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A Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons story for
Halloween 2006 by Tiger Jackson
Few
people ever visited the tiny nation of Molvania. Those who did uniformly
pronounced it an anachronism. Although the Bereznik Republic had annexed its
territory and declared it a satellite nation, in many ways Molvania changed very
little. It accepted the teaching of the Bereznik language and embraced the
modern technologies offered to it, but still clung to its old customs and
beliefs, and did not actively seek contact with the modern world. Tucked into a
pocket among the rugged mountains by the Bereznik border, unreachable by train
or air, and without any modern roads leading into it, most travellers who were
determined enough to make the days-long journey had to use sturdy ponies and
wagons or hike on foot over the treacherous slopes of several mountains before
reaching one of the narrow passes high above Molvania.
Those who finished the journey did not find a warm welcome. Strangers were not
mistreated, but they were neither encouraged to stay nor to speak of the world
beyond their mountains. Yet, from time to time, travellers came.
When he arrived in Trablok, Manfred presented himself as a student of folklore,
doing a tour on his summer holiday and intent on visiting every nation in
Eastern Europe, however large or small, to collect folklore and local beliefs.
Although he’d been warned of Molvanian taciturnity, he found that many villagers
were voluble when asked to tell stories, especially of the supernatural. He was
in the village tavern, listening to two storytellers argue about which version
of a tale was the true one, when another traveller came in. “Dirk! Come have a
drink with me,” called Manfred. “We met briefly at the village hostel yesterday,
you’ll remember.” Dirk acknowledged that he did. “I noticed you had
mountaineering gear. Are you a climber?” They chatted about mountain-climbing
while the villagers’ argument continued unabated.
When the tavern closed, the two men agreed to walk back to the hostel together.
“But it’s still early, so let’s stroll the village for a while first, until the
beer settles,” suggested Dirk. They wandered along the streets, talking lightly,
and eventually paused by the cemetery.
Dirk nodded. “We can speak safely here. No one’s likely to pass by here now. You
are my contact?”
Manfred glanced around to assure himself that they could not be overheard before
he replied. “I’ve been here for weeks waiting for you. I was beginning to
believe the Bereznik Republic does not want the plans after all.”
Dirk glared at him. “If you are losing faith in your employers, perhaps your
employment should be terminated.”
Manfred gulped. “I didn’t mean to criticize the Republic! I meant to say, I was
wondering if you’d been captured by Spectrum agents.”
“Spectrum? Are they here? Have you seen them?”
“No, but they pursued me all across Europe. I shook them in Serbia and then had
another of our agents lay a false trail from there to Finland. Even if Spectrum
discovers the deception, they’ll never track me here. Our masters were right to
arrange the handoff here in Molvania. It’s the last place anyone would look.”
“Very well then. Do you have the plans with you?”
Manfred shook his head then held up a hand to stop Dirk's angry exclamation.
“They’re safely hidden, here in the cemetery in fact. There was a death in the
village ten days ago. I learned from my folklore sources that it’s traditional
for the living to avoid cemeteries for at least a month after a burial, unless,
of course, someone else dies in the meantime. And no one ever enters the
graveyard after dark. They’re afraid of meeting ghosts or ghouls or demons. I’d
been carrying the packet of plans with me, but it’s so bulky it’s impossible to
conceal. I was afraid there would eventually be questions asked. I realised the
grave was the safest place to stash the packet, so I attended the funeral.”
Dirk’s face was red as a beet. “So the packet is buried two metres underground?”
“No! No! I volunteered to help cover the coffin, and carefully dropped the
packet at the base of the tombstone, then shovelled some dirt over it. It won’t
be more than a couple of feet down.”
“And how will you find the right tombstone?” Dirk asked icily.
Manfred smiled and pointed to a stone topped with a massive cross. “It’s hard to
miss. All we need is a shovel and a little time, and we’ll both be out of here.”
They agreed to meet, separately, late the next night near the grave.
Manfred smoked a cigarette as he waited, thinking longingly of returning to
Vienna, where he could enjoy a proper meal in a café, far away from this
wretched land and its peasant fare. He heard a man’s steps and smiled. “I was
beginning to worry.”
“Hand over the plans.”
The Bereznik spy froze, then turned slowly towards the cultured British voice.
His eyes dropped to the gun in the scarlet-clad man’s hand.
“Spectrum!”
Captain Scarlet extended his free hand. “The stolen plans, please.”
The other man demurred momentarily, then thought better of it. “I’ve got them
inside my coat. In an inner pocket.”
“Reach for them very carefully.” The Spectrum agent focussed on reading the
spy’s body language, expecting him to draw a weapon rather than the packet of
stolen plans. He had momentarily forgotten that there were two spies when he
heard the rustling of leaves behind him. He jumped to one side, but it was the
wrong way. The shovel wielded by man who had surged out of the bush connected
solidly with his head. Scarlet fell to the ground and lay on his back, stunned.
He saw stars and the shovel descending, then there was only darkness.
“That’s enough! That’s enough!” said Manfred in a harsh whisper. “He’s dead!” He
grabbed his companion’s arm as he swung the shovel over his head again.
“ENOUGH,” he hissed. “We’ve got to hide the body and then find our way out of
this Godforsaken place before any more Spectrum agents come looking for him.”
Dirk lowered the shovel and leaned on it, panting hard. While he recovered,
Manfred kept a lookout, on the off chance that someone might come to the
graveyard, even though the sun had set. When Dirk got his breath back, he
nodded. “Okay. So where should we hide him?”
By now, Manfred had thought of an ideal place. “The grave where the plans are
hidden. We can dig the hole a little deeper, throw him in, and cover him up, and
no one will ever notice the difference. Even if they do, these peasants are
extremely superstitious. They certainly aren’t going to disturb a grave, even if
it doesn’t look quite right.”
“Let’s do it then.” He retrieved the shovel and they quickly found the fresh
grave. The soil at the base of the tombstone was loose, as Manfred had expected;
very loose. For every shovelful taken out, at least half a shovel’s worth slid
off the mound and into the hole. The men took turns working, but both were soon
soaked in sweat. Manfred cursed. “It would take all night to make this hole much
deeper! If that Spectrum agent’s body turns stiff, we’ll never get him in
there.” He drove the shovel in deep and groaned as he lifted another load of
dirt. “We’d better drag him over here so we can toss him in as soon as the
hole’s deep enough.”
Dirk nodded. “I’ll fetch him. You keep digging.” Twilight was long past and the
moon had begun its slow rise. The tombstones, many at crazy angles, cast strange
shadows on the ground. After his eyes tricked him several times into avoiding
nonexistent obstacles, Dirk stepped cautiously. When he reached Captain
Scarlet’s body, for the first time he saw the gory mess he’d made of the
Spectrum agent’s face. Even in the moonlight, the dark oozing red made his
stomach heave, and he turned away, retching. He regained his self-control,
steeled his nerve, then pulled off his jacket. Turning to the body again, he
threw the jacket over its ruined face, then dragged it feet first to the fresh
grave.
Manfred frowned at the jacket. “What if someone traces that to you? Your value
as an agent will be finished. You might even be connected with me.”
Dirk shrugged. “You said yourself that no one will find him. Anyway, it’s all
bloody now. Somebody in the village is bound to notice that.”
“Right, leave it then. Let’s get this guy buried, quick.”
The two men seized Captain Scarlet’s body and folded him into the hole as best
they could. It was several feet deep, but not quite as wide because of the
sloping sides created by falling soil. They had to seat the body in it, knees up
against the chest, arms over the ruined face, its head lolling forward and
resting on the knees. The moon was setting by the time they finished filling the
hole. Dawn wouldn’t touch the valley nation for a few hours yet, but the men had
learned that in Molvania, morning chores began in the darkness.
They were almost back to the hostel when Dirk pulled up short. “We’ve got to go
back,” he hissed. “We didn’t clean up that guy’s blood. Somebody sees that,
they’ll know there’s been trouble.”
“Dirk, I’ve been listening to these peasants spew nonsense for days. I told you
what they think about graveyards. What are the odds that someone will die in the
next few weeks?” He looked up at the sky and smiled at the gathering clouds.
“Besides, it looks like nature is going to give us some help.”
The other man looked at the sky and sniffed. “It won’t start raining until much
later today, if at all. Maybe in a few days. Look, let’s at least strew some
dead leaves and grass around. They’ll stick to the blood until rain washes it
away.”
His companion protested, then, after reconsidering, grudgingly agreed, and they
hurried back to the scene of the murder.
“Christ, it’s a good thing we did come back!”
Lying on the grass, plainly visible, was a bright red cap. Dirk hurriedly shoved
it beneath his shirt while Manfred kicked old leaves over any dark patches he
could find. It cost them another precious half hour, but they were both
satisfied by the results.
They made it back to the hostel without incident and, as far as they could tell,
without being seen. Exhausted but nervous, neither man slept more than a few
hours. They packed their rucksacks and checked out of the hostel.
The Molvanians were not sorry to bid their visitors goodbye. Saying they were
afraid of the rains that threatened to keep them in the valley longer than
they’d planned and that the mountaineer could guide the other man out of the
valley, they took their leave and headed for the northern pass towards the
Bereznik Republic. It would be
summer before a hiker discovered Manfred’s remains.
Something stirred in the graveyard.
Captain Scarlet slowly awoke. He remembered what had happened. Damn. They got
the drop on me. He was surrounded by something, something yielding yet firm,
and holding him down, pressing down on his head and neck. He couldn’t see and
could barely breathe through the cloth over his face. He could tell his radio
cap was unfortunately gone, so he had no way to call for help. I’m a prisoner
and on my own. Hardly the first time. He tried to move, tried harder,
managed to move his hands a tiny bit, felt the slithering something
caressing them. It was getting hard to breathe. His lungs burned, then screamed
for air. He tried to shout but he had no breath to spare. His heart raced, and
behind his closed eyes, the darkness turned to red then to black again.
Something stirred in the graveyard.
Again Captain Scarlet awoke, still held tight in the embrace of a thick, cold
shell. It felt cool against the back of his neck. The cloth over his face stuck
to his nose and mouth as he tried to take a breath. What kind of prison is
this?
Desperately, he tried to thrust his arms upward, managing to bend his fingers
slightly, trying to seize and fight back against whatever had trapped him. I
can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t br — Darkness again.
Something stirred in the graveyard.
What’s happening to me? How long can I go on like this? thought Captain
Scarlet as his heart stopped and he died again.
Something stirred in the graveyard.
He woke and struggled then died, again and again and again. He couldn’t count
how many times it had happened now. The man had no more coherent thoughts, just
a desperate desire to get out of his terrifying prison. He woke yet again, moved
his arms again. But this time, one hand suddenly broke the surface. Then
darkness again.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, waking and dying and waking again, he got both hands
free, followed by both arms, pushing and throwing aside the soil that covered
him, until upon yet another awakening, he could pull away the cloth that was
stuck to his face and fill his lungs with cold precious air! Even through closed
eyelids, he could tell it was bright and he opened his eyes. A full moon rode
high in the sky, but thick clouds scuttling across its face were heralding a
storm. The man was still half-buried, but now that he could breathe, he worked
harder to dig out his legs. His muscles felt a little stiff and cramped, but not
terribly. Only fleetingly did he think that it was unnatural; the thought was
gone before he could grasp it.
At last, he managed to pull himself up out of the hole, aching all over and
utterly exhausted. The lightning bolts had become more frequent, accompanied
shortly by claps of thunder. Rain began to fall, and the soil that coated him
turned to mud. Looking up at the sky again, he tried to estimate the time, but
the sky was completely obscured by storm clouds. He could not tell whether it
was day or night. He lay prostrate, trying to gather his strength.
After a short time, dazed and confused and shivering as the rain penetrated to
his skin, he got to his feet and stood shakily. He had no idea where he was or
which way to go. After a minute’s indecision, he began to walk with no idea of
where he was going, only that he had to go somewhere. In the darkness, he had
several collisions with tall, hard objects before running up against a crude
stone wall, too high for him to climb over in his weakened condition. He
retraced his steps and tried again, this time walking downhill.
A huge, sustained bolt of lightning split the sky and allowed him to see his
surroundings. He looked up in amazement at the stone monuments around him until
the light vanished. Those are tombstones, he thought in astonishment.
And the hole I just climbed out of —. He froze in shock. Was it my grave?
Am I dead? O God, am I dead?
Not knowing what else to do, he stumbled on down the hill. Suddenly, a light
flared up before him, dazzling his eyes. It seemed to be a tunnel, the one
people spoke of seeing in near-death experiences. It’s true. I’ve died.
But he didn’t feel drawn into the light; there was no pull at all. I don’t
want to stay here. “Help me!” he cried out, lurching forward.
There was a scream as the light dropped, then moved away, bouncing crazily as
the screaming continued.
“Wait!” the man in the graveyard shouted. “Help me!” The darkness returned.
“Wait,” he repeated more softly. “Help me. Help me.” He fell to his knees in the
mud and sobbed. |
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The priest hugged his coat tightly around him as he hurried towards the
graveyard. The air was cool and his night clothes were thin. He wasn’t sure what
he was hurrying to meet, but he was certain he’d been right not to spend even
the few extra minutes he would have needed to dress warmly.
He had dressed for bed, but then had decided to sit up for a while and think
about his sermon on Sunday. The foreign folklorist had been stirring up the old
legends again, and the parishioners were anxious, especially at this time of
year. According to the stories, this was the season when the veil between the
worlds was the thinnest, and the dead — and the living — could cross over to the
other side. Superstitious nonsense, of course, the priest knew, but Molvanians
clung fiercely to their own ways and traditions. He’d been much the same until
he’d heard his calling and gone for training in a foreign seminary. He loved his
homeland and his people, but he no longer accepted their customs or traditions
unquestioningly.
Deep in thought, he’d been jolted by a pounding at his door and a woman’s
terrified pleas for him to answer. She’d been nearly incoherent.
“Father! Father Teodor! In the gr- gr- graveyard! Th- th-” The poor woman had
been in a state of near collapse. The priest had taken her hand and tried to
relieve her of the electric torch, which she was holding onto as if her muscles
had locked.
“Calm yourself, my child. You’re safe here. You’re safe.” He’d gone on speaking
to her softly and gently until her hysterical babbling had turned into hiccups
and she had stopped shaking. “Now, tell me, what sent you to me? Are you hurt?
Did someone threaten you?”
The woman had raised a trembling hand to her mouth, then crossed herself. “The
graveyard, Father. I saw a demon! It called out to me in some satanic language!”
She’d gulped before describing a multi-armed monster of red and black that had
reached out for her before she’d screamed and run away to the priest’s cottage
by the church. Father Teodor had settled his parishioner as quickly as possible
with a cup of strong tea and a stern admonishment to stay put and not speak to
anyone until he returned. She’d been obviously frightened but did not argue with
him.
What could she have seen? he wondered as he trotted along the path. Katya
was not young or fanciful nor did she lack courage. Having worked in the village
tavern since her childhood, she was strong, confident, and capable. She had no
fear of walking home at night, as long as she had a torch to light her way. Yet
tonight, she had seen something. Something that terrified her.
He hesitated at the gates of the cemetery, then, gently admonishing himself to
have faith in God to protect him, he stepped inside and flicked on the electric
torch. At first, he didn’t notice anything amiss as he swept the light back and
forth. But on the third pass, something reflected his light, something very
small and metallic. He found it again and realised he was looking at a heap of
something red with a tiny glint of gold and white on each side. As he forced
himself to approach it, his heart began to race. It nearly stopped altogether
when the red heap moved.
The priest sighed as he saw it was a only a man dressed in red and black whose
face was pale, muddy, and streaked with blood and tears. “Help me! Please, don’t
leave me here!” he begged.
English, thought the priest, not without embarrassment. He had half-believed
his parishioner when she swore the man had spoken with a demonic tongue. Few
Molvanians besides himself understood English, even though it was the world’s
lingua franca.
The stranger’s voice sounded hoarse and tired. His striking blue eyes were empty
of hope but filled with pain and fear. The priest crossed himself to strengthen
his sense of duty.
“Here, put your arm over my shoulders. I’ll take you someplace safe.” Slowly,
the two of them walked and stumbled to the priest’s cottage.
Katya smiled timidly as she opened the door then let out a scream as she saw
that Father Teodor was not alone.
“Be silent!” the priest snapped. “Help me get him to the spare room, then bring
warm water and cloths.”
The stranger sat placidly on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, as the priest
wiped away the muck from his hands and face. Seeing the quantity of blood that
stained the cloth, Father Teodor searched for wounds. To his amazement, he found
none. The stranger suddenly opened his eyes. “Is this heaven? Are you here to
help me?”
The priest smiled. “This isn’t heaven, just a way station. But I will help you,
my son.”
The man looked bewildered. “Dad? When did you die? You don’t look like my
Dad!” He was becoming agitated.
“Calm down! I’m a priest,” Father Teodor said gently, placing a hand on the
man’s shoulder, and introduced himself. “Who are you? Can you tell me your name?
Where did you come from?”
“I’m —” The red-clad man froze. “I— I don’t know. I can’t remember. I was in the
cemetery. I don’t remember dying!” His eyes began to fill with tears.
“You’ve been injured,” soothed the priest. He helped the man to undress to the
skin, then covered him with the blankets. “Rest now, and your memory will
return.” He sent up a little prayer of apology; he wasn’t certain how truthful
those statements were.
He found Katya cowering in the parlour. “How can he stand your touch? You’re a
man of god and he’s a demon!” she hissed.
The priest sat down wearily and dumped the filthy clothes on the floor at his
feet. It was just past midnight, he noted with wonder; it felt much later. “Why
do you think he’s a demon?” he asked.
“Because it’s obvious! A stranger in the graveyard on the most evil night of the
year. And covered in blood to boot!” she finished with a rising note of panic in
her voice.
“How do you know there was blood?” asked the priest, genuinely curious.
Katya snorted, and pointed to the stranger’s clothing. “I’ve been a woman for
many years, Father. I know what blood stains look like.” She ducked her head
modestly, so as not to see the priest’s blush.
“He is a supernatural being,” the priest conceded. “I couldn’t find any wounds
on him to explain the blood. But that doesn’t mean he’s evil. Remember what
happened to the town of Bagasin. A saint visited them to test the people’s
mercy. He took the guise of an abused, starving man. When the people refused him
food and then whipped him for begging, they incurred God’s wrath, and he buried
them under the mountain.” Katya
nodded, subdued yet more frightened than before. She had seen the mound of rocks
and heard the story, when travelling south with her family to visit relatives.
Molvanians were not warm to strangers, yet they feared actively mistreating
them, lest they repeat Bagasin’s mistake. “And the saint first appeared
mysteriously in the graveyard, covered in mud.” She crossed herself. The priest
nodded, pleased that his lesson had gotten across. But it hadn’t taken hold.
“But the demon of Skadran! It came out of the graveyard and killed all the
villagers as they slept!” Katya’s voice rose to a screech.
Father Teodor sighed. “I will keep the man by me. I will hang a crucifix on his
door, and wear one myself, and I will carry holy water. If he is a demon, he
will soon be exposed by God’s light. If he is a saint, he will reveal himself
when God wills.” And if he is only a man, then God help me to help him!
Katya did not want to do the washing for Father Teodor, afraid that contact with
the demon’s clothing would endanger her soul, but she was more afraid to refuse;
she had already been exposed to the demon’s presence, and what if the priest
became angry and denied her communion? At least he had promised to bless her
home once her odious chore was finished. She ran home, anxious to finish as soon
as possible.
She smiled briefly as she entered her kitchen; her best friend and neighbour had
stopped in to stoke the fire and put the kettle on, as she often did when Katya
worked the late shift at the tavern. Usually it warmed her bones and heart;
tonight, it reminded her of the hellfire that the mysterious stranger had
undoubtedly sprung from.
She quickly programmed the washer and started tossing the clothes into it. By
force of habit, she checked the pockets and found a little red book. Fear warred
with curiosity until curiosity won out and she opened it. It had a picture of
the man in red, writing in a language she couldn’t read, a strange, multi-colour
symbol she’d never seen before, and what was unmistakeably a signature. “The
devil’s own book!” she cried, half in fear, half in triumph, and threw it into
the fireplace. To her disappointment, there was no bright flash, no demonic
shrieking, and no sulfuric odour. The little book simply burned to ash.
When she returned to the cottage later with the stranger’s now clean-and-dry
clothing, she did not mention the book.
When he awoke, the stranger was much improved physically. But his mental state
soon proved to be precarious. He could recall nothing about who he was or where
he had come from. He insisted he had a job to finish but when pressed, he became
confused. Finally, he wept with frustration.
“I must be in Hell.”
“No my son, you are not,” the priest replied patiently.
“Then this must be somewhere close to it. If I could only remember,” said the
stranger, his voice rising, “maybe I could escape! If I can only remember who I
am and what I’m supposed to do!” He stopped shouting and buried his face in his
hands.
There was a knock at the door. As the priest rose to answer it, he paused to
give the other man a gentle pat on the shoulder, then swiftly walked away.
“Katya!” he exclaimed. “Thank you for your hard work.” He took the pile of clean
clothing and noticed with concern how weary the woman looked. “I didn’t expect
you to work all night, my daughter,” he chided her with gentle concern.
She dropped her gaze and wrung her hands. “I had to, Father. I just had to,” she
murmured so softly the priest had to strain to hear her. “Will you please come
bless me and my house?” She looked up at him imploringly.
The priest sighed. He had promised last night that he would. That she doubted
his word told him she still clung to her superstitious fear of the stranger and
his influence. He nodded and agreed to come by later that day, after Katya had
slept.
After he gave the stranger his clothes, he prepared breakfast, which the two of
them consumed in silence.
“It’s a beautiful day outside,” began the priest. “The rains stopped some hours
ago. Do you feel like joining me for a walk?”
The stranger did not answer but he did not ignore the question either. Rather,
the priest thought, he seemed to be weighing it. Finally, he nodded.
As they walked slowly along the road, the priest kept up a running commentary
about the village’s history and pointed out the church, the fields, the houses,
and shops. His companion said little but obediently listened and looked around
him, searching for something — anything — familiar. Too soon, he found it.
He stood before the half open gates to the cemetery and stared at them. This
place he remembered. “This is where I passed over,” he whispered.
“From where, my son?” asked Father Teodor, leading him forward, hoping that some
spark of memory was glowing and that a walk among the graves would fan it.
“From life to — here.” The stranger felt light-headed as his heart began to
race. “I remember darkness . . . cold . . . trapped . . . I can’t breathe . .
.,” he rasped, his throat tightening. “I can’t breathe!”
“Turn away, my son, turn away! It’s over! You’re all right now! You’re all
right!” The priest continued speaking gently and reassuringly to the terrified
man as he guided his stumbling steps to the tavern and pounded on the door.
“Get away!” growled a rough voice. “We’ll open when it’s time!”
“Mikhail! It’s Father Teodor! Help me!”
The door was opened by a bear of a man, the sort who was never intimidated by
the most pugnacious drunk but he recoiled momentarily when he realized whose arm
was draped over the priest’s shoulders. Then, he struck. “Argh! Get off him, ye
demon!” As he shouted, he grabbed the red-clad man and flung him against a wall.
“Mikhail, no! I need help with him, not rescuing from him!” He helped the
stranger back to his feet while the barman kept a wary eye on him, ready to
defend the priest again. “He’s had a serious shock. I brought him here for a
stimulating drink.”
The barman nodded and fetched a bottle. He poured a small glass and handed it to
the priest, who thanked him. “Here, my son,” he said to the stranger, “drink
this. It will restore you.”
The man automatically raised the glass and drained it. The raw liquor burned his
mouth and throat, doubled him up with a coughing fit. The barman grinned, then
laughed. “Never thought a demon would be unable to stomach that! Maybe he’s a
saint after all.” His smile disappeared when the stranger raised his head, and
the barman looked into eyes that had seen a vision of hell.
As each day passed, the stranger became more and more distant. And the villagers
became increasingly troubled. All over the village, and especially in the
tavern, the people whispered about the mysterious stranger’s nature and debated
the priest’s wisdom in harbouring him. Was he a saint? a demon? or something
worse?
The priest could not confine the restless man to the little cottage, so he
walked with him about the village each day. Father Teodor felt that bringing the
stranger out in the daytime helped to alleviate some of the villagers’ fears;
some would even pause to exchange a few words with him as they stared wide-eyed
at the red-clad man. But a glimpse of his chilling blue eyes were enough to send
even those brave souls on their way in a hurry.
More than a week had passed since the stranger arrived, and the priest was
beginning to despair.
Strangers were rare in Molvania, but the villagers began to feel themselves
besieged. There had been three in the past month, and now another was riding up
the road from the south on horseback. There was nothing especially remarkable
about him; his denim and brown-leather clothing was worn and serviceable; his
black hair and brown eyes were not unlike those of many Molvanians. In the
tavern, where he stopped that evening, he spoke Bereznik instead of Molvanian,
and with a peculiar accent. But despite their usual aversion to strangers, Katya
and the other barmaids tried to keep him talking so they could hear more of it.
He smiled when they asked about the odd inflections of his speech and attributed
it to being born in one country and spending his childhood in another. They
listened intently as he made polite inquiries about a dark-haired man dressed in
red who might have passed through within the last few weeks.
“Why, that must be the man Father Teodor is taking care of,” exclaimed Katya.
“Taking care of?” The stranger was visibly surprised. “Is he hurt?”
The villagers exchanges wary glances. “Not in any way that you can see,”
ventured the bar man. “But he won’t explain who he is or how he got here. Or
maybe he can’t,” he added reluctantly, remembering the legends.
“Now I’m curious. I want to meet this strange man. Where can I find Father
Teodor?” asked the stranger.
“Don’t go looking for trouble now! You see, the thing is, most of us believe
that the man is a...” His voice
dropped. “A demon.” The stranger smiled.
“That’s no problem for me. I’m a sort of demon hunter.” More than one nervous
villager hurriedly made the sign of the cross at that.
Katya made up her mind. Only a good man could rid the village of the priest’s
demon guest, and the hunter seemed to be one. “You can probably find the priest
in the church; he’s usually there about this time making his evening devotions.
If he isn’t, try his cottage.” She gave him directions.
The self-declared demon hunter found the priest in the church and introduced
himself. “I believe I know who your mysterious guest is. I’ve been searching for
him.”
The priest immediately agreed to take him to see the man who had emerged from
the graveyard. “Thank God you’ve found him, Captain. I don’t know how much
longer I could do anything for him.”
The red-clad man was seated in the priest’s study, staring listlessly at a book
in his lap. He looked up, dull-eyed and hopeless, at the two men before him.
“Captain Scarlet!” said the hunter. The seated man did not react. “Captain Scarlet! Paul! What’s happened
to you?” he continued, extending a hand.
The other man’s eyes began to shine and his breath caught. “Do you know me? My
name is Paul?” When the hunter nodded, Captain Scarlet seized his hand. “I can’t
recall why I’m here,” he began to sob. “There’s something I have to do, but I
can’t remember what it is! What is it I have to do? Can you tell me? ”
“Yes, Captain Scarlet,” promised Captain Black, as a flash of green appeared in
his deep-brown eyes. “Soon you will know what you must do.” The
End
Author’s Notes: Several things terrify me. One is being
buried alive. Another is total amnesia, a complete loss of identity and purpose.
Another is witnessing is the collapse of a strong person, the kind you believe
can never be broken. And a rescue that is not a rescue but only a change of
prisons…. At least I’ve never been buried alive. Not yet, anyway. About “demon hunter.” It has two possible meanings. Captain Magenta
would be a demon hunter: One who hunts demons (Mysterons). And Captain Black is
also a demon hunter: A demon (Mysteron agent) who hunts. (I love twisting the
English language *cackle*.) I bow to Mary
and Chris, my proofreaders, for catching mistakes and improving passages. Any
remaining errors or sloppy prose are my own fault. Enjoy a safe and happy Halloween 2006! Tiger Jackson October 2006
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