NaNoWriMo 2006 novel. Writing 50,000 words in 30 days. Quality may suffer.
Mister Pabodie rose from his bunk and went opened one of the drawers beneath his wardrobe. 'There are so few good hiding places in a ships cabin,' he said, 'one has to improvise.' He rattled the drawer till it came away entirely, reached up inside the wardrobe and retrieved a small bound roll of newspaper that had been taped to the underside of the inside of the wardrobe.
'Here,' he said, laying the item reverently in Montgomery's hands and retiring to his bunk, 'see what you make of that.'
The bundle was about ten inches long and about four inches in diameter, the paper was tied in two places by twine and torn and frayed and old and yellowed. Montague carefully undid the knots and rolled it out on the desk beside him. Inside was a small, intricately engraved, blood stained, golden knife. The knife was thin, subtly curved, and viciously pointed, what most struck Montague about though were the carvings, they grew deeper from hilt to tip till the knife looked less functional and more like an object of decoration. It was difficult to make out what they represented, there was obviously the scaly surface of fish involved, perhaps entwining tentacles, unmistakably the occasional human feature, but overall it was entirely unclear what it was meant to show.
'Repellent isn't it,' said Pabodie. 'Sometimes I can't bear to look at it. It is sharp on both edges, and observe the deep gutter down the centre, I have no doubt it was in use when we stumbled on the ritual.'
Montague recoiled a little at the thought.
'Try and bend it if you can,' continued Pabodie. 'As far as I can tell it is made of solid gold but for the fact that gold is a soft metal and it is as hard as tempered steel.'
Montague, unwilling to destroy the thing, carefully applied pressure to a detail of the sculpture with his thumb. Pabodie was right, there was no give in it at all. He turned the knife over and lightly traced some of the designs on with his fingers. 'It is like nothing I have seen before,' he said.
'I doubted it would be,' said Pabodie, 'recall also that despite the designs it was found several hundred miles inland. But here let me show you something else.' He walked over to the desk and took a large leather wallet from underneath the pile of books. 'I forgot to mention,' he said, 'that when we ran I picked up Barnes' pack by mistake. There was nothing in it of interest except for these.'
Pabodie opened the wallet and removed two ancient battered pieced of parchment and laid them both on the desk. Montague examined them each in turn. On both was writing in strange angular symbols he did not recognise, on the second was also an unmistakable illustration of the knife.
'If I had any doubt that Barnes took us into the jungle specifically to retrieve that prize these dispelled them,' said Pabodie. 'I have not been able to translate the script, my best guess is it is a form of Coptic but that is the opinion of an amateur. Perhaps you can tell me more.'
Montague traced over the letters one by one and chewed his pipe distractedly. 'It is no form of Coptic I have ever seen,' he said, 'although I see why you think it might be. With the African connection it might be worth looking at Old Nubian.'
'I did,' said Pabodie, 'and got nowhere.'
Montague rubbed his chin in thought. 'There are other sub-Saharan languages it might be, most were related to Coptic so that would explain the similarity, but I'm afraid without the right texts in front of me I could not tell.'
'I have a few,' said Pabodie, gesturing to the books that lay scattered around the room, 'help yourself. Most concern ancient scripts, a few cover less savoury matters.'
'Perhaps tomorrow,' said Montague, 'it is getting late.'
'Of course,' said Pabodie, picking up the knife by the newspaper it lay on and carefully wrapping it up again, 'but before you go there is something else I should tell you. I mentioned that I stopped in London to research its origins, all these books are in fact stolen from the British Library.'
'Stolen!'
'Yes, I'm afraid I had to leave in a hurry. I hope that you might be able to arrange their return for me, I believe some of them are quite rare.'
'I can do that, yes,' said Montague.
'There is one other thing. Recall that I talked to you of the fear that we, the Congolese and I, felt after the raid on the ritual. It was a meaningless terror, a childish fear even, I cannot describe it adequately, perhaps it was some form of sixth sense alerting us to our danger. The fear passed once I was out of Brazzaville, but after ten days in London it returned. You will doubt me I know when I tell you that I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck and my pulse race at odd moments, especially when I tell you that I was being followed on the busy streets of Holborn. You will think I'm mad when I tell you that I believe I am being pursued by something not entirely human.'
'My dear fellow,' said Montague, 'fear is a natural reaction and you are obviously still in shock from your ordeal.'
'I thought that too Mister James, I am at heart a rational being and was worried for my sanity, but two days after I began to have these feelings I found my hotel room again ransacked.'
'It could be coincidence,' said Montague, not sounding convinced himself. 'What did you do?'
'I fled. I returned to the library to take what I needed and was on the next train to Southampton and from there, the first boat to America. This boat. I shall loose myself in the heartland Mister James, in my land, land I know, somewhere where I can see them coming.'
'That would be wise.'
'If I survive the journey. The threat has been growing again. Oh I do not fear any of the passengers or crew, I have made sure to talk to them all in turn, just long enough to know if they raise my hackles but none of them do. But you saw the designs on the knife, it is of the sea, and the further into the ocean we go the more worried I am.'
'Worried about what Mister Pabodie?'
'I do not know. But at night I fancy I can hear the knife call out, and when I search the horizon I see nothing but feel something, some presence, something underneath the water.'
Pabodie sat back and took two deep breaths. 'I am ranting,' he said, 'I know. I must let you go to your bed. Perhaps tomorrow you would call on me after breakfast and assist me in my studies.'
'Of course.'
Pabodie rose from his bunk and went to open the door. 'I will take a stroll on the deck I think,' he said, 'it might be wise if you were not the last person to see me tonight.'
'If you think so,' said Montague.
'I do.'
They walked out together to the aft deck. Montague James lost in thought the whole way, absent mindedly filling and lighting another pipe. On the aft deck there were other passengers quietly talking or just standing looking across the moonlit ocean. It was an uncannily beautiful night, peaceful and warm with a clear sky showing every star, the only sound was that of the steamer churning the water. It was a night to have romantic thoughts, a night to have warm wonderful thoughts, it was not a night to be troubled. Montague forgot his companion and stared back at the disappearing wake of the ship, two diverging white lines upon the bottomless black void of the ocean.
Pabodie coughed. 'Well,' he said, 'I think our presence has been noted. I shall go lock myself in my cabin,'
Montague turned, shook the man warmly by the hand and said he was sorry he could not have been more help.
'Not at all,' said Pabodie, 'just telling the story has been a huge weight off my mind.'
Montague nodded and Pabodie turned and left. As soon as Pabodie had left Miss Willet came over from the port side deck.
'Montague,' she said, 'do you mind if I join you.'
'Not at all.'
'Can you tell me? What was it Mister Pabodie wished to show you?'
'Ah that,' he said, 'I am not sure I should say, he has rather taken me into his confidence.'
'Of course,' the young woman said, 'you understand I had to ask. Is it a mystery? Tell me that much at least.'
'It is,' said Montague, turning back to the sea and sucking on his pipe.
Miss Willet leaned back and regarded him in the moonlight. 'You know who you remind me of? Sherlock Holmes. Have you read any?'
'I have,' said Montague, 'and I wish he was here now.'
'Why?'
'Because Sherlock Holmes always found a logical explanation for everything.'
They were interrupted by Lucy's mother calling for her. The young woman made her farewells and left Montague alone at the stern of the boat. There he remained till the night chill of the sea finally overcame the warmth of summer and he retired back to the shelter of his cabin, where, to no surprise of his own, he did not sleep a wink.
The following morning Frank Pabodie was dead.
