Horrors of the Dancing Gods (23 page)

The first thing, he decided, was to talk to her. Poquah might well be right. Hell, she might even be there of her own free will or to save her family's life or something. He didn't think so. Not only was the racial link much more certain an indication of destiny linked to him than Poquah accepted, but the fact that she was also clearly not much more than his own age cinched it.

And if she
didn't
want to be here, then just to pretend she was never here would be as big a sin as bumping her off. If they refused even to check out somebody who might need help or refused to help somebody who needed it, then maybe they all
deserved
to be going one way to Yuggoth on the
Eibon.

He was determined to approach her as soon as he had the chance. That, however, was easier said than done; other than at meals, she appeared to be spending most of her time alone in her stateroom, and he didn't even know where that was. Meanwhile, the disapproving Poquah tended to join him for day meals. Marge might understand, but she was for the night, and he'd not seen the girl after dark.

It happened early in the morning of the second day out. He hadn't slept well and had arisen before dawn, breaking and then recasting the stock pentagram of protection around the bed, leaving Poquah out cold. He had slipped out quietly and gone on deck, since he felt far more comfortable in the open air with whomever or whatever he might meet than inside, where unexpected daylight or radiation from the sun through the clouds didn't always reach. The beating of the gaunts and the vast stretches of open ocean made for heavy winds, but it was very hot and they weren't a real problem. In fact, he walked out into a brief predawn shower and found it more refreshing than irritating.

The gaunts were already beginning to slow as light seemed ready to creep above the horizon. He watched as they settled the hovecraft gently into the water, where the telltale rocking and odd pitching of a craft in heavy seas were sudden and unmistakable. Then down they came, gently settling on top, sinking below a rail and possibly down into a recess that would be covered by day. He hadn't had any particular yen to find out for sure about that.

For a short while they just drifted there, bobbling around, the bridge apparently keeping them close to a single position by steering in low, lazy circles wherever ocean current and wave wanted to move them, until, just as dawn broke, the two huge kraken beasts surfaced not far away, looked around with their Creature from the Black Lagoon faces, saw the craft, and oozed over toward it like great porpoises or perhaps a real nightmare of a Loch Ness monster until they were at the bow. Giant webbed hands reached up, took hold of the towing chains, and, with the help of some dark and indistinct crew members below, dragged out the lines until they were well forward of the craft. At that point they began to swim, taking their bearing from the sun, and within a short time were sufficiently in sync to produce the familiar roll of kraken power.

It was still cloudy with light rain, although he could see the sun coming up far off in the distance, showing how localized the shower really was, and he turned from watching the harnessing, or the changing of the power guard as it were, and was startled to see the girl leaning against the rail, looking out at the sea on the other side of the forward deck walk, just below the bridge.

She seemed oblivious to him, to the rain, to much of anything, so he swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and wandered
over toward her in what he hoped seemed a casual and natural manner.

She was aware of him, though; as he approached and got very close, she began slowly to edge her way aft and toward an interior hatch.

"I—I'm sorry if I scared you!" he called to her. "I didn't mean any harm!"

She hesitated a moment, and he could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes but then she bolted into the open doorway and was gone. He resisted the impulse to follow her. He'd made the first move; now it was up to her if she wanted to follow up with him. He was smart enough to realize that any kind of forced persistence would send exactly the wrong message.

He was actually a bit surprised at her action, though; he wasn't used to women not being instantly friendly and attracted to him, even if his own spells kept him from fully understanding why. It was still a matter of ego in a sense, and there was a bit of a nagging letdown that the first girl he'd ever found attractive in any way was somehow immune to the charm all the ones he couldn't care less about found irresistible.

Still, what must she think of anyone with passage on this ship? If she was the prize for some terrible bargain, now being sent to evil as Poquah had surmised, then what did she think he and his faerie companions might be?

She didn't show up for breakfast during the early morning period, so he prepared to go through his exercises, jog a few times around the main deck, and then lounge around in the hot sun on the afterdeck, figuring that he would at least be accessible to anybody during that whole period.

There was seldom anyone on deck—or almost anywhere else on the ship—who was awake and active during this daylight period, with the mornings being particularly deserted. He had that weird feeling of being watched again but no longer even bothered to try to catch whoever or whatever was spying. Let them catch him!

This morning, though, the second time around the deck area, he felt something go in his upper calf and suddenly came up with a really strong muscle spasm that collapsed him onto the deck for a moment in sheer agony. Trying to put some kind of pressure on it while massaging the leg helped a little, and the intensity of the spasm diminished, but he was through running for the time being, that was for sure.

Gingerly, he tried to stand up, using the rail as a support, in one way happy that nobody had seen him go down like that and in another way wishing that there were a few concerned passersby to help him to his feet. Yow! He hadn't had a charley horse like that in
ages!

It wasn't comfortable to walk on, but it was manageable to a degree. The blood flow had been screwed up and there was probably slight bruising from the spasm, but in his experience the only thing that would help now would be a good massage. He made his way carefully to a bench and for the first time saw messages posted on a board just above it. Funny—he hadn't really noticed the board before.

Many were the usual—black masses every night at midnight in the chapel, a promo for a book on the scenic ruins of Arkham available in the gift shop, another flier for pterodactyl tours of Mount Doom, that sort of thing. One item, however, just block printing on a
small index card tucked in a corner, caught his eye.

"Massage," it read. "Day or night. Agamemnon Garfia, days, Alestair Crowley IV, nights. Cabin 33, float deck. No appointment necessary, charge to ship's account."

That was fairly far down, on the deck where you boarded, and inside, so it was entirely possible that it was some kind of trap. Still, Poquah had said with some confidence that they wouldn't bother to trap anybody here, not on their way
to
Yuggoth, and certainly nobody had been anything but nice or at worst noncommittal to him since they'd come aboard. Why not? The leg didn't feel much better, and if he got somebody good to work on it now, he might well be jogging again by the next morning.

Aware that he could still be doing something terribly stupid, he nonetheless made his way down to the float deck and sought out cabin thirty-three, an inside cabin down the center hall. It wasn't nearly as pleasant down there as it was topside; you could feel far more of the motion of the ship, and you could also hear the moaning and groaning of the lost souls piled up in cargo below.

Cabin thirty-three looked pretty much like all the others from the outside, but like several others in the center passageway leading aft to the purser's station, it had a small plaque by the door noting that it was not a passenger cabin at all but something more official. Some said "Chief Engineer" or "Medical" or "Clergy"—best to avoid
that
one!—but this one just said "Please Enter." Hesitating yet another moment and wondering if he was being a fool, he took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pulled open the door, almost ready to run for it should the sight that was about to meet his eyes so horrify him that he needed to escape.

But there was no horrible visage, no fangs, no coffins; just a larger than expected area with two roomettes, each with a standard massage table, a bunch of towels, a small dressing room and closet area, and another door. It
was
dark, but the smell was of liniments, not incense, and he'd seen this sort of place at Terindell. If it was a trap, it was a good one.

"Get undressed and lie facedown on the table one to your right," a think, heavily accented man's voice called from somewhere beyond the inner door. "I'll be with you in just a moment."

Well, a loincloth wasn't much in the way of clothes, simple to remove and hang up, and he hadn't used sandals since coming aboard, so it was pretty easy to do as requested and lie flat.

The door opened, and a black-robed figure emerged, its face swathed in a cowl and an unnatural mistiness that made it nearly impossible to see any features. He wasn't a big man, if indeed he was a man, but he came in and stood right there, and two arms that looked surprising strong and muscular for one who appeared so slight emerged from the sleeves, reaching for the liniments. He stepped up on a platform that pulled out from the side of the table to give him the requisite height and position and started to work.

"You are too tense!" the masseur snapped. "Relax! I am not going to eat you or bite you. I am going to make you feel better!" His voice lost its harsh tone. "I know how this ship can spook some folks, but that is a very different category than what we do here. I do exactly what you are here for me to do, so please relax or I cannot do it."

He was so friendly in his tone and so natural that Irving
did
relax, feeling the liniments go on and then feeling the strong hands and surprisingly supple long fingers work on his body.

"Unh!
You got a knot in that calf worse than a rock!" the little man said. "You are a runner?'

"Yes."

"Well, don't do it for about a day. Let it relax. I will give you a potion that will help heal it in a hurry. Don't sleep on your side, either. You let me at it now, use the balm as needed, and get some good rest, and you will be back running very quickly."

The little man was very good, and Irving found himself, relaxing more and more, although attempts to shift and see the masseur's face were totally unsuccessful.

"You are Mister Garfia?"

"I was once. I suppose I still am, yes. You saw my card, then?"

"Yes, up top."

"We tend to stick the cards where those who need us most might notice them," the man told him. "We provide a full range of services that people need on this ship and beyond, but we aren't for everybody. You would be surprised, though, what we can tell just by such contact as this. For example, I can tell you her name."

Irving suddenly stiffened and started to turn, but strong hands forced him back to the proper massage position.
"What?"

"She is Lame Ngamuku. Her mother was supposed to be a sacrifice to a volcano god, but her father loved her and made a sacrificial bargain. Spare the mother, and upon their sixteenth birthdays, any daughters would be given to the spirit world. Of course, this had the practical effect of giving her daughter to the demon in charge there, and although they tried to remain childless, it didn't work. The demon, a fellow named Zakaputi, wanted his deferred pay. Quite a story, eh?"

"But how do you know all this? Or that she is what I am curious about?"

"I feel it. I get the questions from you, and of course the answers are pretty easy in this Case because she's here and we crew all know the stories. It's one of the few joys we get, swapping these stories. You want to hear the rest of it?"

"I—I suppose."
If it's true.

"Oh, it's true, all right. I know what you're thinking. Anyway, you can almost figure out the rest between the fairy tales you know and the Rules and stuff. They loved their kid; she was beautiful. Came the approaching sixteenth birthday and they tried hard to figure out how
not
to go through with the deal, but where do you hide from a good, honest demon? Particularly when the whole kingdom knows the story and isn't too thrilled with the idea of lava coming through the nation's capital, if you get the idea. So they searched for a top sorcerer to figure a way out and found an old fellow named Lothar who's been running that region for some time with a showy associate. Anyway, Lothar tells 'em the obvious—the one thing Hell values most is a promise. A contract is a contract. You expect Hell to honor its contracts, and it expects you to do the same. Period. They knew what they were saying and doing back then, and they were stuck with it. She would have to be given over. The old boy was clever, though—devilishly clever, if I do say so myself. He worked out a spell that he felt was so secure, it would at least save the girl's life while also preserving the kingdom. A curse, as it were, that was so strong and so complicated and so outrageous that this Zakaputi fellow couldn't get around it. Blew his cork on the volcano, too, but couldn't do much to the capital because she
had
been given over."