Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences (11 page)

“Everyone seems so happy, Mr Bates. I wouldn’t think people would be this happy out here,” Flowerdew yelled to Bates over the roar of the room.

Bates, transformed now to a picture of joviality, guffawed, clapping Flowerdew on his shoulder. “Things are not normally this boisterous, but that ship you came in on had all of our supplies for the next month. The men tend to be a little heavy handed with the rum the first few nights. It’s a bit like a celebration,” Bates answered.

Nodding, Flowerdew turned back to the table to find Cricket emerging from the crowd. He deposited a plate of food before him, and then vanished again.

“Quick as lightning, that lad is,” Flowerdew said before he tucked into the food on the table. A hearty meal, full of spices, something he was used to and made him feel like he was back at home. Eating his meal slowly, Flowerdew was fascinated by the pure sea of humanity that was the mess hall. People laughing, eating, drinking, and generally just so happy with life. It was hard to believe that these were the same people that at any moment could be the next victim. On the other hand, it made sense. If you do not know when your last breath will be, you might as well live life to the fullest. Flowerdew thought it was what he would have done when he was younger.

Having eaten more than his fill, Flowerdew excused himself, traversed the hall, and headed back to his cabin. The trip, he suddenly realised, after his head returned to the pillow, must have left him more exhausted than he had earlier assumed.

With a start, Flowerdew awoke again, but this time it was different. He had heard a scream pierce through his dreams like an arrow through melon. Grabbing his gun belt, he ran out the door while fumbling to get it on. Opening up one of his Peppershots to assure it was loaded and absently touching the handle of his high frequency machete, he snatched up a lantern outside his cabin, brightened the flame inside, and looked about him. The yard was clear. Not a single soul moved. Closing his eyes, he stood there and listened. He heard a gentle breeze through the leaves, the wings of a night bird, the river whispering by…

…and something else.

His eyes flicked open as he drew his pistol. As he closed the distance between himself and the unusual sound, it became clear that he had been hearing someone sucking in a breath, only to blubber without restraint. A second person near him was crying.

As Flowerdew rounded the corner, he spotted a large black mass in front of him. Bringing his light around, a tangle of black hair bolted for the river faster than he could believe. As he raised the lantern higher, the mass of black melted into the water and the sound of crying faded away.

Flowerdew turned around to see a lumberjack lying on the bed of the river.

Running to the still stranger, it was clear that there was no hope for him. His face was blue as a berry, and it looked like he had been clawing at his own throat, his neck was scratched to bloody ribbons. There was, however, blood coming out of the corners of his eyes as well. Filing all this information away, Flowerdew stood up and walked down the riverside, scanning the surface with his lantern, but all held an eerie calm. Nary a ripple in the water. He cast a glance around him, found a large leaf at his feet, and tossed it into the river, watching it drift slowly with its lazy, invisible current.

Following the river downstream, the faint sound of crying returned. In an instant he was dashing down the banks, his three-barrelled Peppershot still out from its holster, pulling the hammer back to a firing position. The sound of crying got louder and louder as he ran, but he saw no sign of that creature. Rounding a bend in the river, something in the distance stirred. This creature, however, was a
white
form. He continued to creep closer, the darkness and shadows eventually revealing what was making the sound this time: a woman. Her shape looked beautiful.

As he approached he yelled to her, “Be careful! There is a monster around here! Get out of here!”

“¿Que?”
was the choked reply.

He tried again as he got closer to her, but this time in Spanish. As he approached he heard the sound of crying getting louder and slowed his steps.

“¿Señora, me entiendes?” (Madam do you understand me?)
he asked her.

Getting closer he started to see more of her features. She had long black hair all the way down to the ground that was covering her face. She was dressed in a long white gown made of some fine quality fabric. She was barefoot, but her feet were clean despite being on the muddy riverbed. Flowerdew started to raise his gun when with a cry of pure despair she cried, “I have lost them! I have lost my children. I took them down to the river and they never came back!”

Flowerdew hesitated, stunned to hear her reply in English. He cleared his throat, lowering his weapon. “Madam, you are not going to find them tonight, it is too dark. You should head home.” He stopped several yards away. A chill was slowly creeping up his spine, as if it were one of the creatures of the jungle slithering under his garments, searching for warmth.

The crying had stopped, and in its place an unsettling stillness fell over her. With a dark and cold tone emanating from her form, she wailed, “I lost them all for him! I was not pretty enough for him. Why? Why was I not beautiful enough for him? Was it because I was too old?” Turning slowly towards him, she parted her hair and Flowerdew immediately raised his pistol. “Do you think I am beautiful?”

Where her eyes were supposed to be there were only puckered holes. Trails of black tears were dripping from the sockets. Her lips, while rose red, were cracked and bleeding. Her whole face was wrinkled like it had been at the bottom of the river for days.

Flowerdew unloaded the top two barrels. In the blink of an eye the woman was next to him.

“Do you not find me beautiful?” she wailed.
“AM I A MONSTER TO YOU?!”

Lashing out with her arm, she knocked the Peppershot out of Flowerdew’s hand. She released a monstrous scream as he stepped back. Screaming, she charged him. Her hands, that only a moment ago were beautiful, had transformed into frightful long claws. “You are just like the rest of them!” she shrieked.

Drawing his other gun, Flowerdew started again. Cocking the twenty gauges this time, four holes appeared in the creature, but she still came at him. The claws ripped through his shirt even as he ducked backwards. Having trouble with his footing on the muddy riverside, he stumbled. The claws raked his shoulder, sending an icy chill through his arm that forced him to drop the lantern. Pushing against the jungle floor, his heels scrambling for purchase as he scurried away from the monster, he pulled out the high frequency machete. He fumbled at the ripcord trying to get the motor spinning. Finally, he grasped the cord in his teeth and gave it a hard yank. As the motor started to slowly pick up speed he realised how much he was tiring.

His head cracked hard against a thick tree trunk. With the shadows and nightmarish creature closing on him blurring, he focused all his strength to hold on to the machete in his hands. Flowerdew looked up just in time to see her lunge for his throat. She grazed his neck as he lurched out of the way. On hearing the machete finally emit the purr of its engine spinning up to speed, he swung at her, missing the monster’s skull, removing a large chunk of hair. The night air filled with a wail of frustration and rage. She leapt over him, bounding over to the water, disappearing into the night.

Breathing heavily, Flowerdew rested himself against the tree. Ripping off his sleeve, he did the best he could to wrap the wound on his shoulder. Using his other sleeve he lightly wrapped his neck. He collected his lantern, the discarded side arms, and what remained of his wits, before making his way back to camp.

As he approached, the sound of running feet and men yelling came from the centre of camp, lanterns and torches spilling from the buildings and coming towards him. All the men circled the body of the dead lumberjack. Flowerdew went to call out to them, when his words and thoughts scattered on seeing and hearing the other men pouring oil over their dead comrade and then lighting him on fire. With a helpless yell, he staggered for the circle, trying to stop the men from destroying evidence. By the time he got to them, it was too late.

“Why would you do that?” he yelled as the corpse smouldered in front of him. Getting a myriad of answers from ‘making sure he stays dead’ to ‘appeasing the gods, ’ each group seemed to have their own reasons, but in the end, the result was the same: destroying the body.

Flowerdew’s eyes flicked open. He realised that it must be late in the day based on the heat around him. A foggy recollection came to him of wandering over to the mess hall for hot water and maybe some rum to dress his wounds. He remembered taking out his case journal, recording the night’s events. Somehow he pulled himself into bed, and passed out.

He redressed his wounds using some of Riches’ sheets, then walked around camp asking about this woman in white, but no one would talk to him. Even Riches’ notes yielded nothing. Flowerdew screwed his eyes shut, pushing his spectacles up as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He only needed them for reading, and with all he had done today, his bridge was raw.

There was a light knock at the door. “Sir, dinnerz time is almost done. Mr. Bates said to get you before you miss all the bouffe,” Cricket said from the doorway.

“Thank you, Cricket,” he said as he stood up and closed his books. Stretching, he grabbed his gun belt and headed for the door. “Cricket, have you ever heard any stories of a woman in white or a weeping woman?”

“La Llorona? I know this story. She killed herself a hundred years ago. My grandpapa tellz me not to walk on riverbank alone at night because of her. She snatchez little children because she drowned her own.”

“Why did she down her children?”

“To be with a gentleman who rejects her because of her family,” Cricket said like it was common knowledge.

“A cautionary tale, Cricket, but not sure it fits the bill, as it were. Whatever she is, she has been attacking men, not children,” Flowerdew replied with disappointment.

“She takes drunk men too, comes up to them while they are staggering home and asks if she is beautiful.” Flowerdew held his breath, and then heard his confirmation. “When they reply, she pulls away hair to reveal gruesome face. Makes men die. Sometimes they don’t die, they get very, very sick.”

“We noticed the disappearances seemed to get a lot worse when we got our shipments in,”
Bates had said to him.
“The men tend to be a little heavy handed with the rum the first few nights.”

“Oh no, Cricket, we have to go,” Flowerdew said as he secured his belt and gathered up the two lodestone resonators. Dashing out the door with Cricket in tow, he made a break for the mess hall. As he approached, he noticed that for the night, it was pretty quiet. Darting inside, he looked around and saw that the mess hall, with the exception of a few sitting in groups or passed out across tables, was empty. Dinner was already over.

“Cricket, I need your help. Can you summon up your courage for Her Majesty the Queen and the good men here?”

Wide-eyed, the boy nodded.

“Good lad. Come with me down to the river. We will need to wait for La Llorona tonight. Take this.” He handed him one of the lodestone resonators. “This is a communications device. Hold down this button and do not touch anything else. It will take your voice right into mine.” He held up the other lodestone resonator. “If you see anything, let me know. We have to hurry before another person gets killed.”