The Hungering Font
Mr. DeVries was in a foul mood today, mean as I've ever seen him. He stormed in to the lobby soaking wet, threw his unused umbrella at me, stomped into his office and slammed the door. It was only a moment until I heard the match strike, and caught a hint of smoke with that familiar narcotic tang creeping into the lobby. Mr. DeVries has been smoking a lot more lately, which is rarely a good thing for anyone. When Mr. DeVries is troubled, terrible things are known to happen. And terrible things are exactly what happened to the unfortunate Karl Linden, who had the tenacity to choose that moment to knock on Mr. DeVries' door.
It was a decidedly foolish thing to do, I thought, but who was I to stop him? Mr. DeVries had not forbidden visitors after all, so when Linden showed up in the lobby and asked permission, of course I urged him on. There was a long pause after Mr. Linden's sheepish knock. I nodded to him, prompted him to speak. Mr. Linden asked, in a voice awkwardly loud so as to be heard through the door, if Mr. DeVries wouldn't consider granting him pardon from the afternoon's labors, in order that he might see off his son on the lad's first whaling voyage. He added that he had worked the last night's shift as well as his normal day shift to make up the difference. There was another pause then, during which I hung up Mr. DeVries' umbrella.
"Mr. Darling!" shouts DeVries.
"Yes sir?" I reply, a slight smile on my lips, in order that Mr. DeVries not suspect I bear him any resentment by my tone.
"Please thank Mr. Linden for bringing this distraction to our attention! If he is not able to work because of his son, let us put his son to work at his side!"
Linden made a sound then, somewhere between a snarl and a strangled cry, but managed to spit out a "No!" He realized his mistake the instant he made it, and sunk to his knees with his face in his hands. DeVries' door whipped open and there stood the old miser, his face almost crimson in fury and his eyes narrowed and murderous with outrage. And, of course, the old white whalebone cane in his hand.
"You say no to me?" DeVries hissed, and the cane struck once with a hideous hollow knock of bone on bone. Linden whimpered as he bled, but made no attempt to protect himself.
"You say no, to me!" The cane struck again. "I put food on your table!" DeVries howled. The head of the cane, no longer ivory white but horrible dripping red, cracked down again, and I believe Linden died at this point. It is hard to say for certain, as Mr. DeVries continued for some time and the body was somewhat beyond examination by the time it was removed.
45 Month of Nets, 1124
A stranger arrived at the shipyard office today, or at least he was a stranger to me. I've come to suspect this man was the reason for the foul humor upon Mr. DeVries during the death of Karl Linden. At half past ten in the morning he entered the shipyard office, bringing with him an inexplicable aroma of burnt cedar. The strange man was tall enough that he stooped as he came through the door, and broad as if he had spent years behind the oar. Despite this, I immediately sensed that the man was not a sailor. Though his face was weathered by age, I saw no hint of windburn or sun damage marring his complexion, nor was the skin around his dark eyes marked by the patterns of tiny crinkles characteristic to those who've spent hours squinting into the horizon. His hair was wispy and white, and fell in snowy curls upon his massive shoulders. Visitors over-land to our sequestered bay are rare, so it was with some due suspicion that I inquired as to his name and business.
"Varacco," the man replied, in a voice distant and uninterested, "Silas Varacco. Your lord has business with me."
"Pardon me, Mr. Varacco," I started, though the words seemed reluctant to depart my tongue, "but Mr. DeVries has business only with those on this list and..." my rehearsed rebuke faltered in my throat, as the man's peculiar gaze was leveled upon my own. I looked away quickly, rearranging the papers upon my writing table. "Let me check with him," I concede. The man said nothing, as a shark does not address the concerns of pilot-fish.
I found myself knocking on Mr. DeVries' door - a perilous position to say the least, especially when unexpected. I knocked twice, first firmly and then slightly softer. Once to get his attention, twice to indicate it was no mistake, and then I waited, pro forma. The silence which answered contained unspeakable threats.
I heard muffled speech through the door - unlike him, very unlike Mr. DeVries not to speak to be heard. "I'm very sorry sir," I stammered, "I did not hear-"
"Send him in, I said!" came the thunderous reply, "Send him in, damn it! Send the bastard in, I will see him!"
Without waiting for permission Varacco pushed his way past me, brusquely throwing open the door. Mr. DeVries was seated behind his desk, a looming altar of carved blackwood which normally served to intimidate Mr. DeVries' visitors, but which now only caused him to appear smaller and weaker than the towering bulk of Varacco, whom DeVries glared at as one might regard a placid crocodilian.
As he stooped again to step through the door, Varacco rumbled, "A deal is a deal, shipwright." One of his hands, so large I couldn't help picturing it crushing my skull like a grape, threw the door shut and it slammed with concussive force into the jam. Though I strained to make out the details of that conversation, I could hear only that their voices became low and dire.
The day continued without event, and hours passed while the two men discussed their secret business. Several times I attempted to eavesdrop at the door, but could discern no words, only that tone of dreadful reverence. Once I entered the room unannounced under the auspices of delivering Mr. DeVries' daily coffee, risking a tongue-lashing from DeVries in hopes to overhear even a word or two. I found the two men standing in and facing opposite sides of the room, saying nothing, staring blankly into space, each enraptured in their own troubled reverie. For some reason, a tingle of icy apprehension dripped down my spine. I deposited the silver tray upon Mr. DeVries' desk and left immediately, and made no further attempts to breach the privacy of the office.
As the sun began to drop behind the horizon, the door suddenly opened, and that burnt cedar odor assaulted my nostrils again.
"Three days," I heard Varacco utter in his chilling baritone, "Then the work will begin." The giant strode out of DeVries' office and proceeded to exit the lobby without sparing a glance in my direction. I hoped he had forgotten about me. Then Mr. DeVries beckoned with his thin, spidery fingers.
"Mr. Darling," he says without meeting my gaze, "You will be my representative to Varacco in the coming months. We have work ahead of us."
48 Month of Nets, 1124
I have oft called myself "atheist". In my heart, perhaps "agnostic". After today, I no longer know what I am. But I know the Devil exists, for I have seen him.
Today construction began on an ostentatious chateau, located on the highest of the cliffs surrounding the shipyards. It was a journey of several hours northward by horseback, across the lowlands and up rough-hewn switchbacking paths which led to the site. The three-dozen men who had been selected for this duty, already uneasy, were made even more wary by the miserable weather.
"It's a bad omen, sir," one of them warned. Tyler Renney his name was, a lad not more than eighteen but with the grown-too-soon face of a child who knew true labor, "the rain, it's coming down heavy and cold. Feel the way it chills you to the very bone sir?" Of course I did. "We are not builders sir- well, not of fine houses for rich lords! We build ships! We should not be here." Would that I had listened. But I had my orders. They are still in effect.
As we ascended the final hill and saw the white-haired giant waiting for us, the horses grew tense and fearful, and several men struggled to keep their steeds from bolting. As we drew nearer, I felt Varacco's black gaze upon me, and fought the urge to flee myself. I gripped the handle of a tiny knife I'd tied to my belt and felt a minuscule emboldening. We had our orders. One does not disobey direct orders from Niles DeVries.
Varacco thanked us all, in his booming, grave-stone voice, for making the journey to the place he had decided to build his new home. He asked us to follow him, and led us down a path which after some distance began a steep descent. The slope led shortly to the entrance of a cave, which Varacco explained was directly beneath the site on which he intended to build the chateau. The cave's ceiling was, when measured, found to be twelve feet high. The cave, Varacco explained, would be linked to the chateau by way of a ladder, and via a hole we would need to dig. Out of the rain, the cave's darkness barely dispelled by the light of several torches, Varacco detailed his plan for the construction, and produced blueprints for the chateau's design. The men, though apprehensive, understood the principles of building well enough to begin, and within a few short hours the ground had been broken and the first trees felled.
And then the men grew thirsty.
At this, Varacco smiled and asked for two to draw water from the well, to which he would show them. I volunteered, having grown thirsty myself and admittedly being of little help to the effort of building. The other who came was the young lad from the road, Tyler Renney, volunteered by his workmates by virtue of being the smallest.
As Varacco led us back down that sloping path toward the cave, Renney whispered urgently "Sir please, something is wrong." Though the hair on my neck stood on end, and my stomach crept further and further up my throat as I walked, I chided the lad and reminded him that we represented the DeVries Shipyard Company, and of the hideous revenge known to be exacted upon those who quit the employment of said company. Our families lived under roofs owned by Mr. DeVries.
It all seems very long ago now. My own voice in my memories sounds so pitifully naive.
He led us into the cave, further in than we had gone before. He took a torch from its sconce on the wall, and led us through the complete darkness of a narrow subterranean path which branched three times. It perturbs me that I cannot now recall the directions we took, though I know that at the time I paid close attention. I daren't lose my way in that stygian labyrinth. The furtive, fearful breaths of Tyler Renney behind me echoed from the claustrophobic stone walls, and I could have sworn I heard the sounds of clawed, crawling things in the shadows all around us, investigating the scent of sunlight-soaked meat in their underground domain.
After the final turn I felt that we were descending some depth, as the air about us grew colder. Then ahead I could perceive a dim light, growing clearer as we approached. As the light grew stronger, I saw that the cave had risen up above our heads as we walked, and nearly thirty feet up a pair of tiny openings in the rock permitted a gasp of fresh air, and a meager shaft of light to wander through the cave's darkness, like a child playing in the woods, still ignorant that they were lost. This light revealed the promised well. Damn my eyes that ever I caught sight of that baleful spring.
It was a small pool of water collecting in a natural stone basin, enough to draw perhaps a mouthful of clean water before it would need to refill. Still, it looked cool and inviting, and young Renney's parched throat betrayed him.
"That's not a well!" the lad spat, "That's barely a spring! How are thirty-seven men to drink from this?"
"Don't worry about them," Varacco growled, "There's only enough for you."
I must admit at this moment, my gut urged me forward, to gulp down that mouthful of springwater, damn the men and their parched throats. It was only a wayward glance into the predatory black glare of Silas Varacco that froze my step, like a deer entranced by the sight of its own death in the jaws of a wolf. But Tyler Renney spared no glance to either of us. He charged forward, threw himself on the rock into which the water sprung, and shoved his lips into the tiny pool. In an instant the basin was drained. Renney waited, poised above the now empty depression, willing the spring to refill, but it seemed to have dried up. I saw him reach a questing finger into the empty basin, hoping to catch a hint of the source.
He made to stand, but could not rise. His hand appeared to have stuck in the basin. I saw this, though I cannot explain it. As surely as if an invisible iron cuff had been clapped about his wrist, Renney's hand was held in the basin. His face showed his immediate panic, and he screamed in terror as he tried in vain to stand.
I did try to help him. That's what I keep telling myself. I did try. I took a step forward. I reached my hand out. Then I looked at Varacco. The madness of his smile chilled the very blood in my veins, and I dared not intervene in what I suddenly knew would be the death of Tyler Renney. I recount his ghastly demise as I witnessed it, though I do not attempt to make sense of what I saw. It is beyond my comprehension.
Poor Renney was eaten by the rock. His hand was the first part of him to disappear. As if it had vanished beneath the surface of dark water, Tyler's hand sunk into the rock, and was gone, followed by his arm, his shoulder, and the rest of him. Though he begged for me to save him, and eventually, to kill him, my feet remained rooted as I witnessed the grisly ordeal. As the boy's frightened eyes were drawn beneath the hungering earth, Varacco let forth a jubilant howl, which mingled with Renney's terrified scream for a moment until the boy's face was fully engulfed and his cries could no longer be heard.
That's when I saw the Devil. Glimpsed is more like, as a man might glimpse the blade that takes his head, and I thank any benevolent force in existence for that, though I've seen no proof of benevolent forces. Not as I saw this. At the moment I heard him shout I looked up at his face and saw not the unsettling visage of Silas Varacco, but the braying snout of a snarling hell-hog, its bloodied tusks glistening in the wan cave light, and felt the nightmare screech of a demon pig stab at my eardrums. In an instant, the phantasm evaporated, and it was only myself, and the smiling, white-haired giant left in the cave. Of Tyler Renney, there was no trace.
"You may now draw water," Varacco rumbled. I looked and beheld as the spring refilled, then overfilled, cold, crystalline water cascading down the surface of the ancient rock. I filled the bucket I had brought, then retrieved Renney's from where he had dropped it and filled that as well. The water continued to well forth, and as Varacco led me from the cave - and led me he did, for I had and still have no memory of the route to the spring - I asked how long it would continue to flow.
"A day," he mused, his voice like the grinding of boulders, "Perhaps two, if you're lucky. The boy was small."
When I reached the camp and distributed water, the men were understandably curious regarding Renney's absence.
"He fell ill," I lied, "I sent him home. We will arrange for relief." And I did, of course, request a replacement in my letter to Mr. DeVries, which will be delivered by carrier bird this very night. I did not detail the circumstances of Mr. Renney's death, explaining only that he suffered an accident and would not require burial. I did, however, note that Mr. Varacco seemed a man possessed of uncanny resources, and that his continued business may be in the best interest of the DeVries Shipyard Company.
I don't know if there's anyone looking out for us, I've never seen evidence of a guardian angel or heard the voice of Palaemon. But I know there are things which prey upon us. And I have seen the Devil at work.
1 Month of Hooks, 1124
It is the third day since the death of Tyler Renney. I have made the journey to that horrid well each day since, and seen another of the men swallowed up by the hungering font. Each time Varacco has led us there, as lambs to the slaughter, and howled that insane, triumphant howl as the man was pulled inside the slavering stone. The sound of it haunts my dreams now, dreams that are only nightmarish recreations of my time at the font. I have taken to sleeping with my knife under my pillow, though I know its corporeal edge to be a meager defense against this witchcraft. Unless I am mistaken - and I would be among the first to question my own sanity by now - Varacco gains some kind of otherworldly vitality from the deaths of those men. The first day I did not notice, but Varacco himself said the boy was small. Perhaps he, forgive me, Renney, wasn't worth much?
The second day we took a man named Yves. I never learned his first name, he spoke little. He was a strong working man, perhaps just a few years beyond his prime. The men liked Yves for his rare, poignant wisecracks, but he made no witty remarks as he was devoured face-first by the rock. As Varacco cried out in that unholy ecstasy, I sensed his quickening the way one perceives a small change in temperature - nothing to see, but a feeling one might recognize if they try, like a slight prickling on the skin or the humid weight of sudden air pressure.
Their suspicions raised now, the men fearfully demanded to know where Yves had gone, the second of their workmates to go missing in as many days. I explained how Yves had, amidst the serpentine twists of the path to the well, suddenly yelped and ran into the darkness, screaming about having been bitten by something. Though Varacco and I had given chase, we feared his mind affected by the venom of some cave-dwelling horror, and turned back when we could no longer hear his shouts. The men, loyal to each other if nothing else could be said of them, insisted on a search party. For an instant I felt sure my deception would come undone, then Varacco's voice rolled through the evening air and silenced all dissent.
"We must draw water again tomorrow," the giant asserted, "We will resume the search then."
I could see the men were not satisfied with this outcome, but not a one spoke a word in opposition to Varacco.
The next day we took Renault, for he was known to be a fair tracker, and the men were certain that he would locate poor, wayward Yves. His suspicions raised, Renault did not submit to Varacco's urging to drink the water. He looked at me with narrow, questioning eyes, and I saw his hand subtly move to the carpenter's hammer looped on his belt. Varacco saw it too. With speed a giant like he should not have possessed, Varacco lurched forward and violently shoved Renault towards the rock. Renault, taken off-guard by Varacco's sudden advance, fell forward, cracking his skull on the cave wall behind the spring. I pray he remained unconscious as his body fell across the basin and was osmosed by the rock, the sound of his ribs cracking like a bundle of dry twigs followed by the meatier, living-wood snap of his spine. The white haired giant shuddered as Renault died, clearly savoring the eldritch energy of this unspeakable repast. I wonder at his prodigious size and strength, and the number of men who had been fed to that ravenous spring. How came Varacco upon it? What deal had been struck to create this dreadful symbiosis?
I told the men how Renault had found Yves well enough, his body deep within the maze of the cave tunnel, dead from the poison of some dreadful cave beastie. And then how Renault had fallen afoul a bite from that same fearful creature, and with feverish strength broke free of my shepherding grip and ran off into the dark. I could see that they did not believe me, but they questioned me no further.
Today the men refused to send a volunteer, insisting that Varacco and I go alone to draw the water. At this Varacco laughed, a cruel chuckle filled with murderous mirth, then reached forward with one of his massive, strangler's hands and yanked a man from the safety of the group. Forgoing all pretense, the man, whose name I learned later to be Winthorpe, was unceremoniously dragged down the path, thrashing helplessly against Varacco's terrifying might and begging his workmates to help him. The only person who moved was me. No one even drank from the buckets I returned.
I sent another letter to Mr. DeVries, colloquially alerting him that there existed a mortal threat to the work crew, which had proved so demoralizing that I expected to require a full replacement of the staff. I added a personal request for said replacements be sent that very day, as I suspected the current crew may become disloyal.
2 Month of Hooks, 1124
Last night came the inevitable mutiny. I had been expecting it since my lies about the fates of Yves and Renault. By the time the moon had risen into the low western sky, only hours into the nocturnal embrace of darkness, the greater number of the men had already fled. Only a few vengeful agents remained, with murder on their minds. These brave, foolish few, seeking retribution for their slain brethren, came creeping into my tent as I feigned slumber, having awakened hours previously due to my haunted dreams, and since been unable to loose my begrudging grip on consciousness.
"Quietly now Lucas," I heard one whisper, "If he wakes the giant, Charlie and Danforth are goners."
"They're goners anyway," the other replied, "We all are, Allen, this will never work, I told you we should have left with the oth-"
"Shhh! You'll wake him you noisy shit." I heard them approach, and knew my end was nigh. Though I gripped the tiny knife under my pillow, I am no athlete or fighter; surely if I ran they would catch me, and if I fought they would overpower me. I could feel their presence on either side of my cot, my every nerve singing with awareness despite my eyes remaining deceptively shut. I sensed them ready themselves to do the deed -
All three of us jumped as a bloody shriek erupted from Varacco's tent, the sounds of agony spearing through the susurrus of night.
With my would-be killers distracted by this frightful emanation, I seized what I innately knew to be my only chance of survival, and struck out wildly with the knife. The slashing blow caught one killer across the face, and the other in the neck, and both fell back, gushing blood onto my bedsheets. The shriek from Varacco's tent had cut off suddenly, but more hideous sounds emerged in its place. Sibilant tearing of still-warm flesh, and the wet crunch of breaking bones echoed out into the silvery moonlight, then all was silent once more.
I know not how long I sat there in the quiet dark, spellbound by the shocking violence and paralyzed by the icy grip of fear. Of Varacco there had been no sign once the killing had stopped. I heard no further movement, and saw no shadows caper across the moonlit walls of the tent. The sound of my heart pounded like war-drums in my ears, and each breath seemed to hold all the cacophony of an avalanche.
"Lucas?" A voice asked hoarsely in the darkness. My bones nearly jumped free of my skin, so startled was I.
"Lucas, is that you? I can't see!" In the dim light I could perceive a slight movement, to the side of my cot. One of the would-be murderers had survived my attack, the man who had taken the blade across his face. "I can't see Lucas, he blinded me!"
Like a bolt of black lightning, I was struck then by a forbidden epiphany, and a plan crystallized in my mind. A question which starved for an answer.
"Yes," I lied, and recalled the man's name in a silver bullet streak of clarity, "It's me, Allen."
"You sound strange," Allen moaned warily.
"He cut my throat," I improvised, "I've a grip on it so I don't bleed to death, but I turned his blade on him. Come now, I'll lead you out of here. We've got to find some help."
I helped my would-be murderer to his feet, and led him from the tent. Out into the light of the moon, I could see my knife had raked across the man's eyes, ruining them permanently. He had no sense of direction as I led him past the skeletal embryo of the chateau, and down the woefully familiar sloping path. Of the white-haired giant, there was still no sign. His tent was abandoned, a deserted charnel house.
As we stepped into the shelter of the cave, Allen pulled his arm from my grip.
"Where are we, Lucas?" he demanded, "Where have you taken me?"
"Out of the rain," I say, "We'll make our way in the morning. I must make a wrap for my wound, else I'll bleed out in my sleep."
Allen groaned his concession.
"Let me lead you further," I admonish, "For the wind here still cuts with the night's chill." I could feel his fear, his hesitation. Though the seeds of doubt had begun their insidious germination in his mind, helplessly he followed as I led him deeper into the blackness of the cave.
I still know not how I found my way through the branching paths of oppressive dark. As if tugged along by an invisible string, I felt the pull of an ethereal force, drawn inexorably by my profane purpose.
"Lucas," Allen whispered, his fear so potent I could smell it, "Where are we going?"
I did not answer.
Then from out of the gloom did I behold a twinkle of light, caught by the waiting water of the hungering font. I smiled, certain of my plan's imminent success.
"There is a spring here, Allen," I croon, "Just a little sip of water. Let me lead you to it, for you will need to drink from the stone."
"No," he shuddered, "You're not Lucas are you? Just let me go, please!"
"Allen," I insist, my voice honeyed and deadly like poisoned candy, "You must drink."
"No!" he shouts, "Mr. Darling, if that's you, please just turn me loose. I'd rather wander blind in the wilderness until I starve than find out what happened to Renney!"
His defiance summoned a surge of rage from somewhere in the shadowed catacombs beneath my heart, and with hands like rheumy claws I gripped his quaking form. An iron strength I had hitherto never possessed suffused my limbs, and I wrestled Allen to the rock, pinning his arms and forcing his face into the basin.
"You will drink," I crow in triumph, "You will drink!"
As the rock began its horrid feeding, Allen's screams became the symphony of my ascension. Words fail to encompass the ecstasy bestowed by the font as its infernal appetite was satisfied. The raw vitality of Allen's soul became my black sacrament, and the sensation of absorbing the life of another being swept me up in its orgasmic swell. I cried out, as Varacco did, unable to contain the sheer pleasure, and as what remained of Allen was devoured I slumped into a blissful unconsciousness.
When I awoke, Varacco was there. From where I lay on the ground, water lapping at my face and coat as it flowed from the basin, he appeared even larger and more terrifying than ever before. He reached down and pulled me bodily to my feet.
"This spring," he growled, his face so close to mine that his burnt cedar stink stung my nostrils, "Is not mine. It belongs to something far greater than your little mind can conceive.
You have been chosen, Mr. Darling. Come now, we have work ahead of us."
This time I led the way from the cave, my route through the darkness sure and effortless. I could feel the unholy vigor of the font like a new heartbeat, and the cold, eternal depth of its hunger. Varacco and I did away with the bodies of those men who had died in the tents.
I prepared a new letter to Mr. DeVries, explaining how much I was enjoying my time working with Mr. Varacco, despite the unfortunate unreliability of the previous crew. I recommended that additional relief crews be put on standby, as the demoralizing mortal threat still existed, and may yet cause difficulty. I advised him that in my opinion, our company could only benefit from continued association with Varacco, who I had found to be a singularly engrossing fellow, and asked that I be given the privilege of being appointed the primary attache for any such dealings. Of course I did not fail to acknowledge that such decisions were at the discretion of Mr. DeVries, and that I eagerly awaited the completion of this project, that I might return to the company proper and speak to him in person.
What I did not mention was that I would be remade by then, metamorphosed by the fiendish alchemy of the font.
As I released this letter with a carrier bird, the first rays of sunlight broke the horizon, painting the twilight plains over which the chateau loomed with orange-gold strips. I joined Varacco at the edge of the cliff, and we watched a long line of riders approach from our haunt atop the bluff. Ensuring my knife was secure in its belt-loop, I made ready to welcome the relief staff.
This was fantastic. I really enjoyed it!