Trappings Of A Gem Stealer - Short Story

Artok checked the harness one last time before slipping over the edge into the cave. Above him, the storm-filled but rainless sky began to recede as he let himself down into the cooler darkness below, which threatened to swallow him entirely. 

He didn't want to go into the Black Heart this late in the day, when dusk was already approaching, but if Enock's men came back in the night, as they'd threatened they would, and found no more stones, it would be another flogging for Artok. The pain was terrible, but the look on his wife's face and new born son's wails would be worse.

Damn Enock!

Lightning fired above, quickly followed by thunder so loud it numbed Artok's ears. Grimacing, Artok lowered himself into darkness.

Some moments later he felt his feet touch down. He detached one of his three torches, poured a little oil on the head, and struck it alight using pieces of flint from his pouch. That done, he released himself from the harness, held up the torch, and took a second to look around. A few black beetles scuttled off the crudely erected platforms away from the light, but apart from those, nothing else moved. The cavern stretched up overhead and its surface was covered in jagged shards of rock, which necessitated the building of these platforms for flooring, branching off in various directions and leading into the various tunnels and recesses throughout the maze of the Black Heart.

Artok made his way cautiously along one of the platforms, which creaked under his weight. A noise off to his left above his head made him pause. He hadn't heard that kind of noise down here before. It was three gruff snorts. Artok continued. Get in, get a few stones, and get out fast, he thought, dropping his free hand to the crossbow hanging at his hip. 

He wondered briefly if the stories the villagers were telling had some truth to them after all. About the hideous creatures down here. No. Just made up by some greedy folk to keep people out of the Black Heart and away from its precious stones.

Nonetheless, Artok's grip on the crossbow tightened.

Shortly the ceiling became low and the platform came to an end, forcing Artok to stoop and begin carefully navigating the crevices and knife-like rocks using his hands to steady himself. Occasionally he felt some downward jutting rocks scrape the thick protective cloth wrapping his head, and was glad of it. Sometimes the stone sliced through his mittens and caused his hands to become sticky with blood, or a beetle might crawl over the back and up his arm before he shook it off with a gasp .

Artok stopped for a second to catch his breath. While he regained his strength he waved the torch ahead of him, straining to see through the gloom. At last he saw the flickering reflections up ahead of a deposit and his heart warmed in his chest.

Then came the sound of another husky grunt, followed by a shrill noise that sent a shiver through Artok's bones. After that the flapping of many wings. Then nothing.

He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry.

Artok started moving again.

The deposit that he'd seen was set beyond a tight narrowing of the cavern, where the ceiling came down to within a couple of feet of the floor. Artok found the widest part and as carefully as possible, eased himself through. A small stalagtite jabbed him sharply in the back, but otherwise he made it to the other side with little trouble.

Raising up the torch he examined the deposit. It was a good one, with a number of large gems that looked easy to remove. He set down the torch leaning against a nearby surface, unhooked his crossbow and laid it, too, down. Then, taking a smallish hammer-axe, began carefully chipping away the surrounding rock. He worked that way for some time, enthralled, alone in his little bubble of light, enclosed on all sides by leagues of darkness and earth.

Suddenly he realised something was watching him. He snatched up his crossbow and spun around in a flash.

Whatever it was disappeared.

He picked up the torch and waved it in front of him, trying to cast the light further than it would go.

Nothing. Except the sound of his own hard breathing.

A couple of beetles scuttled into the cracks.

Artok grunted, his veins flooded with adrenalin but nothing to shoot.

A shiver rolled through him, and he lowered his torch. His crossbow arm went limp, and he sighed. But the sensation of being observed wouldn't leave. The idea of something watching him as he quietly worked away in his own light, the view of himself from behind as he sat engrossed, made him shiver yet again.

He swore gently, and turned back to the deposit. He'd removed four gems from the rock, which now sat on the soft gem-bag to one side, and he examined them once more, enjoying their cool jagged surfaces in his blood-smeared hands. Would these four be enough? he asked himself. The desire to leave, now, as fast as possible, was quick and overwhelming, and laced with panic.

There hadn't been any more of those strange sounds, he noticed. Who knew what lay sleeping, dormant, hidden away in the unexplored depths of the Black Heart?

He looked again at the source of the deposit. Maybe three more stones could be extracted without much effort, he decided.

With shaking hands, Artok again laid down his torch and lifted the small hammer-axe up to the gems. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and began chipping away again at the rock around one of the precious stones. Once, twice, three times. He stopped. His hand was shaking so much he had shattered the gem with his third strike.

A noise came from behind him, a gruff snort.

The little hammer-axe dropped from his fingers.

Artok turned, slowly, his body trembling so much that he barely had control of it.

There, beyond the narrow gap, was a huge, grinning snout filled haphazardly with jutting, broken teeth, and above it, yellow, glowing eyes set hungrily on Artok. Slowly, it eased a long taloned claw through the gap towards Artok, who, frozen with shock, saw both the hairy, muck-covered humanoid arm and its eerie shadow thrown by the torch, and stumbled back against the gem deposit.

I'm going to die, was the only thought in Artok's mind that made it through the fog of terror.

Unable to reach Artok, the thing suddenly gave a brief flap of great black wings, changed its position, and tried to reach further into the space. The glint in the thing's eyes wasn't hunger, Artok then realized, but wrath. Wrath like molten lead. The creature was still unable to get at the small, quivering form of Artok, no matter how hard it pushed into the crack. The talons snapped together five inches from his face

It can't get me, Artok realised.

The thing gave a low growl of effort and pushed harder into the crack, breaking off pieces of rock, top and bottom.

Oh God, Artok's mind stuttered. Please don't come any closer.

But it was. It gained a little progrees, was stopped by the rocks, charged forwards with a grunt sending pieces of broken stone showering over Artok, and then was stopped again.

Artok's hand rested on something and he looked down. The cross bow. He aimed it directly at the creature's head and set his finger on the trigger, but the back of the thing's claw lashed out and sent the weapon flying against a wall. With a cry, Artok picked up the torch and jabbed it forwards, but the creature grabbed the end between its giant fist and extinguished the flame with a crunch as if it was nothing but a match.

Darkness.

But still sound. Sound that wrenched the core of Artok's being apart with fear. Falling pieces of rock. Grunting and slavering. Snapping of fangs. Wings moving in leathery foldings and unfoldings.

And then silence. The thing had paused before making its final lunge, Artok realized. And with the silence came calm. This is the end, Artok now understood. All men died, it was a universal truth.

Wordlessly, Artok said goodbye to his beautiful wife and precious son, gave the last sigh of his life, and closed his eyes to the darkness.

He waited for it to end.

A moment later, he found that he was still waiting.

“Artok!”

It was someone calling his name, echoed and distorted by the cavern walls.

There was a low growl, followed by the sound of dropping stones and scraping rock, and a gust of musty air, as the creature stole away, back to whatever dark recess it kept.

Artok tensed, waiting, listening, and then nearly fainted with relief.

“Artok!” came the voice again. “Can you hear me, down there?”

He breathed air deep into his lungs, savouring it again as if for the first time. The sensation of the rock under his hands. The ability of moving arms and legs without pain or discomfort. The miracle of existing again, in the here and now.

Almost overcome with gratitude, Artok rose shakily to his feet, feeling around for his other torches and flint pouch and listening to someone climb down into the cave.

“Well? Are you in here, Artok?” said the voice, a little louder now. Laughter followed.

Artok, about to speak, paused, trying to remember the owner of that voice. Frowning in the darkness, he poured a little oil on a fresh torch head.

“Maybe he's fallen down a crack and split open his dirty, thieving fucking head.” A second voice. Laughter.

“Probably all the better for him,” muttered the first.

Flints in hand, Artok paused in mid strike. Something about the tone of the man's voice had opened up a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He waited, listening.

“Artok! This news is important enough for me to come and deliver it myself!”

Realization dawned on Artok. This was Enock. In person.

What news?

“We've just come from your house!” called Enock. The voice sounded closer. “As you weren't there we had to wake up your family. I'm sorry about that, we had no choice.”

Artok's grip tightened on the flints.

“But to kill them.”

The world dropped away from Artok when he heard those words. It was as if the world had become a rock, falling down a well, away from his oustretched open hand.

“You owe us some stones, Artok. You're overdue again. Floggings are not enough to beat sense into you, it seems.” Enock cleared his throat. There was the click of a cross bow being charged. “Now where are they?” Artok watched the world drop, drop away, with what felt like indifference.

My beautiful wife, he thought. My boy.

He gazed at the vague outline of his hands, holding their flints. They seemed to belong to someone else.

“How can that bastard see down here without having a torch lit?” mumbled Enock's man. “We're never going to find him.”

I don't need a torch, Artok thought. Or what used to be Artok.

I can see without it.

He moved his fingers over the softness of the flints.

“He can't stay down here forever,” Enock grunted. “Isn't that right, Artok, old friend?”

Friend. The word ignited Artok's gaseous soul.

Something flew from the darkness at the two men - some terrible distortion of nature - with talons outstretched and fangs bared. A claw clipped the man next to Enock, knocking him over and sending the torch flying. Enock raised his crossbow and fired a bolt into the thing's wing. The creature recoiled a little, but while still airborne, and with one talon, tore the crossbolt out and cast it to the side. Enock stumbled backwards, his face like chalk, crossbow dropping from his hand. He was muttering nonsensical things when the thing swooped at him. It grabbed Enock by the throat in one huge claw, wings raised high over the man's head in a death veil, and thrust its snarling snout up to his face.

“Artok!” cried Enock. “Artok! Help us!” and he strained to hear any sound from where the gem-stealer might be hiding in the darkness.

The thing opened its jaws with a growl.

“I am Artok,” it said, and gnashed its fangs.

High above the Black Heart the rainless storm clouds continued to rage.

© Chris R Young 2021

The Dead Broad - A Short Story

This popped out of my head one day in 2001 when I was living in Japan. I was frustrated by my inability to stop smoking, and how in the grand scheme of things whether or not someone smokes is not really that big a deal.

"Okay, fine!" I said, and grabbed my jacket.

   As the door slammed behind me, I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit up, pausing only to shove open the gate on my way out the garden.

“Manipulative bitch,” I mumbled to myself while striding down the empty street. She had a nerve, she really did. Talking to me that way. I couldn’t believe it! After all we’d been through together. After all I’d sacrificed for her. I shook my head in disbelief. 

“The world is a dark, dark place,” I spat, to no-one in range.

As luck would have it, it was dark, the time being a little before 11 pm. And here was I, yet again, scouring the streets like vermin, searching for scraps, leftovers, of respect. Because that was all it seemed I was worth.

I puffed and raged, raged and puffed, and it wasn’t long before I could feel my anger begin to subside.

At last I came to rest, sitting on the low wall of a churchyard. 

It could be worse, I mused, gazing round at the headstones before the church building. I could have croaked. I could have been born in the nineteenth century, kicked the kettle nigh on fifty years ago and now be fodder for maggots and beetles buried six feet under in an old, wet, rot-bitten coffin, grinning through lipless, nicotine-stained teeth.

I blew smoke through my nose. I knew my method of obtaining optimism wasn’t the same as other folk’s, but it seemed to help me feel a little better when I was down.

Then it occurred to me she might have a point. Had I not gotten rat-faced last night I probably wouldn’t have slobbered all over the nearest bit of cream puff I could lay my saliva glands on. Still, one night of debauchery is no excuse for giving up alcohol entirely, now, is it? That’s just ridiculous. Where did she get that Jekyll and Hyde syndrome bollocks from? Hello? She spends too much time reading those magazines, and watching those goddam afternoon TV shows for the dead, or mentally dead, or at least some part of their brain must be dead to sit in all day glued to that fucking box watching people in tall hats show them how to spice their sardines and juice their lemons.

I flicked the stub into the graveyard where it bounced off a headstone sending a satisfying shower of sparks out into the grass.

Then I sighed and sat with my head in my hands.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe I do drink too much. I’m no spring chicken any more, that’s for sure. I patted my paunch. More like a Christmas turkey. All right then, I decided, for the sake of my wife, and my liver, I will give up alcohol for ever. No more nights out with the lads — more quality time at home playing scrabble with her indoors and expanding my intelligence reading, what were those things again, oh yeah, books. And no more hangovers. Thank God! Those are some things I will never miss. 

This is it. No more beer. Here begins my NEW LIFE!

That’s when I heard a noise behind me. 

It sounded like a sandcastle being kicked over by an old man  coughing up his insides.

I turned round. And there, dragging itself out of its grave — the one I’d flicked the cigarette butt at — was a corpse.

I watched it make its progress, myself unable to move a muscle, as the cadaver laid one knee, and then another, on the ground next to its grave, before rising shakily to its feet. Dressed in what had no doubt been its favourite red dress during life, the corpse staggered in my direction. It — she — no, it — was perhaps three years gone. It was hard to gauge, having never actually seen a dead body before, least of all one walking around the land of the living like it owned the place. As she approached me, I saw my unfinished cigarette butt between her teeth.

She stopped just short of the wall, placed one semi-skeletal hand on the small of her back, used the other to remove the cigarette from her mouth, leaned back and disgorged a terrible, lung-rattling cough up into the starlit sky. Then she looked at me.

I tried to think of something to say, but could not.

“Fancy a drink, deary?” she spluttered.

“A-All right,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Think I could use one.”

We went to the Ship and Anchor pub, just down from the church and on the left. 

It crossed my mind how churches and pubs had been common features of towns and cities throughout the ages, but failed to make any other connection. Perhaps people needed God and beer.

She was slow at walking. Bits of her kept dropping off as we made our way downhill. As we passed the opening to the park, a couple of stray dogs threatened to take her leg off. A few people stopped and stared. One woman screamed. Someone, amusingly, shouted that we should call for an ambulance.

We sat at the bar, which had quickly emptied when we’d opened the door.

“What’ll it be?” asked Mick, glancing sideways at the woman-corpse-thing.

“I’ll have a large whatever comes to hand first,” I said.

“And for the,” he paused, “lady?”

“A G and T, my darling,” the corpse said, grinning. “Ice but no lemon, thank you.”

We consumed our drinks. I drank mine, she spilt hers everywhere. Mick wiped the bar.

Suddenly the door burst open. I turned round and saw my wife standing there, her face full of love and forgiveness. “Danny!” she cried, and ran towards me. “I’m sorry! I should never have told you how to live your life. Please come home, I hate it when we fight. I’ve got something for you.” 

She smiled that smile, and gave me a huge hug.

I'd tried to block her view, but she saw over my shoulder.

“Who’s THAT!” she yelled, jumping back, her face drained of blood.

I swallowed and shrugged. “I dunno. Just some broad I gave a cigarette.”

This and other daft stories and poems will appear in the anthology 'Hidden In The Old Stone Wall' coming soon (hopefully).

© Chris R Young 2021