part, I intend to spend these days visiting the great churches that seem to rise from the golden waters.  Ah, if only Sarah were with me. 

March 21,
1867

Today was most unusual.  I spent the morning in the Piazza San Marco visiting the magnificent basilica built therein.  Afterward, I let the day slip away, wandering the canals of this unique polis, letting them take me where they would.  There was a little cafe on an inner canal I stopped at for a sandwich and a glass of Prosecco.  There was a man there, a middle-aged gentleman.  He had the most interesting cane.  It caught my view immediately.  I have spent my life at sea, and I must admit, in another setting, it would have greatly disturbed me.  It was a magnificent beast, one I doubt has ever truly plied the depths of the ocean.  Only, perhaps, in the darkest dreams of man. 

There was a time when the unknown mists beyond man’s knowing were marked, “There be dragons.”  It was of this beast they spoke.  The Leviathan.  The Kracken.  A tentacled thing, but with the face of a man.  No, not a man.  Something worse.  An angel and demon in one.  Whence he found such a thing, I do not know.  It was only after staring at that staff for an unknown span of time that I glanced up to see the man was looking at me as well.  He rose from his seat and walked to where I reclined.

“May I join you, sir?” he asked.  He was an Englishman, and I gestured to the seat beside me.  “Enjoying the afternoon, are we?”

The man was perfectly pleasant, and I knew there was no reason for my rising sense of misgiving.  But there was something about him, and no matter how I tried, I could not strip the image of that cane from my mind.  

“So,” he began, and I knew now to the point we would go.  “You are a sea captain, correct?”

“I am,” I said. 

“Ah, the sea.  A very dangerous place to work.  Any man who makes it his life must be very brave.”

“It is a profession like any other.  There are dangers, but no more than those of many other jobs.”

“Please, Captain . . . ?”

“Butler.”

“Ah, yes.  Butler.”  He spun his cane in his hand and looked up at me under hooded eyes.  “Captain Butler, I have a proposal for you.”

“Well, sir, I am afraid I will have to refuse it.  My men and I are scheduled to leave this city in two days.”

“It will take no longer than a night, Captain Butler.  And for your services, I am prepared to pay fifteen thousand pounds sterling.”

The man’s eyes showed he reveled in the silence that followed and the look that no doubt spread across my face.  It was an absurd amount.

“I don’t know what you are driving at,” I finally replied.  “But whatever it is cannot be legitimate.”

He chuckled lightly.  “It is perfectly legitimate, Captain Butler.  It is illegal, that is true, but only for reasons of this city’s peculiar superstitions.  The same superstitions that prevent me from procuring assistance from any of the local boat captains.  I had determined I would need approach a foreigner, and when I saw your ship dock, I knew you were my man.”

“What exactly are you proposing?” I asked, intrigued by the offer, if not the details. 

“There is an island off the grand canal.  It is small, innocuous.  Nothing one would notice if he were unawares.  It is but a dot on local maps — those maps that still include it, I should say — bearing not even an appellation.  But the island has a name and a history.  It was known, when it was known, as Povaglia.  The people here have another name for it — Isola Della Morte, the Island of Death.  Not particularly original, but accurate nevertheless.”

“I suppose that is why no one will accept your offer.”

“That,” he said smugly, “and the island's past.  The place earned its name.  A wealthy merchant once owned Povaglia.  He was a cruel man, an evil tyrant who tortured his servants and abused the people of this city.  But he was a Cornaro, Adolfo Cornaro, a black noble of Venice.  His uncle was Doge, and though he had no use for his nephew, he nevertheless tolerated his excesses.  At some point, Cornaro acquired a unique artifact, one of great antiquity and inestimable value.”

“No doubt the same treasure you now seek.”

“Correct,” the man replied, though I sensed annoyance in his voice at the interruption.  “They say the artifact had a peculiar effect on Cornaro.  That he came to value it above all other things.  Art, gold, jewels.  Even more base pleasures like food or drink or women. 

“One day, a peasant woman came to his home.  A gypsy, likely, one who didn’t know of Cornaro’s cruelty.  But she knew enough, more than she likely should have.  She told him his treasure was not his own, that it remained in his possession only for a season, and then it must pass to another.  She warned him ruin would come to him if he denied the artifact its destiny. 

“Cornaro, never a patient man, was particularly and violently enraged at what he gauged the foolish ramblings of an old crone.  He had her thrown from his house.  Then he beat her until her face was broken and her body bloodied.  The dogs did the rest.

“The stories do not say how long passed between the woman’s visit and when Cornaro made his choice.  But surely the artifact desired to leave Cornaro, and he refused it that wish.  A shadow fell over Venice.  A darkness came from the east.  It floated on ships.  It hovered about the tradesmen that come and go from this place.  It scurried about in the night, creeping from one house to the next.  Soon it unleashed its full fury on the city.  The Plague had returned to Europe, and Venice was to be its doorway.

“There was no reason to blame Cornaro, but people somehow knew the fault lay with him.  The preternatural sixth sense can’t be explained.  The Doge protected Cornaro from the rage of his people.  That is, until his own wife fell to the Black Death.  It was only their shared blood that prevented him from killing Cornaro then, but he chose a different fate.

“Do you know what they did with plague victims in those days?  There were too many to bury.  Far too many.  So they dug a deep hole, a pit, and they tossed the bodies inside, whether the victim was fully dead or not.  There was no such deep earth on Venice to cover the unnumbered dead, and so the Doge made the entire island of Povaglia a plague pit.  Cornaro had brought the Plague, and now he would receive its victims as his eternal guests.”

The man leaned back in his chair, his story apparently finished.  “What happened to him?” I asked. 

“No one knows.  No one ever returned from that cursed place.  It has become an infamia, a no-man’s-land.  The plague eventually subsided, but what became of the artifact is a mystery.  I believe it remains on that island, and I want you to retrieve it for me.”

“And for my trouble, you will pay fifteen thousand pounds sterling?”

“Fifteen thousand for the artifact.  A thousand for your troubles, whether you find anything or not.”

I looked blankly at the man, but in truth, I had barely contained my rising excitement since he had first mentioned the fifteen thousand pounds.  It was a magnificent sum, enough to ensure I would never need to leave my Sarah behind again.

“I’ll do it,” I said finally, “but I want to see the money and have it kept by a reliable third party first.”

The man smiled.  “Of course, Captain,” he said, extending his hand.  Then, when I took it, “I have full faith both of us will look back on this day with the greatest of joy.”

March 22, 1867

The Book is mine.  It shall go with me all my days, and none shall take it from me.  We are in the Great Sea now.  I ordered my men to sail with the tide.  Our cargo was not complete, but no matter.  I bear a far greater treasure than any I have ever beheld.  That English bastard was a fool.  Fifteen thousand pounds?  A pittance.  No, there is nothing in this world more valuable to me than this wonderful gift. 

We arrived on the island shortly after midnight.  Thick clouds and a moonless night covered our approach.  We moved inland in darkness, only lighting our torches when we were sure we would not be seen from the city.  The island was a ruin.  It was clear to me no man had trod the paths we walked in years, if not decades.  The streets were overgrown, the buildings covered in vines and vegetation, returning to the earth from whence they came. 

We came to Cornaro’s villa.  It was no great feat to find it.  It sat on a small rise in the midst of the island, its proud walls and ornate construction a testament to what had been.  There was a massive well in its center, a great hole in the earth, a circle of darkness.  Tovar, one of my crewmen, threw his torch into the midst of that blackness.  It did not fall as far as I had expected.  It landed, not in the water, but in the midst of a great shimmering whiteness.  It took me a moment to see that these were bones, the only mortal remains of an untold number who had spent their last moments here.