Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

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.