Wordy Thursday

Second part of the opening chapter of the second Professor Gothick book, continued from last week's Wordy Thursday.

‘Oh gawd,’ he said, ‘I’m lying on a coffin!’

At that moment thunder and lightning crashed together in the heavens, and Jackson saw then what had caught his eye moments before. It was a brass nameplate set into the lid of the coffin. There was a strange name engraved on it. One word: ‘Batula’. But Skipper Jackson could not read and he was interested only in the fact that the nameplate was of brass and the coffin carved from expensive mahogany. All thoughts of rum had left his head.

‘There’s someone of quality lying in this,’ he thought. ‘Someone worth a posh casket. A fine lady p’raps. Still wearin’ ’er best gems.’

Jewellery, that was what was in Jackson’s head now. He had felt a momentary thrill of superstitious fear when he first saw what he had fallen upon, but Jackson had seen too much death while at sea to feel squeamish about a corpse. In fact, one of his first jobs as a sailor lad had been sewing into a canvas bag the body of a crewman who had fallen from the rigging before it was dumped in the ocean. He’d had to do that job on many occasions since – life on the old sailing vessels had been an uncertain one at best. Greed conquered any other scruples Jackson might have had and his only concern now was how to open the coffin. He wished then he hadn’t thrown away his umbrella, it might have served as a lever. A few moments scrabbling about, however, turned up a very flat stone, almost sharp at the edges. That would do!

Jackson prised the stone under the lid of the coffin and leant his weight upon it. An encouraging cracking came from the wood but then the stone slipped from his hand. The old sailor swore like only an old sailor can, and tried again. The screws fastening down the lid were good screws, and he failed a second time. Next he tried using another rock to bash against the flat stone, improvising a hammer and chisel affair. In this way he managed to split one of the screws and he had another go at using the flat stone like a lever.

This time the coffin lid gave way a good few inches, and Jackson got his hands under it and heaved. With a loud crack, the wood split from its brass screws and the lid was flung onto the pebbles. But Jackson cried out in pain. One of the split screws had caught his left hand and gashed it badly. Its palm and fingers were wet with blood.

‘I’ll be damned!’ he cursed. But there were more pressing matters than a hurt hand. He peered into the coffin. It was difficult to see in the dark but he was able to work out at least that the person inside it was not the ‘fine lady’ he had hoped it would be, but a gentleman.

‘C’mon,’ said Jackson, ‘where’s the lightning when yer need it?’

He didn’t have to wait long. Ribbon lightning snaked across the sky and for a few seconds Jackson was able to get a good look at his prize. A long, refined and very white face lay framed against rich crimson silk. Slender white hands with long tapering fingers were folded on its breast. On one of these fingers was a thick gold ring set with a blood red stone. That certainly caught Jackson’s eye. He was also struck with how shabbily the body had been dressed. Despite the richness of the casket and the obvious value of the gold ring, the body inside might as well have been that of a tramp. A knee-length brown coat fastened with a dozen buttons, some of which were missing, coarse trousers and a pair of clumpy old boots were its only attire. Jackson shrugged at the mystery, however. It was of no great interest – not compared to the ring.

In the impenetrable darkness which followed the lightning, he fumbled in the coffin. The hands felt startlingly cold against Jackson’s, even though his were almost blue from the rain and the bitter wind. They also felt very soft. He grabbed the ring and tugged and pulled and twisted it. It wouldn’t come off. He tugged and pulled and twisted it again. It wouldn’t come off.

‘Devil take me! Why haven’t I a knife?’ he complained.

The flat stone which had been so useful in opening the coffin was too blunt to cut off a finger. Then a happy thought struck Jackson. It would be fine for smashing out a few teeth. Rich people usually had gold fillings. Even a small amount of gold would be a fortune to destitute Skipper Jackson. The old man pushed his left hand between the cold, dead lips of the corpse. The teeth, he noticed, felt surprisingly long. And sharp. In the dark, he was unable to see how his blood had stained the corpse’s lips, nor how it had reddened the blue, dead tongue. He waited for another bolt of lightning to show him which teeth contained the little shiny nuggets of gold. It soon came. Crack! Thunder crashed about. The lightning flashed. A great blaze of sudden light.

Jackson peered down at the dead white face of the corpse. He could see no gold. What he saw was the corpse’s eyes. They were open. They glared into his own. They shone with an evil light, with intelligence and rage. And then the teeth – the too long, too sharp teeth – sank down upon his hand and Skipper Jackson screamed with agony and terror as his hot red blood gushed into the mouth of the corpse.

Wordy Thursday

I said I'd post the first chapter of the second Professor Gothick novel up her (very much a work in progress) because Robin was enthusiastic about it. It's much longer than I expected, though, so here is just the opning bit.

The black sky cracked open and spat fire at the sea. The storm was at its height. Thunder crashed down from the boiling clouds and the waves crashing on the harbour wall thundered back. Hours before, the fishing boats in Boggartsey harbour had been dragged as far up the quayside as it was possible to drag them, but white surf now splashed over and around them and they rocked and bobbed as if they were upon the open ocean. Rain lashed the roofs of the little town and its flooded streets gurgled and shimmered silver in the light of a racing moon. The church bell chimed twelve, each feeble note lost among the din of the storm. Hardly a light was to be seen; Boggartsey was black and silent. Its houses seemed to huddle together for warmth and company and none of their occupants were to be seen out of doors.

But there was one man who braved the storm. Old Skipper Jackson crept his way along the glistening wall of the harbour. To protect himself from the wind and the rain and the regular drenchings of the breakers, he had wrapped himself in layer upon layer of black and shiny oilskin and he resembled an enormous, creeping beetle, his arms outstretched to help him keep his balance on the slippery rocks. Only the fluttering wisps of a raggedy grey beard and the blue tip of a dribbling nose were visible of the man himself. He was keen not to be recognised, for the business he was about was one of theft – or salvage, as he preferred to call it.

Skipper Jackson had once been a sailor, though never a captain, as he liked to pretend. Seaside towns like Boggartsey attracted old sailors like Jackson, down and outs with no home and no future. Fishermen were kinder to them than ‘land-lubbers’ and the few skills they had learnt, such as gutting fish or tending nets, could sometimes earn them a bob or two. Jackson had been sleeping under an upturned boat on the drier side of the harbour wall when the storm had broke and the oilskins he now wore had been acting as his sheets and blankets just a few minutes before. Jackson knew that storms like this could spew all sorts of useful things up onto the beach, items that had been dumped or lost overboard from ships far out to sea and which may have been bobbing about in the ocean for months. Anything could be worth selling but what he really hoped for was some ‘grog’. An unopened bottle of rum, or brandy, or whisky – what a find that would be!

Lightning suddenly burst like a flashbulb upon the scene and Skipper Jackson saw that the beach was littered with boxes and crates. There were dozens of them, some smashed and spilling their contents on the rocks, many more unopened and just waiting for him to open and help himself. He swore delightedly, but thunder drowned it out. He danced a little jig upon a rock, and nearly fell over. Then he made his way down to his treasure, glorying in the fact that only he knew it was here and that he could pick and choose what to plunder.

‘There’s been a wreck, that’s what it is,’ he muttered. ‘All the crew dead, most like. Poor loves. But it’s an ill wind that blows nobody some good ... and it’s blowin’ me some good this night.’

At that moment, the ‘ill wind’ nearly blew him off his feet, but Jackson was undaunted. Gurgling and wheezing with glee, he began to pick his way among the flotsam and jetsam of the washed up cargo. Most of it was unexciting stuff, such as bags of nails and cans of soup (Jackson didn’t own a can-opener), but he knew that even these would be sellable to somebody. He laughed outright when he stumbled against one smashed crate and found that it contained a stock of umbrellas. He tried to open one for a bit of fun but it proved impossible in the raging gale, so he soon cast it aside. Then he began to search in earnest for what he really wanted.

‘Brandy...’ he muttered. ‘Rum...’ And it became a sort of chant: ‘Rum, rum, rum-tum-tiddly-grog.’

But then another flash of lightning made Jackson stop in his tracks. Something lying a few yards away had flashed back, something bright and metallic. Intrigued, he made his way towards it. The darkness and the blinding rain made this very difficult, however. It was one thing lurching from big box or crate to its neighbour, but trying to find something specific among all the rocks and rubbish at midnight and in the middle of a storm was quite another. He stumbled along, groping the air again like a giant insect, and then tripped on something and fell flat on his face. He had fallen onto a wooden box lying on the beach. It was only about a foot high. The wood was smooth, polished, and as Jackson’s hands groped along its edges so that he could raise himself up again, he realised that the box had a distinctive shape.

‘Oh gawd,’ he said, ‘I’m lying on a coffin!’

Wordy Thursday

Another extract from my unpublished kids book The Accursed - the final showdown begins!

CHAPTER 63

‘I’d rather hoped we might have avoided bloodshed,’ murmured Professor Gothick mildly.
But Mephisto Carnacki wasn’t listening. He flung his arms wide, scything the air with his staff, and he bellowed out one word, the dread name of: ‘KALI!’

‘Kali!’ immediately responded the Thugee, hemming in the Professor and me on the deck of The Medusa. They took up the name in a chant – ‘Kali, Kali, Kali’ – over and over, increasing in both fervour and volume as my father continued to bellow: ‘Kali! Most exalted Goddess of Death. The Most Cruel and the Just. Kali, the Destroyer! I summon thee now. I summon thee to accept the gift that was pledged.’

The little High Priest, who still stood apart, raised aloft the Moonstone and it burst into light, sending crackling waves of energy around the deck and the rigging of the ship. My father stood aside, revealing behind him the doorway which led down to the hold of the Medusa.

‘Kali! Kali, I offer thee sacrifice,’ cried my father and the dark doorway became illuminated, glowing like the Moonstone, as spiders of light crackled around it.

‘Kali... Kali... Kali...’ chanted the Thugee. Professor Gothick placed his hand upon my shoulder and whispered into my ear: ‘Be brave, my boy. Have courage – trust in me!’

Abruptly he was grabbed by two Thugs, who yanked him away, and then another grabbed me, forcing my hands behind my back, clamping my arms in a fierce grip.

‘Professor!’ I cried, but Professor Gothick shook his head and turned his eyes back to the doorway, his face set in a grim mask. The eyes of his captors, too, were fixed on the door, as were the eyes of every other Thug on the ship. So, I turned back and faced it myself. The opening now pulsated with light, throbbing hypnotically, in time to the ceaseless chants of the Thugee. Seemingly from nowhere great clouds of incense blew up, the colour of storm clouds and thick with a sweet but nauseating aroma. So thick was it that I could taste it, bitter on my tongue. And in that instant, the light went out – and the chants of the Thugee ceased.

All was still and silent. Expectant. I peered through the blue cloud of incense and into the depths of the now darkened hold. Back out of the darkness gleamed two red eyes. Then a hand appeared. It reached out and gripped the door frame. Long, black fingernails dug into the wood. Then another hand emerged and clutched the door frame opposite. And then another hand appeared. And then another.

I felt a thrill of horror and shot a frightened glance at Professor Gothick. He was glaring at Mephisto Carnacki with an expression of disgust.

‘I thought as much!’ he spat.

And then It came out of the hold. It was like a human spider. Eight arms it had, wreathing around it like snakes, and it was covered all over in a thick grey hide like an elephant’s. It’s body was that of a woman, but it had the face of a demon. A huge, crimson tongue protruded from between its blackened lips and elongated, bloodshot eyes flicked around the deck, at Professor Gothick, at my father and at each of the Thugee. Then they focussed on me.

The obscene tongue undulated, as if it was tasting the air, and the creature grinned at me, its red eyes boring into mine. From out of the tight-fitting, blood-stained sari it wore, one of its claw-like hands drew out a white silk scarf and another of the seven caught its other end and snapped it tight. Then the creature began to advance across the deck, its two feet shuffling in a sinister, dancing motion, its eyes full of murderous intent.

The Thugee immediately set up again their chant of ‘Kali! Kali! Kali!’ and my own captor began to tremble with a feverish ecstasy as he gripped me even tighter. I felt powerless, hypnotised by the eyes of Kali, as a bird is said to be hypnotised by the eyes of a snake before it is devoured.

I could not move.

Wordy Thursday - The Accursed

OK, it's finally about to go out to literary agents - but is it good enough?

CHAPTER 1

On the morning of my thirteenth birthday I awoke to find that I was dead.

My skin was as cold as death.
My nostrils were filled with the stench of death.
My mouth was full of rottenness.
I opened my eyes and found I could not see.
When I tried to move, I found I could not move.

So I lay, dead.

Cold blackness surrounded me. Time seemed to pass, age after long age, in silence and stillness. I seemed to float, empty and without thought, drifting unthinking until somewhere far away, from some muffled distance, I heard a soft, steady sound. The five chimes of a clock.

Then something unseen scuttled past my head. I felt little claws scrabbling against me. My heart jolted in horror.

It started to beat.

As my heart began to beat, so I began to think. Why is it so dark? Why is it so cold? Why do I smell decay and taste death on my tongue?

I cannot be alive. I must be dead. If I was alive, I could move.

As I struggled to move, my mind struggled, too. Like coming round after an operation or waking after a long illness, suddenly I became aware. And I realised why I could not move. I had been tied up. My arms were bound tightly to my body, my feet were strapped together. I could not see because I had been blindfolded.

I strained against my bonds and tried to shout for help. But I was unable to make a sound. My mouth had been gagged and it was stuffed with something damp and foul. The straps refused to break.

I struggled again, in vain. My heart was pounding, proof that I was alive. Yes, I thought, but like this I might as well be dead.

Then something squeaked in my ear and I felt it move across my body. Horrified, I thrashed from side to side to dislodge the thing. Choking with revulsion and rage, I fought against my bonds, forcing my arms against them, finding new strength. At last, just as I was weakening, I was rewarded with a sharp snap! and then a multitude of cracklings.

In the space of one new heartbeat, I was free.

My arms sprawled out and I clawed at the gag on my face, ripping it away. I spat out the bitter-tasting mess in my mouth. Propped on one arm, I rested, listening to the sound of my breathing. Then I pulled the blindfold away from my eyes.

But still I could not see.

My eyes roamed around the blackness, seeking some hint of light, some detail, but the dark, like the chill, musty air, was all-encompassing.

More questions crowded my head: Who has done this to me? Why? Where am I? Fighting a rising panic, I reached down and grabbed the cords binding my ankles and tore them in two. Then with shaking hands I explored my invisible environment. Beneath me there was a hard, cold surface covered in grit and dirt, but above me I could feel nothing, except perhaps a stray wisp of a cobweb drifting against my fingertips.

My throat felt dry and tight as I tried to call out into the dark. I made a small croak, hardly a noise at all. Swallowing hard, I tried again: ‘Help!’ And again: ‘Help!’ And again: ‘HELP!’

Each cry sounded dull and smothered. I felt sure there was no-one to hear me. I knew I was entirely alone.

I collapsed back into the dust – and my elbow struck something, something which made a metallic sound. I scrabbled for it, clutched at it and realised at once what I’d found. It was a candlestick – and there was a candle in it.

I could have light!

If there were matches.

I hunted around in the dirt with my fingers until they brushed against something else, something small that rattled. I snatched it up. Clumsily, almost feverishly, I fumbled open the box. I felt the matches tumbling from it, but caught one – two – and attempted to scratch them into light on the cold, damp surface below me. It seemed to take an age, but at last they flared up.

I flinched as my eyes reacted with shock to the sudden flame. Blinking, trembling, I raised the matches to the candle-wick. I could hardly control the shaking of my hand as I saw the fire burn down the wood, turning blue, ready to burn my fingers, or go out, as I concentrated on bringing the flame to the candle. It was as if my body and my mind were out of kilter, awkward through lack of use. But the feeble, last blue glow along the thinning charcoal was just sufficient, and as I dropped the matches, the candle took hold.

The intense darkness now gave way to light and I was able to look about me.