The Sea of Ash Page 6

  September whispers around my house, a blend of crickets and breeze. It gets dark earlier now. I prop myself up on coffee legs and pace. I'll have another cup. I hear a noise out in the dusk and go to the window, peel back the edge of the drawn shade and peer out. Only back-lit leaves flitting past the street lamp, straying from their limbs.

  8. BOOKS

  Burnt sage leaves have left a strange smell throughout my village Colonial, remnants of a protection ritual I performed some hours ago -- a simple spell taken from Cricket and Moth, an anonymously written volume that appeared in 1935. The book has no formal title, though the cover bears the moon-colored image of a moth above a silhouetted cricket, both set against a pale green background. The lettering inside is curious; it resembles black ants arranged to form words. The spells themselves are elegant in their simplicity, poetic in essence.

  Yes, I've returned to my strange books. I spent hours distracting myself with Nana's volumes on old New England houses, but eventually, inevitably, I went to the bookcase in my study where my collection of rarities resides.

  Lying to myself has not worked. I know what I saw at the Banchini House. I actually experienced the cold from that stranger's touch, and I saw the trilobite fingernails with my own eyes. Albert Pond and Simon Brinklow knew that the world is much more than we think it is. I know this too.

  So the question now is...what should I do? Something made its way through the overlap in Banchini's machine, and whatever it is, it's followed me all the way from Manchester. Terrifying as that realization is, it serves me no purpose to deny it.

  I can't exactly call the police and report a thing like this. But, there must be someone I can turn to -- someone stronger, more capable of confronting danger. I am reading Dr. Pond's Journal again. Maybe his courage will bolster me, maybe his experiences will give me some insight into how to proceed...

  9. CROCKER'S BITE

  The failure of Arcangelo Banchini's Spirit Machine was a setback to Pond. He wasn't sure how next to proceed. He attempted to find out more about the "haunted" apple basket into which Brinklow had vanished, but nothing came of his inquiries. No one seemed to know what had become of the basket, and the Rice Farm had long since fallen to neglect. He wished that he could return to The Sumner Inn and contact Fractured Harry again, but Harry would only come to a particular individual once every seven years.

  One rainy evening, cooped up in a brick hotel overlooking a glum tract of Manchester, Pond was surprised by a knocking at his door. It was the desk clerk, reporting that a visitor was asking for him. An old man. Pond told the fellow to send the visitor up.

  Albert was glad to see Arcangelo Banchini again. The old man was soaked from the rain, his fedora dripping. Pond invited him in and they sat a while, talking. Banchini offered a gnarled little Italian cigar and Pond shared some illegal brandy (Prohibition had gone into effect back in January).

  After apologizing once more, Banchini said, "I've seen many amazing things, my friend. You would think I was mad if I told you. And I have learned remarkable things, because of the machine; I have learned about places that interest men like us. There is one in particular that you might find useful..."

  Pond was intrigued, of course.

  I am on the road again, an hour and a half away from home, traveling in north central Massachusetts. Route 2 takes me through Templeton, Phillipston, and beyond, on into Erving, where the road curves close to the towering paper mill. White clouds swell from the stacks and the air almost smells like the sea. I drive along the Millers River, through a landscape of wooded hills and enduring bridges. There are cadmium fields of goldenrod, open tracts of farmland, stands selling apples and pumpkins.

  I feel somewhat better for being this far from the area where I encountered the white-haired stranger. Still, my relief is tempered, for if it was able to follow me from New Hampshire to central Massachusetts, then I'm not sure I'll be truly safe anywhere.

  What does it want with me?

  It is late morning and I have entered historic Deerfield, famous for the French and Indian attack of 1704, and now known for its grand street of 18th and early 19th century houses. As much as I would love to stroll among those architectural wonders, beneath the large trees that shade the stretch, I feel that all things pleasant must wait until I have taken some form of action to further defend myself.

  Over the years I have been in contact with a good number of interesting people representing a varied range of mystical systems and spiritual bents. Most have come to my attention through my pursuit of collectible books. I know astrologers, psychics, Wiccans, herbalists, dowsers, ceremonial magicians, and on... One of the latter is a young woman named Lauren McAlester who possesses the uncanny ability to track down rare items useful to those practicing the unconventional arts.

  Lauren was very sympathetic to my situation when I spoke with her over the phone. She is one of the few humans I know whom I would even have considered relating the experience to, for while my circle of contacts is rather wide, I am a solitary sort, and private by nature. I guess I am like Dr. Pond in that way -- I have more acquaintances than friends.

  Turning onto a side road, I come upon a Second Empire house set back behind a diminishing hedge of lilac. A tallish hydrangea stands to one side; at a distance the clustered blooms look like puffs of cotton candy. The house is a small specimen for its type, just two stories high, with the windowed upper level encased in a mansard roof. There is a small entry porch at the left of the facade -- I park my car and head for this.

  A thin red-haired woman bounds from the house to greet me. To look at her, one would never suspect that she engages in ritual magic, conjuring arcane forces and the like. She is freckled, with a pleasing plainness, her hair braided behind her. Her clothing is unostentatious -- jeans and T-shirt. I receive a big smile and a hearty handshake; her fingers smell of tomato plants.

  Lauren leads me to the back of the house, where the grounds remind me of Nana's garden. There is an English cottage sensibility to the space as opposed to the stiffly manicured look so popular in these times.

  We drink herbal tea under darting dragonflies, and I recount my strange tale in full, sparing no detail. I talk about Brinklow and Pond, and the Banchini machine. The young woman is familiar (more or less) with these subjects. When I finish, she sits thinking for a time.

  "I could give you some protective amulets and exorcism powder, but a situation like this calls for something stronger," Lauren says. "Are you familiar with Crocker's Bite?"

  "I'm afraid not," I reply.

  My hostess explains... A sprawling farm once stood on the outskirts of Kingston, Rhode Island. It was owned by a man named Gilbert Crocker. In the summer of 1860 a fierce storm pounded the area with thunder and rain. During the barrage, a bolt of lightning struck the heavy wooden door of the Crocker barn. Fortunately the structure did not burn, though a good-sized mark was left behind. The blackened area was roughly ovular in shape, and embedded within that charred wood were hundreds of human teeth.

  Crocker, for whatever reason, felt that the teeth were a symbol of good luck, and over the years people dug them out of the door to carry for protection. In time, certain individuals found that the teeth possessed an even more dramatic power when used as a tool to dispel unwanted entities.

  Lauren cites one case in particular, in which a family in Newport was terrorized by a hair-pulling boy-like thing in the winter of 1960. They eventually contacted a local medium, who utilized one of the teeth, successfully driving the bothersome spirit away.

  My hostess goes into her house and returns with a small bag made of black cloth. Inside is what looks to be a yellowed human molar.

  "A gift," the woman says.

  I offer to pay her for it, but she assures me that she has others, and insists on its being a present. I accept her generosity and thank her profusely.

  "So, what do I do with it?"

  "Well, it's a close-quarters kind of thing," Lauren says, leaning forward in her lawn chai
r. "All you have to do is touch it to the target and that should do the trick."

  "Touch it?" I ask, frowning. "I was hoping I wouldn't ever be close enough to that thing to touch it again."

  Lauren has a way of being pleasant and dead serious all in the same breath. I respect her frankness, though her words cause me to shudder. "Well, situations arise against our will, and we're left to deal with them. You may not have a choice in the matter."

  I hold the tooth in my hand, looking down at it. Lauren watches me, her face quiet and kind. I ask, "What should I do now?"

  "Well, you could try to outrun it, I suppose, but if I were you, I'd just settle in someplace and let it come to you. Facing it will be less maddening than anticipating it."

  This is all so surreal. A very bad dream in the middle of a beautiful September day. I sit here in the sunny garden and begin to laugh. Sometimes laughter is an expression of terror.

  10. THE HOUSE OF 12 WHISPERS

  Albert Pond hadn't felt quite right since his visit to the Banchini machine. His chest ached where he had received the blow from an unseen force, and he experienced vivid dreams of Victorian London, episodes that felt more like memories than dreams.

  He had driven his Nash to a peculiar old house high in piney Maine. It was the place that Arcangelo Banchini had told him about -- The House of 12 Whispers.

  The owner at that time was Abigail Winters, a reclusive old woman, relative of the man who had built the big brick Federal in Searsport, Maine.

  Pond described the home: "The height and grandeur of the structure were emphasized by four tall chimneys which marked the corners of a hipped roof."

  Captain Thomas Winters first occupied the building in the spring of 1798. He was as eccentric as he was wealthy, and given to obscure interests which included mummification. Winters possessed some degree of architectural ability and designed a unique room on the first floor of his dwelling.

  "Miss Winters had consented to my visit, though I never did set eye upon her. She remained elsewhere in the house for the duration of my time there," Pond said.

  The doctor was met by a grave and silvered male servant who escorted him to the strange chamber at the center of the first floor. The door was fitted with heavy locks, which the butler worked, one after the other, to allow the guest entry.

  Pond addressed the older man. "I was told that I need not bother to ask any particular questions..."

  "That's correct, sir. He'll tell you what you need to know," the butler said, swinging the door open.

  The chamber is described in Pond's journal: "The room was circular and domed, an impressive example of brickwork that made me think of an oversized beehive oven. The floor, but for a raised brick path that led to the central feature, was entirely covered in all manner of seashells.

  "A platform sat in the middle of the shells and on this stood an elongated upright dome of glass. A figure sat in a wing chair within the dome, facing me, its hands resting on its thighs. It was Captain Winters, dressed darkly and neatly, as a gentleman of his day would have dressed. He had been dead for many years, yet he was well preserved -- the result of some sort of mummification process.

  "The skin on the face and hands was dark and leathery, with a slight sheen. It held tightly to the bones, making the corpus all the more ghastly. Wispy grey hair still clung to the head; combed back, it hung down to the top of his shirt collar."

  Pond walked carefully along the brick path and stopped just short of the dome. Glass, and a matter of feet, stood between him and the cadaver. Its eyes were squinted shut and the mouth was wrapped around the small end of a copper funnel. The wide trumpet-mouth was pressed up against the glass.

  The whole thing took only moments. Pond pressed his ear to the cool exterior of the dome, and a voice like rustling paper breathed from the funnel. Twelve words only. Each visitor received only twelve words.

  "The sixth ocean lives -- go to The Garden of Guns -- save Earth"

  11. GOOSEFLESH AND COAL SMOKE

  Pond spent the night in Searsport, his rented room blurred by the haze of many cigarettes. His mind was too busy to tolerate sleep, so he paced and smoked late into the night.

  He remembered how back in his home office the resinous baby had gotten onto Professor Wakefield's face and shaped an animated mask. The crude features had shown some resemblance to Simon Brinklow, and it had repeated "six oceans" over and over.

  "Six oceans," Pond muttered to himself. There were only five oceans on the Earth. What was all this about six oceans, he wondered? He was particularly distressed by the way Captain Winters’ message had ended with "save Earth."

  "Save it from what?" The doctor asked no one.

  Pond knew intuitively that the message referred to the planet, rather than earth, as in soil.

  At least there was one piece of concise information sandwiched between the enigmatic bits... "The Garden of Guns" was clearly a place name; he determined to seek it out.

  Meanwhile, the aching above Albert's solar plexus accentuated his inability to asleep. It was even beginning to distract him from his contemplation. At one point he went to a mirror, unbuttoned his shirt and had a look. Imagine his surprise when he saw a small fleshy protrusion crooking out from the center of his ribcage.

  "It made me think of a plucked chicken wing," he wrote in his journal. And... "It twitched a little when I examined it."

  The doctor had seen patients born with anomalies -- too few or too many fingers and other minor abnormalities, but he had never seen anything like this. Whatever it was, it did not appear to be wired into his nervous system, for it registered no feeling that he was aware of, even when he pinched it with his fingers.

  Pond was terribly disturbed by his discovery, and more so over the next few days as the nubby thing continued to grow and shape. "By the third evening it had reached a length of thirteen inches, and the mass at the end bore five blunt knobs that caused me to think of nipples."

  The new appendage was pale and contained bones. It grew longer and more distinct -- all the while, a city of damp coal smoke and horse-drawn carriages dominated Pond's dreams.

  The man got very little done that week. He was exhausted and feverish, and not until the new arm had finished forming did his vigor and sharp-mindedness return. The curious dreams, and the pain, dissipated.

  There was no mistaking what the thing was, for while it was thin and poorly colored, it was indeed a human arm and hand. A right hand. Pond thought that it looked frail, malnourished, stunted; either that or it was the limb of a child, for it reached only as far down as his navel.

  "I have witnessed only a few demonstrations of animation," Pond recorded in his journal. "Every so often it shudders or twitches, and one chill evening I saw that the hairless forearm exhibited gooseflesh."

  Pond tried poking the thing with a pin to see what sort of reaction he might get. He himself felt nothing, but the arm jerked appropriately and Pond spoke an apology aloud, though he felt rather foolish afterward. When his initial terror receded, he found himself both intrigued and befuddled. Had it been me, I'd have made a dash for the nearest hospital. I wish I possessed half the courage that Albert Pond had.

  Obviously something had taken place back in Banchini's underground room, and the proof was that arm, hanging there limply, a bloodless lamprey fastened to his chest.

  12. BULLETS AND BLOSSOMS

  The Garden of Guns was tucked at the end of a winding dirt road on the tightrope between West Boylston and Worcester, in Massachusetts. Bordering vegetation encroached upon the path to the point where Pond eventually had to park his Nash and walk. The day was clear and bright, and before long he found himself standing in a wild garden of bees and blooms and misty summer heat.

  Pond's observations: "I could not tell for certain if human hands had shaped the place, though it was distinct from the surrounding wood, a maze of wild rose bushes and early goldenrod, grape vines like winged nets cast over skeletons of birch."

  A mossy path wound th
rough clumps of shrubbery and patches of skulking thyme, browning spears of mullein and barbed thistle. There were daisies and coneflowers and Queen Anne's Lace with flowers like disks of foam.

  Pond walked slowly amongst the scented brambles, his arms slack at his side, the third arm limp beneath his shirt. He would later write that he felt as if he were sleepwalking, and somehow knew just where to go. He stopped in front of a dense waist-high bush and waited.

  The bush rustled as if a hidden bird had startled. Metallic light winked through the shadows and leaves -- something began to emerge from the foliage.

  "I watched as a hand came up through the leaves like the head of a cobra. It was a pale hand, and its slender fingers were wrapped around a silvery antique pistol, offering it to me butt-first. I reached down and accepted the smooth ivory handle as the fingers released. The hand slid back into the shade, whispering through the foliage.

  "I examined the weapon; it was gracefully primitive, a nickel-plated pocket revolver from the late eighteen-seventies. The cylinder was loaded -- the bullets poking out from their shell casings were cast from a strange coppery metal, and imprinted with a vague texture that made me think of fish scales. I held the pistol up in the sunlight. It gleamed like Excalibur."

  13. THE PUZZLING JOURNAL

  It was at about that time, nearing the end of summer in 1920, that Pond's journal became convoluted. The entries from then are often spotty, descriptively speaking, and less frequent overall. When the handwritten original made its way into the hands of his friend, Nigel Wagner (who later published it), entire pages were missing.

  This final section of the journal has always compelled me the most, even though I find it unnerving. The fact that there are missing parts to the story just adds to the appeal for me. His travels are like the Loch Ness Monster in that they dip down into dark waters, so to speak, tantalizing, making us eager to learn more, or to get a better look. I suppose it's like burlesque in that sense. How interested would we really be in Nessie if she were stuffed, stretched out in a glass case at a Scottish museum, her mystery expunged by genetic science?