Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (18 page)

I think it best not to tell the men these creatures are sustained by blood or they may balk at further adventuring. However, I will recommend that every man bring a weapon on our next excursion below ground, and that our torches are dry and well fueled.

It is imperative we uncover the roots of this new civilization. I will not be hindered by superstitious nonsense.

14 March

Dearest Ysabel,

I fear my writing will be illegible. I cannot will my hands to quit trembling. But I owe you a full account.

Fully geared, I took the men into the tunnels at dawn. We quickly passed through the paneled room and entered that vast darkness occupied by the oversized statue. The statue was a larger version of the one I found above the tunnel opening—same full, bare chest, same long skirt with toes peeking under the hem, only this statue had been blinded. Her pupils were hollowed out and the third eye had been replaced with a lump of black coal. The effect was disquieting.

With the benefit of hindsight, I believe the statue was a warning.

The light from our torches soon attracted a flock of inconvenient moths. White wings marred with large black spots gave them the appearance of disembodied eyes. They plunged into our flames without pause, their bodies crackling like bits of burned paper.

But it was not the moths that left me in such an agitated state.

We covered our mouths and noses with cloth and moved farther into the tunnels, eventually leaving the moths behind. The path led down into another large cave, this one with evidence of human occupation. The remnants of abandoned hearths littered the space, the rock ceiling above stained with black smoke. Rotting timbers looked to form a basic bed or chair. All evidence continued to point to a once flourishing and secure settlement. The hearths also helped explain the lack of obvious living quarters above ground.

Those initial moments of discovery propelled me onward. I felt feverish with the promise of academic epiphany.

Wherever possible I kept us moving in a straight line. I regret I had no breadcrumbs; instead I opted to scratch a line of chalk on the walls, which I had brought for that purpose.

We entered a third massive chamber and my God, Ysabel, the colors. You are familiar with the calcium formations that build over time as dripping water dissipates? This room was a treasure trove of natural sculpture. Many looked to be the traditional forms of bare and stacked lumps of gray, but about fifteen had crystallized into blood-red columns hanging from the roof and emerging from the cave floor—I presume the red was due to high iron content in the soil. When our torches met the angular faces of the crystal, the flickering light scattered in an iridescent panoply, splashing squares of red across the rock walls, reminding me of how jeweled colors shine through stained glass windows at church in the afternoon sun. As I examined the walls, I noticed a series of black handprints, all about eye level and sideways, with the fingers directed toward the opposite end of the cave.

The Indians saw the handprints and were afraid. Through Azco, I attempted to boost the Indians’ spirits with reminders of extra pay. They babbled a response at Azco, I imagine in an attempt to negotiate, but he stayed firm. When the men still refused to move, Azco removed the whip from his side and struck the closest Indian until the rest complied.

As we gathered to leave the crystal chamber, I caught a glint in the shadows and spotted one of the lizard creatures crouched in the dirt. I indicated the men should wait and I approached it cautiously, intending to capture the creature alive. It watched me all the way, its gem glittering dully in its green forehead, head lowered in challenge.

I patted my pocket gently to assure myself Gilberth was safe. He wiggled sweetly against my hand.

I called for a net and Azco threw me one from his pack. The men refused to come closer. I untangled the lines while the creature watched me warily, a low growl rumbling from his throat. Slowly, I readied the net to toss over the creature. I raised my hands, I held my breath—and the creature leapt at my knees, somehow launching itself off the ground with tremendous force. I stumbled and fell, landing hard on my tailbone.

The beast crouched in front of me, hissing, a red forked tongue flicking the air, and then he lunged. The damn thing must have weighed five stone, and every ounce of me struggled to pry his jaws from my boot. His jaws closed around my foot and his fangs scraped the skin, shredding the leather, tearing the thick sole away with an unsettling rip. When he snapped his powerful jaws around my toes, I felt excruciating pain, and barely saw Azco slip behind the creature. After a short struggle, he slit its throat and dragged the beast off of me. I escaped relatively unharmed all things considered, though Ysa brace yourself. The beast’s aim was true.

The creature bit off the littlest toe on my left foot.

I gritted my teeth and checked on Gilberth, who was wiggling fiercely in my pocket but unharmed. Then remembering how he could sense blood, I quickly pulled out one of my two handkerchiefs, soaked it thoroughly in my blood, and shoved it in my pocket to keep the creature occupied. I wrapped the spare handkerchief tightly around my foot. The Indians were too busy watching Azco to notice my odd behavior.

Azco had gutted the beast and popped the gem out of the dying creature’s skull to examine in the torchlight. This one was even larger than the stone he wore around his neck.

I was too shaken to go on, so I motioned to the natives to bundle the corpse thinking we could return after I cleaned the wound. But Azco, possessed by some demon, insisted we continue and gather more creatures. When I deferred he brandished his whip but I refused to move, telling him I would surely bleed to death.

He did not whip me then, though I expected it. Instead he ripped the kerchief from my wound, told the Indians to hold my foot steady and, with my blood still spilling on the rough dirt floor, Azco pressed his torch to the ragged flesh where my toe had been.

I screamed.

If there is one smell I had never hoped to know, it is the smell of my own flesh burning.

The pain cannot be described. But it did, in fact, stop the bleeding. I suppose Azco, with his aboriginal logic, considered it a kindness, but I admit to having had enough of jungle medicine.

There were no objections to this mutiny. To the Indians, one master must have been as good as another. Azco forced us on at a moderate pace, and I was barely able to chalk the walls we passed. As we walked I noticed something curious: the pain had lessened in my foot. I could hardly feel the burn any longer, let alone anything beneath my knee. I assumed Azco destroyed some vital nerve in his exuberance.

Azco was on a mission, waving his torch in the corners, checking animal leavings for freshness.

After countless rooms, I was deliriously thirsty and stopped. “Listen here, Azco,” I said. “This can’t continue.”

The damn fool punched me in the nose!

There was nothing to be done. Azco was mad for gems. While I admit they were sufficiently diamond-like to arouse admiration, I failed to see how it excused him from driving us to exhaustion and leaving our corpses to rot in that vast honeycomb of darkness.

I resolved to take the whip from Azco.

No sooner had I made this decision, we entered a chamber twice the size of any other. A furnace-like heat blasted us in the face, drying the sweat from our pores. At the center of the chamber was an enormous boiling spring, milky white and softly glowing. Around the edges of the cave, human remains were piled several feet deep in places, bones on top of bones on top of bones.

We had found their primary nest.

Ysa, forgive me, I must catch my breath.

The charred walls glistened with hot wetness, and the air smelled of sweet decay. I looked down and saw young Gilberth slither from my pocket and climb my chest, his eyes opened at last, bloodshot and wary. He settled at the base of my neck to watch.

An adult creature emerged from the spring and crept toward us, white water trickling off its scaly back. The gem in its forehead burned brightly, illuminating the space around us. Polished river rocks shifted beneath its feet.

The youngling at my shoulder hissed.

A second creature emerged from the depths of the spring, hissing as well, its forked tongue vibrating and retracting smoothly.

I looked from beasts to Azco, who was grinning like a madman, and I backed against a wall, easing a femur from the nearest pile. Azco shouted for the men to ready their weapons.

Then we saw something strange—the memory still gives me chills. Some unknown signal passed over the sound of the bubbling spring and hundreds of creatures emerged from the milky depths at once, the clattering of many claws against the shifting rock bed embedded in my brain. I waved my torch before me thinking the fire would keep them away. Those strange lizard creatures of all sizes, their powerful bow legs gripping through the rock layer to ground below. Their veined bellies scraped the ground and their tails swished.

Azco froze, overwhelmed by the sight of so many gems. I took advantage of his distraction and broke the femur over his head. He stumbled and fell to his knees, dropping his whip and torch, which I retrieved and then backed away. The creatures grew ever closer, their gems glowing like floating orbs in the darkness. Two of the natives behind me ran from the room and I lost sight of them. I can hardly bear to think where they ended up.

The creatures paused to sniff Azco’s fallen body and then began to nip experimentally at his trousers.

The remaining two natives and I walked backwards slowly, trying not to attract attention. And then the first creature tore off a chunk of Azco’s thigh. Azco screamed and started floundering, which is when the other creatures swarmed his face and legs and hands, until all of his skin was covered by thrashing tails and the loud tearing of flesh. The blood . . . I ran. Dear Ysabel, I ran faster than I have ever run, may God forgive me. It must have been fear that made me forget my wounded foot. I followed the chalk marks out of that accursed place and I plan never to return, although that decision is of little consequence now.

My foot, where the creature bit me, has become dreadfully necrotic. I escaped the underground and, even with my infirmity, have managed to stoke the fire in the courtyard, waiting for the others to find their way out. I fear the wound is not healing. I applied the mud and oulou sap concoction Azco gave me for bites, and it has had no effect. My only hope is to wait for the men to carry me to the river and catch a boat to safety.

My only companion is the innocent youngling who has never left my side. Even in my mad dash from the caves, Gilberth has not abandoned me. I daresay he thinks I’m his mother. His mewling is adorable.

I don’t know how long I slept. The moon is overhead and I can barely see to write.

I did not want to alarm you, my love, but the sickness has spread. At first only my toes were numb, but now the paralysis has spread to my waist. I can no longer move my legs.

I lied. I know the men aren’t coming. For some time now, I have listened to their screams echo from the cave. Screams and wails and a clattering of many claws. The air is thick with madness and the stink of rotten flesh.

And mosquitoes.

Dearest one, I grow so weary. It is time to fortify my spirit against the dark. It is time to join the symphony of discord.

Gilberth has already eaten the rest of my toes and I fear he hungers still.

I regret nothing, except I am sorry to have ruined your beautiful handkerchiefs.

Your faithful conductor,

—R

=[]=

Folly Blaine
lives in Seattle, Washington. Her work has appeared in
Every Day Fiction, Flashes in the Dark
, and
10Flash Quarterly
. You can find her online at
Maybe It Was the Moonshine (www.follyblaine.com)
.

Chelsea Armstrong

=[]=

In this next tale, Canadian writer, Chelsea Armstrong, takes us to the domain of a unique people we have all visited before. Dark and strange and somewhat melancholy,
The Nightmare Orchestra
explores a parent-child relationship where all is not what it seems. Upon acceptance into this anthology, Chelsea told me this was her first publication. My opinion is if she keeps putting out stories as captivating as this, we’ll soon be seeing a lot more of her in print!

=[]=

My friend Jamie is so smart and so nice. And he shares too. He took me to the playground near his house, and we built a sand castle using his shovel and red bucket. We even made a moat and a bridge. We dug windows into our castles, but no one peeked out of them. Tiny sand people were too hard to make. They kept crumbling. That’s why our sand windows were empty.

We were turning the bucket upside down, finishing the watchtower, when we heard footsteps behind us, stomping through the grass. My back was to the sound, so, Jamie, he saw it first. His eyes went wide like pancakes, and his mouth dropped open. I could’ve fit the shovel handle in there.