Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie)

The Tears of the Furies

About the Authors

Other Works by Christopher Golden and
Thomas E. Sniegoski

Three years ago

A pale shroud had been drawn across the sky, softening the
midday sun and filtering its rays through a layer of gauzy surreality. Billowing
mist clung to the indigo waters of the Aegean Sea. This was the familiar,
tangible world, yet in conditions like these, other worlds seemed close at
hand, perhaps just a breath away.

It won’t be long now
, Nigel Gull thought. A thick
bead of sweat slid from the top of his misshapen skull down the knobby flesh of
his face, and he wiped it away with a silk handkerchief clutched in a contorted
hand.

The cool haze lessened the heat, but only barely. Gull gazed
up at sun where it hid behind the drifting fog. It reminded him of the eye of
some watchful deity, the once all-seeing orb glazed over with the film of
death. He found it all strangely appropriate, to be observed from above by a
god long dead.

He twisted around in his seat and narrowed his gaze as he
regarded the skipper of the small boat. Though motorized, to his mind it was
barely more than a skiff, certainly not large enough for the man to earn the
title of captain.

"How much farther?" he asked.

The old man squinted into the haze as if he were able to
somehow see what lay upon the sea ahead. "Not long now," he grumbled,
his words thickly accented with the flavor of the isles.

Taki Spiliakos had been with Gull since his arrival in
Greece nearly six months ago, assisting him in his pursuit of the most elusive
of prizes. The fisherman — a resident of the tiny island of Giaros
— had the reputation of being a madman, but of course, a madman was
exactly what Nigel Gull required.

Born with his head and face enshrouded in a portion of his
mother’s amniotic sack, a caul as it was named by those who still remembered
the ancient ways, Spiliakos was destined to be endowed with a powerful
sensitivity to things of the preternatural. The superstition had proven true,
and his unusual gifts had begun to exhibit themselves early in his seventh year.
It was said that young Spiliakos could communicate with the spirits of the
past, that he heard the whispers of ancient ghosts, and that he could see into
the past the way others were said to be able to predict the future. That
infernal chatter had driven him into isolation, and finally into the embrace of
madness.

Gull sought a piece of antiquity, a fragment of myth with
the ability to hide itself away from the most scrutinizing eyes. The ancients
spoke to Taki Spiliakos, and through him Gull had gleaned many clues to the
whereabouts of his elusive prize. There had been mishaps since Spiliakos had
come to be in his employ, errant leads and tangents and false alarms. The
spirits of the long departed were bored and thusly playful, but Nigel did not
look at these moments as failures. They served merely as a process of
elimination that would eventually yield his heart’s desire.

And what about this time?
Gull wondered, continuing
to gaze into the undulating fog, his body swaying with the swell of the sea.
What
of today?

The previous morning, after awakening from a particularly
debilitating session with the restless dead that required half a bottle of
scotch for recovery, the old man had finally recounted his most recent
conversation with his ancient dead of the islands. This communion with the
spirits had produced more than one mention of the object of Gull’s quest, and a
possible location as well.

Gull had immediately dispatched a reconnaissance team to the
island of Kassos. As usual, his hopes were high, but his expectations were held
at bay . . . until the field team failed to call in with its report. All
attempts at communicating with his
Wicked
, as he enjoyed calling those
in his employ, had been unsuccessful, and further investigation had found the
entire island of some fifteen hundred inhabitants to be incommunicado.

Now, as the small boat cut through the uncommon mist —
a perhaps unnatural phenomenon — Gull felt excitement roil in his gut. He
had wasted no time gathering a crew for his yacht and setting sail for Kassos. Afraid
of running afoul of the rocky reefs around the island in the uncanny fog, he
had ordered his crew to drop anchor, deciding to go ashore by motorboat. His
crew, loyal to a fault, had wanted to accompany him, but he had insisted on proceeding
with only Spiliakos to guide him.

"How much farther can it be?" Gull grumbled, his
patience beginning to fray, but as the words were leaving his mouth, he heard
the sound he’d been anticipating, the surf breaking upon the shore.

Spiliakos cut the power to the motor, allowing the boat to
drift toward the beach. It was as if a curtain of gray had been briefly lifted
to reveal their destination. The old man leaped into the knee-deep surf,
guiding the boat up onto the rocky shore. He extended his hand to Gull, who
took it, allowing himself to be helped from the boat.

"Is this it, Taki?" he asked, his eyes frantically
searching for any sign that this was indeed the place he had been seeking for
so many years. "Is
she
here?"

Spiliakos touched his age-spotted fingers to the side of his
head, rubbing at his temple. "That is what they tell me."

"Where?" Gull grasped the old man’s thin, muscular
arm in a malformed grip. "Ask them where she is to be found."

The sea mist clung to the shore, but a gentle wind blew,
stirring the air, briefly revealing a second boat upon the beach before it was
swallowed up again.

"Your agents’ ship," Spiliakos said grimly. "I
am sure that they could answer your question."

The island was eerily quiet, the fog-muted hiss of the surf
the only sound, except for the pounding of Nigel’s heart in his ears.

"Right, then," he said moving away up the beach. "Let’s
find them."

The fog churned and swirled as it drifted over the island,
so that Gull was forced to move slowly, cautious with each step, peering ahead.
The breeze off of the sea would occasionally tear through the gray mist, giving
them fleeting glimpses of what lay before them. They had not traveled far
before they found the first of the Wicked.

The figure in the distance stood with its back to them,
remaining perfectly still as they approached. Gull was startled to see the man
alive, and his expectations of success began to wane.

"You there," Gull called. But the man did not
respond, and there was not the slightest hint of movement.

The mist coalesced about the figure once again, hiding him
from view, and Gull cursed, quickening his pace. Nearly blind in the fog, he
extended his hands, feeling his way through the cool, damp haze.

"Hello. Are you deaf, then?" he called into the
mist, but there was still no response.

Spiliakos followed dutifully. Gull was vaguely aware of his
stumbling pursuit as the rocky shore gave way to outcroppings of stone. Gull
stumbled, the toe of his boot catching on an oddly shaped rock. Spiliakos tried
to stop his fall, but the old man was not fast enough, and Nigel found himself
pitching forward.

He flailed outward and managed to grab hold of an
outcropping of rock, clinging to it as he tried to restore his balance. Gull
was draped across the oddly formed stone configuration, and even as he
recovered from the shock of his stumble, and he got his footing again, he
became aware of the shape of the stone beneath his hands. It was not a natural
formation, but the statue of a man.

Gull regained his footing, but his hands did not leave the
statue. It was cool beneath his touch. His fingers traced the exquisite line of
the statue’s musculature and the way the stone had been made to replicate the
folds of cloth. He moved around to the front of the figure, and the mist cleared
enough for him to gaze into its face.

Nigel Gull had known this man.

His name was Colin Davenport, and he had been commander of
the Kassos reconnaissance team, in Nigel’s employ for nearly ten years. The
expression frozen upon Davenport’s face was one of supreme terror. A look that
conveyed how aware the victim had been at the moment of his horrific
transformation.

Gull reached a twisted hand out to Davenport’s face to touch
what his flesh had become. The tips of his fingers tingled as he caressed the
smooth surface of man’s stone cheek.

"Has he answered your question?" Spiliakos asked,
he, too, staring at the statue that had once been flesh and blood.

"Oh yes," Gull hissed, unable to look away. "He’s
absolutely extraordinary."

"But what of the others?" Spiliakos asked, turning
away. The mist had again grown impenetrable, hiding what lay ahead. "Has
the same fate befallen them?"

Gull finally tore his gaze from the stone man and stared
into the swirling haze.

"Damnable fog," he growled, fumbling in his coat
pocket for his penknife. The blade was no more than two inches long, but it had
proven its worth on many occasions, and he never went anywhere without it. "Should
have thought to do this as soon as we first encountered the infernal brume,"
Gull griped as he opened his other malformed hand and ran the blade across the
palm. Blood bubbled up from the gash, and he closed his fingers upon the wound,
allowing his life stuff to trickle down the sides of his clenched fist and
spatter upon the ground.

Gull closed his eyes, recalling an invocation taught to him
by an ancient hag on the Russian Steppes. The words of the spell leaped from
his mouth as if eager to escape. The blood that had dripped upon the ground
began to smolder, vapors of red rising up to mingle with the fog that
encompassed them. The gore on his hand had begun to fume as well, and he opened
his hand, palm skyward, to expose the bloody cut to the elements. Blood no
longer seeped from the wound, but instead streamed upward, scarlet strands that
stretched from the gash to sway snakelike in the swirling vapor.

The wind suddenly picked up, responding to the ancient
European magicks, and he watched as Spiliakos shielded his eyes from the dust
and sand.

Gull extended both hands before him, the words leaving his
mouth in a bellowing crescendo. With the last of the incantation spoken, Gull
felt the power within him swell and reach out to take hold of the surrounding
fog, clearing it from the sky above the island on an unnatural breeze.

Momentarily drained, he fell to his knees.

"May the gods protect us," Spiliakos said,
muttering the words in Greek.

Gull shook off his disorientation and looked to see what had
brought the exclamation to the old man’s lips. He rose to his feet, surveying
the island now that the mist had been dispersed. In the full light of day, with
blue sky sprawling above and the Aegean crashing upon the shore, Gull at last
could view the panorama of the island that spread out before him. Never in his
long, accursed life had he seen anything quite so breathtaking.

A forest of stone figures. Statues as far as his eyes could
see.

"I have to be closer," Gull said dreamily, walking
forward.

Spiliakos was at first tentative, but then begrudgingly
accompanied him. "They were fleeing her," the old Greek said, moving
among the petrified men, women, and children. "The village of Panagia is
that way, and Emborio is beyond it." He gestured in the direction from
which the villagers had most likely come.

Gull stood before a cluster of men and women who had once
been in his service. They, too, wore expressions of horror; two of the five had
even drawn weapons.